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“Please join me in welcoming Bruce Wayne to the stage!”
An infection of smiles cascaded from the band onto the front rows of the audience and outward. A sea of applause and charming big band music paved the way for Gotham’s Prince himself. Oh, how the town's elite adored him. The rich and lazy rose from their seats to behold and praise their star. Bruce Wayne was not a Wayne alone. He was not merely a child of the city’s so dearly departed healer and comforter. He was their child, too— the amalgamation and offspring of every proud parent socialite that attended his events.
When he manifested from backstage, the sounds only grew. Gotham’s son worked the stage, of course. He moved to the clapping and introductory song as if it was his very own yellow brick road. The smile he wore was bright, welcoming, and above all, taught. To the onlookers, this expression of his dazzled and bewildered. His nigh untouchable hand stretched out to the microphone. It was hard to ignore the glint of a thin gold band on his ring finger. All across the prince’s land, the ring was met with equal jealousy and adoration; most often, a little of both.
“You’re too kind,” he mused into the device, testing out both the equipment and the crowd. “Please, please. Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming out today.”
The audience sat, following his every word like it was their sacred gospel. He spoke like a well-established businessman, but with the youth of an old money airhead, and the charm of a functioning drunk. Not one member of Gotham’s upper class could get enough of it.
“Yes, so glad you could join me in the daytime. It’s strange seeing some—most of you in the daylight. I’ve reintroduced myself to half of you today. This is just what I get for throwing all my parties in the evening. Being half-drunk doesn’t help either, I suppose.”
The audience roared with laughter. Typical Brucie, they thought.
“My husband told me not to drink so early, but—” as he spoke, he playfully glanced around the stage, then stood up on his tip-toes to search the crowd. “I don’t see him here. Anyone else? No?” He turned to his pianist, then. “Do let me know if he makes an appearance, won’t you, Bertie? Make a bird call or something. Why? Oh, no reason. I'd just love to be the first to greet him.”
How his crowd adored that bit. They gulped down every word and licked it clean.
“But nevermind that. As most you know, this is a weekend event. Tonight, we have this wonderful gala. An auction will be held tomorrow, and a beneficiary dinner afterward. All donations this weekend will be given to the Martha Wayne Foundation.”
Almost instantly, the drunken boy shifted into the orphan heir. He matured in moments, teaching the audience to not just praise him, but listen to his words. A nostalgia came upon the ballroom. Not unwelcome, but it pried open their eyes and forced the beholder to notice the nakedness of the stage. Bruce, while he worked it well, did not belong in the limelight alone.
“Most of you knew—”
Gunfire cracked the atmosphere with sharp rings and flashes of light. The elegant curtains which served as a backdrop for the stage moved with an unnatural sentience as bullets pierced the fabric. A mass of gunmen poured out from each window and every door.
Shrieks replaced the laughter that hung on the crowd’s lips moments before. The ones who bolted for the door were apprehended in non-lethal ways. The shots eventually quieted down from the military grade weapons.
This was a hostage situation.
Bruce glanced to the left, then the right. His heart rate steadily increased. He took two steps back. He needed a second— less than a second to alert Alfred with his earpiece.
“Where do you think you’re going, pretty boy?”
He heard the crack of the rifle against the back of his head first; the pain followed shortly. The dizziness was a well-known, though never adored sensation. His first instinct begged to reach for the wound, but time taught him better. Make every move intentional, but play the part.
As Bruce whipped around, the rifle struck him again. This time, the weapon collided with his hearing aid, shattering the device upon impact. Bruce felt a warmth from the hit, then a loud buzz from the device malfunctioning, and then nothing. A hand pointlessly shot to his ear. Even the communication piece hidden inside was ruined beyond repair.
A swift kick with steel-toed boots sent him to both knees. The stitches on his side popped with a flash of white-hot pain. Bruce ground lowly, involuntarily; he’d much rather make these punks work for his pain.
Foot collided with his jaw. Everyone watched in horror. Play the part. Blood pooled onto the stage as his cheek collided with the surface. The softest whisper bubbled against the crimson collection.
“Clark.”
“Kent!”
Clark startled from his desk. He’d been captured by the gala from the very first atypical skip of Bruce’s heartbeat. Nothing— not the gunmen, nor the sounds of the Planet’s bullpen nor any vibrancy in between could hide his whisper.
Steve Lombard crossed his arms and flung his feet on his desk. “Daydreaming again?”
“Guess so,” Clark laughed sheepishly. A single finger pressed thin-rimmed glasses onto the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to go—”
“—take one of those walks around the block to refocus. Yeah. Figured. You’re getting predictable in your old age.”
Clark opted to ignore his co-worker, instead rising from his desk and moving to the elevator. While keeping an ear out for the hostages, he focused on keeping his pace subtle and human.
“Hey! Bring me a donut while you’re out.”
“Sure thing.”
The elevator doors dinged shut. Clark rose through the elevator shaft, leaving the glasses and work garb on the roof. He could be to Gotham in an instant and be woefully unprepared. Instead, he labored to fly slow enough to strategize.
“Jewelry and wallets in the bag. You’re donating to us now.” Half the gunmen stayed to loot the nameless elite. The other ones were split up and held in separate rooms— the ones with well-known names and hands beneath all tables; the politicians and movie stars.
Some were to be held for ransom. Some made bribes for their freedom. Others were used as punching bags. Each room and socialite was meticulously placed to be a distraction away from their primary target.
“Make him bleed. Then bleed him some more. Transportation's on the way.” Penguin barked into his comms unit. “Keep him alive until you get him to me. Don’t worry about keeping him so pretty.”
Superman landed with a sound reminiscent of clapping thunder. The arched roof collapsed beneath his force. His fist and knee connected with the ground, sending a shockwave of debris and cracked tile into the air.
He melted the gun of the first assailant with a quick flash of his eyes. Upon human flesh jerking back from the sting, Superman lurched forward to punch his jaw. A quick knockout. The second was met with a sharp headbutt. Lucky he was that restraint had been well-taught to the Kryptonian. He snapped the third rifle in half and swung the thicker end against his temple. The next thug tried to get a shot off. Superman positioned himself so that the bullet ricocheted off invulnerable skin and shot through his own leg. The final opponent found smashed teeth into a concrete pillar.
As if this was not enough security, the Man of Steel sped around the tables. He plucked the priceless table cloths and strung them together, then tied the thugs together. Lastly, he hung the group from the chandelier. Like tying up fish, he thought.
When Superman finally paused, the shockwave from his landing had not completed. A gentle huff cleared the dust. A chorus of soft, yet still panicked exclamations filled his ears. No critical wounds. Everyone could walk or limp out.
“The GCPD are on their way,” he said. “Move to the nearest exit, please. You’re safe now.”
No one stopped to argue.
Superman departed as the hostages hit the exit, moving more like a streak of light than anything that resembled a man. For those brief movements, he abandoned humanity to tap into something deeper. He spread like a plague across the ballrooms. Not one oppressor was spared his hand. Each hostage was freed.
From his left ear, Bruce could hear the frequent groans of pain. He clung to the grateful whispers and fast footing of his patrons. From his naked ear, the walls shook with the sheer vibration of Superman’s movements. The short spurts of gunfire never lasted long, and were always followed by a rumble across the room.
He was moving.
Bruce’s captors grew antsy.
“What is that?”
“Is it the Bat?”
“No way. This is too damn loud for that freak.”
“What the hell is out there?”
Hidden beneath blood dripping down his chin, Bruce’s lips twitched into a smirk.
The men separated. One went to guard the door. Another stepped to the window. The last pressed his pistol against Bruce’s temple.
Superman did not emerge from the door, nor the window. The building shook once again. He crashed through the ceiling. His appearance ushered in light and a distracting gust of air. Shots flew across the room. He flew towards each bullet, catching it in his hand. He swooshed to the door, hurling the gunman into the next room with a jab of his knee. The window guard was hit with a powerful fist.
The gun against Bruce’s head clicked into position. Gunpowder and a spark ignited the room as it fired.
Bruce’s eyes closed.
Superman blasted forward. The tips of his fingers connected with the barrel of the gun, shattering it and the bullet from sheer impact alone. He whipped his head over, eyes glowing a faint red.
Notably, he was slightly less delicate with this opponent. He hit him not once, but twice. Once in the gut. Once again in the teeth. The assailant would not be waking up soon.
Bruce eyes opened.
“So much for my gala.”
Superman knelt, carefully snapping his restraints. “Are you hurt?”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not what I asked. For starters, I see a broken nose, popped stitches and a cracked rib.”
“If you already knew, why did you ask?” He rubbed his raw wrists, dropping the façade for the first time since abandoning the warmth of the manor.
“Perhaps I care about you.”
“Hnn,” Bruce hummed. “My hero.”
“Just doing my job.” He paused upon standing upright, taking a moment to look him over once more. Twice more. His voice softened. Like Bruce, there was no curtain of red and blue to disguise his tone. Clark stood before him now, lowered and raw. “The police are waiting for you outside. You should give them a statement.”
Bruce adjusted his bowtie and wiped the blood from his lips on his sleeve. “Yes, I should. Thank you.” A moment of hesitation passed. “Superman?”
“Yes?” Paramedics were breaking their way inside. Police shortly followed and would soon sweep the building. Time was fleeting.
There were many things Bruce Wayne would’ve liked to do. There were many things he could’ve done; they were alone in this room. A hand guided up to brush against the alien’s cheek.
“See you soon.”
Like so many instances before, Clark indulged in this touch. Both men were much more comfortable letting their bodies do the speaking. “See you.”
“Your eyes were closed,” he said. “You were ready for it.”
“Clark, I knew you were going to save me. Why isn’t that a good enough answer for you?”
“What if I hadn’t been fast enough?”
“But you were fast enough, and even if not—” Bruce halted at the coffee machine. “—even if not, I’m just happy to have made it this far at all.”
Clark wanted to be frustrated with the response, but found himself unable. Rather, it pulled the truth directly from his lips. He scoffed in a way that almost sounded like laughter. “So am I.”
“What?”
“I mean, didn’t think I’d get this far either.”
“You’re you,” Bruce insisted. “Of course you made it this far.”
Clark’s gaze shifted to the marble countertop. “I didn’t even think I would make it to thirty-five, B.”
“Funny. Practically all of us have the utmost confidence in you, though I get it.”
“Being who we are— I’m not naïve enough to not have an idea as to how this whole thing ends.”
“Violence. It will always be violence.” Bruce poured two mugs of coffee. “I had to accept that a long time ago.”
“Yep.” Clark mused. His hand folded on the bar, thumb dragging over his lower lip in thought. “And I’ve lived it. Tasted it. It’s always easy to accept until it happens.”
“That’s what we fight for: an unreality. A tomorrow where people don’t have to think like we do, live like we do. Die like we do.”
“It keeps me going when I have doubts.” He paused, blue eyes turning to Bruce. “So yes, I didn’t think I was going to make it this far. By definition, I didn’t. I wouldn’t have if not for the Fortress.”
“But you did.” Bruce returned to the island. He sat beside him and raised his own mug. “And I’m damn happy you’re still here. Cheers.”
“But I did,” he repeated. “And now we’re married, and this life with you is better than anything I could’ve imagined. Cheers.”
Bruce took a sip. He leaned back against the island stool, letting a soft gaze fall over his husband. The early hours of the morning fell over the manor grounds. Both Superman and Batman had wrapped up their nightly patrols a little while ago. Penguin was quickly placed behind bars thanks to Superman's assistance. Adrenaline from the gala situation had long since faded, stripping them bare.
“I don’t know where we’re going to be when we die. I used to be afraid of it. At least, if—when it happens, I know that these years spent with you have been nothing short of perfect. Nothing short of worth it.”
“I’m still afraid of it sometimes,” Clark admitted. He'd not forgotten the sound of his own insides turning outward, nor the outpouring of his blood. “Likewise. You’ve filled my years with love and joy and I’m glad to share whatever life we have left with you. I love you.”
“I love you.” He held the mug with either hand, taking a breath. It was slow, contemplative. Lungs expanded, acknowledging the pain of the cracked rib and replaced stitches. The pain reminded him that he's still here. It always has. “I don’t know many things, but I know that for certain. I love you.”
Pain allowed Bruce to touch life, but Clark was rarely allowed that sensation. Rather, he relied on other senses. The world was loud and it was bright. As long as he had that overwhelming sensation of planetary existence, he's still here too.
“You’ve always been a place of certainties for me. Even when we were just friends and I was too nervous to tell you how I felt.”
“You? I wouldn’t hear the end of it if you knew how it was for me. You made me nervous. I hated that about you.” Bruce’s eyes fell hooded and relaxed. Alfred had retired for the night, as had Damian. Even Ace drifted to sleep at Bruce’s feet. The magnitude of the manor helped with the feeling of isolation. It had always been easier for both of them to be raw beneath the cloak of the stars and silence.
It was just them. Them and their vulnerability.
“I made you nervous. That’s hard to believe— but hating me for it? That, I can grasp. I tried to tell you so many times.”
“I gave you a hard time.” Amusement fell into their shared tones. “I could’ve been more patient. With myself just as much as you. I honestly thought you wouldn't want me. I’m not exactly popular.”
“I spent so many evenings with you for movie nights. I texted you as often as I could. I think I made it pretty obvious that the opposite was true.” He finally set his cup down, turning to address the other. “Popular or not, I wanted you more than anything. I still do. I always do.”
“I suppose I didn’t let myself see. I told you I was nervous.” Bruce pulled away too. He fought a smile and lost. A hand reached out to settle on his thigh. “You have me.”
The kiss adorned to his lips was honey-sweet. Clark’s hand outstretched to squeeze Bruce’s. “You’ve turned me selfish. I want you all the time.”
“I’ve got a lot of vices. I’ve been told they can be infectious.” The couple stayed near each other in the wake of the kiss, not yet wanting to part. He tasted of coffee, Bruce thought. Coffee, and familiarity, and warmth. “Though you have me all the time. Even when we’re apart, you have me.”
Similarly, Bruce was a place Clark could rest. A hearth. A home. “I love when you say that.”
“Then I’ll say it more often.” Bruce indulged in another kiss, slower this time. He savored his closeness. Infinity and eternity was felt in a single moment. He treasured this lifetime and a second one. “As much as you want.”
“Noted.” The kiss was equally enjoyed by Clark. He kissed him as if it was both their first and last, spilling over with decades of passion and softness alike. “I can positively say you are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”
“Great minds.”
“World’s Finest Minds.”
Bruce looked calmer these days. Healthier. Finally, after all this time, he knew who he was and what he was. A father. A son. A husband. A protector and lover. He’d always been full of paradoxes, but Clark, somehow, reached in and made sense of it all. He made peace of it all.
Clark, too, had settled. The anger born from an extinct planet did not take such a violent possession of his movements. Bruce walked him through haunted vaults and Clark no longer felt the need to chase a lineage of ghosts away. He’d found a true belonging here, and some humility to boot.
“Are you sleeping tonight?”
Clark answered, “I was going to ask you that. I’d love it if we went to bed together, but if you need to stay up, I have my own things I could work on.”
“I was going to do some work in the cave. I need to look at some files I obtained from the GCPD about Penguin's next move.” He hesitated. Clark softened him up with conversation, and now he just wanted to hold him. “Maybe I can do that in bed.”
“I’ll do my best not to distract you,” Clark lied with a growing smile.
“I hope so.” He was unconvinced. Call it a gut feeling. Bruce stood, closing in to give him an additional handful of kisses. “Keep the bed warm for me. I’m going to grab those files.”
“Sure. Want me to bring your coffee?”
“Could you? Might need it.”
“Okay. See you upstairs.”
“See you upstairs, hotshot.”