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It was a dark, rainy night.
It often seems to be a dark, rainy night when things like this happen. When Bruce finds himself crouched on a perch, a steel beam tonight, staring down at Gotham’s glaring lights that shine through the drops of water. It’s always rainy, it’s sometimes dark. Bruce is always there.
The streets are still mostly flooded, but some areas of the city are more elevated than others and thus, have more crime, more people to protect. Even now, when the whole city’s gone to shit, criminals still decide to go out and make the city worse. Not that it hadn’t already, Bruce just likes to sometimes delude himself and believe that it hasn’t.
He sighs and is about to stand up when he hears another sigh beside him. Several hundred feet in the air. He turns.
Mostly blue, with some red, a bit of yellow. Primaries. They wave. “Some view, huh?”
Several things happen at once. Lightning strikes, somewhere in the distance, and Bruce distantly recognizes standing atop a steel beam in a thunderstorm is not a good idea. He throws a punch at the man, the guy easily dodges. He also almost slips and falls off the structure. But an arm grabs him before he can and holds him up.
“Woah,” the man exclaims, catching another one of Bruce’s fists, “a bit hostile, are we?”
Bruce aims a kick at his chest and actually lands it. The guy goes flying back with an oomph! and off the beam. Bruce’s heart drops. He races over to the other side, grappling hook in hand and ready to shoot at the man—
He peeks over the edge. No one is there.
He pops a blueberry into his mouth and scans the computer screen. There have been reported sightings of a man in blue and red flying over and through Metropolis, stopping criminals and saving kittens and kissing babies and—
Bruce tries to rub away the migraine he can feel coming on. The screen is too bright, but there’s no dark mode setting for the Daily Planet website. He puts on his sunglasses and keeps reading.
Most of the articles written about this ‘Superman’ as the newspaper and locals have dubbed him are by some journalists, Clark Kent. From Kansas, humble beginnings, not so noticeable or stand out. Bruce did his research.
There’s a number on the contact page for him, two actually. His work phone and extension. Bruce figures the best way to find out more about Primaries is to contact someone who seems to be an expert. He grabs the landline off the hook.
He hears Alfred enters his room, the clicking of his cane against the floor followed by a short sigh letting Bruce know his butler is there, most likely giving him That Look.
“Master Wayne,” he starts. “What are you doing?”
Bruce is careful not to move too much. The phone is still in his hand, which is out from the safety of being under the covers with the rest of his body.
“Who do you plan on calling?” Alfred tries.
“No one,” he replies quickly, letting go of the landline and snaking his arm back to his body.
Alfred hums quietly and the lightning under the covers shifts as he presumably opens the blinds to let in more light. Bruce pushes the sunglasses further up his nose.
“Would you like more blueberries?”
“…yes.”
The next time they meet is under less favorable circumstances. Another dark, rainy night. This time, in a mostly empty parking garage that a group of arsonists has decided to set fire to. Taking down said arsonists is easy, some scurry away while the rest lay unconscious by the cars Bruce had to slam their heads against to knock them out. He stares at the dents with little care.
The fire is a bit more complicated to put out. The parking garage is made of concrete, but the gas they poured just about everywhere is not easy to clean up, especially when it’s already aflame thanks to them lighting his cape on fire and it trailing over some of the gas. Bruce stomps out his cape after burning both his hands, which is sadly a smoldering husk of itself and is about to call the fire department when Primaries flies onto the scene and lands on the other side of the flames.
“Holy crap,” he says. He points towards the fire and addresses Bruce, “need some help?”
Bruce stares at him, unwillingly to give the man verbal confirmation of trust he does not have but also reluctant to deny potential help when the whole parking garage could burn down by the time the fire department arrives. Primaries takes his lack of a response as confirmation and nods, winking.
“I’ve got it.”
He sucks in a breath and holds it for a second and Bruce watches, unimpressed and already dialing, then he lets it go. Ice covers the floor and immediately stifles the fire, and all that’s left is slippery ground and a chill in the air. Primaries exhales and puts his hands on his hip, probably unknowingly striking a pose that makes Bruce want to curl up and die.
“All done,” he announces, then looks over at where Bruce is standing stock still, still trying to absorb the fact that this man can not only fly but also breathe ice. He points at the unconscious criminals on the ground. “You’ve got those guys?”
Bruce glances at them then makes his way to them without shifting his body away from Primaries. The man doesn’t seem to mind or doesn’t notice, because he follows Bruce over to them while keeping a small distance between them. This is probably for the best, since Bruce is still willing to fight this man to the death if need be, flight and other strange abilities or not.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Primaries says, then adds with a sheepish smile, “last time we met didn’t go so well.”
Considering Bruce went home and almost had a meltdown that took hours of research to prevent because he thought he’d killed a man, he would agree. Not verbally though, never that.
“—but I’m in the city for tonight, maybe I’ll stop by sometime later in the week too, it’s not too far away,” Primaries continues like Bruce has been listening, “and maybe I can stay through the morning to help with some relief efforts, I don’t really—“
“What-“ Bruce stops himself mid-question. His voice is rough, not in the way it usually is when he addresses criminals. He clears his throat quietly and turns back to Primaries, whose attention is so raptly focused on him it makes him wish he never spoke up. “-what would you like me to call you?”
The man blinks at him and slightly cocks his head. “Like, my name?”
Bruce bites the inside of his cheek and looks back down at the criminals he’s tying up. He knows what the newspapers call him, what Bruce himself calls him. He figures the man deserves a choice in what he’s referred to by other people. He pulls the zip tie around one of the unconscious criminal’s hands tight and nods.
“Superman works,” Pri- Superman says. Bruce tilts his head so the man can’t see his expression and flicks his gaze over to where he’s is sitting on the ground, still a few feet away, grinning. “Thanks for asking.”
Bruce calls Gordon and sinks back into the shadows as Superman continues rambling contentedly while sitting by the criminals. And when the man is done and notices his partner is missing, he leaves, and so does Bruce.
Bruce sits still as Alfred smooths the balm over his palms, stopping himself from wincing by curling his toes and grinding his teeth together.
“Think you’ve learned your lesson?” Alfred asks, almost bitingly if he were anyone else, but Bruce can hear the concern underneath.
“…don’t confront arsonists without p-proper fire protection,” he grits out as his other palm stings.
“I’ve told you about fireproofing your gear for the longest time, you never listen.”
Bruce exhales sharply and taps his foot on the ground in a silent rhythm. He eyes the fruit bowl on his bedside longingly.
“It’s always raining,” he mumbles.
“Regardless.”
Alfred finishes his left palm, wrapping it in bandages, and starts on the right. Bruce gets the courage to speak.
“I… met someone, today.”
Alfred’s eyebrows shoot up. “You did?”
Bruce hums.
“Who?”
“…Superman.”
“Hm.” The pain fades as the balm is spread over his red skin. “I’ve read about him in the paper. He’s made quite the impression in Metropolis.” He wraps the palm and gets to his feet, grabbing the bowl of fruits and setting them down in front of Bruce without a word about it. “What’s he like?”
“Strange.” Bruce grabs a blackberry and eats it. “…friendly.”
Alfred’s face does something weird, twisting in a way that’s unreadable. The corners of his lips twitch upward in the ghost of a grin.
There is a partial collapse at an apartment building somewhere downtown, where the flooding is the worst. Bruce gets there as fast as he can, between attempting to glide and jumping across rooftops, but there have already been casualties by the time he arrives and most people are scrambling to make it to the roof for rescue. He manages the crowds of people as best as he can and coordinates rescue choppers then gets ready to head back into the building and try to save anyone he can when Superman arrives.
“How can I help?” The man asks, out of breath and a bit frazzled.
“There may still be people trapped under rubble,” Bruce answers without stopping. “Save them.”
And they do. Several hours later, night is starting to lighten into early morning and between the Batman and Superman’s efforts, 124 people have been rescued and taken away to Gotham General Hospital for treatment. There are still 32 people who remain either missing or otherwise. Bruce doesn’t stop searching, even after the helicopters have finished their jobs, even when the apartment building is eerily quiet and empty.
“Batman,” he hears softly from behind where he’s haphazardly tossing rubble aside to dig and dig and try to find one mother’s missing daughter. This was her room. There are still 32 people.
“Batman.” He ignores it when he pushes past a destroyed door into a room filled with smoke because someone left their stove on and was cooking when it happened. They might not have left. There are still 32 people.
“Stop.” A hand grabs his bicep and stops him from entering another destroyed apartment just as a wooden beam crashes through the floor, right where he was about to step. Bruce tenses and turns to Superman, whose expression is stark. “We got them all.”
Bruce curls his hands into fists. “There are still 32 people—“
“We saved everyone we could,” Superman interrupts. His grip loosens and his eyebrows furrow. He looks down, his voice tightens. “We got… we got them all.”
“You can’t know—“
“I do.”
There’s silence between them for a while. Then, Superman sighs and shakes his head before walking out of the room. Bruce stares at the apartment and follows. They end up back on the empty roof, Superman seated on the edge while Bruce stands a bit away from him, still looking to the horizon. It’s getting brighter out, it’s almost day.
“You know,” Superman begins with forced easiness that grates on Bruce’s ears (how he knows it’s forced is a mystery, but the man wears his heart in his sleeve), “I think this is the most you’ve ever spoken to me. Which isn’t saying much, since the first time you didn’t speak and the second time you asked me my name…”
Bruce feels his eyes land on him and shrugs in response.
“I guess that’s just your thing, I respect that. Everyone’s got their thing, and yours is not talking all that much and I guess mine is talking, too much? I don’t know, you’d tell me if I talk too much, or I hope you would…”
Bruce stares at the skyline. It’s still dark. He thinks about the apartment he’s standing on. The destruction, the rubble, the people who were screaming when he arrived, begging for help, for him to rescue their parents, their children, their 32 people who are still—
“We…” Superman sucks in a breath and knocks Bruce off his spiraling train of thoughts. He blinks rapidly and focuses back on reality, forcing his heart to slow.
“…we did what we could. Which- it’s not enough. But,” Superman looks over his shoulder at Bruce, the dusty early morning sunlight shining softly on his face, “we’ll do better next time.“
Bruce locks gazes with him. “…we have to.”
When the sun finally rises above the city the clouds clear. And for the first time in a while, it stops raining.