Work Text:
Three years post-war:
It had been 36 months since the fall of the Regime. And good riddance, Bruce mused sourly as he stared out at Gotham’s early-morning cityscape. The anniversary was tonight, and he would be expected to attend the festivities— not that he wanted to. He’d lost too much to really (ever) feel like celebrating.
Some days, it felt like it had been much less than 36 months. Bruce still dreamt of the old days, of friends who’d died, and those who hadn’t. That didn’t help, he supposed. But it was hard, so incredibly hard, to believe that it had really only been 156 weeks since the world as he knew it had ended. Harder still to deal with the knowledge that it had been 1,095 days since Bruce lost his best friend. He did the calculations mentally: it had been 26,280 hours since the last time he smiled at Clark and meant it.
He missed Clark Kent— and he always would. None of Superman’s stunning actions had been able to change that. Neither had Kal-El’s heinous dictatorship altered Bruce’s nostalgic fondness for his former best friend. Nothing, Bruce suspected, was capable of that. It was a shame, really, then, that he’d had to ignore this. But the world was worth the sacrifice. It had to be.
In the time since the fall of the Regime, the world had slowly begun its return to normal; Batman and his team took the place of Superman and his goons (only, they didn’t murder anyone, and there was no planetary dictatorship in place, not any longer). The Earth kept spinning. Bruce kept breathing. Cities kept rebuilding. And all that was left of the One Earth government were torn-down monuments, stories, scars, memories, and fragments. Like Superman. Like Bruce.
Clark Kent— as far as Bruce was concerned— had died, and he hadn’t had a best friend since.
Bruce was busy now, perhaps more than he’d ever been before, with watching over the world. This was, obviously, no small feat. Especially since those who once might’ve helped with the task were either dead, missing, on the run, or in prison. Bruce was busy, and sidetracked a lot of the time, by what had once been. So he forgave himself for the moment of sheer panic and incomprehension he felt when he materialized aboard the Watchtower.
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Now:
One moment he was in his office at Wayne Enterprises, and the next Bruce found himself standing, shakenly, somewhere else. He blinked, uncomprehending of his surroundings for a half-second. This unwillingness to believe his eyes was understandable. It was understandable because it was impossible that Bruce was really where his eyes were telling him he was. Or it should have been, anyway.
Since the fall of the Regime, Bruce had only come here a handful of times. First to catalog the Watchtower’s resources, then to decide if he could (or even should) salvage it. Ultimately, he had decided against it— best to let the past lie, and start over fresh— and had sealed off the tower and implemented security systems. But Bruce had never come up to the tower alone and hadn’t stayed long when he had (too many memories) because it was still dangerous— anything filled with Regime technology was. So to now find himself in the space fortress was… disconcerting. Bruce swallowed nervously.
He was nervous because he now realized where he was, and what that probably meant: nothing good. Batman had always been pragmatic, always been prepared. Even before things went… wrong, he had planned for Superman to go bad (Bruce had just never expected it to actually happen). So to say that he was uncomfortable was an understatement in the extreme. Bruce felt the stirrings of panic but suppressed them. Though, unfortunately, he wasn’t as successful with the stream of thoughts in his head: He wasn’t in the suit. He wasn’t. In. The. Suit, and he was facing an unknown threat, without the team’s backup.
Bruce felt the buzz of adrenaline, and his pulse raced.
He recognized that he was feeling fear. Bruce wasn’t ashamed of this and never had been (fear was, after all, a useful device for keeping oneself alive). But he had trained to work past it. So he acknowledged his rapid breathing, twitchy hands, the hollow feeling in his chest, and tried to let them go. It was natural to feel fear, he reminded himself, especially since he was here (mostly) unprepared.
But Bruce could not let it stop him (just as he hadn’t let his friendship with Clark stop him from deposing Superman when necessary). He couldn’t let fear stop him now because, before he could get off the Watchtower, Bruce would have to go to the command center. If someone had bypassed his security system, Bruce had to know. Even if it was just a bug, he had to know.
This meant he possibly had to go through any number of angry, violent, and resentful people. People who probably knew that Bruce Wayne was Batman, thanks to Clark Kal. But Bruce was not one to shy away from what needed to be done, not even when it came at a steep cost. Even when his spine was aching (psychosomatic, Bruce knew), skin crawling, and fingers twitching. Bruce allowed himself a moment to process this. He looked around the room, stepped off the teleporter, and took a steadying breath. Then he walked out the door and into the hall.
Curiously, there didn’t appear to be another soul aboard. Whether this was true or not, Bruce didn’t know. Either way, it made the already-present tension inside him jackknife into something sharper and more cutting. That the only sounds were Bruce’s staccato footsteps echoing mournfully off the tower’s metal corridors— creating a sort of hushed, anticipatory atmosphere— did not help.
Bruce quickened his pace.
Finally, he reached the automatic sliding doors of the command center. As he approached, they slid open with the barest hiss. Bruce cautiously took a half-step inside, coiled for action— even if he didn’t stand much of a chance, unprotected as he was, Bruce would not go down without a fight.
Despite all of his pragmatism (Bruce half-expected to find a Darkseid-level threat behind that door), he was not, in actuality, at all prepared for who it really was.
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Superman stood behind the Watchtower’s control panels.
Upon seeing him, Bruce’s mind went blank, and he found himself rooted to the floor. This lasted for a handful of seconds. And while he stood there, like a goddamned idiot, Bruce thought: Now would be a good opportunity for Superman to finally kill me. Perhaps by ripping his heart out (like he’d done to the Joker, all those years ago), or by twisting his neck, or by any one of the innumerable ways that Superman had to kill him. But as Bruce stood there, second of inaction followed by second of inaction, he did not die.
At least not yet.
After a few more seconds of stupidity, Bruce forced himself to move— though he only reached for the secret button on his wristwatch, and shuffled forward enough for the door to close. As he did so, Bruce marveled at the fact that he was still alive. Absently, he also noted that Clark Superman seemed to be unaware of (or ignoring) his presence.
Clark surely had a plan ready, if he weren’t getting Bruce out of the way right fucking now. After all that had happened between them, Bruce held no pretenses that sentimentality would stay Clark’s Kal’s hand. Because, apparently, Clark was out of prison. He was out of prison, and here on the Watchtower instead. And now, he was (at last) looking at Bruce. But it turned out to be nothing more than a glance, a brief flicker of the eyes really, and he said nothing.
After the moment passed, Clark went back to working on whatever he’d been doing before. Bruce swallowed down his dread. The silence was suffocating, and he felt ready to break in two from the tension. Since Superman did not seem intent on murdering him straight away for some reason, all of Bruce’s plans were (momentarily) thrown into disarray. In fact, as Bruce was staring in utter confusion at his best friend-turned-enemy, he saw that Clark was now smiling. At Bruce. Though the expression was also slightly puzzled.
“Bruce? I didn’t realize you were going to be up here for the tests. How did you even get up here by the way— I didn’t hear the jet’s engines,” Superman enquired.
It was then that Bruce noticed Superman’s uniform. It was different than the one he’d worn when he had been in charge of the One Earth government. In fact, it looked almost exactly like his original, but it couldn’t be— Bruce had stored that uniform away in the cave, for safekeeping (wouldn’t do to have it floating around, giving anyone ideas)— and he would have known if there had been a break-in at the cave… but then, he hadn’t known there had been a break-out at the prison. Bruce’s heart hammered in his chest, and at this, Kal-El cocked his head, looking more puzzled.
“Bruce?” he asked, concerned.
Bruce felt a wave of dread crash over his mind and found himself frozen there again in confusion, just for a second. What was going on here? Why wasn’t Clark trying to kill him? Oh god, what was he working on up here— and how long had he been out of prison?
Swallowing these (pressing) concerns, Bruce forced himself to reach into the small, secret compartment of the watch, withdraw the shard of kryptonite he kept there, the one he always kept there now, and stride up to Clark. As he approached, Clark paled (maybe it was because of Bruce’s grim expression, or maybe it was just because of the kryptonite) and Bruce realized that the other man was scanning him.
“You’re not—” Clark started to say, before Bruce, and his kryptonite, was too close for Superman to do anything. He felt disconcerted at how strangely Superman was acting (almost like his old, normal self), but Bruce couldn’t let it throw him. He reached out to tug Superman closer—
Bruce was suddenly slammed against the wall.
Superman coughed and stumbled on his feet. But he still kept a firm hold on Bruce. He was weakened from the kryptonite, but still not weak enough. Not weak enough, if he was fighting Bruce, not weak enough if he were able to escape prison. Though, perhaps he had been weakened (mentally) by his stay there because he hadn’t tried to kill Bruce yet. “I don’t… know what’s going on— who you are— but I’m going… to stop you,” Clark panted.
Bruce scowled and punched Superman in the face with his kryptonite-holding fist. It hurt, but it was almost a good kind of hurt— he had never regretted what he’d done to Superman to save the world, but Bruce had regretted ever having to hurt Clark (and he always would). “The fuck you don’t, Kal. I don’t know how the hell you got out of prison, but I promise you, that’s where you’re going again soon,” Bruce growled. He punched Superman again, and again, and again, and again.
Then everything went black.
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He woke up tied to a chair with Superman and Wonder Woman staring at him, from across the room. Speaking of rooms… Bruce recognized that he was in the conference room, of all places. From his momentary appraisal, the space appeared to be unchanged from how he remembered it (before the Regime took over). They had even reinstalled the table, Bruce thought giddily. A burst of hysterical laughter bubbled up and nearly escaped his lips. Or maybe not, considering that there were no lasered gouges in it, he amended soberly.
The swoosh of the door diverted his attention. Clark and Diana turned to it, and Bruce’s head snapped up. His stomach lurched. Bruce blinked. He stared at the Batman who’d just entered the room. This Batman wore a suit very similar to Bruce’s own, with a few subtle differences. As Bruce watched— his gaze almost magnetically drawn to the mysterious imposter— Batman crossed the space until he stood next to Diana and Clark. His gloved hands came up to the cowl, and Bruce tensed reflexively. Then he was gazing at an (almost) carbon-copy of his own face.
At this, the hysteria finally won. Bruce burst out laughing.
Even with everyone’s (Superman’s Kal’s Clark’s) attention rapidly drawn to him, Bruce found that he didn’t care. This was too much. “That… that’s your plan?” he asked, astounded. “Kill off the original, sub in a clone, and pray that they won’t notice? Regain power— this time with Batman’s approval. Oh, Kal. I must admit that you’ve surprised me with this one.” Bruce’s amusement faded, and he sighed.
A resounding silence was the only response to his outburst.
The clone was looking at him curiously, and Bruce found himself staring back. They’d certainly done a good job— however they’d done it, he mused, it might even cause enough confusion for Superman to gain the upper hand. He felt a twang of bitterness, at that. “That’s what you think?” asked the clone. His baritone voice was sharp and slightly rumbly. Just like Bruce’s.
The question broke his reverie (curious, though, that they had deemed it necessary to give his clone intelligence or a veneer of it) and Bruce blinked. He saw, abruptly, what he’d missed earlier: Clark and Diana were watching him hesitantly. But they also looked to the other Bruce… like- like he was in charge. This didn’t make sense.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Am I wrong?” he challenged, meeting Clark’s reluctant gaze.
Superman opened his mouth, but the other Bruce stepped forward, sending Clark a quelling look. Surprisingly, his head wasn’t blasted off for it. Bruce frowned. Other-Bruce turned his eerily familiar blue gaze to Bruce and looked at him for a moment. Calmly, he stated: “The Joker murdered Lois Lane, and, subsequently, Metropolis. Your world is now run by the One Earth regime, with Superman acting as its dictator. You, Bruce Wayne, are a founding member of the Insurgency, and Cl— Kal’s enemy. But, given that you believe me to be a clone, some of my information is… incorrect. Am I right?”
Bruce, in spite of himself, replied automatically: “Was. Superman was dictator perpetuo. Until I— we— stopped him. That was three years ago, and he’s in prison now.” His gaze slid accusingly to Clark, at this last bit.
Clark was still wearing that damned uniform, and looking a good deal more sheepish than he ought to. He had not, to Bruce’s knowledge, looked like that in a long time. It was, somehow, quite irritating. Silence, once again, permeated the room.
Finally, Other-Bruce cleared his throat. Bruce looked at him. “Do you still believe Diana’s lasso to be a valid method of ascertaining the truth?” he asked. Bruce nodded without hesitation— even if Wonder Woman herself no longer stood for truth and justice, her lasso (magic as it was) remained unaffected in its power.
Other-Bruce gestured to Diana. She stepped forward and wrapped Clark’s arm in the golden, glowing metal-rope. Bruce tensed. “Who are you?” she asked simply.
Clark replied, “I am Clark Joseph Kent, Kal-El, and Superman. I am not, and never have been the ruler of the Regime, or dictator of the One Earth government.” His gaze, as he spoke, rested heavily on Bruce. Bruce swallowed, heart racing. It was too good to be true. He knew this, and yet… Yet, it was so tempting.
But then the clone stepped forward, and he was distracted from his thoughts. Batman nodded to Diana. She unwrapped Clark and bound him. Then Other-Bruce said, calmly, “We are not on your Earth. There is no Regime. There is no One Earth government. No Insurgency. This is another dimension, and you, somehow, have been brought here.”
Through the surprise, Bruce reflected melancholically: Of course. Only in another dimension could Clark and I still be friends.
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Eventually, Bruce was released. Wonder Woman and Superman departed shortly thereafter.
Bruce and Bruce— what a strange statement that was— walked through the still-empty hall. Bruce found it to be an only slightly-less-disconcerting experience than before. They were still walking (to where he didn’t know) when Bruce was struck by a thought. He stopped. Batman stopped as well.
“How did you know?” he asked simply. But he felt tenser, as he waited for a response. Clark hadn’t been lying, as that was impossible with the lasso, but… stranger things had been known to happen. At this point, Bruce had seen enough things that he’d once believed were impossible to have a high tolerance for the weird.
As there was no one else present, Batman must have felt it acceptable to pause. Or maybe he had had a moment of empathy for his counterpart. He gave Bruce a long, thoughtful look. But his mood was otherwise indecipherable.
Finally, he answered, “About five years ago, what happened to you occurred with me. It must have been when the Regime was still strong— I was transported to your dimension and fell into Kal’s hands. For three months.” Other-Bruce was looking at him. Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. He swallowed, feeling disturbed.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” he said, guiltily, “I should have never let it happen. I’m—”
Batman held up his gloved hand. “Stop. I… can hardly imagine the events that led to our dimensions diverging so greatly, but I do know this: he was your best friend. He was Superman. He was Clark, and nobody expected that outcome. Not from him. Don’t beat yourself up too badly.” With that, he turned around, cape flouncing behind him. Bruce followed. After another moment of silence, Other-Bruce added, “Besides. You still stopped him, in the end.”
Yes, I suppose I did, Bruce mused sourly.
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The longer they walked, the more anxious he felt. No matter that Batman was in front of him. No matter that this wasn’t his world (actually, that did matter; who knew what could be happening, back home?), no matter that Clark- Kal was still his friend here. Walking through the Watchtower’s halls still felt like a nightmare version of a trip down memory lane. So Bruce wasn’t exactly paying complete attention to their surroundings.
When Batman stopped in front of him, Bruce almost ran into him. But he caught himself at the last moment and blinked. Other-Bruce was looking at him, almost as if he knew what was going through Bruce’s mind— and wasn’t it a good thing that the Regime had never thought to clone him, he thought. “Where are we?” Bruce asked. He had a funny suspicion that he wouldn’t like the answer.
Other-Bruce replied as he typed in a security code, “My quarters. As we weren’t exactly… prepared for inter-dimensional visitors, you’ll have to stay here. Is that a problem?” The door swished open and Batman threw a mildly-concerned gaze over his shoulder. Bruce swallowed his dread, and his racing heart, and the sense of his skin prickling in alarm. They wanted him to stay up here. Of course they did.
“No. That will be fine,” he lied. It would only be a little like staying in a haunted house. Other-Bruce, if he saw through him, chose not to comment. This half-irritated, half-relieved Bruce.
Batman stepped into the room. Bruce followed. The door shut smoothly behind them. He took a moment to look around, fascinated by the slight differences, even with the stark décor, between the memories of his own league quarters and Other-Bruce’s. Surprisingly, Batman allowed him. But Bruce focused himself, after a moment, anyway. Surely Batman had things to do, and escorting his double must not rank high on that list. As he looked up, Bruce saw that Batman’s gaze was fixed on him. It was odd and unpleasant. Bruce had a momentary sense of what it must be like to be a criminal.
“Really, if this is going to be a problem for you, I’d understand—”
“It won’t be,” Bruce assured coolly. He’d dealt with worse. A short stay in this funhouse of horrors was nothing. Other-Bruce must have heard the firmness of his tone because he dropped the subject.
“Clark will want to talk to you,” Batman said softly. Bruce felt a pang run through him. His silence on the subject must have spoken volumes. Other-Bruce continued, “When I first got back, do you know what I did? I attacked him. He was the first person I saw, and I didn’t understand that I was back. If you want me to keep him away, I will.”
Bruce scowled. “I won’t attack your friend. And you don’t have to protect me, Batman.” Despite his mood, Bruce chuckled at the bizarreness of the situation. Other-Bruce chuckled too. Then he pulled the cowl up.
“No. I’m sure I don’t,” he replied drily, as he walked to the door. “But I thought I’d offer anyway.” Batman disappeared as the door closed. Bruce absently walked to the desk and ran a hand over it. He saw one framed photo, of Dick, and sank into the chair, with an ache in his heart.
It seemed even here he could not escape anything everything.
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Clark couldn’t believe his luck. Twice, Bruce had been transported from hell— and that’s what that other dimension surely was, he thought firmly— and it was twice now that Superman had been the one to receive him. What incredibly bad luck, for both of them. He winced slightly as he began pacing again.
By the time he’d realized that that Bruce wasn’t his Bruce, the other man had already retrieved the kryptonite and attacked him. And while Clark could probably still have stopped him (the amount of kryptonite was small, so pathetically small) he also might not have. So he’d been grateful when Diana had come into the room and subdued Bruce with an Amazonian nerve pinch.
And then, when Other-Bruce had woken up, Clark had had questions, of course.
It had all started to make a terrible sort of sense when Bruce began speaking. Of all the dimensions for someone to accidentally get transported from, it had to be that one, again. Clark sighed and rubbed absently at his cape. They— he, and Diana— were waiting for Bruce to return. Wisely, it had been decided that Bruce would be the one to escort, well, himself, around until further notice.
The door slid open, and Clark looked up. There was Bruce, scowl (and cowl) in place. Batman nodded at Clark and Diana in greeting. He swept forward and sank into a seat at the conference table. Superman and Wonder Woman followed suit. Tense silence covered the room for a moment. Then, sighing, Bruce reached up and removed the cowl. He fixed Clark and Diana with a firm look. “You absolutely cannot go barging in there to bother him,” Bruce said.
Diana looked concerned, and Clark opened his mouth to protest that he wasn’t going to go barging in anywhere, but Bruce interrupted: “Clark. You remember how I was… after. He’s been through a lot worse. From my understanding, he took you down and won a war with very little help. While he’s not a threat now, that Batman is still not to be trifled with. Do you understand?” Bruce peered at him intently. Clark nodded. But for all the implicit warning it was meant to be, Clark could only think of how oddly protective Bruce seemed to be of the other Batman.
His resolve strengthened.
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Nobody had been by in a few hours, and Batman had not locked the door when he’d left. So Bruce took this as an unspoken suggestion that he did not necessarily have to stay in Batman’s quarters. He left the room, glad to escape the eerie feeling it gave him, and wandered aimlessly around for a while; whatever test was supposed to be occurring kept the halls of the tower empty. For once, Bruce was grateful for the solitude here.
He’d meandered through the empty corridors, reminiscing. Strangely, he hadn’t done that any of the times he’d been aboard his Watchtower. Bruce supposed that it was because each of those times he’d had other concerns to consider. Also, he was a coward, and perhaps, did not care to rehash the past. But now, presented with a ‘what-if’ scenario come-to-life, that was what he found himself doing.
Bruce looked around the tower, and into several unnervingly similar-yet-different rooms and thought about the past. Then he walked around some more and thought about the present (in his world, at least). And then, somehow, without his conscious permission, he had ended up in the observatory. That was where he was now.
It was close to evening and rather dark. But the incandescent stars looked the same as they always had, and the Earth hadn’t suddenly and drastically altered. It was reassuring. And the view was something that Bruce had missed, without ever having realized it before. Perhaps the Watchtower could be opened up to scientists, he pondered, or students. Maybe then it could do some good. Bruce stood, inches from the window, with his hands tucked behind his back, and stared out at the universe. This was how Clark, as predicted by Other-Bruce, found him.
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“Clark will want to talk to you,” Bruce remembered the warning. Of course he would. His Clark, before, had been the same. Maybe it was the writer in him— even when they weren’t speaking, he had always wanted to resolve their conflicts with words. Bruce, really, hadn’t expected any different. Yet he still found himself wanting it to be so. Wishing for it to be possible for him to avoid conversation, with this man. It hurt too much already, and not a word had been spoken.
Bruce kept his back turned, despite the screaming of his instincts, the fluttering of his pulse, and looked out into the vast, sobering emptiness of space. Clark stepped beside him, and Bruce’s hands twitched. God. He’d done this a million times with Clark. A million times— not any longer. There was no Clark to do it with, anymore. And besides, Bruce had no desire to stargaze, these days… Clark shifted minutely, and Bruce caught the motion in his peripheral vision. He suddenly found himself frozen, heart in his throat.
Clark looked stricken. Bruce realized, distantly, that he’d taken a step back. “Kal,” he found himself saying, in an appeasing tone. Clark flinched. Bruce stopped, feeling chilled.
Superman ran a frustrated hand through his hair, and muttered, “This may have been easier if I hadn’t worn the suit.” Bruce’s heart lurched.
“No,” he blurted, unthinkingly. He pictured a Kansan farm boy, with a plaid shirt, worn blue jeans, muddy boots, and black glasses. He pictured him smiling. No, it most certainly would not have been easier. His mouth curled downward, and his heart ached. Bruce realized that Clark was staring at him. Tiredly, Bruce met his eyes. Clark offered a cautious, small smile. Bruce had to look away before he was blinded.
“Earlier… when I scanned you, in the command center— I saw… your spine—” Clark cut himself off with a horrified choking noise. Bruce tensed. Despite the awkwardness of the statement, he heard the underlying question: ‘Was it him?’ He swallowed. And felt the wave of the unspoken crash over him, and Clark, to fill the room. Bruce felt as if he were drowning. He felt, somehow, older.
“That was years ago,” he said quietly, watching his home planet spin beneath him, “and I’ve since recovered. I would appreciate you keeping this between us.” ‘Yes, it was him. Don’t tell Batman.’ Superman Kal Clark nodded and looked smaller for it. He was quiet.
All of a sudden, Bruce wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Hadn’t he always wished he could communicate in silence? Hadn’t Bruce always relished the quiet? Wanted his implications to be enough? Well. Here he was, right next to Clark Kent (a version of him, at least) and an ocean of silence was between them, filled with unspoken things.
He sighed. This time, Clark was the one to tense, beside him. “Don’t think about what could have happened,” Bruce told him. “It won’t do you any good. Your only path forward is acceptance of what has happened, and to put it behind you.” Unlike me. Bruce hoped that the last part wasn’t communicated.
“Like you?” Clark asked bitingly. Bruce tensed. He was, abruptly, furious.
“No, Kal, not like me! You know why— I tried that, alright? It didn’t work. I’ve never been good at letting go, and— He wrecked everything. I was HAPPY BEFORE, AND THEN YOU FUCKING LOST IT, AND I HAD TO MAKE THE CHOICE TO EITHER KILL YOU OR PUT YOU IN PRISON, KAL! I HAD TO MAKE THAT DECISION, TO GO AFTER MY BEST FRIEND, AND I LOST NEARLY EVERYONE ELSE MAKING IT. DIANA, ARTHUR, BARRY, HAL, J’OHN. MY OWN SON!
AND IT’S BEEN THREE YEARS. THREE YEARS OF PUTTING SHIT BACK TOGETHER THAT YOU BROKE. I COULDN’T FORGET IT, ANY OF IT. BECAUSE I WAS THE ONE THAT WAS LEFT. I WAS THE ONE WHO EVERYONE ELSE LOOKED TO, AFTER THAT— YOU ABDICATED THAT POSITION. I WAS THE ONE LEFT IN CHARGE. THE ONE WHO HAD TO MAKE SURE NOBODY ELSE FORGOT, EITHER... And I regret it every day that I never told you to just put it all behind you and let it go. I regret that my first instinct wasn’t to pull you aside and say, ‘I’m sorry.’ I think, if I had, you might not have gone down that path. But I never told you. And now I never will…” Bruce trailed off, breathing hard.
He realized a few things, at that moment. He was leaning into Clark’s personal space, far too closely. He had been shouting for the past few minutes, at this poor man, who was not Kal, but just his (unfortunate) counterpart. And Batman, and Diana, were standing silently in the doorway, where they had been for an unknown amount of time. Enough, probably, to hear all of it. Shit. Blindly, Bruce stepped past a too-still, stricken-looking Clark, and strode out of the room.
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“He hates me,” Clark insisted, looking beseechingly at Bruce.
Bruce rolled his eyes and scowled. Oh, he had many things to be angry over, with this situation, but for now, his ire was mostly directed at his counterpart. “He does not hate you, Clark. He loves you,” Bruce grumbled. They were sitting in Clark’s quarters, on his bed, discussing the situation that had happened in the observatory. Diana was off somewhere else— probably talking to the other Batman. Bruce winced, as he recalled his counterpart’s earlier words. They would haunt him.
Clark looked curiously at Bruce. Bruce snorted. “Not like that. Or, at least, I don’t think he does. Superman and he were like brothers, Clark. You know me— Clark was probably the person he was closest to in the world. The person he chose to trust. They were family. Losing that… I imagine it would have caused him a lot of duress,” he explained, swallowing. He and I are very similar, in that.
Clark smiled fondly at him and pulled Bruce into a one-armed hug. Bruce allowed it, for a moment. Then he pushed Clark away. “Yes, but… I just- I wish there was something we could do,” Clark mused. Bruce sighed. Clark looked up at him, sheepishly.
“The best we can do is to get him home… and I suspect, actually, that you have done him some good. Since he snapped— because he let himself… lose it that dramatically, then he must have really needed it. I can only imagine the stress that he’s under. Not that he should have, mind you. Not that you should have let him, either,” Bruce stated, half-to himself. I can sympathize, he thought, with feeling like the world is on your shoulders. The pressure to be the steady, reliable one. The weight of perfection. Clark’s throat-clearing brought him back to the present. Bruce looked inquiringly at his friend.
“Is… is that how you feel?” Clark asked hesitantly.
“Yes. But I usually do a better job of not acting on it,” Bruce answered, automatically. From the concerned tilt of Clark’s eyebrows, Bruce gathered that, once again, he had said too much.
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Diana found him later.
Bruce had calmed down significantly, in the hours since his meltdown. He actually felt quite bad for yelling at Clark like that. But what did it matter, in the long run? In a few days or weeks, he would be back in his own dimension, with a Clark who did not care how much Bruce yelled. How much he screamed at him. In a short period of time, Bruce would be back in a world with a Clark who did not care. He sighed.
“I shouldn’t have yelled at him,” Bruce commented.
Diana hummed in agreement. It was slightly easier, with her, to ignore what his instincts were telling him. Easier, but not by much (she had once been a dear friend too). “Perhaps not. But I think he will understand,” she said ‘when you apologize to him.’ Bruce nodded. They were silent for a bit longer, before Diana asked, “Are you hungry? I believe Clark has fetched food for all of us.” Bruce nodded. She stood, offering him a hand. Bruce accepted and was gently tugged to his feet.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. Diana smiled and gave their still-connected hands a little squeeze. I missed this, Bruce thought, but it’s not mine. Gently, he let Diana’s hand go. Unbeknown to Bruce, this gesture didn’t go unnoticed. Diana frowned softly.
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When Diana and Bruce arrived in the kitchen, they saw that Clark had gotten them pizza. Bruce’s stomach rumbled; it had been hours since he’d last eaten, and the day had been… eventful. “Hawaiian,” Clark said, “it’s Bruce’s favorite, and I figured even if it’s nasty, it would be worth it…” For you to be a little bit less sad, Bruce added mentally. He nodded, about to say something, but Other-Bruce interrupted.
“I’m sorry that you don’t like Hawaiian pizza, Clark, but that doesn’t mean that you have to attack people who do,” he said stiffly. Clark balked.
“It’s gross, Bruce— worse than BBQ chicken, even! Who likes pineapple on their pizza, anyway? For someone so logical, I can’t understand how you don’t get that,” Clark said seriously. Other-Bruce’s brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to reply. Diana shared an amused look with him while the other two men continued arguing. After a bit longer, she cleared her throat.
“Friends,” she said patiently, “I think this is an argument for another night. I, personally, am quite hungry and would like to eat.” With that, the argument devolved into nothing more than heated glares and muttered words. But Clark, Bruce observed, still gave his counterpart all his pineapple. And Other-Bruce ate it.
He smiled, through the ache.
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Surprisingly, it only took two days for the issue to be resolved. Perhaps this was because Batman had faced something similar before. Or perhaps it was because they both stayed up all night in the labs working towards a solution. Maybe it was just Bruce’s anxiety to be home (to make sure everything was still okay) that made the time spent working fly by. Either way, after two days, they had a solution. Bruce was going home.
He was happy, but it was bittersweet happiness, at best. He would miss this funny, cheerful Diana. Bruce would miss this kind, empathetic Clark more. It was because of their impending loss that Bruce dreaded (deep down) his return home. But, like so many other things, it had to be done. So Bruce would do it, and bear the discomfort silently. Or perhaps not, given the looks Other-Bruce was giving him. It felt nice, to be understood by someone. Even if it were only his own counterpart.
They waited one more day while Batman ran some final tests on the device. Now that he, Diana, and Clark had come to an understanding, Bruce found it rather pleasant to spend time with them. If he let himself, Bruce could almost pretend these were the old days, and the people he was with were still his friends. He did not allow himself to believe that. It would do him no good, once he was home. Speaking of home, Bruce really hoped that nothing dramatic had happened while he’d been away. That would be unfortunate.
Finally, around mid-day, Other-Bruce emerged from the labs. “It’s ready,” he said simply.
Bruce nodded, standing. “Thank you,” he said. For this. For understanding. He did not say, ‘Take care of them’ because, he found, that felt unnecessary. Batman nodded. Though he said nothing, his understanding was clear. He met Bruce’s eyes. ‘I will,’ his gaze said. Bruce suddenly felt a little better about leaving.
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Bruce paused, just outside the doorway that led to the teleporters. Other-Bruce paused too. “I won’t be sorry to see you go,” he said honestly. His statement was met with silence. But not anger, or upset. Perhaps his feelings were mirrored, then. Bruce waited.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” his counterpart admitted, “not after how I treated your friend.” ‘Your friend,’ Bruce noted, not ‘Clark.’ Interesting. He nodded.
“I still wish you the best, and luck in helping your world… cope, of course,” Bruce amended stiffly. God knows I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. When he looked up, he saw that Other-Bruce’s gaze held amusement, and something darker.
Then the other man smiled. “Thanks. I could use it,” he said. Both men looked at each other, with perfect understanding, and a perfect sense of not knowing what to say next. Other-Bruce, finally, let out a breath. It could have almost been called a sigh. Bruce felt inclined to be charitable and categorized it as an exhale. “Could I… speak to Clark, before I go?” Other-Bruce asked.
Bruce hesitated, for reasons he was unsure of. But, given what he knew of the other man’s world, this really would be saying goodbye forever to his best friend, for his counterpart. Bruce, no matter what he felt towards the other him, could not deny that request. “Sure. I’ll go get him,” Bruce said. He left his counterpart to his thoughts.
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Bruce entered the teleporting room, and let out a breath. This was harder than expected. Or, perhaps not. He waited tensely for Clark’s arrival.
Finally, Clark arrived. Bruce looked up and gave him a sharp nod. Clark smiled back. “Before I go, I just wanted to say: I’m sorry,” Bruce blurted. Clark flinched. Bruce suddenly recalled his earlier words: “I regret that my first instinct wasn’t to pull you aside and say, ‘I’m sorry.’ I think, if I had, you might not have gone down that path. But I never told you. And now I never will.” He amended: “I’m sorry for my actions… for…” he made a vague hand gesture. I’m sorry for everything. “For how I treated you.” Clark nodded.
“I… understand,” he said. “And I forgive you.”
Bruce nodded, grateful. “Good. I didn’t want to leave anything unsaid between us” since you’ll never see me again. There was a pause. Bruce waited.
Clark sighed. “I know it wasn’t me, but I want to apologize for him anyway. And for any hurt I caused you— it’s not the same, I understand, but… still,” he finished awkwardly.
Bruce felt oddly touched. He smiled. “Thank you, anyhow.”
Clark nodded, stepping back. “Well, I better get to the command center. To tell them you’re ready.” Though it hadn’t been entirely pleasant, Clark found that he was glad of the visit— it had taught him some things about his Bat if nothing else. So he meant it, when he said, “Goodbye, Bruce. And good luck.”
Goodbye, Clark, Bruce thought. He watched Clark’s retreating back until he was cut off by the closing door. Suddenly, there were hot coals caught in Bruce’s throat. It felt increasingly hard to breathe. And his chest ached.
Then the teleporter activated, and he was gone.