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“Batman, status.” Diana’s voice crackles over the comm, strong and authoritative.
“Moving in now. Superman?”
“He’s punching some alien in the face now. Seems to be doing fine.”
Batman closes his eyes for a moment. “Good. Make sure he stays that way. Keep him busy.”
“Bruce--”
“Please, Diana. It’s necessary. There’s no other way to do this. Just please...take care of him.”
There’s silence for a long time. Batman works on picking open the lock. “This will devastate him,” Diana says finally.
“There isn’t any other way. Please promise me.”
She sighs. Through the comms, Batman can hear her punch some baddie. “Okay. I promise. I just wish--”
“I know. I’m turning my comm off now. Don’t...don’t come looking for me. Don’t let him look for me.” Without waiting for a reply, he pulls back his cowl and removes the earpiece, then drops it onto the concrete and crushes it soundly with the heel of his boot. When at last he begins assembling the device, he allows himself to think about Clark.
Clark. His gentle eyes. His gentler hands. The way both harden when he’s staring someone down. The way his entire body trembles when Bruce kisses him. The way all tension releases his body when Bruce touches him. The unhindered gasps that seem to be forced from his mouth when--
Stop. He can’t let himself be distracted. He can’t let himself lose control of this situation.
He screws on another piece again, and he can’t help but let his mind wander back to Clark. To their last night together.
It started off peacefully enough: Clark came over to the manor after the meeting. The boys were off doing something in the city--keeping the peace, probably, as Batman trained them to do--so they both moved through the hallways without interruption.
“Big day tomorrow,” Clark said lightly. As per usual, he was trying to make a bad situation better. He was trying to shine that goldenness that was his trademark on the shadows that made Bruce’s life. “We should get some sleep.” He gently steered Bruce away from the room that hid the entrance to the batcave and instead led them both to Bruce’s room. “Both of us.”
Bruce shook his head. “I don’t need sleep,” he said, and Clark’s face softened.
“Yes you do. You’re human, Bruce. You need to sleep.”
Bruce wanted to make a joke--to say something like “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” but the circumstances of the situation made the thought of doing so sour his stomach, and he tasted bile in the back of his throat as Clark tugged at the ears of his cowl, pulling it back so he could see Bruce’s face.
“Are you okay?”
He forced a smile. “I think you’re right. I think maybe I just need sleep.” He wondered for a fraction of a second if Clark was listening to his heartbeat--if he could tell that he was lying--but he pushed that away. Even if he was, there was nothing Bruce could do about it. And even if Clark called him out on it, there was nothing he could do to make Bruce change his mind. This was the only way.
“Worried about tomorrow?” Clark guessed.
“Yeah. A bit.”
“We have it all planned out. With you on our side, there’s nothing that could go wrong.”
Bruce tasted bile again, but he swallowed it down. Clark didn’t understand. He didn’t get that being the leader of the League was an exhausting amount of responsibility and pressure: Bruce had to take care of the League, of the planet they were protecting, of his family in Gotham and, under it all, himself. Once he was a child. Now he was in charge of making sure the planet wasn’t destroyed.
God, he was human . What was he doing? Why was he in charge of this team of aliens and superheroes, when he was just human ? What could he do to help?
“Bruce,” Clark whispered. He took Bruce’s jaw with one hand and forced them to connect gazes. “Listen to me. We’ll be okay. And afterward we can go on a long vacation and just relax, you know? Your family can take care of Gotham. The League can take care of Earth. They can afford to lose us for a few months.”
Bruce looked away. “You’re right. Let’s go on a vacation. Whatever happens tomorrow, let’s go on a vacation. I can tell Alfred to prepare everything for when we’re done. Where do you want to go?”
A bright, genuine smile lit up Clark’s whole face. “I’ve always liked France.”
“You want to go to France?”
The smile got wider. “It’s romantic.”
Bruce released his breath. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Clark’s lips. “So it is. I’ll tell Alfred to make sure the jet’s ready.” He moved to activate his comm, but Clark caught his hand.
“You can do that in the morning. It doesn’t have to be now.” He kissed Bruce again and smiled against his mouth. “You ever think about giving all of this up? The hero business?”
Bruce was never in the hero business. “Every day. But I have the means to make change, and therefore I must use those means to make the world a better place.” Slowly he brought his hand to Clark’s neck and rested it there at the nape, finding comfort in the other man’s warmth. “You understand. Could you ever leave Metropolis behind?”
“Leave Metropolis?” Clark considered it for a couple seconds, then shrugged. “I could lose Metropolis for you. The entire city is built on heroes. If a big baddie shows up, the Justice League will always be operating, and every day new heroes with new powers show up.”
The pain in Bruce’s chest almost brought him to his knees. He stepped back from Clark and turned, facing the bed as he tugs at the collar of the batsuit. “But...you are the beacon of hope for your city.”
“No. I used to be, but I’m not anymore. They find hope in each other above all, now. I’ve inspired them to step up to the plate. There isn’t room for me anymore.”
“Clark.” Bruce pressed his face into his hands. “Of course there’s room for you. They love you. They’ll always make room for you.”
Clark came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s waist and nuzzling his neck. “Bruce, what is this about?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Bruce--”
“Honestly, Clark. I’m okay.” He moved away from Clark again and peeled the torso of the batsuit off his chest so that it gathered at his waist. “I’ve just been...thinking a lot about all of this hero stuff.”
“You know the people of Gotham love you, too. You don’t have to be like me to be their hero.”
No. No, he didn’t have to be like Clark. But he had to at least be a little better. Dick and Tim were better. Hell, Jason was better. They operated in the shadows, but they were still heroes. Batman was…something else.
“Come to bed,” Clark murmured. “We can talk after the battle.”
“Sleepwear is in the bottom drawer.”
“I know.” Clark already had Bruce’s favorite set in his hands, and passed them over. “Bruce, I--” His voice broke. When Bruce looked up, he saw that Clark’s face was wet with tears.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed.
“I just…” He gave a shaky laugh and wiped furiously at his cheeks. “I want to be happy with you, Bruce. And I want you to be happy.”
“That’s nothing to cry about.” Bruce caught Clark’s hand and offered what he hoped was a comforting smile.
“I...love you, Bruce.”
“And I love you.” They shared another kiss. Bruce could taste the salt of Clark’s tears.
Something clatters to the ground when Bruce’s hands slip. He swears and pulls off his gloves so he can have better grip on his tools. Stop thinking about him. Stop thinking about him . But he can’t. Clark has become a part of him, as important as Batman, as the billionaire playboy mask he puts on, as his family at the manor. He does not always dominate Bruce’s thoughts, but he is nevertheless always there in all his perfect all-American golden glory. His smile, those tattered plaid shirts that he can never quite button properly, the paint-spattered jeans so worn in the knees and thighs that they barely hold together.
Dammit.
Bruce rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. Sweat drips from his brow. It’s too hot in here. It’s too stifling. He’s locked in and he can’t call for help and he won’t be able to call for help. Ever. He’s alone. For the first time in his life, he is truly alone.
There were times when he thought the same, but he always had Alfred. He had all of the teenagers running through the house. He had the League. He had more and more people every day, but now he is really alone. He turned his back on everyone and now he’s alone.
Diana is the only one he could really trust with the truth of this mission. Out of everyone, she understood the most. She was a natural leader. She would be the natural replacement when Batman was gone, and she would do well.
She’d resisted at first. She also resisted at the end. But, above all, she understood. She knew that this--what Bruce is doing now--is necessary.
And if he had told Clark?
He puts the final piece--a DNA sample--into the machine and turns it on. It whirls for a good few seconds.
For the first few minutes, they just kissed. Bruce didn’t allow himself to cry. He didn’t allow the emotions to get the best of him. But Clark’s breathing synchronized with his as he sobbed into Bruce’s chest, whispering “I love you, I love you, I love you,” and for a moment it seemed almost as if it was Clark that was leaving, not Bruce.
If Bruce had told him then, they would have stopped kissing and Clark would have stopped crying and he would have sat there in a daze, trying to comprehend the meaning of Bruce’s words. And then he would laugh. And then he would say “Not funny, Bruce,” and try to kiss him again. And when Bruce insisted that he wasn’t joking he would have gotten angry and he would have yelled at Bruce a little, probably. Nothing physical. Clark would never do that. And that would only last a moment, because then he would be all excited about finding another way to solve the problem, and then when Bruce told him there was no other way he just wouldn’t have his head in the fight in the morning, and he wouldn’t ever reach that stage of acceptance because Bruce had destroyed his last chance to be happy anyway, and the most recent memory of Bruce before that would have just been the League meeting.
So he stayed quiet. He didn’t cry. He’d already reached the stage of acceptance, and now he was riding out his last moments in as much happiness as he could muster, and he almost wanted to tell Clark to stop crying, please stop crying because he wanted their last moments to be all smiles.
Alas. That wasn’t who they were. That had never been who they were. Their relationship was forged on broken hearts and whispered lies. They thrived on patching each other up after fights, on punching baddies together while their bodies begged for rest. No, they dated like they lived: fast and angry and desperate and barely held together with bargain band-aids and scotch tape. They were in pain and they found health and healing in each other. That was who they were. Smiles were never part of the equation.
He just wanted them to be. God, in those last moments, he so terribly wanted them to be. He always knew they weren’t going to last forever; they were the both of them far too damaged to be successful. But he could certainly dream.
They kissed for the first few minutes, and the next few after that were more heated. Bruce almost didn’t go farther than that. The guilt weighed down on him so heavily that his mouth on Clark’s felt deceitful.
Then Clark traced an outline of a bat onto Bruce’s chest and said, “Bruce, whatever this is. We’ll figure it out. We always have.”
“Yes. We always have.” He wanted to add that it was always Clark who solved any emotional problems in the relationship--that it was Bruce who solved the more logical problems, but it wouldn’t help any. They both knew as much. Clark was about communication. Bruce was about efficiency.
“You can let go.” Clark’s hand slid down Bruce’s stomach and rested between his legs, a wicked smile flickering at his lips. It was an odd picture: this world-famous hero, still crying and yet with that look in his eyes and at his mouth, but Bruce was still overcome with emotion. He swallowed back the sob that built up in his chest and fought to concentrate on the pleasure that Clark’s touch brought him.
Just for tonight, he told himself, and raked his fingers through Clark’s hair. Just for tonight.
He could have told Clark afterward, when they were both in the haze of release and Clark’s eyelashes had begun brushing against his cheeks. But neither of them would have gone to sleep, and Bruce--he was selfish, he learned early--would remain in Clark’s memory as a manipulator, as a deceiver.
They both knew it was true, but Bruce had a few last wishes. The first of these was that Clark’s last memory of Bruce was as happy as the two of them could make it. If Bruce had the choice, he would have taken out Clark--to France, apparently--and they would have spent the day together, loving the sights, loving the food, loving each other. Bruce still would have never told Clark about what he was going to do, but at least there wouldn’t have been tears. At least it wouldn’t have had to take place in the dead of the night, with their suits scattered dirty on the ground around them, their last hours only a hundred breaths away.
It would have been better.
The second of Bruce’s wishes was that he wanted Batman to die with some dignity. He didn’t want to be the master manipulator. He wanted people to know that he did his best, but that he ultimately failed. Some of the truth was okay. All of the truth was worse.
And what would it do to Clark, knowing that Bruce knew all along what was going to happen, that he had lied to him? If he did it like he planned, well. That would mean Clark would have the option of thinking of Bruce’s death as a mistake or a last-minute decision. There was at least that.
It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing, that was for sure. Not like there was much that could make this better, but it certainly wasn’t as bad as it could get.
“You’re distracted.” Clark’s mouth moved against Bruce’s skin as he spoke, and Bruce could feel the heat of his breath as he exhaled. “Can you talk to me?”
“I will.” It was three in the morning. Almost four. Bruce felt worse with every lie, but he kept going. “How about after the fight, okay?”
“Okay.” Clark was getting sleepy, but he kissed Bruce again with the same intensity he always had. “I love you so much, Bruce.”
“I love you, Clark.” At Clark’s name, Bruce’s voice cracked and he had to swallow down the tears that came with it. For some blessed reason, Clark doesn’t calm him out on it. He just curls against Bruce, his chest pressed against Bruce’s back, and buries his nose in Bruce’s hair.
“We’ll be happy,” he whispered. “We will.”
The device stops whirring and Bruce’s fingers hover over the button.
When he explained the plan to Diana, she’d been so confused. Couldn’t somebody else do it? Why did it have to be him, the leader? Why couldn’t it be someone with powers--Barry, maybe, who would be able to run out of there fast enough; or Hal or John, both of whom could create a protective shield around themselves; or even Clark would be a better option, since he was, you know, faster than a speeding bullet--and then Bruce interrupted. He was the only one who could do this. Even if someone did manage to get out of range before the device sucked everything in, Bruce didn’t have the time to teach anyone how to assemble the device, much less operate it.
They don’t have a choice.
He closes his eyes again and takes a deep breath. He almost wants to contact Clark again. He almost wants to say goodbye, to tell him one last time that he loves him, but what would that accomplish? It would be an entirely selfish act. Clark would freak out and rush toward him and it would ruin the plan and then what? The world would be fucked. Bruce isn’t sure if he would be able to fix it.
If he whispered and Clark was listening, that might be enough. But Clark might still get to him in time to stop him.
It was better not to risk anything at all. It was better to keep it all in his head, to let his pain fester the few microseconds it took for him to reach toward the button and press it. It’s worth it. The world is worth it. Clark is worth it.
He slams his hand down on the button.
For a moment, nothing happens. The machine works at identifying every alien invader that match the DNA sample he inserted earlier and then it latches onto them.
It pulls.
Because Bruce is so close by, it pulls him, too.
The others, they won’t be affected at all. He finds peace in that as each molecule tears off of him and spins into the machine, off to some other dimension he didn’t have time to check. They couldn’t be killed, but they could be moved. And that’s what he had explained to Diana in full, and that is what she tried to resist.
Something green flies past him. He wonders what the rest of the League is doing, watching each seemingly invulnerable invader fly past them to what is probably their death. He wonders what Clark is doing. He wonders if Clark is thinking about Bruce like Bruce is thinking about him. He wonders if Clark’s heart fills with the same love that Bruce’s does.
The guilt swallows him before the portal does.
For a moment, there is nothing. There is darkness. There is oblivion. Is this death?
He’s okay with this. He’s okay with death. Clark can move on. He can be happy without him. He can continue being the hero he’s always been and, if he ever wants to retire, he can do that, too.
He’s okay with this.