Archive of Our Own

Batman is not a trusting person. He is exactly the opposite: reserved, guarded, quiet, private, paranoid. Superman knows this. The Justice League knows this. It’s apparent in the lead that lines the cowl, the dampener in the Batsuit (which Clark can sense, even if he can’t hear the heartbeat underneath), the vocal modulator, and in the way that Batman never ever lets them see past the cowl’s white lenses.

All they know about the man, physically, is his height, weight, and blood type; Batman is six feet four inches tall, weighs two hundred-and-fifteen pounds, blood type AB+. Even this basic information is disclosed reluctantly— Batman’s gruff, “for emergencies only” had made that clear enough. Well, they know this and that he’s from Gotham (because of his accent). But there are other things that can be extrapolated

Batman is between the ages of 25 and 50, though no one thinks he is anywhere near either of those extremes, he’s had an extensive— and impressive— formal education, and he is brilliant. Possibly even a literal genius. He is also deeply, deeply troubled.

“What do you think happened to him?” Green Lantern asks, tone hushed, after the first league meeting in which Batman is present as a member (he’s consulted before).

“Hal,” Clark chastises. The lantern shrugs, and the subject is dropped. Yet Clark cannot stop himself from privately wondering: what did happen to Batman?

Because— it is blatantly obvious— something did.

Nobody who is normal puts on a suit and fights crime. If that says something about the rest of them, well— it only serves to prove Clark’s point. Furthermore, Batman himself hints at a… dark, or at least troubled, past. It’s hard to catch, true, but perhaps not as hard to catch as the man thinks; especially when the ones observing have super-senses.

It’s the small twitches of his jaw when anybody else mentions crime in Gotham. It’s the pursed lips when Flash and Green Lantern are goofing off when there is work to be done. It’s in the warning to “Stay out of Gotham,” as if Batman thinks that they can’t handle the grittiness and desperation of his city. Hell— it’s in the way that Clark has never seen the man smile, laugh, or even look amused. It’s in his biting words, refusal to let anyone know him, and his cynical attitude.

“That doesn’t just— people aren’t born like that,” Clark muses to Diana, later.

She hums thoughtfully. “You are not wrong, Kal El. But we must be patient; the league cannot afford to lose Batman.” And she’s right. In the months since Batman joined the Justice League, they have become so much more efficient— it almost boggles the mind. They have also become a lot more well-funded.

The thing is, Batman is rich. Or, at least, he has a generous benefactor. But Clark is inclined to believe that it’s the man himself who’s rich. They don’t talk about ‘civilian life’ much (at least not when the Gotham hero is present), but when they do, Batman offers few contributions. No snippets of his life, no fond (or not-so) memories. And he never complains about bills, his job, or other trivial but ever-present concerns like the others do. However, it’s not just this that makes Clark hypothesize that the man is loaded— it’s his tech, and his personal tastes (those that the league is aware of, at least).

Batman is generally good excellent at hero work, but even he occasionally gets injured, damages his equipment, or loses it in a fight. If he were working with a financial backer, there’s no way he’d be able to reload on supplies as quickly as he does. Also, while he generally tries to keep his gear in good condition, he is not afraid to sacrifice it in battle, if need be. No matter how rich a potential backer, Clark knows that people are more reluctant to, say, destroy a jet (which happens during their first alien invasion) if they aren’t the ones paying for it.

Furthermore, with his background in writing and literature, Clark is more attuned to the signs of a formal education than the rest of the league. This kind of education only comes with time and access to academic materials. Both are resources that are more easily available when one has money (or, in Superman’s case, powers). His journalistic background also means that Clark’s been exposed to how members of the upper echelons of society think. While it’s subtle, like everything else about the man, Batman sounds rich.

So, based on all of this, Clark actually has a decent handle of who Batman is. But there are also enough shadowy corners and depths in the man’s persona that even Superman, with his x-ray vision, is kept guessing. And, going on a year after his acceptance of league membership, Batman still has not removed the cowl.

“I wish he trusted us,” Flash grumbles.

“Give him time,” Wonder Woman reassures, “he will.”

But more time passes, and even Diana seems to despair of Batman ever revealing his identity.

However, the man has definitely grown accustomed to them. Batman is more at ease in meetings (if only slightly). He also shares stories— completely unprompted— about his work in Gotham; it is in this way that they learn that Batman has been working for a lot longer than most of them have even been active. Clark does research later, and discovers that Batman has been around for a decade. Which means that Batman’s age is closer to 50 than 25— for some reason, this puts a lump in Superman’s throat.

A few days after this discovery, Clark realizes: I may have a crush on Batman.

The rest of the league (save Diana, and occasionally Hal, but for different reasons) have accepted that they will never know Batman as anything other than ‘Batman.’ It is only Superman who seems to be curious— or at least not reluctant to admit to it— about Batman’s identity. And, well, Clark could’ve kidded himself that a crush wasn’t what it was. He could’ve fooled himself into believing that he was just annoyed at the lack of trust (Batman still wears a dampener and continues to line his cowl with lead).

But it’s more than that.

Clark— not Superman— catches himself wondering what the other man’s real heartbeat sounds like. He has to stop himself from staring too long at Batman’s lips. He finds himself getting lost in the low tones of Batman’s voice. So, Clark likes Batman, then. Not that anything will ever come out of it, of course. He accepts this, with a quiet resignation that leaves him feeling soul-heavy for a week.

“What’s wrong with Big Blue?” Cyborg asks, after a meeting. Diana shushes him.

Of course, Clark’s situation is not helped by the fact that somehow, he seems to have become friends with Batman. He doesn’t understand how, and nobody else does either. But, as Arthur says, “It’s hard to not like Superman.” Maybe that applies to giant bats too. Either way, Batman seems to respect him, and it shows in the sheer fact that he talks to Clark. At least, he talks more to Clark than to anyone else they work with.

“Maybe he likes you too,” Diana comments one afternoon, when they’re on monitor duty.

Clark nearly spits out his coffee all over the multi-million-dollar monitors. “Wh-what?” he asks incredulously. Am I being that obvious?

Diana fixes him with a look. “Don’t be foolish, Clark. The man spends most of his time talking to you, tolerating me, and working with everyone else. There is hope.” She pats his arm, and rises to get them refills of their chosen beverages. Clark blinks.

But it’s not until two years later that Clark accidentally uncovers Batman’s identity.

He’s covering a charity gala— an event that’s going to fund a new transit line between Gotham and Metropolis— when it happens. He is one among the crowd of reporters and hangers-on surrounding Bruce Wayne, who’s in Metropolis to lend his support (and money) to the event. Wayne’s voice tonight has stricken a chord in Clark, and he can’t help frowning at it. It— it’s not attraction, he’s pretty sure, but it… there’s some kind of familiar note in Wayne’s voice that Clark can’t quite place. Then he hears a loud boom. Someone has set off a bomb outside the building.

“Excuse me,” Clark mutters to everyone around him. He gets the hell out of the crowd.

Somehow, over the general chaos and din, he hears Bruce Wayne mutter into his phone, “Alfred, where’s the nearest door— I need to make a quick exit.” Which is not entirely unusual; the man has been kidnapped before. Also, he’s from Gotham; he’ll know that what happens after a bomb goes off is not good. No, it is his butler’s response that resonates with Clark— at least it does later.

“Yes, Sir, that is what I’d suggest. There is a service elevator in the Southwest corner of your floor, nearest the men’s restroom,” Alfred Pennyworth says.

Then Clark is too busy to eavesdrop.

Batman shows up to the fight about half an hour later. Clark is a little surprised, and it must show, because the Gothamite offers: “Some of these men are from my city.” Superman just nods, then goes back to subduing criminals. Batman does too.

He slams his fist into one thug’s gut, and then leaps over the man who’d been trying to sneak up behind him. That doesn’t end well for Batman’s opponent. Clark blinks, and goes back to what he’s doing— scanning for any other bombs, and checking out the buildings around the blast for structural damage. He’s also clearing the last few stragglers from the gala.

Then it hits him: Wayne. He hasn’t seen Wayne anywhere. “Hey, B!” he shouts.

Batman turns. “What?”

“Have you seen Bruce Wayne? I— I haven’t done a headcount yet, but he should be here!”

“No!” Batman shouts— he’s currently engaged with the last of the bombers— “but don’t worry about him right now; I’m sure Wayne’s hidden away somewhere. He’s been kidnapped before, and it’s made him rather skittish over the years.”

Clark just nods, not exactly at-ease with Batman’s dismissive explanation. Then he hears a British voice comment dryly over Batman’s cowl-comm., “Well that was rather riveting. ‘Where is Bruce Wayne,’ indeed.” And— it hits Clark then. I’ve heard that voice before. That voice belongs to Bruce Wayne’s butler.

“What’s the ETA on the Jet?” Batman asks, oblivious to Superman’s mind-melting discovery.

“The jet will be arriving momentarily, Sir,” the butler responds.

“Thank you, Agent A,” Batman mutters.

They wrap up the fight easily— though the explosion had scared a lot of people, it hadn’t really done that much damage. “Probably meant to make everyone fearful enough to comply with their demands,” Batman growls. Clark waits for the police to arrive, and Batman disappears. “It’s your city, Boy Scout, and I trust that you can handle the clean-up.”

Fifteen minutes later, Clark hears an officer call in, “I found Wayne— hiding in the storage closet on the fourth floor.” Something in Clark’s chest unclenches, and then he frowns. That’s a rather convenient hiding spot. And fifteen minutes is just enough time for Batman to change, put the suit in the jet back to Gotham, and get into character.

Wayne is brought out from the building, and immediately withdraws his phone as it rings. “Hello? Yeah, Alfred, I’m fine. Barely even noticed anything was going on— I’d been trying to find the bathroom when the bomb went off. Can you believe it?”

“Very good, Sir,” comes the passive response.

Clark floats off into the upper stratosphere to think.

Okay. Okay. So, what does Superman really know about Batman? What do I know about Bruce Wayne? He’ll start with the basic facts: both are from Gotham. Both have… reputations. Each has a long history in the city, with tragic elements— Joker, Wayne’s parents. Batman is educated. Bruce, though not (apparently) smart, went to private schools growing up, and did a year at Princeton before dropping out. Wayne is most definitely rich enough to fund Batman and the Justice League. Additionally, each man is deeply, deeply passionate about the city. Whatever else Wayne is— or maybe pretends to be— he cares about Gotham. Batman, it goes without saying, does too.

Next, Clark reflects on Wayne’s physique. He’s roughly the same height as Batman (Clark’s not sure about the weight, or blood type though). Wayne’s chin could be Batman’s. Then there’s his voice. Batman uses a vocal modulator, but— but didn’t I feel an eerie connection to Wayne’s voice just earlier tonight?

Then there is also the fact that this isn’t the first time Wayne has mysteriously disappeared during a crisis. It’s happened enough for people to notice it (and to conclude that Wayne either has incredibly lucky timing, or he’s a coward, or both). Lastly, and most damning, Agent A and Alfred’s voices match.

So, Clark concludes: “Batman is Bruce Wayne.” Fuck.

He doesn’t see Batman for another week. During the interim time, Clark considers what he’s going to do. Superman’s sense of fair play tells him that he needs to let Bruce know that he knows that he’s Batman. But Clark is neither sure where to do this, nor when. Batman is going to be upset by Superman’s disclosure. He may even get violent (though Clark likes the man, he does have a temper). Clark is also deeply, deeply terrified that if he does this wrong, Batman will vanish like a puff of smoke.

He doesn’t want to lose the unlikely friendship that’s bloomed between them. Clark is also worried that he’ll ruin whatever chance for something more which Diana seems to think he has. Also, there is the faint (but real) possibility that his revelation will make Batman do something utterly drastic— such as leaving the league. But Clark doesn’t think that confronting him in Gotham is a good idea (too many places for him to hide) and he certainly won’t come to Metropolis unless Clark has a really good reason (and that would only make him more uncomfortable).

He decides that it’s best to wait for the next league meeting.

The fated day finally arrives. Superman does his best not to fidget during the meeting, though from Diana’s glances (and Batman’s), he’s not sure how successful that endeavor is. The meeting is a fairly short one, but it still feels like it stretches on for an eon. Still, everything that starts must end— even Justice League meetings. Batman, unsurprisingly, is the first to leave; still having little use for post-meeting socialization.

This time, however, Superman is the second to depart.

Batman is already at the end of the hall when Clark catches up to him. Nobody is around except them. Despite the fact that Superman could easily catch up with Batman all on his own, the other man slows when he senses Clark approaching. They fall into step and walk side-by-side down the hall. Here goes nothing.

“Bruce?” Clark asks casually.

“Yes, Superman?” Batman replies quickly. There is a second of silence, where the other hero seems to be waiting for Superman’s response. Then Batman realizes what he’s done, that Superman has called him Bruce. Batman jerks to a halt like a marionette whose strings have been cut. And just like that, Clark has confirmed his theory: Batman is Bruce Wayne.

Batman has gone completely still, and though Superman can’t hear his actual heartbeat, he can imagine it. He can also see the absolute tension in Batman’s body. They’re both silent for at least two minutes, and then Bruce mutters, “How did you find out? I- I have to know in case—”

Clark takes pity on him. “It wasn’t you, it was me.” Bruce snorts at the line, but he doesn’t otherwise seem that amused. He gestures: go on. Clark takes a breath, and continues, “I— it was your comm. The one you have built-in to the cowl? I heard Alfred that night in Metropolis, at the gala, with the bomb. Then, when we were fighting, I heard Agent A.”

Bruce’s jaw twitches. Absently, as if he’s forgotten that Superman is there (he hasn’t, Clark knows) Bruce murmurs, “Lead. I thought you couldn’t—”

Clark’s heart squeezes at the blatant mistrust. But he still answers, “You’re right. I can’t see through lead. But I can still hear through it.”

Bruce stands stock-still for a moment, then sighs. His shoulders sag, as if he’s carrying a great load. “Of course.” He looks resigned.

There’s another ugly silence in which Batman doesn’t look past Superman’s red boots. Clark frowns, because he looks so defeated. A part of him is angry, that Batman— Bruce— is still so distrusting. Another part of him is sad. But another part understands; Clark would be pretty upset too if someone told him they’d uncovered his real identity.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” he says softly. Bruce looks up. “It’s not my secret to share.”

Bruce is quiet for another moment. Then he sighs softly, so quiet that if Clark weren’t himself, he wouldn’t have heard it. He looks… not relaxed, but a bit less unnerved at least. Clark smiles. “See you next meeting, Batman.” Bruce nods once, and takes the out eagerly. Clark watches his black cape-clad form stride away.

Three weeks pass, and Batman (Bruce) still hasn’t come to a league meeting. Clark’s heart hurts— is it really so bad that I know? “Where the hell is Batman?” Hal asks impatiently.

“Um,” Clark says quietly. “I may have figured out his civilian identity. He… didn’t take it well— and no, I’m not going to tell you.” Hal shuts his mouth, and Clark would be more rebuking, but he’s too busy not meeting Diana’s sympathetic gaze.

A week later, Bruce Wayne gets kidnapped.

“Hey,” Clark says, giving Bruce a moment to catch his breath after he catches him (the kidnappers had pushed Bruce out a window). Superman tries his best not to eavesdrop on Bruce’s vital signs, or be overcome by the shock he’s feeling at holding an armful of Bruce. Bruce, who is, at the moment, a civilian that Superman hasn’t met before.

“Hi,” Bruce replies sheepishly. Superman starts carrying him toward the manor.

“Wait.” Clark stops. “You- you need to take me back,” Bruce says reluctantly. He sighs.

“Why?”

“The paramedics will want to check me over, and I still need to give a statement to the police. Also: do you really want people talking about why Superman seems to care so much about Bruce Wayne?” Bruce asks, scowling.

Clark grimaces. He’s right. “Fine. But— can I see you later?” I’ve never felt so nervous.

Bruce looks at the clouds. “Yes. Come by the manor in a few days, when all this has died down.”

Clark grins (and doesn’t miss the responding jump in Bruce’s heartrate— interesting). “Okay.”

He never makes it to the cave. Instead, he dies.

It’s the hardest fight of Superman’s life— turns out that the name ‘Doomsday’ is fitting after all— and Superman, who everyone assumed was invulnerable, who everyone assumed could never be defeated dies…

Or he doesn’t.

Six months later, Clark comes back. Or rather, Clark wakes up, and he’s in his own grave, buried under six feet of dirt, and it’s dark, and he can hear the bugs and the smell of the rich, fertilized (with bodies, it’s the scent of decaying bodies he’s smelling) earth, and it— his chest hurts. All of him hurts. Clark manages to break out of his own grave, and, well, then he’s alive again. But this poses almost as many problems as it does solutions.

Problems like: what is Superman going to do now? What is Clark? Because maybe he is immortal— maybe I won’t ever really die. Clark’s chest hurts at that thought, because Ma, Pa, Bruce. Regardless of this conundrum, and what a mindfuck of a conundrum it is, Clark has more immediate concerns to deal with.

He— he doesn’t feel the same since he died. Logically, he knows that it’s trauma— some form of PTSD almost definitely— but that doesn’t stop him from feeling it. Also, just because Clark’s pulled a Rip Van Winkle doesn’t mean everyone else has. The world isn’t the same since he died, either. It feels darker. Colder. Duller. The league has changed too.

Wonder Woman knows Batman’s real name now.

“He took it hard, you know?” Flash confides quietly. “I mean… we all did. But Batman especially.” Clark nods. Bruce still hasn’t talked to him. But he sure seems close to Diana.

A week after Clark’s resurrection return, he learns the extent of Batman and Wonder Woman’s closeness.

“Bruce,” Diana says. She wraps an arm around Bruce’s shoulders. He exhales softly. They’re sitting on the bed in her Watchtower quarters. “You need to tell him.”

Bruce shudders. Clark is surprised to hear that he’s crying. “I- I can’t,” he stutters.

“Okay. Okay,” Diana says. “If you want, I can—”

For a moment, Clark sees red as his guts churn, and his fists clench, and he suddenly wants to scream. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair— Bruce is supposed to be with me. If I hadn’t died, if I’d been able to go to the cave, then… well, Diana wouldn’t be calling Batman ‘Bruce’ with so much affection in her voice. Batman wouldn’t be letting Wonder Woman touch him—

But Clark didn’t go to the cave. He died and the rest of the world went on without him. Clark, with a burning, sick feeling in his gut (so much worse than kryptonite), cuts off his senses and flees. He’s heard enough.

Superman takes a leave of absence; a week for himself, just to be alone (it’s practice for later, when I actually will be). He flies to the Fortress of Solitude— the name has never felt more fitting than it does now. He sits alone in the cold and ice and feels a part of himself harden. Okay, so. Bruce and Diana are together now. Okay.

Clark returns. Bruce is still reserved around him, but he does at least let Clark know that he’s glad Superman is back. Despite his well wishes, things are not the same (can never be the same, not when Superman has died) because how can they be when Clark doesn’t follow that most cardinal of nature’s rules: all things that live must die.

How can things be the same when Clark overhears Bruce say, “Diana, I love—”

“I know,” Diana murmurs.

Clark hardens his heart. Superman is an alien. Superman is ice. Superman is unbreakable. Clark is immortal and Batman is only human, so of course he’d seek out comfort in a time of loss— and Diana is very comforting.

Superman is polite to both of them. Bruce extends another invitation to the manor (to him and Diana this time). Clark rejects it. He tries to ignore the significant look they share. Later, Diana says, “He needs time, Bruce. All this is still new to him.” Clark reminds himself that it is ugly to be bitter.

Another month passes this way. Clark gets over his loss— mostly. At least I know it could have been. At least there’s that. At least he can still call Bruce his friend. The impasse goes on for another two weeks.

Then, one night, Clark hears the call: “Superman.” It’s Bruce. He sounds drunk. Clark frowns. He listens for Diana’s heartbeat. It’s not at the manor. In fact, it’s across the Atlantic. “C-Clark. Please.”

Superman sighs, and steels himself to go comfort his friend about his breakup.

Bruce is drunk. Bruce is very drunk. He’s standing on the master bedroom’s balcony, a bottle of scotch held loosely in his left hand. He’s got his arms crossed and leans lazily against the railing, staring out into the distance.

“Bruce,” Clark calls, as he sets down.

Bruce’s head jerks up, and— Clark, for all his bitterness, still cares about this man. He feels a pang of sympathy for Bruce; he knows a thing or two about heartache. “Shuper— Superm’n,” Bruce slurs, offering the man of steel a sloppy grin. Clark’s heart feels stabbed through; he knows what the sensation is like now, so he can say that this description is accurate.

“Hey,” Clark offers gently. He takes the bottle from Bruce, whose hands are cold. The man shivers, and leans into Clark’s side. Ice, Clark reminds himself, be ice. He brings his cape around to cover Bruce, who half-buries himself beneath it.

The red cape sets off the color blooming in Bruce’s cheeks.

“Take it you h’rd from D’na,” Bruce mutters. Superman is suddenly relieved that Bruce is still nestled in his cape; it means that Batman doesn’t see the pained expression that crosses his face.

“I’m sorry she broke up with you. You two seemed good together,” Clark says hollowly.

There is a beat of silence. Then Bruce removes his head from Clark’s shoulder. His dim, bloodshot gaze meets Clark’s concerned one. “What?” Bruce asks.

Clark frowns. “D-didn’t Diana break up with you? I thought— did you break up with her?” Am I comforting the wrong person? He may be jealous, but Wonder Woman is still a friend.

Bruce blinks, and his brow furrows. He looks utterly baffled. “What’re you sayin’?” he asks. Clark opens his mouth to explain, but Bruce continues: “We were never togth’r.” Clark freezes. Bruce frowns at him, and blinks owlishly. “Clark?”

“W-what? But I thought—”

Bruce frowns. His eyes widen. “You thou’ we… were datin.’ I— is that why you sta’ed ‘way?” He sounds hopeful.

Clark blinks. He suddenly feels incredibly stupid. I may have severely misread this situation. “Well, yeah. But, Bruce. You and Diana were— what is it you need to tell me?”

Bruce rubs his face against Clark’s chest— trying to get under the cape again (Clark abruptly remembers how cold it gets in Gotham). He’s about to pick Bruce up and bring them inside, but Bruce’s sigh stops him. “I was askin’ Di’na for a’vice.”

“Why?”

Bruce blinks up at him. “‘Cause I did— didn’t k’ow how to say I l’ve you.”

He presses a slobbery kiss to the corner of Clark’s mouth (he’d probably been aiming for the lips, but...) it still hits Clark like a spike to the chest. “What?” Clark says intelligently. And oh man, if Batman remembers any of this in the morning, he is going to make so much fun of Clark.

“I. Love. You,” Bruce repeats, enunciating carefully. He thumps his head against Clark’s chest and yawns. He doesn’t seem to notice how very still Superman has gone. Love. He said love. Clark’s heart is going to burst.

Bruce yawns again. It’s enough to snap Clark out of his stupor. “Let’s get you to bed, B.”

The next morning (a Saturday, thank god), Superman is floating over Metropolis, soaking in the sun. He is also, maybe, waiting for a certain billionaire’s heartrate to change. So he can go talk to him. About the kiss they (arguably) shared last night. When said billionaire— who is also Batman— drunkenly confessed his love for Superman.

Around eleven a.m.— Clark is not keeping track, he’s not— Bruce wakes up. Clark gives him another twenty minutes, and then he flies to Gotham and lands on Bruce’s balcony. He raps gently on the glass-paned French doors and waits. He hears Bruce thud across the room— his usual grace seems to have abandoned him this morning.

Squinting in the light, Bruce throws open the door, and blinks. “Clark? Oh, Jesus Christ— it wasn’t a dream then. Come in.” He sounds extremely embarrassed, and Clark’s heart falls. Surely he can’t have not meant it?

But Bruce steps back into the relative shadows of his bedroom, and invites Clark across the threshold. Then Bruce mutters something that sounds like “never drinking again,” and gestures to one of two plush armchairs. “Have a seat.” Clark sits, and tries not to worry at his cape.

Bruce retreats from view, and Clark hears a bottle of pills being uncapped, then the bathroom tap running. Bruce returns, and sits stiffly in the chair across from Clark. “So,” Batman says.

“So,” Clark replies. They look at each other and fall silent.

Finally, Bruce sighs. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair in a way that makes his biceps and triceps flex. Clark’s stomach takes a dive and his mouth goes dry. He doesn’t even let himself listen to Bruce’s heartbeat, because— because that wouldn’t end well for Clark’s dignity. Although, from the look on Bruce’s face, there isn’t a lot of that to go around. “Tell me what happened,” he demands.

“You called me over, we talked, you—” Clark swallows down a shaky breath— “you told me you l-loved me, kissed me, and I got you into bed. Then I left.”

Bruce’s pulse lurches— in stress, and that is not good— then he scrubs a hand over his face. “Well fuck.”

Clark frowns for a moment, before adding, “Hey. At least you weren’t the one keeping away for months because you thought your friends were dating.”

Bruce blinks at him, looking almost as shocked as he had last night. Then he bursts into laughter, and laughs for so long that he starts wheezing. “Good— fuck… th-that’s… Christ, Clark. That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

Now it’s Clark’s turn to frown. “Well, it was right after I came back! You and Diana seemed close, and…” I already thought I was going to be alone forever. Bruce stops laughing, and his face goes cool and serious.

“So… you do—” he cuts himself off. Clark hangs at the edge of his seat. Bruce averts his eyes, and continues, “You do like me.”

Clark snorts. ‘Like’ isn’t the right word, perhaps, but, “Yes.”

Bruce stands. Clark follows suit. Bruce walks towards him, and— oh. He’s going to kiss me. Clark surges forward, and meets him halfway.

Later, after they break apart— Bruce gasping a little (which goes straight to Clark’s head, among other places)— Bruce asks, “Want to see the cave?”

Clark blinks. “Yes.”

They walk quickly through the manor. If he weren’t being shown something infinitely more impressive, Clark would spend hours looking around Bruce’s expansive home. He’ll have to do that later; he’s got time now. Clark smiles.

Bruce opens the door to his study, walks over to the large grandfather clock in the corner, winds the clockface to a certain time (at which Clark averts his eyes), and then the clock springs open. Oh. There’s a secret passage. He feels only slightly like one of the Hardy boys.

Bruce looks back at him, and smirks. “Come on, Boy Scout.”

The Batcave is even more impressive than Superman had thought it would be. He gapes at his surroundings for almost a full minute before remembering himself. His gaze snaps to Bruce, who is leaning against the desk, arms crossed, watching him. “Very impressive,” Clark says quietly.

Something in Bruce’s posture relaxes as he pushes away from the desk. “I was fortunate enough not to have to do a lot of work to it. The cavern is naturally occurring. I did, however, decorate. Want to see?”

Clark hesitates. While he would indeed like to see Batman’s decorations, Clark has something else he’s been wanting to see. “Can— would you… be willing to put on the suit?” he asks hesitantly.

Bruce stills. “I suppose. One moment.” He disappears.

Batman returns.

“Like what you see?” he growls, as Clark’s eyes rove over him. Despite himself, Clark blushes. This does not go unnoticed by Bruce, who smirks. I am definitely going to have to have sex with him in the suit at some point.

“Yes. But… could you… take the cowl off?” I want to see you. Batman sighs, but acquiesces.

And— he knew. Clark knew that Bruce was Batman, but... But knowing and seeing are two different beasts, and now— it’s real. Bruce is Batman, and Batman is Bruce. Clark’s breath suddenly catches in his throat. There’s one more thing, though. “Let me hear your heart,” Clark murmurs.

A quicksilver frown passes over Bruce’s face. He’s still standing a few feet away. “Please, B. Indulge me.” That seems to affect Batman. He growls, and Clark isn’t able to stay away any longer. In an instant, he’s closed the gap between them, and is standing directly in front of Batman— Bruce?— a cowl-less Batman.

Bruce shoves Superman away, with a shaky inhale, and a heated look. But his words are oddly vulnerable: “G-give me a moment.”

Clark obediently takes another step back. Bruce’s eyes briefly close, then his expression cools as he presses a sequence of buttons on the gauntlet’s retractable screen, and— Clark hears Bruce’s heartbeat, his real heartbeat, inside the Batsuit for the first time. Superman sags to his knees. Anxiously, Bruce follows suit.

“Take it off,” Clark rasps irrationally. Bruce obliges.

The chest plate armor is dropped to the cave floor with a thud, revealing the thin black spandex shirt beneath. It does very little to disguise the shape of Bruce’s muscles. Within an instant, Clark’s ear is pressed against Bruce’s chest; if the other man feels any alarm at this, he is remarkably good at not showing it. Absently, Superman feels Bruce’s arms come around him.

As they continue kneeling, Clark listens raptly to the sweet music of Bruce’s heartbeat.