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Chapter Text

𝙄𝙩𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙧𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙣 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧.

Superman hovered between two towering buildings as the first light of dawn spread across the skyline of Gotham. The city, so often wrapped in darkness and rain, was touched by a soft golden glow that reflected off the glass and steel around him. The sun rose slowly behind him, casting a warm light across his suit of deep blue and bright red. His cape drifted gently in the cool morning air, glowing like a banner of hope against the pale sky.

Below him, the streets were filled with people. They crowded together, their eyes wide as they looked up, the noise of the city fading into a quiet hum of awe. Gotham was a place used to shadows and fear, where its protector worked from the darkness. Yet now, there was something different in the air. Superman’s presence carried peace, strength, and warmth, a kind of calm that settled over the restless city.

He slowly turned to face the crowd, the sunlight gleaming along the edge of his cape and the crest on his chest. His eyes swept over the people below, kind and steady, filled with understanding. Moments earlier, Superman had saved a falling plane from crashing into the city, and the echoes of that miracle still lingered in the streets. As the people realized the danger had passed, their fear melted into admiration.

Applause began to rise, at first hesitant and then loud and full of emotion. Superman’s expression softened. His lips curved into a smile so genuine and bright that it seemed to reflect the morning light itself. It wasn’t a smile of pride, but of gratitude and reassurance, one that told the people they were safe.

For a brief, golden moment, Gotham felt lighter. The city of shadows was touched by morning hope, and its people stood together, hearts lifted as they looked upon the figure above them. Superman remained there, framed by sunlight, calm and radiant, a living promise that even in the darkest places, light could still find a way through.

Bruce hadn't seen anything like it.

He didn't like it one bit.

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𝙁𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧.

In the heart of the Batcave, deep beneath Gotham’s restless streets, Bruce Wayne sat surrounded by the soft hum of machinery and the distant sound of dripping water echoing through the vast cavern. The blue light of the Batcomputer screens washed over him, flickering across the metallic surfaces of his suit and throwing sharp reflections across the dark stone walls. His form was encased in the Batsuit, its armor a masterpiece of function and resilience, molded perfectly to his frame. The dark plates of tactical armor were reinforced and scarred from countless encounters, each mark a silent record of battles fought in the shadows. The chest bore the black bat emblem, sleek and angular, forged from hardened metal that gleamed faintly beneath the shifting light. Around his waist, his utility belt sat firm and heavy, packed with tools and weapons of precision, every compartment holding something vital to his crusade. The matte black material of his suit stretched between the armor panels like woven steel, allowing him both strength and silence in motion.

He sat without his mask, the cowl resting beside the keyboard where the faint glow of the monitors touched its edges. His face was pale in the cold light, marked with exhaustion and the weight of endless nights. Dark smudges of makeup framed his piercing eyes, smeared and faded from sweat, deepening the shadowed hollows beneath them. His hair hung in messy strands across his forehead, still damp, framing the sharp lines of his jaw and the faint bruises left from his last confrontation. His lips were pressed together in a firm, grim line as he stared at the screens, his gaze heavy with focus and quiet fury.

The soft clicking of the keys filled the air as his gloved hands moved swiftly across the keyboard. His eyes scanned the scrolling data, shifting between maps, files, and encrypted messages, searching for something only he could see. Each flicker of information illuminated his face for a fleeting second before fading again into shadow. The surrounding machinery hummed steadily, the distant whir of the Batmobile’s systems, the low rumble of generators, and the faint flutter of bats high above.

The cavern seemed to breathe with him, alive yet silent. Despite the armor and technology around him, Bruce looked almost alone against the enormity of the cave. His expression was one of relentless determination mixed with the quiet ache of a man burdened by purpose. Beneath the cold steel exterior and the heavy suit, he was still human, driven by pain, loss, and an unwavering need to protect the city above. The Batcave was his sanctuary and his prison, and in that moment, surrounded by shadows and screens.

𝙎𝙪𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙣.

That's what was on his mind lately, well mainly for most of its his life, it's been filled with that Infuriating red and blue Kryptonian ray of sunshine. Ever since Superman had been recognized, he had become the talk of the media, of course Bruce didn't care about that, he wasn't even mad about it. His feelings were more directed towards everytime Superman had the audacity to fly into his city- to try and help out with a burning building with floors of people coughing from lungs filled with smoke, saving them before Bruce could even touch the shoulder of a civilian. It had pissed him off, badly.

For a while he ignored the Kryptonian, demanding him to back off and to never step foot inside his city again. Of course Superman didn't listen, always promising he wouldn't and then the next day- flying in and helping with another situation that Bruce tried to handle but was pushed to the side by the Kryptonian because he didn't want him to get 'hurt'.

Bruce’s fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before plunging back into the flood of information. Screens multiplied like a digital labyrinth, each tab a doorway into Superman’s world—every flight path, every public appearance, every rumor and classified report Bruce could unearth. He scrolled through satellite imagery, cross-referencing dates and times, watching for patterns, anomalies, weaknesses. Every interaction the Kryptonian had in Gotham was logged, annotated, analyzed. His jaw tightened as he absorbed the data, mentally cataloging Superman’s habits, his morals, and his weaknesses. Each keystroke was precise, almost surgical, slicing through endless amounts of data to find what he needed.

A soft, familiar voice broke the rhythm.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, stepping into the cavern with his usual quiet dignity, the faint scent of aftershave and old books trailing behind him. “Young Master Dick is awake and waiting for you.”

Bruce paused, glancing up at the older man. “I’ll be down in a bit,” he murmured, already turning back toward the glowing screens. Silence stretched for a heartbeat before Alfred’s voice returned, warmer, gently teasing.

“Researching about Superman again, I presume?”

Bruce’s lips twitched, just slightly, but he didn’t look up. “Yes,” he admitted, nonchalantly. There was no point in hiding it; Alfred always saw everything.

Alfred stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back, voice soft but firm. “Might I suggest you take a break? Spend some time with your son? It has been far too long since you’ve been with him.”

Bruce stared at the screens, the images of Superman and his city’s chaos reflecting in his eyes. But Alfred’s words carried that quiet certainty, the kind that had never steered him wrong. Not once. Not ever. With a slow exhale, Bruce closed the laptop, the screens going dark with a soft click that echoed through the cavern.

“I’m coming,” he said, voice low, carrying the weight of both responsibility and resolve. He rose from the chair, feeling the cold press of the armor on his skin, and carefully peeled it away, setting the plates aside one by one. The cowl followed, resting gently atop the console.

Alfred gave a faint, approving smile, nodding as he retreated toward the staircase. “I’ll let you have your moment, Master Bruce. Do try to remember what it’s like to be a father, too.”

Bruce allowed himself a rare, almost imperceptible smile. “I will,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, and started toward the steps leading up, leaving the glow of the Batcave behind for the warmth of the house above.

Bruce stepped into the bathroom, finally free of the armor’s weight and the Batcave’s chill. He peeled away the grime and sweat of the night, reaching for a warm cloth and gently wiping the smudged darkness from around his eyes. The sharp hollows beneath them softened as he rinsed his face, letting the water wash away the exhaustion and tension. For a long moment, he stared at his reflection, pale, worn, human, and thought of Dick.

He felt a pang of guilt at how little time he had spent with his son lately. Nights in the Batcave, meetings with Wayne Enterprises, endless preparation for emergencies, he had been consumed by duty. Standing there with the mirror’s quiet truth staring back at him, Bruce made a decision. That weekend would be different. He would spend it entirely with Dick. Maybe take him out for ice cream, just the two of them, and maybe even sneak in a few extra hours at the park. The thought made him chuckle softly, a rare warmth in his chest.

Dressed now in comfortable attire, a simple dark sweater and jeans, he left the bathroom and let the familiar warmth of Wayne Manor envelop him. The scent of breakfast drifted through the halls, rich and inviting. Scrambled eggs, sizzling bacon, and golden pancakes filled the air, drawing him toward the kitchen.

Alfred moved gracefully around the stove, orchestrating the morning meal with quiet perfection. At the kitchen table, Dick sat cross-legged, absorbed in a gymnastics book, his small brows furrowed in concentration.

Then he spotted Bruce. His face lit up instantly, and he practically sprang from his chair, book forgotten, as he ran toward his father. “Dad! Dad! Dad! Alfred’s making my favorites!” he shouted, eyes sparkling.

Bruce crouched slightly, letting Dick leap into his arms with a light huff. The boy’s energy was infectious, and Bruce felt warmth bloom in his chest at the sight. He pressed a soft kiss to Dick’s forehead, smiling down at him with gentle amusement.

“You are going to grow into a balloon if you keep eating pancakes like this every morning,” he teased.

“No way! I am still skinny as a stick! Even if I ate a hundred pancakes, I would still be—”

“A hundred? I think Alfred would collapse if you even tried one hundred,” Bruce interrupted, smiling.

“No, really! I could totally do it. You would not even notice!” Dick insisted, pretending to lift an invisible plate. “I eat all the pancakes in school on Tuesdays, and sometimes Thursdays too!”

Bruce chuckled, setting him down gently at the table. “You might be the only seven-year-old who is trying to compete with the city’s weight of breakfast pancakes.”

Dick laughed and bounced in his chair. “You should see me at school! Tommy tried to eat more than me once. Guess who won?”

“Let me guess. Tommy got a bellyache?” Bruce teased, leaning on the table.

Dick threw his head back, howling with laughter. “No! I did! I totally won! Dad, you should see the look on his face when I just kept eating! Ha!”

Bruce laughed quietly, shaking his head, his chest warm with the simple joy. “You are lucky Alfred is making them for you. If it were me, you would probably end up with a piece of toast.”

“Toast is boring! You do not understand, Dad! Pancakes have syrup, and chocolate chips, and sometimes whipped cream!”

“Whipped cream?” Bruce asked, feigning horror. “That is cheating, Dick. You cannot add extra toppings and still claim victory.”

Dick pouted, but his eyes sparkled. “It is not cheating! It is strategy!”

Alfred, standing near the stove with a small smile, spoke gently. “Perhaps moderation might be advisable, Master Dick. Even the most energetic among us must pace themselves.”

Dick wagged a finger at Alfred. “Pace yourself? I do not need to pace myself! I have Dad here! He believes in me!”

Bruce’s lips twitched into a soft grin. “I do, I do. But do not blame me if your stomach disagrees later.”

Dick giggled again, bouncing on his chair. “Stomach cannot stop me! I am invincible! Right, Dad?”

“You are invincible,” Bruce agreed, tapping his nose lightly. “At least in spirit and in pancake consumption, apparently.”

The three of them laughed together, the warmth and joy filling the kitchen like sunlight.

:

The morning air in Gotham had a crisp edge that carried the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers from nearby gardens. Bruce walked steadily along the gravel path of the dog park, Dick skipping ahead, backpack bouncing, his small sneakers crunching over the stones. Alfred followed behind at a measured pace, hands folded, his presence calm and reassuring. The park was lively for a weekday morning, with a few families strolling, joggers passing by, and the occasional bark of a dog echoing in the distance.

“So gymnastics today was fun, right?” Bruce asked, glancing down at Dick with a soft, affectionate smile. The sunlight caught the boy’s hair as it bounced across his forehead, and Bruce felt a quiet swell of pride.

“It was amazing, Dad!” Dick said, practically vibrating with excitement. “I tried that new flip Coach showed me, and I didn’t fall at all! I even landed it perfectly, like on my toes!” His hands gestured wildly as he spoke, his enthusiasm contagious.

Bruce chuckled, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. He remembered when Dick had first come to him, hesitant, quiet, and withdrawn after the deaths of his parents. For months, the boy had been cautious, wary of affection, reluctant to trust. Now, he called him Dad freely, laughed easily, and leaned into Bruce’s presence without hesitation. The progress was small, almost invisible to the untrained eye, but Bruce saw it in every twinkle in Dick’s eyes, every confident stride.

“You did very well, Dick,” Bruce said, his voice low and warm. “I’m proud of you. Landing a new flip is no small feat.”

“Thanks, Dad! You’re the best! You should have seen me, I even twirled at the end!” Dick twirled once, spinning in place and giggling uncontrollably.

Bruce smiled softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from the boy’s forehead. “I would have liked to see that. Maybe next time, you can show me your routine.”

Dick’s grin widened. “I will, I promise!” He skipped ahead again, but Bruce kept a careful hand near him, ready to steady him if needed. Alfred’s quiet presence behind them added another layer of security, his watchful eyes scanning the path ahead.

As they approached the heart of the park, a sudden flash of white darted across the gravel path. Before Bruce could react, Dick tripped slightly and fell backward onto his knees.

“Dick!” Bruce called, rushing forward, crouching to scoop him up. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Dad,” Dick said quickly, brushing gravel from his jeans. Alfred knelt beside them, pulling a small pack from his backpack and expertly dabbing at the scrapes and dust on Dick’s knees.

Bruce’s eyes followed the white dog, now bounding joyfully through the park, tail wagging, ears flopping with reckless abandon. His jaw tightened instinctively. A dog without a leash in a crowded park was irresponsible. Once he found the owner, he would demand an explanation.

Before he could move toward the dog, a young man came running up, slightly out of breath, his expression flustered and apologetic.

“I am so sorry!” the man said, hands slightly raised. “Krypto can be a little… a little troublemaker sometimes.”

Bruce straightened, his expression controlled, calm, yet sharp. “Keep your dog on a leash,” he said, voice even but authoritative.

“Yes, sir. Absolutely. I am very sorry, especially to your son,” the man said, turning toward Dick. “I didn’t mean to bump you over.”

“It’s okay,” Dick said cheerfully, brushing off his knees again. “I’m fine now.”

Bruce’s gaze lingered on the young man. He took in the dark wavy hair falling slightly across his forehead, the clean features, the sharp jawline softened by a warm smile. His black glasses framed intelligent, expressive eyes, and his medium-gray suit was neat and professional, though slightly loosened at the collar. Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly in scrutiny, noting a natural, approachable charm about him.

The young man moved to retrieve the dog, but Bruce’s voice stopped him. “Wait. What is a clumsy reporter from the Daily doing here in Gotham?”

The man froze, raising his eyebrows in mild surprise. “I… I’m here for a possible report on Gotham. I’ll be interviewing some people at a Wayne Enterprises gala tonight.”

Bruce allowed a faint smirk to touch his lips, amusement flickering across his otherwise stern features. “Good luck with that,” he said simply, the playful inflection unmistakable.

“Thank you,” the man said politely. He hesitated, then extended a hand. “Oh, I’m Clark.”

Bruce’s smirk widened, and he extended his own hand, introducing himself with effortless charm. “Bruce Wayne.” The words carried that familiar billionaire playboy confidence, calm and assured, yet teasing in the corners.

Clark’s smile grew, a little awkward but genuine. “Clark Kent. Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce tilted his head slightly, considering him, and the smirk turned into a small, knowing grin. “The pleasure is mine. Now you best keep that dog in check before it causes more trouble.”

Clark chuckled softly and nodded. “Yes, sir. I promise.” He hurried after Krypto, who was now gleefully rolling in the grass, blissfully unaware of the minor chaos he had caused.

Bruce looked down at Dick, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes and an eager grin. “You see, Dick,” Bruce said, ruffling his son’s hair gently, “sometimes Gotham surprises us in ways that do not involve villains or alarms.”

Dick laughed. “That guy is funny, and his dog is crazy! I want to meet more dogs like that!”

Bruce chuckled quietly, feeling warmth spread in his chest. “Perhaps, but always with caution. You never know what surprises may come your way.”

Alfred, walking slightly behind, gave his usual calm observation. “And now, Master Bruce, I hope you will focus on enjoying the park with your son rather than plotting Gotham’s next threat.”

Bruce smiled down at Dick again, tightening his hand around the small one. “Agreed, Alfred. Let’s enjoy the day.”

Dick’s eyes lit up, and he bounced slightly. “Can we run and see if Krypto wants to play with us?”

Bruce laughed softly. “We will, but carefully. You must remember, Dad is here to make sure no one gets hurt.”

Dick giggled and nodded. “Okay, Dad. I’ll be careful!”

As they moved further into the park, Bruce’s gaze softened. Watching Dick’s energy, his laughter, and his unguarded joy, he felt a rare sense of peace.

Chapter Text

𝙃𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙤 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙬𝙚𝙙.

Clark stood frozen for a moment after the man introduced himself. Bruce Wayne.

The Bruce Wayne. Gotham’s billionaire. The man whose name carried weight everywhere from high-end business circles to the morning gossip columns. And his kid—the small boy Krypto had just bowled over was his son.

Clark felt his stomach twist into a knot. The polite smile he kept plastered on his face was the only thing stopping him from grimacing in pure embarrassment. He could almost hear Lois’s voice echoing in his head already. “You let your dog tackle Bruce Wayne’s kid? Kent, are you trying to get us blacklisted from every event on the East Coast?”

As he walked away to chase down Krypto, his steps were quick and heavy, his mind spinning in quiet panic. “Good job, Clark,” he muttered under his breath. “Real smooth. You come to Gotham for a simple story, and you end up assaulting the Wayne heir with your dog.”

Krypto, as if understanding none of the chaos he’d caused, was happily chasing a butterfly across the grass, his tail wagging like nothing in the world could go wrong. Clark sighed deeply and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mumbled to the dog. “Because if Bruce Wayne presses charges, we’re both out of a job.”

He clipped the leash onto Krypto’s collar and gave him a long, unimpressed look. The dog looked back at him, tongue lolling out in pure, unapologetic joy. Clark couldn’t even stay mad for more than a second. “You’re lucky I’m a sucker for that face,” he said quietly, shaking his head as they began their walk back toward the street.

By the time he reached his rented apartment in midtown Gotham, the day’s bright cheer had dimmed into overcast gray. Clark pushed open the door with a sigh and tossed his bag onto the couch, letting himself fall back into the cushions with a groan.

The place wasn’t much, just a one-night rental, the kind of room meant for traveling business people attending expensive events. There was a small kitchenette, a spotless table with a single chair, and a view of Gotham’s skyline that would’ve been breathtaking if Clark wasn’t drowning in anxiety.

He covered his face with both hands and let out a quiet groan. “Great first impression, Kent. You had one job. One. Stay under the radar, make a good connection at the Wayne Enterprises gala, and don’t make a fool of yourself.” He peeked between his fingers and exhaled in defeat. “Lois is gonna kill me.”

Krypto jumped up beside him, tail wagging as if to comfort him. Clark turned his head toward the dog, raising an eyebrow. “You have no idea what kind of mess you’ve caused, do you? Bruce Wayne’s son, Krypto. Bruce Wayne’s. Do you know how powerful that man is?”

Krypto barked once, happy and unconcerned, before flopping down on Clark’s lap. Clark sighed, scratching behind his ears. “Yeah, yeah, I forgive you. But that kid was sweet. Brave, too. Didn’t even cry.”

He leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts were racing. The gala was tonight, and if Bruce decided he didn’t want him anywhere near Wayne Enterprises, that was it. His entire trip would be a disaster. Perry White had pulled strings just to get him the invitation. Lois had helped him prep. And now… “I’m doomed,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Krypto let out a small, content huff and closed his eyes.

Clark smiled faintly despite himself. “Maybe it won’t be that bad,” he said, though his voice carried no confidence. “Maybe Bruce Wayne won’t even recognize me at the gala. Maybe he’s forgotten about it already.”

He paused for a moment and thought of that stern, piercing look Bruce had given him. The kind of look that could cut through steel.

Clark groaned again. “Yeah, no. He definitely hasn’t forgotten.”

The clock on the nightstand ticked quietly as Clark sat there in silence, the soft sound of Krypto’s breathing filling the room. He looked toward the garment bag hanging by the window, his one good suit pressed and ready for the night.

He gave a tired smile and muttered, “All right, Smallville, get it together. You’ve survived worse than a cranky billionaire.” He looked down at Krypto, who was already asleep. “And you, partner… you’re staying on a leash for the rest of eternity.”

Krypto’s ear flicked, but he didn’t stir.

Clark laughed quietly, leaning back and watching the dim Gotham skyline flicker through the rain-specked window. “Tonight’s gonna be… interesting,” he said softly. “Let’s just hope I don’t end up getting fired.”

The soft buzz of Clark’s laptop filled the quiet apartment as the video call connected. A moment later, Lois Lane appeared on-screen — her sharp, knowing eyes framed by her loose brown hair and the warm lamplight behind her. She was seated at her desk in their Metropolis apartment, the faint skyline glowing through her window. Papers and coffee cups surrounded her, as usual, in a hurricane of organized chaos.

When she saw Clark’s face, her lips curved into a teasing smile. “Well, look who survived Gotham. I was half expecting you to call from the police department.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck and tried to smile through his embarrassment. “Hey, Lois. It’s good to see you too.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So? How’s it going over there, Mr. International Reporter? Did you charm your way through the city yet, or has Gotham already eaten you alive?”

He gave a quiet, awkward chuckle and adjusted his glasses. “Define ‘eaten alive.’”

Lois’s expression immediately sharpened. “Clark.”

He sighed. “Okay, so… something slightly bad happened. Not catastrophic, but bad.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Every time you start with that sentence, I know I’m about to hear something ridiculous. What did you do?”

“Technically, I didn’t do anything,” Clark said, pointing toward the corner of the room where Krypto was sprawled lazily on the couch. “He did.”

Lois squinted, noticing the white blur of fur behind him. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me you brought him to Gotham.”

“Krypto’s behaved,” Clark insisted. “Mostly. He needed some air.”

“Clark,” she said slowly, “you brought a superdog to a city where half the population panics at bats in the sky.”

“Yeah, well… in my defense, he’s friendly?”

Her tone turned flat. “What. Did. He. Do.”

Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He might’ve… accidentally bumped into a kid at the park. Knocked him down a little. But he’s fine! Totally fine. Didn’t even cry.”

Lois froze. “And you’re sure the kid’s fine?”

“Yes. He’s okay. Alfred—”

“Who?”

“—uh, his butler cleaned him up.”

Her brow arched. “His butler?”

Clark hesitated. “Right. So… you know how Gotham’s full of rich people?”

“Clark. Spit it out.”

He winced. “It was Bruce Wayne’s kid.”

The silence that followed could’ve cut glass. Lois blinked once. Then again. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

Clark held up both hands defensively. “Krypto didn’t mean it! He got excited, and the leash slipped, and before I could—”

“Bruce Wayne’s kid?” she repeated, louder this time, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re telling me you went to Gotham, the city run by billionaires and mobsters, and the first thing you did was knock over Bruce Wayne’s son?”

“Technically, Krypto knocked him over,” Clark muttered.

“Clark!”

“I know! I know!” He ran a hand through his hair, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Look, it was an accident. I apologized. Bruce didn’t yell, didn’t call security—he just gave me this… look.”

“What kind of look?”

“The kind that makes you want to apologize for existing,” Clark said honestly. “I swear, he didn’t even raise his voice, but I could tell he was furious. Like, calm, quiet, billionaire-furious.”

Lois groaned, slumping back in her chair. “Unbelievable. You realize if he complains, Perry’s going to ban you from ever leaving the office again. Forget the gala—Wayne will probably have your name scrubbed off the guest list by now.”

Clark frowned and adjusted his glasses. “You really think he’d do that?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said without hesitation. “Billionaires love control. Especially the scary, brooding ones with private jets and underground garages.” She took another sip of coffee, eyeing him. “But hey, maybe he doesn’t hold grudges. Maybe he’s too busy brooding in his tower to care that your dog tackled his heir.”

Clark sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, looking defeated. “That’s… comforting.”

Lois smirked. “I try.”

The two sat quietly for a moment — Krypto’s tail wagged in the background, tapping rhythmically against the couch — before Lois spoke again, her voice softening slightly. “Hey,” she said. “You’ll be fine. Just go to the gala, apologize if you have to, and remember why you’re there. This story could be big for you.”

“I know,” Clark said, his tone thoughtful. “I just wanted to make a good impression. Maybe get a few quotes, talk about Wayne Enterprises’ tech expansion, you know—normal reporter stuff. Not start a miniature scandal before breakfast.”

“That’s the spirit,” Lois said with a grin. “Just… maybe keep Krypto on a leash this time. Preferably one made of titanium.”

Clark chuckled quietly. “Noted.”

Her gaze softened as she leaned closer to the camera. “And Clark… don’t overthink it. You’re good at this. You always are. Just because Wayne’s intimidating doesn’t mean he’s not human.”

Clark smiled faintly. “Thanks, Lois.”

She grinned. “Anytime, Smallville. Oh, and one more thing—wear the blue tie tonight.”

He glanced toward the suitcase by the window, the two ties folded neatly atop it. “Not the red one?”

Lois raised a brow. “The red one makes you look like you’re trying too hard. You want to look effortless. Confident. The blue one says, ‘trustworthy reporter,’ not ‘I borrowed this from my dad.’”

Clark laughed quietly. “You know, for someone not coming to the gala, you sure sound like my stylist.”

“I’m your everything, Kent,” she said with a wink, reaching for her mug again. “Now, go get ready. And if you see Bruce Wayne again—smile, shake his hand, and don’t mention the dog. Ever.”

Clark nodded, grinning despite himself. “Got it. No dogs, no confessions, no disasters.”

“Exactly,” Lois said. “Now go make me proud.”

As the call ended, the screen went dark, and the small apartment felt a little quieter. Clark exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked down at Krypto, who had rolled over onto his back, tail wagging lazily.

“You heard her, buddy,” Clark said softly. “No more accidents. We’re on our best behavior tonight.”

Krypto barked once, cheerful as ever.

Clark smiled faintly, glancing out the window toward the city skyline. “All right, Gotham,” he murmured under his breath, straightening his tie. “Round two.”

The night air of Gotham hung thick with that unmistakable blend of rain, exhaust, and distant electricity — a smell both sharp and rich, alive with contrast. The streets glistened like black glass beneath the pale glow of the city lights, every puddle reflecting flashes of cameras and the ghostly shimmer of neon signs. Gotham didn’t just exist; it breathed. You could feel it in your lungs, in the slick chill that clung to your skin, in the muted rumble beneath your feet that came from a thousand moving engines and voices layered atop each other.

Clark walked down the sidewalk with the press crowd, his polished shoes clicking quietly against the damp concrete. His gray suit fit him neatly — not perfectly tailored like the ones worn by the billionaires around him, but clean and respectable, the blue tie Lois picked out resting firmly against his shirt. He kept adjusting his tie and brushing invisible wrinkles from his jacket, nerves prickling at every sound and flash.

Photographers crowded along the barricades, camera bulbs bursting like fireworks. The air smelled faintly of wet stone and expensive perfume. Every luxury car that pulled up to the curb brought another rush of light, another round of questions shouted over the noise. “Over here!” “Who are you wearing?” “Is it true you’re investing in Wayne Tech?”

Clark tried to focus, clutching his small notepad in one hand and the press pass hanging from his pocket in the other. He wasn’t used to this kind of luxury — the glitz, the money, the flashing lights that never seemed to stop. Around him, other reporters looked relaxed, familiar with the rhythm of it all, shouting names and questions as easily as breathing. Clark, meanwhile, felt like an intruder in an entirely different world.

The massive marble steps leading to the gala gleamed under the streetlamps, their edges catching the light in perfect symmetry. The gold letters of Wayne Enterprises loomed above the entrance, polished to perfection. Every part of it screamed wealth and power.

Clark’s breath came shorter as he tried to find his footing among the noise. Just another job, he told himself. Ask a few questions, write your notes, smile, and don’t look like you’re about to faint.

But it was easier said than done. He was still debating whether to stay or quietly walk back to his apartment and take the inevitable scolding from Lois later, when the crowd’s energy suddenly shifted.

The noise grew louder — not in confusion this time, but excitement. A wave of shouting and camera flashes erupted all at once, bright and blinding.

Clark squinted, following everyone’s gaze toward the street just in time to see a long, sleek black limousine roll to a stop. The door opened slowly, deliberately, as if the city itself knew who was about to emerge.

And then he stepped out.

Bruce Wayne.

The man of Gotham. The billionaire. The one Clark had met earlier that day under much less glamorous circumstances.

Bruce descended the limo with practiced ease, every movement smooth, confident, and effortlessly commanding. His suit was black, tailored to perfection, the fabric catching the light like silk and shadow combined. A subtle sheen lined his lapels, and his shirt — white and crisp — was unbuttoned just enough to look charmingly careless. His bowtie hung loose, undone as if he had already had his fun for the night. His dark hair was slicked back but soft, a strand falling naturally against his forehead, the kind of imperfection that somehow made him look even better.

The crowd screamed for him. Cameras flashed endlessly, and women’s voices rose with excitement. Bruce smiled for them all — that famous, perfect smile that looked both natural and rehearsed. He waved, laughed lightly, winked at a few of the reporters. It was all so seamless, so effortless.

Clark stood frozen among the chaos, feeling both awed and horribly out of place. The way Bruce carried himself, the charm he radiated — it was magnetic. And for a moment, Clark forgot that this was the same man who had glared at him earlier that day with quiet irritation.

He nervously adjusted his oversized glasses, trying to look busy with his notepad, pretending he wasn’t staring. But then, amid the noise and flashing lights, Bruce’s gaze shifted — and landed right on him.

It wasn’t for long, maybe just a second or two, but it felt like time slowed.

Bruce’s expression softened. It wasn’t that cold, guarded look from before — the kind that made Clark want to disappear. It was something else entirely. His smile, though faint, carried a warmth that Clark hadn’t expected. His eyes lingered for just a breath longer than they needed to, the flicker of recognition there unmistakable.

Then, just as quickly as it happened, Bruce turned away, striding up the marble stairs with his effortless poise and his playboy charm intact, greeting the guests at the door as though the moment had never happened.

Clark blinked, feeling his heart pound strangely against his ribs. His cheeks grew warm, the flush spreading across his face before he could stop it. He adjusted his glasses again, hoping no one noticed the redness creeping up his neck.

He didn’t understand it — that odd fluttering in his stomach, that pulse of heat in his chest. It was ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. But for some reason, that small, soft look Bruce had given him replayed in his mind, unshakable.

Clark let out a shaky breath, staring up at the glowing Wayne Enterprises building.

“Get it together, Kent,” he murmured to himself, trying to push the feeling down. But as he stood there in the middle of Gotham’s flashing lights, notebook still clutched in his hand, he couldn’t quite shake the strange warmth that lingered deep inside him.

Chapter Text

The night air outside Wayne Manor’s gala was crisp and sharp with the scent of rain-soaked pavement and exhaust—Gotham at its finest. The city lights shimmered faintly through the mist, their reflections rippling across the black sheen of the limo’s surface as it pulled to a stop in front of the long carpeted entryway.

The moment the door opened, the noise hit him—reporters shouting, camera flashes bursting like lightning, the crowd’s energy humming in the air. Bruce Wayne stepped out with practiced grace, one hand adjusting the cuff of his tailored black tuxedo, the other lifting in a casual, charming wave. The cameras went wild at once, voices calling his name, asking questions, laughing at the smallest hint of a smirk.

On the outside, he was the picture of Gotham’s beloved billionaire playboy. The confident stride, the easy charm, the faint curve of his lips that suggested both warmth and mystery. His smile was polished to perfection, the kind that made headlines and sold magazines. Every movement was deliberate, smooth, and controlled—like a performance he’d mastered long ago.

But beneath the carefully sculpted exterior, Bruce was exhausted. His mind wasn’t here—it was in the cave, deep under the earth where the air was cold and still and honest. He’d rather be there, surrounded by the hum of his computers, by the dark and the mission that gave him purpose. He wanted to be hunting, investigating, stopping something real—anything but standing under this artificial glow pretending to care about society’s admiration.

Still, he forced himself to stay. He had missed the last few galas—“urgent business,” as Alfred had told the press—and he couldn’t afford to skip another without raising suspicion. Wayne Enterprises needed him visible tonight. Gotham needed to see their philanthropist, not their vigilante.

“Mr. Wayne, any plans for expansion in Metropolis?” someone shouted from the crowd.

Bruce turned slightly, his expression effortlessly charming. “Always looking to do good work,” he said smoothly, his deep voice carrying that easy confidence the press loved. “But Gotham will always be home.”

A ripple of laughter and admiration followed, camera flashes lighting up his face again. He kept walking, slow and steady, letting the photographers have their fill.

He exchanged brief, polite nods with a few of the more recognizable reporters—faces he’d seen at countless events before. But then, as he neared the entrance, something caught his attention.

A figure standing among the reporters, a little stiff, clearly out of his element.

Bruce’s eyes drifted that way, almost unconsciously. And then they met.

Clark Kent.

Even from where he stood, Bruce could pick out the details easily—the slightly oversized gray suit, the loosened tie, the pair of black-rimmed glasses that didn’t quite fit his face. His expression was tense, uncertain, but there was a genuine quality there that stood out in a sea of artificial smiles and feigned confidence.

Their gazes locked for the briefest moment. Bruce could see the flash of recognition in the young reporter’s eyes, followed almost instantly by panic. Clark looked away so quickly it almost made Bruce blink.

For a split second, something curious stirred in him—an unexpected flicker of amusement mixed with intrigue. He wasn’t used to people averting their eyes like that. Usually, they stared, lingered, tried to impress him, flatter him. But this man—Clark—looked like he wanted to disappear.

Interesting.

Bruce’s smile didn’t falter as he turned back to the cameras, waving again, answering another question with that same controlled ease. But the thought lingered as he moved toward the grand entrance, the heavy doors opening before him.

He told himself it was nothing. Just another nervous reporter. Another face in a crowd. But for some reason, that brief, flustered look from Clark Kent stuck with him longer than he cared to admit.

And as he finally stepped inside, the noise fading behind the thick walls of the ballroom, Bruce found himself thinking—not of business or Gotham’s investors—but of the young man who couldn’t hold his gaze.

The grand doors of the ballroom opened, and a wave of warmth, perfume, and chatter rolled over Bruce as he stepped inside. The light from the chandeliers gleamed against polished marble floors, bouncing off crystal glasses and sequined gowns. The orchestra played softly in the background, the notes graceful and expensive.

He hadn’t made it ten steps before he was surrounded.

“Bruce! Over here!”
“Mr. Wayne, you have to tell us—what’s your secret to balancing work and philanthropy?”
“Is it true you’re sponsoring another charity in Blüdhaven?”
“Bruce, darling, you’ve outdone yourself tonight,” one woman purred, brushing her fingers lightly across his arm. “I was hoping we’d get a dance later.”

Bruce smiled that easy, practiced smile, the one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but fooled almost everyone. “You’re too kind,” he said, his tone smooth and unbothered. “We’ll see how the evening goes.”

Inside, though, he was counting the seconds.

He hated this part—the endless questions about his wealth, his business, his relationships. Every compliment felt hollow, every laugh rehearsed. He could feel the dull ache of the Batsuit’s absence under his skin, the itch of stillness that came when he wasn’t out there doing something.

He nodded politely as a businessman cornered him to discuss investments, offering nothing but vague affirmations in response. In his head, he was somewhere else entirely—down in the cave, hearing Dick laugh as he tried to show off a new somersault, or maybe testing out a new gadget Alfred swore wasn’t ready.

I’d rather be playing superheroes with my son than talking about stock prices, he thought dryly, taking a sip of champagne to hide the irritation flickering in his eyes.

Still, the mask stayed in place—Gotham’s golden prince, composed and charming.

As the party flowed on, people moved around him like a tide, pulling him from one conversation to another. The sound of laughter and music blended together until it became almost white noise. Bruce leaned back slightly against a pillar for a moment, pretending to listen to the chatter of two investors as his gaze drifted lazily across the room.

That was when he saw him again.

Clark Kent.

He was standing by one of the tall glass windows, notebook in hand, talking awkwardly with a pair of older journalists. His tie was still crooked, and he had that uncertain air of someone trying to fit into a puzzle that wasn’t meant for him.

Bruce’s eyes lingered, his curiosity from earlier returning uninvited. There was something disarmingly genuine about him—something that didn’t quite belong in this world of fake smiles and expensive lies.

Then, as if feeling the weight of his gaze, Clark looked up. Their eyes met again, just for an instant—enough to catch a flicker of nervousness, or maybe something else.

And then, just as quickly as before, Clark turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

Bruce blinked once, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly in amusement. He didn’t know why, but he found the man’s vanishing act oddly… endearing. Maybe it was the nerves. Maybe it was that familiar sense of duality—someone pretending to be ordinary in a place where no one really was.

Still, he pushed the thought aside as another cluster of guests approached, eager to talk business or gossip or flirt. Bruce slipped back into his role effortlessly, his posture relaxed, his voice smooth, his smile perfect.

The ballroom gleamed around Bruce like a golden cage. The laughter, the chatter, the gentle clink of champagne glasses—all of it blurred into a low hum as he stood by the center display, surrounded by another group of reporters. Their cameras flashed, notebooks poised, microphones extended. Bruce adjusted the cuff of his tuxedo, posture relaxed, voice low and steady as he spoke into the noise.

“This new initiative,” one reporter said, “it’s a bit of a shift from your usual charity events, Mr. Wayne. Why focus on mental well-being now?”

Bruce’s expression softened slightly, the playboy mask fading just a little. “Because it’s something that matters,” he said simply, his tone quieter, more grounded. “Gotham has always been a city of survivors. We’ve built lives from chaos, from loss. But that kind of survival—it takes something from you.”

The room’s noise seemed to dim around him as he continued. “I’ve seen what happens when people don’t get help. When they have no one to listen, no one to guide them through the dark. It’s easy to fall apart in this city, to lose yourself.” His gaze drifted for a moment, unfocused. “I know that from experience.”

The reporter leaned in slightly, sensing sincerity. “From experience?” she repeated.

Bruce gave a small nod, his eyes distant now. “When I was younger, I struggled a lot. Lost people I cared about. I… went down a dark path, for a long time. But I was lucky. I had people who refused to let me stay there.”

The woman smiled kindly, jotting down notes. “That’s very noble of you, Mr. Wayne. Is this because of your parents?”

The words hit like a blade.

Bruce froze. The air seemed to thin around him, his chest tightening in an instant. The ballroom felt suddenly suffocating—too bright, too loud, too full of faces staring, waiting.

He hadn’t expected her to ask that. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

He blinked once, then again, trying to ground himself, but the question echoed through his mind like a ghostly whisper. Because of your parents?

For a second, he wasn’t Bruce Wayne the billionaire. He was a boy again, standing in an alley under the dim streetlight, the gunshot still ringing in his ears. His father’s hand going slack in his own. His mother’s pearls scattering across the wet pavement.

He could hear the faint sound of laughter from the ballroom fade into nothing. His vision swam.

Bruce forced a tight smile, fighting the tremor in his hands. “Something like that,” he managed to say, his voice just slightly off balance. “Excuse me.”

But the woman didn’t notice. She kept talking—her lips were moving, her tone polite, but he couldn’t hear a single word. The world was muffled, his heart hammering like a drum in his chest.

He felt the first sting of tears behind his eyes. He tried to swallow it down, to breathe through the rising tide of grief clawing its way up his throat. He couldn’t—not here.

Then, gently, someone’s hand touched his arm.

“Mr. Wayne,” a voice murmured softly, steady and calm. “Let’s step aside.”

He didn’t resist. Whoever it was guided him through the crowd with quiet efficiency, weaving between guests and waiters until the sound of the orchestra dimmed behind them. The next thing Bruce knew, he was in one of the side corridors—then through a door, into the dim quiet of a marble-tiled bathroom.

The door shut, muting the music outside.

Bruce leaned against the wall, breathing hard, the adrenaline finally breaking through. His body trembled, his throat tight as if the air itself was too heavy to swallow. The weight of everything—the memories, the façade, the years of forcing calm—collapsed in on him.

And before he could stop it, he broke.

His hands covered his face as a harsh sob tore its way out of him, then another, and another. The tears came fast, unstoppable, years of buried grief flooding out all at once. His back slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold tile floor, shoulders shaking, gasping between quiet cries.

For a moment, it was just him—the man behind the mask, the broken child inside the armor.

Then he heard footsteps. Soft, hesitant.

A voice, gentle but unsure. “Mr. Wayne? Are you… okay?”

Bruce froze, his breath catching. He looked up, his eyes red, vision blurred with tears. Through the haze, he could make out the familiar outline of someone kneeling in front of him.

Clark Kent.

The young reporter’s brow was furrowed in worry, his glasses slightly askew as he crouched down, hands half-raised like he wasn’t sure if he should reach out or not, his expression filled with worry and concern for him, wondering why he was crying.

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark said again, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re crying. Are you hurt? Should I get someone?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He just stared—his chest still heaving, his face streaked with tears, eyes filled with something raw and unguarded.
Finally, he drew in a shuddering breath and wiped at his face with the back of his hand, his voice quiet and rough. “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t. Clark could see that instantly.

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just still—like the air after a storm.

Clark hesitated, then spoke softly, “You don’t have to be.”

Bruce’s eyes lifted at that. The simplicity of the words, the sincerity behind them—it struck something in him he couldn’t explain.

For a long moment, he just sat there, breathing unevenly, trying to find the words he’d buried for so long. But none came. Only the sound of the city outside, the faint music muffled through the walls, and Clark’s quiet, steady presence beside him.

It had been years since anyone had looked at him not as Bruce Wayne, not as Batman, not as Gotham’s symbol—but just as a man who hurt.

It was strange, Clark was strange.

He wanted to know more.

Chapter Text

Clark shifted nervously on his feet, the microphone and notepad still clutched in his hands, though their weight felt heavier now. The gala buzzed around him, a sea of golden chandeliers, polished marble floors, and the sharp scent of perfume and cologne that seemed to cling to every corner of the room. Cameras flashed incessantly, reporters jostled for position, and waiters glided between guests, balancing silver trays with precision. The noise pressed against Clark like a physical force, a constant hum punctuated by laughter, music, and the faint clink of crystal glasses.

He tried to focus on the reporter in front of him, asking questions with careful professionalism, scribbling notes as quickly as he could. He asked about Gotham’s mental health initiative, the programs being introduced, the funding, the partnerships with hospitals, the expected outcomes. The woman answered politely, each response measured, full of optimism, but Clark’s mind kept wandering. His chest felt tight. His thoughts kept drifting elsewhere—toward someone else in the room.

Then he saw him.

Bruce Wayne.

He was standing a few meters away, giving another interview, but something about him was off. Clark’s eyes immediately went to Bruce’s movements. His foot was tapping rapidly beneath the table, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but clear to Clark. His hand rubbed the back of his neck in that restless, anxious gesture, and his shoulders were tense beneath the sharp tuxedo.

Clark’s heart tightened. Bruce wasn’t like this in public. The slight twitch, the unconscious gestures—something was wrong. He had to check.

“Excuse me,” Clark said politely to the reporter, closing his notepad. “Thank you very much for your time.”

He wove carefully through the crowd, navigating between guests, waiters, and flashes of cameras. Each step brought him closer to Bruce, whose expression was strained, his jaw tight, but whose attention remained on the reporter in front of him.

“Mr. Wayne?” Clark asked softly as he approached. “Are you… alright?”

Bruce didn’t answer immediately. Clark’s chest tightened further as he noticed it clearly now—the glimmer of tears at the corners of his eyes.

Clark’s concern spiked. He rested a gentle hand on Bruce’s arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here for a moment,” he murmured, guiding him carefully through the throng of guests. Bruce followed without resistance, though his movements were stiff, hesitant. They moved through the ballroom, past camera flashes, murmuring guests, and the steady rhythm of the orchestra, until they reached a quiet corridor on the side.

Clark found the small door leading to a side bathroom. “Here,” he said softly, opening it for Bruce. “You can just… take a moment.”

Bruce leaned against the cool marble wall, sliding slowly to the floor. His shoulders shook, his chest heaving as the weight of the night—and more—finally broke through. Clark knelt beside him, careful not to crowd him, keeping his voice calm and steady.

Slowly, he reached out a hand, brushing lightly against Bruce’s arm again, grounding him. “It’s okay,” Clark said softly. “It’s okay to feel. It’s okay to let it out. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Bruce’s hands shook as he wiped at his face. He swallowed hard, a trembling sigh escaping him. “I’m… fine,” he said, voice rough and uneven, trying to reclaim some composure.

Clark’s brow furrowed in concern. He shook his head gently, his voice quiet but firm. “You don’t have to be.”

A soft smile formed on Clarks face as he sat next to him, but leaving a good amount of distance between them, letting the silence settle between them. The only sounds were the faint hum of the distant gala outside and Bruce’s uneven breathing. He didn’t rush him, didn’t force words. He just kept his hand resting lightly on Bruce’s shoulder, steady and reassuring, letting him feel that he wasn’t alone.

Clark’s mind wandered as he watched Bruce, trying to understand what could weigh so heavily on a man who seemed untouchable to the world. The glimmer of tears, the tightness of his jaw, the way his hands trembled slightly—Clark could sense a lifetime of grief, responsibility, and exhaustion all pressed into that moment. He thought about the stories he’d read, the rumors, the legends, and now he saw the truth beneath it all: Bruce Wayne was human, and he carried more pain than most could imagine.

After a long, quiet pause, Clark’s voice was gentle, careful. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Bruce hesitated, his head lowered. His fingers brushed the floor absently before he finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “It’s… everything. The gala, the questions, the reminders… about my parents."

Clark nodded slowly, absorbing the weight in Bruce’s words. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t offer shallow platitudes. He just stayed close, keeping his presence steady. “I understand,” he said softly. “It’s… a lot to carry alone.”

A long beat passed, and Clark’s voice lightened just slightly, a tiny thread of humor threading through the seriousness. “Honestly, I don’t know how anyone survives these parties. The cameras, the questions, the fake smiles… it’s enough to make anyone cry.”

Bruce’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly at first, and then a quiet chuckle escaped him, soft and unexpected. It wasn’t a full smile, but it was the first hint of something lighter all night.

Clark gave him a small, encouraging nod, keeping his tone gentle. “See? You’re not alone. And anyone who can handle this room and still manage to keep their sanity deserves at least a little credit.”

Bruce let out a breath, a small, shaky laugh still lingering in his chest. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, just enough for him to feel the faintest relief. Clark stayed beside him, quiet, caring, his presence a calm anchor amid the storm of Bruce’s emotions.

“Maybe… next time, Alfred can just send someone else to these things,” Bruce said, still chuckling softly.

Clark smiled, the warmth in his voice steady. “Or we can just skip them entirely. Go home, grab some ice cream, let the city handle itself for one night.”

Bruce leaned back slightly, still seated on the cool bathroom floor, and gave a small, thoughtful smile as he looked at Clark. “Dick would love ice cream,” he said softly, the hint of warmth in his voice breaking through the tension that had weighed him down all night. “Even after everything, he always finds a way to make things feel… lighter.”

Clark’s cheeks warmed instantly at the mention of Bruce’s son. He shifted slightly, looking down at the floor, embarrassed. “I… I’m still really sorry about earlier today,” he murmured quietly, his voice almost lost beneath the echo of the bathroom tiles. “Krypto—he bumped Dick over, and I… I wasn’t watching him closely enough.”

Bruce’s gaze lifted, meeting Clark’s eyes. His expression softened, the sternness he usually carried replaced by something more patient, understanding. He shook his head gently. “It’s alright,” he said simply. “Accidents happen. Dick’s fine, and that’s what matters.”

Clark exhaled slowly, relief washing over him, though his face remained slightly flushed. “I'll make sure be stays on a leash, like you said...I just… I hate that I caused him any pain. He’s a good kid. You’ve done an incredible job with him,” Clark added, his words earnest, sincere.

Bruce let out a faint, dry chuckle, the tension easing from his shoulders a little more. “He’s resilient,” he said. “And he’s… a little stubborn, like his father.” The corner of his lips twitched, the hint of amusement breaking through. “Sometimes I think ice cream and gymnastics are the only things that can keep him from bouncing off the walls completely.”

Clark gave a small, shy smile, feeling slightly lighter himself. “Well, it sounds like he’s lucky to have you,” he said quietly. “And… I’m glad he’s okay.”

Bruce’s eyes softened further, a subtle warmth in his gaze as he nodded. “Thank you, Clark,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “It means a lot, knowing people like you care.”

Bruce gave a small nod and a faint smile, letting himself absorb the relief of the moment. “Maybe… after all this, we can get some ice cream,, I'll pick up Dick, he's probably not even asleep” he said, a hint of amusement threading his words. Clark chuckled softly, a little embarrassed but grateful, and the tension between them eased further.

The night air outside the gala was crisp and cool, a sharp contrast to the suffocating warmth of champagne, chatter, and chandeliers that lingered inside. The moment Bruce and Clark stepped through the grand doors, a flood of camera flashes erupted in their direction like a storm of white light. Reporters shouted their names, voices blending into a chaotic chorus that filled the marble steps.

“Mr. Wayne! Who’s the gentleman with you?”
“Bruce, care to tell us if this is your new boyfriend?”
“Clark, how long have you two been seeing each other?”

Clark froze, his eyes wide behind his glasses, completely thrown off. His notebook was still tucked awkwardly under his arm, and his cheeks were already burning from the bombardment of questions. Bruce, however, didn’t even blink. He straightened his tie, adjusted his cufflinks, and turned to the crowd with that trademark smirk — the charming, untouchable mask of Gotham’s most eligible billionaire.

“Now, now,” Bruce said smoothly, his tone rich with playful confidence, “let’s not start rumors so soon. Mr. Kent here is just a friend — a very dedicated reporter, actually. He’ll be interviewing me later tonight at the manor.”

His voice carried that effortless calm that turned every word into a performance. The crowd murmured, cameras flashing even faster. Clark stammered for a moment before managing a nervous nod, forcing a small laugh. “Y-yeah, that’s right,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… uh, an interview.”

Bruce gave him a sideways glance, that faint smirk still lingering, the one that seemed to know exactly how flustered Clark was. Without another word, he began descending the steps with graceful confidence, waving politely to the crowd as Alfred waited by the open door of the sleek black limousine.

Clark followed a few steps behind, trying his best not to trip under the pressure of flashing lights and attention he definitely wasn’t used to. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Bruce turned to him slightly, lowering his voice so only Clark could hear.

“You can ride with us if you’d like,” Bruce offered, his tone polite but with that quiet insistence of someone who wasn’t used to being refused.

Clark hesitated, his heart thudding a little too fast. “I appreciate that, Mr. Wayne, but… I drove myself here,” he said, pushing his glasses up nervously. “Wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Bruce paused, studying him for a brief moment, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable — amusement, perhaps, or curiosity. Then he gave a single nod. “Fair enough,” he said smoothly. “Just follow behind us, then.”

“Got it,” Clark said with a small, nervous smile.

Bruce slipped into the back of the limousine with his usual composed elegance, Alfred closing the door behind him. The crowd continued to shout questions, the flashes following them even as the vehicle pulled away from the curb.

Clark let out a long breath, rubbing his temples as he walked toward his modest car parked down the street. He slid into the driver’s seat, the world finally quiet except for the faint hum of the city around him. As he started the engine, he saw the sleek limo glide ahead, its taillights glowing red in the dark.

He followed.

The streets of Gotham shimmered faintly under streetlights and the faint haze of fog rolling in from the river. Clark’s grip on the wheel relaxed as his thoughts drifted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The night hadn’t gone how he’d expected — far from it. He had made a fool of himself, been accused of dating one of the richest men in the world, and somehow ended up comforting Bruce Wayne in a bathroom.

But he couldn’t deny it — the night hadn’t been a disaster. Not even close.

Bruce wasn’t angry about Krypto anymore. He wasn’t distant or cold. In fact, he had laughed — actually laughed. Clark couldn’t remember the last time someone with so much pain behind their eyes had laughed that softly. The memory made him smile, just a little.

He thought about how he’d tell Lois later — how he’d been invited to Bruce Wayne’s manor for an interview, plus going out for Ice cream. An exclusive interview, no less. Lois would probably tease him endlessly for turning beet red in front of Gotham’s prince.

Clark chuckled quietly to himself at the thought, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he followed the limo’s taillights through the winding roads. His smile lingered, though his cheeks warmed again as his mind wandered — back to the brief glances, the way Bruce’s voice had softened when he spoke about his son, and the way his eyes, normally so guarded, had looked in the low bathroom light: tired, vulnerable, beautiful.

Clark blinked, shaking his head quickly, snapping himself out of it. “No, no,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just—he’s Bruce Wayne. That’s all. Just Bruce Wayne. Billionaire. Philanthropist. Way out of your league.”

He sighed and leaned back in his seat, watching the limousine glimmer ahead like a star against the dark road. Whatever this was — this strange flutter in his chest.

It would pass.

It had to.

Chapter Text

Bruce slipped into the back seat of the limousine, the soft leather creaking quietly under his weight. The night air clung faintly to him, carrying traces of champagne, perfume, and the heavy scent of Gotham’s damp streets. He fastened his seatbelt almost absentmindedly, his eyes drifting to the window beside him.

Outside, Clark was just climbing into his car, fumbling slightly with his keys before starting the engine. For a brief moment, Bruce found himself watching him—how his tie was still crooked, how his glasses caught the faint glow of the streetlights, and how his expression carried that same nervous sincerity from earlier.

He didn’t know why he was still looking.

Clark Kent wasn’t what he expected. He wasn’t like the usual reporters who followed him around—those who smiled too brightly and cared too little. No, Clark was... different. He didn’t ask with an agenda; he asked because he wanted to understand. There was something genuine about him—something almost disarming in its warmth. Bruce wasn’t used to that kind of brightness. It was foreign, unsettling, yet strangely comforting all at once.

Maybe that’s what made it feel so strange.

Bruce leaned back against the seat, running a hand slowly down his face. His mind was a mess of things he didn’t want to think about—his parents, the gala, the look in Clark’s eyes when he’d found him breaking down.

The limo began to move, rolling smoothly down the long, winding drive away from the gala. The sound of the tires against the wet asphalt was steady, rhythmic. Alfred’s calm, familiar voice broke through the quiet.

“Was that the same young man from earlier this morning, Master Wayne? The one with the dog?”

Bruce’s gaze remained fixed on the passing city lights outside. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That was him.”

Alfred hummed softly, his tone light, but kind. “He seemed like a lovely young man. Polite. Earnest. Not something you see often in this city anymore.”

Bruce gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod. “He is.” His voice dropped, almost thoughtful. “He… comforted me. Back inside the gala.”

There was a pause from the front seat, long and knowing. Alfred’s voice came next, gentle yet edged with curiosity. “Comforted you, sir? You rarely allow anyone to care for you, especially strangers. What happened?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He turned his gaze back to the window, watching the rain begin to drizzle faintly against the glass. He could see the reflection of his own face—tired, lined with exhaustion—and for a moment, he didn’t recognize the man staring back.

His voice came low, almost a whisper. “Mom and Dad.”

There was silence. The kind of silence that carried years of shared grief and unspoken understanding. Alfred’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel, though his face remained calm. He nodded once, the motion small but heavy with feeling. “I see.”

Through the rearview mirror, Bruce caught that small nod, and it hit deeper than he wanted it to.

Alfred’s tone softened further. “Are you all right now, Master Wayne?”

Bruce hesitated. His jaw flexed, his hand tightening slightly on his knee. “Yeah,” he said after a moment, his voice flat, convincing enough to anyone who didn’t know better. “I’m fine now.”

But it was a lie.

He could feel the weight still clinging to him—the heaviness in his chest, the echo of the old wound that never really healed. That dark, familiar ache stirred quietly beneath the surface, pressing in on him like the shadows of Gotham itself.

He turned his gaze back to the passing lights of the city. They blurred softly against the glass, streaks of gold and white in the dark, like memories slipping away.

He told himself to ignore it—the ache, the sadness, the strange warmth he still felt thinking about the way Clark had looked at him.

But even as the limousine rolled toward the manor, and the city lights began to fade behind them, the feeling refused to let go. The faint sound of rain against the window joining in like a whisper from the city itself. Bruce sat there in silence, the passing lights painting faint reflections across his face.

He glanced down at his sleeves, his fingers tightening around the fabric as though holding on to something fragile. For a long moment, he stared at them — at what they hid, at what he’d hidden for years. The air around him seemed heavier, pressing in, dragging him back to those nights long ago when the weight of grief had felt impossible to bear. His fingers tips slowly push and pull down his sleeve. His eyes trailing at the sight.

Faint and uneven lines trailed along the skin like ghostly remnants of past pain—thin, silvery marks that caught the light just enough to reveal their texture. Some were shallow and faded, while others ran deeper, their edges slightly raised, telling silent stories of old wounds that had long since healed but never truly ddisappeared His finger tips trailing over them.

The memories flickered like ghosts in his mind — the isolation, the exhaustion, the endless ache of pretending everything was fine when he was breaking quietly behind closed doors.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐦...
𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫, 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐫𝐡𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐦.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐭𝐚𝐩.

He swallowed hard, dragging his sleeve lower down his wrist. His breath trembled as he exhaled, pressing his palm over his face.

A shaking sigh escaped him. He didn’t mean to, but it came out anyway — that small, cracked sound of someone who’d been carrying too much for too long.

He leaned back, eyes closing, trying to gather himself. To breathe. To focus on anything but the shadows pressing in on his chest. But the thoughts wouldn’t stop coming — the guilt, the exhaustion, the quiet voice that whispered he’d never really escaped those dark places, only learned to live beside them.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to steady his breathing. He told himself it was fine. That it would pass. That he had control now. Bruce could feel it — that old, familiar heaviness slowly stirring again in his heart, creeping up from the corners of his mind where he thought he’d buried.

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙠𝙚𝙥𝙩 𝙥𝙤𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝- 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞. 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐟𝐮𝐥, 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐨 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡- 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐢𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐣𝐮𝐦𝐩 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐨𝐟.

𝐍𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦- 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰...𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧- 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲.

Bruce’s thoughts were tangled, heavy, and unrelenting, pressing down on him like the shadows of Gotham itself. He pressed his palm against his face, trying to anchor himself, to stop the spiral. Then a soft, gentle voice cut through the haze, calm yet warm, and something in him snapped him out of the dark reverie.

"Mr wanye?..."

He lifted his head slowly, blinking slowly. There, framed in the open door, stood Clark. His hand rested lightly on the doorframe, his stance casual but attentive, and that smile—bright, steady, genuine—seemed to radiate like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Bruce realized, almost with a start, that he had been lost in thought for longer than he realized. They were already in the parking lot in front of the manor, the familiar stone and wrought iron looming quietly in the night.

Clark tilted his head slightly, his voice soft but clear. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for a minute now,” he said, stepping closer. “Are you… feeling down from earlier?”

Bruce’s gaze flicked away briefly, his jaw tightening just enough to hide the truth. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, his voice flat but firm, practiced even, though he felt the faintest tug at the corners of his lips.

Clark’s face softened at the words, and a small, sad smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He didn’t press further, but his presence alone carried reassurance. He leaned slightly, extending a hand to Bruce. “Come on. Let’s get your son some late-night ice cream,” he said gently, his tone carrying both encouragement and light-hearted warmth.

Bruce’s lips curved into a subtle, almost reluctant smile. The darkness inside him eased slightly, if only for a moment. There was something grounding in Clark’s confidence, in his calm and genuine care, and Bruce felt it tug at the corners of his carefully maintained composure.

He reached for Clark’s hand, letting himself be guided out of the car, feeling the cool night air against his face.

Chapter Text

The grand oak doors of Wayne Manor creaked softly as Bruce stepped inside, the warm golden light of the interior spilling across the polished marble floor. The air smelled faintly of rich coffee and Alfred’s cologne, blending with the subtle scent of old books and fireplace smoke that always lingered in the manor. Clark followed a few steps behind him, hesitant but observant, his eyes darting over the towering ceilings and ornate portraits that watched from the walls.

Alfred quietly closed the door behind them, the faint click echoing through the spacious entryway. From the living room, the sound of laughter and the energetic beat of music drifted out—a K-pop song, bright and fast-paced, a sharp contrast to the quiet luxury of the manor.

Bruce’s eyes softened as he looked ahead. Dick was on the sofa, sitting cross-legged beside Selina Kyle, his small frame bouncing with energy as he sang along to the lyrics of Free with every ounce of enthusiasm his seven-year-old body could muster. His voice cracked, off-key and loud, but pure joy radiated from him, and Bruce couldn’t help the faint tug of a smile forming on his lips.

Selina sat beside Dick, poised even in casualness. The dim light from the massive television illuminated her short, dark hair, catching the sleek edges as it framed her sharp yet graceful features. Her green eyes glowed with a quiet amusement as she turned, glancing over her shoulder.

When she spotted Bruce—and then Clark standing just behind him—her brow arched in a teasing sort of way. A small, knowing smile curved her lips. “Evening, Bruce,” she greeted smoothly, her tone laced with that familiar playful warmth.

Bruce nodded in response, the faintest flicker of awkwardness crossing his expression. “Thank you for watching Dick for a while,” he said evenly. “I’ll make sure you’re paid for your time.”

Selina waved off the offer with an elegant flick of her hand, leaning back against the sofa. “Oh, please. You don’t have to pay me to spend time with your kid. He’s the only Wayne in this house who doesn’t brood.”

Her attention, however, soon shifted to Clark. She studied him—his slightly too-big glasses, the faint nervous twitch in his shoulders, the way he held himself like he didn’t quite belong in a place like this. Clark gave a small, polite smile and a stiff nod, clearly unsure of what to say under her sharp, catlike gaze.

Selina smirked faintly, clearly entertained, before glancing back at Bruce. “You okay, Bruce?” she asked, her tone carrying that subtle edge of concern she tried to hide beneath nonchalance.

Bruce met her eyes briefly, knowing full well what she was thinking—because Selina Kyle knew him better than most. She was probably wondering what on earth possessed him to bring a reporter into Wayne Manor, of all people. He almost smirked at the thought but kept his composure.

“I’m fine,” Bruce replied calmly, his voice quiet but steady. “You can go home now. I’ll take it from here.”

Selina studied him for another moment, then gave a small nod. She leaned down and pressed a light kiss to Dick’s forehead. “See you later, little bird,” she murmured softly.

Dick grinned at her, hugging her briefly before going back to belting out the lyrics on the TV.

Selina turned, slipping her coat over her shoulders in one smooth motion as she walked toward the door. She gave Clark one last, assessing look—half curious, half amused—then disappeared into the night, the soft click of her heels fading down the marble hallway until Alfred opened the door for her and closed it again behind her.

The house felt quieter suddenly, save for Dick’s singing echoing faintly through the hall. Bruce exhaled softly and glanced at Clark beside him, who still looked like he wasn’t sure whether to stay still or start taking notes. Clark stood there in the open space of the grand living room, his hands awkwardly clasped in front of him as his eyes lingered on the now-empty doorway Selina had disappeared through. The faint hum of the television and Dick’s offbeat singing filled the silence between him and Bruce, and he cleared his throat softly before asking

"So… um, who was that?” His tone was polite but hesitant, his voice carrying that gentle nervousness that always seemed to follow him in moments like this.

Bruce turned his head toward Clark, his expression unreadable at first before softening slightly. “That was Selina Kyle,” he said, his voice calm and low. “She’s… a close friend. Don’t worry about her—she’s just overprotective for no reason at all.”

There was the faintest trace of amusement beneath his words, the kind that came from someone who had grown used to Selina’s sharp instincts and blunt honesty over the years. Clark smiled a little at that, adjusting his glasses in that habitual way of his before replying, “I get that, actually. I have a friend like that too—Lois Lane. She’s always finding new ways to protect me from all kinds of threats.” He chuckled softly at his own words, though a hint of warmth flickered in his eyes as he mentioned her name.

Bruce’s brows lifted just a little. “Lois Lane?” he asked, curiosity threading through his otherwise steady voice. “From the Daily Planet?”

Clark nodded, his smile widening a little with pride. “That’s her.”

Bruce nodded once, his expression thoughtful. Lois Lane. He’d heard of her—her writing, her integrity, her persistence. She was one of the few journalists he actually respected. “She’s good at what she does,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Very few people are willing to chase truth like that anymore.”

Clark seemed almost caught off guard by the compliment but smiled in that bright, genuine way again, the one that carried more warmth than confidence.

Before either of them could say more, the air was pierced by a small but powerful voice yelling, “FREEEEEEEEE!”

Both men turned to see Dick, bouncing off the sofa and singing his lungs out to the beat of the song Free from Kpop Demon Hunters. His tiny frame was a blur of excitement and energy, his voice cracking adorably as he sang into an imaginary microphone.

When he finally spotted Bruce near the hallway, his whole face lit up. “Dad!!” he shouted, running full speed across the marble floor.

Bruce’s expression softened instantly as he knelt down just in time to catch Dick as he flung himself forward. Bruce wrapped his arms around him, lifting him up with a soft huff. Dick giggled happily, his small arms wrapping tightly around his father’s neck.

Bruce hugged him close, a faint smile breaking through his usual stoic calm. The warmth in his chest was immediate and grounding—something that pulled him away from the weight of earlier, from the sadness that had threatened to pull him under.

Clark stood a few feet away, watching the reunion with quiet admiration, that gentle smile returning to his face.

Dick’s voice cut through the comfortable hum of the manor like sunlight through an open window.

“Hey! It’s the funny guy with his dog!” he shouted, his tone bubbling with recognition and excitement. His small finger pointed right at Clark, who was standing just a few steps behind Bruce, looking like he was trying to disappear into the expensive rug beneath his feet.

Bruce blinked, his stoic composure breaking for just a moment as a quiet chuckle slipped past his lips. “Yeah,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Clark, “it is.”

Clark’s face went a little red, the tips of his ears heating as he rubbed the back of his neck and tried to find the right words. “It’s, uh… actually Clark,” he said with a nervous laugh, his voice gentle and warm as he crouched slightly to be eye-level with the boy. “It’s nice to meet you again, Dick.”

“Hi, Clark!” Dick said brightly, his whole expression glowing with that contagious energy that only children seemed to have. His messy hair bounced as he tilted his head, curiosity already flooding his voice. “Why are you here?”

Clark smiled, still flustered but charmed by the boy’s openness. “I’m here to buy you and your dad some ice cream,” he said softly, his words carrying that kind, genuine tone that instantly made people feel safe around him.

The moment the word ice cream left Clark’s mouth, Dick’s entire face lit up like a Christmas tree. His mouth fell open, eyes wide with childlike delight. “ICE CREAM?!” he yelled, practically vibrating with excitement. He jumped down from his father’s arms and bolted toward the front door, the sound of his small feet pattering against the polished floor echoing through the grand entryway.

Bruce couldn’t help it—his lips curved into a rare, quiet smile as he watched his son fumble to grab his sneakers from the mat by the door. Dick plopped down on the floor, his tiny fingers fighting with the stubborn laces, tongue poking out as he concentrated. Every few seconds, he looked up as if to make sure the grown-ups weren’t leaving without him.

Clark watched too, his own expression softening. There was something beautiful about seeing Bruce Wayne—the billionaire recluse, the myth of Gotham—watch his son with that kind of tenderness. Bruce’s face, so often a mask of control, softened around the edges in ways Clark hadn’t expected. For a moment, Clark forgot he was supposed to be the nervous reporter standing in the home of Gotham’s richest man. He just saw a father.

But then Bruce’s gaze turned back toward him, and the softness vanished, replaced by something else—still polite, but guarded, measured.

“Thanks for earlier,” Bruce said quietly, his deep voice carrying that familiar weight of someone who didn’t thank people often. His tone was flat, practiced, as though gratitude wasn’t something he allowed himself easily. Still, his eyes—dark, steady—lingered on Clark, studying him.

Clark shifted slightly, smiling nervously, though his expression remained kind. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said simply, his voice calm but earnest. “You’d have done the same thing.”

For a long moment, Bruce just stared at him. The words hung between them, quiet but heavy.

You’d have done the same thing.

Would he? The thought echoed in his mind. Bruce wasn’t sure what it was about Clark that made him stop and actually think about it, but something about the man’s tone—his unshakable sincerity.

He knew it.

He didn’t know why he knew he would. Why he felt that truth so strongly. Why the certainty of it seemed to tug something in his chest loose.

Dick’s small voice suddenly broke through the silence. “Dad, my shoe’s stuck!”

Bruce blinked and turned his head, the spell broken. He walked over, knelt beside his son, and gently helped untangle the laces. Dick grinned proudly up at him. “I’m ready for ice cream!”

Bruce gave him a small, faintly amused smile before glancing back at Clark, who still stood a few feet away, hands awkwardly stuffed into his pockets, looking both relieved and nervous.

For a moment, their eyes met again—Clark’s bright and earnest, Bruce’s calm but shadowed with quiet thought.

“Alright,” Bruce said, standing and brushing off his sleeves. “Let’s go then.”

Chapter Text

Clark’s apartment was small, tucked between two older buildings in one of Gotham’s quieter districts. The hum of the city outside was low but constant — muffled traffic, distant horns, the occasional echo of laughter from the streets below. The air still carried that faint chill from the night as he pushed the door open and stepped inside, his tie already loosened, shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a second, letting out a deep sigh. His whole day felt like a blur — from the dog park chaos that morning to the gala, and then, somehow, ice cream with Bruce Wayne and his son.

The corners of his lips curved slightly at the memory.

Dick.

That kid was pure light — talkative, curious, kind-hearted in a way that reminded Clark of himself when he was younger. The way Dick laughed when the ice cream had dripped down his hand, or how he had tried to convince Alfred to get a cone too because “everyone has to have one!” It made Clark’s chest warm just thinking about it. There was something incredibly endearing about the way the boy looked up at Bruce — that complete, unshakable trust in his father.

And then… there was Bruce.

Clark sat down on the edge of his bed, his thoughts trailing off as he rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t mean to think about him, not really, but the image wouldn’t leave his head. The way Bruce’s hair had caught the faint wind outside the ice cream shop — the soft, unruly strands brushing over his forehead under the dim streetlight. The way his usually sharp expression had softened whenever Dick said something silly. The smallest of smiles that tugged at the corners of his lips when he thought no one was looking.

Bruce Wayne — the billionaire, the mystery, the mask Gotham idolized — looked so… human. So real in that moment.

Clark’s stomach twisted with something strange and unfamiliar. Pretty. That was the word that popped into his head before he could stop it. He blinked, embarrassed even in the silence of his own apartment.

“Get a grip, Kent,” he muttered to himself, dragging a hand through his messy dark hair. “You’re not—”

His thoughts were abruptly cut off by the shrill sound of his phone buzzing on the bedside table. The screen lit up with Lois Lane.

Clark groaned quietly but picked it up anyway, swiping to answer. “Hey, Lois.”

Her voice came through immediately, fast and sharp as always. “Clark! Finally. I’ve been calling you for the last hour — are you okay? You didn’t fall into a sewer or get kidnapped by some Gotham freak, did you?”

Clark chuckled weakly. “No, nothing like that. I’m fine, promise. Just… a long night.”

There was a pause, and then Lois’s tone softened, a mix of concern and teasing curiosity. “Long night as in too much champagne and too many billionaires? Or long night as in ‘Clark tripped over his own feet again in front of Bruce Wayne’?”

He winced. “...Maybe a little of both.”

She laughed. “I knew it. So? Tell me everything! What happened at the gala? Was Gotham as gloomy as usual? Did you meet any of the big names?”

Clark leaned back against the bedframe, staring up at the ceiling as he started recounting the night — carefully leaving out the emotional breakdown in the bathroom part, of course. He told her about the glittering chandeliers, the endless crowds of cameras, and how intimidatingly expensive everything looked. He even admitted, sheepishly, that he had somehow ended up at Bruce Wayne’s manor afterward for ice cream with his son.

“You what?!” Lois’s voice shot through the phone, half shock, half laughter. “You had ice cream with Bruce Wayne?! Clark, do you realize how insane that sounds?”

“I know, I know,” Clark said, rubbing his temple, smiling in spite of himself. “It just… sort of happened.”

There was a pause — one of those brief silences Lois gave when she was truly listening, trying to read between the lines. Then her voice came back, softer, curious. “So… what’s he like? Bruce Wayne, I mean.”

Clark hesitated, trying to find the right words. “He’s… complicated,” he said quietly. “He’s not what I expected. He’s kind, in his own way, but… you can tell there’s a lot he’s hiding.”

Lois hummed thoughtfully. “Sounds like someone I know.”

Clark smiled faintly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The city buzzed faintly through the window. Then, Lois’s voice shifted back into her usual, sharp tone — business-like, focused.

“So, Kent… tell me you at least got something for the paper tonight.”

Clark froze. His heart sank immediately, eyes going wide as his mind replayed the entire night. The gala, Bruce, Dick… the laughter, the warmth, the quiet moment in the car… and absolutely zero professional work accomplished.

“Oh no…” he muttered under his breath.

“Clark,” Lois said slowly, suspicion dripping from her voice. “Please don’t tell me—”

“I did everything but that,” Clark admitted, groaning as he buried his face in his hand. “Lois, I completely forgot the interview.”

There was a long pause, followed by a sound that could only be described as Lois Lane’s exasperated sigh.

“Clark. You had ice cream with Bruce Wayne and didn’t get a single quote?”

He laughed weakly. “In my defense, the ice cream was really good.”

“Oh, Smallville,” she said, laughing now despite herself. “You’re lucky you’re adorable when you mess up. Write something up in the morning. You’ll figure it out — you always do.”

As the call ended, Clark set the phone aside and leaned back, staring up at the faint shadows moving across the ceiling.

His mind wandered again — not to his mistake, not to the story he hadn’t written, but to Bruce’s face in the dim light of the street, that rare softness when he smiled at his son. He let out a quiet sigh, a small smile curving at the edges of his lips before he turned onto his side. Falling into a deep sleep.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------✩

It had been three weeks since the gala.
Three long, restless weeks — and Clark Kent still couldn’t get Bruce Wayne out of his head.

He tried. God, he really tried.

Mornings blurred into afternoons, and afternoons into nights filled with hero work, interviews, and headlines. He was Superman again — saving a train from derailment in Metropolis one day, stopping a warehouse fire the next, smiling for photographs and pretending he wasn’t half somewhere else. Then, he was Clark — the mild-mannered reporter with his glasses slipping down his nose, fumbling over words, drinking lukewarm coffee while Lois scolded him for missing deadlines.

But no matter what face he wore, there was always that one name sitting quietly in the back of his mind.
Bruce Wayne.

He’d tried to dismiss it at first. Told himself it was just curiosity — admiration, maybe. Bruce was impressive, after all: intelligent, composed, mysterious in a way that made even the calmest person want to lean closer just to understand. But it wasn’t admiration, not really. Not anymore.

Every time Clark closed his eyes, he saw him.
The faint, tired smile Bruce gave when Dick tugged on his hand. The way his dark, wavy hair fell just right when he looked up from the ice cream cone that night. That smudge of eyeliner or maybe eyeshadow that had somehow stayed on his cheek since the dog park — a tiny imperfection that made him seem human, almost heartbreakingly so.

Clark had seen thousands of faces in his lifetime — heroes, villains, people saved and people lost — but none of them haunted him like Bruce’s did.

And so, without realizing it, he found himself looking east a little too often.

Whenever he flew home from patrol, his flight path tilted ever so slightly toward Gotham. His eyes scanned for the faint outline of Wayne Tower piercing through the smog. Just once, he thought. Just one glimpse. He’d hover above the city’s edge for a heartbeat, feeling that strange ache in his chest — then force himself to turn away.

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t cross that line.
Bruce’s world was private, and Clark respected that — at least, he told himself he did.

Still, some nights, when he was alone in his apartment, cape folded neatly beside him and the hum of the city outside, he caught himself wondering what Bruce was doing. Was he working? Reading? Sleeping? Smiling at something Dick said? Or maybe, sitting by a window the same way Clark was, staring out into the dark and thinking about someone too.

“Earth to Smallville,” Lois’s voice snapped him out of one of those moments one morning at the Daily Planet. She was leaning against his desk, coffee in hand, her eyebrow raised high in suspicion. “You’ve been staring at that blank document for fifteen minutes.”

Clark blinked, realizing the screen in front of him was still empty except for the blinking cursor. “I was just—uh—thinking.”

“About Bruce Wayne?” Lois said with a sly grin, sipping her coffee.

Clark’s ears went red instantly. “What? No, of course not—”

“Uh-huh,” she cut in, amused. “You’ve been like this for weeks, Clark. You barely even tripped over your own shoes this week — that’s how distracted you are.”

Before he could protest, Jimmy slid into the conversation, plopping a folder onto Clark’s desk. “Don’t even try denying it, big guy. We’ve all noticed. The sighing, the zoning out, the tiny smile every time someone mentions Gotham. You’re whipped.”

Clark groaned, running a hand over his face. “I’m not— I just… I think I admire him, that’s all.”

Lois leaned closer, smirking. “You admire him so much that you accidentally almost flew into Gotham last night, didn’t you?”

Clark froze mid-sentence. “How—how do you even know about that?”

“Jimmy’s drone caught you hovering over the Narrows,” she said casually.

Jimmy lifted his hands defensively. “Hey, it’s Gotham airspace — I thought it was a new villain!”

Clark slumped back in his chair, cheeks burning. “It’s not like that, I swear. I just—he’s… he’s different.”

Lois’s teasing smile softened then. “Different how?”

Clark hesitated. He didn’t have an answer that made sense — not one he could say out loud without sounding insane. But after a moment, he said quietly, “He makes the world quieter. Just… calmer, somehow. Even when he barely says a word.”

Lois’s expression softened completely, her tone losing its edge. “Then maybe it’s not an obsession, Clark. Maybe it’s just… someone who made an impression.”

Jimmy nudged him playfully. “Or both.”

Clark laughed weakly, shaking his head. “You two are impossible.”

But as the day went on, their teasing lingered in his mind.
Because maybe they were right. Maybe it was an obsession — one that wouldn’t fade no matter how much he tried to bury it beneath work, rescues, and headlines.

Every night, when the world was quiet and he hovered high above the clouds, he still caught himself glancing toward Gotham — toward that one patch of darkness on the map that somehow felt brighter now.

He didn’t know what it meant.
He didn’t know if he wanted to.

All he knew was that the thought of Bruce Wayne — the way he smiled so gently yet carried so much pain behind his eyes — was something Clark couldn’t seem to let go of. And somewhere, deep down, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜.

The night was filled with noise — metal clashing, explosions echoing through the city skyline, the sharp hum of LexCorp drones tearing across the air. Clark had been at it for hours, fighting through the chaos above Metropolis. The last of the drones sparked and fell in flames, disappearing into the city lights below. He hovered for a moment, cape torn slightly at the ends, his chest rising and falling as the adrenaline faded.

Finally, quiet.

But then he heard it — faint, distant, and full of panic. A sound that didn’t belong to Metropolis. He focused, his hearing cutting through miles of distance and noise, filtering through the hum of the city. It came again — high-pitched, terrified, echoing off metal.

A scream.

And it was coming from Gotham.

His brow furrowed, and in an instant, he was gone. The air cracked behind him as he pushed forward, faster than sound, cutting through clouds like a streak of red and blue lightning. The lights of Metropolis blurred away, replaced by Gotham’s cold glow beneath a blanket of smoke and shadow.

When he broke through the low clouds, the scene hit him hard. A massive electric train was derailing — its wheels screeching as sparks burst from the undercarriage, lightning arcing from torn power lines. The front of the train dangled over the edge of an elevated rail bridge, the nose of the lead car hanging dangerously above a gridlocked street below.

The sound was deafening — metal groaning, glass shattering, people screaming from the cars as the structure trembled beneath the weight. Below, drivers slammed on their brakes, horns blaring as they looked up, helpless.

Clark’s eyes widened as he saw a child pressed against a window, crying into their mother’s arms.

He didn’t think. He dove.

The wind howled around him, cutting sharp against his ears as he pushed faster — faster — until the train filled his view. Just as it lurched forward, metal screeching, Clark slammed into position beneath it. His boots dug against the concrete edge of the rail as his hands caught the underside of the lead car, the entire structure jerking violently against him.

The sheer force of it burned through his muscles — the train weighed thousands of tons, the electric current sparking around him like angry fireflies. The metal groaned, his arms trembled, but he gritted his teeth, his voice low and strained. “Come on… stay with me.”

His cape snapped in the hot wind as he forced the train upward, inch by inch, pulling the derailed cars back onto the track. The sparks bit at his skin, but he held on, jaw tight, the heat of the rails searing through his gloves.

And then — a final screech, a deep metallic clang — and the weight shifted.

The train was level again.

He exhaled hard, lowering it gently until it settled fully on the rails. The emergency brakes hissed, the screeching died out, and for the first time in minutes, there was silence.

Clark floated backward, hovering above the rails as people inside began to move, wide-eyed and shaking but safe. He could hear faint cheers from below, echoing up through the smoke and city lights — shouts of gratitude, awe, disbelief.

He smiled faintly, wiping a streak of grime from his cheek. The smell of burnt metal and ozone lingered in the air, heavy and bitter. He took one last look at the now-still train before turning upward into the sky again, disappearing into the cold Gotham wind — another quiet crisis averted, another city saved.

Clark hovered above the wreckage, the acrid scent of smoke and burning electricity thick in the air. His chest rose and fell with slow, heavy breaths as the adrenaline began to fade. The crowd below was still cheering faintly, flashes of phone cameras glinting like stars beneath him. He gave one last look over the train, making sure everyone was safe.

Then… he felt it.

That familiar prickle at the back of his neck — the weight of a gaze sharper than a blade. Someone was watching him.

He turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the steel and shadows around the bridge until he saw him.

Standing atop the last car of the train, half-shrouded by smoke and the dull orange glow of burning wires, was Batman.

The dark knight’s silhouette was unmistakable — tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in layers of matte black armor that looked both ancient and advanced. The cape behind him flowed like liquid shadow, trailing slightly in the night wind. His cowl caught the faint light, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the blank white eyes that cut through the darkness like cold glass. The bat emblem on his chest was scratched and weathered, as though it had survived a hundred wars — and it probably had.

He was speaking into a small comm on his wrist, voice low but firm. “One step at a time. Stay against the right wall—don’t touch the rails.” His hand pointed, precise and controlled, directing the shaken civilians out of the train. His tone was steady — commanding, unyielding — the kind that turned chaos into order.

Clark hovered in silence, watching the way Batman moved. Every motion was deliberate, practiced, efficient.

And then, as the last passenger was led to safety, Batman finally turned his head toward him.

Even from this distance, Clark could feel the weight of that glare — sharp, cold, unreadable. The same look Bruce had given him the first time they met.

Clark felt a pang of guilt hit his chest. He knew this wasn’t the first time he’d disobeyed Batman’s request. The man had told him — warned him — to stay out of Gotham. That this was his city. His responsibility.

But how could he not come when he heard screams?

He took a slow breath and floated closer, his boots lightly touching the top of the train. “Batman,” he began, his voice low, apologetic. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Don’t,” Batman cut in sharply, his voice a low growl through the modulator. “The last thing I need right now is you in my city.”

Clark froze, his hands half-raised in peace. “I only came because people were in danger,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t just—”

Batman’s jaw tightened beneath the cowl. “You’ve been told before, Superman. Gotham doesn’t need saving from you. It needs order. And when you fly in, throwing around trains like paper, it only causes panic.”

The words were clipped, harsh, and they stung deeper than Clark expected. He wanted to explain, to say he’d only meant to help — that he respected Gotham, and him. But the glare Bruce gave him made every word stick in his throat.

Batman stepped forward once, close enough for the wind to catch his cape. “I told you to stay out of my sight. Don’t make me say it again.”

For a long moment, they just stared at each other — Superman’s expression pained, Batman’s cold and unyielding. Then Clark’s shoulders lowered, and he nodded silently.

Without another word, he lifted off the train, the air around him swirling as he rose higher and higher into the smoky night sky. The city lights blurred beneath him, and soon Gotham disappeared beneath the clouds.

Still, that last look Batman gave him — full of disappointment and something else he couldn’t quite name — stayed burned behind his eyes.

Chapter Text

Bruce stood rigid atop the derailed train, smoke curling up through the twisted metal as he watched Superman — again — sweep in like some glowing savior from above. The bright red and blue streak cut through Gotham’s darkness like a flare, and within moments, the Kryptonian had caught the front of the falling train and forced it upright.

Seventeenth time that month.

Bruce’s jaw clenched beneath the cowl, his gloved fists tightening as his eyes followed the man of steel. The civilians’ cheers below grated against his ears. He wasn’t angry that people were safe — no, that was never it — but this. The constant intrusion, the uninvited presence in his city. Gotham wasn’t Metropolis, wasn’t some beacon of light. Gotham was made of fear, control, and shadow. Superman’s brightness didn’t belong here — and yet, he kept coming back.

As Bruce helped guide the passengers out of the train one by one, his voice calm and commanding, his thoughts burned behind the stoicism.
“Watch your step. Stay close to the right side of the rail. Don’t touch the electrified tracks,” he said, tone clipped, efficient. His cape dragged slightly against the wet metal as he moved down the length of the train, offering a steady hand to an older man trembling from shock.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the red cape land nearby. Clark — Superman — hovered hesitantly, that same apologetic look written across his face. He was about to speak.

Bruce didn’t give him the chance.

“Don’t,” he growled sharply, not even turning toward him. “The last thing I need is you turning Gotham into a spectacle again.”

Clark tried to reason with him, his voice low and almost pleading. But Bruce was done. The tension in his shoulders was unbearable — between Wayne Enterprises, city reconstruction efforts, and his nightly hunts, the last thing he needed was to babysit a glowing alien with a savior complex.

And when Superman finally turned, his cape catching in the wind as he disappeared into the clouds, Bruce’s lip curled slightly behind the mask. “Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and gravelly.

By the time the police and engineers arrived to secure the site, Bruce had already vanished into the shadows. Minutes later, the roar of the Batmobile echoed through the underpass as he tore through the city streets. Gotham’s skyline blurred past him — gray spires, neon flickers, and clouds that never lifted.

Then came Alfred’s voice through the comm, calm and knowing. “I heard everything, Master Wayne. You didn’t have to growl at the poor man like that.”

Bruce scoffed, one hand tightening on the steering wheel. “Superman needs to stay out of Gotham. I told him before, and I’ll keep telling him until it sticks. He’s reckless, careless. He doesn’t understand this city.”

There was a pause — the kind that only Alfred could make feel like judgment and warmth at once. “Or perhaps,” the butler said slowly, “he understands you more than you’d like to admit.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed, but Alfred continued before he could reply. “Maybe for once in your life, sir, let someone in. You’ve shut the world out long enough. Mr. Kent seems like a decent start.”

For a moment, Bruce said nothing. The Batmobile’s engine was the only sound — deep, rhythmic, echoing through the tunnels. His expression softened slightly at the name. Clark.

He didn’t want to admit it, but he had thought about him — about the way his voice softened when he spoke, the sincerity behind his eyes, the warmth that Bruce hadn’t felt in… years.

“Clark’s… different,” Bruce said finally, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

“I’d say so,” Alfred replied. “You’ve been almost… kind toward him. A few smiles here and there. Even a laugh, I believe?”

Bruce’s lips pressed into a line. “You imagined that.”

“I never imagine, sir. I observe,” Alfred said lightly.

Bruce didn’t respond. He just stared ahead, the lights of the Batmobile casting streaks across his face. His thoughts were a blur — Clark’s voice, his apologetic tone, the way he made even Gotham’s air feel a little less suffocating.

He needed to push it aside.

“Is Dick still at school?” Bruce finally asked, changing the subject.

“Yes, Master Wayne,” Alfred replied knowingly, though his tone carried that soft, teasing patience. “I’ll be picking him up in about an hour.”

Bruce gave a small nod. “Good. Make sure he eats something before training.”

“Of course,” Alfred said. Then, after a pause, “And perhaps you should as well. It’s been a long day.”

Bruce didn’t answer. He simply kept driving, eyes fixed ahead, the weight of Gotham pressing down on him.

But no matter how hard he tried to focus on the road, a pair of gentle blue eyes and an earnest, worried voice lingered in his mind.

The roar of the Batmobile faded as the great steel platforms of the Batcave swallowed the sound into its vast emptiness. The moment Bruce parked, he climbed out without a word, his movements heavy with exhaustion. His cape dragged faintly against the floor, still damp from the misty Gotham air, and the harsh blue glow from the cave’s computer screens cast sharp light across his face — shadows clinging to the sharp edges of his jaw, the tired lines beneath his eyes.

Without hesitation, he began stripping off the armor piece by piece. The cowl came first, landing on the table beside the workstation with a dull thud. Then the gauntlets, his gloves, the chest plate — each piece falling with the quiet metallic clinks of habit. Underneath it all, he wore a thin black compression shirt clinging to his frame, sweat tracing along the faint scars that told his story better than any words could. He ran a hand through his damp, disheveled hair and exhaled softly, feeling the sting of tension release just slightly.

He didn’t linger. Not tonight.

The cave’s silence followed him as he stepped into the elevator — the doors closing with a mechanical hiss before carrying him upward, back into the heart of Wayne Manor. As the elevator rose, Bruce caught a faint reflection of himself in the mirrored walls: pale, tired, and far too human for the legend of the Bat.

When the doors opened, Alfred was waiting with a small, expectant look. “Your meeting begins in thirty minutes, Master Wayne,” he said calmly, offering a steaming cup of coffee on a silver tray.

Bruce accepted it with a small nod, setting it aside as he moved toward his wardrobe. The transition from Batman to Bruce Wayne was always the hardest part — the armor came off, but the mask remained.

He dressed in silence, pulling on a crisp charcoal-gray suit tailored to perfection, the kind that fit like armor of another kind. The shirt beneath was white, starched and clean, the collar framing a simple black tie that he adjusted with methodical precision. A silver watch glinted on his wrist — understated, elegant — and his black shoes caught the faint gleam of the morning light spilling in through the manor windows.

For a moment, he looked like the picture of Gotham’s golden prince again: composed, wealthy, untouchable.

Alfred stood by the door, giving him a once-over. “You look impeccable as always, sir,” he said, though there was something softer behind the words — concern, maybe even sympathy.

Bruce gave a faint grunt in acknowledgment, grabbing his keys and briefcase. “I’ll be back before dinner,” he said simply, walking toward the grand entrance of the manor.

The marble floors echoed beneath his steps as he passed through the hall, his expression unreadable, his mind already half elsewhere — replaying the scene of the train, Superman’s face, Alfred’s words.

Outside, the early Gotham morning greeted him with its usual gray sky and cool breeze. His black car waited in the driveway — sleek, polished, a perfect reflection of the man himself.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Bruce started the engine. The deep rumble filled the silence around him.

For a second, he lingered there, staring out through the windshield. His gloved fingers tapped once against the wheel before he muttered under his breath — almost to himself —

“Let someone in, huh…”

Then, with that, he drove off down the winding road that cut through the Wayne estate, leaving the quiet manor behind him.

The meeting room was one of the highest in Wayne Enterprises Tower—its glass walls stretched to the ceiling, reflecting Gotham’s skyline in cold, distorted fragments. The light outside was fading, staining the glass with streaks of orange and gold as the sun descended behind the city’s jagged rooftops. Inside, the room was sleek and quiet, humming faintly with the sound of the air vents and the low murmur of voices. Bruce sat at the head of the long, polished table, every inch of him composed and untouchable. His black suit was tailored to perfection, sharp at the shoulders and crisp along the sleeves, the tie around his neck as dark as ink. His cufflinks bore the Wayne family crest—subtle, dignified, a quiet reminder of who he was. From the outside, he looked like the perfect man of control, an image sculpted by years of discipline and endless expectation. But inside, his mind was tired, heavy, and far away.

The men from New Jersey sat across from him, all of them in fine suits, all of them too loud, too eager to be seen. Their laughter was hollow, forced—something Bruce could spot instantly. They smelled of greed and desperation, like every other group that came to Wayne Enterprises hoping to use Gotham for their own gain. They spoke quickly, throwing out figures and percentages as if numbers could impress him. Bruce nodded occasionally, made a few polite comments when needed, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere—to Alfred, to Dick, to the quiet of the Batcave that waited beneath his home. The hum of the Batcomputer, the cool, metallic scent of the cave’s air, the peace of it all—how much he wanted to be there instead of here.

“So, Mr. Wayne,” one of them said, leaning back in his chair, his voice too confident. “You’ve been pretty quiet today. Is that how business is done in Gotham? Sit there and look intimidating while everyone else does the talking?” The others laughed, a grating sound that scraped at Bruce’s nerves. He didn’t look up. Another man joined in, smirking. “Maybe he’s too busy thinking about all that charity money he gives away. Must be easy to care about the poor when you’re sitting on a few billion.” More laughter followed. Bruce’s hand twitched slightly against the arm of his chair. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

And then came the final blow.

“Come on, guys,” said one man at the back, his tone careless, mocking. “Don’t take it personally. He’s been stuck-up since birth. Probably raised to think he’s better than the rest of us—his parents must’ve done a real number on him.”

Everything stopped.

The laughter died instantly. The air went still, and every pair of eyes turned toward Bruce. His head lifted slowly, his dark eyes locking on the man who had spoken. The room’s temperature seemed to drop. The silence was suffocating. When Bruce spoke, his voice was low, calm—but underneath it, there was something dangerous. “What did you just say?”

The man’s smirk faltered. “It was just a joke, Bruce, I—”

“Shut up.”

The two words came out sharp and cold, cutting through the air like a blade. No one dared to move. The man stammered, unsure of what to do, but Bruce had already stood. His voice deepened, quieter now but heavy with authority. “Get out.”

When no one moved, his eyes hardened. “Now.”

The word hit like thunder. Within seconds, chairs scraped across the floor, papers were gathered hastily, and the men rushed out of the room, murmuring apologies under their breath. The glass door clicked shut behind them, leaving Bruce alone in silence.

For a long time, he didn’t move. His hands rested flat against the table, his breathing shallow. His reflection stared back at him from the polished surface, distant and hollow-eyed. He tried to push the anger down, to steady his heart, but his pulse was hammering, each beat faster than the last. He could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in his fingertips.

And then, faintly, somewhere deep in the back of his mind—he heard it.

𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐠.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬—𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐧, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐣𝐞𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐬𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝.

He staggered slightly, gripping the edge of the table. His breathing grew uneven. The room felt too bright, too clean, too quiet. His mind was a storm of memories, sounds, and guilt.

𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝. 𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐧, 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩.

His throat closed up. The weight of everything he’d buried pressed down on him again. The pain he’d spent years suppressing—the endless guilt, the loneliness, the anger—it all came rushing back like a flood.

He backed against the wall, sliding down slowly until he was sitting in the corner, his knees drawn up slightly, his hands pressed against his face. He tried to breathe. He couldn’t. His heart felt like it was breaking all over again. He didn’t even know why this was happening now. He’d lived with it his entire life, kept it locked away where no one could touch it. But now it was boiling over, raw and uncontrollable.

He whispered to himself, hoarse and trembling. “Stop… just stop.”

But the memories didn’t stop. The guilt didn’t stop. The voice in his head—his own voice—kept whispering.

"𝐘𝐨𝐮 could’ve done something. You could’ve 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐝 them.

Bruce pressed his palms against his forehead, his nails digging into his skin as if pain could drown it out. His eyes burned, his breathing shaky. He stayed there, hidden in the corner of the empty boardroom, the city glittering beyond the glass walls, the sound of Gotham’s chaos faint and distant below.

Bruce’s breaths came in shallow, uneven waves as he sat there on the cold marble floor of the boardroom, the hum of the city muffled through the glass walls behind him. His chest rose and fell, trembling with every inhale. The silence was deafening now—no voices, no footsteps, no sound but the faint echo of his heartbeat pounding inside his skull. His head hung low between his shoulders, his fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose as he tried to will himself to breathe, to calm down, to feel something other than the chaos swirling in his chest.

But nothing worked. Every thought in his mind was tangled and sharp, dragging him back to the past again and again until he could almost smell the gunpowder in the air, could almost feel the rain that had soaked through his coat that night.

He lifted his head, his eyes glassy and unfocused. His breathing still uneven, Bruce slowly tried to stand, using the edge of the table for balance. His knees wobbled, and as he steadied himself, his elbow brushed against the sleek glass vase that had been sitting at the edge of the table—a decorative piece filled with white orchids. His mother's favorites.

The vase toppled.

The sound of it shattering against the floor echoed through the large, empty room. The crash was loud, sharp, startling. Tiny shards of glass scattered across the polished floor, glinting like frozen tears beneath the light. Bruce froze, staring down at the mess beside his shoe.

He crouched down slowly, his movements careful, deliberate, almost detached. His gloved fingers brushed against one of the shards—a long, jagged piece that caught the light in a thin, brilliant line. He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and picked it up. The edge bit into his fingertip instantly, a thin red line blooming across his skin, but he didn’t flinch. He just stared at it.

The shard trembled slightly in his hand, reflecting his face back at him—distorted, fractured, broken. His dark eyes softened, heavy with something between exhaustion and sorrow. For a long moment, Bruce simply stood there, silent, watching the blood trail slowly down the side of his finger.

And then, almost unconsciously, his other hand moved to his wrist. His fingers curled around the cuff of his sleeve and he tugged it up. The fabric gave way, sliding up his forearm until pale skin was visible beneath the light. His eyes lingered there, tracing over the old, faint scars that ran across his wrist—small, straight lines that time hadn’t completely erased. They were faded now, hidden most days beneath expensive fabric, but they were still there, reminders carved into him long ago, marks of a boy who had once felt the world closing in too tightly.

He felt the need to draw on more. Seeing his scars already fading away made something inside him want to paint on more...

Bruce swallowed hard, his throat aching. The air in the room felt heavier now, pressing down on him. His reflection in the glass shard stared back, eyes hollow, shoulders tense.

He didn’t move for a long while—just stood there, holding the shard loosely in one hand, his sleeve rolled up on the other, the faint line of blood still marking his fingertip.

Bruce tightened his grip on the shard as pressed the shared against his wrist...

Chapter Text

Clark soared high above the glowing veins of Metropolis, the wind brushing past his ears like a soft whisper. The city beneath him was beginning to quiet down, its lights blinking lazily against the night sky as he cut through the air. He wasn’t flying toward trouble this time—at least, that wasn’t his plan. There had been reports earlier that afternoon of strange activity happening somewhere along the coast—something about missing cargo ships and a possible LexCorp vessel spotted near international waters. He figured he’d make a quick pass before heading back to his apartment. Simple enough.

But as he drifted closer to Gotham’s outskirts, a familiar hum of the darker city came into view—dimly lit, fog thick over the streets, towers rising like blackened spires over the skyline. He wasn’t planning to stop. He promised he wouldn’t stop. Yet his heart ached a little when he passed over Wayne Tower, his eyes flicking down to its rooftop for just a second before he pulled his gaze away.

Then—his phone rang.

The sharp buzz startled him midair. He hovered for a moment, frowning as he reached into the small compartment sewn into his suit and pulled out the device. The caller ID made his brows knit together in confusion.

“...Alfred?”

He answered quickly, his tone friendly but puzzled. “Hey, Alfred! What’s up? Everything okay?”

But the voice on the other end wasn’t calm or composed like it usually was. It was tight, breathless, trembling with panic. “Mr. Kent—thank heavens you answered! Please—please, you need to get to Wayne Enterprises, immediately. The one on Graybridge Avenue. Please hurry.”

Clark’s body tensed, his brows furrowing as his flight slowed to a halt, suspended miles above Gotham’s night. “Wait—what? Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s Master Bruce,” Alfred said, his voice wavering. “He was supposed to return home hours ago, but he hasn’t answered a single call. I’ve tried everything, and I’m currently stuck in a dreadful traffic jam. I—I can’t reach him, and I’m deeply worried something’s happened.”

Clark’s heart clenched as the words sank in. He stopped completely mid-flight, the air around him still. “Alfred… why can’t you go? I mean—how do you even know I’m nearby?”

Alfred didn’t hesitate, his tone shifting from desperate to stern. “That doesn’t matter right now, Mr. Kent. I know you are—just trust me on that. Please, go check on him. Please.”

There was something in Alfred’s voice—a rare, raw fear that Clark had never heard before. The kind that could only come from someone who’d already lost too much in his lifetime.

Clark swallowed hard, confusion and worry twisting in his chest. “Alright… okay. I’ll go,” he said, his voice softer but determined.

“Thank you, Mr. Kent. Please—be careful,” Alfred said, before the line cut off.

Clark lowered the phone slowly, his mind spinning. None of it made sense, but his instincts screamed louder than his logic ever could. Something was wrong.

He tucked the phone back into his suit and looked down at the city sprawled beneath him—the cold maze of Gotham’s skyline flickering faintly under a thin sheet of mist. Without another thought, he tilted forward and shot through the air.

The wind roared in his ears as he broke through the low clouds, the sound barrier crackling faintly behind him. His eyes darted from building to building until he found it: Wayne Enterprises—Graybridge Avenue. He hovered above the tower, closing his eyes for just a second.

He focused.

The world around him dulled into silence—cars became faint hums, voices faded into whispers. He sifted through the city’s heartbeat, one by one. And then—there it was. That steady, distinct rhythm. Slower than usual, but unmistakable. Bruce’s heartbeat.

He felt a strange pull in his chest. Of course he recognized it. He’d memorized it before he could even admit why. “That’s not creepy at all…” Clark muttered under his breath with a dry, self-conscious laugh.

But the humor faded fast when he realized that heartbeat was faint. Weak.

His eyes snapped open, panic flooding through him.

He didn’t think—he moved.

Clark darted down toward the building, wind screaming around him as he descended. In a split second, he slammed through one of the tall glass windows on the fifteenth floor, shards scattering through the air like rain.

The crash echoed through the empty meeting room as he landed, scanning the dimly lit space—papers scattered across the floor, overturned chairs, and then—

“Bruce…”

Clark froze.

There, near the far end of the room, lay Bruce Wayne—unconscious on the floor, his body slumped sideways, a smear of blood running down his hands and dripping faintly onto the polished marble. His suit jacket was rumpled, one sleeve pushed halfway up his arm, a dark stain at the cuff.

Clark’s stomach dropped. “Oh my God…” he breathed, rushing forward and kneeling beside him.

He looked down at Bruce's left wrist and saw multiple deep cuts that made his stomach churn. Blood flowed quickly from the deep cuts, dark and vivid against Bruce's beautiful pale skin. It dripped and smeared across Clarks hands as he tried wiping up all the blood with his cape, the cuts pulsing with each heartbeat. The edges of the wounds were raw and trembling, the skin around them slick and trembling from the sting. The air carried the sharp scent of iron, and every movement sent fresh streaks of crimson spilling out, making Clark wanna vomit.

Bruce’s head lolled slightly as Clark gently lifted it, his pulse fluttering weakly beneath his fingers. There was glass near his side, a small trail of blood along his palm.

For the first time in a long while, Clark’s hands shook. “Bruce… hey—hey, come on, talk to me.”

Clark’s heart was hammering in his chest so violently that he thought it might break through his ribs. Everything around him—the shattered glass, the overturned furniture, the faint smell of blood and dust—blurred into nothing but static. All he could see was Bruce. Pale, motionless, cold. His breath was shallow, barely there. For a moment, Clark couldn’t even breathe himself. The world tilted under him, and all he could hear was that fading heartbeat.

“Bruce…” he whispered again, voice trembling. No response. He felt his throat tighten, his eyes burning as tears threatened to spill. “No… no, no, no, stay with me.”

He didn’t waste another second. His arms slid beneath Bruce’s body—one behind his shoulders, the other under his knees—and he lifted him with a trembling care that betrayed the strength in his hands. Bruce’s head lolled weakly against his chest, and that single image made Clark’s stomach twist in agony.

Without a thought, he burst through the shattered window again, glass and wind rushing around them as he soared into the freezing Gotham night. His cape snapped sharply behind him, and his arms tightened protectively around Bruce’s limp form. The city lights blurred below him into rivers of gold and white, and for once, Clark didn’t feel like Superman. He felt helpless.

The icy wind whipped across his face, carrying the faint metallic scent of blood from Bruce’s hand. Clark blinked back tears as they stung his eyes, his vision blurring. Please… please don’t go. Not like this.

Within seconds, he was descending—past the clock towers, over the rooftops, and down toward the bright red emergency sign of Gotham General Hospital. He landed hard, the impact cracking the concrete beneath his boots. Dozens of people turned in shock as the blur of red and blue came to a stop in front of the ER entrance. Gasps and murmurs filled the air, nurses and patients staring wide-eyed.

But Clark didn’t care.

He ran straight inside, still holding Bruce in his arms, his voice urgent and raw. “I need help! Please—he’s hurt, I need a doctor now!”

The staff froze for a heartbeat—Superman standing there, face pale, panic and desperation all over him. But then one of the doctors—young, alert, voice steady—rushed forward. “Yes, yes, bring him here!”

Clark followed, his footsteps heavy, the sound of Bruce’s slow breathing the only thing grounding him. When the doctor reached out to take Bruce, Clark hesitated for a moment, his fingers tightening. It felt wrong to let go.

“Please…” Clark said, his voice low, pleading. “You have to help him. Don’t tell anyone he’s here, or what happened. No press. No questions.”

The doctor, recognizing the strain in his voice, nodded quickly. “Understood, Superman. We’ll take care of him. I promise.”

Clark let go—slowly, reluctantly—and stepped back as they rushed Bruce into one of the emergency rooms. The automatic doors closed behind them with a soft hiss, leaving Clark standing there in the sterile hallway, alone.

The silence hit him hard.

He just stood there, staring at the floor, his chest heaving. He could still feel Bruce’s weight in his arms, the way his head had rested against him, the faint warmth that had already started to fade. Clark dragged a trembling hand over his face and exhaled shakily.

It wasn’t just panic anymore—it was guilt.

He leaned back against the wall, his body tense as his thoughts started to spiral. He thought about Bruce’s smile—the rare, crooked one he’d seen at the mansion. The soft warmth in his voice when he talked about Dick. The quiet calm that hid behind his eyes, even when the world was falling apart around him.

Bruce had always seemed untouchable. Strong. Controlled. Unbreakable. The perfect mask for Gotham’s golden prince.

But seeing him like this—fragile, bleeding, broken—it shattered something deep inside Clark.

His heart ached, his thoughts coming in painful waves. How could I not see it? How could I not know? He’d been so wrapped up in his own admiration, in the idea of Bruce Wayne—the brilliant, mysterious man who had captured his thoughts for weeks—that he hadn’t once stopped to wonder if Bruce needed someone.

And now this… this was the cost of that blindness.

He pressed a hand against his eyes, trying to stop the tears that were already spilling. His mind replayed every moment—Bruce’s subtle smiles, the exhaustion hidden in his eyes, the way he always said he was “fine.” Clark’s breath caught in his throat. He’d believed him. He’d let himself believe him.

“God, Bruce…” he whispered brokenly. “You’re not supposed to be like this. You’re supposed to be… untouchable.”

But now, seeing the truth, the reality of how human and hurting Bruce Wayne really was—it broke Clark’s heart in ways he didn’t know possible.

He looked toward the closed door, his reflection ghosted in the glass, and his voice came out barely above a whisper.

“ɪs ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ᴡᴀʏɴᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ᴡᴀʏɴᴇ?”

Because now he understood. The billionaire. The playboy. The stoic face behind the charity events and camera flashes—none of that was the truth. Not really. Beneath it all was someone who carried too much pain, who never let anyone see the cracks in his armor.

Clark’s breath hitched as his vision blurred again.

He’d thought Bruce was perfect. But maybe perfection was the cruelest illusion of all.

And as that thought settled in his chest like a stone, one truth became painfully clear—Clark Kent had never felt more powerless in his life.

Chapter Text

Clark had managed to change out of his Superman suit before any reporters or hospital staff could stop him with questions. The second he’d handed Bruce over to the doctors, he’d ducked into an empty corridor, tore off the bright colors, and replaced them with his simple clothes—just Clark Kent again, not Superman. He couldn’t bear to see the press try to turn this into a spectacle. This wasn’t a headline. This was Bruce.

When the doctors finally said Bruce was stable, Clark felt his knees almost give out from relief. He was allowed to see him once the room was cleared, and when he stepped inside, the sound of the heart monitor was the only thing that greeted him. The soft, rhythmic beeping was both comforting and torturous all at once.

Bruce looked so still. So pale. The color had drained from his face, leaving only the faint shadows under his eyes. The light from the lamp beside the hospital bed made his skin look almost translucent, and his dark hair was slightly disheveled, falling over his forehead in quiet chaos. Clark sat down in the chair next to the bed, his hand hovering just above Bruce’s before he stopped himself.

He didn’t do anything for a long time. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just sat there, staring at him.

Bruce Wayne—Gotham’s golden prince, billionaire philanthropist, the man who smiled for cameras but rarely ever meant it—looked so heartbreakingly human now. No tuxedo. No armor. Just him. Vulnerable and fragile in a way Clark had never imagined.

Clark’s chest tightened. He couldn’t believe it. The idea that Bruce Wayne—the man who carried himself like he could hold the entire city on his shoulders—was depressed? The thought felt surreal. Impossible. But here he was, lying in front of him, the proof written in the tremble of his fingers and the fresh cuts were wrapped around his wrist.

Clark ran a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?... Did you tell anyone?"

He felt stupid asking that. Dumb, even. Because people like Bruce didn’t talk about their pain. They buried it under layers of charm, responsibility, and iron will. But still—Clark couldn’t shake the ache in his chest, the thought that maybe, if Bruce had said something, anything, things wouldn’t have gone this far.

He looked at Bruce’s face again—soft, still, almost peaceful now. His features relaxed in a way Clark hadn’t seen before. He’d never realized how beautiful Bruce looked when he wasn’t pretending to be someone hes not.

Clark leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling, his voice trembling as he spoke quietly to himself. “Who could have known…”

The room was so still that he could hear the hum of the air conditioner, the soft rustle of Bruce’s breathing. Clark’s heart felt heavy in his chest, his thoughts racing and colliding like thunder. He wanted to be angry at Bruce—for hiding this, for pretending to be fine when he wasn’t—but all he could feel was heartbreak.

Because no matter how much he told himself it wasn’t his fault, Clark couldn’t stop thinking that maybe he should’ve known. Maybe he should’ve seen the pain behind the faint smiles, the exhaustion behind the stoic composure.

He sighed quietly, looking back at Bruce again. His voice came out small, broken. “You didn’t have to do this alone, Bruce… you never did.”

Clark sat there for hours, his fingers laced together, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze never leaving Bruce. The quiet hum of machines filled the sterile room, broken only by the steady rhythm of Bruce’s heart monitor. It was late—he knew that—but time didn’t feel real right now. It just... stopped.

He didn’t even understand what he was feeling anymore. The ache in his chest was unbearable, pressing against his ribs like a weight he couldn’t lift. He didn’t know why it hurt so much to see Bruce like this. He barely knew him. One day—that was all it had been. One day of strange encounters, awkward smiles, and brief conversations that somehow managed to stay lodged in his mind like splinters.

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling quietly. Why do I care this much? he thought. Why does it feel like this?

It didn’t make sense. Bruce Wayne was supposed to be just another interview. Another headline. The famous face of Gotham’s elite. But somewhere between the way he’d smiled that night at the gala, the way his voice softened when he talked about his son, and the way he hid that sadness behind those calm, practiced eyes—Clark had started seeing someone else. Someone real. Someone who felt like a puzzle he couldn’t stop wanting to solve.

And now, seeing him like this—so still, so fragile—it tore something open inside him. Clark didn’t know what it was. Guilt? Compassion? Something deeper he didn’t want to name? He just knew that it hurt.

He leaned back in the chair, dragging his hands over his face. “Why am I feeling like this?” he whispered under his breath. His voice trembled slightly, thick with frustration and confusion. “I don’t even know him…”

But that wasn’t true. Not really.

He knew that Bruce was kind beneath the layers of formality. He knew that his smile, when genuine, was warm enough to make Clark’s chest flutter. He knew the sound of his voice when he talked about his son, soft and full of quiet pride. He knew the way his eyes dimmed when someone mentioned his parents.

And now, he knew the truth—that behind all the armor, all the wealth, all the masks—Bruce Wayne was just human. Hurting. Breaking. Trying to hold everything together.

Clark swallowed hard, his throat burning as he looked at him again. “You didn’t deserve this,” he said quietly, barely a whisper. “You don’t deserve to feel that alone.”

He felt ridiculous talking to someone who couldn’t even hear him, but he couldn’t stop. His hand reached out slightly before he caught himself again, fingers hovering just inches from Bruce’s hand.

What are you doing, Kent? he thought bitterly. You’ve known him for one day. You shouldn’t feel like this.

But no matter how hard he tried to push it down—the worry, the fear, the strange tenderness blooming in his chest—it wouldn’t go away. It only grew heavier.

So Clark stayed where he was, tired and restless, eyes fixed on Bruce’s still form. He didn’t have an explanation for it. Maybe he didn’t need one. All he knew was that, somehow, somewhere in that single day, Bruce Wayne had found a place in his heart—and now, Clark didn’t know how to let him go.

The door opened softly, and the dim light from the hallway spilled into the hospital room. Clark looked up wearily, blinking away the haze of exhaustion. A doctor stepped in — a middle-aged man with graying hair, the faint smell of antiseptic following him. His white coat looked far too crisp for the hour, and his expression was calm, though the weight behind his eyes carried a kind of practiced sorrow.

Clark straightened up slightly in his chair, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes before he spoke. “Doctor… what happened?” His voice was rough from hours of silence, the words trembling with barely contained worry. “Why was he unconscious? There wasn’t that much blood—I made sure of that. So… why?”

The doctor sighed quietly and adjusted his glasses, taking a moment before replying. His tone was measured, deliberate — the kind of voice doctors used when walking a fragile line between honesty and compassion.

“Mr. Wayne,” he began carefully, “suffered a significant laceration along the underside of his left wrist. While the wound itself did not sever any major artery entirely, the cut came dangerously close to the radial vein. The body, when placed under that level of trauma and blood loss, even if not catastrophic, can respond quite severely. In his case, the sudden drop in blood pressure, coupled with what I can only assume to be extreme emotional or mental strain, triggered a form of temporary collapse — his system simply… shut down to protect itself.”

He paused, glancing briefly toward Bruce, who still lay motionless under the soft hospital lighting. His voice softened, carrying a subtle weight of empathy. “He’s stable now, but I would advise close observation. A man like Mr. Wayne — one who carries so much, so quietly — is often far more fragile inside than most people realize.”

Clark stared at the doctor, his stomach twisting, the color draining from his face. The words dangerously close and emotional strain echoed in his head like a cruel bell. His throat tightened, and he felt a sting rise behind his eyes that he quickly blinked back.

“So… you’re saying he almost…” Clark stopped himself, unable to finish the sentence. His voice broke slightly, too heavy with disbelief. “He almost—?”

The doctor hesitated, then gave a small, solemn nod. “Yes. If the cut had been a fraction deeper, or if he hadn’t been found in time…” He didn’t finish either — he didn’t have to. The silence filled in the rest.

Clark’s heart sank. The air in the room suddenly felt thin, his chest heavy. His hands trembled slightly where they rested on his knees. Bruce Wayne. The man the world saw as untouchable — Gotham’s shining figure of strength — had been that close to dying. By his own hand.

He pressed a palm over his mouth, swallowing down the nausea rising in his throat. It didn’t make sense. He’d seen death, tragedy, heartbreak — he’d fought monsters and watched cities crumble — but this? Seeing him like this? It hurt in a way nothing else ever had.

“Thank you, doctor,” Clark managed finally, his voice small, almost cracked. The man nodded quietly and left, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

After what felt like hours, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed faintly down the quiet hospital hallway. The rhythmic click of polished shoes grew louder, followed by the familiar, steady rasp of controlled breathing. Clark looked up from his slouched position in the chair, his red-rimmed eyes blinking at the sight of Alfred Pennyworth coming through the door.

The old butler looked as though he had aged years in a single night. His usually impeccable suit was creased, his tie slightly askew, and his hands trembled faintly as he clutched his coat. His eyes immediately went to Bruce — his boy — lying motionless on the hospital bed, his face pale under the dim fluorescent light. The faint beep of the heart monitor was the only sound between them, proof that he was still alive.

Alfred stopped mid-step, his lips parting slightly as if the air had been stolen from his lungs. For a brief moment, the man who had stood unwavering beside the Wayne family through generations seemed completely broken. His chest rose and fell unsteadily, and he pressed a shaking hand against his mouth to keep from gasping aloud.

Clark stood slowly, unsure of what to say. His cape was gone, his posture weary, his eyes heavy with guilt. “Alfred,” he said softly, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. “He’s okay. The doctors said he’s stable now.”

Alfred took another shaky step forward, his eyes locked on Bruce. “Stable…” he repeated under his breath, the word almost trembling as it left him. “Good heavens, Master Bruce…” His composure cracked, his shoulders trembling as he approached the bed. “What have you done to yourself?” he whispered.

Clark watched in silence as Alfred reached out, his wrinkled hand hovering hesitantly over Bruce’s arm before resting lightly on it. His thumb brushed over the bandages, a faint, broken sigh escaping him. “I told you once, sir, that this path would consume you,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. “But I never imagined it would bring you to this.”

The room was heavy with quiet emotion. Clark looked down, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. He didn’t want to intrude on something that felt so deeply personal, but he couldn’t walk away either.

After a long silence, Alfred turned toward him, his eyes red but grateful. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For finding him… for bringing him here.”

Clark shook his head, guilt washing over him like a tide. “I should’ve known something was wrong,” he muttered. “I should’ve seen it. He—he didn’t even tell me anything.”

Alfred’s gaze softened. “He wouldn’t have,” he said gently. “Master Bruce has always been… guarded with his pain. He carries it as though it were his duty to suffer alone.” His eyes flicked back toward Bruce, a sad smile forming on his lips. “Even from those who care about him.”

Clark swallowed hard, feeling a deep ache in his chest. “He doesn’t deserve this,” he said quietly.

“No,” Alfred agreed softly, his hand still resting over Bruce’s. “But he’s convinced himself that he does.”

The silence lingered again, broken only by the faint hum of machines and the distant chatter of nurses outside. Alfred pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down, his hand never leaving Bruce’s arm.

“You should go home, Mr. Kent,” Alfred said gently after a while, though his tone carried no dismissal — only kindness. “You’ve done enough tonight.”

Clark shook his head. “No. I’ll stay. Just for a little longer.”

Alfred studied him for a moment — the weariness in his eyes, the quiet sorrow etched into his features — and gave a small, understanding nod. “Very well,” he said softly.

Clark looked over at Alfred. The quiet hum of the machines filled the room, and Clark finally spoke up, his voice low and soft.

“Alfred… is Dick okay?” he asked. “He doesn’t know about this, does he?”

Alfred sighed quietly, rubbing a hand over his face before answering. “It’s late, Mr. Kent. Dick’s with Miss Selina right now — she’s babysitting him for the night. I didn’t want him to see any of this. He’s just a kid. He shouldn’t have to.”

Clark nodded, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah… yeah, that’s good,” he said quietly. “He doesn’t need to see Bruce like this. He looks up to him too much.”

Alfred gave a small, sad smile. “He does,” he said softly. “To Dick, Bruce is unstoppable — always strong, always in control. Seeing him like this… it would break him.”

Clark leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at Bruce’s pale face. “Even the strongest people fall apart sometimes,” he murmured.

Alfred looked at him, his expression thoughtful and a little surprised by the honesty in Clark’s voice. “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “But Bruce… he’s the kind that never lets anyone see it happen.”

Clark let out a small breath, shaking his head. “Then maybe next time… someone should be there to catch him before he does.”

Alfred looked at him for a long moment — really looked at him — and a faint, knowing smile touched his lips. “Maybe someone already is,” he said quietly.

Clark didn’t respond. He just looked back at Bruce, his heart heavy, hoping that when Bruce woke up… he wouldn’t have to face the darkness alone anymore.

Chapter Text

When Bruce woke up, the world felt hazy — like surfacing from a long, dark ocean. His body ached faintly, his wrists wrapped in soft bandages, and the smell of antiseptic lingered in the air. For a moment, he didn’t remember where he was — only that suffocating heaviness in his chest, that dull throb behind his eyes. But as his vision cleared, the quiet light of dawn crept through the blinds, painting the hospital room in soft gold.

He blinked slowly, his mind catching up — and that’s when he saw them.

Clark was slumped forward in the chair beside the bed, fast asleep, his head resting lightly on Bruce’s lap. His broad shoulders rose and fell with a calm rhythm, and a soft lock of his dark hair fell over his forehead. His hand still loosely held the edge of Bruce’s blanket, like he was afraid to let go even in sleep. The sight made something twist in Bruce’s chest — confusion first, then warmth, then guilt.

At his feet, little Dick lay curled up on a folded blanket, fast asleep as well, one of Bruce’s jackets draped over him. He was drooling slightly, clutching the corner of the blanket in one small hand. Bruce’s lips parted just a little, an exhale slipping out — a fragile mix of disbelief and tenderness.

He hadn’t expected this. Not Clark here, not Dick sleeping at his bedside, not any of it.

And then he noticed Alfred — seated in the corner, calm and quiet, a cup of tea resting in his hands. The older man had that tired yet gentle look he always wore after long nights. When their eyes met, Alfred smiled faintly.

“Good morning, Master Bruce,” he said softly, his voice steady and kind, as if it were any other morning at the manor.

Bruce’s throat felt tight. He tried to respond, but his voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. “Morning…” He glanced down again at Clark — the way his face looked so peaceful in sleep, the faint warmth radiating from him. Bruce’s heart gave a faint, confused beat. He didn’t know why the sight made his chest ache in such a strange way.

Alfred stood slowly, setting his cup aside. “You gave us quite the fright,” he said quietly. “Mr. Kent here refused to leave until he knew you were safe. And young Master Dick… well, he insisted on waiting, no matter what I said.”

Bruce’s eyes softened as he looked back down at Dick. “He shouldn’t have been here,” he muttered hoarsely.

“Perhaps,” Alfred said gently, “but sometimes, the people who care about you will show up whether you want them to or not.”

Bruce stared at the two of them — Clark’s quiet breathing, Dick’s soft snore — and he felt something unfamiliar press at the edges of his heart. Guilt, yes. Shame, of course. But underneath that, something gentler. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.

Bruce listened as Alfred’s calm, measured voice filled the room, discussing — as he always did — the idea of therapy, of talking to someone about the weight Bruce carried. Alfred’s words were gentle but insistent, carefully chosen, meant to pierce the armor Bruce wrapped so tightly around himself.

“It might do you some good, sir,” Alfred said, adjusting his glasses slightly, “to speak to a professional. Someone trained to help you untangle…” His voice softened at the edges. “…all of this.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered with a sharp, tired edge. “Rubbish,” he muttered, his voice rough from disuse. “I’ve tried it before. Talking doesn’t fix anything. It never does. People don’t understand the darkness, the responsibility… not like I do. It’s a waste of time.” He tried to turn his head slightly, pulling the blankets closer around himself, like physical distance could shield him from Alfred’s persistence.

At that moment, the faint rustle of movement caught his attention. Dick. His little boy had shifted in his sleep, feeling Bruce stir. His bright, eager eyes blinked open, still fuzzy with sleep, and the first thing he saw was Bruce awake.

“Dad!” Dick yelled, his voice bright and full of energy, completely undoing the heavy tension in the room. He scrambled forward, clumsy and fast, nearly tripping over the blanket in his excitement. Without hesitation, he threw his arms around Bruce, hugging him tightly.

Bruce stiffened at first, caught off guard by the sudden burst of energy and warmth, but then he felt it — the unmistakable, unfiltered love from his son. It pressed against his chest in a way nothing else could, grounding him. Bruce’s hands instinctively rested on Dick’s small back, holding him close, feeling the soft weight of his boy and the steady, comforting heartbeat.

Alfred cleared his throat softly from the corner, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes were still watchful. “See, sir? Perhaps some things… don’t need words to fix them.”

Bruce exhaled slowly, the tight knot in his chest loosening just a fraction. His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, as he whispered, “Morning, little man,” his voice rough but warm. Dick giggled, burying his face into Bruce’s chest, completely content that his father was awake.

Bruce felt the weight of Dick still clinging to him, his little arms wrapped around his torso as he laughed and giggled uncontrollably. The sound — light and innocent — filled the sterile hospital room, bouncing off the white walls. Dick’s laughter was like sunlight breaking through clouds, his energy contagious, even pulling the corners of Bruce’s mouth upward despite himself.

Alfred chuckled softly nearby, shaking his head as he adjusted the blanket that had fallen off the chair where Clark sat. The movement caused Bruce’s gaze to shift — down to where Clark was. His head was resting against the side of the hospital bed, his arms folded under his cheek, still in that awkward position from having fallen asleep there hours ago. His dark curls were slightly messy, his tie loosened, and his chest rose and fell in soft, steady rhythm.

Then came another loud burst of laughter from Dick, who was now bouncing slightly on the edge of the bed. The sudden noise made Clark stir, mumbling something under his breath before blinking awake. He squinted for a second, confused and disoriented, until his eyes landed on Bruce.

Their eyes met — Bruce, half sitting up, looking a little dazed but alive, and Clark, wide-eyed, realizing instantly that Bruce was awake. His drowsy confusion melted into pure relief.

“Bruce,” Clark said softly, his voice rough from sleep, but that one word carried everything — worry, exhaustion, and gratitude. He rubbed his eyes, sitting up straighter, trying to compose himself. “You’re awake… thank god.”

Dick giggled again and pointed. “You drooled, Mr. Clark!”

Clark’s cheeks went pink immediately as he wiped at his mouth, flustered. “I did not—” He paused, seeing the amused smirk tugging at Bruce’s lips. “Okay, maybe I did,” he muttered, half under his breath.

Bruce chuckled quietly — a real, genuine sound — shaking his head slightly as he glanced at Clark. “Seems like you’ve made yourself at home,” he murmured, his voice low and hoarse.

Clark smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t really plan to. Just… didn’t want to leave you alone.”

Chapter Text

A few days later, life for Clark felt… lighter — in a way he hadn’t realized he’d been needing. The world hadn’t changed, Metropolis was still buzzing and loud as ever, but he had changed. His chest didn’t feel so heavy when he woke up, his smile came easier, and the constant pressure he carried — to always be perfect, always be Superman — didn’t weigh him down as much anymore.

And it was all because of him.

Bruce.

The last few days, the two had been talking more than Clark ever imagined they would. It started simple — a text from Bruce the night after the hospital, a short “Thank you. For everything.” Clark had smiled like an idiot reading it, sitting in his apartment in just his pajamas with Krypto asleep beside him. He’d replied with something casual, trying not to sound too eager: “Anytime. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

But then it became something else.

What began as polite check-ins turned into long, late-night messages — about work, about Gotham, about Dick and how he’d eaten too much ice cream again. Sometimes Bruce even teased Clark, calling him Smallville after learning where he grew up. And though Bruce often kept his tone serious, there were moments — rare, but real — when he’d let down the walls and Clark could almost hear him smile through the screen.

Clark found himself waiting for those texts.

Between saving people, reporting for the Daily Planet, and trying to survive Lois’s teasing about his “mysterious new friend,” he always checked his phone more than he should. It made him feel ridiculous, like a teenager waiting for a crush to reply, but he couldn’t help it. Every time his phone buzzed and Bruce’s name lit up the screen, his heart did a small flip.

That morning, Clark sat by his apartment window, the soft glow of Metropolis sunlight spilling across his face. His phone buzzed again. A new message.

Bruce: “You’re free tonight, right?”

Clark blinked, staring at it for a moment before replying.

Clark: “Depends who’s asking.”

A minute passed.

Bruce: “Someone who owes you dinner.”

Clark grinned, feeling that familiar warmth in his chest again. He leaned back in his chair, biting his lip to stop the smile from spreading too wide.

He hadn’t expected to get this close to Bruce — not the billionaire, not Batman, but the man. And somehow, that felt like the most incredible thing that had happened to him in a very long time.

Clark stood in front of his mirror, halfway through buttoning up his shirt as his phone buzzed on the dresser. He already knew who it was — Lois. She had a habit of calling right when he was running late for something, like she had a sixth sense for it.

He grabbed the phone, putting it on speaker as he fixed his collar. “Hey, Lois.”

Her voice crackled through, sharp and amused. “Hey yourself, Smallville. You sound like you’re getting ready for something fancy. What’s the occasion? Another heroic rescue or are you finally going on that date you keep denying?”

Clark groaned softly, rolling his eyes. “It’s not a date, Lois.”

“Oh really?” she shot back immediately, the smirk audible in her tone. “Then why do I hear the good cologne being used? Don’t tell me you’re wasting that on Perry’s charity dinner again.”

Clark chuckled under his breath, adjusting his tie in the mirror. “I’m meeting Bruce. And Dick. He invited me to dinner with them.”

There was silence on the other end for a second — then a whistle. “Bruce Wayne? You mean the billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, Gotham’s golden bachelor — that Bruce Wayne?”

Clark frowned, tugging at his tie. “He’s not… he’s not like that, Lois. Not really.”

“Oh no, don’t tell me you’re getting defensive of him,” she teased, laughter bubbling in her voice. “You meet a man one day, save him from a near-death situation, and suddenly you’re his PR manager?”

Clark sighed, smiling despite himself. “You don’t know him like I do.”

There was a small pause — softer this time, Lois’s tone losing the teasing edge. “You really like him, don’t you?”

Clark froze for a moment, looking at his reflection. His fingers stopped fussing with his tie, and he glanced down at his phone. “…I don’t know. Maybe. It’s just—” He hesitated, then smiled faintly. “He’s different. He’s been through so much, Lois, and yet he still finds a way to care about people. He’s quiet, but… it’s not cold. It’s more like—he’s trying.”

Lois hummed thoughtfully. “Well, Smallville, if he makes you smile that much when you talk about him, then maybe that’s all that matters.”

Clark let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” she said confidently. “Now go. Don’t keep Gotham’s prince waiting. And try not to trip over your own feet, okay? You’ve got that flustered farm-boy charm, but billionaires don’t usually fall for that.”

Clark rolled his eyes, grinning. “Bye, Lois.”

“Bye, lover boy,” she teased before hanging up.

Clark sighed, pocketing his phone as he gave himself one last look in the mirror. He smoothed his shirt, adjusted his glasses, and smiled at his reflection — nervous but warm.

“Just dinner,” he muttered to himself. “With Bruce and Dick. Just dinner.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------✩

Clark left his apartment earlier than he usually would for anything — even work. He didn’t want to risk being late, not tonight. The city lights of Metropolis faded behind him as he crossed the bridge into Gotham, the skyline slowly emerging through the misty evening air, tall and dark and regal like it was watching him approach. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, the sound of soft jazz humming low through the car speakers as he drove, his reflection flickering against the window whenever they passed under a streetlight.

He kept checking the time on the dashboard, though he knew he had plenty of it. Bruce had mentioned the restaurant in his text — one of Gotham’s finest, of course, the kind of place where you needed a reservation weeks in advance and probably had to wear a suit worth half your rent just to fit in. Clark wasn’t nervous about that exactly — but there was something about meeting Bruce again, outside the chaos of the hospital, that made his chest feel strangely tight.

He leaned back in the seat, exhaling softly. “Okay, Clark,” he muttered to himself. “Just be normal. Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t mention how he looked in that suit at the hospital, don’t ask him about his scars, and definitely don’t—” He stopped, shaking his head with a small laugh. “Definitely don’t stare too long this time.”

The thought made him smile a little, even if his stomach was twisting with nerves. The streets of Gotham blurred by — dark, wet asphalt gleaming from the drizzle, old brick buildings lined with flickering neon signs, and that faint scent of rain that always hung over the city. It wasn’t as bright or clean as Metropolis, but Clark had to admit — there was something beautiful about it. It was a city that had seen everything and was still standing tall. Just like Bruce.

His mind wandered, as it always did when things got quiet. What were they going to talk about tonight? Would Bruce actually open up a little? Or would it just be small talk, about business or random stories about Dick’s latest adventures? Clark didn’t really care what they talked about — he just didn’t want it to be awkward.

He imagined Bruce waiting at the restaurant, dressed sharp as always, maybe looking out the window with that calm, unreadable expression of his. And Dick — probably swinging his legs under the table, talking about something funny or silly. Clark smiled at that image. It made him feel warm inside.

He took a deep breath as he turned onto the main road that led into the heart of Gotham, the city’s glow painting faint reflections across his windshield. “Just be yourself,” he told himself quietly. “That’s what Ma would say, right?”

Still, he couldn’t shake the thought that this night — this simple dinner — somehow felt like more than that. Like something quietly important was about to happen.

The restaurant glowed with that kind of warmth money couldn’t buy — dim amber light spilling from chandeliers, glinting off crystal glasses, and catching the faint curl of steam rising from freshly served plates. Every sound was quiet and deliberate: the clink of silverware, the low murmur of expensive conversation, the subtle slide of leather shoes on marble. Gotham’s upper class was out tonight, all charm and champagne, and Clark felt more out of place than he had in a long time.

He sat at the table that had been reserved for them — a sleek booth tucked neatly near the restaurant’s massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city. Gotham twinkled beyond the glass like a restless constellation. Clark checked his watch again. 8:58. He tried to keep his hands still on the table, but his fingers wouldn’t stop tapping against the stem of his glass.

He wasn’t nervous — or at least, that’s what he told himself. He’d faced alien invasions, political interviews, and world-ending threats. But waiting for Bruce Wayne felt different. It wasn’t fear. It was… anticipation. Something deep in his chest thrummed every time he thought about seeing him again.

At exactly nine, the door opened.

And there he was.

Bruce Wayne stepped into the restaurant, and the entire room seemed to pause — even if only for a heartbeat. He carried himself with that same practiced grace, that charming playboy aura Gotham knew so well. But tonight, there was something different. The sharp edges were smoothed over, the mask softer, gentler. His coat was dark and perfectly tailored, his white shirt crisp against a charcoal vest, and his tie slightly undone like he’d pulled it loose just before walking in. His hair fell in loose waves, framing his face in a way that looked accidentally perfect.

That playboy smile — the one he’d probably worn to a thousand galas and fundraisers — was there too, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t all performance. There was warmth behind it, something tired yet genuine, something that made Clark’s stomach twist in a way he didn’t understand.

He didn’t even see Dick at first, running happily behind Bruce, tugging at his coat and saying something that made the billionaire laugh — a real, unguarded laugh that Clark didn’t think he’d ever heard before.

Time slowed to a crawl. Clark’s eyes followed every step Bruce took — the sway of his coat, the way the light hit the faint scar across his cheek, the flicker of amusement in his blue-gray eyes. His heartbeat thundered in his chest, faster than it ever should have, even for him.

Bruce spotted him almost instantly. Their eyes met, and the faintest hint of surprise flickered across Bruce’s face before his smile returned — smoother this time, but still carrying that soft warmth that made Clark forget how to breathe.

“Clark,” Bruce said when he reached the table, his tone calm and collected, but his voice softer than Clark expected. “Sorry we’re late. Dick wanted to stop for ice cream.”

Clark stood a little too quickly, nearly knocking the table. “You’re fine,” he said, smiling despite the heat rising to his face. “I, uh… figured you’d be on time. You seem like the type.”

Bruce chuckled quietly — a low, velvety sound that made Clark’s pulse stutter. “I try to be.”

Dick climbed into the booth cheerfully, already talking about his favorite flavors, and Bruce followed after, sliding in across from Clark. That charming, almost effortless composure was there, but the longer Clark looked, the more he saw past it — the exhaustion under Bruce’s eyes, the quiet gentleness in the way he smiled at the boy beside him.

Dinner began slow — the kind of slow that felt careful, like both men were quietly measuring their words, still unsure how much of themselves to reveal. The waiter came and went, setting down plates that smelled faintly of rosemary and butter, but Clark hardly noticed the food. He was too focused on Bruce — the way he sat across from him, posture effortlessly straight, tie loosened just enough to make him look approachable, eyes sharp but… curious.

“So,” Bruce said after a pause, his voice low, that faint Gotham accent weaving through. “You’re still at the Daily Planet, right?”

Clark smiled, resting his elbows lightly on the table. “Yeah. Still trying to make the truth sound interesting enough for people to read.”

Bruce’s mouth curved upward in a subtle smirk. “You make it sound like a challenge.”

“It can be,” Clark admitted, shrugging. “People like excitement. I write about accountability, corruption, real-world issues. But next to flashy headlines, it doesn’t always stand out.”

Bruce leaned back slightly, studying him with that intense focus that always made people uneasy — but not Clark. It only made him want to talk more. “You care about it,” Bruce said quietly. “That’s why it stands out. You write what matters.”

Clark blinked, almost caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “I— yeah. I guess I do.”

Dick, who had been poking at his mashed potatoes with a fork, suddenly looked up with wide eyes. “Do you write about Batman sometimes?”

Bruce froze for half a second before sipping his wine like he hadn’t just heard that.

Clark tried not to laugh. “Sometimes,” he said softly. “But not too much. He doesn’t like attention.”

“Yeah, Dad says he’s a bit moody.”

Bruce coughed into his glass, nearly choking, and Clark had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Does he now?” Bruce muttered, shooting Dick a look that only made the boy giggle harder.

“So,” Bruce said after a pause, turning the focus back to Clark, “what about outside of reporting? Do you… have time for anything else?”

Clark thought for a moment, fiddling with his napkin. “I try. I like cooking when I can. Reading. Sometimes I just walk around the city and talk to people — hear their stories. It helps me write.”

Bruce nodded, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “You listen. That’s rare these days.”

Clark tilted his head. “And you? When you’re not… doing business or charity events?”

Bruce hesitated, the question hanging there for a moment before he answered. “I don’t get much free time,” he admitted. “When I do, I usually spend it with Dick. Or… work on projects around the manor.”

Dick chimed in, his voice full of excitement. “He means fixing his cars! He says it helps him think.”

Clark smiled warmly. “That sounds nice. Must be relaxing.”

Bruce gave a small, knowing smirk. “Sometimes. Other times it’s a headache.”

Clark chuckled softly, feeling the tension between them ease, the conversation growing more natural — lighter, even.

Then Dick leaned forward again, eyes wide and curious. “Clark, where’s your dog? Krypto, right? You told me about him before!”

Clark blinked, surprised he remembered. “Yeah, Krypto. He’s at home right now. Probably sleeping on my couch… or drooling on my blanket again.”

Dick laughed. “He sounds funny. Is he nice?”

“The nicest,” Clark said with a grin. “A little stubborn sometimes, but loyal. Always there when you need him.”

Something softened in Bruce’s expression at that — so subtly that Clark almost missed it.

For a moment, silence settled between them. But it wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It was quiet and warm, filled with the soft sounds of silverware and distant piano music.

Dick leaned forward eagerly, eyes bright as he started talking about school. “So, Mr Clark, I’ve been practicing really hard at school lately! You know, my classes, and—oh! I just got my history project graded—an A again! And my teachers say I’m doing great in sports too.”

Clark smiled, genuinely interested. “That’s awesome, Dick. Sounds like you’re keeping busy.”

“I am!” Dick continued, bouncing a little in his seat. “I’m in the water polo team now. Coach says I have a natural talent in the pool. And—oh! We’re playing in a big tournament next week. You should come watch! It’s really fun. You’d like it.”

Bruce’s gaze shifted from Dick to Clark, that subtle, assessing tilt of his head lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Water polo, good” he said, the corners of his lips twitching in that faint, almost imperceptible smirked. “I remember playing a bit myself, when I was younger"

Clark’s attention snapped fully to him, a little flustered, his mind catching on the double meaning that Bruce’s tone carried. “Oh?” he said, trying to keep it casual but feeling the heat rising across his chest. “I’d… I’d like to see that. Maybe you could show me sometime.”

Bruce’s smirk deepened, slow and deliberate, just enough to make Clark’s pulse pick up. “Oh, I could show you plenty,” he murmured, leaning slightly forward across the table. His shoe, as if on its own accord, slid subtly under the edge of Clark’s long pants, the tip brushing against the underside of his thigh.

Clark froze mid-bite of his salad, a sharp intake of breath escaping before he could stop it. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thicker. His hand shot to the table, fingers gripping the edge hard—and, to his mortification, he felt the wood crack under his grip.

“Uh—what was that?” Dick’s eyes went wide, scanning the table with a mixture of curiosity and alarm.

Clark turned sharply, trying to hide his flushed face. “Nothing,” he said quickly, too quickly. “Really, nothing.”

Bruce’s lips twitched in an almost imperceptible smile, eyes glinting with mischief. “Nothing,” he echoed, his voice calm, steady, but with that faint undertone that made Clark’s stomach twist in a way he didn’t entirely understand.

Dick tilted his head, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure. Nothing.” He waved a hand dismissively and leaned back, still watching them with wide-eyed fascination. “You guys are weird.”

Clark groaned softly, resting his forehead against the palm of his hand, trying to regain composure. “We’re… totally normal,” he muttered, but his voice betrayed him, slightly high and shaky.

Bruce’s eyes softened, though the smirk remained. “Normal is boring,” he said quietly, almost conversationally, and the casual closeness in his tone made Clark shiver. “It’s more interesting to have… challenges. Or experiences.”

Clark swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to Bruce’s, then away, then back. “I—I think I’d agree with that,” he admitted, his voice a little breathless, catching on the subtle teasing that seemed almost designed to unravel him.

Bruce shifted slightly, still watching him, the tip of his shoe retreating slowly but deliberately. “Good,” he murmured, leaning back with effortless control, though Clark could still feel the lingering heat where the contact had been. “You have to learn to enjoy it.”

Clark nodded, barely able to form coherent words, his fingers still curled tightly over the table edge. “Y-Yeah,” he stammered. “Enjoy… water polo… and… company.”

Bruce’s smirk deepened at that, the soft glint of amusement in his eyes causing Clark to flush harder. “Exactly,” Bruce said, calm, deliberate, teasing just enough to make Clark’s mind wander dangerously.

Dick, still oblivious to the tension between them, jumped in excitedly. “Mr Clark, you should come to practice sometime! You could try it too, although… I don’t know if the water’s your thing.”

Clark blinked, the words sticking in his throat. “I—uh—I’m sure I could manage,” he said, trying to sound confident but failing miserably, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

Bruce’s gaze softened again, watching him struggle to regain composure, that ever-present intensity in his eyes warming instead of intimidating. “I think he could,” Bruce said, almost casually, but the weight behind it made Clark shiver, feeling both noticed and entirely exposed in the most wonderful way.

Dick clapped his hands, oblivious, and Clark forced himself to straighten up in the booth, taking a shaky breath. “Well, I’ll take you up on that… sometime,” he said softly, trying not to think about Bruce’s leg brushing his again under the table.

“Good,” Bruce said, voice low and smooth, a tiny, satisfied glint in his eyes. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”