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Superman’s funeral was on Saturday.
Clark Kent fumbled through the Cave’s security system the following Wednesday.
Evidently, he was less dead than previously thought.
…
A breeze sweeps through the cave as Clark enters, disturbing a cloud of bats before they retreat further into the darkness. Admittedly, getting in was a little more difficult than using a house key—even half a million tons’ worth of one—but supposedly not everyone can afford such simple measures. Ironic, since there’s little Bruce Wayne couldn’t buy if he put his mind to it. Aside from maybe a welcome mat.
A distant grunt lets Clark know he’s free to move forward, and it only takes a few moments of following the faint blue light of the Batcomputer before he reaches the Bat himself. Bruce sits in perfect stasis, poring over data hovering on the screen above him before offering a slight nod in Clark’s direction. As good an invitation as any.
“It’s been a while,” Clark offers, drifting forward to follow the cursor as it bounces around the lines of code on the screen. “What is it this time? The League hasn’t let me in on a lot of the technical stuff since I got back. Like they’re worried I forgot how to use a computer while I was gone.”
Bruce pauses for a second, and it becomes clear to Clark that he’s actually considering the possibility.
“...Which I did not,” Clark adds, voice drawling in the silence. “Or else I would be out of a job. Savage had plenty of future tech to poke at. Time travel doesn’t just wipe your mind like that—unless that’s why Booster acts the way he does.”
It’s a cheap shot, Clark knows, but a good one: Bruce’s shoulders heave slightly in as they do when he’s holding in a laugh.
“Right,” Bruce huffs, letting it pass through him. “And how have you been? Since you…got back.”
“As good as good’s gonna get, I guess. What would Dick say?” Deceased, deceased…“Ceased. I’m feeling ceased.”
Bruce frowns, carving wrinkles into the bridge of his nose.
“Not funny.”
“Kind of funny,” Clark concedes. “But I give.”
He casually leans toward the back of Bruce’s chair, shuffling a bit to transfer his weight. The keyboard stops clicking for a split second in response before starting back up slower than before. Even with the obvious concession, it’s a conscious effort to keep up with Bruce’s typing. It’s not so much the pace as it is the paperwork —Clark’s no stranger to deadlines or super-speed, but data like this has never graced his desk at the Planet , and for that, he’s eternally grateful.
Instead, Clark peruses the lab around them, hands held dutifully behind his back so as not to touch any of the tools. His footsteps are deafening, even without his hearing; the lab has become a no-fly zone after his entrance a few months prior had blown a soil sample into a nearby petri dish. The exit had been just as quick.
He’s about to turn back to the main console when a sliver of red catches his eye. A scrap of fabric lies loose-leaf on the table despite the lab’s strict system, as if the breeze had blown it there. No labels screaming ‘RADIOACTIVE’ and the like, as far as Clark can see; which, if he says so himself, is pretty far.
Bruce seems distracted for the moment, and Clark takes it to pick the sample up.
It’s underwhelming, honestly, nothing more than a scrap of clothing. Aside from the more obvious wear and tear, the fabric is thinning in some patches where it had been worried by a hand.
Familiar, though.
“Bruce.”
“Hm?”
“Is this my cape?”
There’s an audible creak as Bruce swivels his chair to face Clark, his darkening expression outlined by the screens behind him. He extends his hand and Clark places the scrap wordlessly into his palm, rocking slightly on the backs of his feet as the silence stretches between them.
“Yes.” Bruce nods curtly. He passes it back to Clark and is already turning to face the monitor again before Clark stops him, taking hold of the back of the chair and guiding it to face him. Bruce, to his credit, only lurches a little.
“...And why do you have it? You know, if you need it for your contingency files, I can just tell you what it’s made of. No need to start snipping my shirts.”
There’s a flicker of embarrassment in Bruce before it’s snuffed out. His eyes dart quickly to the side as if searching for his answer. Telling, considering he usually has one loaded before anyone can even ask, but Clark stays quiet. Bruce needs space if he’s going to talk. For once, he’s not the one who knows what he wants to say.
“Evidence from battle a few weeks ago. I was testing it for residue after Toyman’s attack to parse what kind of weapon he’d been using.”
“What kind of– Toyman? But the last time we saw him was when I—”
Bruce sighs.
“When you were…displaced, yes. The edges of the fabric weren’t frayed or singed when it was left behind: the threads simply stopped. A clean cut, in other words. It was only natural to assume teleportation.”
The scrap weaves itself into a knot in Clark’s hands.
“...Assume. Bruce, how quickly were you able to test this? Ignoring the hulking memorial blocking the view from my apartment, which is not an easy thing to do, I was under the impression that the League had effectively considered me dead.”
“They did. It was only a matter of days before I was able to rule out the majority of applicable weaponry in my database. No chemicals were present aside from old traces from previous encounters, so fewer tests were needed than my usual protocol—”
“Wait, wait. They? As in, not you.”
Bruce breaks away again to glance at the ceiling, and Clark is convinced that if the bats had been feeding him words until then, they aren’t now.
“You know I’m only part-time with the League. I’m excluded by default.”
“You’re being pedantic about this, Bruce. I’m asking if you thought I was dead.”
At this point, the man’s clearly growing impatient. Bruce stretches restlessly in his chair, joints popping as he repositions himself with hands steepled in front of him. Don’t be ridiculous, Clark can practically hear him think. Why are you still here? As it is, he bears a striking resemblance to Perry White on the other end of a story pitch.
“And why is that?”
This is not Perry. This is not the Planet.
“...Barry may have mentioned you didn’t come to the memorial.”
Bruce’s gaze shifts behind the cowl. The white crescents of his eyes peer through the mask’s brow, two waning moons daring Clark to continue.
“I was only wondering why, you know? Just…curious.”
“You weren’t dead,” Bruce supplies curtly.
“But you didn’t know that.”
Clark’s chest tightens around the inhale. That wasn’t supposed to have slipped out. That he had been saving for later in the conversation when Bruce would have undoubtedly had the chance to cycle through his repertoire of defenses and Clark would have built up the nerve to say it in the first place.
Bruce’s jaw clenches. If his gaze had been waning before, this was a total eclipse.
“No,” Bruce clips out, fingers tensing at his sides, “On a technical level, I didn’t. But the lack of evidence regarding your disappearance—”
“My death.” Clark supplies, fisting a hand in his cape. “Why won’t you say it, Bruce? I don’t expect you to acknowledge when you’re wrong, Rao knows, but can you at least do that much?”
“That’s not accurate, Clark, and you know that. You wouldn’t be standing here if it was.”
A Kryptonian’s blood doesn’t draw easily, but Clark’s pretty sure his fingernails have already made headway into the skin of his palms. Bruce’s head dips slightly to the side, no doubt surveying the tension in his fists. They tighten in response.
Clark shakes off the sensation of being observed. He refuses to appreciate the irony of the situation: despite the Bat in front of him, he still feels like the animal on the other side of the glass.
“Or just…tell me, alright? Why you didn’t show, I mean.”
Bruce’s entire frame seems to retract, as though invisible wings are drawn up tight around his shoulders to deflect Clark’s eyes. Clark won’t allow it, not now. Now, he needs answers.
“Fine,” Bruce exhales, a slow and measured thing, and they’re both disarmed by the faintness of it. “It's not that simple."
"When is anything simple for you?"
Their staring contest may have even reached a draw if not for the fact that Clark has no physical need to blink.
"In Gotham," Bruce forces the words through his teeth, "Everyone that kills and dies is mortal. They get no second chances. But gods and heroes like you that can cheat death to the extent I’ve witnessed imply that you’re all…exceptions. If you run or fly fast enough, you can try again. I can’t do that for you." He pauses. "I can’t do that for anyone.”
The monitor times out behind them, bathing the two in a wash of blue light.
“This,” Bruce says, gesturing to the cape still in Clark’s hands, “Is my way of rewinding time. I can retrace steps and rebuild compounds, but unlike yours, my path is linear. Standing in front of stone instead of you, it’s just a reminder. I can never go back, no matter how much I want to.”
He inhales as if to pull his confidence back from the air he’d expelled.
“And you know how much I want to.”
Which…makes sense. As much as it can to a so-called god, at least.
“I see.” Clark passes the cape between them, bridging the gap between them as he sets it to rest in the center of the console.
“Satisfied?”
“I…I understand. At least, I know why you didn’t show. But Bruce, more than anything I just need to know that you can take it. If I go—I mean, really go—it’s not going to make any difference to me. I won’t exactly be around to care. Lois, she…I mean, we’ve talked, sure, even though I don’t think she really believes I can die. At least not before her. Too many false alarms, I guess. And I know the League has plans for all that, for everyone, in case something goes bad. I’ve seen mine. Hell, I wrote half of it.”
Bruce's head tilts slightly, as if trying to catch a frequency he couldn't quite get.
Where was he going with this?
“What I’m trying to say is, you’re the only person where I don’t know how they’ll react. I’m just worried, Bruce, and not for myself. Sure, I considered not getting back once or twice with Savage. I can more or less predict how that would go over. But with you, I drew a blank, and that scared me.”
A sound cuts through the air and it takes Clark a moment of stunned silence to realize that Bruce had actually snorted. A staggered exhale suppresses his laughter.
“What?” Clark snaps, exasperated.
“Just thinking how like you it is to be concerned about others in the case of you no longer being on this Earth.”
Clark looks down at his boots, somewhat self-consciously. “I wasn’t from here anyway.” He mumbles under his breath.
Sharp laughter echoes through the cave. Bruce is genuinely laughing now, holding an old wound in his side as he does. His body’s not used to it, and it shocks him. Clark waits it out as he takes a sudden and intense interest in the Batcomputer's keyboard; witnessing Batman laugh feels like some kind of intrusion he can't quite place.
“...I’m sorry." Bruce swipes at the corners of his eyes, tears equal parts laughter and pain from the scars stretching along his sides with every breath. "That was an inappropriate response. As for your concerns, I won’t make promises. But I can assure you if you hadn’t returned, I would have…missed moments like that.”
The air between them stales, both men waiting with bated breath as if the moment will flee on startled wings.
“Fortunately,” Bruce, adds, anxiously clearing his throat. He brushes his hands together as if to wash them of the matter. “That’s not the case.”
And as much might have gone unsaid, it’s true—as good as good’s gonna get. Bruce is right, anyway: that wasn’t the case. Not this time.
Not yet.
Bruce holds out his palm for a handshake but Clark takes it and pulls him into a hug.
“…Do you really laugh like that?”
Bruce stiffens in his arms, caught off guard by the question.
“Bruce Wayne? Never. Not in public.”
“Not even for the Planet ?”
Bruce looks at him suspiciously before pulling back, setting his hands firmly on Clark’s shoulders.
“Especially not for the Planet.”