Chapter Text
Bruce’s ring finger is branded with a string of strange symbols. He has ran them through every existing database on the planet. Nothing matches.
When he was born, the mark was very faint. People say this means his soulmate has yet to be born. His father comforts him with the notion that not all are so lucky to witness the birth of their special person.
Young Bruce nods, not fully understanding, but like all kids his age, he eagerly awaits the day he could finally read the name on his finger.
When he turns four, the brand clarifies. Its colour the purest of sapphire blues; his mother says it is that of the richest autumn sky. The strange thing is, the brand of blue symbols looks not like any kind of alphabet or logogram, but rather some mysterious patterned decoration. Not even the learned Alfred can decipher just which language this is from. Bruce lowers his head in disappointment, accepting the silver ring from his mother to cover up the confusing string of symbols.
In his early twenties he traverses almost the entire world, but no matter how desolate or well-hidden the people he visits, none uses the symbols branded onto his hand. Slowly, he learns to cease all expectations, though occasionally when looking up the sky he would think of the same blue of his soul mark and wonder if one day, such a piece of the sky will belong to only him.
The first time he puts on the cowl he removes the silver ring. The soul mark is still the same shade of unforgettable sky blue. He stares at it for a moment, then pulls on his gloves, enveloping that hopeful colour in fathomless black.
The newly-forged Batman is unable to prevail in the face of evil like the heroes of fairy tales. He falls from the building covered in burns, landing with a painful grunt in an abandoned alleyway entrenched with grime and rats. An icy sleet smothers the flames on his cape, but not before his gloves were destroyed. The young Dark Knight shrivels in pain amongst the garbage, the remnants of Scarecrow’s fear toxin corroding his senses. His left hand clutches into a grotesque shape. In his blurry vision, the blood-stained brand is no longer the vivid sky-blue, but rather a hellish black.
He flips to his back, looking up at the sliver of the dank Gotham sky framed by two shambling buildings; the city’s nights are sullen and putrid, the freezing rain drowning out the last hope, leaving only bleakness.
What are you still hoping for, Bruce?
When your soul has been eroded by darkness and fear, who would still be your soulmate, but the demon himself?
Every gossip monger knows that the Prince of Gotham has yet to find his soulmate, and all are curious: just whose name is beneath the silver ring of the playboy billionaire? Many a paparazzi have tried to figure out some kind of hint from the series of beautiful partners Bruce Wayne dated, but there is no pattern. The Prince of Gotham has no specific type.
“I think I am about to ask a question that everyone is curious about, Mr. Wayne.” The young reporter from Metropolis poises his recorder, the silver ring on his own finger a stabbing mockery. Bruce turns his eyes from the glare that glanced off from that damned metal band.
“This is of topmost secrecy, Mr. Kent,” Bruce melts into a practiced smile, masking the emptiness in his heart with a string of lies. “However, if you will let me see yours, I will consider granting you this exclusive piece of gossip.”
To his satisfaction, the reporter flusters red at the implications. Bruce’s playful smile widens into glee as the reporter stammers to change the subject.
Behind the facade, bitterness brews.
Of course he knows that Clark will never remove his ring, for there is no mark, no brand of any kind.
It is a quiet afternoon when the Justice League returned Solomon Grundy to jail. All the members are feeling the leftover adrenaline pumping through their veins, and the atmosphere is light.
Superheroes gossip too when bored.
Batman has no idea how the conversation steered in the direction of soulmates, those nosy idiots. To his surprise and in spite of himself, he hears how Cyborg is the only one among them who claims to have found his soulmate, despite having lost his entire left arm along with the mark.
The Amazonian princess explains openly about the faint scar on her own finger, only a slight pang of sadness along her determined jaw.
The direction of the topic swerves towards Superman. Green Lantern slips close to his left hand and yelps: “You don’t have a ring Supes? You don’t have a mark?”
The alien smiles shyly, unclasping his clenched hands. His ring finger is smooth, scarless and brandless: nameless and unclaimed.
Bruce isn’t surprised. He has known this since the first day they have met. After confirming that his own mark is not of Earth, he has entertained the notion of aliens. But Superman’s ringless hand dispels all desire to learn more. The Kryptonian’s finger is markless like the rest of him - he of course isn’t Bruce’s soulmate; he will not ever belong to anyone.
He leaves before they turn their incessant attention to him. The cowl hides his face, but not the disappointment within.
How foolish for him to imagine, to dare delude himself, that this blinding god could one day belong to him; that those eyes blue as the untainted sky would one day focus only on him.
The fight with Doomsday is devastating. Back at the watchtower, most members retreat directly into their quarters for well-deserved recuperation. Yet Bruce still has a job to do in Gotham. As he drags his worn body towards the teleporter, he turns a corner and almost collides with Superman.
As usual, the alien seemed to not understand the concept of dodging attacks and took them head on, leaving both himself and his uniform in tatters. The “S” has been torn away, exposing much of the skin on his chest.
Bruce’s brows knit together, his gaze about to avert from the fine lines of rippling muscle and marbled skin, a triggering reminder of his own dark want.
Something on Superman’s chest pulls him back.
The black-blue mark is unmistakable on that chiselled chest. The colour and script are identical to that of his left ring finger - it is Bruce’s colour, written with Bruce’s name - over Superman’s heart.
The normally collected Dark Knight finds himself at the bottom of a preposterous awakening.
Superman continues to stare at him, unblinkingly with those clear blue eyes. His uncertain gaze slowly shifts to guarded hope as he takes in Bruce’s unmistakable shock.
“Tell me it’s you… please….” His voice shakes until it is almost indiscernible, as if Bruce’s answer will become his final judgement, his personal Doomsday.
The world’s greatest detective finds his mind blank, his breathing difficult. What breaths he could draw burn his lungs as both desire and something deeper devastate through the remnants of any logical thinking.
He removes his left glove, hands shaking so badly he has difficulty grasping the leather.
The script. The colour. Everything matches.
Superman’s Kryptonian name is on his finger, just as his name is over Superman’s heart.
The Man of Steel lets out his breath , nearly collapsing as he kneels before Bruce on his knees. A god-like being in his brilliance, he grabs Bruce’s left hand and kisses it, over and over, in an undeniably human tenderness.
“I knew it is you… it had to be you…”
Bruce tenses, yanking Superman up by his hair. Before the latter could speak, he slams their lips together. The invulnerable alien whimpers, and presses Bruce into an embrace, bruising him with his massive strength. Their kiss deepens. Their two souls merge into an identical frequency resonating within their chests, a colossal pledge that binds them together; from now until forever, nothing can separate them. Nothing will.
The kiss ends.
“No mark, hm?” Despite the lack of breath, and despite the flush colouring his cheeks, the Dark Knight’s voice is still threatening with its dangerous growl.
The menacing accusation has no impact on Superman’s innocent smile. He grabs the hand marked with his name and places it over his beating heart. “You never told me your real name, I suppose we are even?” He plugs the torrent of curses and complaints with another suffocating kiss.
The proximity of Superman’s eyes dazes Bruce, as if looking into the sky that he has enamoured of for so long - that untainted, pure sky.
Starting now, this piece of that sky belongs eternally to him.