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It’s probably not obvious to anyone else, though if it’s because of his powers or the amount of time he spends watching Batman is anyone’s guess.
Not that he would actually tell anyone. If there were even anyone to tell.
But yeah, he probably spends way too much time staring at the man in the cowl, who reads as fully human to all his senses, no matter what the rumors or Green Lantern might say.
It’s how he knows that Batman absolutely cannot stand the subject of Bruce Wayne.
Not in the way most people can’t, given that Wayne is the kind of vacuous tabloid fodder that cries out for a trashy reality show that will be decried as an omen of the imminent downfall of Western civilization. But in the grinding his teeth inside the mask, the discreet bulge of the jaw, the microscopic scrape reminding him of the sound snow makes falling on snow. It’s never alone, always with the tightening of his gloves on his knuckles.
To anybody else there’s probably no change worth noting. To Clark he’s ridiculously obvious.
Sometimes he thinks about bringing it up. Maybe one day when they’re watching the console on the satellite together, those rare times Earth is still and silent.
It’s the closest he’s ever felt to understood, talking quietly about everything and nothing with a man that has seen him bend steel without blinking. Batman is the most at ease Clark’s ever seen him, those times, the slope of his shoulders ever so slightly relaxed. Unafraid.
Sometimes, Clark thinks he could tell Batman absolutely everything. Who he is, where he’s from, and ask, finally, why Wayne pisses him off so badly Clark can practically taste it.
What stops him, every time, is that maybe Batman would take it badly, and then those rare silences would be tense instead of companionable.
He can’t risk that, not for anything.
It’s one of the few times he feels at home, having left Kansas and his childhood behind. And it’s with a man whose face he’s never seen.
Properly, anyway. That bit of chin tells its own story.
Still, he can’t help himself from looking up sharply when Flash and Green Lantern start a round of celebrity themed fuck-marry-kill and Bruce Wayne is the third name to come up.
Predictably, Batman is radiating tension, thick and invisible. It’s giving himself away, he knows, but he clears his throat.
For half a second, Flash and Green Lantern look just a teensy bit embarrassed. Or Flash does, at any rate.
He’s not confident enough to push the boy scout routine though, and it would make this more complicated than it has to be.
So Clark pretends he doesn’t notice their pause, instead and nods at Batman like nothing is odd at all.
“A word please?” Clark says easily enough, and everything flows back to normal, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
He knows they call them Mom and Dad when they think he can’t hear. Clark’s Mom, which he can’t deny. Easier to pretend he doesn’t know.
Batman strides out of the steely lounge, a minute twitch of his jaw the only indication to follow him. Clark floats behind him easily.
He could walk, sure, but the glee of being able to do this whenever he wants in front of people who won’t blink at it still hasn’t worn off.
Batman doesn’t duck into the console room, currently manned by Arthur, who doesn’t care what they do or don’t know about him, since his life is mostly in a place they can’t reach, and J’onn who doesn’t really have a personal life anyway.
Instead, he makes his, their, way to the far room on this level, the awkward bit of extra space they turned into what’s allegedly a meeting room just to do something with it.
He turns, the cape flaring dramatically, but the effect is lost on Clark. He’s seen it a little too often.
Heavy gauntlets, edges out, folded over his chest, Batman growls “Yes?” in that technologically boosted guttural hell voice.
Right over it, slightly delayed, Clark can hear his real voice well enough to get annoyed at the overlap, but not enough to isolate it in his mind. No one else can hear him like that, as far as he knows.
“Nothing actually” he says, trying to make the Midwest thick in his voice, needling, just a little.
“You just seemed upset, so...” he adds, wondering if he’s signing his death warrant.
Just because Batman listens to him, those long nights, lets him vent his frustrations, obliquely as he can, works with him on the field, doesn’t mean he’s going to take this well.
At all. Batman lets all his air out of his nose, an old tactic, whistling high and sharp in Clark’s ears.
“There’s no call for you to rescue me” he says, but doesn’t sound upset, not really. Clark can tell by now when he’s growling for the sake of it.
“I’m a big boy, I can take it” he adds, and that’s when Clark thinks he hasn’t actually understood. Not really. Not what Clark’s saying.
“First of all, we’re a team, it’s what we do. And second, I’m trying to offset my mental countdown of the day you finally snap and punch someone for mentioning Bruce Wayne” he says, and this time the shriek of air is making its way into Batman’s lungs.
He tells himself he only said it because it’s fair and right, not something he should keep as a secret. He’s definitely not showing off the fact that Clark knows him too, in his own way.
For a minute, it looks like Clark’s the one that’s going to get decked for mentioning that name, then Batman sighs, defeated, the additions to the cowl making him sound a little like Darth Vader.
“Fine. I don’t like him” “You hate him” “Fine. Hate is the word. He’s…” and Clark feels like a schoolgirl at a sleepover, bonding over petty gossip. It’s embarrassingly thrilling.
“Wayne is everything wrong with Gotham City, and American society in general” he says and before Clark can point out that Gotham has a problem with killer clowns and mutated crocodile men, Batman adds “because people like him generate and maintain the conditions that allow it”.
It’s almost like he can read Clark’s mind. It’s endearing, instead of terrifying. Mostly.
“Alright, point taken. And I wasn’t trying to tease you, just give you an out” Clark says, palms up.
For a second, there’s the ghost of a smile playing on the part of Batman’s face Clark can actually see. Then he shakes his head, a living, moving shadow.
“I do have actual work to do, Superman” he hisses, but it’s the tone he always uses, not an indication he’s upset. Clark hopes.
They walk out together, heads bowed over the roster Batman’s pulled up on his tablet and Clark decides that, all in all, it counts as a win.