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As Superman rushed towards him, there was nothing Batman could do but watch silently from underneath the debris that landed right on top of his torso. He had made the split-second decision roll around towards the comparably lighter side of the ceiling that was falling on him which saved his life, but that unfortunately didn’t mean that he didn’t feel the stinging pain of his ribs which got cracked in the process in every breath he struggled to take.
Superman effortlessly lifted the chunk on top of Batman and threw it aside in a panic and extended his arm to help Batman up, which Batman refused by turning around, propping himself up by his right elbow and helping himself off the ground. Superman sighed in frustration as Batman turned his back on him and started walking towards the now destroyed building.
Superman may have laser eyes, the ability to fly and immeasurable strength but Batman knew Gotham like no one else did. He could draw a map of the back alleys and the sidewalks of every single neighborhood with his eyes closed. He knew the name of every single officer that worked in the GCPD, corrupt and clean. He knew the power dynamics between the supervillains, the mob bosses and the petty criminals.
Superman blew their cover far too soon. He couldn’t keep quiet. He directly challenged the perp they were supposed to be watching silently. Superman was a liability.
Batman also knew that these were all excuses he used to prevent himself from connecting with him. They had worked together on countless cases over the course of two years. Superman had proven himself time and time again in each new case. Batman knew that if it wasn’t for Superman, the three hostages would have perished under the collision today. If Superman hadn’t been here, he would have gotten trapped under the destroyed building. Bruce knew, deep down, it wasn’t fair on Clark to put his anger out on him.
For Bruce, needing other people was always harder than it should be.
Getting help isn’t weakness.
Bruce was tired.
Batman’s suit was lined with lead in order to prevent Superman from seeing anything he wasn’t supposed to see. Once it was asked of him, Superman would never breach his teammate’s trust in such a way, but as the sound of Bruce’s broken ribs shifting and brushing against each other in every step he took pounded in Superman’s ears, he couldn’t help but ask.
"Are you okay?"
Batman kept his back turned to Superman. If you didn’t know what to look for, he even sounded like he wasn’t in any pain. "I don’t expect there to be any permanent or temporary damage that would interfere with my work."
"I didn’t ask for a mission statement. I asked you if you were okay, Bruce."
Bruce had his good days and his bad days. On a good day, Clark would expect him to warn him softly about cover names and just disappear. On a bad day, Clark would expect an outburst about never using names on the field and a speech about not operating in Gotham again which he was for sure going to ignore as soon as he sensed that Batman needed assistance. What he didn’t expect was Bruce’s defeated sigh.
The broken ribs must have taken a toll on him, Clark thought. But it couldn’t be only that.
"Do you want to have dinner at the Manor? I’ll cook."
Clark was so shocked that the only thought his brain could produce was, "You can cook?"
He panicked for a split second, thinking he had said the wrong thing, but Bruce turned his around just at the right angle for Clark to see his barely visible smile under the cowl.
"Be at the front door at 7 pm tomorrow evening." He took out his grappling hook and walked towards the edge of the street as Clark was frozen in place.
"Oh, and, Superman?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
They locked eyes for about two seconds before Batman fired his grappling hook and swung to the nearest undestroyed building, disappearing in seconds.
What the hell had just happened?
The next day, Clark got so jumpy at the office that Lois had come to ask him if he had found an interesting case to work on, which Clark had responded with, "I think I have a date tonight."
Lois was obviously very surprised. Not that Clark couldn’t get a date if he didn’t want to. He was the sweetest and the most caring person she knew. He had the looks and the smile. Getting a date wasn’t the problem here, no. It was the fact that Clark Kent was very visibly excited for said date.
Just as Lois was opening her mouth, Clark added in a panic. "I’m actually not sure if it’s a date, but he invited me over to his house?"
"Are you sure this isn’t just a booty call?" Lois tried to joke, but it went right over Clark’s head as he kept staring into the distance.
"He’s cooking for me."
Lois no more had any suspicions. "Yes, it’s a date."
Clark looked a little bit confused before he wrapped up what seemed to be a heated debate in his head and resigned. "Well, it’s a little bit more complicated with him. He is… different." Just as he said the last words, he couldn’t help but smile, which made Lois break out into a big grin.
"You like him, don’t you?" Clark raised his head from his desk and opened his mouth, but Lois didn’t wait for a response as she slowly walked off. "Just be sure to wear that checkered shirt I like, Smallville."
Clark stood right outside the front door of the giant manor with his checkered shirt and checked his watch. 6:07 PM. Clark was an hour early. Just as he was considering what he could do to pass the time and disappear without being seen to come back at the right time, Alfred opened the door for him.
"Welcome, Master Kent. It is always a pleasure to have you here." He welcomed him and took a step back, allowing Clark to enter.
"I’m afraid Master Bruce is still in the kitchen, since you arrived early. But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you joined him."
Alfred took the left door to the stairs and led Clark through some corridors he couldn’t keep track of. Clark could hear Bruce’s heartbeat and his soft and almost silent footsteps as he moved around long before he was anywhere near the kitchen. After a few more giant doors later, Alfred stopped in front of a room.
"I will be retiring for the night, Master Kent. Please call if you require anything."
"I will Alfred, thank you."
Alfred nodded silently and left him alone in front of the door to the kitchen.
As Clark took the handle and slightly opened the door, the first thing he saw was Bruce’s back turned to him, the bandages covering his ribs clearly visible under the silk white shirt he was wearing. He had his sleeves rolled up and had an apron on.
"You’re early." Bruce loved stating facts.
"Yeah, sorry," Clark provided sheepishly and looked around the kitchen, taking in just how massive it looked.
"It’s fine. I’m almost done, but you can help me," Bruce said as turned around to reach for the pots sitting on the counter behind him and Clark saw his face, really saw his face without the cowl on. His usually tidied hair had fallen into his face and a lock of hair had stuck to his face from sweat. He had a small yellowish bruise that had almost healed on his left cheekbone. He hadn’t hidden the bruise under makeup like he usually did whenever he was in public.
It was then that Clark understood. Bruce was letting him in.
Clark moved closer to pass the other pot as Bruce set the first one on the counter and handed it to him just in time. He gave a small nod and turned around to place it on the stove.
Bruce was really trying.
Getting help isn’t weakness.
"Pass me the mint. It’s inside the third counter," Bruce instructed as he set the pot on the stove.
Clark passed it to him and looked around to see what exactly Bruce was cooking and was surprised to find it was what looked to be tomato soup.
"You actually made tomato soup?" Clark chuckled to himself and turned to Bruce. "I expected you to make rich people food that I had never heard of."
"It was the first dish I ever learned. Besides, I thought you’d appreciate it more." Clark was taken aback by the honest answer. Bruce was right, of course. He did appreciate it more.
"Thanks," he offered, to which Bruce responded with a thoughtful hmm. Bruce added the mint and passed the wooden spoon to Clark and instructed him to keep stirring. He moved towards the fridge to pick out ingredients for the salad he and Alfred always put in the middle of the table whenever they prepared more than two dishes. As he turned around, he saw Clark transfixed on stirring the pot with a determined look on his face. Even though Clark wasn’t looking at him, Bruce gently smiled at him.
They stood together in the kitchen as Bruce mixed the ingredients for the salad and Clark stirred the pot so that the soup wouldn’t burn. They were both silent, but it was a good silence. Clark had figured out that with Bruce, you didn’t really always need words. He was comfortable in the silence.
After a while, Bruce turned off the stove and took the pot from under Clarks hands. He slowly poured the soup into two separate bowls and passed them to Clark before getting the big salad bowl. "Follow me." Clark, once again, didn’t see what he expected. He had imagined they would sit at the two ends of a fancy and long dinner table like the ones in the movies. But Bruce lead him inside another room, and although it was still bigger than Clark’s living room, it seemed relatively small inside the Manor. There was a table at the end, big enough for about 6 people. There were plates set in two corners and about five different dishes on the table. There was even an apple pie sitting on the very end. If Clark didn’t know any better, he’d say it almost looked like a table Ma would prepare.
Bruce set the salad and took the two bowls out of Clark’s hands to set them top of the plates and gestured Clark to sit. As Clark sat and took a spoonful of his soup, he was instantly met with the delicious taste matching the good smell emanating from the bowl.
"This is the best soup I have ever tasted," he said, half amused half surprised. "How did you learn to cook anyway? I wouldn’t have expected you to know how to turn a stove on since you have a butler that cooks for you."
Bruce contemplated his answer for a short moment.
Getting help isn’t weakness.
"I couldn’t speak to anyone after my parents died." Whatever Clark was expecting, it wasn’t this, so he gently put down his spoon to listen intently. "But every day, Alfred would cook, and I would sit beside him and watch him. We never talked, but Alfred always kept cooking something new just so I would accept his company. Eventually I started cooking with him and I think it’s the comfort and familiarity lead me to open up to him enough to accept his help."
Bruce kept staring at his plate and continued to eat like his voice hadn’t trembled while he spoke. Clark knew how difficult it was for him. Even though Bruce wasn’t looking at him, Clark gently smiled at him.
"I’m glad you shared that with me, Bruce." Bruce silently nodded and passed him the salad.
The rest of the evening was spent half in conversation and half in comfortable silence and most of the food was eaten by Clark, who in turn blamed his super metabolism.
As he was leaving the Manor, Clark had to fight the urge to give Bruce a hug, but he settled for a smile instead. Bruce smiled back at him, and they savored the precious moment before Clark thanked him for his hospitality and Bruce, of course, used hmm as an appropriate response and saw him to the door.
Bruce had let Clark in.
Bruce was eight years old, sitting on a stool, his eyes filled with tears as Alfred crouched beside him and applied the burn cream on the side of his hand. Alfred always did the heavy lifting inside the kitchen, carrying the pots, pouring the ingredients inside while Bruce helped with the mixing and the stirring. Today, on the other hand, Bruce somehow thought he could lift the pot filled with boiling water himself, and although the water had only spilled on the floor when his arms couldn’t take the weight, a splash had hit his hand and slightly burned him.
"I thought I could do it without help this time. But I’m too weak," Bruce whispered and turned his head away from Alfred. Alfred put the cap back on the cream and set it aside. He took Bruce’s face in his hands that were too large for Bruce’s tiny head and turned his head back towards him. They stared at each other for a moment, Alfred taking a long look at Bruce as he silently cried.
"Getting help isn’t weakness, Master Bruce. It is strength."