Archive of Our Own

Bruce’s dislike for magic has never been a secret, nor has his skepticism for all things supernatural. So why John Constantine has asked Batman to join him on a witch hunt in Southwestern Germany is obviously nonsensical and entirely annoying, to say the least. Several other members of the Justice League could have assisted John on his mission to banish this witch back to hell; Bruce had been tempted to send one of the League’s new recruits just to annoy Constantine. But as Superman had not so kindly reminded him, magic wasn’t one of Batman’s weaknesses, he was an experienced member who had fewer chances of messing up part of the mission and Constantine had helped Bruce once in the past; the least he could do was return the favour. 

That is how Bruce currently finds himself in a dilapidated shack in the middle of the woods, simultaneously trying to dodge the witch’s spells while luring her over to the pentagram John has magically hidden under the floorboards.

To make matters worse, the witch is speaking in a demonic language Bruce can’t even begin to comprehend, meaning he has no idea what spells she keeps throwing his way until it’s almost too late to appropriately dodge them.

Bruce grunts as he jumps over what used to be a table, narrowly missing being hit by a green-tinted fireball. The fireball hits the wall behind Bruce with a loud hiss, releasing what seems to be some sort of toxic gas. 

With practiced ease and without missing a step as he continues to run around the shack, Bruce pulls a rebreather from one of the pouches of his utility belt and hopes the devices can withstand the poison; it can’t be worse than Fear Toxin or Joker Gas.

The witch is hovering near the front door, either blocking Bruce’s exit or refusing to go deeper into the shack because she knows that the room is booby-trapped. She’s muttering more words Bruce can’t understand and her bloodshot eyes are now glowing the same green as the ball of fire she’d hurled at him mere seconds ago.

Luckily, Bruce’s role of simply being the bait works because the witch doesn’t notice that Constantine has appeared behind her. 

In his signature beige trench coat and black slacks, the British warlock looks out of place standing behind an undead witch covered in demonic tattoos. 

Probably knowing that reciting a spell to push the witch into the pentagram will give away his element of surprise, Constantine opts instead to bear hug the witch as he tries to drag her further into the room.

Despite being practically skin and bones, the witch puts up a surprising fight as she tries to resist.

“Throw some holy water on her!” Constantine yells as he tackles the witch to the ground. They’re rolling around like a bunch of elementary school kids fighting in the schoolyard.

“Do I look like a damn priest?” Bruce retorts, after removing the rebreather from his mouth. If John isn’t dropping dead from the toxic gas, it must have cleared out from the air. 

“You carry shark repellent in your utility belt, but not holy water?” he questions, seeming genuinely confused by Bruce’s supposed lack of preparedness. 

Bruce bites his tongue, stopping himself from yelling at Constantine. Nearly a decade ago, someone at the League (most likely Hal) had started the rumour that he carried shark repellant, he still hasn’t been able to dispel it. It was a pointless and currently inappropriately timed endeavour.

“Stop fooling around and end this,” Bruce orders, knowing that Constantine is more than capable of finishing the job.

Executing what looks like a poor imitation of a WWE move, John finally manages to shove the witch into the pentagram all while keeping himself from crossing the painted lines underneath the floor.

The witch howls in anger, jumping up to her feet in a surprising display of speed. She lunges at John but slams into an invisible force as she gets to the edge of the pentagram. 

“Bloody hell,” John exclaims, taking a step back. “She’s a feisty one for her age. Let’s get her back to hell.”

Despite speaking a different language, the witch seems to understand what John is about to do. She begins to frantically thrash around, throwing herself against the invisible wall in the hopes of escaping. 

A spellbook materializes in front of John as he begins to read out the incantation that will send the witch away for good. Suddenly, she goes eerily quiet. Her lanky and decaying body becomes rigid as she stops fighting against the inevitable. Bruce watches in horrid fascination as the witch's dark and bloodshot eyes land on him. She smiles, showing him her mouth full of rotten teeth. 

Bruce can’t stop himself from holding his breath as the witch starts muttering a chant, never once breaking eye contact with him. Her voice keeps rising in volume as she stumbles over her words, clearly trying to finish whatever she has to say before John can banish her. 

Despite his concentration, Constantine has obviously picked up on whatever the witch is saying because he also quickens his incantation. The pentagram is now fully visible, as if having bled through the floorboards. The symbol is glowing bright red and Bruce can feel the heat radiating from it. 

The witch points at Bruce with her bony hand as she shrieks the last of her spell. Bruce braces himself for anything; pain, the need to dodge, even instant death. But nothing comes. 

The pentagram underneath the witch’s feet suddenly opens up as flames burst from it. The witch doesn’t scream out in surprise or pain. Her unsettling laugh is all Bruce hears as she is swallowed whole by the flames.

“Oh bugger off you bloody bitch,” Constantine barks as he finally manages to close back up the portal to hell. He’s breathing heavily as he stands on the edge of the now partially faded pentagram. 

“What did she say?” Bruce demands, his body refusing to relax even though they’ve clearly accomplished their mission.

“I’m pretty sure she cursed you, and not in the “fuck you” kind of way,” John replies, turning to face Bruce.

Bruce rolls his eyes. “I know that, but what does the curse mean?”

“Not sure,” he says nonchalantly, proceeding to pull out a cigarette from his coat pocket. 

“Not sure because you don’t speak the language or not sure because the curse is some sort of riddle,” Bruce growls, stalking up to John near the edge of the pentagram.

Constantine takes his sweet time answering, letting out a drag of smoke. “A bit of both. But what does it matter, you seem fine; you’re the healthiest furry I’ve ever seen.”

Ignoring the insult, Bruce opts instead to silently stare John down, which has the desired effect of annoying the warlock. 

“I’ll do some research and get back to you, happy?” he angrily mutters in response. “All I can say for now is that I think she said the words darkness and night; so maybe you should stay out of Gotham.”

“Not an option,” Bruce instantly finds himself saying. It’s bad enough that he’s been away from Gotham for a week now, he can’t afford to abandon his city any longer. “If I don’t have a translation by next week, I’m going to—”

“Put a sock in it,” Constantine interrupts, flicking his cigarette onto the pentagram. He puts it out with the heel of his shoe. “An undead witch cursed you in a forgotten demonic language, you’ll get the full translation when you get it, I’m not fucking Google.”

Bruce doesn’t try to suppress his annoyance. “Are we done here?”

Constantine’s form blinking out of existence as he teleports out of the shack is the only goodbye Bruce gets from the man. 

“Figures,” Bruce mumbles under his breath. As much as he wants to immediately open his gauntlet and call the Batplane to his location, Bruce takes the time to give the small shack one last lookover. Using an empty vial he grabs from his utility belt, he collects some of the residue ashes leftover from the fireball that is splattered across one of the walls. Maybe analyzing the form of magic used by the witch will help Bruce understand the nature of the curse. 

As much as Bruce doesn’t want to believe in curses and witchcraft, he cannot avoid the possibility that whatever the witch has said will come back to haunt him. He just hopes that he can figure it out before it’s too late.

“Any plans for the rest of the night, Supes?” Flash asks as soon as he sits down in the chair Clark’s just vacated. 

Barry has just arrived to relieve Clark from monitor duty on the Watchtower. Clark’s been here for the last eight hours and relishes the feeling of stretching out all of his limbs as he stands up. He hasn’t noticed until now how stiff his muscles have gotten after not moving for so long.  

“Not really,” Clark replies, glancing at the computers in front of Barry to ensure they aren’t missing a worldwide emergency. “But I think I heard that Batman got back from his mission in Europe not too long ago, so I want to check on how it went.”

“You realize that he’s going to submit a massively long mission report by tomorrow morning. You can just read it then and save yourself the trip to Gotham,” Barry remarks, a small smile now gracing his face.

“Sure,” Clark confirms hesitantly, “but I want to check on how Bruce is doing too and that won’t be in the report.” Clark isn’t sure why Barry is making a big deal of him flying to Gotham; it’s not like it’s a huge detour from Metropolis. It’s also not a lot of work for Superman to fly there from the Watchtower. He could even take the zeta tubes there if Barry is so worried about Clark becoming exhausted. 

“Alright, have fun!” Barry says, waving him off.

“Thanks,” Clark replies, feeling confused about what’s just happened.  “Have a good shift,” he settles on saying before leaving the monitor room. 

It doesn’t take Clark long to fly from the monitor room to the zeta tubes, deciding it’s best to zeta over to the Cave. Not because he wants to please Barry, but because it gives Bruce somewhat of a formal warning that he’s coming over. Although Clark is still one of the only Justice League members with unrestricted access to the Cave, Bruce has a system set up that alerts him when someone inputs the code to the Cave, giving him a couple of extra seconds of notice. 

Clark is positive that Bruce will appreciate the small warning, especially since it’s nearing the time Bruce normally leaves for patrol. Despite coming back hours ago from a week-long expedition with Constantine, of all people, Clark would bet his life savings on Bruce refusing to take the night off from patrolling his beloved city. 

Without wasting any more time, Clark enters the code to the Cave’s zeta tube, waiting for the familiar sensation of teleportation to overwhelm his body. Out of instinct, he closes his eyes when the bright light surrounds his body. Seconds later, when he opens his eyes again, he’s staring at the bats fluttering around the stalactites on the ceiling of the Cave. 

“You down here, B?” Clark asks as he steps out of the zeta tube. He could use his powers to check and see where Bruce is, it would only take him a second, but Clark doesn’t like invading his friend's privacy. 

Clark hears a grunt in reply, too quiet and far away for the average human range to catch, but that’s of course not a problem. Bruce seems to be in his makeshift workshop near the back of the Cave; he often goes there to fix any of his gadgets or make repairs on his vehicle. 

And sure enough, once Clark makes his way to the workshop, he can see Bruce working on his utility belt. The belt is spread out flat across the table, with all of the contents of the pouches laid out in an uncharacteristically unorganized way. Bruce is currently focused on modifying one of the pouches, seemingly trying to inconspicuously add in a small vial. But what the vial contains, Clark has no idea. It’s a clear liquid, but Clark can’t see why Bruce would need to pack such a small amount of water in his utility belt.

“Welcome back to Gotham,” Clark says in greeting. “How was it in Germany?”

“Chaotic,” Bruce replies distractedly, not bothering to look up from what he was tinkering about. It isn’t that odd when it comes to Batman behaviour™ , but it isn’t what Clark is used to being on the receiving end of anymore. Long gone are the days of Batman’s one-worded replies and attempts to avoid eye contact whenever Superman comes to talk to him; especially when it’s Clark talking to Bruce. 

Maybe the week with Constantine was more chaotic than Bruce is letting on; you never really know what to expect when John asks for help, but you are sure to have to deal with his terrible smoking habits and peculiar sense of humour.

“Isn’t it always chaotic when Jonh’s involved?” Clark says, aiming for lighthearted banter to break down Bruce’s wall. “Was the mission at least a success?” What had the mission been about again? Clark vaguely remembers hearing something about demons. Or maybe it was witches? It was suddenly hard to remember.

“Constantine needs to send me something,” Bruce gruffly replies, as if stringing together that many words is a painful chore. 

“And you’ll be done after that?” Clark guesses, trying to get Bruce to at least look at him while they pretend to have a typical conversation between friends. 

Bruce nods, but whether it’s because he’s unable or unwilling to continue the facade of a conversation, Clark isn’t sure. Clark watches in silence as Bruce continues to work on the utility belt, hoping an awkward lull in the conversation will prompt Bruce to pay attention. 

But once it’s clear that Bruce has no intention of reciprocating and asking Clark how his week went, Clark resigns himself to leaving; maybe Barry had been right about wasting his time by coming to Gotham. 

Clark can tell that something happened during the mission and it has to do with Constantine; either he had been a bigger dick than usual or he’d messed up something, forcing Bruce to miss the final piece of the puzzle needed to wrap up the mission. Both of those scenarios were some of Bruce’s pet peeves, although he rarely admits to them.

And unfortunately, even though he knows that he’s right, Clark can’t force Bruce to confide in him. But it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt. 

“I’ll get out of your hair now,” Clark says, plastering what he hopes is a convincing smile on his face. “Maybe we can get a coffee or something when you wrap up your thing with John?”

“We’ll see,” Bruce replies absentmindedly.

“Okay,” Clark answers lamely. “Have a good patrol.” Even to his ears, his well wishes seem disingenuous, but Bruce doesn’t call him out on it. He’s too busy trying to program a button on his gauntlet to connect to a release system on the vial he’s just added to the utility belt. 

Bruce’s somewhat erratic movements as he fiddles with his gauntlet almost make Clark want to ask more sternly how the mission abroad went, but he doesn’t quite have the energy to deal with Bruce’s indifference right now. Instead, he turns around and without looking back, flies out of one of the Cave’s tunnels. 

As he heads back to Metropolis, Clark tries his hardest to ignore the sharp pressure building behind his eyes; he really doesn’t want to cry right now.

“Thank you, once again, for attending today’s meeting. Please help yourselves to the refreshments and snacks outside in the lobby.” 

From his seat at the back of the room, Clark watches as Bruce addresses the room of Daily Planet employees. Dressed in a beautiful, and perfectly fitted, dark grey suit, he looks at ease and seems to be excited to address the crowd of Clark’s coworkers. It’s a far cry from how Bruce was acting when Clark saw him five days ago.

But from where he is, Bruce probably doesn’t see Clark; the room is packed. Everyone from the lowly photographers, reporters and editors to the big-shot investors and shareholders are in attendance for the newspaper’s annual meeting. Since becoming the owner of the Daily Planet three years ago, Bruce has insisted on hosting the annual meeting with every single employee in attendance, allowing everyone to understand what’s to happen in the coming months. As Bruce explained during his opening speech, if the Planet’s journalistic motto is, “straight from the source”, the employees have every right to know firsthand the going-ons of their livelihood. 

With Bruce’s speech now done and everyone dismissed, Clark stays in his seat, waiting out the rush of bored and hungry employees to flock to the tables full of coffee and donuts. Lois, who’s sitting beside him, follows his lead. She knows as well as Clark that there will be more than enough beverages and snacks waiting for them once the crowds die down; an event funded by Wayne Enterprises always goes overboard when it comes to catering.

“Does Mr. Wayne speak every year at the meeting?” Minhee, the intern who has been shadowing Clark for the past month, asks. As she is also sitting beside him, Clark spends most of the meeting watching her write down word for word everything that was said. Her transcription speed is an impressive skill, but definitely not necessary given the circumstances; every employee is going to receive a recap of the meeting by email. 

“Yes, he does,” Clark confirms, glancing over at Bruce as he answers. The man in question has now stepped down from the main stage and is slowly leaving the theatre, taking his time to greet some of the individuals trying to get his attention. “Why?”

“No reason,” Minhee quickly replies. Clark glances over at the young woman, noticing that a faint blush is spreading across her cheeks. Clark chuckles to himself, not needing to ask further questions to figure out why his intern is so interested in meeting Bruce Wayne. 

And it’s not like Clark can judge her for it, he’s in the same boat as her. But luckily for him, he doesn’t blush when thinking about Bruce; or at least not anymore. He’s sure Bruce has chalked up any blushing or blustering from Clark in the past as his mid-western upbringing and Boy Scout attitude. Because despite having a crush on his best friend, Clark isn’t sure if Bruce is aware of it. And he certainly doesn’t know if Bruce shares the same feelings. 

“Are we done for the day or are we being forced to head back upstairs to work?” Lois’ intern, Alexis, pipes up from beside Minhee. Her question pulls Clark from his thoughts. Unlike her colleague, Alexis didn’t waste her time taking any notes; instead, she texted her friends the entire meeting. But from what Clark has heard from Lois, that seems to be her M.O. Apparently, having a father on the board of directors means getting an internship at the Daily Planet despite having no desire to be a journalist. 

“It’s not even noon, Alexis. We don’t get a half-day just because Bruce Wayne decides to grace us with his presence,” Lois answers tersely. After years of friendship, Clark can tell that Lois is trying really hard not to roll her eyes right now.

“That’s a shame, maybe I should lobby to get that rule changed for next year’s meeting,” a voice suddenly says from beside Clark. That’s strange, he hadn’t heard Bruce walk up to join them. Normally he’s easily able to distinguish Bruce’s unique gait.

“Hilarious as always, Mr. Wayne,” Lois says as she flashes Bruce one of her trademark ‘I’m only humouring you so I don’t jeopardize my job’ smiles; Clark has seen it one too many times throughout their career. She stands up to greet him, stepping out into the aisle.

“And it’s always lovely to see you, Ms. Lane,” Bruce replies without missing a beat, also flashing one of his trademark smiles in Lois’ direction. “Mr. Kent, of course, it’s good to see you too.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Clark replies sincerely.

“And who do you have with you?” Bruce says, quickly looking past Clark at the two interns. Clark can’t stop himself from flinching at the dismissal; it isn’t any less painful after being dismissed and ignored earlier that week.

“Alexis Montgomery, I’m sure you know my father, Beckett Montgomery,” Alexis answers, looking up from her phone to make sure Bruce has acknowledged and recognized her.

“Beck is your old man! I just spoke with him. He didn’t mention you were working here,” Bruce replies, his face still displaying nothing but his friendly ‘Brucie’ persona. But Clark sees the gears turning behind his eyes. He's probably coming to the same conclusion as Clark that Alexis’ internship isn’t the most ethical. 

“Well it’s not really a job, it’s just an internship,” Alexis replies sounding bored and unfortunately unaware that she’s most likely just gotten her father in trouble.

“Interns are important, I wouldn’t get my daily coffee without mine,” Bruce quips causing Minhee to fondly laugh even though Clark knows that she values her internship; the very same internship where she does more than just fetch coffee. “His or hers?” Bruce asks Minhee, pointing between Clark and Lois.

Clark feels Minhee tense up beside him before practically jumping out of her seat. “Oh, I’m his intern. My name’s Minhee and it’s such an honour to meet you, Mr. Wayne. I’m a big fan,” she excitedly answers.

“Thank you, you’re too kind,” Bruce says, his million-dollar smile never leaving his face. “Are you enjoying your internship?”

Minhee’s face is blushing so intensely at this point that it looks like she could camouflage herself had she been standing next to the Flash. “It’s been amazing, Mr. Wayne, I’m learning so much.” 

“Good, good. You should come to the event I’m hosting next month. I’m sure it’ll be a good chance to practice your journalism skills and you’ll meet some great people!” Bruce says, much to Minhee’s visible delight. “I always say that connections are everything and you need good connections if you want to be a good journalist.”

“Isn’t the next event you’re hosting a bikini fashion show?” Lois questions critically.

“Yes, it is! We’re showcasing an upcoming line of eco-friendly bikinis. And here I thought all bikinis were friendly!” Bruce replies eliciting more laughter from Minhee.

“I’d be honoured, Mr. Wayne,” she finally manages to spit out after composing herself. 

“Great, I’ll send the invite to you and your boss here,” Bruce says as he finally looks back over at Clark. “I’m afraid I must get going now, but it was great talking to you all. Enjoy the rest of your day,” Bruce states as he extends his arm, waiting for Clark to shake his hand.

It feels strangely formal, but Clark clasps their hands together, shaking his best friend’s hand as if they were nothing more than acquaintances. “Yes, see you around Mr. Wayne.”  

Bruce offers them all another smile before walking away from their group. Clark can’t stop himself from frowning; something is still bothering Bruce, but what? It seems like Bruce is less frustrated with Constantine and more like he wants to distance himself from Clark; but why? 

Unaware of his internal struggle, his colleagues continue their conversation. Lois sighs as she turns to face Alexis. “Alright, we’re going to grab a cup of coffee and then we’re leaving. We have that interview with the Chief of the Fire Department in about an hour.”

“Okay,” Alexis replies, not bothering to look up from her phone now that Bruce is gone. But at least she starts making her way out of the row of chairs to follow Lois. 

“See you later, Smallville,” Lois says before leaving to join the crowd of employees still waiting to grab their daily fix of caffeine. 

Clark nods in response, shelving his worries about Bruce for later. “Did you want to grab something to eat or drink?” he asks Minhee as Alexis shuffles past them and into the lobby. 

“No, I’m okay,” Minhee replies. “Can you believe Bruce Wayne invited us to his party?” 

So much for not thinking about Bruce.

“Well, it’s not really a party. We’re technically attending as representatives of the Daily Planet and we’ll be working the whole night,” Clark supplies nervously. He watches her face as they weave through the crowd in the lobby, hoping he hasn’t just crushed whatever fantasy she’s come up with.

“True, but he still chose to invite me over Alexis and he knows her dad!” Minhee argues, apparently convinced that being invited to one of Bruce’s events is a lifetime achievement and a rare occurrence when really it’s just another Thursday for a Daily Planet employee. 

“Right,” Clark simply answers, not seeing the point in arguing with Minhee over this. Standing in front of the elevators, Clark reaches out and presses the up button, surprised to see there isn’t a crowd waiting to go upstairs. No one must be eager to return to work; if Bruce actually does manage to convince the Daily Planet to have a half-day next year, he’ll definitely be revered as a god. As well as simultaneously despised by Lois. 

“Oh, did you know you had a rash on your hand?” Minhee asks, her soft voice laced with concern. 

Clark looks down at his hand, surprised to see the red and angry-looking rash practically covering the entirety of his right hand. When did that get there? He can’t feel it, but having never had a rash before, he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to feel it. Don’t people normally complain that rashes are itchy and hot to the touch? And if he can’t feel it, how is he supposed to figure out how it got there?

As if reading his thoughts, Minhee asks him another question. “Did you use the new soap in the bathroom? I’ve been getting really dry and itchy hands since they changed the brand last week. It’s so bad, I brought a bar of soap from home and I keep it in my purse.”

Clark knows that’s not why he has a rash. Superman isn’t allergic to anything; well except Kryptonite. But why would there be Kryptonite at the Daily Planet? No one in attendance had reason to be carrying it, let alone have access to the rock. Was Lex Luthor here and Clark just hasn’t crossed paths with him? Normally Lex makes an effort to be noticed.

“Clark?” Minhee says, trying to get his attention. The doors to the elevator are now open and she’s waiting inside, pressing a button to keep the doors ajar as she waits for Clark to follow her inside. 

“Yeah, it must be the soap,” Clark replies, a sense of panic gripping him. Other than the rash, he feels fine, but that doesn’t mean his condition isn’t about to suddenly worsen. He needs to get back to the meeting room to try and see if anyone there is carrying Kryptonite; it could be a sign that his secret identity is no longer a secret.

And that’s when he hears it. “Superman.” 

Clark’s panic lessens, but only by a fraction when he realizes it’s Bruce’s voice. Maybe Bruce noticed Lex or saw that someone had Kryptonite. Batman will know what to do. Tuning in on Bruce, Clark can tell that he’s already in a car that Alfred has parked right outside of the Daily Planet. Bruce seems to be looking at something on his phone, meaning he must be monitoring the situation from there.

“I’m getting reports of a large avalanche in Switzerland, your assistance is needed,” Bruce states, knowing that Clark is listening.

Oh. Of course, that’s what Bruce is paying attention to. Why would he have noticed the rash? He barely gave Clark the time of day earlier. 

“Are you coming up?” Minhee says, her voice more impatient now that Clark has been ignoring her for the past couple of seconds. 

“Uh, actually go on up without me, I think I’m going to go buy myself a bar of soap!” he says quickly, shooting her an apologetic look before running away and out of the doors of the Daily Planet.

The avalanche takes precedence; there will be time later to talk to Bruce about the possibility of Kryptonite at the Daily Planet.

Between the avalanche and then a League mission that takes him to Mars for a couple of days, Clark hasn’t had much time to think about the “oh shoot, there’s Kryptonite at my workplace” conundrum. Honestly, since his post-mission debrief on the Watchtower where Bruce brushed him off as he left in a hurry to head back to Gotham, Clark has only had one thing on his mind; sleep.

Clark doesn’t really need to sleep, but he enjoys it. Not only because it reminds him of his humanity, but because it gives him a reason to take a break from being Superman. As much as he enjoys saving the world and protecting people, he unfortunately can’t solve every problem on Earth. 

But given his bleeding heart, Clark is no stranger to waking up in the middle of the night, easily forgoing sleep to deal with an emergency. Sometimes it's because of a huge, world-ending emergency like an asteroid heading to Earth or an alien invasion. Sometimes it's because of a smaller-scale, but just as important, emergency like an earthquake or a cat stuck in a tree. But never has Clark woken up because he's the one suffering from an emergency. 

Yet here he is, sitting up in bed at the speed of light, suddenly and vividly aware of the fact that he's sweating and that his stomach is twisting itself into thousands of painful knots. He only has enough time to take in a shaky breath before he's clumsily running to the bathroom and vomiting into the toilet bowl. 

Clark doesn't really remember the last time he's thrown up. It must have been the last time Lex had used a large amount of Kryptonite on him. As much as Clark hates to admit it, most of his interactions with Luthor and Kryptonite are only blurry and vague recollections. The haze brought on by the intense pain and suffering often makes him forget the specifics of the injuries he sustains. Right now, Clark can't quite figure out if it's a blessing or a curse to have forgotten how unpleasant it is to brutally heave out his supper. Coupled with the lightheadedness, the pounding migraine that’s building up behind his eyes and the visceral desire to remove his pyjamas because of how much he's sweating, Clark is pretty sure this is the worst he's ever felt off of the battlefield. 

And if that realization isn't enough to send Clark into a panic, the sight of the blood he's thrown up is more than enough to get the adrenaline flowing. 

Calling 9-1-1 will be useless and be a risk to his secret identity, so he needs to find another solution. Once he's sure that he's not going to throw up again in the next five minutes, Clark pushes himself off the bathroom floor. He can feel the muscles in his legs burn as he stands up on his feet; he imagines this is the kind of pain an athlete feels after finishing a marathon. Why would they put themselves through this pain just to win a medal; it’s unbearable.

Clark shakes away the judgment, trying to focus on the task at hand. But focusing on walking out of the bathroom isn’t any easier. Every step he takes feels wrong. This shouldn't hurt. Nothing should hurt him. Why does it hurt?

It takes Clark a second to remember what he wants to do once he makes it back to his bedroom. He's distracted by how excruciating the walk over from the bathroom has been. Is it even possible to feel pain in his toes? He doesn’t remember stubbing them, why do they hurt? 

He needs to concentrate. Right, he’s in his room to access his window. He needs to leave. He needs to find Bruce. Bruce will know what to do. 

What time is it? 

Is Bruce still on patrol?

Clark painfully turns his neck to glance at the alarm clock on his bedside table, but he can’t quite make out the numbers. Is it 11 p.m. or 1 a.m. right now? 

Why are the numbers moving every time he blinks? 

Wait why is he looking at the clock again?

He can’t help the groan that escapes his lips as he tries to remember what he is doing. Thinking about it only makes his headache pound even more. Sure Clark can normally hear his heartbeat, he can hear anyone’s heart beating from anywhere in the world. But right now, his heart is beating too loudly and it’s echoing in his ears and making them ring. 

Clark closes his eyes, hoping that will help him focus but all that does is make the room spin. He barely manages to stop himself from falling to the floor in a very un-Superman-like manner. He shakily steadies himself by grabbing the end post of his bed.

Right! That’s what he was trying to remember. He’s not feeling like Superman right now, so he needs to find Batman. Batman will know what to do. But just thinking about flying all the way to Gotham to find Bruce is exhausting. Normally, he doesn’t even have to think about it. Given the number of times he’s been to Gotham, especially to Bruce’s home, Clark can easily fly there with his eyes closed.

But he’s just tried closing his eyes and the results hadn’t been great. Clark’s not sure he feels brave enough to attempt to fly all the way to Gotham right now; even with his eyes open. If he can’t get to Gotham, he needs to bring Bruce to Metropolis.

Not trusting his legs, Clark keeps one hand on his bed for balance as he walks toward his bedside table. It embarrassingly takes him two tries to pull open the drawer of the nightstand. On top of yesterday’s edition of the Daily Planet, Clark finds his cell phone. He doesn’t even bother entering his password; instead, as soon as the screen lights up, he presses the emergency button, knowing that his pre-programmed Wayne Tech Phone will call Bruce instead of emergency services. 

If Clark knows Bruce (and he does), Bruce will answer the phone, whether he’s at a gala, on patrol or asleep in bed.

Predictably, and much to his relief, the phone only has the chance to ring once before Clark hears Bruce’s voice.

“What’s wrong?” is all Bruce says, his voice typically devoid of any emotion. Normally Clark would be able to locate Bruce within seconds; he wouldn’t need to resort to trying to decipher background noises on an emergency call to Batman to figure out where he is. Clark reminds himself that this is exactly why he’s calling; through his migraine, vertigo and weakness, he can’t even muster up the strength to tune into his superhearing.

“Clark, what’s wrong?” Bruce repeats, this time a touch of emotion bleeding into his voice.

“I don’t feel good,” Clark manages to say, surprisingly already out of breath. He takes in a large gulp of air but regrets it as soon as he realizes that his lungs hurt. When did it start feeling like an elephant was sitting on his chest? 

“Stay where you are, I have your location,” Bruce replies, his voice commanding but much too loud. Clark moves the phone away from his ear as Bruce continues to talk. But Clark isn’t listening anymore.

“I’m going to lie down,” Clark says, interrupting whatever Bruce is saying. Now that he knows that Bruce is on his way, the adrenaline that has been rushing through his veins since waking up is all but gone. The exhaustion hits him like a train (and Clark is very familiar with the feeling). He means to lie down on his bed, he’s standing right beside it, but he somehow misses it and hits the floor instead with a loud thump.

“Clark, I need you to stay away. Sock to me,” Bruce says, or at least that’s what Clark thinks he hears the man say. He realizes that his phone is no longer in his hands but on the floor near his feet. And Clark’s ears now feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton balls.

Clark knows that he should answer. He can’t make out Bruce’s words anymore but he can tell that the usually stoic Batman is turning slightly frantic. And Clark doesn’t like when Bruce is panicked; especially when he’s the cause of that worry. 

“I’m okay, don’t worry,” Clark manages to say, trying his best to sound calm and happy. “I just think I’m dying.” 

Clark probably shouldn’t phrase it that way. But it’s just really hard to think clearly right now. 

Maybe if he just closes his eyes for a moment.

Whether he fainted or fell asleep, it seems like no time has passed as Clark suddenly feels someone shaking him to consciousness. Bruce is kneeling in front of him. Had they not just been on the phone? How did he get to Metropolis so quickly? 

Clark lets Bruce maneuver him into a sitting position, his back is now firmly against the side of his bed, but it’s taking a lot of strength to not curl back into a ball on his floor.

“You’re burning up,” Clark hears Bruce fret to himself. Clark’s numb body barely registers the sensation of Bruce checking him for any external injuries. He’s pretty sure he isn’t injured, he felt fine when he left the Watchtower a couple of hours ago. Or had he felt fine?

“I threw up blood,” Clark manages to mumble, remembering quite jarringly the event that sent him into a panic and prompted him to call Bruce.

“Did you inhale or ingest any Kryptonite?” Bruce asks as he slots himself under Clark’s armpit, ready to hold him and hoist him off the floor. 

“I don’t know,” he moans before gritting his teeth as Bruce manages to get him to his feet. 

“I’m bringing you to the Cave, I need to run some tests,” Bruce says. “Can you walk?” 

“Yes,” Clark finds himself answering before even taking the time to think about it. 

Bruce must not believe him because he grunts harshly in response. Instead of steering Clark to the door that leads out of his bedroom, Bruce manages to drag him to the open window. Clark doesn’t even bother trying to remember if he opened it earlier that night or if that’s how Bruce entered his room. 

“Hold on to me as tight as you can,” Bruce instructs, repositioning his arms so he has a better grip on Clark. Bruce is practically hugging him. 

Clark tries his best to hold on to Bruce, but as Bruce gets ready to shoot his grappling gun, a sudden thought grips Clark. “I’m not wearing my Superman uniform!” he painfully gasps.

Even if it’s the middle of the night, Clark Kent, Kansas farmboy and reporter at the Daily Planet, cannot risk being seen, or worse, photographed as he’s kidnapped from his apartment by Batman. Clark knows that he should be worried about Bruce’s oversight in the protection and maintenance of their secret identities, but he’s also fairly sure he’s currently giving Bruce the fright of his life, so he can’t be that mad.

“Clark, you are wearing your uniform,” Bruce replies, trying but failing to mask the confusion in his voice. 

“What?” Clark replies, staring down at his body in confusion. And sure enough, he’s looking at the House of El symbol proudly displayed on his chest. When did he put it on? Did he even take it off after coming back from the Watchtower?

As Bruce shoots out his grappling hook and starts to lower them to the streets of Metropolis, Clark alarmingly concludes that his memory is now affected by whatever illness is ailing him.

Clark is in too much of a shocked daze to realize that his feet are now firmly on the ground and that Bruce is directing him to the Batmobile he’s parked in the nearby alley. He continues to let himself be maneuvered as Bruce opens the car door and guides him into the passenger seat. Bruce is tense and moving quickly, it barely takes him less than a couple of seconds to round the car and hop into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t even wait for Clark to buckle up before flooring the gas pedal.

“Stay awake,” Bruce orders before pressing a button on his dashboard, effectively initiating a phone call with someone. 

Clark should check the caller's I.D. The screen is right in front of him and Bruce has told him to stay awake. And he really, really, hates disappointing Bruce. But the pain and fatigue are all too much, and before he knows it, he’s succumbing to the darkness once again.

Pain is the first thing Clark feels as he comes to consciousness. But it’s not the same kind of pain that woke him up from his slumber last time. 

For one, he doesn’t feel like he’s going to throw up anymore, which is a major improvement and his migraine is down to a dull headache. But every other symptom is still there. 

He feels weak; a feeling that is unbecoming for the Man of Steel. Everything in his body dully aches. Surprisingly, the worst pain is radiating from the top of his left hand. He feels as if someone has slashed open his hand and is pouring alcohol into the wound. And Clark is almost fairly sure that’s not the case.

Feeling a panicked need to look at his hand, Clark tentatively opens his eyes, only to immediately wince and shut them as his retinas clock in the bright, harsh lights looming over him.

“Urgh,” he weakly groans as he waits for the spots to clear out of his vision. 

“Clark, how are you feeling?” Bruce suddenly says, his voice simultaneously too loud yet soft enough that Clark feels like he’s straining to make out the words. If he wasn’t currently preoccupied with the painful feeling in his hand, Clark is sure he would be busy analyzing the several undertones of emotions lacing Bruce’s voice.

So instead, he answers Bruce’s question honestly. “My hand hurts.”

“There’s an IV in your left hand,” Bruce clinically replies. He must notice that Clark is struggling to keep his eyes open with the lights shining down on him because they suddenly dim.

“Which means you had to use a kryptonite needle,” Clark confirms, his brain finally understanding why his left hand hurts so much. That’s a relief.

“I didn’t have to use any kryptonite to pierce your skin,” Bruce tensely states, making Clark’s blood run cold.

“What?” he gasps as his eyes fly open. He frantically tries to push himself into a sitting position, but Bruce’s strong hands are guiding him back down. 

“Do you remember arriving at the Cave?” Bruce asks, probably trying to run one of the cognitive tests he has in place for these exact kinds of scenarios. 

Clark honestly tries to remember anything past Bruce whisking him out of his apartment and into a car, but up until Bruce mentions the Cave, Clark doesn’t even know that’s where he is. “No,” he finally admits. “I’ve been having trouble remembering stuff for a while now.”

This confession causes Bruce to scowl even more. “How long?”

“Um, I can’t remember exactly when it started. But it got worse after the annual Daily Planet meeting. I think someone there was carrying kryptonite.”

“That was almost a week ago! Why are you only telling me this now?” Bruce snaps, a far cry from his normally calm exterior. Clark watches as Bruce leaves his side, walking from the hospital-style bed to a large array of monitors and machines. With a start, Clark realizes that he’s hooked up to all of these monitors. There’s a lot of them Clark doesn’t recognize, but he does spot a heart monitor, a vital signs monitor and some oxygen tanks. 

“I guess it’s also a good time to mention that I’ve noticed some headaches and rashes that I can’t explain,” Clark mumbles a tad embarrassed. Maybe he should have been paying attention to his health. But in his defence, he’s been busy and those kinds of things aren’t normally a cause for concern for humans. 

Clark hears Bruce angrily huff out a breath of air before they both lapse into silence. The air around them is tense as they both simmer in their thoughts. Clark doesn’t even want to begin to think about what’s running through Bruce’s head right now. Instead, all Clark can think about is everything he needs to tell Bruce before it’s too late. Clark isn’t delusional; he knows that he’s dying right now and he hates that this has turned into the wake-up call he needs to finally talk to Bruce, but he’ll be damned if he passes up his final chance. 

“I need to go run more tests,” Bruce finally declares as he seems to shake himself out of his thoughts. He turns back around to face Clark. “Your vitals have improved a little bit since administering saline, anti-nausea and pain medication through your IV. You’re stable now, press the call button if you need something, but Alfred will be down shortly to keep you company.”

“Wait, Bruce,” Clark says loudly. He finds himself reaching out to Bruce in an almost frantic manner. “Please.”

Bruce doesn’t reply, but he does step closer to the bed. 

He tries not to sound like he’s scared and has resorted to begging, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows exactly how his best friend is going to react. “Can you please sit down, I really need to tell you something.”

“You can tell me later,” Bruce replies.

“There might not be a later,” Clark yells, officially losing all pretense of being calm and composed. “Stop running away from your emotions for once in your goddamn life.”

“I’m not running away from my fucking emotions, I’m trying to save your life!” Bruce shouts back, sounding as panicked as Clark. “And we’re not doing this right now!”

“What’s ‘this’? Are you admitting that there is something between us?” Clark replies, locking on to the exact words that Bruce used. He feels like he’s trapped Bruce in an ah-ha moment; his best friend knows what he wants to confess, which means Bruce is aware that Clark is in love with him. He either doesn’t feel the same way and he’s avoiding having to say it or he’s predictably denying himself happiness and love because of his illogical fear that he doesn’t deserve it. 

Bruce doesn’t say anything, seemingly at a loss for words.

Clark exhales dejectedly. This is not how he envisioned confessing his love to his best friend. He needs to fix this while he still can.

“Bruce, I don’t care if you can’t say it back and I don’t care if you don’t even feel the same way about me. But I need you to know that I love you,” Clark admits. He ignores the tears that are sliding down his face, focusing instead on the words he needs to get off his chest. 

“You’re my partner; there’s no one else I would trust more with my life on and off the battlefield.” He’s now tripping over his words, desperately trying to confess everything to Bruce before he draws his final breath. “You’re my best friend; I feel like I can truly be myself around you because you see and accept me for everything that I am.”

Clark inhales, taking in a big gulp of air to steady himself. “I don’t think I can pinpoint the moment when I fell in love with you, but I can tell you that I love your confidence, your resilience, your humanity and your kindness.” Clark feels himself gasping in another breath of air, before launching into his final confession. “I admire the way you care so deeply about others and that you’re always willing to put yourself first. I appreciate the way that you always humour me by sighing when I tell you a ridiculously awful joke. And I love the way you always let me linger around when you’re working because I don’t like quiet nights alone at my apartment.”

Clark reaches out to grab Bruce’s hand, ignoring the wave of pain that comes from moving and stretching his muscles. “I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable with all these emotions, but if I die before telling you that I love you, my life will mean nothing.”

Clark can tell that he’s hyperventilating, probably from the stress of having just poured out his heart and bared his soul to Bruce. He knows he told Bruce that he could handle the rejection, but he’s suddenly not sure if that’s true anymore. The feeling of finally getting everything off his chest is making him feel anxious, and only a tad hopeful; the exact opposite of what he’d been expecting. 

Clark watches Bruce, who hasn’t moved an inch since his confession. Even without his powers, Clark can see how tensely drawn all the muscles in his body are. His face is devoid of emotions; clearly a product of Bruce carefully hiding and holding back everything he is feeling. Suddenly, Clark doesn’t want Bruce to answer him, because he knows he’s not going to like the answer. 

“You’re not going to die,” Bruce says, with a tone of finality, easily glossing over Clark’s entire confession. 

Clark never knew a broken heart could hurt so much.

Cardiac arrest. 

In a matter of seconds, Clark goes from confessing his undying love for Bruce, which in itself, shakes Bruce down to his core, to then going into fucking cardiac arrest.

Bruce does not think about the possibility of Clark’s last moments on Earth being Bruce unable to find the words to answer or even acknowledge his heartfelt confession. Instead, Bruce pushes all emotions aside as he jumps into action to save his best friend’s life.

Alfred is quick to join Bruce at Clark’s bedside. Clark coding out must have triggered an alarm that Alfred heard from upstairs in the Manor. With clinical precision, the pair works in perfect unison as they administer the necessary drugs and start performing CPR. 

Bruce has done CPR countless times, he’s perfected the technique and feels like second nature to him as he begins pressing down with the exact amount of pressure. He settles into the perfect rhythm, counting aloud his compressions. 

Thirty compressions and two breaths of air, over and over again. Bruce keeps his focus on the task at hand, only vaguely aware that Alfred is bustling around the bed, focused on his own task.

Suddenly, for the first time in his entire life, Bruce falters, losing his precise speed of 120 beats per minute. He freezes, eyes wide in fear as he feels one of Clark’s ribs break underneath his hands. 

He’s just broken one of Superman’s ribs.

“Move over,” Alfred orders the moment Bruce freezes. Luckily Bruce still has it in himself to crawl off of Clark, giving Alfred the space to take over.  

Bruce has never been more disgusted with his ability to accurately keep track of time than he is right now, because knowing that Clark spends an agonizing two minutes and thirty-seven seconds without oxygen is almost enough to make Bruce stop breathing as panic starts to grip him. Bruce also hates the fact that after years of fascination with his father’s medical knowledge, he’s acutely aware of the damages anoxia can have on the body. All the possible grim ‘what if’ scenarios when it comes to Clark’s possibility of survival are buzzing loudly around his head. 

Bruce can’t shut down his spiralling thoughts as he watches Alfred try to save Clark’s life. He shouldn’t even have to be worrying about any of these issues. These kinds of things don’t happen to Superman! How did it come to this? What—

“His vitals have stabilized,” Alfred announces, pulling Bruce from his panic-stricken thoughts, brutally reminding him that this isn’t the time to be distracted. 

Bruce snaps back into detective mode, cataloguing everything he sees and comparing it to the information he already knows. As Alfred has confirmed, Clark seems to have stabilized; he’s breathing once again, but it’s laboured. Clark’s complexion is pale and covered in sweat and his facial features are twisted in a pained expression. Alarmingly, Bruce notes that Clark hasn’t regained consciousness yet. Unfortunately, Bruce can’t say if it’s because of his deteriorating health or his Kryptonian biology. 

“What happened, my dear boy?” Alfred asks gently, slipping into the same tone he used to use when Bruce was suffering from nightmares about his parent’s murder. He’s still standing beside Clark’s bedside, fussing over rearranging the many wires attached to Clark that got jostled around. 

“I don’t know...” Bruce replies uncertainly, a feeling alarmingly foreign to him. 

Alfred is clearly shocked by Bruce’s admission as he looks away from Clark to give Bruce a once-over. Bruce isn’t sure what Alfred finds, but after a couple of seconds of looking at Bruce, he schools his face, hiding any emotions. 

“What do we do now?” he asks, the steadiness and calmness of his voice doing nothing to soothe Bruce’s nerves. “Should we call in Dr. Thompkins?”

“No,” Bruce is quick to answer. He knows there is nothing Leslie can do to help Superman, she doesn’t have any knowledge about Kryptonian anatomy. Bruce doesn’t want to bother her when Alfred is perfectly capable of providing Clark with all the care he needs to remain stable and as comfortable as possible. 

“The League?” Alfred says, offering a different solution. “If these symptoms are not caused by Kryptonite poisoning, could it be a disease of another alien origin? Would the Justice League be aware of where Mister Kent has been recently?”

“I’ve already checked the logs,” Bruce confirms, finally feeling the fog and panic clear from his brain as he gets back to work. “Apart from his apartment and the Daily Planet, Clark’s only been overseas to aid with rescue efforts in Switzerland and then on Mars to help Martian Manhunter.” He walks over to the desk where he left his tablet and the folder containing all his notes on Kryptonians he’s compiled over the years. 

“It would do no harm to get a second opinion, Master Bruce. Would Miss Zatara’s magic not be useful in aiding our investigation?”

“Zatanna isn’t in our dimension right now,” Bruce replies distractedly as he continues to search through his notes; he must have missed something earlier. 

“Of course, how silly of me to presume she would be in our dimension,” Alfred mutters a tad bitterly under his breath. It’s clear to Bruce that Alfred is as stressed and shaken as Bruce is. Neither of them is immune to the pain and confusion that comes with seeing Clark on death’s doorstep. 

Suddenly, Bruce feels the visceral feeling of needing to get away from Clark. He needs the space to think clearly; he’s no use to Clark if he’s just sitting down here fussing over his friend’s unconscious body. 

Bruce quickly gathers all of his papers and snatches his tablet before turning around to face Alfred. He expertly avoids looking at Clark or any of the medical machines that surround him. 

“I’ll be in my office, contact me through the intercom if something changes. I trust you to take care of him while I’m gone.”

“Bruce!” Alfred huffs out indignantly. “You must stay with Clark!”

Bruce ignores that Alfred’s obvious anger with him has caused him to drop the honorifics he normally refuses to abandon. Instead, Bruce turns around and scurries out of the med bay, like the coward he is. 

He makes quick work of running up the stairs and stepping out into his office. As soon as the Cave’s hidden door closes behind him, Bruce allows himself the rare luxury of completely breaking down.

He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t scream. And he certainly doesn’t make a mess by throwing everything off his desk; all that will do is anger Alfred further. Instead, forgoing all his training, he ungracefully crumples to the ground. With his back against the bookshelf and his head in his hands, Bruce allows his fear to take over; not that he had much restraint over it since breaking Clark’s rib.

Bruce doesn’t like to admit it, but he’s almost certain that the next time he ventures down to the Cave, Clark will be dead. And he’s just abandoned his best friend in his final hours. But he can’t stay there. He can’t sit around waiting for the inevitable to happen, especially without knowing the cause of Clark’s sudden and terrifying illness. 

Clark is displaying symptoms that he’s never suffered from, even at the height of Luthor’s worst attacks with Kryptonite. Bruce has trained himself over the years to look out for Clark, in and out of the field, especially when Kryptonite is involved. So how could he have missed so many similar symptoms? 

Behind closed eyes, Bruce replays in his mind every interaction he’s had with Clark since coming back from his weeklong mission in the South of Germany. What warning signs had he missed when Clark had come to visit him in the Cave or when Bruce had bumped into him at the Daily Planet meeting?

But as much as Bruce tries to recall every little detail of those interactions, he can’t remember anything that would have been cause for alarm. And that revelation causes Bruce to let out a strangled cry. 

Bruce’s memory hasn’t failed to remember details; he’s simply failed Clark. He hasn’t been paying attention to Clark. How could he have noticed that his best friend was slowly dying right in front of him when he’s been ignoring him?

Just a couple of hours ago on the Watchtower, Bruce dismissed Clark, too eager to get back to Gotham to work on translating the curse. He saw Clark’s desire to socialize with his friend as a distraction. 

And about a week ago, when Bruce saw Clark after his speech at the Daily Planet’s Annual Meeting, he rudely ignored Clark to talk with the interns, telling himself it was better to pretend that Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent were nothing more than acquaintances instead of taking an extra five minutes of his time to catch up with his friend. 

And before that, when Clark had come to the Cave to check up on him, Bruce had been too preoccupied with adding a holy water vial to his utility belt to maintain a civil conversation. Bruce pushes down a wave of nausea as he realizes that Clark had probably come to check on Bruce because he knew how much he didn’t get along with Constantine. His best friend had been trying to cheer him up and instead, he’d dismissed him.

Bruce is ashamed and disgusted with himself. And he knows Alfred will be too once he finds out what Bruce has done. And Clark has every right to feel angry at Bruce for treating him so poorly. But instead of being mad, in his last moments on Earth, he confessed his love for Bruce; a love that Bruce was completely undeserving of. 

If Bruce hadn’t been so caught up in trying to figure out the stupid curse from the demonic witch, maybe Clark would stand a better chance at surviving whatever has made him sick. Bruce has already spent hours poring over the translation Constantine provided for him and he still isn’t any closer to figuring out the meaning of the curse. 

Unless...

Bruce aggressively pushes himself to his feet, the sudden momentum causing him to trip a little as he rushes to his desk. What if this was the witch’s curse? What could be worse than being forced to watch Clark die right in front of him? But how did the curse come to choose Clark as the target? And more importantly, is there a way to stop it? 

Frantically, he pushes the papers around on the desk until he finds the piece of parchment covered in John’s chicken scratch. He rereads the translated curse, hoping he’s somehow missed something. 

Banished within the recesses of the shadows, 

the one light in the darkest of nights will cease its fight.

Bruce angrily huffs out a sigh. The curse doesn’t make any more sense than it did before his supposed revelation. Maybe the curse isn’t about watching Clark die? Bruce can’t justify ruling out the possibility that the two events aren’t connected. 

Still, just as it had been the last time he’d read the curse, something about it confuses Bruce. 

The first red flag Bruce notices is how vague the curse is; there aren’t any identifiable names or locations. Bruce can’t help but wonder if the curse is referring to a light in Gotham. The city can easily be described as a city of shadows. He thinks that the “one light” refers to Commissioner Gordon’s Batsignal, implying that either the GCPD or Jim is in danger. But to be honest, Gotham’s civilians are always in danger, this isn’t anything new. 

But the biggest red flag is the nature of the curse; Bruce isn’t reading it in its original language. Despite Constantine’s best efforts to translate an ancient demonic language, he told Bruce that what was written on the piece of parchment was the best he was going to get. He then promptly left to accompany Zatanna on her “not-of-this-dimension” mission.

With no access to demonic language references and knowledge, Bruce hasn’t been able to come up with his own translation of the curse. 

Maybe he needs to try translating the translation. Maybe switching out some keywords with synonyms will provide a better lead. Why Bruce hasn’t thought about doing this yet is simultaneously astounding and unforgivable. 

Without wasting any more time, Bruce sits down at his desk and with a pen in hand, goes about changing some of the words. 

Banished within the recesses depths of the shadows darkness,

the one light in the darkest of nights December Solstice will cease its fight.

Bruce grunts as he reads over his new interpretation; it also doesn’t make much sense. Although the December Solstice is considered the darkest night of the year, December 21st isn’t for another several months. From what Bruce had deduced, the witch didn’t seem like the patient sort, especially when trying to get revenge on someone banishing her to Hell.

And how could a light stop fighting? For the most part, natural light from the sun comes and goes without any interruptions or struggles. Unless the curse is referring to the light from a lightbulb; those kinds of lights can “die”. 

Maybe Bruce is looking at this too literally. He grabs a new piece of paper, ready to try interpreting it once more; but this time, he needs to look at it as someone whom the witch has cursed and remember that the meaning of words can change across languages.

Banished within the recesses of the shadows, 

the one light in the darkest of nights Dark Knight will cease its fight.

Bruce is well aware that Batman has garnered the “Dark Night” alias; maybe the darkest of nights is the witch's way of referring to him. After all, she never addressed him as Batman during their confrontation. 

But the “one light in the Dark Knight” still doesn’t make much sense; unless he changes the format of the sentence. How can he switch the words around to make it a complete and comprehensible sentence? 

Banished within the recesses of the shadows, 

the Dark Knight's one light will cease its fight.

Reading the new sentence sends a chill down his spine. He already doesn’t like what this curse is implying. If he keeps to his theory of a “light ceasing its fight” as it dying, then someone in Bruce’s life is dying.

There’s only one person who has consistently been compared by others as a light in his life, as both Batman and Bruce Wayne. 

Bruce isn’t even sure he’s breathing anymore as he rushes to rewrite the two sentences of the curse. He’s desperately hoping he’s wrong. This is all the witch’s fault. It’s not his—

All his thoughts screech to a halt as Bruce looks over what he’s just written. 

Banished within the recesses of his shadow, 

the Dark Knight's one light will cease his fight.

It suddenly hits him.

Clark is dying because Bruce has not only been ignoring him but also because he’s been ignoring his own feelings. His inability to own up to his emotions and admit his love for his best friend is killing Clark. Bruce knows that he’s prone to self-sabotage, especially when it comes to the idea of deserving happiness and love, but he never thought it would affect others. 

The sudden sound of the intercom crackling to life makes Bruce jump out of his seat. “He needs you,” Alfred’s voice sternly says. 

Bruce is through the secret door and down the flight of stairs, running into the Cave’s medbay in less than a minute.

The scene displayed before him is eerily similar. All the monitors hooked up to Clark are indicating that he’s flatlining. Through the loud beeping, Bruce can hear Alfred counting to thirty as he tries to resuscitate Clark through CPR.

“Let me take over,” Bruce says as he rushes over to Clark’s bedside.

“You’re emotionally compromised,” Alfred replies, not missing a beat of compressions. It’s strange to hear those words from Alfred, Bruce is normally the one to say them. He’s never been on the receiving end. He understands now why everyone he’s said these words to has loudly protested them.

“I need to be the one to do this,” Bruce pleads as he watches Clark’s body shudder with every strong compression. “I need to save Clark, I can’t fail him again. If he dies, it’ll be because of me and my mistakes.” He turns his head, looking Alfred in his eyes, “I can’t have that burden on your soul, Alfred. It’s solely mine to bear.”

“Get ready,” Alfred says concededly,  a single tear streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. 

As Alfred pinches Clark’s nose, he clambers off the medical bed. Bruce easily takes over, administering the two breaths of air required before taking up Alfred’s previous spot and hovering over Clark. 

This time, Bruce doesn’t worry about hurting Clark. If he breaks a rib, they can fix it. Bruce would break all of Clark’s ribs if it meant he got a chance to save his best friend.

“Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”

Bruce is dimly aware of what he’s chanting as he continues to push his hands into Clark’s chest. 

“Please don’t leave me,” he says a final time before bending over to try and breathe life into Clark’s body.

I’m so sorry I hurt you, Bruce thinks as he exhales the first breath of air.

I love you but I’m not sure if I deserve to, Bruce thinks as he breathes out his final breath.

Bruce waits the maximum of ten seconds before returning to chest compressions, his eyes locked on Clark’s chest. 

There!

For a second, he thinks he’s dreaming. He must be imagining seeing Clark’s chest rise by itself. He’s being foolishly hopeful; he’s emotionally compromised.

But when the monitors surrounding them quiet down and return to a steady beep beep beep, Bruce feels every muscle in his body collapse in relief. 

“Thank you for not leaving me,” Bruce says as he finally lets himself cry.

Clark has lost track of how many times he’s woken up in a disoriented state. It takes him a couple of seconds to blink away the fog in his eyes. But when he does, he’s pleasantly surprised to find that the lights aren’t hurting him like the last time. 

Last time... Last time, he had been in pain. A kind of pain he’d never felt before. He’d been overcome by a sense of dread and panic. He knew that he was dying and there was nothing to do to stop it.

Had he died? It had certainly felt like it after confessing to Bruce.

But that’s not even close to how he feels right now. Yes, he’s sore, especially in his chest and ribs for some reason, but it’s dull. The pain isn’t screaming for his attention or stopping him from focusing on anything else. 

Clark doesn’t even need to look around to know that he’s in the Cave; he can hear the soft flutter of the bat’s wings as they fly around the Cave’s ceiling. His superhearing is back; another sign that Clark is feeling better.

As he looks around, Clark notices that this time, there aren’t as many machines. A soft and steady beep tells him that he’s still hooked on to the vital signs monitor and this time he has to physically look down at his hand to confirm that there’s an IV.

Finally, he notices the chair on the right side of his bed. Although it’s occupied by Bruce, most of his body is slumped over on Clark’s bed. The position looks incredibly uncomfortable; Clark is positive that only pure exhaustion is allowing Bruce to sleep. 

And despite his lack of consciousness, Bruce has somehow managed to slump over on the bed without actually touching Clark; as if his subconscious self is afraid to hurt Clark just by being too close to him. 

Clark takes the time to study Bruce’s face; it’s not often that he gets to watch Batman let his guard down and sleep. Although Bruce looks exhausted and his muscles are all tensed up, Clark finds himself smiling at the sight of his best friend. Bruce didn’t leave him after his poorly timed declaration of love. It’s as good of a sign as any. 

Clark allows himself almost another three minutes of watching Bruce sleep before deciding to wake him up.

“Bruce,” he quietly says, lightly touching Bruce’s hand to get his attention.

Despite his gentleness, Bruce still jumps out of his seat.

His disorienteness at suddenly being woken up lasts only for a second before he whips his head around to look at Clark.

Bruce is breathing heavily but otherwise remains quiet as he takes in Clark. 

Years of practice allow Clark to read every emotion on Bruce’s face. The panic that had settled in as soon as he woke up changes to relief when Bruce realizes that Clark isn’t on the verge of dying anymore. 

Clark offers Bruce a smile, but that only makes his friend frown. 

Regret. 

Clark watches Bruce’s feature mould into an expression that screams regret, sorrow and fear. 

Surprisingly, Bruce is the first to make a move. He opens his mouth, as if ready to launch into a speech but freezes at the first word. “I... I...”

“I know,” Clark says, offering Bruce another smile.

“No,” Bruce retorts, surprising Clark. His face morphs into something new; determination. “I need to tell you for you to know.”

“Tell me what?” Clark can’t stop himself from asking.

“I love you,” Bruce says confidently before closing the distance between them.

Bruce’s hands gently capture Clark’s face, hesitating for only a second, before kissing him.

Clark doesn’t need any more words to know what Bruce wants to say.

For once, Clark is content with the silence because he knows that he feels the same way as Bruce.