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Guardian Dog

Summary:

There's something wrong with Clark Kent. He has to be a villain, right? A threat? He doesn't behave like a normal person, no matter how handsome or clever he may seem.

(A series of suspicious encounters set during the fallout of the Grayson murders)

Notes:

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1

Notes:

Clark tries to speedrun a good grade in interpersonal bonding, something which is both normal and possible to achieve. Sidequest: don’t be creepy. Sidequest failed.

 

(if you were here for the last one, you know the drill-- It's all already written and we're updating daily until the end.)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It would be easier, Bruce thinks, to be a villain. Not that the line between hero and villain hasn't been blurred time and time again in Gotham, but… well, anyone with a habit of roughing up innocent civilians doesn't have problems like this. This is just embarrassing.

Down below, the reporter crosses a street and makes his way towards the building Bruce is perched on. He's been following for almost an hour now, after ambushing Bruce for a quote outside the police station.

As used to reporters as Bruce is, there's something worrying about this situation. The man isn't stopping or even slowing, he's just been following, out in the open, like a persistence predator. He shouldn't even be able to find Batman! Batman hasn't been visible to the street for five blocks. But still, here comes the reporter, in his loose coat and crooked tie, hunching his broad shoulders, pushing his glasses up and angling his head… towards the bat on the rooftop. Towards Bruce.

He waves.

Honestly? Honestly?? That's it. Being followed covertly on rooftops is one thing, but this reporter is homing in on Bruce without regard for any stealth tactics. And this many red flags pique Bruce's curiosity.

 

He lands in the alley without making a sound.

Moments later, the reporter ducks into the alley from the street, smiling placidly and taking out his notebook again.

"You didn't answer me, before. Could I just ask my question?"

"You're following me."

"I was hoping to get a quote."

Bruce tries to loom, uses all his tricks to seem taller and wider and darker in the shadows, and the reporter looks… apologetic. Not cowed, just a bit awkward. He's still half a head taller than Bruce and probably one and a half times his weight, but he shrinks a little, placatingly.

"How are you triangulating my position."

"I’ll tell you if you'll go on record. Why Gotham?"

Bruce Stares.

"That is to say," says the reporter, with an embarrassed smile, "you could have picked any city to make your own. Why pick Gotham?"

"Who do you work for."

"Oh! I'm so sorry! Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Why Gotham?"

This is absurd.

In a fluid movement, Bruce handcuffs the man to a dumpster and makes his escape. It's a good part of town, a restaurant employee will hear him if he calls through the back door. From there it'll be a few hours to get that cuff off.

The night goes on. Bruce doesn’t see him again.

 

***

 

Clark makes it back to his hotel room in a tizzy, dumping the melted handcuffs in the little wastepaper basket by the door. It's stupid, it's objectively stupid to be doing this, he knows it's objectively stupid. He doesn't have time to do freelance work, let alone freelance work while he's busy with the big lead he's pursuing in Gotham. He just wants Batman to get the chance to meet Clark Kent. Even if he doesn't end up taking that chance, it's.

 

Well, it's stupid. 

 

Maybe Clark is just a sucker for people who are sharp enough to cut him. Maybe he admires the competence required to be an unpowered hero. Maybe it was inevitable, between the arguments and the heat of battle, for his admiration to grow. 

Clark looks forward to teaming up now, more than ever. He thinks about it every day.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Batman finds flaws in Superman. There's a selfish part of Clark that feels relieved when someone doesn't buy the hype. He wants- he needs to be loved, but constructive criticism is precious. Batman knows exactly how to end Clark's life, and on some level that is a welcome acknowledgement of fallibility. Of… humanity.

But Batman can’t see the rest of that humanity, the capes keep getting in the way.

 

So Clark lies awake at night thinking of the things he'd like to say outside of strict meetings on rooftops. He wishes their friendship wasn't stilted because of how perfect Superman has to be. He wishes Batman could share things with him. Batman is amazing, he's clever and capable and a smile from him is the most precious prize. He moves like a snake, fights like a dancer, plans like a villain. The two heroes work together perfectly in battle.

Out of battle, however, Batman is still cold. There's no real intimacy to their friendship as far as Clark can find, no vulnerability, no matter how hard Clark tries.

 

So if there’s a chance that Batman could meet Clark, the real Clark, and discover all the embarrassing, human idiosyncrasies that Superman can’t have, Clark needs to take it. He doesn’t even need Batman to connect him to Superman. Batman could hate him. He doesn’t care, he’s tired and he’s lonely and the one other hero who he trusts with his life doesn’t even know his name.

Batman doesn’t even know Clark is a person.

And maybe, just maybe, Batman might like him more this way. There has to be someone out there who likes Clark Kent more than Superman, right?

On some level, he knows it won't be true. But it's important to be an optimist. He has to try. Just one more time. If it’s a definitive no… he’ll leave it alone. forever.

 

 

***

 

 

Bruce should have known this would happen. Strange occurrences are never a one-off thing. They're never easy to resolve.

So here's the reporter (Kent, his name is Kent), sitting on the hood of the batmobile and swinging his legs. It's almost dawn, the sky is already lightening. Less than thirty six hours have passed since Kent’s first appearance. Bruce hasn't had time to sleep, let alone do meaningful research on the man.

"Hello!" Kent waves, "This time I tried to pick a spot where I wouldn't distract you!"

Bruce's patience is definitely being tested. He gets into the driver's side of the batmobile, slams the door behind him, and makes scathing eye contact with the man staring through the windshield. 

You didn't answer my question yesterday, Kent continues in easy sign language. Gotham is your city, right? Why is Gotham your city? Why not start with an easier city?

Bruce glares.

Just the one question, signs Kent cheerfully.

Bruce glares.

What makes it your city? You could adopt any place.

Bruce dons a whole new flavour of glare. Kent just pushes his glasses up his nose with an anxious smile. Bruce can't find Kent's angle–is he a villain? An idiot? Is he actually confident that Batman won't hurt him, or is he trying to get hurt? And why is he so confident that Batman knows sign language?

On top of it all, the questions are… personal. Kent is definitely doing research. For whom?

Bruce starts the car. Kent keeps smiling that little smile, completely unfazed. He's absolutely certain that Bruce won't try to drive away while he's on the hood.

He's right.

 

They stay like that for almost five minutes.

Hm.

Bruce just wants to go home.

So, like a sleep deprived idiot, he signs, I won't abandon Gotham just because it needs the most help.

Fucking hell. That's the sort of thing Superman would say. Bruce must be getting soft, telling civilians that sort of thing.

Kent smiles and hops off the hood of the car in one fumbling movement. He begins to sign another question, but Bruce is already accelerating away. It's time to do some research.

Notes:

I have no idea if this fic is fit for human consumption yet. I'm sick right now and it's making my brain feel tipsy so here we go making rash decisions! Have a very gay sex Sunday everyone!!

Chapter 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The hacked Planet schedule says that Kent is in Gotham to report on the Grayson murders.

He’s also on the press list for an upcoming fundraiser (ostensibly because he happens to be in the area, but Bruce suspects ulterior motives). Bruce is on the guest list for the same event.

So he goes.

 

Of course, when he gets there he remembers why he was planning on backing out at the last minute.

The ballroom is full of people milling about in ones and twos, grouping off to chat and look at the art on the walls. (it’s bad art. The rest of the decor feels like an untextured simulation). Lex Luthor is holding court in the middle of everything, shooting confident smiles at assorted press and leaning in to murmur to his yes-men. Bruce can’t help but wonder why someone as unlikeable as Luthor would stand under such a droppable modernist chandelier.

Someone brushes past Bruce, and it takes him a moment to recognise the floppy figure as Kent, making a beeline straight into the focus of Luthor’s semicircle of fame.

All eyes in the group turn to Kent. Kent ducks his head, walking right up and mumbling a question to Luthor. Bruce can’t see his mouth from here, but Luthor’s face says it all. Disgust, annoyance, pity.

Luthor listens with barely disguised impatience, and when Kent is done, his lips start moving. 

“No comment.”

Kent shrinks a little and says something else. Luthor’s lips narrow.

“No comment.”

 

A member of security has gently shouldered her way through the crowd to the group. Luthor leers at her like she’s in on a joke. She ignores him and exchanges a few words with Kent, who hesitates before beating a slow retreat back to an edge of the room.

Luthor gives the securitywoman a thank you, leaning in just a little bit too far. She maintains a professional stance but when she turns to leave she has that slightly queasy expression that so many people seem to catch from being around Luthor.

“He's been following me to every event like a puppy," Luthor is saying, "Who let him in here?”

His friend says something, but Bruce can’t see his lips.

Luthor scowls. “No, that would make him suspect something, then he might get Lane in on the case. She’s actually competent.”

More words, sparking a chuckle from Luthor. 

“I’m sure he isn’t even embarrassed about it.”

 

So why is Kent trying to talk to Luthor? Surely he'd be here for Bruce, if he was really pursuing the Grayson case.

Speaking of which.

A reporter is approaching Bruce along the edges of the room, necessitating a split in his attention. He loses track of the conversation as he turns his focus on her.

“Mr. Wayne!” she flashes a smile, “I was hoping to ask you some questions about Richard Grayson?”

And. Bruce has been asked a lot of questions by the press in the past two weeks. Anyone asking for a firsthand account of the murders will get a story. But the boy,

"No comment," he says.

The reporter steps in front of him as he turns to walk away.

 

And fuck, his only other avenue of exit is right behind Clark Kent, who’s trying to interview one of Luthor's more drunk lackeys. This was supposed to be an observation mission, Bruce didn't plan on talking to Kent. And Bruce doesn't like deviating from the plan.

"Would you say you saw part of his experience in your own?"

"No comment, Ms..?" (her press badge has flipped around on her chest and Bruce can't catch her name).

"How is he holding up after the incident? Has he seen a therapist?"

"Really, I doubt these are polite questions to be asking," Bruce mutters, trying to covertly edge towards (and hopefully past) Kent.

"Do you think you'll be able to give him a normal childhood after such an unusual upbringing and a traumatic event?"

"I'm not here to gossip about the orphan of a terrible tragedy. You can ask me about all manner of other things, if you'd like."

Again, the reporter doesn't take the hint. "I'm simply asking, do you think you're the best guardian to help Richard move on? You’ve made it very clear that you haven’t moved on from your past."

 

Kent must have overheard part of that, because he glances over at their conversation with poorly disguised alarm. Fuck.

"It’s difficult to understand what you're trying to imply," says Bruce dryly, "but I resent the implication nonetheless."

He's getting angry. He never gets angry. All the press in the world doesn't make him angry. 

Then again, this is about the kid.

The kid. Kneeling over his parents. The whole crowd was staring and panicking, and there was shouting, and nobody else thought to help the kid. Nobody else considered kneeling next to him and offering him their jacket. It was warm, in the big top, even with the wide openings for the crowd to flee through, but the kid was shaking like a leaf. It was just like that night in the alley, and Bruce still couldn't help.

Except. This time he could.

 

"Excuse me, can I butt in?" asks a mellow voice to his left. It's Kent. Shit. What does Kent want?

Kent winks discreetly, angling his face away from the other reporter.

Huh.

"I was hoping to ask you some questions about Wayne Enterprises, Mr. Wayne? Or are you in the middle of an interview here?"

"Not at all," breezes Bruce, "we just finished. I was hoping to catch some air on the balcony, actually, if you'd like to join me..?"

He lays it on a little thick with the posture, leaning too-far in towards Kent and grinning a little bit too wide.

Kent doesn't even blink. He glances at the other reporter and then starts walking towards the balcony with Bruce in tow.

 

“Well," purrs Bruce, trotting just a bit ahead of the other man, "you saved me. You're certainly in my good graces now," —he makes a show of glancing at the press badge— "Clark."

"I'm not... actually interested in an interview, you just seemed uncomfortable," Kent says awkwardly, turning to stiffly lean on the balcony railing and stare back into the party, "to be honest, I was after Luthor, but he keeps evading me."

"Well, I'm not running away." Bruce conspicuously runs his eyes down the length of Kent’s body. “Do you think I might be able to take his place for the evening?”

(Just a large man. Probably not very strong. He doesn't seem very intelligent either, but looks can be deceiving)

Kent looks at him sidelong. “Please don’t be mistaken, Mr. Wayne, I’m not flirting.”

“Oh?” Bruce moves even closer but Kent shows no signs of discomfort, “And what would it look like if you were flirting with me?”

“I expect I’d demand to see your financial records,” the man says with a placid smile. His posture is loosening up as he stops assessing Bruce as a threat.

“We can slip away, if you’d like to look at my… financial records…”

Kent sips his drink. “Oh no, Mr. Wayne, you’re confused. I’d only ask for your financial records if I was flirting. Currently, I can see no incentive for that sort of thing .

He's having fun with this. He’s laughing at you.

Bruce recognises this kind of quiet humour. He makes it all the time. Kent probably doesn't much care if Bruce gets the joke, and Bruce can't laugh while he's playing the fool. He can't get the joke.

It is funny though.

 

Kent's posture shifts just a bit. He looks intrigued, maybe a bit concerned, like something about Bruce caught his attention more fully.

"Wayne. Wayne…. You're the one with the dissatisfied shareholders.”

Bruce catches the suspicion that this isn't how the man talked to Luthor. He isn't being quite as careful right now.

“There’s been some talk of employees jumping ship to Lexcorp,” Kent says, speculatively sizing Bruce up.

“There’s always talk of employees jumping ship to Lexcorp." Bruce waves his glass lazily towards the party, "they have arcade machines, you know, in their workspaces. And picnics, and ride sharing services. Apparently their employees are just one big family, did you know that?" Bruce should stop at that, but Kent's attention is suddenly sharper than it was before. "Wayne Enterprises only has the best entry level health insurance on the east coast, I don’t see how that could compete.”

Kent breaks into a crooked little smile. Bruce might be showing his hand a little too much, but it feels good to let Kent in on the joke. Dangerously good. The man is dangerous, a little voice in his head reminds him.

"I can see why your shareholders are so upset. You're spending lots of money on irrelevant things."

"Unlike Luthor," Bruce smirks back, “he’s much better with money than me.”

Kent stifles a snort, casts Bruce a surprised and appreciative look.

And now he knows Bruce is in on the joke.

Fuck.

 

It’s almost frustrating, really. Kent is sharp and quiet and a little bit mysterious, even with the chronic clumsiness and the stubborn obliviousness to certain topics. Maybe especially with those. If he was someone else, someone who wasn’t stalking Batman, Bruce would find him cute.

But there’s something else, too. Kent’s mannerisms almost lie in the uncanny valley. It’s impossible to describe what’s wrong with how he acts, but he’s definitely acting to some extent.

“You know,” says Bruce, “If you’re looking to interview a billionaire...”

Kent offers a squeaky clean and innocent smile (That can’t be a sincere smile). “Interesting! Wayne Enterprises has escaped a great deal of scrutiny for such a big company. If you’re really offering, Mr. Wayne, to give me a scoop on your finances… Well, I couldn’t pass that up, could I?”

Bruce actually can’t tell if Kent is calling his bluff or is being genuine. There hasn’t been a lot of scrutiny, and that’s a deliberate choice. 

Bruce’s systems for preventing unfair labour practices might have been called ‘extreme’ if anyone else knew the full extent of them. Recently, for example, a nonprofit with very mysterious funding sprang into being and donated vigorously to unionisation efforts in both Wayne Enterprises and Lexcorp. It ostensibly has nothing to do with Bruce’s disagreement with the WE board about unions, or Luthor’s snide remarks about sick days at that gala in February. Bruce had been absolutely baffled about it to the papers. And that business with maternity leave. It couldn’t be helped that he set it so much longer than the industry standard. He’s a CEO, he really should have let someone else make those decisions, but it’s too late to change all those contracts now…

So, if Kent did look at Wayne Enterprises’ working conditions, he would find some very unusual numbers, numbers worth investigating. Numbers that would shift public opinion.

Kent smiles politely, presumably taking Bruce’s silence as confirmation that he’s backing out. “I… I was going to say, Mr. Wayne, off the record.” He leans in just a bit to infer confidentiality, “Richard Grayson. I’m glad you’re helping him.”

Bruce doesn’t know what to say to that. Up until now, he had suspected that Kent belonged to the mob. It was a long shot, with his immaculate journalistic history, but that comment really killed the suspicion. Kent seems genuinely concerned for the kid.

The sincerity cuts past all of Bruce's walls and leaves him a little bit speechless.

 

Kent politely extricates himself almost immediately, leaving Bruce with more questions than he started with.

Notes:

Happy Mayday, Bruce Wayne commits corporate sabotage against his own company for the sake of his employees

Chapter 3

Notes:

something something Bruce loses his dick and Clark helps him find it

(short chapter. Something longer tomorrow)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Dick is missing.

He was gone from his bed tonight when Bruce checked on him before patrol, and there's still no word of his whereabouts. Bruce checked the circus twice, and now he's patrolling aimlessly, waiting for his brain to simmer on his available evidence.

He's…  worried. Disheartened. Panicked? More scared than he has been in years. He knew it would be a problem, caring about a kid this much. He knew it would be a liability.

He's only been searching for an hour and his heart feels like it's about to explode.

 

"Batman!"

The voice comes from the street. There are two figures down there. One glances up and darts away as soon as it hears the call.

The other is Clark fucking Kent, frantically gesturing for Batman to come closer. He glances down the street, then back up at Bruce, then he turns to sprint in the opposite direction, still using his arm to beckon a follow me.

He's faster than anyone his size and shape should be. He leans just a bit too far forward when he runs. Up on the rooftops, Bruce can barely match pace.

And then he realises that Kent is running towards the circus.

 

***

 

 

The fight is over in seconds. The attackers sprawl across the ground outside Haly's trailer. Richard Grayson crouches defensively on the grass next to Haly's unconscious form, nursing a fractured arm. There's nobody else in the area.

Clark is genuinely stunned.

It’s not that Batman just took out nine armed men in ten seconds. Clark is used to that sort of thing. It’s that he’s crouched in front of this ten year old kid with more soft concern than Clark has ever seen him show.

Usually Clark deals with kids when they work together. Batman doesn't want to. 

But looking back, maybe Clark just assumed he didn’t want to. 

 

Now it’s obvious what an oversight that was. Even when Clark tries to find a soft side to Batman, he misses so many opportunities because of his own biases, because he’s bought the hype around the mythical figure and struggles to find the shape of the man under the cape.

Don’t think of him as the bat, think of him as your friend.

Sure, Batman may venture into the darkest alleys, see the worst sides of humanity, but sometimes that’s the only way to find the lost lambs, isn’t it? And he’s still–

“I’m going to take you home,” Batman tells Richard, quickly taking the unconscious Haley’s vitals and propping him in the recovery position.

Richard glares up at him, face full of frustration and not a hint of fear.

“I don’t want to go back to Wayne manor,” he says, “That place isn’t my home. Mr. Wayne doesn’t even pay attention to me.”

Clark hesitates, glancing at Batman, who’s clenching his jaw. “Is Mr. Wayne… neglecting you?”

Richard’s face screws up in puzzled contemplation, glancing between Clark and Batman. “I don’t think so? I'm fed and stuff, he buys me whatever I ask for. I’m just… lonely. He doesn’t like me. He thinks I should go to school and make friends but that doesn’t mean I’d be less lonely when I’m in his house.”

Clark tries again to share a worried glance with Batman, but Batman isn’t responding.

“I want to stay at the circus,” says Richard, “at least there are people who care about me here. At least there are people who love me.”

“Come with me.” says Batman. He’s frowning at the boy but there’s something tender underneath. “We’ll sort things out.”

“You’re going to take me back,” scowls Richard. Accusation drips off every word.

“Yes,” says Batman, “we'll talk it out with Wayne. And then, if you still want to leave, I promise we will find you a better home.”

Richard looks up at the imposing figure, so inhuman against the night.

“I promise, ” says Batman, and puts out his hand.

And Richard takes it.

 

Stomach turning somersaults, Clark watches them get in the batmobile and drive away. Almost by second nature, he flips his notebook to a new page in time for the police cars to come around the corner.

He’ll have to talk to Batman about this later. 

He’ll have to talk to Wayne about this later.

But right now, his mother’s special shorthand on the last page of his notebook reads, He’s kind to children.

Notes:

heh. Richard.
Most of Bruce & Dick's stuff is happening offscreen, sorry to the graysonheads out there. I don't really have meaningful stuff to add to their relationship that isn't canon? Outside of the way Dick encourages Bruce to open up.

The next few chapters after this will be longer & more fun :)

Chapter 4

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

They see each other again the next night at the circus. Bruce is staking out the small village of trailers from high atop some scaffolding when he sees Kent leaving Haly’s trailer (with a backwards wave and a few parting words). The door swings closed and Kent shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath and blowing it out as a cloud of vapour in the chilly air.

Then he looks straight up and locks surprised eyes with Bruce.

And bursts out laughing.

His face splits open into a clumsy, brilliant smile, and he doubles over to lean on his knees. Toffee-sweet chuckles spill out into the night. 

It... must be fake, right? A manipulative tactic? Nobody really acts that unselfconscious. Not with that much charm.

(even last night, when Kent stood in shocked silence, watching Dick anxiously. Even that could be an act.)

 

Kent strolls over to the base of the scaffolding and leans against it, looking across the encampment idly. His hands are in his pockets, his whole posture is… casual. He’s still smiling to himself.

He doesn’t even glance over when Bruce lands next to him, he just continues to stare into the night.

"I should've expected you to be here. I was talking about you to Haly just now. He told me I'd never be able to track you down"

"Your ability to track me down is truly unpleasant."

"I didn't even have to try this time! I hope you haven't been following me."

"I've been following Haly. I need to talk to him about last night."

Kent looks up now, eyes still shining and happy in the glow of the sparse lamps lighting up the little village.

"I could probably make your job easier," he grins, and blows another breath into the air, watching the vapour catch the light. "Haly’s clean. The thugs from last night belong to Anthony Zucco, who’s been trying to extort him."

“How do you know Haly’s clean.”

“I tend to believe people,” smiles Kent, “But proving it is actually something I need help with. I know where his financial records are but he doesn't trust me to look at them. You’re good at stealth, right? Could you get them for us?”

Hm.

"What's the catch."

"Hm?"

"What information are you looking for in return."

Kent frowns. "I'm not– well, preferably I'd get to sit with you and take my own notes on his records. I'm not someone who attaches strings to everything."

"You could have fooled me."

Kent's face isn't full of humour or joy anymore. It's just worry. Bruce kicks himself for feeling so mean. This is business. You don't worry about seeming mean when it's business, when you're talking to adults.

“I’ll get us some coffee,” says Kent, with a rallying smile, “the books are with the money box under the strongman’s bed. Think you can find ‘em?”

Bruce glares. “Of course. But. Why would I let you see them.”

Kent pushes his glasses up demurely, "because it would give you an opportunity to make my story more accurate."

"And why would I care about your story."

Kent looks him squarely in the eye. Most people can't do that, they don't know where the eyes are under the lenses.

"Because you believe in the truth. You believe in justice. Accurate journalism furthers your goals as well as mine."

"Your goal is accurate journalism."

"Always," Kent beams. He shifts in such a way that Bruce catches a hint of his shape under the huge coat. He's not a skinny man under there, is he. He has a real shape. You can find his real shape.

"Alright," Bruce manages, and takes off towards the strongman’s trailer.

 

 

When he finds Kent five minutes later, he's sitting behind the elephant enclosure with two coffees and the tip of a long trunk snorfing through this hair. The mysterious origin of the coffees is momentarily unimportant. The look on Kent's face is elbowing its way to the very forefront of Bruce’s mind.

He's flushed, grinning and trying to stifle his laughter as the tip of the elephant trunk suctions onto the side of his face for a long sniff. Zitka the elephant (her name is up in huge letters on the posters) can't quite see who's outside her enclosure, but she can definitely hear the muffled chuckles with each prod and noisy inhale.

Kent pushes his messy curls out of his eyes when he notices Bruce (Zitka immediately moves on to probing his ear). Even in the low light, Bruce can't help but notice the dimples, the way those eyes squeeze shut with the last choked giggle before he looks back up at Bruce.

"You got the files?"

Bruce grips the files in front of him, reaffirming why he's here. There's work to be done.

(He's also hyperaware of his own body, making sure it's menacing and his movements are smooth.)

Kent pats the ground next to him and offers up a coffee. Bruce concedes a crouch, across from Kent so as to avoid Zitka's roaming snout. He carefully opens the folder on his lap and aims his little flashlight at it, hyperaware of Kent’s eyes on him.

(He tries to maintain graceful movements. It's important to intimidate the enemy. It's important to be inhumanly competent. It's important to impress Kent.)

Kent reaches for a paper but Bruce grabs his wrist.

"No fingerprints."

"Right."

 

And that's how they end up hunched over the papers in Bruce's lap, Bruce with a light between his teeth and Kent with elephant-touseled hair falling into his eyes between them. The only sound is the turning of pages and the scribbling of Kent's pencil on paper.

"Looks like he's clean then," mutters Kent, when they reach the last page, "he hasn't been moving mob shipments or anything. I couldn't find evidence of any cooperation happening off the books, either."

Bruce nods. Theoretically, he reached the same conclusion. He just wasn't paying as much attention as he should have been. At least eighty percent of his processing power is focused on Kent. On how nice Kent seems. On how long Kent’s eyelashes are. On how Kent hasn't inhaled in almost three minutes.

"Alright," Bruce says, "I've fulfilled my end of the bargain." He stands up and moves to walk away. He needs to analyse his data.

"Wait, I have a few questions for you!"

Bruce pauses.

"As a reporter," Kent adds sheepishly.

Bruce sweeps away into the night.

Kent doesn't follow this time.

 

 

***

[eighteen hours later]

 

 

 

Clark doesn't like being yanked onto alleys. He extra doesn't like being yanked into alleys when the person in the alley has fashion advice for him. Today has been a long day and he isn’t feeling generous!

"What are you doing?"

"Paying back your favour from the other night."

"You don't need to pay back anything! And I'm not wearing that," Clark says to the pile of nondescript clothes in Batman's hands.

"You're sticking out like-"

"No, I'm absolutely serious, people can't see me wearing that."

Batman grinds out, "this is Gotham. You look like an easy target in your current clothes."

"Good. That's important."

"What."

Clark is used to Batman's demeanour, he doesn't blink when the glare is levelled at him.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Clark asks, and he knows the answer is yes so he pushes on, "I'm a large man. I'm from the rural Midwest. There are lots of things I could do to be less…” — wait hold up, we're tipping our hand a little bit too much, don't let him think about that— "my point is that people need to feel safe around me."

"This is Gotham." Says Batman, "people don't feel safe in Gotham."

"Well, I'm not from Gotham." This is a hill that Clark will die on. "If I seem approachable enough that a woman being followed can ask me to walk her home, that's worth being stabbed in an alley."

Batman stares at him, for a long second. "It is an act."

Clark's veins go cold. He distantly hears himself saying, "what?"

 

Batman peers closer, leaning in to inspect Clark's face (oh boy your mouths sure are within kissing distance, don’t think about that). "You hold yourself like someone with anxiety. To make people let down their guard."

"I have anxiety," mutters Clark, but Batman is already pushing on.

"You aren't anxious about talking to a masked vigilante. Or, apparently, when you're under threat of being stabbed in an alley."

"I am anxious," Clark argues, "I just do my best to overcome it. And if I exaggerate it sometimes to make people feel safe, that doesn't mean it's an act."

"You exaggerate it so people underestimate you. But being underestimated in Gotham is a liability, you have no motivation for it . Unless you want someone like me to think the mask is genuine. What are you hiding?" 

Batman's face is- well, it isn't angry, maybe more calculating, or curious. It's hard to tell, he barely emotes. Clark knows, though, that Batman is trying to get a reaction with this whole interrogation shtick. He's seen the man do this same thing before. And Clark is a reporter, he knows how to push back in ways that Superman is too good to try.

"Are you more genuine outside of that mask?"

Batman straightens up, glaring. They meet each other's eyes for a long moment. 

Because Clark can, because he won’t realise he’s gone too far until afterwards, he adds, “don’t pull that whole ‘someone like me’ thing. I know you aren’t going to hurt me. I know you aren’t just some criminal seeking violence. You just seem really desperate to intimidate me.”

And that’s. Probably not something Clark should be saying if he doesn’t want Batman finding out his secret. Especially not if Batman set this whole thing up to figure out that–

"You are hiding something." Batman finally huffs, turning away. 

He doesn’t say, I’ll find it.

Clark hopes he doesn’t find it. The truth wearing the glasses is more true than the truth wearing the cape. But Batman… doesn’t seem like he’d understand that.

That’s the crux of the matter, really, because Clark is almost certain he's looking at the real guy, but he can't be sure, not when some people put on acts that deflect and some people put on acts that reveal.

 

The first time he saw that was in college. He’d been sitting on a bench in the arts quad with some other students from his introductory journalism class. He was young and rural and maybe angling for a date with a cute guy sitting in the colourful group. In hindsight everyone else had seen that. They had been very kind about it, even though Clark had clearly never even met a transgender person before (let alone been immersed in a full queer community), and under the guise of a group discussion the cute classmate had explained some basic concepts about gender and described what it's like to be trans.

Clark had done some research after that (for embarrassing reasons mostly related to his crush). He hadn't previously realised how much of the whole thing seemed to be about curating how other people saw you; putting effort into dressing or acting in ways that broadcast the truth of you louder than your plain body ever could. How sometimes you might try to broadcast that truth louder than you feel, just to get anyone to recognise it.

He'd signed up for a gender studies class the next semester and never talked to the cute classmate again, out of sheer embarrassment for his previous ignorance. But he thinks about that first conversation a lot, many years and many classes later. It was the first time he saw just how much of his wardrobe was built around being helpful and safe. It made him feel less like an actor or a fraud for wearing his glasses. This is me, the glasses say, even if my body can destroy worlds, it's safe to talk to me. I'm just like you.

The more he pulls back the cowl and the cloak, the more Clark sees of a man who doesn't want to seem safe. Who wants the world to fear him. 

A man who leans hard into everything Clark leans away from. 

Batman loves helping people. But Batman doesn't want to be seen as safe or human. It makes sense, it fits with everything Clark has seen. Every little tension when other heroes expect him to make smalltalk, every frustration when someone mentions his vulnerabilities. His tendency to butt heads with anyone who tries to protect him.

Clark can’t imagine wanting that.

But, Clark thinks, how much of it is compensation for the people who think he’s weak?

What would he be like with someone he trusted not to underestimate him? Would he be softer?

He was soft with the Grayson kid, wasn’t he.

hm.

 

***

 

Bruce watches the slouched figure stumble down the street. Clark Kent is definitely a villain. Nobody else smirks at Batman. Even if it's not quite a smirk, it's more genuine than that. 

There's something different in the way he talks. Most people talk to Batman like an infallible force or a lawless beast, but Clark fucking Kent talks to him like he's just a close acquaintance. It's honestly unnerving how polite and calm he is, in the face of– well, of a bat-man looming over him. 

And that's another thing, is that Bruce does loom over him, even though Kent would actually be taller if he stood up straight. The man radiates timidness but still launches into the most dangerous situations imaginable. By all intents and purposes, he should be dead by now. Instead he's shuffling into a mob front restaurant and asking casual questions about who runs the place, and apparently he's not enough of a threat to bother alerting management. It's boggling.

Maybe Bruce is just going too soft to conduct a proper intimidation. Yesterday, he was caught up on Kent’s ruffled hair. The day before, he let a child in on his secret identity. It hasn’t exactly been a good week for strong and intimidating behaviour.

He doesn’t feel as bad about that as he usually would.

Notes:

Are you haunted by the transgender experience yet

Chapter 5

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Bruce watches from on high as the fire department arrives to the blaze. There were no casualties, he made sure of that, but it was definitely arson. Part of a larger case.

"I just want to know. Do you really think you can fix Gotham?" Asks an anxious voice behind him.

Bruce is ready this time. He doesn't turn around. He doesn't respond.

 

The reporter quietly sidles into his peripheral vision, watching the flames spill out of the building across the street. "You could have solved half the problems on the whole East Coast by now. But you're focused on Gotham. Do you really think it's possible to solve Gotham's problems?"

And Bruce is. Weak. He's been spending too much time talking to Dick about this sort of thing. He could just leave, but he's too deep into trying to unravel Kent's mystery.

He turns his head to Look. Kent is carrying his jacket over his arm, his tie undone. The journey up to the roof should have winded him, but he isn't panting, he's barely even breathing (uncanny, inhuman,). He keeps his eyes on the fire across the street without any care for his night vision.

"Those are two very different questions," says Bruce, "I can't fix Gotham. I can solve its problems."

"But there are always new problems," says Kent.

“That holds true for everywhere.”

Kent flashes a surprised smile. Something about the low lighting, the slight state of undress, the shy smile…

 

Bruce carefully Does Not Think About it.

"I think I get it." Kent looks back into the street. "Did you save people from the fire?"

"..."

"That sounds like a yes. Those people would be dead without you. Lots of people would be dead."

The lighting is stark. Kent's glasses flash when he turns to smile down at Bruce (he's standing up straighter now, isn't he?). Something about the way his skin catches the light is uncanny in that worrisome way. Too smooth.

"Why don't you kill people?"

This question is quieter. Bruce is sure he could leave and Kent wouldn't follow him. He's sure.

 

He doesn't move.

"What do you think."

Kent cocks his head in thought. They maintain eye contact, for a minute. There's no noise but distant sirens and garbage trucks starting their 4am shift.

"People always say killing makes you as bad as the villains, but… you’ve given plenty of compassion to folks who killed others, say, in an act of defense. More compassion than the justice system gave them. I’ve heard the stories. That means you don’t think every murder holds the same weight, and you’re willing to forgive others for that sort of thing… so it’s a personal choice, right? You’re only holding yourself to that standard."

Bruce stays quiet.

“I think," says Kent, "you won’t let anyone die, not even the worst of killers… Because you won't give up on them. You'll always give them a second chance, right? even if you’re sure they won’t take it? You're stubborn, you always give them that chance. It's what makes you you ."

Kent steps closer and it takes all of Bruce's self control not to step away. There's a good chance Kent is telepathic, Bruce thinks, because he smiles placatingly, as if Bruce had stepped away.

"And you- you're afraid of taking the easy way out of anything, aren't you? I'm– I'd be afraid too. There is no such thing as a Batman who gives up, a Batman who takes shortcuts. Giving up would mean Batman was gone, you'd just be inhabiting the mythos of fear without the principles…"

He carefully reaches over, and Bruce holds so still as one broad finger hesitantly brushes the yellow around the bat on his chest. 

Kent looks up and into Bruce's eyes. There isn't a 'gotcha' moment. His gaze is soft and quiet and kind, just like the rest of him. "That's why you stay in Gotham. Because you don't give up on anything or anyone. Or anywhere. You're stubborn."

The wind gusts on the rooftop. Gotham glows around them. Kent's eyes are sapphire blue behind the glasses.

"I thought so," he murmurs. "You really are amazing. Everything I've learned makes me admire you more."

 

Clark Kent probably couldn't run a marathon. He couldn't throw a batarang or dodge a bullet. At first glance, you'd think that he's only good at holding doors open on the subway.

But for some reason, this simple man keeps fighting his way straight to the heart of Bruce's emotional foundation. He doesn't drag Bruce into the sunlight; he brings his own sunlight into the cave, to find the outlines of the biggest worries and hopes and fears Bruce keeps hidden away. To sketch them out and brush away the spiderwebs, despite Bruce’s best efforts.

Here he is, smiling mildly and openly on the rooftop, offering Bruce a synopsis of the horrible things in the cave like they're beautiful treasures. Saying that Bruce is amazing for them. And it’s too late to take it back; Kent has this information now. Somehow.

Bruce remembers the articles. Clark Kent doesn't usually go to active war zones or go after superman. None of his articles are as important as Lane’s, not on a worldwide scale. But his topics are always the most challenging . Getting information on most of the subjects he's covered is like pulling teeth. 

Somehow, Kent systematically compiles the most difficult-to-obtain information into neat little charts for his audience, quietly waits to be underestimated during interviews, and shows up everywhere until he gets what he wants. 

“Following me like a puppy,” Luthor said. No real hate in it, just condescension. And condescension breeds complacency. Nobody but Kent could make Luthor let his guard down like that.

He’s dangerous. He knows things about Batman that nobody should know. And there’s something else wrong with him. Bruce just doesn’t know what yet. Something almost inhuman. Bruce's hackles rise just at the way Kent looks at him.

 

“Well,” says Kent, quietly. “I suppose I’m done harassing you. Thank you for indulging my curiosity. I won’t be publishing anything, this all seems a bit too... personal to go in the paper. Unless you’d like me to?”

“...no.” Bruce shifts uncomfortably.

Kent scuffs a shoe across the ground. “Alright. I’ll be in town until Monday, following the Grayson story. I’ll, um. I’ll see you around. If you want to swap notes.”

When Kent looks back up, there’s nobody on the rooftop with him.

Bruce is running away. He doesn't know what else to do.

 

***

 

They meet the next night at a red carpet in Gotham. Well, ‘meet’ is a stretch. The paparazzi cameras flash off a round pair of glasses in the back of the clamouring crowd of reporters. Bruce meets the mild gaze, watches the smile dawn at the eye contact and the large figure try to push to the front of the crowd.

He hurries inside before he has to talk. 

 

Following me like a puppy.

Bruce knows enough about ecology to know there are predators that disguise themselves as prey. Aggressive mimicry, it’s called. Some spiders pretend to be ants so that real ants come close. Angler fish seem like a little light in the darkness, right up until they’re not.

A wolf in sheep's clothing. That's the phrase people use.

Kent is not just Kent. Bruce can tell. There’s something wrong . It's a trick somehow, it has to be. It just won’t do to approach the whole thing unguarded.

So Bruce focuses on the uncanny way Kent can spot him in the dark, and tries not to think about the way Kent's smile lights up the night. Bruce remembers the unpleasant feeling of being followed, and tries to shake Kent's sarcastic witticisms from his mind. It doesn't matter how kind he was to Dick. There's something wrong. There has to be something wrong. There's always something wrong, Bruce just has to find out what.

The media remarks, in the morning, that Wayne seemed more tired than usual at the event. Maybe his ward is weighing on him. Maybe he's not cut out to take care of a child.

Notes:

yellow belongs on the bat symbol. in this essay I will-

Chapter 6

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"This is stupid."

"You know what was stupid? Putting yourself between a gang of thugs and Haly. This is normal."

Dick angles his head away while Bruce tries to tighten the tie. The kid just lost a molar and it's been making him talk funny. "You're BATMAN! Why do you need to do normal stuff!"

"I need to keep up public appearances. So do you. That means you have to be a kid who goes to school and makes friends."

"YOU don't make friends."

"I… that's not…"

Alfred clears his throat from the doorway, watching Bruce struggle with the tie. "We all wish that master Bruce would make friends, master Richard. He seems to think he's above it."

Dick sniffs and grumps at Bruce, who's on his third try with the tie (he's not used to tying it backwards and he needs to do it perfectly). "He's right. You're a hypocrite."

"You're a child. You need to interact with your peers or you'll grow up emotionally stunted."

"Like you?"

Bruce stares deadpan into that cheeky grin. It's the first time he's seen Dick smile since that night at the circus. 

But at least he is smiling, even if he's joking at Bruce's expense. Bruce glances over at Alfred's expression. Oh boy. This kid is gonna be the death of him.

"Sorry," Dick hesitates. "Was that joke too mean? I can't tell if you're really mad."

"I'm not mad, chum. You have an acerbic wit"

"I don't know what that means."

"Add it to your vocabulary list, you can look it up when we get back."

Dick scrunches up his face a little bit. "Okay—I'll be nice to the principal. I'll try out the school. But only if you promise you'll try just as hard as me."

“What?”

“Promise you’ll try to make friends today too.”

"Dick…"

Dick raises his eyebrows in an unmistakable mirror of Alfred's expression. Bruce has the distinct feeling he's being ganged up on.

"Alright. I'll… I'll try to make a friend."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

“Good. You always seem lonely at parties, like you’re allergic to cameras. If you had a friend you'd be happier.”

 

***

 

Bruce has been perched outside the window of Kent’s hotel room for a little bit too long by the time Kent gets back. He’s on the phone, talking just loudly enough that Bruce can hear him over the traffic below.

"No, I'm over her. I am. I've accepted she doesn't feel the same way about me. That was months ago. Just the– the way she keeps trying to flirt with Superman… I couldn't deal with it. I needed a break. From all that. From Metropolis."

Distant voice on the phone line.

"I don't think Gotham is anyone's idea of a vacation. I'm working. And I've been… trying to talk to Batman. Like you suggested."

Distant voice.

"No, Superman doesn't come to Gotham. No. To be honest, it's made me feel really… free."

Distant voice.

"Of course I'm going back. Metropolis is where I belong. My work is important."

Distant voice.

"Yeah. Tell Pa I love him. Yeah. Sleep well, Ma."

He hangs up the phone and sighs.

 

So Superman's absence makes Kent feel… free. That doesn't bode well. Most people who feel that way are criminals.

Then again, apparently he can't stand it when his coworker flirts with the man of steel, so maybe his grudge is more personal. There's talk of sparks flying between Lane and Superman. It's obvious, in the way Kent talks, that he feels outclassed. Every sentence feels heavy with resentment, maybe jealousy. A textbook scenario. Superman gets the girl, gets the public attention, so Clark Kent gets jealous and…

Interviews Batman?

The logic just doesn't follow. This 'Ma' character had been pushing Kent to talk to Batman. Is "Ma" really just his mother? Or is she masterminding this scheme? Maybe the whole phone call was a set up to–

Hm. Benefit of the doubt. For Dick. Bruce is going to try to be friendly. For Dick. Because he promised.



"Tony Zucco," he says to announce his presence.

Kent doesn't scream or fall over. He carefully stows his phone in his bag before turning back to face the bat clinging to his cheap hotel room windowsill.

"If you're asking for my leads on Zucco," he says, "I'm going to ask for some information in return."

So Kent already has leads on Zucco.

"Information about what."

Kent frowns, confused. "Tony Zucco." Then, realisation dawning, "I'm not going to ask you for your secret identity or something, I'm here to report on the Graysons. I just want to compare notes."

Wolf in sheep's clothing, Bruce's brain provides.

"Come on in and shut the window, it looks like rain out there," mutters Kent, walking off to a spot on the floor surrounded by piles of paper. "I just got back, so my notes aren't in order yet."

He shrugs off his overcoat and hangs it carefully by the door to dry. His hair is still wet and at this distance, Bruce can see water droplets on his glasses. Kent doesn’t seem to mind them.

He’s wearing a vest and a baby blue buttonup shirt. He’s also wearing sleeve garters. Like some sort of old fashioned banker. It should be ridiculous.

(It's not.)

Kent reaches down to unpack some files from his bag. His waist is much narrower than Bruce assumed, isn't it. 

 

It's not that Bruce finds a narrow waist more attractive. The problem is much more… complicated. The simple act of revealing an underlying shape is filling his head with Thoughts. He keeps thinking he's made out the shape of Clark Kent, and at every turn, Kent seems a little bit more intricate than he thought. A narrower waist, broader shoulders. A little bit more selfless, a little bit more careful. 

More handsome. More… physically present.

Every time he sees more, it doesn’t feel like Kent is a threat. Kent doesn’t look like a threat, or act like a threat.

And he’s positive that it’s lulling him into a false sense of security.

Wolf in sheep’s clothing. Remember.There's something treacherous under those layers.

“Alright,” Bruce says abruptly (hyperaware of how much he’s been staring), “show me.”

“Okay, so,” Kent smiles. His tie is loose. Was his tie loose before? And the first button of his vest is undone. 

Bruce hauls his imagination away from that slippery slope and tries to dive back into listening. They follow the broad strokes of the situation to catch each other up to date, naming names and swapping connections. It’s easy to fall into rapport. Too easy.

But Bruce can't run away. He's doing this for Dick. He's doing it to prove to himself that he can do it.

Kent is more handsome, the closer Bruce looks, yes. But he’s still uncanny. Focus on that. Focus.

(The sleeve garters pull in the shirt to cling to Kent's arms, drawing the eye to how wide those biceps are. You don't get arms that wide with fat and bone, not at Kent's shape. He must have muscle under there to be so solid.)

Threat assessment. This is threat assessment. That's all it is. 

(Strong arms around you–)

Wolf in sheep’s clothing–

"–ties to the same gang that was doing the arms shipments last month," Kent is saying. Bruce runs back his mind to quickly review the conversation and hops back in with a useful addition.

Kent starts spreading out more papers on the floor, looking over at Bruce anxiously from time to time while he explains further findings. When he leans over just so, the unbuttoned collar of his shirt swings forward and Bruce catches a glimpse of dark hair on his chest. 

Focus. Focus on the mission.

Kent shrugs off his vest. Bruce notices the way the shirt hugs his chest, but he ensures it’s only in a detatched, clinical way. He's observing a threat. He's assessing.

He's suddenly very aware of his own body, in its crouch on the floor. Are his legs too far apart? Is he leaning forward too far? Is he intimidating enough?

Kent, for his part, seems completely preoccupied with the task at hand. He's all earnest smiles and thoughtful speculation, too absorbed to notice the hitch in Bruce's breath when he rolls up his sleeves.

This is ridiculous. You've seen forearms before.

Bruce has seen much more than forearms! He can (theoretically) walk through an orgy without a hitch in his heartrate! So why is he sweating? Why is it so much more difficult to form sentences?

Kent's suspenders hug the side of his chest (revealing shapes Bruce isn't allowed to think about right now). He peers at Bruce over the top of his glasses with an excited smile, explaining a connection he's made. He leans back against the rumpled hotel bed, gesturing broadly and...

He catches Bruce's gaze.

Holds it for a moment.

His face is suddenly worried.

"Batman? Am I– I'm sorry, did I do something wrong? You seem… upset."

Bruce can't stay here. It's not a hospitable environment for logic or impersonality. He’s always had a… weakness towards dangerous people. He swore it off already; not another kiss, not another thought towards someone he can't trust.

He can't let this be an exception. Kent can't be trusted, no matter how he prods Bruce with witticisms. No matter how bright his smile is. No matter how readily Bruce would want to be his friend in any other situation…

Wolf in sheep’s clothing.

He promised Dick he’d make an effort to be friendly, but the situation is growing beyond friendliness, beyond control. He can't be trusted with impersonality here. He's going to have to fulfill his promise elsewhere.

"I need to go," Bruce says.

He doesn't look. He knows Kent's face is crumpling in worry. He doesn't know if it's a trick. He can't tell what's real. He has to remember, above all else, that Clark Kent is a threat. 

(His traitor brain makes sure that he stands smoothly, that his cloak swishes gracefully and his posture is intimidating. It can’t hurt to have a Presence, even if he’s keeping it up so carefully for the wrong reasons.)

 

“Okay,” Kent says, shrinking in on himself even as he stands up, “I can tell I did something wrong here. If there’s anything I can do to fix it–”

“You did something wrong when you stalked me. Now that I have the information, I can leave.”

Kent’s eyes narrow, his eyebrows draw together. “I haven’t given you all of the information.”

“I have enough.”

Kent’s eyes narrow further. “When have you ever had enough information?”

Bruce hasn’t felt this exposed in years. It’s unpleasant. It has to be stopped. He stands taller. Kent shies away.

“Sorry,” mumbles Kent, staring at his feet.

And that feels like a kick in the teeth.

Bruce turns, and with one wide sweep of his cloak, he’s out the window and grappling into the night.

But-

"Wait!"

Kent is in the window, and he's staring straight at Bruce through the cover of shadow and rain, waving something in his hand.

Bruce, against his usual training, grapples back down to where Kent is stepping out onto the fire escape. The lighting here is stark. Bruce carefully doesn't look at the unbuttoned V of the shirt. He doesn't pay attention to the way Kent's jaw catches the light from the streetlamps below. 

He focuses on the carton in Kent's hands. It's an egg carton.

"It's, uh… I... my parents sent me some eggs from the hens back home." Kent smiles anxiously. "I don't have any way to cook them in this hotel, and I think they should be eaten while they're fresh. Take them."

The rain is drenching Kent's thin shirt. Bruce takes the eggs and grapples back up before he sees anything he can't handle.

"Sorry," he hears Kent mumble again as he swings away.

Despite himself, Bruce feels wretched.

 

***

 

 

"He said his parents sent him the eggs. His parents live in Kansas."

Alfred raises an eyebrow and continues collecting dirty mugs from Bruce's batcave desk. "It would not be unheard of to send one's son a taste of home in a chilled box, if the mail was quick enough."

"For some eggs?" The disbelief is stark in Bruce's voice.

Alfred peers into the egg carton and his eyes widen.

It was the look of them that cinched Bruce's suspicions. They're all different colours—deep terra cotta, light green, grey-beige, pale ghostly white. Not one of them is a normal egg. There's obviously something wrong. A pattern, maybe. A code.

"You mean to tell me," Alfred says in a strangled voice, "that you broke one of these eggs to test it?"  

"Yes."

Alfred scoops up the whole container and begins making his way upstairs. Bruce almost falls out of his chair in an attempt to follow.

"Where are you going with that?"

"I don't know where I went wrong with you. You said a fine young gentleman gave you these? As a gift? And you’ve tested them for poison?"

"A highly suspicious reporter has been stalking Batman." Bruce has to stop at the secret threshold between the cave and the house and shout after Alfred, "they don't have any poison that I can find."

 

 

After a hurried change, he tracks Alfred down to the kitchen, which, to his horror, is full of the smell of frying eggs. Dick is nowhere in sight (probably still asleep).

"Come here," says Alfred, not looking up. He picks a small brown egg out of the carton and, when Bruce is close enough to see, cracks it into the pan. "What do you notice?"

"It's… smaller than most eggs."

"And?"

"Alfred, you can't eat that. I need to run more tests."

"The yolk is remarkably firm and orange." Alfred is using his scolding voice now. "The whites are less runny than most. This is an egg from a very healthy and happy chicken. It is also smaller, as you were so keen to point out, as the eggs seem to come from a very diverse little flock. One of the green ones even had a double yolk."

"Is a double yolk–"

"A perfectly normal phenomenon."

Bruce sighs. "Alright. You’re the detective now. What's your point in all this?"

"He doesn't appear to be lying about the eggs."

"That doesn't mean it's safe to–"

Alfred makes slow eye contact while plating the egg. The second plate on the counter is already piled with three eggs and a large quantity of breakfast potatoes.

"Alfred, you–"

There are six eggs missing from the carton. Bruce only took one to test on. 

Alfred takes his already-dirty fork and makes his way over to the table, looking smug.

And. Okay. The chances that it's poisoned probably aren't that high. The eggs look fresh. They smell good. Alfred seems to be enjoying them, at least.

But that would leave no reason for Kent, with his anxious smile and his secretive wit and his endless, worrying enigma, to give Batman a carton of eggs. Why Batman?

Kent couldn't really be trying to be Bruce’s friend. Does he really think Batman will ignore all the red flags for some high quality eggs? He keeps playing a longer game than Bruce thinks he is. They just keep going further and further and the trap still hasn’t sprung. The wolf is still acting like a sheep.

“So,” smiles Alfred gently, “This young man of yours, could I convince him to bring us gifts more regularly? Maybe honey from his beehives?”

“Alfred.”

“It’s very hard to come by eggs this good. He must like you a great deal.”

“Alfred.”

“I couldn’t help but notice, he left a message on the inside of the lid.”

Bruce doesn’t respond. It didn’t escape his notice. 8pm Sunday. Roof of the library.

“I can’t be blamed for hoping. And you so rarely make friends your age.”

That’s true.

 

It's different With Gordon or Leslie, they were there when Bruce was younger. He imprinted on them as a kid, when it was easier to talk to adults than to his peers. 

Nowadays, Bruce finds it almost impossible to talk to adults. It's so much simpler to understand children. They're much easier to comfort, easier to protect.

He catches himself thinking of Dick, again. Of how that grin lights up the darkness. How full the manor feels when he's here, and how empty it suddenly was when he disappeared…

(Now is not the time to bring back the adoption idea)

(Now is not the time to wonder if Dick would want siblings)

The point is! The point is, that nobody wants to befriend Batman out of the goodness of their heart. No matter how kind he may seem, no matter how wide his smile is, there is still something wrong with Kent.

 

But.

Well. Bruce has ignored red flags before. And right now, there are small footsteps thundering down the stairs, cutting through his logic and skepticism and every lesson learned from his previous mistakes.

Maybe it's okay to keep going, to see how deep he can go before Kent finally unmasks. It'll hurt, but it always hurts, right? And the hurt will remind him why he doesn't do these things. The hurt will help him away from selfishness. Further towards justice.

And, most importantly, he can tell Dick he tried.

Carefully avoiding Alfred's eyes, Bruce eats his breakfast.

Notes:

I'm fairly curious about this one. Eggs from home are a good gift, right? That's not just me? You can keep those bad boys at room temperature and they taste like ten times better than the storebought ones?
As someone who has gifted my fair share of eggs/honey/fruit/vegetables/wood/preserves/flowers/forage/baked goods, and gotten a net zero kisses from anyone I gifted them to (not that I was hoping for kisses *every* time, but still), I cannot tell if my perspective is skewed or there's a secret, sexier genre of gift that will make people swoon. AO3 comments please help me hone my rizz.

Chapter 7

Notes:

angst angst baby

Chapter Text

8pm Sunday

 

When Bruce lands on the library rooftop, he sees the shadow before he sees the man. The last dregs of sunset cast Kent into strong silhouette, sitting with his knees together on a fan unit. He's looking at Bruce before Bruce even has the chance to brace his eyes against the sunlight.

“You’re here. I didn’t expect you to come.”

Bruce doesn’t know how to respond. He suddenly can’t remember what his plan was for this encounter.

“One more question," says Kent, standing up, "I– I didn’t have the guts to ask you before. But I’m going back to Metropolis tomorrow, and I wanted to ask…”

He doesn’t have his notebook out. He’s not here for an interview. He hasn’t been in a long time. He fiddles anxiously with his tie. 

“Are you happy?”

Bruce stands on the cement, staring. "What kind of question is that."

"A question borne of curiosity."

"For a terrifying bat vigilante."

"Please, you're not terrifying. You're just a man in a suit. A very exceptional man."

"You treat me like a person," says Bruce.

"You've started to treat me like a threat," says Kent sadly, twisting his tie in his hands. 

Bruce doesn't say 'you are.' He knows what the response would be.

Kent nods, like he listened to the whole aborted conversation. "It's possible to be both a person and a threat. I know that for a fact."

"Oh?" Bruce takes another step forward. They're only a few feet away now. Kent's glasses reflect the city. His jawline is sharper than Bruce thought. 

What if the last layers were taken away. What then. Does he really downplay his threat level just to be kind? If he is a person and a threat, which comes first?

Clark Kent, being completely honest. 

(—naked—)

(—A solved mystery—)

"I'm just treating you how I'd like to be treated," Kent says. As if they want the same things.

The wolf still hasn’t unmasked.

So Bruce keeps going, despite his better judgement. Dick would be proud of him.

Kent is inches away. Bruce can feel his breath catch.

Bruce leans in, angling up his chin, carefully setting his hands on the warm waist…





 

 

 

"Oh no."

 

It's not a good tone of voice to hear from someone you just kissed.

Kent pulls away and runs his hand through his hair, and now he looks scared, even though he was kissing back just a second ago, and Bruce wonders why he was so preoccupied with the wolf that may or may not lie in wait. That was never the crux of the issue. The crux of the issue is that Bruce Wayne can kiss people but Batman is– only villains want Batman. And if Kent isn’t a villain…

Kent isn’t the problem here. The problem was Bruce all along.

 

He holds very still and waits.

 

"I'm not- I'm sorry, I- I wasn’t expecting this. I mean, I want to but you definitely don't want to, I–" Kent stammers. Bruce doesn't have time to even open his mouth before Kent is plunging on, "This has gone on too long… There's, there's a thing I hide from people that I shouldn't have hidden from you, not for this long, because you deserve to know" —he's unbuttoning the top of his shirt. Bruce can feel himself shifting into a battle stance. This is it, isn’t it, he's taking off his glasses and pulling open his shirt to–

Oh

.

.

.

This is probably worse.

They stand for maybe a minute, maybe longer. 

"No." Says Bruce. It's a statement. "You didn't."

"I was trying to-"

"You assumed a civilian identity… to trick me?"

The problem is Bruce. The problem has been Bruce all along. He’s been the butt of the joke this whole time.

"Hold up, that's absolutely not-"

"We've fought together, Superman, I thought you'd trust me enough not to lie to me. I thought you could be my– my friend. I thought Clark Kent was…"

He turns to leave. Betrayal is flooding his veins with burning ice.

"We have fought together." Superman says, behind him. "I'd trust you with my life. That doesn't mean you knew me. It doesn’t mean you ever acted like you wanted to be my friend."

Bruce glances at the crumpled figure---on its knees now–--behind him. It doesn't look like Superman. The act hasn't been lifted.

"You didn't know what my favourite food is, or where I grew up, or what I do in my spare time." He looks up from his twisting hands to meet Bruce's eyes–--hurt and pleading. "I did grow up in Kansas. My human parents taught me to do the right thing. To love humanity. I… Superman is..."

The figure takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“It’s like– Would you say Superman is particularly masculine?”

Bruce is feeling increasingly sick. He's angry. He's hurt, he's betrayed, he's…

He's afraid of what the man is going to say next. He cares too much right now to shrug it off.

“Yes,” he says.

“The thing– the thing is, Me, I’m not very masculine. I’m just a guy. But Superman, he’s public. He’s not a person, he’s built out of people’s ideas.”

Bruce shifts. “You are a person.”

“No, I’m not. Not when I have the shield on my chest. That’s when I’m a symbol.”

“You can be a symbol and a person,” Bruce says. 

—‘I know that for a fact’—

“Yes but you aren’t listening. Nobody sees that with Superman . People can make him whoever they want. You shape the bat, don’t you? You pour your whole self into him? Well, I may follow my conscience, but I’m public. When you’re public, people start having expectations. And then suddenly you’ve become this icon of, say, positive masculinity! And it doesn’t matter that you aren’t all that masculine in the way they expect, because you’re a role model. Little boys are looking up to an ideal of who you are, so you have to be that guy. The world just decides you’re the right person to fill that role. And another role. And another role. Until you’re this big huge symbol that the world needs more than anything and” —his voice cracks again— “there’s so little left in you that’s allowed to be a person.”

 

Superman, or Kent, or whoever it is, takes a deep breath to steady himself. "I've lived in Superman's shadow for—well, for my whole adult life, practically. Lois, Lois Lane, she always compares me to him. She turned me down when I asked her out, did you know that? She liked Superman more. Everyone likes Superman more. And that's great! I'm proud of what I've done in the suit. Humanity needs someone perfect like that. They don’t need... they don't need me to be another human." He curls up on himself more, and if Bruce didn't know better he would think the man of steel was shaking, "nobody needs Clark Kent."

"You wrote articles." Bruce manages, because he has to say something, but the same anxiety welding his feet to the ground has him almost nonverbal.

"Yeah. But it was selfish, really, because there's always more people who need help, and I was only chipping away at the little injustices at my desk job, just-- just because I needed to be small." He looks up at Bruce, pleading, "I need to be small sometimes, Batman. I need to be invisible. And I’m selfish for it."

This whole conversation hurt before, but now it hits Bruce like a ton of bricks. He knows that need. An extra board meeting a week might improve thousands of lives in small ways, but instead Batman is out saving only one or two lives most nights. The calculations don't let him sleep. How must those same calculations haunt Superman, who can hear across the whole world?

 

"Nobody, nobody would think that Clark Kent is as important as Superman. He's– I'm– I don't deserve–" Tears, now. He really isn't holding back how he feels. Has Bruce ever seen Superman cry? "And I know I'm not important, I wish I could just- just fade away. I wish I could just be him, and not have a favourite food or a regular coffee order or a rock collection. Physically, I– I don't need breaks, If I wasn't so weak, I could just be a symbol all the time," tears drop heavily out of the man's eyes and his hands ball into fists on the–

"Superman." Bruce says sharply. It's the first name that springs to his tongue, it's the name he's used to shouting in warning. The trembling figure below him freezes, and looks down to see cracks in the roof's concrete under its fist.

"Oh." Says Clark, in a small voice, and then there's a rush of wind and Bruce is alone on the roof.

It was the wrong name to use, and the wrong reason to use it.




Bruce stands on the roof alone and thinks about being invisible. About the joys of having your name in the paper, but never your picture. Clark Kent’s name is in the daily planet every day and nobody even notices. It’s viciously satisfying, to be faceless. To Bruce, it let him find the things that mattered most.

"We must never forget," Martha Wayne once said (in a speech at a long forgotten event), "Human acts of kindness are the basis of goodness in this world. It’s important to be part of something larger than yourself, but it’s also important to cultivate love firsthand."

 

Cultivate love firsthand. That part stuck with Bruce. 

Various debris, caught in the endless wind of Gotham, drift in eddies around his feet.

"I need to be just another person." Su- Clark said.

And an age ago, yesterday morning, Dick told him, “you always seem lonely at parties, like you’re allergic to cameras."

He looks down at his city, buzzing with life and love and violence. Rife with acts of hate and acts of kindness and a thousand things in between. Somewhere, a mom is cooking spaghetti. Somewhere, a kid is getting bullied. Somewhere, a couple is having their first kiss.

They call Batman the world's greatest detective, but he only notices things because he stays so close to them. Even up here, he can feel the pulse of his city under his feet. He can read the sounds of traffic, and taste the chemicals in the air (a house fire from an hour ago, nothing to worry about). 

The billionaire had taken to the streets and become a detective.

An alien had come to earth and become a journalist. 

 

Bruce wonders what humanity looks like from space. Would Superman notice a flood in Japan the same way Batman could spot (from a skyscraper) an explosion at the docks?

And later, there’s a story on page 7, an earnest voice discussing climate change and disaster relief, reaching out to survivors.

 

Human acts of kindness.

 

Thinking about it hurts. Clark Kent is lonely and kind, apparently that’s actually the truth of him, and maybe the man slouches a bit more or plays it up in public, but he also has a thousand little habits that mark a real person, habits Superman doesn't have.

Bruce just spent the past month peeling back those layers, discovering all the little details in search of a motive. Now he knows the motive but the layers remain. They weren't built as a puzzle for him. They grew that way.

It's obvious, in hindsight, that Superman is the carefully controlled public face of someone bigger. Humanity needs someone perfect, Clark said, they don’t need me to be another human.

And Clark spends hours every day trying to hide the terrifying power, waving a bright little lure in the chasm of the sea in an effort to genuinely make friends.

 

Standing on the roof with only hindsight for company, Bruce touches his lips.

Chapter 8

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Stupid.

Stupid stupid stupid.

Clark stands very still and lets the snow blow around him. 

Growing up, his parents always insisted he was allowed to take as much time as he needed to "cool off" if he got upset. Nowadays he usually does it in a place where losing control would matter the least.

Not that he will lose control, but it's one less thing to worry about. 

The blizzard howls overhead. Clark lets out a long breath into the wind and lies down.

 

Eventually, the snow covers his body. It muffles the world until he can just focus on his own breath, his own heartbeat.

Batman kissed him.

Batman kissed Clark.

And Clark–

Well. 

He couldn't have just lied. Not after that.

The ghosts of fingertips remain on the edge of his chin. Maybe they'll stay there and haunt him forever. Clark almost wants that– he wants to be reminded of everything he could have had if obligation didn't smother his life like snow. Just for a second there, Clark Kent was enough. He didn't have to be any more than that.

 

By the time he breaks out of his snowbank, the blizzard has moved off and the sun is peeking down.

Stupid, He thinks to himself, but there isn't any vitriol in it now. The panic has blown over, now there's just loss and loneliness. He's used to those.

 

He goes home.

 

Ma and Pa aren't back from the farmers market yet. Clark buries himself in the comforting motions of chores. He likes to do them slow, because his parents taught him how and his parents are slow, and honestly the slowness is soothing on his nerves. He buries gopher wire in the ground in the little garden out back, he walks the edge of the cornfield (looking for corn smut, he tells himself, but it’s a poor excuse), he reinforces the roof of the chicken coop so the wild birds can't get at their food.

He visits the farm often enough that all the big projects are finished, and making new projects requires mental effort he doesn't have. Instead he putters around with unnecessary tasks.

 

Their rooster is old and ornery but he runs a good flock. Somewhere along the line he lost the use of his feet to an illness, so he elbows around the yard, still clucking proudly to his hens. His quality of life hasn't gone down too much as long as they keep his spurs blunted. 

That's where Ma finally finds Clark, gently filing down the spurs of the indignant little bundle in his lap. 

She leans against a straw bale and smiles at him. "You've been busy lately, haven't you? I had to file him while you were gone and he didn't forgive me for a week."

Clark hums. "I'll have to visit more often to torment the livestock for you."

He releases the bird to flap back into the flock. Ma looks at him. She looks sad.

"That was a joke,” says Clark, “you can laugh."

"I'm just worried about you, sweetheart. I know you get lonely out there. You come home when most people would go to a friend. 

“And of course" —she holds up her hands when Clark opens his mouth—"of course I love it when you visit. I'm just worried."

"I have- I have work friends." Clark manages, and immediately feels stupid about it. Ma gives him that don't-bullshit-me-I'm-your-mother look and gestures for him to follow her back to the house.

"When you think of home, Clark, what comes to mind? Do you think about your little apartment? Do you think about other people in capes? The Daily Planet?"

"No, Ma. I'll always think of the farm."

She's all concern looking over at him. "And when your father and I are gone, sweetheart- no don't give me that look, I'm sixty six now- will you have another home to fall back on? You're a reporter and a hero, I’d never ask you to keep up the farm too."

"Sometimes," says Clark, "I wish I was just a hero."

"And sometimes I wish I was just a mother. But we're all other things too. That's important. I wouldn't hear the rooster calling every morning if I lived for other people."

"I love you, Ma."

She kisses his forehead, "go get cleaned up, the pot roast should be done by now."

 

Clark has been feeling like he's home sometimes, that's the problem. Recently he's been spending time on rooftops or Gotham streets for hours after dark, and Gotham never felt like home but the imposing figure at his elbow sure did. Batman has always felt like home, in costume and out, and that's not a way you should feel about work friends.

(unless they aren't work friends-)

No use thinking about it now. It's too late. Or rather, it was always too late. Anything he might want has been doomed since before he even saw Batman for the first time.

 

***

 

 

 

Bruce is working a case with the Flash when the whole thing comes back up.

"Have you noticed something… off about Superman?" Barry asks. It's a very worrying question to face. Barry wouldn't ask Bruce if he could ask someone else. So he must be asking Bruce because…

Well, they’re closer than most other people in this community, haven’t they? Superman probably gets lots of people asking after Batman.

Truth be told, Bruce has been expertly avoiding any and all contact with the man.

"What happened."

"He- I heard  he kinda freaked out at Green Lantern yesterday. And, I guess he’s been more quiet than usual."

“Yesterday they worked together to capture an alien fugitive, correct?”

“Yeah, in Metropolis.”

Instead of responding, Bruce pulls out a device and starts searching for CCTV footage. 

 

Bingo.

He brings the footage up, ignoring the way Barry peers at it over his shoulder. The heroes are standing in a heavily damaged street as a small spacecraft pulls away with the prisoner.

Onscreen, Hal strides up to Superman and claps him on the back. Superman starts, shoulders tensing. His face looks tired and a little pained. Bruce flips through cameras until he can find an angle with both faces showing to read their lips.

"Why so down, big guy?” Hal smirks, "there's always something to be happy about, right?"

"...Right." says Superman, trying to shrug off the hand on his shoulder. He looks… unwell. All tense shoulders and strained posture. Hal was probably ribbing on him again during the fight, but it has him more wound up than usual.

“You're never this grumpy! What’s wrong, someone step on your cape? Why not turn the charm back on?" Hal squeezes Clark's shoulder and Clark… snaps.

"Do not. Treat me like that.”

Hal blinks, then chuckles uneasily. But Clark isn’t done.

“Yes , I am usually happy. Yes, I am an optimist. That does not mean I am a machine. That does not mean I’m not a person ." Clark swats Hal's hand off his shoulder in a sharp motion (it's obvious he's being gentle despite the velocity). "Would you take my personal space more seriously if I was Batman? If I was cynical? Because let me tell you, it would be easy to be cynical. I would be good at it. I would be better at it than Batman. Every day I get up and I smile and I put people at ease, and I never. Get. A break. We all have bad days. I've seen your bad days. You make sure everyone knows about your bad days. But me? I don't get to have bad days. I don't get to give up. If I don’t bring people hope, Superman is dead."

By the end of the exclamation, Superman is looming over Hal, who has never looked so surprised. Behind them, citizens are starting to congregate. 

“Being a symbol is…” Superman falters, touching back down to the ground and glancing around at the people. Hal leans in to catch his quieter voice. “Being a symbol is the only way I can deserve to be a person, Green Lantern. But it… it’s also the reason people don’t always see me as a person, isn’t it? And you… I’m not….”

Superman takes a deep breath, says something incoherent, straightens back into his usual calm mannerisms, and floats away without a backwards glance.

 

"Do you know what that was all about?" Barry asks, in the here and now. 

Bruce says, "yes." And leaves it at that.

He doesn't say, it was me, I was the last straw. He doesn't say, Clark's unguarded heart is his greatest virtue and his rawest weakness. He doesn't say, Clark could give this all up any day but he won't, he'll keep on creating hope even when he's running out of his own.

Bruce doesn’t say anything. He feels the guilt in full. He bears it all alone.

To think you were waiting for a wolf.

Notes:

I've been playing lots of video game and straight up forgot I should post this lol

Chapter 9

Notes:

You'd think that posting something daily would mean you didn't forget to post it. blame the adhd.

Chapter Text

They don't talk, on the mission. What would they even say? Superman is present only physically. He doesn’t interact with the other assembled heroes. He doesn't really talk to anyone. He waves as the others split off, leaving him and Bruce’s ship in orbit, and he smiles in a tooth-gratingly fake way that Bruce hates, Bruce hates it but what is he going to do, ask Superman to stop?

When Bruce is the reason he's hurting?

They both know there's no going back, not after the things Bruce said. That's just how he is. He hurts people.

Superman would always have a kind word for him, when he felt this way. Superman could always tell when Bruce was tearing himself apart. But there's nobody to force comfort on him now. He didn't notice how important that was, before. Just the act of caring.

Bruce never noticed… how important Superman is. To Bruce, specifically. He doesn't really appreciate his emotional buoys, not until he's alone in his ship in space and Superman…

It's Clark.

That's important. It isn't Superman. Well, it is, when he's saving people and going on missions, but right now they're waiting for a ship and it’s Clark looking out at the vastness of space, with vague wonder instead of that grimacing smile. He looks like a quiet reporter again.

"Your analysis," Bruce says (anything to get those eyes on him again), "of… me. It was mostly accurate."

Clark starts, at the speech, turning back to Bruce "I– what?” Then, after he takes a second to run back over Bruce’s words, “good to know. I wasn’t sure, my conclusions were… heavily coloured… by my own feelings on the matter."

"Which you have presumably analysed at length."

"Of course."

Clark stares back at the sky. The silence of space surrounds them.

"Why did you do it," Bruce asks.

"Do what?"

"Come after me. As Clark Kent."

"It really was for a story. Kind of. At first. I wasn't expecting the other story to blow up, and I wasn't expecting to get to work with you on it."

"You had to ask me the questions out of costume. For journalistic integrity?"

Clark is still staring at Bruce with those soft eyes. Long eyelashes. Bruce remembers that detail vividly. "Yes. But it was… mostly an excuse to talk to you."

"To reveal yourself.”

“Well. There are conversations that you wouldn’t have with Superman. Our relationship has always been… tenuous. On the job.”

Silence, as they wait. Tenuous. When Clark was the only one who could read your moods. When Clark always sent a check-in message after you were injured. Clark always thought of you as a person, but you thought of Clark as a symbol, a trusted teammate but also a threat. 

(‘I’m just treating you how I’d like to be treated,’ he said)

 

"I'm sorry,” says Bruce, “for what I said."

"OH, no it’s– y'know. It was a betrayal of trust. It won’t happen again."

"...right."

A betrayal of trust. Won’t happen again.

Just like that, Bruce’s chances at forgiveness are snuffed.

They don’t talk again until the ship arrives.

 

***

 

"Lois?"

"Smallville! I was wondering if Gotham ate you or something! How's that article coming?"

"That's what I was mostly calling about. I just emailed you the rough draft, could you look it over?"

"Absolutely, I'll have time to get on that tomorrow! Will we get to see you around the office again? We’ve been missing you!”

“Yeah. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. It’s– thank you, for holding down the fort while I was gone.”

“No problem! I’m glad you’re coming back. Perry kept trying to assign interns to shadow me, I had a TERRIBLE time with them and I need to tell you all about it.”

Clark can’t help but smile. She’s diving right back in, like he hadn’t just abandoned her for several weeks. They’re back on track, and he’s not bitter anymore. He’s not completely hopeless.

"I look forward to it. You're a really good friend, you know that?"

"Of course I am, Smallville. We're a team."

And they are. They'll always be a team. He's ready to be the best friend he can be.

He'll get over Batman too. It'll be the same, right? He just needs some time away, some time to regain his composure, and–

Crouched by the child, heart beating wildly, relief apparent in every facet of his posture

–he'll get over it. Even if this is different from Lois, he'll get over it. And it'll be easier this way, too; he has to have his walls up anyways when he's wearing the cape. All he needs is to never run into Batman while he's Clark Kent, and he'll figure out their friendship again.

Even if it has more walls than before.

Even if it's ruined.

Positive thinking. Come on, Clark. 

The issue is that he got that perfect glimpse into the friendship Batman would want to have with him, too. it was a better friendship than they'd had before. He got a glimpse into cooperation and crimefighting and rooftop conversations that delved deeper than Batman would ever delve with Superman. He got a glimpse of a world where he didn't have to wander from the flock alone.

For just two weeks, the detective and the reporter were allowed to exist in the same world. And it was wonderful. And now it's time to pick up the pieces of their old type of relationship, to try and put it back together.

Don't think about what you could have had. Don't. Push through it.

He has Lois, even if she doesn't really see him all the way, he has his parents, even if they're so far away. He found someone who liked Clark better than Superman. That means he can probably find someone again.

And at least Batman is being very professional about the whole situation.

 

***

 

Somehow, Bruce didn't get drunk enough to pass out. 

It's ten in the morning and despite everything he's still awake. The main stage of the hangover has arrived without the release of sleep in the interim, leaving Bruce staring greasily up at the ceiling of the study, sprawled in an armchair and sipping a mug of sludge with enough caffeine in it to rig a horse race.

He stayed up after patrol to read articles and feel sorry for himself. Again. And now it’s morning. Again. He’s just sleep deprived enough that he can hear Clark’s voice narrating in his head each time he rereads the Grayson article. 

It’s a well written article. It has more information than any of the other articles on the Grayson murders, even the ones published after Zucco’s warrants became public. It doesn’t speculate about Dick or Bruce at all.

(Clark tried to talk to him, on the red carpet, but Bruce avoided it. Maybe he was trying to ask about Dick’s escape)

So Clark was been erratic, and untruthful, and he approached Bruce without divulging his secrets, and generally made bad decisions.

But.

Bruce never wanted someone perfect like Superman. He wanted a person. Clark is a person.

—A person and a threat—

 

Bruce had a flash of the truth, after the kiss. There was a moment when he realised that the problem was him, that nobody could want him. He was hoping that Clark was really a person, but Clark was thinking the same about him, wasn’t he. Is Bruce much of a person at all?

And that’s the important bit. Bruce has never been good enough to kiss Clark. The only reason he thought he had a chance was because he knew Clark was lying about something, because he had nothing to lose. Even if he did deserve that sort of love, the only way Bruce knows of to impress others is by putting up defenses, showing off with intimidation. 

A person and a threat

Dick wants him to be a person. So he’s been trying to be a person again. And he’s bad at it. He's always been the black sheep among his peers in that way.

His human body stops him from being threatening enough for his work, but his personality stops him from being human enough for… 

 

Dick skids into the room. He's in a good mood today. His first good mood in Wayne manor, and Bruce is already about to ruin it.

“Woah, you look awful,” Dick exclaims, cartwheeling over the coffee table and landing in front of Bruce. “What happened?”

“Adult things.”

Dick’s scrawny frame sags a bit in disappointment. “You say that a lot. You can just tell me if you don't want to talk to me."

Suddenly, the hangover is millions of miles away. The world is pouring in, stark and bright and painful, and the kid in front of Bruce, the kid who looks so familiar in that hand-me-down shirt, is lonely. After Bruce promised he wouldn't have to be lonely again. 

So, even if Bruce is bad at it, he tries to be a person.

 

“It’s… not that, Dick.” He leans forward in his armchair, gesturing for Dick to sit on the matching ottoman. He used to sit on that ottoman, while his parents took the armchairs and talked fiction by the fire.

He used to sit on that ottoman, after his parents were gone. When the loneliness first took hold.

"What is it then?" Dick climbs onto the seat, bouncing absentmindedly.

"I've… hurt someone. A friend of mine. He isn't going to forgive me."

"Hn." Dick nods, thinking.

Maybe it really is that easy to talk to kids.

"Which one?" Dick asks.

"You wouldn't know him."

"It's not Alfred… You don't really have many friends, do you? You don't really bring people over. So he must be Batman's friend."

Uh oh.

"You were working with The Flash. On Monday. It's him, isn't it?"

"You're clever, chum."

Dick bites his lip. "It isn't him. You'd be more vague if it was. Plus, you promised to make a friend! Was it your new friend?"

"I'm not going to tell you who it is."

"Hn." Says Dick again. Bruce is starting to suspect the kid picked that up from him. "Did you say you were sorry? After you hurt them?"

"Not very well."

"My mom always says– …My mom always… said. That there’s no harm in apologising twice. It’s the third time that starts being annoying."

"Are you giving me advice?" asks Bruce, amused.

"Well, yeah. You aren't a very good adult."

"I'm not a good adult?"

Dick smirks. "You play dress up at night and get drunk at parties. It makes you cool but not very grown up."

Bruce really can't help but smile. "Getting drunk at parties is not 'cool.' It's scabrous and gauche."

Dick makes a face. "You're using long words just to confuse me again. I can tell. But I’ll just add them to my vocabulary list and one day you'll run out of words I don't know."

"I can tell you what they mean right now, you know."

"No you can't! Because you're going to go say sorry to your friend!"

 

At that, Dick takes a flying leap onto the back of Bruce's chair like some sort of jungle cat, sending the ottoman crashing onto its side. Bruce slows down his reactions, curious, as the kid wiggles down into the crack between him and the back of the chair. Dick braces his feet against the chair and his back against Bruce's back, and starts shoving.

"Come… on..! If I have to learn to be a kid who goes to school… you have to learn to be a grown up… who has grown up conversations!"

Bruce is easily two and a half times Dick's weight. He lets himself be pushed and shoved onto his feet, putting up just enough of a struggle for Dick to haul on him with a renewed and giggling vengeance.

It's only when he’s sat in his car, with the keys thrown in his lap and the door slammed by an energetic ten year old, that he realises how daunting the task in front of him really is.

But. Well, he really can't face Dick again until he's settled this matter, can he.

So he’d better get to learning.

Chapter 10

Notes:

Posting early because I have a work thing

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Clark opens the door and stares.

Bruce Wayne is on his doorstep.

Bruce Wayne is on his doorstep.

Why???

Is this about the piece on the Graysons? Why wouldn’t Wayne have his secretary call the Planet or something? Why is he here, on Clark's doorstep, at five in the morning?

 

"I'm sorry. I… I…” Wayne runs his fingers through already-disheveled hair, struggling with words. “Hn.”

Then he pushes past Clark into the apartment. Clark is too genuinely shocked to stop him. It’s definitely Bruce Wayne! In Clark's apartment! He starts pacing up and down the living space, looking significantly more grim than he ever has in public. 

Abruptly, he launches into speech.

“You said… I remember you said, when we were on the rooftop, ‘people don’t need me to be just another person.’ I’ve been thinking about that sentence, the way you phrased it.”

Wait. What?

“You wouldn’t say something like, ‘the world doesn’t need another person,’” Bruce continues, “because that contradicts your morals. You’d never think of someone that way, you’d never let them disappear for that. You just won’t save yourself, will you?”

“...Batman?” Clark manages, finally shutting the door.

Wayne nods, waves the thought away as if it's irrelevant. “My point is, Clark, that there’s no competition for being human. You don’t have to be the best human there is. Clark Kent doesn’t have to save lives, though your articles do save lives, they’re arguably more effective against systemic issues than… no, that’s a different point. That’s not on track.”

To Clark’s dazed confusion, Wayne… Batman… the man in front of him pulls out a phone and scrolls through it for a moment before nodding and putting it away, fixing his intense stare back on Clark. 

“Point four. You are working with a disability.”

“Point four…” whispers Clark to himself, hypnotised.

“By disability, I mean that you are comparing yourself to people who don’t have to work hard not to break the world around them. Just like there are setbacks to being Batman because of human fragility. You wouldn’t tell me to back down because the world doesn’t need another….”

“Hero,” whispers Clark, “A hero. That’s what you are.”

 

Bruce Wayne (Bruce Wayne!!) is twisting his mouth into the same exasperated frown that Clark knows so well. The same expressive lines around his mouth. Clark is so far gone. Days of carefully repressed feelings are flooding back in, stronger than ever. He’s absolutely fucked.

“You said. That you could be both a person and a threat. A person and a symbol. I don’t know if you believed that. I don’t think I believed that. But I’ve been thinking. You make me feel like a person in ways that I like. You still take me seriously, you still trust me to keep up. And you– I know you’re a person, and you’re allowed to– to take up space. To be powerful. As a person. You're allowed to be both.”

Clark isn’t fully tracking what Batman (Bruce!) is saying. It’s all very…

“Superman needs to be–”

Listen.” Bruce steps forward and cups Clark’s face in his hands, so close, close enough that Clark can feel his breath. “You are Clark Kent. I believe you. You must understand, I know better than anyone that the public cannot be satisfied.” 

He’s staring into Clark’s eyes, and oh, his gaze is just as intense as Clark always thought it would be. His eyes are dark, dark grey, almost black in this light. His voice is nothing like it is at the galas, everything like it is under the cowl.

Bruce says, “You were clever. When you were talking to me. Both of me. You had a good sense of humour. And you started downplaying it once I found out.”

“I… You were taking me too seriously. When people take me seriously, they usually feel… threatened. Or scared.”

“Clark." (oh, the way he says that name...) "I promise I am not scared. I want– I want to see you properly. I want to see the man with the insight and the wit. That man is– That man–” He runs his fingers through his hair again, taking some deep breaths. His heartrate spikes in anticipation when he opens his mouth to say, “It’s important. To me. Who you are. No, that sounds wrong, it sounds like I’m just interested in the truth. And I am interested in the truth, but mostly I’m just glad that. That Clark Kent is the truth. I’m happy you’re the real one. I was afraid that the time we spent together…” —this pause is almost thirty seconds of frantic heartbeats— “I was afraid. That our friendship. Was a ploy for something else.”

And that's everything Clark has wanted to hear. From anyone. That he's worth spending time with, that he's more than just "nice," or " kind."

That he's a person. That he belongs.

And now that he's sure Bruce understands the truth, he's allowed to be other things too.

 

Batman has never been this… human. Not in all the time Clark has seen him. The man in front of Clark is forcing himself into a rare moment of vulnerability, in some desperate ploy for…

What? What does he want?

“The things you said initially, when you found out,” begins Clark, and Bruce nods. He steps back a bit, maintaining a respectful distance, staring just to the right of Clark’s shoulder.

“I was wrong, when I... It was an impulsive reaction. A moment of weakness after an” —he stares at the ground as though he could burn a hole in it— “emotionally charged moment.”

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but he looks like he’s blushing.

“I get it,” Clark tells him (stepping closer, relieved that Bruce is willing to mention the kiss at all), “I'm sorry it turned out the way it did. It isn't your fault."

Bruce frowns even deeper at the floor (Clark has a sudden urge to kiss the crease between his eyebrows). "You called it a betrayal of trust."

"Yes! I betrayed–" Clark's eyes widen as he grasps what Bruce is telling him. Bruce's heart speeds up.

"You… you didn't betray me ," says Clark, "You– you explained it, and I already knew I was wrong for… oh."

Oh.

 

***

 

Bruce hasn’t slept in who knows how long. He spent a lot of that time obsessing about this whole thing, this whole thing which Clark APPARENTLY doesn’t blame him for (even though he should). His brain has been skipping like a grimy record since this morning's coffee wore off. He came here in a hurry, driven by the courage of sleep deprivation and the unhinged selfishness that keeps curling through his ribcage when he thinks about Clark. 

But here he is, telling Clark it’s okay to be selfish. It’s okay to be a person, the same way Dick gave him permission this morning. This one thing. He can have this one thing. Even though he’s Batman before he’s Bruce Wayne, even though his life is caves and alleys and rooftops, even though he’s spent years outrunning the constraints of humanity,

He can still look for love.

 

Clark is close. He's different. Bruce trusts him now, so everything he does is cast in a different light. Bruce doesn't know how to deal with having feelings like this for someone he trusts. He's never let himself hope after the affections of someone he trusts.

He needs to be careful not to overwhelm Clark; Clark hasn't even seen his face before today. The last of the cards only just got laid on the table. 

Now it's time to see if he can trust you again. If he feels the same way. If he can stand you.

Clark is wearing the most horrible flannel, it must be a hundred percent synthetic and it looks like someone repeatedly fried it by putting it through the dryer on high heat. His hair also looks like it was fried in the dryer. In fact, his entire person seems desperately crispy right now (in a pathetic way). He must be the most human person in the whole world. He’s spent years too, trying to be that way. Trying to suppress even the occasional sharp flicker of danger in his body whenever he’s off duty.

But right now, he’s smirking.

 

"I need to see your financial records."

"...what?"

"You're a billionaire. You've made that fact my business now. Show me your financial records." Clark has that Sharp Reporter tone in his voice again, the tone he breaks out when he doesn’t much care about staying meek. The tone that picks Bruce's libido up by its scruff and shakes it awake. 

Oh, he’s being clever again. He’s letting you see inside.

The real threat was the reporter all along. Bruce was right about that, in a way.

"And how is it your business?" Bruce asks, because he wants to see Clark swell with indignation.

Clark swells with indignation. Score.

"Would you trust me if I revealed I was a billionaire?"

"No no, I trust billionaires a great deal less than I trust aliens with godlike powers."

Clark's smirk pops back. They’re joking again. That’s good. They’ve always cracked some jokes, even in uniform, and it’s good to know it’s welcome again. Maybe things are back to normal. 

But do you want them back to normal? Or do you want something else?

“Alright,” says Bruce, “sit down. Let me explain.”

 

Clark hands over his laptop and sets some tea to steep while Bruce starts pulling up bank information. He leans on the back of the couch, listening intently as Bruce slowly unfurls the intricate web that keeps his shareholders invested, flooding the living room with tales of deceit and philanthropy and economic sleight of hand.

Bruce is a billionaire. He is a scoundrel and a scamp. He can lie better than anyone, he does it all the time. The shareholders know how much money they're making. They don't need to know how much money they could be making. They don't have the skills to uncover just how much money is being appropriated for charitable causes.

This sort of misdirection is, crucially, defensible in court. 

"CEOs almost never get jail time," Clark whispers, a little bit awestruck, "but you're still walking a fine line…"

"It's not illegal to be incompetent," Bruce winks back. 

And then there's another Moment, where their eyes meet, and Clark seems to have shifted closer, almost directly behind where Bruce is sitting, leaning over him. They're close enough to kiss.

Bruce was barely bold enough to make the first move last time. This time, with Clark comfortable and rumpled and trusting, he’s hopeless.

 

An alarm goes off; the tea has finished brewing. Clark shakes himself and stands to get it, glancing out the window at the first few rays of sunrise.

"Do you have anything going on today?" There's a forced nonchalance in his voice. 

"I promised Alfred I would sleep after this."

"...Bruce," Clark hesitates, "it sounds weird to call you that, is it okay for me to call you that?" At a nod, he continues, "how long has it been since you slept?"

"Fifty hours."

Clark's mug stops on the way to his mouth. His face has that disgruntled blankness it always gets when he's processing Bruce's stupidity. Looking at him now, of course he's the same man Bruce has worked side by side with for so long. How did he not notice?

"You are not safe to drive home." Clark narrows his eyes. "Did you drive yourself here?"

"I'm plenty safe to-"

"I'm not letting you drive anywhere until you have at least four hours in you."

"..."

"You're welcome to go sleep in my bed or on the couch or something. I was about to go shopping."

"The batmobile has-" 

"Did you come here in the batmobile?"

"..."

"Can you call the batmobile to come get you? Do you have your suit if you need to get into the batmobile? This apartment has cameras all along the street."

"..."

 

Clark goes soft again. "Sorry. I don't mean to baby you. I just get worried."

"Mh. You're right. I didn't plan this thoroughly enough. I was in… a hurry."

"You can take a nap. While I go grocery shopping."

They stare at each other.

 

“No, that was a stupid suggestion,” Clark shoots Bruce a chagrined smile, “You’d just try to drive away, wouldn’t you.”

“I could walk with you to the grocery store, or as far as I need to go to lose surveillance.”

“You could, if you want to leave.”

Another long pause.

 

The worst of the talking is over. The tension between them is settling into something comfortable. The couch is warm. The caffeine is out of Bruce's bloodstream.

“What do you want?” asks Clark with painstaking casualness. He’s trying not to push too hard, trying not to move too fast. As if he could move too fast.

Now that Bruce isn’t trying as hard to suppress his thoughts, he has a lot to want. The sleep deprivation removes any remaining inhibitions in his imagination, so the possibilities are endless. He wants to give Clark the jewellery box in his pocket (but it might be too much, he doesn't have the nerve), he wants to kiss Clark and hold Clark and spend hours solving cases with Clark. He wants to see what’s under that crispy flannel. 

He wants to cry with frustration. He's finally found someone, the truth is in the open, but he doesn’t have it in him to ask for anything. He can’t subject himself to that scrutiny.

He’s always been bad at asking for things, but knowing Clark is a good person has sapped his nerve. The focus is gone from any suspicion around Clark, planted squarely instead on Bruce and whether or not Bruce deserves…

His mouth stalls and fails. Again. Clark’s brows crease.

"Will you sleep here?" Clark asks, and it's not an invitation, Bruce, it's clearly not an invitation for anything more than sleep,

He nods.

 

Clark begins to putter around, bringing out pyjamas and cracking out a spare toothbrush like this is normal, like it isn't 8am on a Wednesday, like two friends get ready for bed all the time.

He bumps Bruce’s shoulder in the bathroom, while they watch each other in the mirror and brush their teeth. It's a long, quiet moment. Bruce lets himself stare.

Clark's face is bare, like Bruce's. No glasses. He trusts you to see him for who he is, even without the glasses. He trusts you to see the same anxious, human man.

He looks frazzled. His hair is curling forward with abandon and he has that cosy sag to him, in his sleepy face around the toothbrush, in the too-long pyjama pants puddling around his feet, in the hunch of his broad shoulders.

Clark spits his toothpaste. He must have misinterpreted Bruce's staring as curiosity; "No, my teeth won't rot," he says, "but bacteria can still grow in my mouth. Also, I like the taste. I like the routine."

Bruce spits his toothpaste. Somehow that little action feels more intimate than anything else he could be doing. Clark is close. He has a soft smile, sleepy eyes. He takes Bruce's hand and pulls him to the bedroom.

 

The signals aren't mixed: they are only going to sleep. But that's not what this is really about. This is Clark, posturing vulnerability. Humanity. This is Bruce, matching him step for step.

Clark carefully climbs into bed. He leaves plenty of room on the other side, it's up to Bruce to set the pace.

So set the pace.

He lies down, scoots back against Clark, and curls up into his usual tight ball. There's a moment of hesitation and then Clark wraps himself all around Bruce's smaller form. His breathing is deep. Bruce can feel the smile on the back of his neck.

Oh, he could get used to this.

Now if only he could be allowed more.

Notes:

"couldn't Clark have just flown him home" yeah. uh huh. Absolutely. Clark was thinking about that the whole time.

Chapter 11

Notes:

(Upcoming content veers a bit further into E rated than M rated for sexual content. It's like three paragraphs)

I dedicate this chapter to the dusty red Prius with the vanity plate that I drove behind for a hundred miles today. I think we developed a special bond.
(Sorry it's so late. Was driving)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Clark wakes up to a very familiar heartbeat right next to his head. 

It's Bruce. Bruce is here.

Clark may be a little bit sleepy still. His smile is already big enough to hurt. 

Bruce is awake.

His heart rate indicates it, at least. He's awake and holding very, very still. That's usually a bad thing.

"Are you okay?" Clark mumbles into the back of his shirt.

"Yes," says Bruce, not moving.

Clark elbows up to get a look at his face. Bruce peers back, owlish and stately from his little blanket-nest.

Clark laughs.

It feels good. To touch a person again. 

 

When you think of home, Clark, what comes to mind?

Who comes to mind?

 

Clark could kiss him. 

But.

He's only 95% sure Bruce wants that too.

Right now they’re friends again, they’re closer than ever, but Bruce has always been skittish. Clark doesn’t push anything too hard for fear of driving him away. The signals are mixed. They’ll have to talk about it. They both hate talking about things.

Instead, they lie on the bed as the light fades from the sky outside.

 

"I'm glad you don't hate me."

"Mh."

“I really thought you hated me for a while there.”

“Nnh.”

"You're going to fall asleep again, aren't you."

"Ngh."

"Heh. Okay."

Instead, Bruce gets out of bed, gesturing that he’ll be back.

Clark waits faithfully, laying his head on the pillow covered in Bruce’s smell.

 

***

 

Bruce finds his jacket and fishes out the small jewellery box from the pocket. He takes his time, shuffling back to the bedroom, building up the rest of his nerve.

Clark sits up attentively in bed, bright blue eyes lit up with curiosity.

"This is for you,” says Bruce, “I wasn't sure if… You can give it back if you dislike it."

Clark reverently takes the box and opens it.

Bruce spent almost an hour yesterday stalling in jewellery stores before seeing Clark; he’d usually buy a bracelet or something, if he was going to see a woman. He wasn’t going to see a woman, though. He wasn’t going to see a human either. He ended up pacing through shop after shop, procrastinating his trip to Metropolis, until one of the attendants of an upscale showroom decided to show him some of the work her roommate was doing in an apprenticeship. 

He bought the necklace on the spot, even if it meant driving to their cheap apartment to pick it up.

It’s silver, with twisting spires hanging along a loose chain (it can stay below the collar of a shirt, it can stay discreet). If it were tackier, they’d look like spikes or icicles, but instead they’re carefully carved with irregular geometry, almost crystalline. Almost alien.

Bruce spent two hours in the back of his car outside Clark’s apartment, carefully hiding one of his covert signalling mechanisms in the clasp, making a gift that would keep Clark safe, that would let Bruce help...

 

Sapphires glint along the chain as Clark holds it up to the sunlight. His face shines with wonder and– sadness?

"I can't accept this."

Oh. 

"You don’t like it" Bruce says, sitting down on the bed and trying not to wilt. “I know necklaces are–”

"It's not– Bruce, it’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever– I’d love to, I just… I don't wear nice things. I always break them."

Bruce looks at him carefully. The necklace wasn’t meant to be delicate. It was meant to be durable and beautiful, it was meant to complement Clark’s eyes.

"I mean, I can be careful and keep it in the closet and never enjoy it, or– or I can use it, and I'll be anxious the whole time and won't actually enjoy it. If I do wear it, it'll be collateral damage eventually–" he sees the look on Bruce's face and continues, "and don't tell me to just not worry about it, don’t offer to replace it, you know what sentimental value is."

It does make sense, even if it's… sad. It's horrible that Clark worries like this all the time. Bruce always surrounds himself with expensive and high quality things, because he doesn't like worrying about material failure. Quality is comforting.

 

Trust Bruce to want the only man who can hardly use his gifts.

 

"You…" Clark fixes him with that carefully neutral reporter smile, the one he uses when he’s anxious. "you're a nice thing too, aren't you? You're-" he reaches out, carefully runs a thumb along Bruce's jawline, "-you're beautiful."

And what the fuck do you say to that?

If this was Bruce's squeeze of the week, he'd have removed all their clothes by now. But it's Clark, sitting up in bed, looking at him with unrestrained affection running wild across his face. 

When he sees Bruce’s expression, he falters.

 

"Bruce?"

"Mh?"

Clark looks down at his hands. His brows knot. "Do you, do you still see me like you did before… before you found out?"

"Hm. No." What, is Clark an idiot?

"Oh."

Bruce flicks up a finger. "One. You're more selfless than I thought you were before I knew about Superman."

Clark blinks, confused, so Bruce charges on.

"Two. I know you're trustworthy now. I barely trusted you before because you acted strangely, but now I know the reasons for that. You had superhuman abilities. Which means that, three, neither Clark Kent nor Superman unsettles me anymore. You have understandable methods and understandable motives. Not evil or genius. You're simple."

"...ah."

Bruce doesn't know how to make his point. He needs Clark to understand how strong his feelings are. He needs Clark to understand how long he’s spent in the last week reading every single article by Clark Kent, reading his files on Superman, trying not to cry because he missed his chance.

"So. It's because I'm... too simple?"

"What?"

"Why you stopped, um… seeing me that way."

"What."

"...sorry."

"I'm not reprimanding you. We're experiencing another miscommunication. Please tell me exactly what you mean." Bruce kicks himself for the legalese, but at least he can use words right now.

Clark looks like a deer in headlights. He's almost never afraid, not for himself. Usually he's worried, about other people. He looks so soft and so human right now.

"I…" he begins, pauses to collect his thoughts, "we– we kissed. And then you found out and we didn't kiss again."

Bruce nods.

"Why not.”

What.

"I." Bruce's brain has condensed into a lump at the base of his skull.

They stare at each other. Bruce can't talk. Again. He wants to say, ask me first. Tell me you want me. Tell me I’m worth it. Tell me I’m still a person, no matter how far I stray from the herd. I want to hear it again. I won’t be strong enough to take this plunge unless I hear it again, from you.

But Clark's eyes are already widening. "I'm sorry, I– I've been thinking about this wrong, haven’t I. Can I kiss you?"

And finally, miraculously, Bruce nods, and lets himself be caught up in the sturdy arms and eager mouth he’s been dreaming about for weeks.

 

***

 

Bruce.

It's a strange name to run his tongue over, maybe less true than 'Batman,' but easier to say.

Bruce.

The man under his hands who he's known for years. Whose name he knows now. Whose life he knows now.

Bruce.

The man curling his tongue in Clark's mouth, with his arms around Clark's neck. The man Clark trusts more than anyone else. 

The man who trusts Clark.

That's a new feeling, being trustworthy. Clark Kent isn't reliable by any means. But Bruce trusts him. Bruce thinks he's worth… all of this. It makes Clark believe that he is.

So this is it. He's found the last thread to pull on, and Bruce has come undone. And here they are, prying and stripping away every layer until it's just them, naked in every way possible. No acts to conceal. No acts to reveal. No clothes or cloaks to obscure the true form of the thing, just skin and trust and complicated truths. It’s finally, finally straightforward.

Clark's hands wander lower (kissing, kissing through it all, with the leisurely assurance of time on their side). Bruce wraps legs around him, pushing them together, squirming and smiling under him. 

Bruce is hard. Clark can feel every inch of him, every hair on that wiry chest, every scar. Bruce's hands are on his ass, deliberately grinding into him.

Clark moans louder than he means to. His brain is losing grip a little. He's self conscious about how much noise he wants to make, but Bruce'a grip tightens at the moan, so he lets himself gasp, hum, bite at Bruce's collarbone.

"Hmng," he manages, "what are you– what do you like? What can I do for you?"

Bruce shifts under him, suddenly awkward and stiff again. "Anything," he grunts, "whatever you want."

Clark pauses by Bruce's nipple and pushes back up to look him in the eyes. "...anything."

"Anything."

"But what do you want? I'm not just looking to get myself off here"

Bruce doesn't make eye contact. "I'm sure I'll enjoy it."

On one hand, they probably will both enjoy it. On the other hand, Clark knows Batman. 

"You're doing that thing again."

"That thing?" Bruce is dead serious under him, like they're in a mission briefing.

"That thing where you don't communicate."

"I'm not– it's not…" 

"'Oh Batman,'" Clark says in an exaggerated Superman voice, putting his chin in his hand and his elbow lightly on Bruce’s chest, "'why didn't you tell anybody you were bleeding?'"

A huff of air between their faces tickles Clark's chest. Almost a laugh. Bruce keeps his gaze solidly on Clark's left shoulder, but it’s softer now. There’s no challenge in it.

"'Oh batman,'" Clark continues, smiling into the side of Bruce's neck and feeling the athletic body tense under him as Bruce tries not to squirm, "'why didn't you just tell me you wanted to kiss me?'"

"I did," mutters Bruce, "the first time. When the stakes were lower. When I wanted something without strings."

"Well, right now I want to focus on you. That's what I want."

Bruce is blushing now. Hard. He keeps instinctively moving like he's going to push Clark off but then stopping himself. Some sort of conflict is playing out behind those intense eyes.

"I'm not good at asking for things," he manages, "I'm not used to being… seen. Not as thoroughly as… as you seem to see me."

Clark releases a huff of disbelief before he can stop himself, then wishes he didn't when he sees the defensive look in Bruce's eyes. "B. There's nobody I'd rather look at." Then, a little quieter, "I was hoping I'd finally be allowed to… to pay you as much attention as I've been wanting to."

He catches Bruce's hand and kisses the palm for emphasis, maintaining eye contact.

 

If only people knew how thoroughly Batman could blush. It spreads across his whole face, his ears, down his neck. His body finally loses some of its tension, and he bites a lip. Finally, finally, he looks Clark in the eyes.

"Then– well, I still think you– you should take control, shouldn't you, take the lead. I… I don’t like asking for things but... If I like something, I'll tell you. Does that sound acceptable?"

"It does, I’d love to, but… You're really, really sure about that?"

"Clark." (He says the name like it's a fine wine in his mouth. There's only a hint of reproach.) "I'm– I'm always responsible. For everything. I'm supposed to be completely in control of every situation. It would be… good. To be relieved of it, just for now."

Unspoken, I trust you with my body. I trust you with my safety.

And Clark, who spends every day trying so hard to be meek and unobtrusive and normal, takes control.

He trusts that Bruce will think him just as human as before.

 

It's different from what Clark is used to. Maybe it's a rural thing. His experiences thus far have all been in sunny bedrooms, with soft body hair and a little too much sweat. He's used to building everything up gradually from smiles and kisses and slow, deliberate strokes.

Bruce is all clean shaven corners. He tastes like dark nightclubs and desperate stolen touches. He's hasty, needy, hushed.

It's different from what Clark is used to, but that doesn't mean it's bad. And it doesn't mean he's going to be any different. If Clark gets to taste hurried Gotham shadows, Bruce is going to taste leisurely Kansas sunshine.

Bruce is very responsive. Every time Clark finds some new way of giving, he squirms and huffs and tugs at Clark, and Clark smiles and kisses and lets him work up a sweat.

And Clark does give. He's steering the ship, he gets to make Bruce's pleasure the top priority. Lord knows Bruce doesn't prioritise it enough himself. Even now, he seems hasty to get it over with, unused to being considered this important. And yet every time Clark asks, 'is this okay?' or 'can I?' Bruce wells over with enthusiastic affirmation or lets his hesitation speak for him.

 

Ten minutes and three fingers in,  Bruce deigns to speak. (Finally, a situation desperate enough to make him ask for something).

"I'm ready, I'm- please, "

Clark carefully pushes inside, works himself deeper. Bruce's weight flexes all around him, pulling out a moan.

"Bruce,"

Bruce clenches just a little with each thrust, pulling and rocking to drive Clark deeper and deeper inside. His eyes are focused on Clark's neck while he arches his back and concentrates on getting exactly what he wants. (God forbid he just ask Clark to thrust from a different angle.)

His eyes go wide when he gets it right, clinging harder to Clark (almost pulling himself off the mattress). "F-fuck. Like that. K-keep going, keep- touch me, please,"

Clark wraps a hand around Bruce’s cock as best he can, picking up the pace and hovering his body to a better angle for Bruce's spine.

“...Close. Don't stop, don't–”

If Clark was human, Bruce's clenched thighs might have fractured his ribcage. He's getting friction, too, Bruce is tight around him and the lube definitely isn't doing its job, and he feels the heat growing, he feels every inch of Bruce's skin, clinging and clawing and already heaving with–

" —fuck, fuck, Clark, I'm coming—"

Clark's vision stutters. Pleasure courses through him, blossoming out, out, out to the tips of his fingers (try not to clench your muscles too hard, gentle now). He thrusts as hard as he dares, through his own delighted moans and the last of Bruce’s shuddering gasps. 

Bruce, who's already relaxing back onto the bed. Bruce, who twitches with overstimulation before Clark finally stops pumping his cock. Bruce, all worn out in the afternoon sun. How much sleep has he had? He deserves more sleep. He deserves everything.  

 

They take a second to calm down, pressed together and breathing heavily. Warm skin against warm skin. The sheets are clean and soft. Bruce's fingers trace a pattern along Clark's scalp. Everything is warm and nothing is wrong.

 

 

 

Clark leans in with more kisses, then gets up to unearth some baby wipes from the bathroom. He makes it back in time to catch Bruce trying to get dressed.

"Come on, you have time," he murmurs into Bruce's shoulder, wrapping arms around him, "take a second here, okay? We can stay in bed for as long as you want, then I can make you breakfast. Or dinner. Whatever time it is, you get eggs."

Bruce has that amused look on his face again, but he drops his clothing back on the floor and lets Clark wrap him up in blankets and arms. He's so bony and angular, blunted at every turn by the softness of Clark's body.

 

Very softly, after a few minutes, Bruce says to the ceiling, "I don't know if I can give you what you want."

Oh no oh no oh no here it comes.

"What… what do I want?"

"A real relationship."

"What makes you think I want a relationship?" Clark deflects, ignoring the sudden nausea of anxiety.

"I know you."

He's not wrong.

Clark was expecting this, in a way. 

"It's okay," Clark says, "if you don't want to. I'm happy with anything you're willing to give–"

"It's not that."

Clark waits, fighting panic. Eventually, Bruce takes a deep breath and turns over, so they're face to face now, lying on the bed.

"Gotham comes first. Even before you."

Oh. Well of course.

"Is that all?"

Bruce narrows his eyes. "What do you mean."

"I mean, me too. I'm– I belong to Earth. Before I belong to anyone else. Including myself. But… happiness isn't a longform game, is it? I don't think anyone Achieves True Happiness. It's just the bits and pieces you can find wherever you go. I… I can find happiness in between the times Earth needs me. Can you?"

"...I'm not. Fun. To be around."

"I think you are."

"You won't like it."

"I can leave if I ever feel that way."

"I'm not… I'm not a good person, Clark."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"..."

"Listen." Clark shifts himself closer on his elbows, cupping a hand around Bruce's face. "If it's not what you want, I'm not going to–"

"It is what I want. But you want… normalcy. You're so human. I’m not good at that. I'm not good at fitting in. You don't want--"

'you don't want this' hangs unspoken in the air. 'you don't want me'

Clark laughs, softly. "Normalcy just means whatever feels peaceful. I'm happy with whatever shape that takes, as long as you don't think I'm boring."

"I... don't." Bruce's face is mostly blank but Clark can read it better now without the cowl. He's bewildered.

"Then?"

"...Fine." Bewilderment is giving way to affection. "I'm yours, boy scout. Don't make me regret it."

Elation. Relief. The anxiety is back down to a trickle.

"You can change your mind anytime," grins Clark, pressing a kiss into Bruce's forehead. "I'm not stopping you."

"Mh."

"Cutie."

More kissing.

"I do need to get back home. I promised Dick I would teach him some self defense moves when he got back from school.”

“Oh! Oh my gosh, that’s right, he’s yours! Both of you! Wow. Wow, that makes me feel so much less worried about him! If anyone can stop him from trying to fight criminals, it’s you.”

He sees Bruce’s face.

“I doubt,” says Bruce, “that anyone could stop him. That’s the worry.”

Clark laughs, leans in for a kiss

And a kiss

And a kiss

And then, they’re off.

Notes:

Man. I hope my writing made for a coherent enough overall plot, I tend to be bad at "show don't tell" or "keep it in the subtext" because I have *ongoing short term memory loss* and can't focus on the whole fic in one go. So, sorry if any of that reading felt like being hit on the head with a symbolism hammer.
Check out my previous work, Masking, for some silly, incoherent fluff about neurodivergent friendship/courtship.
All that being said! I'm never doing identity porn ever again, I've gone off it. It's divorced disaster dilfs from here on out for Superbat! I've also been working on a Ted Kord & Tim Drake mentorship fic which is mostly boostle gay chicken and transgender mad science. There are about 4.5k words of drabbles so far and it may never see the light of day.
As usual, no promises about anything ever, I may never post anything again, and I definitely won't be back with anything over 1k words within the next 6 months. I wish everyone a warm soup and a happy summer!

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