Chapter Text
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Din-
Bruce buttoned his shirt up, previously caught up in examining the various scars etched upon his skin like a masterpiece from a sorrowful artist riddled with tragedies. The doorbell ringing did little to ease the gradual thumping in his mind, occasionally flaring up at every memorable item he glanced at. Something in his head was worsening just beneath his nose, itching to consume his whole brain, and it was unbearably accentuated further by the chiming.
His entourage of… people (he was reluctant to call them his children, given that despite his looks reflecting middle age, Bruce was currently mentally younger than half of them) had spread out; some expressed interest in checking up on an ‘Oracle’ (Gotham containing prophetic users made Bruce grimace slightly), some had split up on the trail of differing leads ranging from other vigilantes and criminals, while only one remained in the deep crevices of the Bat-Cave. They all opted to keep a guarded distance from Bruce so as to not cause any flare-ups, although he himself could not shove his curiosity away and found himself openly exposing himself to things that tugged desperately at his memories.
This distractedness was likely why he sprinted to the door before Alfred, who had been halfway across the Manor's backyard and just out of earshot. It may also account for his momentary slight in ignoring the lecture he had received this morning, the one about the alien Superman .
Admittedly, it sounded like a story spun straight out of a fairy tale; the last son of a fallen planet, riddled with superhuman abilities of world-destroying eminence, yet utilising it for the greater good. Initially, he sounded too good to be true, but Dick had then exchanged a knowing glance with his siblings before spinning numerous tales of the kind of man Superman was beyond that exterior.
“You should know that the two of you are… friends, quite close ones at that.” Tim informed with a slight grimace, “But don't find yourself alone with him while in this state.”
“Why? Is he dangerous?” Bruce had asked with a startling amount of curiosity. But then again, the concept of metahumans of Superman’s calibre was unheard of to a younger Bruce.
“Yes! Very dangerous,” Dick nodded, but then seemed riddled with an inexplicable emotion akin to a child lying about their parents profession, “Superman would never hurt any good guys though! Especially not you since you're…” He slowly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, “... very good friends! But still, don't get caught with him alone since finding out could spell out bad things for us.”
“Very, super-sized bad things.” Jason sniggered slightly at his poor joke, to which Tim slapped his back with a loud thump, rousing a juvenile fight between the two and preventing Bruce from enquiring further.
“He's just very… out there, Father. Since you work together, he's bound to be concerned if you don't keep regular contact,” Damian added, receiving a startled reception from Bruce given that he hadn't even noticed the boy, “He could pose a threat while we're figuring this out. If our countermeasures are ineffective, you must avoid him at all costs. Give no indication of your weakness, and ensure he leaves – if you cannot do so yourself, we will do it for you.”
Though his mind spun with the name Clark Kent, Bruce hadn't anticipated that he'd show up at the front door; Dick had implanted the notion that he'd break a wall with his sheer muscle or laser a hole around a window. But as Bruce naively opened the door with no inclination of a threat looming from the other side, a gush of air struck him before revealing that nobody lay at the doorstep of Wayne Manor.
Bruce briefly examined the doorbell; dented inwards, as if mass pressure or overuse had worn it down over time. It felt like just the other day, Alfred had been brimming with a joy only adults would maintain regarding the newly installed bell. A puff of air escaped his lips as Bruce shut the door with a gentle thump.
Then, he was whisked into the air.
An embarrassing number of seconds ticked away before his mind caught up, suddenly overwhelmed by the unnatural state he was in. He was in the air! Any attempt to grab the nearby wall or the towering chandelier of Wayne Manor’s foyer was crushed beneath the soles of unforgiving feet when realising he was trapped in a fortified bind of some kind.
No, not a bind. Rather, a pair of sturdy arms held him tightly, pressing his frame into one emanating sheer warmth and muscle.
As his brain raced to catch up with his surroundings, Bruce had only begun to realise that the man clutching him with an iron grip was laughing, his baritone voice resonating throughout his frame.
“Bruce!” He exclaimed, practically endeavouring to meld their bodies into one by his eager grip. They had almost reached the top of the incredibly tall Wayne Foyer, with the man joyously twirling in the air, subsequently causing Bruce to clutch his dizzying head in an attempt to steady it.
His baffled, and slightly nauseous, expression must have been glaringly obvious, as the man let out a sudden sound of recognition and slowly lowered the two. Bruce staggered slightly, feet tapping the marble floor as he marvelled at the stability he had taken for granted a few moments ago. Pulling at his hands to stabilize his dizzying head, Bruce found his fingers palms pressed tight between the firm grip of the other man. Looking up slowly, Bruce almost felt the wind get knocked out of sails – God , this was a fine specimen of a man!
Bruce never really spent time marvelling at the looks of others, let alone men, but it was an objective truth that the man was handsome. Though it wasn’t the sturdy build of his body reflecting his sheer muscle or silky raven hair curled into something vaguely resembling a ‘S’ on his forehead that Bruce found himself focused on – rather, it was the absolutely enamoured expression on his face. Cheeks lightly dusted red, breath slightly knocked out of him as if he finished running an exhilarating marathon, and eyes unmoving from studying Bruce’s face.
Suddenly under the microscope of the other man’s gaze, Bruce’s eyes lowered to the colourful symbol on his chest, palms feeling clammier than usual.
“I’m sorry, I know you told me not to show up at the Manor wearing this, and you did tell me to stay away from Gotham, but I was anxious to see you in the flesh! I tried the Bat-Cave receiver, but nobody answered, which was surprising because I’m sure I heard Dick in the training room and–” The rambling came to an abrupt halt when the man noticed Bruce observing the strange position he found themselves in. Bringing their interlocked hands closer to his chest, the man tilted his head and spoke with immeasurable softness, “Are you alright?”
“Yes…” He trailed off, eyes narrowing slightly, “... Clark.”
“Are you sure? 100%? Is this your typical ‘I’m fine I had ten cups of coffee’, or are you truly fine?” Clark squinted, a delightfully adorable expression on his face, “Golly, you look exhausted. Should I make you something warm to drink?”
How absurd , Bruce found himself thinking. A meta-human of his abilities should use his hands for lifting cars dangling precariously off buildings, not making a cup of cocoa for a man who clearly has a butler.
“I’m fine.” Bruce strained through, throat constricting as he attempted to get Clark’s name off the lips that seemed to savour every syllable, “I must request that you to leave, Clark.”
The radiating joy had dimmed momentarily as Clark stepped closer (how much closer could he get? His warm breath could be felt on Bruce’s face at this rate), inclining his head in a futile attempt to catch Bruce’s distant glare as if he yearned for it.
“Request? Leave? Bruce, I–” Clark’s face dropped further as Bruce’s hands slithered from his warm grip, “Bruce? What’s… did I do something wrong?” With an expression akin to a kicked puppy, Bruce forced himself to lessen his passing glances at Clark’s face, straightening his posture to mimic an act he had never perfected.
Like a hastily crafted mask slotting imperfectly on Bruce’s baffled face, he attempted a tight smile as to ensure Clark that nothing was wrong and he was perfectly fine! It had worked at the few instances of public appearances ‘Bruce Wayne’ had to make, mainly on behalf of his father’s various charity organisations. It seemed to comfort adults and acquaintances alike, and he was almost certain it would work.
Until Clark’s expression shattered.
Grabbing Bruce’s shoulders with a strange urgency, he began furiously scanning Bruce up and down, eyes glowing in a way that almost reflected a festering panic radiating from him.
“What–” Bruce exclaimed, failing to slither out of the iron-hold Clark held him in.
“You don’t seem to be injured…” Clark strained slightly to blink away the flickers of strange light emanating from his pupils, “Did you get roughed up from the fight against the boys? It’s strange because nothing seems to be broken on the surface. Did you overexert yourself in training?”
The barrage of questions did little to distract Bruce’s inquisitiveness that eventually fell into clawing discomposure.
“Did you… Did you just scan me?”
“Yes?” Clark paused momentarily, bewilderment etched plainly on his face, “You said I could, remember? Although you did say for situations deemed urgent but– but you’re acting strange! Don’t smile at me like that!”
“Excuse me?” The gradual thumping in his mind worsened with every word leaving his lips, but it was as if Bruce’s voice escaped before his mind could seize it, “I can’t smile?”
“That's not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant,” Clark responded with an exasperated sigh, though his face made no inclination of any anger directed at Bruce, “I– You don’t smile like that to me! That’s your... your gala smile!” Clark grimaced slightly as he lowered his tone to a hush, “Don’t use that on me in private. Don’t push me out.”
It was a comical scene, truly. A man of his stature, gripping Bruce’s shoulders and looking at him as if the weight of the world depended on every miniscule movement he made. It was overwhelming, but an itchiness at the back of his mind savoured this strange form of affection directed at him. Outside of Alfred, the honesty of Bruce’s expression was never considered, as his public mask was taken at face-value – to the superhuman in front of him, it was a top priority.
“... you must avoid him at all costs. Give no indication of your weakness, and ensure he leaves.”
Damian’s words suddenly struck him, and Bruce made another fruitless attempt to remove himself from the situation. He had to be cautious as to not raise any further alarm bells in Clark’s head.
“Is it so hard to believe that it isn’t you, and I want to be alone?” Bruce pronounced, steadily raising his hand to Clark’s and removing it, "We can meet on another day." This often works for friends and acquaintances alike, so it should work for Superman given their friendship that the children had constantly drilled into Bruce's head. Endeavouring to move away from Clark while he looked distracted, pinched brow and pout on full-show, proved to be a seemingly impossible task, as Clark had Bruce’s hands trapped in his grip before Bruce even registered that a nano-second had passed. Superspeed was truly remarkable!
“If you want to be alone, I’ll respect that and leave.” Clark announced, but his voice dipped into the waters of melancholy, an ocean that Bruce was morbidly familiar with, “... But if something’s wrong, I would like to know, Bruce. I worry about you. I– I worry more often than not, and I wish I could be a figure you can rely on, but I’ll settle for being here when you want me to be.” Clark took a sharp breath in, as if it pained him, “I might be overthinking things again, but are you alright?”
This was a conversation beyond any friendship that Bruce had in the past.
“I–” Bruce paused, finally taking the plunge into looking into Clark’s eyes. A strange longing in his chest begged him to admit that no, things certainly weren’t alright, but his mind battered itself in its strange war against himself. “Clark, I–”
A whistling sliced through the air, piercing both the tension and attempting to slice Clark’s face at that. Even despite being turned to face Bruce, his arm had raised swiftly to catch the dagger flying at full-speed and pull it between the two of them to examine it.
“I’m going to have to break up this little conversation now.” A voice boomed from the shadows of the manor’s desolate hallway, a surprising feat to hide in given the illumination of daytime and Alfred’s insistence on opening all the curtains. There stood Dick Grayson, clad in a soaked-through tank top and dark sweatpants, towel wrapped around his neck to soak up the sweat dripping from his face. Clearly, he had been interrupted from a strenuous workout session upon realising the cameras he was supposed to be paying a close-eye on had displaying the very man they were hell-bent on avoiding.
“Dick!” Clark beamed, unperturbed by the deadly weapon shot squarely with intent to severely injure, “It’s great to see you!”
Grayson, for what Bruce could see, was equally excited to see Clark, a smirk etched upon his face as if spotting a friendly face in the crowd.
“Likewise, Clark! Although, uh,” Dick motioned to his own chest, to which Clark looked down and back up with escalating embarrassment, “The outfit.”
“I was in a bit of a rush to see Bruce,” Clark nervously rubbed the nape of his neck, ears tinging a flowery hue of pink, “Y’lnow?”
“Right.” Dick’s grin was pulled into a tight line as he examined Bruce’s overstimulated expression, “It’s great to see you, but you should leave. Now.”
“Why?” Clark’s reluctance and deeply dismayed demeanour from earlier had frozen into one of sheer concentration, eyes flitting across both Dick and Bruce’s uncanny expressions, “Something’s wrong.”
“Is that a question?” Dick laughed, sauntering over to slap Clark across the back, “Everything’s fine, honest! You can even check us for injuries, we’re all good!” Motioning with an increased fervency that was visible to even Bruce, a mental stranger to Dick at this point, meant that even Clark could point out the sheer inaccuracies of the statement.
“That’s the problem. You’re both acting as if something’s wrong, but I can’t seem to figure out what it is.”
“S’pose that’s why Bruce is the detective out of the pair,” Dick chuckled half-heartedly, undertaking the particularly arduous task of manoeuvring Clark to the exit. Clark remained rooted to his spot as his mouth gradually ticked downwards to a frown so unnatural on that face. “I honestly wish you could stay, but the place is such a mess and we have a lot of mission-related things to get done. You have to join us for a family dinner soon after Duke’s back from Metropolis, I’ll make sure to message an invite!”
The words were spoken like a conclusive end to Clark’s visit, though neither made an attempt to move.
“Clark,” Dick uttered, voice drastically dipping into the realm of danger, “Don’t make me ask twice.”
Clark seemed to be wrestling with an internal demon, fists clenching and unclenching in an attempt to compartmentalise his raging thoughts into neat boxes. Bruce understood the levels of helplessness Clark exhibited, quickly passing a cautious glance to Dick, who had been locked into a stare-off with the back of Clark’s head.
“Dick, perhaps…” Bruce pensively paused before nodding, “Perhaps he can–”
“No, Bruce.” Dick interrupted, eyes unmoving yet resolute in his standing, lowering his voice to a whisper between the two of them, “We can’t risk it.”
“Risk what?” Clark enquired, and Dick almost face-palmed at his failed attempt at lowering his voice to an octave Superman couldn’t register – although that may well have been a dog’s whistle. “Whatever it is, Dick, I can help! I just want to know if something’s wrong,” His gaze flitted nervously over Bruce’s figure, now behind Dick in an attempt to tuck himself away, “It’s a Code Black, right? That means Bruce is… You know I’d never do anything that will harm Bruce–”
“ Intentionally , I may add.” Dick shot back, but then his eyes widened, “How’d you know about the co–”
“I have my ways.” Clark affirmed non-specifically, though his guilty expression indicated ulterior ways he would not divulge. "I'm staying until I figure out the problem because something is clearly wrong and you're both hell-bent on keeping me in the dark."
Dick groaned animatedly, reaching for his back pockets to reveal a singular baton that, when pressed, exploded into a larger staff. This strange contraption was likely what he had been training with prior to rushing upstairs, yet it proved handy in effectively dishing out threats to villains. Superman was not a villain given the limited conversations Bruce had with the man, though he anticipated that he best stay well out of the way as Dick Grayson lowered himself into a professional fighting stance.
“Leave,” Dick’s boyish grin was wiped away instantaneously and replaced with a hardened scowl, “Or I’ll make you.”