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The new League headquarters—affectionately dubbed the Hall of Justice by Diana—is shaping up nicely, Clark is beginning to think. They’ve built a sanctuary for themselves within the former wreckage of what was once Bruce’s childhood manor. It soon goes from a place where they occasionally gather to talk business, to a new home for all of them. Everybody’s got their individual rooms, but they seldom feel the need to be a recluse and hang out alone. The meeting room and adjacent kitchen become what is essentially the equivalent of a lounge in a college dorm. Except, a little more chaotic.
Barry has somehow managed to finagle Bruce into loaning him his very own credit card that he uses for one very costly expense: food. In addition to that, there are two giant fridges in the communal kitchen big enough to stock groceries to feed the entire country of Malta.
Or, 4 hungry superpowered metahumans, a cyborg, and a man who is determined to receive sustenance solely from coffee and resentment.
Speaking of coffee, the very fancy and very awesome espresso maker quickly becomes everyone’s favourite appliance in the hall. The machine is some elaborate 900-dollar Italian thing that only Bruce knew how to use at first, but it produces possibly the best coffee that Clark has ever had in his life. He’s starting to consider a new side job as a barista, after mastering how to use the steam wand to make lattes for everyone. Good hand-eye coordination is great for making latte art.
When Clark’s halfway through a toffee cinnamon latte with copious amounts of flavoured syrup and sugar, Bruce walks into the kitchen looking— a little scruffy.
Clark pauses, hand and mug frozen in air mid-sip. They’ve all been a little busy recently, and he realizes that he hasn’t seen Bruce in a little over two weeks. Apparently, during that time, Bruce seems to have forgotten what a razor was. It’s not that big of an upgrade from the usual stubble he has, but for some weird reason, Clark can’t stop staring at it.
Bruce is oblivious to this staring, setting a stack of file folders on the table and shuffling through them.
“Uh…” Clark trails off. He looks over at Victor on the couch and the two of them exchange a look of amusement. Clark licks a bit of latte foam off his upper lip. “Nice beard, Bruce.”
Bruce answers his comment with a glare and nothing else. Clark intercepts a grey cashmere-covered arm going for a mug and goes to make him a cup of coffee. Bruce makes a small pleased grunt at the gesture, eyes relaxed. Clark grins in response.
Clark is just barely beginning to get a grasp on learning the language of Bruce. While initially difficult, it became somewhat of a fun puzzle for him, learning all the different quirks and nearly indecipherable qualities of the way he communicates. Bruce speaks primarily in non-sequiturs—there’s no cohesion to the way in which he organizes his sentences. If you make an offhand comment about something during monitor duty one day, he’ll pick the conversation up again two weeks later in the cave. Putting in that little bit of extra effort to pick up on the variances in his facial expressions and body language makes it that much easier to understand him. And it’s paid off, because they’re certainly much closer than they were a year ago.
Barry and Diana walk in a minute or two later, giggling about something, then immediately grow quiet as soon as they enter. Clark pretends not to notice, and turns around to pour Bruce’s americano into the cup.
“What’s on your face, man?” Barry asks, with a sort of insensible humour in his voice that is going to get him killed in approximately 2.8 seconds. Clark attempts to calm Bruce’s steadily growing rage by gently setting his coffee in front of him on the table and laying a careful hand on his shoulder. Bruce startles at the touch for a second, then cools a bit and nods politely at him.
Diana elbows Barry hard enough to make him cry out, and smiles warmly at Bruce. “I think it looks nice.” She turns to Clark. “What do you think, Clark?” Everyone—including Bruce—looks over at him. He tries to keep his facial expressions steady.
“Well, um,” Clark smiles nervously. “It’s—”
He’s saved by Arthur walking in and loudly slamming his trident down onto the table, jostling the fruit bowl.
“What are we talking about?”
Victor smirks. “Bruce’s new facial hair. What do you think?” Clark relaxes at the attention being diverted away from him.
“What’s so great about it? I’ve seen him with a beard before.” Arthur bites into an apple with a loud crunch.
“When?” Barry asks curiously.
“That one time in Iceland. You know, when he tried to recruit me the first time.”
“Oh yeah. Which beard is better, this one or the last?”
“I mean, this one’s got a little more grey in it, because he’s old now. So both beards can’t be compared on the same scale.”
“Is there some sort of beard measuring scale that we ought to be using to determine which one’s better?”
Bruce’s expression grows murderous. “Can you guys stop fucking discussing my face and leave me alone?!”
“Look, man, It’s okay to experiment during a midlife crisis. Chill out.”
Diana has to hold Bruce back with the lasso to stop him from attacking Arthur. Clark clears his throat gently to dispel the tension. “Let's all just calm down. Who wants a latte?”
After three more lattes are made in a row, everybody’s comm alert goes off in a simultaneous chirp. Diana clears her throat and stands up, straightening her armour. “It’s Circe. She’s in downtown Metropolis.”
Everyone perks up in interest. As enticing as the beard conversation was, there’s work to be done. Clark sets his mug down. “I’ll come.”
Diana smiles. “Great. Victor, I could use your help as well. She’s grown a little more dangerous since we last met.”
Victor nods and heads towards the elevator. Clark zips over to his room in the hall, and suits up. The ceiling is helpfully equipped with a skylight, designed to help him recharge, that also doubles as a way for Clark to launch himself directly into the sky without having to yank open a window or door. The thumbprint scanner authenticates with a soft chime, and he’s off.
Circe doesn't seem to have a problem with anything in particular, yet wastes no time directing the brunt of her anger towards Diana—no shock there. Clark dodges crackling energy bolts as they launch past him in a succession of three. There’s a shockwave of some sort, reverberating through the ground. It nearly topples him off his feet. Clark regains his momentum, preparing to launch forwards towards Circe, then sees a dark wisp in his peripheral vision.
Clark makes his way over. “Batman,” he says into his comm. “What are you doing here?”
Bruce is a man of few words, as per usual. “Backup,” he says eloquently. “Watch out,”
“Thanks,” Clark ducks out of the way of a rogue beam.
Diana seems to be getting a hold on Circe at the moment, as she is the only person here who is truly matched with her in terms of strategy. Clark looks behind at where the beam was shot, and it's still there. Except he’s really not sure if it actually was a beam, because it's bigger now, a large round swirling pit of energy, it's strangely mesmerizing, and Clark gets lost in it for a minute. Bruce steps to the side next to Clark to retrieve a sonic batarang as it ricochets back towards him. Another energy bolt comes out of nowhere, barreling towards them from the left. Circe moved positions while he wasn’t looking. He gets the feeling of something approaching them.
“Bruce, watch out!” Clark shouts, and lunges sideways to push him to the right, away from the blast of energy. Except he must’ve misjudged the angle at which they fall because, suddenly, he and Bruce are tipping backwards, closer to the portal of light behind. It's almost as if the portal senses their proximity, because immediately, the emerging swirling wind is suctioning them backwards, dragging them inside. Clark makes a vain effort to dig his heels into the concrete, in an attempt to anchor himself and Bruce to the ground. It’s no use though, and they both tumble back, in a stream of blinding white light and heat.
It seems like as soon as it starts, it’s over. Clark’s ears ring in pain as the surroundings change. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s no longer holding into Bruce. He panics for a moment, reaching out in all directions blindly. There’s a groan from behind him. Bruce is there, crouched into a defensive position with his arms guarding his face. Clark exhales in relief. He reaches towards him, ready to check him for injuries. Then Bruce lifts his head to look at him, and—
He looks different. The grey at his temples has increased, spread out to the rest of his hair amongst the black. There are more creases around his eyes, yet somehow he looks less tired than usual. His gauntlets seem to be missing. The batsuit is different too, The lower middle panel of the armor looks thicker and more reinforced. Bruce stands up slowly, then lifts his hand to rub at his face.
And he’s wearing—a ring? A platinum band on the fourth finger of his left hand. The stones glisten slightly as his fingers flex.
Clark can’t help but gape at him for a moment. “Bruce,” he says blankly and points with an unsteady hand. “You—”
Bruce looks down at where he’s pointing at his hand, then freezes. Something blooms on his face, a slow-growing expression of— disbelief? He opens his mouth to say something, but then sees something over Clark’s shoulder. Clark turns around.
“Oh, hey guys,” Barry says. Or at least, Clark thinks it is. Barry looks a bit older now, with longer hair tied in a ponytail, and a weird knowing expression on his face that Clark cannot seem to decipher. Clark looks back at Bruce, who gives him the ‘act cool’ signal.
“Hi,” he somehow manages to sound casual. “What’s up?”
“You guys okay? I heard a loud crash.” Barry grins again in that weird way. “You’re not… up to anything, are you?”
Clark looks to Bruce for help. Whatever that means, it sounds suspicious. Bruce takes it all at face value, though. His face is as calm and steady as usual.
“Nope, we’re fine. Thanks.”
Barry nods. “Alright. Well, I'll see you later, then.” He zips out of the meeting room with a breeze of air. Bruce is too busy scanning the decor of the meeting room to even notice. Clark looks around too, and it's all different. Everything looks familiar, yet not, at the same time. The chairs are different, but the walls are the same shade of off-white. The monitors on the wall are bigger, and with a thinner and sleeker display.
Bruce turns to him with a befuddled look that is likely identical to Clark’s. “It’s a different universe,” he says without any preamble. “It has to be.” Clark glances at him and feels his breath catch again. He looks the same and yet— like a completely different person.
“You look so different,” Clark says, astonished.
“So do you.” Bruce gestures at his torso. “The suit is different.”
Clark looks down. The weave of the fabric is tighter, giving the suit a slicker, more aerodynamic appearance and texture. The crest is also different, in a more brilliant shade of gold. Clark wonders if the scout ship made it for him.
Bruce grabs his wrist to pull him towards the door, nearly startling him. “We need to find a computer. Now.” Clark nods and follows him, chest full with something strange.
The hall was designed so that there is an underground tunnel leading directly to the East entrance of the Batcave. Bruce, however, is currently not willing to wait long enough to get there before logging into his servers. Something about not wanting to see if anything there was changed because he might get ‘distracted.’ The monitor room is in the same place as it was back in their universe. Bruce does something with the administrative password and initiates some sort of emergency access protocol that he must’ve set up for himself at some unknown point in time. They get their answer soon enough; it's the year 2023.
Clark sits to the side and watches as Bruce looks through a couple of files, a tense look on his face. After a few minutes, he sits back slowly against the chair and frowns to himself.
“What is it?” Clark asks.
“It's— I don’t think we’re in an alternate universe.” Bruce absentmindedly lifts his hand to his face to rub at his chin, only to blink in surprise at the absence of his beard. “I looked at a few case files from the past, our past—” he clarifies. “—and all the same key events are there, Doomsday, Steppenwolf, everything. All the same things have happened. I think that portal was an immediate transport to 5 years into the future.”
Clark nods, frowning. “I see. So we’re us in 5 years right now.” Clark tries to meet his eyes but can’t.
Bruce says nothing in response to that. He looks as uneasy as Clark’s ever seen him, brows furrowed and eyes on the ground.
Clark stares at the ring on Bruce’s hand. Bruce himself seems to be ignoring its presence completely, as if it's not even there. Earlier, he seemed to want to look closer at it, but now he keeps his hands down at his sides and looks away.
If this is really the future, and not some sort of parallel universe, then Bruce is really—
Clark wants to ask him so badly. Who do you think it could be? Do you already have an idea?
Who did he end up with, five years later? Something about the idea of Bruce settling down with somebody makes him feel a little sick, even though Clark knows he should be happy for him. Happy that Bruce finally found someone who he was willing to be with forever, Batman notwithstanding. He doesn’t want to be here anymore; in a future where Bruce has somebody waiting for him at home. He wants back the late nights at the hall, and the easy friendship that they’ve managed to finally ease themselves into. Whatever kind of future this is— it’s clear that they’re probably not as close, and have probably settled into separate lives of their own. He holds back a shaky sigh.
“So how can we get back?”
Bruce snaps out of his fugue and quickly lifts his hand onto the mouse to log off. “I don't know yet. Because we’ve taken the bodies of our future counterparts,” he gestures between them. “we’re not exactly able to ask ourselves for help.”
Clark nods, getting up with a sigh. “Look, let’s just call the rest of the League back here for help. Maybe they’ve worked with time travel before.” He pulls out what turns out to be a fascinatingly high-tech phone, and manages to send a group message asking anyone who’s not busy to meet up.
Clark stands there, leaning against the console. Avoiding looking at Bruce's hand seems like the right course of action at the moment. Every time he thinks about it he feels a bitter feeling crawl into his throat. He composes himself as footsteps come around the corner. Diana looks the same as she always does, to no surprise.
“What did you need us so urgently for?” She asks curiously.
Clark hesitates for a second, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well—”
Bruce speaks up. “Diana, we seem to have travelled here from five years in the past. Seriously.”
Diana stares amusedly at them for a long moment, then nods to herself, seemingly unbothered. “I see, and you’ve taken the place of your future selves.”
“Wait, this has happened to you before?!” Clark gapes.
Diana smirks. “You’d be surprised.”
“How can we get back?” Bruce asks.
Diana frowns in thought for a second. “Actually, if I’m recalling this correctly, there was an incident a few years ago where some of us had to come and retrieve you two. So I believe there’s nothing to do except wait.”
“Seriously?” Clark sighs.
Diana smiles sympathetically at him, then slowly narrows her eyes at the both of them. “Wait, you said five years?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Nothing.” The look on her face blooms into something new, suddenly beatific. Clark turns to Bruce, who eyes her warily. A minute later, Arthur comes in, with bleached blonde hair. Clark tries not to laugh.
“Didn’t I tell you lovebirds not to page me on Thursdays?” Arthur complains as he enters the room. “Those are busy days down in the ocean, you know.”
Lovebirds? “What?” Clark says, then glances at Bruce, whose face has gone white.
Diana winces, pressing her palm to her forehead. “Arthur, Clark and Bruce have travelled here from the past. Five years to be precise.”
“Wait, for real?” Arthur narrows his eyes.
“Yes.” She gives him a conspiratorial look. “Five years,” she repeats meaningfully. Clark is beginning to grow uneasy at what seems like silent communication between them.
“Oh, really?” Arthur says, giving Diana a sly look. “Interesting.”
“Arthur, wait a minu—”
“What the hell are you two smirking about?” Bruce finally snaps.
“You’re telling me you didn’t notice that shiny rock on your finger, Bruce?” Arthur grins obnoxiously. “You’re a kept man.”
Bruce looks down at the ring for the first time since they arrived. He gazes at it for a moment then looks up. He looks, honest to God, terrified. Clark has never seen him like this before. Bruce suddenly goes silent, pressing his lips together in a tense line.
Clark finally decides to ask, refusing to hold it in any longer. “Who is it?” he can’t control the way it comes out, quiet and dispirited.
Bruce's gaze snaps to him, eyes almost pleading. Like he himself doesn’t want to hear the answer.
Diana takes pity on the both of them. She smiles again, with that nearly maternal, affectionate look that she gives them occasionally. “It’s you, Kal.”
“It's— what?” Clark feels his face go silver with shock. He takes a slow step backwards, helpless. The air feels suddenly cold in the room. “I— oh,”
Diana keeps talking, as if she didn’t just drop a bomb on him big enough to make even Superman be lost for words. “You have a ring too, of course. You don’t wear it when you’re Superman because you’re always punching through buildings.” She looks at him fondly, then at Bruce as well. “But I'm sure Bruce is already in the middle of finding a solution for that. You’ve only been married for a little while, after all.”
Newlyweds, Clark thinks immediately, without hesitation. Clark digs his teeth into his bottom lip as he finally lets himself take a look at Bruce beside him. Bruce, however, doesn’t dare look his way, instead staring down at the floor. His hands tighten into fists down at his sides.
Clark feels his skin grow hot. There’s no way. He thinks of all the possibilities. This could be a very elaborate hallucination. Maybe he got knocked out cold in the fight and is actually passed out in the medbay right now. Because there's just no plausible reason that he would be married to Bruce in the future. No paradigm that exists to prove that Bruce could ever want him, in that way, and forever, in sickness and in health—
Except they can't be lying, can they? They wouldn’t, not about something like this. And it's almost as if Bruce already knew what Diana was going to say, the way he looked at Clark when he had asked them who—
Arthur snorts, startling him out of his thoughts. “This is kinda funny, because Clark looks pretty damn shocked, but you, not so much.” he gestures at Bruce.
Clark is expecting Bruce to yell at Arthur like he normally would, but instead he just stands there, unspeaking. Clark faces him and tries to get him to look at him.
“Bruce…?”
Bruce ignores him, arms crossed and face pointed down at the ground, he keeps his breathing steady, but Clark can hear the wild rhythm of his pulse in the air.
“I’m sorry, we thought you might be curious—”
Clark smiles painedly at Diana. “No, it’s okay, um,” He takes a long breath. “Just…” he trails off.
Diana looks at them both for a long second, eyes bright, then turns her head sideways towards the doorframe. “Oh, looks like your ride is here.”
Victor and Barry rush into the monitor room hurriedly, then freeze when they see them. Barry looks at Arthur for the speedforce equivalent of like 3 seconds, then explodes out in laughter.
“Dude, you’re blonde? No way!”
“Man, I forgot what you looked like back when you hadn’t hit puberty yet.”
Barry scowls and steps forward, “Okay, you know what, I—”
Victor steps between them. “Alright, that’s nice. Can we just get back to wherever the hell we came from? This is fucking creepy.”
“Oh right,” Barry says. “Alright guys, let's go.” He grabs Clark and Bruce by the forearms. “You have to hold on tight or else you’ll hurl, trust me on this.”
“Right,” Clark tries to laugh, but can’t find any amusement within himself after what just happened. Bruce is still ignoring him.
Returning back through the portal feels worse than how it felt to enter. All four of them need to take a minute to recover from the head rush afterwards, slumping down into the ground. Clark feels the concrete of present-day Metropolis underneath his fingers and shivers in relief. Except it feels a little bittersweet, leaving behind the world that he cannot have, not yet. The future where he had Bruce.
An immediate debrief is very much required, after two of them disappeared for close to 40 minutes. Clark tries to seem casual as he settles in his seat, but just can’t at this point. He wants to pull Bruce into a room and ask him if he’s mad at him—If he’s repulsed by the idea of being with Clark like that, or if he feels even a little bit like Clark does.
Clark drowns out the sounds of Barry telling Arthur about his future counterpart’s hair and wishes he was back there in the future, staring at Bruce’s hand with a mixture of trepidation and joy.
The presence of Bruce sitting beside him feels like a slow searing ache. Clark is abundantly aware of him in a way he’s never felt before. The three feet between them makes his skin feel vulnerable and weak, almost like a less painful kryptonite.
After Diana’s finished informing everyone how she and Arthur managed to handle Circe, everyone suddenly turns towards the both of them.
“So…?” She prompts.
Clark startles. “What?”
“What did you two see while you were there?”
Bruce remains still as a stone in his seat. The cowl is still on, which is unusual since Bruce had recently started letting himself relax more during these debriefs. A sick feeling squirms in Clark’s chest.
“Well, uh—”
“Were there flying cars?” Barry asks.
Clark winces. “No, we, um, just sort of hung around here.” He gestures around. “But the future version of here.”
“That’s it?”
Clark meets eyes with Bruce for the first time in a while. Bruce flinches slightly and looks away, crossing his arms. He finally speaks.
“Yes. Nothing noteworthy to report.” Bruce finally removes the cowl and runs a hand through his hair. “No flying cars. Nothing.” He discards his gauntlets as well, movements hurried and agitated. Clark looks away.
“Damn,” Arthur remarks. “You guys should’ve asked future me for the lottery numbers or something.”
Barry scoffs. “There’s literally a rich guy sitting right there, dude. That's dumb. You guys should’ve found out what happens in the next Star Wars movie.”
Clark rubs his face with his hand. “Enough, okay? We didn't see anything. The future just isn’t interesting.”
Even for him, it sounds like a blatant lie. They all look at him, and then at Bruce again. It's silent for a second.
Finally, Victor comes out with what they all must be thinking right now. “What even happened over there?”
Bruce stands up with a loud thud of his chair against the floor. “I don’t have time for this,” he says, brows tense with irritation. “That’ll be all. Dismissed.”
“You can’t just dismiss us, man,” Barry says.
“I can, and I will.” Bruce says plainly, and waits impatiently for the room to empty. The rest of them don’t look too pleased, but they’re not angry at them, just concerned. Clark gives them an apologetic smile.
Once the room is empty save for Clark, Bruce slumps back down. Clark waits to gather the courage to say something, but it doesn’t come. Bruce’s pulse is quiet in the room, steady and like a constant reassurance in his ears. The silence is not awkward between them. It never could be.
“I didn’t want you to know,” Bruce says finally, voice quiet.
“Know what?” Clark asks.
“That I— felt like that.”
Clark’s breath hitches. “You— but, really? Now?”
Bruce lifts his head and gives him a long look, eyes soft and sort of strangely defeated.
Clark feels his heart jump. Bruce was already— and Clark probably wouldn’t have found out for a while. The realization feels like a blow to the chest.
Clark looks down for a second, at where Bruce's left hand rests on the table. Clark takes it gently in his, running his thumb along the fourth finger, over the scarred skin of his knuckles.
A wave of something passes over Bruce’s face, relaxing his features.
“Bruce—”
Bruce winces then, and tries to pull his hand away. Clark doesn’t let him.
“You don't have to, for my benefit,” he says, looking away.
Clark shakes his head. He doesn’t get it.
“Bruce,” Clark repeats. “You—” he takes a long shuddering breath. “You were my husband,”
Bruce’s pulse speeds up little by little. “Christ, I know,” he whispers, looking at him with something desperate.
“We were married. We would’ve—” Clark swallows. “We had a wedding.”
“I know,” Bruce breathes, his eyes turning big and dazed.
Clark’s body feels weightless. “Bruce—” he says for the millionth time.
“Yes,” Bruce says, inching closer.
Clark sways forward out of his chair and onto Bruce, his fingertips brush against Bruce’s stupid beard and he kisses him, lips gentle and yet bruising as they meet. Bruce sighs into his mouth and snakes a hand into Clark’s hair, his other arm wrapping around his waist. The warmth of his mouth beneath his seeps into Clark’s whole body. Before he knows it, he’s hauling Bruce up by the backs of his thighs and laying him down on the conference table.
Bruce is pliant underneath him, fingers grasping tightly at his back. His pulse beats wildly under Clark’s lips on his throat. Clark pulls away to face him and brushes back his hair. Bruce looks back at him, affection clear on his face.
“I like the beard,” Clark admits, smiling softly. “It, uh— it looks good on you.”
Bruce gazes at him fondly. “I liked my ring,” he murmurs.
Clark chuckles quietly. “I did too. I wish I could've seen mine.” His tone tries to be teasing, but it ends up sounding genuine. He does want to see his ring. He wants to know which one of them got on one knee, and if they were wed at the farm in Kansas like his parents were, or if it was somewhere else. He wants to know what Bruce looks like in the mornings when he wakes up.
Bruce tenses a bit. “And you’d want that?” he asks faintly. “With me?”
Clark suddenly finds himself overcome with desperation. “I would,” he says, voice hushed, “I do.”
Bruce stares at him, gaze unbearably soft, and it’s almost like a real I do. A promise to each other in the darkness of the meeting room where the motion-activated lights have turned off because they’re so still.
Clark entwines their fingers together and can’t help but lean in to kiss him again.