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At the time, Lois had overlooked Batman’s absence from the funeral. But later, after studying the footage— admittedly somewhat masochistically— it struck her. Several media outlets had also noticed, if the few titillated sentences mentioning this irregularity in articles or during broadcasts were worth anything. So knowing what she did now, Lois began looking into the Dark Knight and Man of Steel’s history when seeing or reading about him no longer made her want to curl in a ball and sob.
What she found made her smile, almost. They were close. Clark always— Lois swallowed painfully and briskly wiped the tears from her eyes. He’d always tried to befriend everyone, even those who didn’t seem receptive to it. Superman, evidently, had done the same.
After she’d researched enough to write a mid-sized article, the oddness nagged at her even more. But it did so in a way that she couldn’t quite place through the haze of grief. So Lois set it aside as one of the great unsolvable things, as she did with those rare other occurrences whose existence would otherwise drive her over the edge. Slowly, she started rebuilding her life around the cratering hole at its center; like one of those impossible seedlings sprouting in the cement of an urban wasteland.
She hung a photo of the two of them on the fridge with Clark’s favorite Smallville magnet, placed his note— now wrinkled at the fold points— in the drawer of the far bedside table. In small, halting bursts, she packed away clothes and cleaned up the messy day-to-day remnants of Superman’s civilian life. It was a recovery, of sorts, though a slow one. Someday she would be healed, but the scars would remain. The spare pair of glasses stayed atop the dresser and the unfinished book rested on the coffee table. She hadn’t opened Clark’s laptop yet; if it had been left on it was out of power by now anyway.
She didn’t move on, but Lois managed to pry herself a path forward.
Undeniably, there was a good amount of skill that went into what she did. Lois would (rightfully) rip apart anyone who claimed otherwise. Research, evidence, people deciding to do the right thing, were all needed. However, any good journalist also knew that there was an element of luck— circumstances and people coming together in a random, but still beneficial, manner— involved in breaking a big story. That was history: choices and decisions, but also, occasionally, coincidences with enormous consequences.
One night several months after, Lois jerked awake— twisted in her sheets, feeling fragile— and experienced one of those coincidences. The dark room and coolness of the empty mattress beside her were suddenly too much. Gasping, she threw a sweater over her tank top and staggered out of the bedroom, through the living room, and yanked open the balcony door. She shivered in the crisp night breeze, bare legs and feet breaking out in goosebumps.
After a long moment of carefully keeping her mind blank, staring out at the cityscape Superman had loved so greatly, she exhaled shakily and froze. The Lovecraftian horror hiding in the shadows at the edge of her balcony froze too. Her brain caught up to her instincts then, and Lois jerked back, gripping the balcony door for support. She opened her mouth to scream— momentarily forgetting that help would no longer arrive from the sky wearing a red cape and blue suit—
“Wait.”
Lois blinked, realizing that the dark shape wasn’t something out of a nightmare, at least not a law-abiding person’s, and frowned. Slowly, she released her grip. Batman unfurled from the darkness, and suddenly he was just a person. A large, intimidating one, but what could be named and identified could be controlled or at least counteracted. That was something she did regularly with her keyboard and computer. Lois continued her keen-eyed inspection, eyebrows rising abruptly as she concluded that Batman seemed… nervous. Yes, he hadn’t spoken any more or even moved, but something about him definitely read as anxious. Especially when judging powerful men, she trusted her instincts.
Finally, Batman stepped forward out of the glow of a neighboring building’s neon sign. As he did, a breeze blew his cape toward her. Lois shivered, abruptly aware of her insufficiently covered lower half; from now on she’d wear sweatpants to bed instead of shorts. Batman stilled. This annoyed her, more than his intrusion (and her reaction to it) had. “Look, I know you have a reputation of being the mysterious, intimidating one, but I have work tomorrow and we’re printing an important exposé at the end of the week. Either tell me why you’re here or leave.”
Unless she were mistaken and it was the wind, Batman flinched. Interesting. He sighed softly, inspected the balcony and its surroundings with deliberate casualness, and asked, “May I come inside?”
She hesitated momentarily— the ingrained ‘strange man’ warning flashing through her brain— but Lois’ curiosity overcame her common sense, as it usually did. “Sure. As long as you haven’t been fighting in the sewers or anything. I just vacuumed.”
“That was last week.” The statement was blandly factual, but still seemed… amused. She spun around as Batman neatly shut the balcony door behind himself, then closed her curtains, and stilled. If he’d had an expression, it vanished before she could see it. For a moment, Batman looked back at her, then his facade cracked, and he frowned. “You know who he was.”
Lois blinked. “Yes.” She frowned abruptly and crossed her arms over her chest as a nasty consideration occurred to her. “You’re not implying that I would—”
“No. I just wasn’t sure.” Batman’s frown faded and, apparently satisfied with her answer, he removed the cowl.
“What the fuck!”
Bruce Wayne blinked at her outburst and ignored Lois’ incredulity. He strode past her silently and set the cowl down on her dining room table, then pulled out a chair and sat. The bastard had the nerve to look back at her expectantly. “You wanted to know what this was about.”
Swallowing her anger, confusion, the multitude of questions she had, Lois crossed the room and sat across from Bruce Wayne. Who was, apparently, Batman. She studied his handsome face with interest. He looked more tired than even the least discreet tabloid photograph had shown him. An ugly fading bruise marred one prominent cheekbone, and premature lines wrinkled his brow as he stared back at her. There was an unnerving alertness in those glacial eyes. “You’re here about Clark,” she said, faintly proud that her voice was steady over the tripwire of his name.
Something that looked surprisingly like pain passed over Bruce’s face. His lips thinned momentarily. Then he nodded. “Yes. I— we had hoped he’d told you but weren’t certain. Wonder Woman said…” Batman exhaled, gaze sharpening as he noticed how she leaned forward with interest. Lois muttered a curse and sat back hastily, but the damage was done. “We didn’t know what you knew,” Bruce summarized shortly.
She shook her head, feeling retroactively bitter, though it was muted by grief and time. “Well if you’d visited a few months earlier, I wouldn’t have known anything.” Bruce’s expression was grim. Lois blinked. Yeah, I can see it now. Jesus.
“He loved you. Clark—”
“Why weren’t you at the funeral?” Bruce stared blankly and it took her a few seconds to realize that the words had come from her. Lois blanched, and one hand flew to cover her mouth, mortified. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean— it’s none of my business.”
Bruce wasn’t quite able to conceal his wince, but he diplomatically waved off her gaffe. “It’s fine.” Then he swallowed and cleared his throat. “Could I have some water, please?” It took her a moment to process the request, but when she did, Lois immediately pushed her chair back, scraping it loudly over the floor, and stood. She ended up getting a glass for herself too, if only for something to do with her hands; they were itching for a notepad and pen. “Thank you.” Bruce took several large gulps then set the glass down gently.
It was somewhat hard to tell in the dark, but it seemed like his shoulders were hunched.
“I was injured,” he said. “We were fighting the monster— Doomsday— before Clark arrived. It didn’t go well.”
Lois blinked, mentally running over footage of the fight in her head. “Are you alright?” The look she received would have been more appropriate had she told Batman she believed the Earth was flat. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’re not a Meta, are you?” Lois clarified.
Bruce shifted a little, rolling one shoulder, then pulled the half-drunk glass of water closer. Maybe she wasn’t the only one prone to fidgeting after all. “No, I’m not. People normally forget that.” I normally ‘forget’ that, she took the statement to mean— any decent reporter had covered at least one League fight during their career. She was more than a decent reporter.
Lois snorted. “I’m sure they do.”
This earned her a small, wry smile. But it faded quickly. It was fascinating how mercurial Bruce’s emotions had already proven to be. Perhaps that explained his ability to both fight alongside literal gods and play the louche, empty-headed playboy. He frowned silently at the table, almost long enough for Lois to ask if there was something wrong with it if only to relieve the tension. She didn’t because of the darkness visible in what little she could see of his eyes.
Suddenly, Bruce looked up. Any lingering sign of distress had been wiped clinically from his face. “That wasn’t why I didn’t attend the funeral.” Lois frowned, biting down on her lower lip to keep from snapping, ‘Get on with it.’ Sometimes the best answers came from allowing sources to speak at their leisure. However frustrating that could be.
Bruce brought one hand up and began undoing the gauntlets. “I didn’t go because I couldn’t bear to.” He set one gauntlet down carefully on the table— thankfully with the sharp bits pointing away from the wood. Still not looking at her, he continued: “You understand, with my… background, I don’t do well with loss. It would have been obvious to everyone how close we were.”
Slowly, her earlier interest in this exact mystery returned, only with several more pieces fitted into the puzzle. Lois wasn’t sure she liked the picture it was forming. Still, a reporter’s instinct, if not also a fair bit of unwholesome curiosity, demanded she pry deeper. Bruce Wayne had never publicly appeared with a man, but there were rumors…
“You were in love with him.” The statement, simple as it was, snapped into place neatly.
Bruce sagged back in his chair and rubbed a hand slowly over his face as if she’d dealt him a blow. The hand dropped and he stared into the dark abyss that was her living room. “Yes.”
With mounting urgency, Lois braced her hands on the table and asked: “Did he know?”
Bruce shifted, finally turning back to her. He appeared small and tired. “I believe so.”
That final question hovered unspoken between them. With shaky hands, she picked up her glass and drank from it. It hurt to swallow, and her eyes stung a little. Lois set the glass down with deliberate care and exhaled. This is an interview, she told herself firmly, only the circumstances are different. “Did you have sex with him—” she cleared her throat and paused briefly to firm her resolve. Bruce, pointedly, waited for Lois to finish her question. “Did you two fuck when we were together?” She blinked rapidly and gave Batman a look that had sent many other people running for the proverbial hills. He did not flinch away from it.
“We did.”
With this confirmation, the puzzle was complete. Her hands gripped the table hard enough to be painful. Lois squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to allow Batman the privilege of seeing her cry. Resolute, she opened her eyes. He hadn’t moved, nor had his expression changed. She wanted to hit him and suspected that, had she tried, Bruce would have let her. “Why?” Why did you let him? Why tell me now?
Bruce finally moved. She wished he hadn’t because it made it harder to hate him. He slowly leaned back and closed his eyes, then sighed. “I don’t know what he ever saw in me, but Clark— how could I not love him?”
As much as that was an excuse, she certainly understood it. Oh, how she did. Once you knew him, it was impossible not to love Clark. Even Lex, she suspected, harbored an iota of love for him. It was how he smiled, the way his eyes lit up, easily delighted and amazed by all of life’s fleeting pleasures, and that he had always, always, believed in the possibility of good. Lois knew she tended towards cynicality, and Bruce— she saw the appeal. Like a moth to a flame. Or a Bat to a Kryptonian.
Bruce opened his eyes and reached for the water glass, draining it. It was then set down with a thunk. He glowered at his clenched hands. “I was lonely and weak. At first, I tried to justify it because he hadn’t told you yet. How could your romance be meaningful if you only knew a fraction of who he really was? I didn’t think it possible because that same issue always led to my relationships—” he smiled bitterly and anticipated her protestation— “the ones that weren’t for show, that is, failing.” Bruce sighed. “Then I told myself it wasn’t fair to hold him accountable to human customs, despite knowing that he’d never lived another way. And then I didn’t attempt to justify it at all.”
She frowned, both out of anger and intrigue. “You encouraged him to tell me?”
Bruce nodded faintly. He looked sad. “I did. Because I realized you deserved better, and I wanted him to choose.”
Her jaw dropped open. Only the sting of her nails biting into her palms allowed Lois to refocus. “You asked him to leave me.” She could accept Batman being in love with Superman, knew from history as well as her profession how readily even decent people excused their wrong-doings, but she drew the line there. It was easy now, to hate him. It allowed her to compartmentalize the tornado of feelings she had towards Clark. Why did you do it? Too late, to ever get an answer from the man himself.
Bruce licked his lips and sat up, shaking his head firmly. “No. But I wanted him to. He knew that.”
Damn it. She batted angrily at her wet cheeks, sucking in air. “What’s the point of this?” Lois demanded.
“You deserved to know.”
A spike of anger. She laughed. “That I wasn’t enough for him? That the man I love lied to me? I knew that already, Batman— Clark only told me his secret because I practically forced him to. This is different. It’s selfish.”
With startling abruptness, Bruce stood, expression thunderous. She tensed. But when he moved again, it was only to sweep a hand through his hair. Then Bruce began pacing in a tight loop the width of the table. Finally, he sighed, sitting once more.
“You’re right, and I’m sorry. But I thought—” Bruce pursed his lips and stared intently at his hands, blinking swiftly for a few seconds— “I thought that if you had someone who understood, it would help. I couldn’t be that and live with myself if I kept lying to you, Ms. Lane. If it’s any consolation, he never would have left you, even if I had asked.”
“Good.” She savored the pained expression that crossed his face then. As the silence stretched, Bruce looked at her warily, as if realizing for the first time tonight the full implications of what he’d done. With the revelation of his identity, she could ruin him. Lois stared back coolly, relishing in the sensation. What would Clark think of you now? It didn’t matter. He was dead. And with that, she abruptly felt the lateness of the hour, the weeks of stress and tension and sorrow behind that, and deflated.
“I’m in no position to ask anything of you, but I have people who depend on—”
It was immensely satisfying to be the bigger person. “I may hate you right now, but I’m not that petty.” Bruce sagged, and Lois was briefly surprised. It made her question whether he had planned this at all. What Bruce would have done if he hadn’t told her. How long, exactly, his misdeeds had been eating at him. Lois sighed softly and pushed back a strand of her hair. She hated him with a sharp bitterness normally reserved for Luthor, but she pitied him too. What does it say about a man that even his lover prioritized other people? Which of Batman’s qualities had been enough to make Clark stray?
Lois sighed again and stood slowly. When it was clear her interloper hadn’t moved yet, she paused. A glance back confirmed her suspicion. “Are you coming?” Bruce stood then, unclipped the cape, draped it over his chair, and followed her silently. Once they’d both sat down, on the couch and armchair respectively— Bruce’s posture tense and uncertain, Lois’ tired, but confident in her decision— she cleared her throat and started over. “I think I’ll miss the way he made me laugh the most.”