Chapter Text
The Batcave was quiet, save for the low hum of monitors.
Bruce walked quietly, careful that his boots didn't hit stone wit to not attract any attention. His body ached in places he didn’t want to admit even to himself, the weight of another patrol settling heavily in his chest.
He moved to the armor rack. Every motion was measured and controlled, an attempt to keep the grunts low and the groans of pain from escaping. But even the slightest hiss as he twisted his shoulder betrayed him.
“Really?” Alfred’s voice came from the shadows, calm but laced with subtle disapproval.
Bruce didn’t look up.
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing other than usual, I imagine,” Alfred said, stepping closer.
“But it is something. And you’ll need help with it.”
Bruce gritted his teeth, brushing the older man’s hand away as he went to remove a gauntlet.
“I’ve got it.”
Alfred didn’t budge. Instead, he moved closer, deliberately guiding the armor from Bruce’s bruised shoulder.
“And you’ll forgive me for insisting, but we did agree on this. I am to help you. Otherwise, you won’t be fit for tomorrow’s engagement.”
Bruce froze.
The Charity Gala.
Masking the darkness of the night with the bright, artificial smile of Bruce Wayne. He felt a headache begin its slow crawl across his skull. He stayed silent, the words caught in his throat.
Alfred pressed gently on his bruises, checking for broken bones. Bruce flinched, almost reflexively.
“You’re quieter than usual,” Alfred remarked, preparing the bandages.
“I hope this is not an indication you’ve forgotten the social obligations of Bruce Wayne. You are expected to attend.”
Bruce raised a reluctant arm, letting Alfred examine him despite the sting.
“I… I’ll handle the bandaging myself.” he muttered, low and rough.
“I rather think not,” Alfred replied, with firmness.
“You may continue your crusade as Batman only if you permit me to see you cared for afterward.”
“I want to bathe first.” Bruce whispered, voice raw.
Alfred’s eyebrows drew together.
“Sir-”
“I want to be alone.” Bruce said louder, the edge of frustration cutting through the exhaustion.
His hand rubbed at his face, eyes squeezed shut, regret and pain washing over him.
“…Sorry.”
“It’s alright, sir,” Alfred said, the patience in his tone unwavering.
“I’ll be upstairs. Call for me if you change your mind about help.”
And then came the sound of his receding footsteps.
Bruce exhaled slowly, letting the silence swallow him. One hand rubbed across his face, pressing away the sting of the day, before he lifted the cowl off his head. The dark war paint around his eyes lingered like a shadow even without the mask.
He stared ahead at nothing, letting the weight of his solitude settle fully over him.
Bruce stood in front of the mirror, steam curling around the edges. His body was a mess of bruises and hastily wrapped bandages, crimson seeping faintly through gauze. He winced only slightly as he dragged a shirt over his shoulders, running a wet hand through his hair, ignoring the sting that followed.
He thought about Alfred. The clipped words. The silence that stretched after. He’d promised himself he’d do better— be better.
He’d accepted that vengeance wasn’t the way forward. That Gotham didn’t need a monster— it needed hope. For a while, he believed it. For a while, Alfred did too.
But lately…
The date was coming. And with it, the weight of everything he kept locked away. So he bled into the cowl, breaking bones to avoid breaking himself.
The TV droned on in the background, Gotham’s nightly news panel already circling like vultures. Normally he would tune them out as they were just talking heads dissecting either Bruce Wayne’s recent involvement in Wayne Foundation or Batman’s shadow.
Alfred had insisted he pay more attention, try to balance the narrative.
Smile for cameras. Suffer staged dinners. Create a more social and involved Bruce Wayne.
Tonight, though, he decided to entertain it as they were discussing Batman again. A black-haired man who he recognized as the panelist who was the loudest at criticizing vigilantes, whilst a blonde woman in the panel argued against him.
“Batman’s no different from the criminals he hunts. A masked menace with his own warped code. He doesn’t solve anything— he prowls, he terrorizes, then vanishes. Gotham bleeds the next night anyway.” the man sneered.
Bruce clenched his jaw, thumb hovering over the remote.
“That’s not fair. Crime rates have dropped since his presence became known. He’s filling the void law enforcement couldn’t. You may not like his methods, but results matter-” the woman tried to defend.
“Results? You want results? Let’s talk Superman.” the man interrupted.
Bruce’s eyes fixed onto the screen.
“The alien comes down from the clouds and actually changes things. He stopped a war in Jarahanpur. He exposed Lex Luthor’s treason with a global task force. He doesn’t just play whack-a-mole with muggers and mobsters— he solves problems.” he continued, leaning forward and jabbing a finger on the desk.
Bruce’s thumb pressed harder into the remote. He should turn it off. He should.
“Oh, so you’re comfortable applauding a godlike alien— who answers to no government, no oversight —while condemning a man who bleeds for his city? That’s hypocrisy.”
“Not hypocrisy. Clarity. If an alien invader— sent here for nefarious reasons —can inspire more trust, more hope, than Gotham’s so-called ‘dark knight’… maybe the question isn’t what Superman is. Maybe it’s what Batman isn’t. ” the man smirked, leaning back.
Bruce finally hit mute, but not before the screen cut to an image of him.
Not him— but him .
The hero, hovering above clouds, cape billowing like something painted for worship.
Bruce stared at it far longer than he should have.
The elevator doors opened with a groan, and Clark stepped out, tugging at his tie as it had just now decided to choke him. He slipped past the bullpen chaos, long strides made shorter by his awkward attempts at looking inconspicuous.
He was late. Again.
He didn’t need sleep— hadn’t for years —but somehow the habit stuck. His Ma had always insisted on it when he was younger.
“Early to bed, Clark. You’re no good to anyone tired.”
Maybe that stuck too hard. Maybe it was just the fact that crawling through Metropolis traffic as a civilian was hell compared to a clean ten second flight across the skyline.
Still, Superman couldn’t take the subway one day and the sky the next. Clark Kent had to show up like everyone else.
“Morning, Smallville.” Lois’ voice cut through his excuse-building thoughts .
She leaned against her desk, smirk already waiting for him. He froze mid-step, clutching his bag like a guilty kid sneaking in after curfew.
“Relax, C.K. You’re not the only one. Cat’s late too.” Jimmy piped up from his chair.
Clark gave him a grateful smile, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose before hurrying to his desk. He powered on his computer, anxious of Perry walking out any second.
Lois kicked her chair to come closer to him, her voice hushed.
“Keep this up and you’re gonna turn Superman into your only nine-to-five gig.”
Clark glanced sideways, feigning a glare over the rim of his glasses.
“Funny.”
“Wasn’t a joke.” she whispered back, lips twitching, before dragging herself back to her desk.
A pen between her teeth, brow furrowed, as she was lost in a draft seconds later. He caught himself staring too long and looked back at his blank monitor.
Fingers hovered over the keys, unmoving. For a moment, just a moment, he let himself think that everything felt normal. The banter, the warmth. A year ago, even six months ago, he thought it was gone for good.
Lois had called it her fault. Blaming herself and insisting that she just wasn’t good at relationships. But Clark knew better.
It was him.
Every ounce of himself had been poured into the cape. Day and Nights spent in the suit, sometimes never even taking it off. Trying to regain the trust of people, of Metropolis. Even almost writing articles about Superman to rebuild his image, articles that he didn’t publish, especially not when Lois frowned at them with disappointment.
He had tried to make Superman trustworthy again, tried to bury the memory of his parents’ message. But it was hard to when it had been broadcast to the whole world.
A message not about hope, but about rule.
Dominion.
And then the endless interviews, the questions that still followed him about Kryptonian heirs, about him populating Earth, about the so-called 'Superharem'.
A year and a half later, and still the headlines wouldn’t die.
He flexed his jaw, turned back to the screen, and started typing. If he kept moving, maybe he could ignore the weight pressing at the edges of his chest.
Clark usually tuned the world out while working— the humming of printers, the chatter of interns, the phones ringing like alarms in a newsroom that never slept. He focused on his words, on his clumsy typing, on making himself smaller in the chaos.
But today, his ears betrayed him.
Behind the glass of his office, Perry’s gravelly voice was low, unusually tender.
“Yeah… I’m sorry for what happened.”
Clark frowned, his fingers hesitating above the keys. Perry didn’t do tender. Not unless he had to.
“…No, don’t worry about it. I’ll assign someone else to cover the gala.”
Clark’s stomach sank.
Gala?
Jimmy had mentioned something similar earlier this week— he and Cat were going to cover it together. Gotham’s latest parade of self-congratulation. Cat had been thrilled. Jimmy not so much.
Clark barely had time to process before he heard Perry’s chair scrape back, heavy footsteps pounding toward the door.
His pulse quickened. And out of instinct, he flicked open a new document on his screen, his fingers blurring across the keyboard at super-speed. Random filler words about Superman. Trending headlines. Half an article that made no sense— desperate enough to even mention Superharem rumors and ‘Is Superman dating?’
He chewed on the rubber end of a pencil, mirroring Lois’s own habit, trying to look as busy as possible when Perry emerged.
“Bad news, folks.” Perry’s voice cut across the bullpen.
“Cat’s out. Her dog ate a bee, the reaction’s pretty bad.”
Clark’s chest tightened. Poor thing. He thought of Krypto, thought of all the strays he’d saved over the years.
Animals didn’t deserve to suffer.
But then came the words he dreaded.
“So,” Perry continued, his gaze sweeping the bullpen.
“Who’s free enough to cover the Gotham gala?”
Silence. Utter silence.
Not a single hand went up. Everyone avoided his eyes. Millionaires were bad enough. Gotham elites— now that was hell on earth.
Clark ducked his head, editing random sentences on his nonsense article.
Don’t notice me.
Don’t-
“Kent.”
His shoulders stiffened.
“You’ve been here all morning, haven’t done a damn thing useful. Congratulations. You’re going to Gotham.”
“Chief-” Clark started.
“Don’t call me Chief!” Perry barked.
“And don’t argue with me, Kent, unless you’re secretly a Pulitzer hiding under there. You’ve got ninety minutes. Train leaves at three.”
Clark shut his mouth fast. Lois smirked into her coffee. A hand then clapped his shoulder.
Jimmy.
He was offering him a sympathetic smile.
“Well it could be fun. Like a boys’ trip, right?” Clark said, smiling at him.
“Except… Perry’s got me with Lois on the mayor’s kid scandal. Sorry, pal.” Jimmy said, apologetic.
Clark’s hopeful smile collapsed. He sighed, pushing his glasses back up.
“Look on the bright side,” Jimmy tried.
“Hotel on the Planet’s dime. Gotham nightlife. It’s not all bad.”
“Nightlife?” Lois scoffed.
“Don’t sell him lies, Jimmy. Cat covers these things because she loves them. But the hotels?”
She grimaced.
“Think bedbugs in three-piece suits.”
Jimmy rolled his eyes, about to defend himself when Perry’s bellow cut him off.
“Back to work, all of you!”
Jimmy scurried. But Lois lingered. She leaned toward Clark with a smirk.
“Hey, Jimmy wasn’t wrong about Gotham’s nightlife. Who knows? Maybe you’ll charm some dark-eyed Gotham beauty at the gala.”
Clark chuckled faintly, shaking his head.
“Didn’t you tell me that all people care about at those things is sex, gossip, and booze?”
Lois’s smile softened into a sigh.
“I did. And I wasn’t wrong. But hey,” she said, her voice dipping into a whisper.
“At least now you’ve got an excuse to go to Gotham.”
Clark froze. The pencil stilled between his teeth. Her words buzzed in his chest as he recalled the unyielding rule.
Batman’s rule.
No metas in Gotham.
Clark let the pencil roll between his fingers, his teeth worrying the rubber until it was nearly mangled.
Gotham.
The word alone carried weight. Heavy and brooding. Nothing like the wide skies of Kansas or the open streets of Metropolis. Gotham was a cage of shadows, and its self-proclaimed warden made sure every outsider knew their place.
Including Superman.
The reminder lingered sharp in his chest.
Batman’s city was off-limits.
No flight skimming over rooftops. No x-ray vision sweeping alleys for the desperate cries he could already imagine ringing out. No red cape against Gotham’s smog-choked skies.
He would have to be just Clark Kent, the reporter.
“Hey,” Lois’s voice dragged him back, softer this time, pitched low so Perry wouldn’t bark again.
“Seriously, Clark. Don’t look like you’re being shipped to war. You’ll survive one gala.”
He chuckled under his breath, though it came out weaker than he’d intended.
“You make it sound like Gotham’s handing out medals for it.”
“Please. Gotham hands out scars.”
She tossed him a wink before turning back to her desk.
Scars.
His smile faltered at that word.
He thought about the man who protected Gotham’s night. A shadow stitched together from its scars. Clark had never admitted it aloud, not to Lois, not to Jimmy, not even to Kara when she teased him about it, but…
He had begun not only admire but also envy Batman.
Not his fear tactics. Not his darkness.
But that impossible ability to inspire change in a place so relentlessly broken. Clark had grown up believing that being the sun was enough. That people needed to be lifted up, shown the good.
Yet Gotham bent its knee to a man draped in black, a figure that terrified them but also moved them.
And Clark wasn’t immune either.
His fingers hovered over his half-finished article. The word ‘Superharem’ blinked back at him from the draft like a bad joke. His cheeks warmed with embarrassment, and he quickly deleted it before anyone glanced over. Perry already thought he was scatterbrained.
Jimmy leaned over from his desk just long enough to flash a thumbs-up, mouthing ‘good luck’.
Clark gave him a nod, though his stomach was still sinking.
In an hour and a half, he’d be on a train to Gotham.
In an hour and a half, he’d be forced to blend, to ignore the rule that already felt like a shackle tightening around his chest.
Bruce balanced the crystal flute between his fingers, turning it idly as if savoring the taste of champagne he hadn’t actually drunk. When the waiters passed, he swapped full for empty, empty for full, his sleight of hand smooth.
No one had noticed. No one ever did.
Smile more.
Laugh every now and then.
Alfred’s words echoed in his head, irritatingly steady. It was all easier said than done.
He stood there, the center of a circle he’d been unwillingly pulled into, listening to a couple drone on about the recent union protests in their corporation. Names he knew, faces he catalogued, but none worth remembering.
He laughed at the right moments, nodded along at their complaints of ‘ungrateful employees’, even offered a crooked smile as if too buzzed to offer any real commentary.
Whenever their questions required an answer, he responded with a feigned sip and made it clear that he was too drunk to care about anything but a beauty on his hand.
And, as if on cue, a beautiful woman materialized.
Blonde, blue-eyed, the kind of polished, glittering thing these events were built to showcase. She slipped onto his arm like she’d rehearsed it, radiating an energy that drew stares across the room.
Famous enough, then. Famous enough to be useful.
Bruce returned her small talk with compliments rehearsed to the point of muscle memory. She laughed, leaned close, played her part well. When she pretended to wobble, clinging tighter to his arm with a tipsy smile, he weighed the optics.
Helpful for the Bruce Wayne mask.
Harmless, for now.
So he murmured the suggestion of fresh air, a quiet spot to sober up. She rewarded him with excited giggles and an eager nod. He was leading her toward the edge of the ballroom when a voice cut through the din.
“Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce froze. He didn’t need to look to know the voice.
Bella Reál.
Gotham’s mayor.
She stood before him in a deep green dress, her expression cool, her gaze not on him but on the blonde dangling from his arm. Disapproval sharp enough to slice through the champagne haze in the room.
“May I have a word?” she asked.
Bruce almost said no.
He almost brushed past her with the excuse of being too drunk, too distracted. But the look in her eyes stopped him cold. It was the kind of look Alfred used to level when not listening wasn’t an option.
So he leaned toward his companion, lips brushing close to her ear.
“Take a few minutes in the washroom,” he whispered, winking.
“And then meet me in the storage room after.”
Her giggle was bright enough to draw more eyes.
Perfect.
When she slipped away, Bruce turned back to Bella with the hollow grin of a man pretending to be amused.
“I’m glad to see you’re… more present these days,” Bella said carefully.
“Though not everything you’re doing is necessary.”
Her eyes flicked toward the disappearing woman.
“Including very public trysts with supermodels.”
Bruce’s smirk widened, paper-thin.
“It’s been a long night, Mayor. Nothing wrong with winding down in good company.”
She sighed, unimpressed, before shifting the subject.
“The Wayne Foundation. I hear you’re pouring a lot of effort into it. I’m glad. Gotham needs it. I’m glad you’re following your parents’ footsteps. Perhaps you might even host a gala yourself, for the right reasons. Unlike this one.”
At the mention of his parents, Bruce’s mask cracked. Just slightly. His face hardened, his jaw tightening.
“We’ll see.” he muttered, clipped and cold, before walking past her without another glance.
The crowd thinned as he reached the far hall, where polished marble gave way to quieter corridors. He slipped into the storage room, shutting the door behind him.
He needed a break.
The silence was immediate, wrapping around him like armor. No drunken laughter, no clinking glasses, no hollow conversations. Just him, under the dim light of a single bulb, and a heartbeat still thrumming too loud in his chest.
Bruce finally let himself breathe.
The gala was worse than he’d imagined.
Metropolis galas were gaudy, but at least people spoke to him when he flashed a smile. In Gotham, they barely looked his way. He might as well have been the coat rack shoved in the corner with his press badge dangling uselessly off his jacket.
Clark smoothed the lapels of his best suit, which still fit him terribly, hunching his shoulders to seem smaller, less threatening. He scribbled in his notepad whenever he overheard chatter, hoping to snag a quote or two for his article.
But all anyone wanted to talk about was who was cheating on whom and whose company had collapsed in the last quarter.
He thought his current state was the worst— ignored and invisible —until she found him.
The glossy-smiled wife of a CEO whose companies churned out everything from car seats to rattles. He’d stumbled into asking if she believed in supporting children beyond her company’s products, which sounded far more accusatory once it left his mouth.
Instead of ignoring him, she laughed like he’d told a joke and touched his collar. Her manicured fingers tugged at his tie, then popped his top button open before he could blink.
“Oh, come on, darling. Enough with these boring questions, and loosen up already.” she purred.
Clark froze, heat climbing the back of his neck. He tried to politely laugh it off, step back, thank her for her time. But she followed, circling him with fresh champagne flutes, the perfume on her wrists dizzying.
He wasn’t drunk. But she was. And by the time she unbuttoned his second button and slung his tie over her arm like a trophy, Clark’s brain had stopped working. He should have stopped this more firmly. He would have, except he was frantically scanning the room for her husband— a man he’d never even seen.
He mumbled something about needing air, but she was already giggling, reaching for him again.
That was when Clark panicked.
Actually panicked.
He ducked his head and walked fast, weaving through the crowd, her laughter trailing after him. He had never wanted to fly out of a situation as desperately as now. He tried to yell over his back that he’s going to use the restroom, but the woman had taken it as an invitation to join him.
So in his panic he shoved open the first door that appeared and stepped inside, slamming it shut behind him.
It was dim and quiet. It smelled faintly of wood polish and cleaning products.
Clark exhaled in relief.
Until his eyes adjusted, and he realized he wasn’t alone.
A man stood by the only shelf in the cramped space, his shirt half-unbuttoned, hair mussed as though he’d run a hand through it too many times. He wasn’t drunk. His gaze was sharp, assessing— the kind of look that scared Clark as it felt like it could look through him.
Recognition struck him belatedly and embarrassingly late.
Bruce Wayne.
Gotham’s billionaire recluse. Or at least used to be.
In the last two years he had been becoming more and more popular. Almost earning the title as Gotham’s prince for all the money he put into Gotham’s humanitarian aid. Even using his parents foundation to continue funding orphanages, hospitals and everything to help uplift the youth of the city.
Clark’s pen nearly slipped from his hand. Of all the rooms to stumble into, it had to be this one. Intruding the safe space of a man who had come to escape the press and in need of peace and quiet.
Clark gave him what he thought was an apologetic smile, hoping he could explain his intrusion, maybe mumble something about a wrong turn.
But Bruce Wayne’s expression barely shifted, only the faintest tilt of his head.
“Well?” he asked, his voice low.
A pause.
His eyes dragged over Clark, not with drunken lust but with something sharper.
“You here to watch…or join? Might as well make it a threesome.”
Clark choked on his own spit so hard he nearly doubled over, coughing.
Bruce’s hazel eyes lingered as they raked up and down the tall man still bent slightly under the low storage room ceiling. He had been trying to build a reputation as a playboy, and right now this wide-eyed, bumbling reporter was a perfect prop.
He held eye contact with the soft blue eyes behind those ugly and thick frames before unzipping his pants and letting them loosely hang off his hips. He still held them up with his hands, not wanting to completely terrify the already panicking man.
Clark’s throat bobbed.
“M-Mr. Wayne, I-I didn’t mean to barge in-” his voice cracked, glasses slipping a little as his ears turned crimson.
Bruce tilted his head, lips curving in a slow, suggestive smile.
“You sure? You looked awfully eager.”
He tugged slightly at the open waistband, letting the suggestion hang in the air like smoke.
“Unless you’d rather wait to have your turn.”
Clark stammered out a strangled noise, one hand flying up in protest.
“No! No, that’s not why I’m here at all. I-I just-”
Whatever excuse he was about to fumble through died instantly as the shelf Bruce leaned against groaned, and before either of them could react, a speaker the size of a small boulder tipped forward.
Clark’s eyes widened.
In the blink of an eye, he blurred into motion, catching the speaker with one hand before it could crush Bruce’s skull. His palm braced steadying the base as though it weighed no more than a grocery bag.
He immediately felt panic hit him as he realized that he used his powers in front of Bruce Wayne. The speed. The strength. The impossibility of it.
Fortunately, Bruce hadn’t taken notice.
He was more focused on the fact that Clark had an arm wrapped around his waist. And after getting over the fact that he was being held, the heat of Clark's touch seeped into him. The faint smell of him swarmed Bruce's senses, and as Clark leaned in, their faces were close enough that Bruce could see how the reporter’s lashes brushed against the thick lenses of those thick glasses.
For the first time tonight, Bruce faltered.
“Are you all right?” Clark said softly, voice steady despite his own racing pulse.
Bruce’s jaw clenched. His eyes darted away, breaking the stare.
Clark blinked, realizing that it wasn’t too late. He shifted quickly, feigning a grunt of effort, his knees bending as he lowered the speaker with exaggerated strain. It landed on the floor with a dull thud.
The door burst open.
Both men spun. The woman who had been chasing Clark the whole night stood in the doorway, her lips parted in surprise.
“You’re gay?” she asked, disappointed.
Before Clark could so much as rise, another woman shouldered in, eyes wide and accusatory.
“What is he doing here!?” she gasped, pointing at Clark.
She then turned to face Bruce and stomped her foot.
“You told me to come here!”
Clark’s stomach dropped as the heat in his cheeks spread. But that was nothing to horror he felt when he turned to find that Bruce had let go of his pants and they now pooled at his feet.
Clark was now kneeling in front of him, his broad shoulders angled toward Bruce’s hips, his mouth hovering far too close. Only a thin layer of fabric separating him from something that made Clark's pulse hammer violently.
His eyes then snapped to Bruce— God help him— who didn’t look the least embarrassed. He didn’t rush to explain nor did he flinch. He simply straightened, unbothered and almost bored as he glanced at the growing crowd outside the door.
“I got tired of waiting,” he said flatly.
“So I found someone else to entertain me.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Clark’s ears rang. His mouth worked, but no words came out. His palms pressed against the floor, ready to spring up, but Bruce’s steady hand held him there by planting a hand on his shoulder, along with a shameless gaze that rooted Clark in his place.
And for the first time in a very, very long while, Superman felt utterly powerless.