Chapter Text
Clark
“You know, it figures that you would be the one to get us into this mess.” Bruce hisses, levelling me with a glower from over the collar of his jacket.
I choke back an eyeroll, but my tone of voice is making no attempts to hide how irritated I am. Being stranded in an alternate dimension with scrooge’s meaner brother will do that. Especially when said scrooge you’re stranded with insists on blaming you for everything. It’s not like I planned on saving our lives, but Bruce’s skull is about as thick as his pride, and he’ll never concede that this whole situation was unavoidable. No, it’s too enjoyable punishing me for him to let it go.
“Excuse you? I’m not the one who suggested we check out that distress beacon in the first place—which I’d like to reiterate, was a trap.”
Bruce keeps up a brisk walk, expression sour and pinched as we hike up the gravel driveway, “Ah, but I’m not the one who fried the only fucking thing that can get us home, now am I?” He pats his pocket meaningfully where the poor transceiver is lying in melted pieces.
I scoff, throwing up my hands. God, sometimes I could just strangle this man.
“What would you have had me do? Let those Gnarlack tear you to shreds waiting for the damn thing to thaw? I just gave it a little extra help.”
Vengeful eyes painted in sterling silver stare me down viciously as he wheels abruptly to face me, and I’m forced to grind to a halt or risk running square into him. I doubt a collision would improve my chances of diffusing the argument before it gets physical. Still, my hands are itching…
“You damn near melted the circuits is what you did and you stranded us in the middle of God knows where. Now we have to hope that this universe isn’t too dissimilar from our own so I can fix this piece of shit,” he pulls the remote from his coat pocket and jiggles it in front of my face for dramatic effect, “or else we may be stuck here permanently.”
We stare at each other for long moments in thick silence, breath fogging between us as we stand toe to toe. His cheeks are flushed with irritation, his eyes gone dark like obsidian, hands coiled at his sides into fists. His posture reeks of someone spoiling for a fight and I feel my own hands twitching to inflict damage.
But…that wouldn’t help anybody and I know it. I also know Bruce. He wouldn’t be this angry if he weren’t a little bit concerned that we might be stuck here forever. And so close to Christmas too. If the boys ever found out that I was the one who stranded their dad in a parallel universe, they’d kill me. Alfred too. The first sprouts of guilt start taking root, like pesky wildflower seeds somewhere in my gut, and I can’t help but wilt a bit with the newfound emotion.
I sigh, forcing what’s left of my anger into submission. I purposefully take a step backwards, working to keep my tone level. It won’t do to kill each other. Not yet anyway.
“Look, Bruce…I’m sorry I stranded us here, but I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.”
I can see my bid for peace works, if only slightly. His eyes cool from that molten color to something like fine pewter, and he draws in a deep breath. Bruce may have a temper like a banshee on him, but he’s not unreasonable when you know how to work him.
“I had those Gnarlack under control.”
I arch a disbelieving brow and take a bit of a risk by lifting my chin, “They were about to decapitate you.”
Bruce shakes his head ruefully, and we resume walking again side by side, this time slower. “I had a plan, you know.”
I hum, eyes narrowed, “I feel like you’re just saying that to hide the fact that I saved your ass.”
Bruce’s mouth twitches, just the slightest of bits, and it isn’t hard to see when he’s dropped the hatchet. His eyes always look a bit like seafoam when he forgives you, something soft and rare in their color, and I feel my stomach untighten a bit. I don’t like being at odds with him, not ever. It’s a relief that he’s usually willing to accept the olive branch, or I would’ve gone crazy a long time ago trying to mend fences between us.
I smile now, bumping my shoulder with his, “Come on, admit it. You were a little bit scared.”
Bruce grunts, but a smirk is dancing at the corners of his lips when he shakes his head and arches a dark brow at me, “Careful, Clark. I’m still angry at you for stranding us here three days before Christmas.”
I let out a puff of air, watching it dissolve into a white cloud of mist. We’re almost to the house, if this universe is anything like ours. A few more turns, and we’ll be standing on the doorstep of the manor, praying that a kindhearted (and hopefully nocturnally inclined) Bruce Wayne is answering the door. If our luck holds, maybe he’ll have the right parts to fix our ride home.
Or we’ll just be stuck here. Forever.
I sigh, tucking my hands into my coat pockets. “Believe me, I’m not too happy about it either. Alfred is going to kill me if I don’t return you in one piece by Christmas dinner.”
“He’s going to kill us both, you mean. He’s been planning this dinner for months—something about roast quail and an even number of table settings.”
I chuckle, thinking that it sounds just like the old man to be concerned about table settings and who will be there to enjoy his cooking. “You know, sometimes I think you two just invite me because I’ll eat whatever you don’t. What’s the term Dick uses?”
“Garbage disposal? Vacuum cleaner?” Bruce lifts a knowing brow, smiling, “Yeah, well…Alfred enjoys an appreciative eater, and you never fail to compliment the chef, do you?”
I snort, “Remind me to bring my appetite then if I want to keep getting invitations.”
There’s a beat of silence between us, and I see him frown in peripheral. Eventually, he brushes his shoulder with mine, voice quiet and suddenly serious, “You know you’re practically family, Clark. I…we enjoy having you around. Even without an invitation.”
It’s the firm band of friendship and family and that frightening something unnamed that holds us together, and has for ten years now, but every time it comes up I’m painfully aware of it. We don’t talk about it, but the evidence it leaves is strong. We spend too much time together to deny it really. It’s there. The lingering glances, the wayward phone calls, the vacant love lives. Rumors fly and people talk, but nothing ever changes. It remains unnamed.
We’ve just never bothered to broach it further. I don’t know if we ever will. The friendship we share is comfortable and safe, and talking about things we can’t have is…dangerous. Like looking out over a cliff. Are there rocks or meadows at the bottom?
I swallow something that feels like a tennis ball wedged in my throat, forcing my gaze downward. Bruce has a habit of looking into me like a sheet of blue glass, completely transparent. I’m afraid that if I look up, he might just see my thoughts. And so I stare at my feet, making mirror footsteps of Bruce’s beside mine.
I sniff, giving a brief nod, “Well…thanks Bruce. That means a lot.”
He doesn’t say anything in reply really, but he squeezes my forearm briefly. It’s enough. We don’t have to say more, even though we probably should. For now, I’m content with just this.
A few minutes later, we’ve rounded the last corner and we emerge from the wooded section of Wayne Manor’s driveway. The gravel crunches beneath our feet in tandem with heavy snow as we trudge for the arched doorway, both feeling a bit wary. With the transceiver broken, it’s near impossible for Bruce to tell which dimension we’ve travelled to. Bruce Wayne may not exist in this universe at all, or he might not be Batman. We could receive a warm greeting or a cool one. It’s a game of Russian roulette, except we didn’t have the privilege of loading the gun. There’s no telling what could be waiting for us.
We stop at the doorway for a breathless moment, exchanging a glance between us. It’s Bruce who finally lifts a shoulder as if to say what the hell and lifts the iron knocker. It thuds against the door three times. Not thirty seconds later and the door is parting to reveal Alfred, dressed in a pressed suit, pencil-thin mustache, and a set of arched brows.
Bruce clears his throat, offering an expression that might pass as friendly to the untrained eye. I can see the lines pressing between his brows though. He’s worried. “We’re looking for Bruce Wayne.”
It isn’t entirely poor tidings when Alfred sighs, steps back from the doorway to allow us entry, and utters the dry words, “He’s been expecting you.”
We follow Alfred to the study, a path I know like I would my own home at this point. I spend the few moments of silence we’re afforded glancing around us, making sure everything looks the same. I note only two shifted paintings and an urn that’s missing, but otherwise, the Manor looks unchanged from ours. It still smells like lemon polish and old wood, warm with firelight and old things. If I closed my eyes, it wouldn’t be hard to imagine that we’re back in our own dimension it’s so similar.
I give Bruce a sideways glance when we’re left in the study with a promise that Master Wayne will be informed of our ‘arrival’. Bruce spares no time in poking around the room, checking through the books on the walls with an analytical eye I wish I possessed. He murmurs that we’ve gotten lucky. This Bruce is likely a vigilante as well, judging by his knowledge of our presence in this dimension.
He thumbs the spine of a book, gaze narrowed, “He must be monitoring the energy fluctuations between dimensions.”
I frown, crossing a leg over my knee. I keep watching the doorway, waiting for Bruce’s clone to come poking around the corner. I wonder if he’ll look the same.
“How would he know it was us though?”
“Each person carries an energy signature specific to their genetic code. It doesn’t alter too much between dimensions, and he likely has his own energy signature on file in case he receives copies from other universes. If he’s acquainted with your counterpart in this world, I wouldn’t doubt that his is on file as well.”
He says this all with his back turned to me at the bookcases, almost casually, like it should be common knowledge. I smile to myself, opening my mouth to say something in return. However, as luck would have it, this is the exact moment when Bruce’s carbon copy strides into the room. He’s virtually indistinguishable from mine, wearing a grey corded pullover and a glower, but his hair’s a little bit longer. Maybe a few more grey hairs? His eyes are maybe a touch lighter when he levels us both with a cursory glance and arches a singular, black brow.
“So, I see you finally made it.”
Bruce turns to face himself, expression impassive and calm, “You were expecting us.”
Bruce 2, who I mentally decide to call Wayne for the sake of clarity, lifts a shoulder, “Naturally. Your energy signatures registered yesterday. If you are anything like me, I figured it was only a matter of time before you made your way here.”
There is a beat of silence, and Wayne inhales a sigh, seating himself on the opposite couch with an elegant dip. He looks the picture of blasé impatience, and the expression is so familiar, that I have a hard time not chuckling when he gestures vaguely.
“The only thing I’m left questioning are your intentions here. If you come in peace, then we have no quarrel. If you come in violence…then you may find my welcome less than friendly.”
Bruce’s lips twitch in a bit of a smile, like he’s looking into a flattering, humorous mirror, and he strides slowly back to the couch. He seats himself next to me with the same fluid grace of his reflection, withdrawing the transceiver from his pocket. “Our visit is unintentional actually.”
I bump Bruce’s shoulder with mine, clearing my throat. “But we’re not seeking a fight. We just want to be home in time for Christmas.”
Wayne’s eyes flicker to the mangled transceiver, before they dip to me, all cool silver and mirth, “Your handywork I take it, Clark?”
“Guilty, although it wasn’t intentional.”
Wayne smirks as he takes the proffered transceiver and turns it over in his hands several times. When his gaze rises to me again, it’s amused and entirely too familiar. “Hell of a job destroying it.”
I can’t help the little nervous chuckle that escapes when two Bruce Waynes are watching me with brows lifted. It’s a bit like being cornered by two panthers with a steak in my hands. I can’t decide if I’m nervous…or intrigued.
Bruce gestures at the melted heap of metal and wires, “I don’t suppose you have a replacement?”
Wayne turns it over once more, eyeing the mechanisms protruding crookedly from the back, “Unfortunately, no. I’ve been working on a prototype similar to this design, but I don’t have anything completed yet.” He lifts a shoulder, passing back the transceiver to Bruce fluidly, “But we might be able to repair that one to functionality within a couple days, provided you’re familiar with the original schematics of this design.”
Bruce lifts a brow, and I recognize the flash of a challenge in his eyes when he nods, “Of course.”
“Well, in that case, we’ll start tinkering after we’ve eaten.” Wayne gives a pert nod, expression impassive and serene.
He seems in no hurry when he leans back into the couch and crosses his arms over his chest, “But until Alfred finishes,” he glances at his wristwatch briefly here, “I could use a good story. How did you two end up here?”
If Bruce is bothered by Wayne’s leisurely pace, he doesn’t show it. He settles deeper into the couch next to me and starts recounting how we almost died at the hands of interdimensional organ salvagers.
It’s an hour later when dinner is finally announced, much the same as in our dimension. It feels a bit strange following after Bruce and Wayne as they walk shoulder to shoulder, discussing the fundamentals of universal travel in quiet, whispered tones. They’ve become instant friends over the past hour, a familiarity you only gain with Bruce if you actually are Bruce evidently, and I trail after them silently.
It’s when we’ve seated ourselves at the dining room table that I hear someone come in through the kitchen door. He murmurs a greeting to Alfred, sets down a heavy bag. His gait is familiar to me, but I can’t quite pick out the identity of the person who’s trudging up the kitchen stairs to join us. Bruce and Wayne are still engaged in quiet conversation across from each other as I try to figure out which of the boys we might meet.
To my surprise, it’s…myself who comes striding through the dining room doorway. White button up shirt, loosened tie in red, brown loafers. Thick-framed glasses and untamable hair. It’s like looking in a disturbingly accurate mirror come to life.
I blink at myself, watching him as his eyes sweep the room and find me and Bruce seated at the other side of the table. He lifts a brow, but he doesn’t seem as surprised as he should be. I gather he was tipped off to the situation, because he doesn’t ask any questions when he takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair next to Wayne.
Wayne’s eyes dip to Clark’s, momentarily pulled from the conversation by his presence. He smiles slightly, murmuring a hello, and I watch in quiet surprise when Clark dips to offer Wayne a quick peck on the lips.
I blink, my brain stilting around the image of the two as they sit next to each other and swivel their gazes back to us casually. I can tell Bruce noticed the little display of affection as well because his voice has stalled slightly, and a quick glance in my periphery tells me that he’s blinking rapidly too. Like trying to clear an impossible mirage.
Did that just happen? Did I just imagine that? Or are we really…together in this universe?
I try to catch Bruce’s gaze, as if I can whisper did you just see that too with my eyes, but I think he’s purposefully avoiding me. He keeps his eyes straight forward, picking up his conversation with only a slight cough. Wayne nods thoughtfully, seemingly unperturbed by the sudden awkwardness in the room.
Clark too, seems unfazed by our owlish blinking when the conversation lulls and he leans across the table to offer us both a firm handshake. He smiles warmly when he takes our hands, “Well, this a bit surreal. Like looking in a mirror. I’m Clark, by the way.”
We nod and shake hands, but my mind keeps going back to that kiss again and again. Replaying it like a weird fever dream I can’t seem to forget. How long have they been an item? When did that even start and how? I mean, sure, I’ve entertained thoughts of Bruce and I broaching it for years, but to actually do something about it? It seems impossible. And yet here’s this entire universe, where he and I somehow get involved with each other.
I keep glancing at Bruce, desperate to catch his eyes. I want to know what he’s thinking about this. Is he shocked? Surprised? Disgusted? His reaction is suddenly vitally important to me.
I can’t seem to focus on Clark or Wayne as they speak, I’m so wrapped up in my inner dialogue. It isn’t until I hear the damning words, “So, how long have you two been together?” that I’m pulled from my own swirling thoughts to the sound of Bruce choking on his asparagus.
It’s a question that feels like a douse of cold water down my shirt, and I blink back to reality as Bruce is taking a sip of water to get his mouthful down. A glance across the table shows Wayne shaking his head slightly, murmuring something disapproving I don’t care to listen to in Clark’s ear. I feel color rise from my collarbones to my cheeks, sweat peppering my brow when I manage to fumble out a stuttering, “Oh, we’re—we’re not…we’re just—”
“Friends.” Bruce finishes for me when he’s managed to swallow. I suddenly don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to see how disgusted he might be with the idea of us being together, not when I’m feeling this embarrassed at least. I feel fragile and not entirely sure of what’s reality and what isn’t.
Clark blinks, looking stunned when he offers a soft, “Oh, I’m sorry. I just—I assumed that you two were…”
Clark looks as embarrassed for asking as I feel, and the silence stretches for an uncomfortably long time as we all stare at our napkins and try to pretend nobody said anything. But the question lingers in the air like a heavy cloud, acrid and painful and awkward. Impossible to avoid.
Oh hell. Just shoot me now. This is horrible.
I clear my throat, pushing the potatoes around with my fork to avoid looking up. “So, um…how long have you two been…” I feel Bruce tense next to me.
God, I can’t even finish the sentence.
Clark inhales slightly, and I can hear a moment of deliberation between the two. I look up, find Clark counting on his fingers, Wayne whispering something to him beneath his breath. Their heads are leaned in close to each other, and I think they may even be holding hands beneath the table. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Hell, it looks natural.
Eventually, Clark shrugs, cheeks a bit flushed as he chuckles, “Well, we’ve been together for, what babe…three and half years now? Engaged last April.”
I nod, drawing in a steadying breath. Oh my God. They’re engaged. Engaged. Engaged! “Oh. How—nice. When’s the wedding?”
A smiling look exchanged between the two, like they’re speaking their own language without words. It’s such a warm moment between them, I have to look away. I feel like I’m seeing something privately intimate, and it makes my chest ache.
I can hear Bruce’s heart thundering next to me. I don’t dare look at him.
“February 1st.”
I swallow, feeling like I’m choking on a rock. I force my gaze back up to Wayne and Clark, making myself smile. I feel a bit sick actually. “Well congratulations. That’s wonderful.”