Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bruce doesn’t drink.

He did once. Back when he was eighteen years old and the entirety of Wayne Industries was thrust upon his shoulders once he was legally of age. Back when everyone avoided his eyes and never mentioned the age limit. When they handed him scotches and sherries and welcomed him into the world of large companies and global industries. He drank every night, sometimes during the day, and made enough bad decisions that he’s damn near surprised Wayne Industries didn’t burn down from all the neglect and scandals revolving around it.

Then, when he hit twenty-two, he realised this wasn’t the way he wanted to do things, this wasn’t the best way to avenge his parents. He still can feel their phantom heavy gazes on his back, disappointment in the way he’d acted and grown, and they don’t go away no matter how many times he tries to appease them.

Alfred told him once that he didn’t need to appease his parents. They would’ve loved him the way he is, no matter what. Bruce isn't sure he'll ever believe that.

It didn’t stop Bruce from coming up with Batman at such a young age though, and twenty years later he’s still going strong as the dark vigilante of Gotham City, as the World’s Greatest Detective. He hopes that would make his parents proud, hopes that he’s managed to build so much since the moment he threw his last bottle of scotch into the fire.

Only this time, today, Bruce decides that a drink is to be needed. Today of all days. He steals a bottle of bourbon from Alfred’s secret collection for the occasion. He can count on one hand how many times he’s gotten drunk since he became Batman, and each time is a truly good reason.

Today, it’s Martha Wayne’s birthday.

So he drinks. He sits on the decaying Wayne Mansion rooftop, looking out over this shitty crime-infested town that’s shaped him in nearly every way possible, and he raises his half-empty bottle of bourbon to toast Martha Wayne, the best damn mother Bruce never had.

He’s been up here for hours now. It’d been sunset when he first crawled out the top attic window and swung up onto the roof. It’s now pitch black with sirens wailing through the air. Gotham is like clockwork, all crimes start after dark and finish in the waking hours of dawn. At least it’s consistent. At least it gives him some routine in his fucked-up life.

Bruce is expecting to stay out here for a little while longer, maybe finish the bottle without a glass because he’s that classy today, before slinking back into the lake-house and avoiding Alfred’s disappointed looks. He’ll still get a full breakfast and plenty of analgesics to take away the hangover, but there will be no sympathy from Alfred. Bruce feels like delaying the moment he’s subjected to Alfred’s judgemental stare for just a bit longer.

What he doesn’t expect, especially since it’s never happened before, is Clark bloody Kent arriving on his rooftop.

“Hey Bruce,” he calls out as he lands very gently, and Bruce has to blink a few times to make sure he’s seeing straight. Admittedly, he’s not drunken in well over two years, and his tolerance is surprisingly low. It only took a quarter of the bottle for his head to get light and his eyesight to blur, and now with only a quarter left, he is definitely on his way to being completely plastered.

In any case, Clark is not at all a solid figure. He’s blurry all around the edges and Bruce takes one look at his face and immediately sees four-eyes through the glasses.

“What’re you doing here?” Bruce mutters as he drops his gaze to focus on the bottle in his hand. It’s the only stable thing around him, probably because his hand is moving in time with his eyes, so really he’s not that stable. “Come to laugh at the drunk old batsy?” He snorts and shakes his head. “Who told you? It can’t have been Alfred-”

“Jesus, Bruce,” Clark interrupts, taking a step forward when Bruce looks back up at him. He looks concerned. Concerned. The only person ever concerned about Bruce is…. well, Alfred. And he’s paid to be concerned.

He doesn’t put up a fight when Clark crouches down in front of him and reaches out for the bourbon. He contemplates yanking it back, but Clark’s fingers are really warm against Bruce’s and he didn’t realise how cold he was. It’s a moment of weakness that has him linking his fingers with Clark’s for just a moment.

It’s a moment that goes on and on though as Bruce watches Clark pull away from his bottle of fine bourbon, only to grip Bruce’s hand right back. Bruce doesn’t think he mistakes the wide-eyed look on Clark’s face as he drops to his knees and shuffles right up close to Bruce, bending his arm back onto his lap in the process.

“You’re freezing,” Clark says as he uses his spare hand to tug off his hideous plaid jacket. He lets go of Bruce’s hand for a second, just to yank the jacket off, but it’s jarring enough to clear a little of Bruce’s head.

“I don’t need it,” he starts to protest as Clark swings it towards him. “It’s hideous. I don’t want-”

“For the love of, Bruce,” Clark scolds as he pushes Bruce’s hands down and forces the jacket around his shoulders, and Bruce refuses to sink into it no matter how warm and comfortable it is. “Just put it on. You’re going to catch your death out here.”

“Ironic,” Bruce huffs, and he fights for just one last sake of appearance before letting Clark shove his arms through the sleeves and zip up the monstrosity. If Bruce doesn’t look at it directly, then it should be fine, but he’s already feeling a bit woozy from the nasty pattern he’s being presented with.

But it is warm, and the inside is lined with sheep wool which is so soft, and Bruce tugs the sleeves down just enough to cover his hands. It’s a bit childish, but it’s comforting. It also keeps his hands well away from Clark’s as well, and that’s definitely a bonus.

“We should get you down from here,” Clark is saying, and Bruce is only half listening to him. He can see a lot of police lights from here. There must be something huge happening in the city for that many to be seen, but there’s no bat signal so it can’t be too bad. “This is not safe at all, what the hell are you thinking being up-”

“It’s her birthday, you know,” Bruce interrupts. Well. Not really. He’d stopped listening to Clark’s babble when he’d looked overtop of his head to the city. He glances back down now to see Clark still knelt in front of him, his hands hovering over Bruce’s chest as he stares at Bruce with wide eyes. “My mothers. She would’ve been   sixty-eight.”

Clark blinks at him for a moment, and Bruce just watches him back before he shrugs. He doesn’t say anything else though, just waits to see if Clark will have a response.

He does. “I’m sorry, Bruce,” he eventually says, and Bruce groans as he shakes his head and looks for the bottle of bourbon again.

“Don’t apologise,” he snaps, and he almost feels bad when he sees Clark flinch. He contemplates reaching past for the bottle when he spots it just behind Clark, but he has a feeling that Clark will stop him. “I’m tired of people always apologising. You didn’t do it. Why do you need to be sorry?”

Bruce stares at Clark, waiting for an answer, and he watches as Clark clearly struggles before he sighs and moves to sit beside Bruce instead of in front of him. It’s clearly not a mistake when he shuffles in close so that their sides are pressed together, and Bruce finds he doesn’t mind it.

Even if he did, he couldn’t move. There’s a hole on his right that will drop him straight down into the dining room and he would not survive that. He might be melancholic, but he’s not suicidal.

“I guess,” Clark pipes up, distracting Bruce from contemplating his demise, “that we use the word sorry to try and get our empathy across. I’m sorry for your loss, and for your pain, and…” he trails off as he shrugs, and Bruce sighs.

“The only person that should be saying sorry,” he mutters darkly, “is Joe fucking Chill.”

“Joe Chill?” Clark parrots back, and Bruce nods as he thinks about the damn thug who put the bullets into his parents. The alcoholic who was only after his mothers damn pearls so he could afford a quick drink and in the process, he murdered his parents and ruined his life.

“Joe Chill,” Bruce repeats, and he blames the bourbon for the reason his eyes are burning and wet. He leans forward to grab for the bottle, but he’s right when Clark leans forward to match him and grips his outstretched hand. Bruce huffs as he moves back, but doesn’t make an effort to let go of Clark. “Joe Chill, now a seventy-five-year-old pensioner living down by the docks.” He turns to look at Clark, and at least the blurriness is starting to go. “He’s in the early stages of dementia. Doesn’t remember a damn thing about his life.” He shakes his head and grips Clark’s fingers. “How is that fair?”

Clark doesn’t respond, just keeps looking down at Bruce, and Bruce blames it on the cold and alcohol that has him leaning into Clark’s side.

“It’s not fair,” he murmurs, his tongue definitely loose tonight. “It’s not fair that he just gets to forget about all the things he’s done when…” he takes a shuddering breath and shakes his head. “When I have their faces branded in my head and every time I…” Bruce trails off and refuses to fall apart, gripping his hands into fists so tightly he thinks he feels Clark wince.

There’s no response from Clark again, just silence, and Bruce doesn’t press him for anything as he turns his gaze back to the cityscape. There are no more bright lights, the sirens only dull now. It must be almost midnight then.

He’s been out here for a long time. He can’t quite feel much of his feet, his fingers on his right hand still cold where they’re tucked into the sleeve of Clark’s jacket, and his nose is incredibly numb. He starts to reach up to poke at it only to drop his hand again. He’s drunk, not childish.

If there is a difference at the moment.

“Come on,” Clark finally mumbles, his hand dropping Bruce’s only to curl around Bruce’s back. “I think it’s time we got you back home.”

Bruce nods, but he’s still tipsy, his tongue is still a bit loose. He turns his head to look at Clark and he frowns. “Why are you here?” he asks again. “How are you here?”

Clark watches him with an expressionless face before he sighs and drops his gaze. “I heard you,” he says quietly, and Bruce nudges him when he doesn’t immediately explain how. Clark still doesn’t meet his eyes as he talks. “I know your heartbeat. I know all of our heartbeats. The whole League’s, my mother, anyone close to me-”

“Close to you?” Bruce repeats as he shakes his head. “I’m close to you?”

Clark’s mouth stays open as he looks up in shock. “Well, yes,” he states, his voice confused. “I thought… did you not know that?”

Bruce purses his lips and shrugs. He hasn’t really thought about it, in honesty. Sure, they’d saved the world together a fair amount of times by now, and there is the recurring League business now that will be more apparent when Bruce finally gets this mansion rebuilt for them. So yes, he can see how their business relationship could mean something when Bruce is basically bankrolling everyone. But personally? No one cares about Bruce Wayne that much.

No one.

He shivers, feeling the cold for the first time, and his fingers ache on his right hand as he clenches them. Either Clark doesn’t notice, or he doesn’t make mention, as he continues to talk.

“I didn’t mean to spy or invade your privacy,” Clark is murmuring, and Bruce has to pay a lot more attention than normal to understand the words. “I was just... at night I sometimes run checks. If I know your heartbeat then I can focus on it and yours was, well, erratic at best and I haven’t heard it like that before...” he trails off as Bruce turns to raise an eyebrow at him, and Clark doesn’t meet his eyes. “I called Alfred and asked why you could be upset and, he’s loyal, you know? But I think even he recognises when you need help and I don’t like to pry which, yeah, really bums out the whole investigative reporter thing-“

“You’re one of the good ones, Clark,” Bruce interrupts, his voice wistful to his own ears. “Not many reporters respect peoples privacy.” He laughs, and it’s bitter as he remembers leaving the police station, Alfred’s suit jacket around his shoulders, cameras flashing in his face as people screamed the name of a terrified eight-year-old. “They’re all vultures.”

“They are,” Clark agrees, and Bruce looks at him with surprised eyes. Clark just grimaces back at him and nods his head. “You’re right, Bruce. They’re all vultures. We’re all vultures. Nobody matters when it comes to them and a good story.” He sighs. “It makes me sick.”

“So why are you still a reporter?” Bruce asks, and Clark hums as he looks away.

“Habit,” he responds. “Mainly habit.” He shrugs and his hand around Bruce’s tightens, reminding Bruce that they’re holding hands at all. He doesn’t let go though. Clark’s hand is warm, stabilising, and Bruce desperately needs some of that at the moment. 

“You could be anything you want, you know,” he tells Clark after a hesitant moment. “You could do anything, and people will love you for it. You’re Superman.” Bruce pauses and smiles at Clark, and it doesn’t feel foreign on his face. “And more importantly, you’re Clark Kent.”

“Clark Kent isn’t all that popular,” Clark protests, albeit a tad weakly. Bruce shakes his head and sighs. 

“More popular than Bruce Wayne,” he mutters bitterly. “You know, for all of my reputation, I’m still all by myself drinking to my mother's dead spirit on top of the burnt husk of my childhood home.” He raises his hand, imagining the bourbon bottle is still in it. “Cheers to that.”

He doesn’t get an immediate response, and he glances Clark’s way to see him looking conflicted. Almost in pain, but mostly conflicted. 

“You’re not alone, Bruce,” Clark says quietly, and Bruce holds back a derisive snort as he shakes his head. 

“You can’t tell me you’d be here if it weren’t for hearing my heartbeat and thinking I was in danger,” Bruce growls, and he tightens his hand around Clark’s until it hurts his fingers.

“No,” Clark agrees, and that makes Bruce’s shoulders stiffen. “I wouldn’t. But not because I don’t want to be.” That catches Bruce’s attention, and Clark smiles at him. “But only because I didn’t know what the date was, and I didn’t know until Alfred told me.” He nudges Bruce with his elbow. “He told me, remember, and I immediately came over. And I’ll always be here now, Bruce. You won’t be getting rid of me that easily.”

There’s something in Bruce’s throat that makes it hard to breathe all of a sudden, and his focus fixes on their joined hands as he suddenly feels completely and utterly vulnerable. He wasn’t expecting this. Hell, he wasn’t expecting Clark to do much more than make sure he’s alive before running off again. Bruce is used to be alone, he’s used to just dealing. He's not used to someone giving a shit just because they can and do. 

“You don’t have to,” Bruce starts to say, his voice dull, and Clark sighs as he bumps their shoulders together. 

“No, I don’t,” he agrees, and Bruce feels the words like a blow to the chest. “But I want too. We’re a team, Bruce,” and he huffs into Bruce’s hair when he presses closer. “And we’re friends, yeah? Friends look after each other.”

The way Clark is pressed completely against him, his breath ruffling Bruce’s hair, his hand warm and solid in Bruce’s own, the sheer affection in his voice... it means something more than friendship, something that Bruce doesn’t know what to do with. 

But when he leans his head properly against Clark’s shoulder and Clark’s other arm comes around to wrap about Bruce’s waist, he thinks maybe he can learn. 

They sit curled into each other for a long time, long enough for the temperature to drop more and their breath comes out in little white puffs in front of them. It doesn’t faze Bruce though, not at all, and he continues to swallow past the lump in his throat and holds on to Clark and when he starts to feel more sober, it’s not an unpleasant feeling.

There’s no push from Clark until Bruce is dozing lightly against his shoulder and Clark gives him a little shake. He blinks his eyes open blearily, something he’s not felt safe enough to do in a long time, and he immediately misses Clark’s hand in his when he pulls away and smiles down at Bruce. 

“Come on,” Clark murmurs to him as he slowly stands. “I think it’s time to get you home.”

Bruce doesn’t protest. He lets Clark pull him to his feet and he walks right past the bottle of bourbon, not even sparing it a glance as Clark pulls him with an arm around his waist before they’re slowly taking off into the air. Bruce has done this before, many times as Batman, but the sudden lack of ground beneath his feet still unnerves him. 

But where he used to just grit his teeth and deal with it, he now presses himself further against Clark and holds him tighter. Clark clearly doesn’t mind as he smiles down at Bruce before he directs them towards the Lake-House. There are lights on, and Bruce wonders if Alfred is up pacing the hallways waiting for him.

It takes them only a handful of minutes before they touchdown outside the front door, and Bruce sees a silhouette moving in the kitchen through the windows that must clearly be Alfred. It makes him feel a bit warm knowing he’s there waiting for him, but he doesn’t head straight inside as he turns his back to the front door to face Clark.

“Thank you,” he says, and it’s only because he has a sudden wave of bravery that has him stretching out to place a hand on Clark’s upper arm. “Thank you for tonight.”

Clark reaches up and strokes the back of Bruce’s hand with his thumb. “Anytime,” he replies, and Bruce gives him a small smile in return.

He drops his hand back down and starts to take a step back, heading towards the front door, but he’s stopped when Clark catches his wrist and pulls him in for a tight hug. Bruce blames what’s left of the alcohol in his system for reciprocating, his hands gripping the back of Clark’s thin shirt as he presses his face into the man's shoulder. He lets out a shuddering breath, feeling Clark tighten his arms just briefly, and when he pulls away he gives Clark a brisk nod.

Clark just smiles and keeps a hold of his arm before he leans forward, and Bruce’s breath hitches as Clark presses a gentle kiss to Bruce’s cheek. It’s chaste and gentle, something Bruce hasn’t felt for a long time, and when Clark pulls away his eyes are practically sparkling.

“See you soon, yeah?” he asks, and Bruce gives a weak nod before Clark squeezes his elbow. He takes a few steps back before he takes to the air, not turning from Bruce until he’s high enough that Bruce can no longer see his face.

Bruce watches him go, a small warm feeling in his chest, and he jumps when the door behind him is ripped open and he whirls around to see Alfred standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips.

“Master Bruce, I have been worried sick,” he scolds as he glares, only for his expression to soften when he must see the look on Bruce’s face. He takes a few steps forward and reaches out, only to drop his hand when it just about touch’s Bruce arm. “My goodness,” he says, a small laugh in his voice. “What a hideous coat.”

Bruce frowns before he looks down, and he almost laughs himself when he registers that he’s still wearing Clark’s horrible plaid jacket. It’s so warm though, and Bruce can smell a slight hint of Clark’s cologne on the collar.

“You’re right, Alfred,” he agrees as he starts to walk forward. “It’s despicable. I’ll have to return it to its owner as soon as possible.”

He ignores the knowing look on Alfred’s face as he walks past him, but he does reach out and clap him on the shoulder in a brief moment of solidarity. It’s late, incredibly late, but Bruce thinks there’s still time left in the day for a moment with Alfred.

“How about a nightcap?” he asks as he steps through the doorway and toes off his shoes. Alfred lets out an agreeing noise as he follows him, starting to prattle on about the lateness of the hour but he still makes his way towards the kitchen.

Bruce smiles as he follows after him, and he doesn’t take off the jacket.

…