Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Clark Kent adjusted his glasses with a sigh, trying not to scowl as Bruce Wayne sauntered into the bullpen of the Daily Planet like he owned the place—which, to Clark’s endless irritation, he did. The room seemed to shift with his arrival, a ripple of murmurs and sideways glances following his every move. Bruce Wayne was the picture of effortless charisma, from the sharp angles of his jawline to the perfectly tailored suit that probably cost more than what Clark made in a year. He was the kind of man who didn’t walk into a room; he commandeered it, radiating charm and confidence in waves that crashed over everyone nearby.

Clark glanced away, determined to focus on his article. He had better things to do than indulge in the collective gawking, but the whispers around him were hard to ignore.

“Is that Bruce Wayne?” one intern whispered.

“God, look at that suit.”

“Do you think he’d sign my notepad?”

Clark suppressed a groan. He hadn’t even done anything, and somehow, he already felt like he was losing.

“Wayne’s looking at you again,” Jimmy Olsen whispered, leaning across his desk with a sly grin.

Clark’s fingers froze over his keyboard. Against his better judgment, he glanced up. Sure enough, Bruce Wayne’s gaze was fixed on him, sharp and calculating despite the relaxed half-smile that played on his lips. Bruce didn’t just look at people; he examined them, like he was reading some unspoken language in their posture or expression.

Clark immediately looked away, heat rising to his cheeks. “Great,” he mumbled. “Exactly what I needed.”

Jimmy chuckled. “What’s the problem? Billionaire playboy showing interest in you? Most people would kill for that.”

“Most people can have it,” Clark replied dryly. “Why does it have to be me?”

Jimmy tilted his head. “Why not you? You’re, like, the quintessential humble and charming guy. It’s your whole brand.”

Clark rolled his eyes, adjusting his tie in a futile attempt to stay calm. “Yeah, well, Bruce Wayne doesn’t strike me as someone looking for humble or charming. And I’m not interested.”

At least, not in him.

Clark’s heart clenched as his thoughts betrayed him, drifting to a certain Dark Knight. For months now, the brooding Bat had taken up residence in Clark’s mind, an unshakable presence that filled him with equal parts admiration and longing. It wasn’t just Batman’s strength or skill—it was the quiet, unyielding resolve behind his every action. The way he threw himself into danger without hesitation, always prioritizing others over himself. The gruff exterior that couldn’t quite hide a compassionate heart. Clark admired him. No, he more than admired him. He was infatuated.

Not that it mattered. Whatever fantasies Clark entertained in his quieter moments, he knew Batman wasn’t interested in that kind of connection. Gotham’s protector was a fortress, impenetrable and unyielding. And Clark respected that. But it didn’t make his feelings any less real—or any less painful.

And now, on top of managing those unreciprocated feelings, Clark had to deal with Bruce Wayne—flamboyant, infuriatingly persistent Bruce Wayne, who seemed to delight in catching him off guard. Lately, Bruce had been getting too close, his piercing gaze lingering just a little too long, his comments carrying just a little too much weight. It was unnerving.

He’s figuring me out, Clark thought uneasily.

He couldn’t let that happen. Bruce Wayne might be a playboy on the surface, but Clark knew better. He’d seen flashes of something sharper, something far more dangerous lurking beneath that carefree mask. And the last thing Clark needed was for Bruce Wayne to dig deep enough to uncover the truth.

Clark set his jaw, determination hardening his features. If Bruce wanted to play games, Clark would give him one. He might not be experienced in the art of deception or manipulation, but he had plenty of other tricks up his sleeve. For the first time in his life, he was going to lean into being the bad guy—or at least, bad enough to make Bruce Wayne back off.

How hard could it be to make someone like Bruce Wayne lose interest?

Clark adjusted his glasses one more time as he squared his shoulders and prepared to set his plan into motion, a small, determined voice echoed in his mind: Game on.

Bruce leaned against the bullpen’s doorframe, his gaze drifting to Clark Kent. There was something effortlessly magnetic about him—the way his tie was always just a little crooked, the way he furrowed his brow when focused, as if the world itself might unravel if he didn’t choose the right words.

Clark pushed his glasses up, muttering under his breath at his computer screen, completely unaware of how captivating he was. Bruce smiled faintly. There were plenty of people in his life who tried to impress him, but Clark wasn’t one of them. In fact, he seemed determined to avoid him altogether.

It was oddly compelling.

Clark glanced up and caught him staring. His expression twisted into something vaguely annoyed before he quickly looked away. Bruce, entirely unbothered, chuckled to himself. Clark was different.

And Bruce couldn’t stop watching.

Chapter Text

Step One: Be Cold.

The plan was simple: be distant, curt, and as unapproachable as possible. Surely even Bruce Wayne, with all his relentless charm and ridiculous wealth, would get the hint eventually. Clark spent the night mentally rehearsing exactly how cold and indifferent he would be. He imagined every scenario where Bruce’s interest would fizzle out under the weight of his unyielding professionalism.

But Bruce Wayne was persistent.

It started at 9:15 a.m., just after Clark had settled into his desk and was reviewing his latest draft. The newsroom was abuzz with the usual hum of ringing phones and hurried conversations, and then it wasn’t. The energy shifted, as it always did when Bruce Wayne walked into a room.

Clark didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He could feel Bruce’s presence—like a storm looming just on the edge of his peripherals. And sure enough, the billionaire’s polished shoes clicked purposefully across the bullpen floor, heading straight for him.

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark said, his eyes glued to his computer screen.

“Clark,” Bruce replied warmly, his tone as familiar and annoyingly pleasant as always. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your piece on the Metropolis housing crisis. It was insightful.”

Clark’s fingers hovered over the keyboard for a fraction of a second. He read it? He quickly pushed the thought aside. This wasn’t about indulging Bruce’s compliments. This was about step one: cold, indifferent, unshakable.

“Thanks,” he said curtly, his tone flat as he resumed typing.

Bruce didn’t leave. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, watching Clark with that maddeningly curious expression. “You’re not much for small talk, are you?”

“Not when I have work to do,” Clark replied, still not looking up.

There was a brief pause. Clark allowed himself to hope, to believe Bruce would walk away.

But instead, Bruce chuckled. “Fair enough. I like someone with focus.”

Clark clenched his jaw as Bruce finally walked off, leaving behind a faint trace of amusement that Clark could practically feel lingering in the air. Step one, he thought grimly, is going to take more effort than I realized.

But Bruce didn’t stop.

An hour later, there he was again, leaning casually on the edge of Clark’s desk as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Clark, I was wondering—what’s your take on the new zoning restrictions for the financial district? Seems like something you’d have an opinion on.”

“I’m busy, Mr. Wayne,” Clark replied without looking up.

“Bruce,” he corrected.

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark repeated, his tone like frost.

If Bruce noticed—or cared—he didn’t show it. Instead, he smiled, that infuriatingly charming, too-bright smile that made Clark’s temples throb.

“Clark,” Bruce said again, stopping by two hours later. “Have you tried the coffee in the lobby? It’s surprisingly decent for a—”

“I have work,” Clark interrupted, his fingers furiously typing nothing at all.

Bruce didn’t seem fazed. If anything, he seemed... amused.

By lunchtime, Clark was at the end of his rope. He’d barely made any progress on his articles because Bruce kept appearing out of nowhere like some billionaire specter with nothing better to do. At one point, he had the gall to comment on Clark’s tie.

“It’s charmingly crooked,” Bruce had said with a grin.

Clark’s glare could have melted steel.

Jimmy Olsen noticed the shift in Clark’s demeanor and asked, “Hey, CK, you okay? You’ve been glaring at your screen for the last ten minutes like it insulted you.”

“Fine,” Clark said tightly. “Just... busy.”

By late afternoon, Bruce seemed to have given up—or so Clark thought. He hadn’t stopped by in hours, and Clark dared to believe he’d finally gotten the message. The bullpen doors had closed behind Bruce hours ago, and the day was finally winding down.

Clark let out a relieved breath as he began gathering his things, ready to chalk the day up as a partial win.

But just as he was about to leave, he felt that familiar presence behind him.

“Clark.”

Clark froze, his shoulders tensing as he turned around slowly. Bruce stood there, hands in his pockets, looking oddly... hesitant. It was a rare expression for him, one that made Clark’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

“I just wanted to say,” Bruce began, his voice quieter than usual, “I really admire your determination when you’re working. It’s... refreshing.”

Clark blinked, utterly at a loss. The way Bruce was looking at him, like he was the most fascinating thing in the world, was unnervingly sincere.

And then Bruce smiled—a soft, smitten smile that could only belong to someone truly and completely oblivious.

“Have a good evening, Clark.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Clark standing there, speechless.

As the bullpen doors swung shut behind him, Clark finally managed to find his voice.

“God. No.”

Clark Kent was... refreshing.

Most people tried to charm Bruce Wayne, their words carefully curated to impress him. But Clark? Clark couldn’t care less. He was direct, focused, and completely uninterested in catering to Bruce’s ego. It was utterly fascinating.

Bruce had watched him all day, stealing glances whenever he could. There was a quiet intensity to Clark, something steady and unshakable. He admired the way Clark’s brows furrowed when he was working, his fingers flying over the keyboard with purpose. It was as if the rest of the world disappeared when Clark was deep in thought.

And then there were his eyes. Behind those thick glasses, Clark’s eyes held an unyielding determination that Bruce couldn’t look away from. Even when Clark was brushing him off with short, clipped answers, Bruce found himself drawn to him.

Clark’s chilly demeanor wasn’t a deterrent—it was a puzzle. A challenge. Most people would have withered under Bruce’s attention or leaned into it, but Clark stood his ground. Bruce liked that. No, he loved that.

There was something deeper to Clark, something Bruce couldn’t quite place. He wasn’t just a talented journalist or an idealistic voice in a city that desperately needed one. He was more. Clark intrigued him, inspired him, left him wanting to linger in the moments when their paths crossed, no matter how fleeting.

And then there was today—Clark had been colder than usual, his responses sharper, his tone distant. But instead of being put off, Bruce found himself even more captivated. Each brusque remark only made him smile, only deepened his curiosity.

As the day wore on, Bruce decided to give Clark some space. He didn’t want to push too hard—after all, he didn’t want to alienate him. But even as he stepped back, his mind wandered back to Clark, replaying every interaction, every word.

At the end of the day, Bruce couldn’t resist one last moment. He found Clark at his desk, gathering his things, the tension in his shoulders speaking volumes.

“Clark,” Bruce said softly, standing just a few steps away.

Clark turned, clearly exhausted, but Bruce couldn’t help but smile. “I just wanted to say—I really admire your determination when you’re working. It’s... refreshing.”

Clark didn’t respond right away, his expression unreadable, but Bruce didn’t need an answer. He simply offered a warm smile, the kind that came effortlessly when he looked at Clark.

“Have a good evening,” he added before turning to leave, feeling oddly content despite Clark’s continued indifference.

As he stepped out of the bullpen and into the quiet hallway, Bruce couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. Clark Kent might not realize it yet, but Bruce wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter Text

Step Two: Passive-Aggression.

If being cold didn’t work, maybe passive-aggression would. Clark wasn’t proud of it—he was a Kansas farm boy raised to be kind, to treat people with respect. But Bruce Wayne was testing him, and desperate times called for desperate measures. Surely, the billionaire had some weak spot, some kernel of vulnerability Clark could exploit. All he had to do was find it.

The first opportunity came midweek when Bruce sauntered into the newsroom, radiating his usual effortless charm. Clark spotted him immediately, weaving through desks with his tailored suit and easy smile, drawing stares from nearly everyone.

Clark set his mug down on the edge of his desk. Bruce approached, his gaze fixed on Clark with that infuriating mix of warmth and curiosity.

Just as Bruce opened his mouth to speak, Clark turned abruptly, “accidentally” knocking his coffee over and sending it splattering across Bruce’s polished shoes.

“Oh,” Clark said, his tone deadpan. “Sorry about that. Guess you’ll need a new pair. Good thing you can afford them.”

Bruce glanced down at his soaked shoes, then back at Clark, completely unfazed. “Not a problem,” he said easily, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “Coffee happens.”

“Coffee happens?” Clark repeated, barely concealing his disbelief.

Bruce chuckled softly, as if Clark had made a joke. “It does. Although, I’ll admit, these were my favorite pair.” He smiled—smiled—as he crouched to wipe at his shoes.

Clark stared at him, momentarily dumbfounded. He half expected Bruce to be dialing his assistant to order another pair of shoes on the spot. Instead, the billionaire simply pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began dabbing at the leather. There wasn’t a flicker of annoyance, not even the faintest crease in his brow.

Infuriating.

But Clark wasn’t giving up.

At a press event two days later, Bruce was giving a speech about corporate responsibility, standing behind a sleek podium with the Wayne Enterprises logo gleaming under the lights. The room was packed with reporters, all hanging on Bruce’s every word.

Clark waited until the perfect moment to strike. He raised his hand, cutting through the applause as Bruce finished another carefully crafted soundbite.

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark said, his voice loud enough to carry over the room. “Do you think Gotham is still considered the ‘crime capital’ of America?”

The room stilled. A few reporters exchanged awkward glances.

Clark leaned back in his chair, arms folded, waiting for the carefully maintained facade to crack. But Bruce didn’t falter.

“That’s why I support initiatives to make Gotham safer,” Bruce replied smoothly, his voice calm and measured. “If you have ideas, Mr. Kent, I’d love to hear them.”

Clark’s brow twitched.

“Well,” he pressed, “some might argue that with all the resources Wayne Enterprises has poured into Gotham, the results are underwhelming. Doesn’t that raise questions about the effectiveness of your approach?”

Bruce’s lips curved into a thoughtful smile, the kind that lit up his entire face. “Accountability is important,” he said. “And I welcome constructive criticism, especially from someone as insightful as you, Mr. Kent.”

Clark nearly groaned out loud. Was this man for real?

Later that afternoon, Clark decided to try a different tack. Bruce had lingered in the newsroom, chatting with Perry White about god-knows-what. Clark bided his time, waiting until Bruce was distracted.

As he walked past Bruce’s chair, he “accidentally” nudged the edge of the desk, sending a neatly stacked pile of papers sliding to the floor.

“Oh,” Clark said, crouching to scoop them up, his voice clipped. “Didn’t mean to knock over all your important billionaire documents.”

Bruce chuckled softly, kneeling beside him to help gather the papers. “These? Just some quarterly reports,” he said, entirely unbothered.

Clark straightened, holding the stack tightly, his smile a forced grimace. “Well, maybe next time you shouldn’t leave them lying around.”

Bruce stood, brushing a stray piece of lint from his sleeve. “Noted,” he said, his eyes sparkling with what could only be described as amusement. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Clark didn’t trust himself to reply, so he simply turned on his heel and stalked back to his desk.

By the end of the day, he was utterly spent. Every attempt to needle Bruce had been met with calmness, grace, and—worst of all—a kind of quiet admiration. Instead of driving Bruce away, Clark’s passive-aggression only seemed to amuse him, as though Clark was some endlessly fascinating enigma Bruce couldn’t wait to unravel.

Clark dropped his head onto his desk with a groan, the image of Bruce walking out of the bullpen with that soft, stupid smile still fresh in his mind.

How was this man still smiling?

Bruce couldn’t stop smiling. Clark’s prickliness was strangely endearing, a sharp contrast to the endless parade of sycophants he usually encountered. Where others fawned, Clark challenged. Where others flattered, Clark tested. It was exhilarating.

Every interaction felt like peeling back another layer of a particularly stubborn puzzle. Clark’s sharp comments and casual dismissals weren’t off-putting; they were magnetic. Bruce found himself drawn to the sparks, to the fire behind those glasses.

Later that evening, as he sat in the Batcave reviewing intel, his thoughts drifted—again—to Clark. Alfred noticed, as he always did.

“Something amusing, Master Wayne?”

Bruce leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing on his lips. “He’s a fighter,” he said, almost to himself.

Alfred’s expression didn’t shift, though the faintest hint of exasperation flickered in his eyes. “Or perhaps, sir, have you consider that he simply doesn’t like you?”

Bruce chuckled softly, unbothered. “Maybe,” he said, his tone light and amused. “But that’s what makes him so interesting.”

Chapter Text

Step Three: Open Hostility.

Clark had been waiting for this moment—he’d been building up to it, each interaction more frustrating than the last. And now, at yet another one of Bruce Wayne’s glittering charity galas, Clark was fed up. The rich, the powerful, all gathered in one room, pretending to be something they weren’t. Bruce, of course, was the star of the show, gliding through the crowd like he belonged on a pedestal. Clark couldn’t stand it anymore.

As if on cue, Bruce spotted him from across the room and made his way over. With a drink in hand and that effortlessly smug grin plastered on his face, Bruce was the very picture of calm confidence.

“Enjoying yourself, Clark?” Bruce asked, his tone light but curious, as if they were simply catching up in a quiet corner rather than surrounded by the chaos of the gala.

Clark could feel the weight of the evening pressing down on him—the fake smiles, the hollow pleasantries, the insincerity of it all. He was done pretending. This was the moment.

“No,” Clark shot back, his voice sharp, the words biting. “But I suppose these kinds of events are more your speed. You must love flaunting your wealth and pretending you care about the causes.”

The words stung even as they left his mouth, but the frustration was overwhelming. Every time Bruce looked at him, Clark felt this unbearable pull—this desire to just run from the attention, from the feeling that Bruce saw right through him.

Bruce blinked, momentarily taken aback. For a fleeting second, Clark thought he’d finally hit a nerve. Maybe this time, Bruce would back off. Maybe he’d see that Clark wasn’t interested in whatever game he was playing.

But then Bruce laughed.

It wasn’t a nervous chuckle or an awkward cough—it was a soft, genuine sound that made Clark’s stomach flip, completely at odds with his anger. Traitorous body.

“You’re right,” Bruce said, his eyes locking onto Clark’s with an intensity that made his skin prickle. “A lot of these events are performative. That’s why I focus on results afterward.”

“You—what?” Clark blinked, momentarily thrown off. He wasn’t prepared for Bruce’s calm response; he’d expected some kind of defensiveness, something that would let Clark know he’d won this round.

Bruce’s grin widened, his gaze unwavering. “I admire your honesty,” he added, voice low and calm. “Most people wouldn’t say that to my face.”

Clark stood frozen for a moment, heart racing with irritation and disbelief. Was Bruce just that unaffected? Did he really have no idea how annoying he was being? This man, standing before him so effortlessly, still smiling, still so... charming. It was maddening.

Clark clenched his jaw, feeling the simmering frustration inside him bubble over. Every effort he made to push Bruce away, to create a wall between them, seemed to only draw Bruce closer, like a moth to a flame.

How was he supposed to get rid of him if he kept reacting like this?

Clark felt the muscles in his neck tighten, the frustration boiling over in his chest.

Bruce—his stupid, perfect smile—was enough to drive anyone insane.

And Clark was ready to scream.

Bruce couldn’t stop thinking about Clark. There was something about him—his passion, his unflinching honesty, the way he wore his heart on his sleeve even when he tried to hide it. Bruce found himself drawn to Clark more and more, the subtle intensity of their exchanges leaving him wanting more, even when Clark’s words cut like daggers.

It was fascinating, really, how Clark refused to be anything other than himself, no matter how much it made him stand out in a crowd. Where others would have smiled and played along, Clark always seemed to dig his heels in, as if daring anyone to take him seriously.

Bruce found that… alluring.

Alfred had taken to calling him obsessed, and perhaps he wasn’t wrong. But Bruce didn’t care. There was something real about Clark, something different. Most people had layers, facades, masks they wore depending on who they were with. But Clark? He was as raw as they came. And that honesty, that authenticity, made Bruce’s pulse quicken in a way he couldn’t explain.

He didn’t want to let Clark slip away.

Not when there was so much more to discover.

Chapter Text

Jimmy Olsen adjusted the zoom on his camera, idly snapping a few candid shots of the newsroom while he waited for his next assignment. His lens drifted toward Clark Kent’s desk—purely by accident, of course. It wasn’t like watching his friend unravel over Bruce Wayne’s visits had become his new favorite pastime.

Bruce Wayne, the billionaire owner of the Daily Planet, strolled into the bullpen like he had all the time in the world. He probably did. Jimmy didn’t even have to glance at Clark to know what came next. Sure enough, the man straightened in his seat, a telltale tension creeping into his shoulders.

Clark tried to play it cool. Jimmy could admit, if you squinted, it might almost look like professionalism. But Jimmy wasn’t fooled. He’d seen Clark “accidentally” knock coffee onto Mr. Wayne’s shoes, deliberately interrupt him at press conferences, and more recently, pointedly ignore the man when he was standing three feet away.

It was like watching a car crash in slow motion.

Jimmy sighed, lowering his camera. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why Clark was doing this. Mr. Wayne, for all his flaws—and Jimmy was sure he had plenty—wasn’t the kind of person who’d fire someone just for rejecting his advances. Yet here Clark was, acting like the only way to escape Bruce Wayne’s attention was to burn the metaphorical bridge with a flamethrower.

And that wasn’t even the craziest part. The craziest part was that Mr. Wayne didn’t seem bothered. At all.

In fact, he looked... happy. The man practically lit up every time Clark did something obnoxious, like a guy who enjoyed a challenge. If Jimmy didn’t know better, he’d think Bruce Wayne was just as smitten with Clark as Clark was annoyed by him.

It would’ve been funny—if it wasn’t also painfully stupid.

Clark could’ve just been upfront about not being interested. But no, Clark had to complicate things. Jimmy shook his head. He might love his friend like a brother, but sometimes, Clark Kent was his own worst enemy.

Then again, Jimmy mused, maybe the problem wasn’t Mr. Wayne at all.

He thought back to all the times over the years he’d caught Clark staring off into the distance with that wistful, faraway look in his eyes. There was someone, Jimmy knew that much. Someone Clark had been quietly pining over for years.

Not that Clark ever shared details. Jimmy had tried prying once or twice, but Clark always laughed it off or changed the subject. All Jimmy could do was guess—and wonder why Clark couldn’t just move on already.

Whoever they were, they weren’t here. But Bruce Wayne was. And sure, the man had his eccentricities, but he also seemed like the kind of guy who’d move mountains if it made Clark happy. If only Clark would let him.

Jimmy sighed again, leaning back in his chair. Lois would’ve had a field day with all this drama. Too bad she was off chasing some big investigative scoop halfway around the world. Without her, Jimmy had no one to share his observations with—just him, his camera, and the circus unfolding before his eyes.

And there it was: Bruce Wayne approaching Clark’s desk, his usual air of casual confidence radiating off him. Jimmy saw Clark stiffen, his hands pausing over his keyboard as if preparing for battle.

Here we go again, Jimmy thought grimly, watching Bruce greet Clark with a smile that was somehow both warm and infuriatingly sincere.

Jimmy buried his face in his hands, muttering under his breath, “I swear, if Clark does something stupid again...”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. He already knew exactly how this was going to play out. With a resigned sigh, he reached for his coffee and prepared for yet another Daily Planet shitshow.

Chapter Text

The manor had been unusually quiet lately—well, quiet in the sense that Bruce hadn’t been storming around brooding as much as usual. Alfred had noticed the subtle changes immediately: the faint tug at Bruce’s lips that could almost pass for a smile, the slightly lighter step, the rare moments when he lingered at the breakfast table instead of rushing off to the Batcave.

It wasn’t much, but for someone like Bruce Wayne, it was practically euphoric.

Alfred had seen this pattern before. It always started with Bruce being inexplicably distracted, his mind seemingly elsewhere, and then, without fail, the truth would surface. This time, Alfred was determined to uncover it early.

His investigation didn’t take long. Alfred had access to all the surveillance footage and audio recordings Bruce often forgot to scrub. It didn’t take a world-class detective to notice a trend: Bruce kept crossing paths with one Clark Kent, a reporter from the Daily Planet.

Alfred watched the footage with a practiced eye. He saw Clark spilling coffee onto Bruce’s shoes, cutting him off in meetings, and responding to Bruce’s attempts at conversation with curt, clipped words. It was clear Clark Kent was doing his level best to push Bruce away.

What Alfred couldn’t understand was why Bruce kept coming back.

The sound bites provided more context. Clark’s tone wasn’t malicious, merely exasperated. There was an underlying tension in his voice—perhaps frustration, perhaps something else—but it wasn’t the cruel hostility Alfred had initially assumed.

And then there was Bruce himself.

The man spoke about Clark Kent with a kind of admiration Alfred found almost baffling. “He’s sharp, Alfred. No pretense, no flattery—he’s real.”

“Hmm,” Alfred had replied noncommittally, though he privately thought Bruce was an utter fool. Real or not, Clark Kent clearly didn’t like him.

Yet Bruce seemed blissfully unaware. For the so-called “World’s Greatest Detective,” his inability to read the simplest signs was nothing short of astonishing. Love, Alfred supposed, blinded even the sharpest of minds.

Still, there was something about this Clark Kent that didn’t sit right with Alfred. It wasn’t the man’s actions, precisely, but rather the fact that Bruce was so taken with him in the first place. Alfred had seen Bruce in love before—intensely, destructively—and he couldn’t help but wonder if this time would end any differently.

And then there was the other boy.

Alfred’s heart ached for Superman, though the Kryptonian had never spoken a word of his feelings. Alfred wasn’t blind—he’d seen the way Superman looked at Bruce, the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long, the way his posture softened when Bruce spoke.

That boy had loved Bruce for years. It was in every gesture, every action, every glance. And yet Bruce had never seen it.

It wasn’t Alfred’s place to intervene, but he couldn’t help the small pang of disappointment that lingered in his chest. Superman was a good man—honest, kind, and selfless in a way few people ever were. He was the kind of man Bruce deserved, even if Bruce himself couldn’t see it.

As Alfred tidied the library one evening, he caught sight of Bruce gazing out the window, his expression faraway. He didn’t have to ask who Bruce was thinking about.

With a soft sigh, Alfred adjusted a vase of fresh flowers on the table. He supposed it wasn’t his place to dictate Bruce’s heart. But he couldn’t help hoping that, in the end, Bruce might see what was right in front of him.

Perhaps one day, the scales would fall from his eyes, and he’d realize that the one who truly loved him had been there all along. Until then, Alfred would watch, wait, and—when necessary—pick up the pieces.

With one final glance at Bruce’s pensive figure, Alfred straightened his jacket and moved toward the kitchen. There would always be tea waiting for his boy, no matter how the night unfolded.

Chapter Text

The night was quiet save for the gentle lapping of waves against the docks. The moonlight reflected off the water, casting long shadows across the Gotham skyline. Clark touched down softly on the weathered planks, his boots making barely a sound. Batman was already there, perched on the edge of a shipping container, surveying the empty pier with his usual grim intensity.

“Looks like we’re done here,” Clark said, brushing a bit of dust from his shoulder. “Another smuggling ring shut down.”

Batman didn’t move for a moment, his sharp gaze still scanning the shadows. “For now.”

Clark sighed. “Do you ever take a break?”

Batman glanced down at him, his white eyes unreadable through the cowl. “Not when there’s work to be done.”

Clark chuckled softly, hoping to lighten the mood. “You’d drive yourself mad if you weren’t already, you know.”

Batman dropped to the dock, his cape trailing behind him. He stood beside Clark, their figures silhouetted against the water. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was charged, as it often was when they worked together.

Then, Batman broke the quiet with a rare vulnerability, his voice softer than usual. “There’s someone I’ve been thinking about.”

Clark stiffened, his heart skipping a beat. He couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath. “Oh?” he said, hoping his voice didn’t betray him.

Batman’s gaze drifted out over the water, and the faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “They’re... different. Tough, in a way I can’t explain. But there’s something about them. They’ve got this fire. They don’t let anyone push them around.” He glanced at Clark, his eyes hidden in the shadows but the warmth in his voice undeniable. “They don’t back down. Even when I challenge them.”

Clark swallowed, his chest tight. Batman’s words were making something stir inside him that he wasn’t ready to confront. “Sounds... intense.”

Batman nodded, his tone almost reverent. “I like it. They see through me. In a way no one else does. It unsettles me, but I can’t stop thinking about them.”

Clark’s breath hitched. “Unsettles you?”

Batman’s lips quirked up into a smile again, the softest, most genuine expression Clark had ever seen on the usually stoic man. “Yeah. But it’s a good kind of unsettled.”

Clark’s heart raced, his pulse drumming in his ears. “Sounds like someone’s got you wrapped around their finger.”

Batman’s smile faded slightly, but there was still something tender in his gaze. “Maybe… But I don’t mind.”

Clark felt a sharp pang in his chest, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him. “Well, good for you,” he said, his voice coming out harsher than he intended.

Batman didn’t seem to notice the edge, or if he did, he didn’t let it affect him. “I should go.”

The quiet stretched between them again. “Be careful,” Batman said, his voice unusually soft.

Clark didn’t answer. He was already in the air, the cold wind biting against his skin as he flew faster than necessary, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. The tightness in his chest grew heavier with each passing second, a hollow ache he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried.

How dare someone else hold Batman’s heart? How dare someone—a stranger, no less—have the privilege of being thought about, of being cherished by him? Clark had been there for years. Years. Fighting alongside him, trusting him, knowing him. And yet, somehow, he wasn’t the one who’d captured Batman’s attention.

The thought burned, twisting into something dark and sharp. Clark clenched his fists, the wind around him whipping violently as his flight grew erratic. It wasn’t fair. How could Batman, the man he admired, the man he—

Clark cut the thought off, jaw tightening. No. He wouldn’t let this consume him.

But then another face came up onto his mind, Bruce Wayne.

Clark’s lips curled into a bitter smirk. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow, he would take all this frustration—this anger, confusion, and yes, even jealousy—and channel it toward Bruce Wayne. The man deserved it. The way he walked into the newsroom like he owned the place (which he technically did), the way he ignored every sign that Clark didn’t want him around (he definitely did). Bruce Wayne was the perfect outlet.

If Clark had to feel this—this mess of emotions he couldn’t untangle—then Bruce Wayne was going to suffer for it.

And so, the war continued.

Chapter Text

Clark was still thinking about Batman. Or, more precisely, about the mysterious, infuriating person who had somehow stolen Batman’s heart. The jealousy twisted in his chest, sharp and raw, making him feel irrational and petty. It wasn’t fair. He’d been at Batman’s side for years, and yet someone else—someone Clark didn’t even know—had managed to win the Dark Knight over.

So when Bruce Wayne sauntered into the bullpen that morning, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world, Clark felt all his frustration rise to the surface.

Step Four: Petty Sabotage.

Bruce appeared at Clark’s desk with his usual warm smile. “Good morning, Clark.”

Clark didn’t even look up from his monitor. “Mr. Wayne.” His voice was flat, dismissive.

Bruce tilted his head, unfazed. “I thought I’d stop by to see how you’re doing. You’ve been working on some impressive stories lately.”

“Oh, I’m doing just great,” Clark said, dripping sarcasm. He gestured vaguely at his screen. “You know, chasing leads, writing articles, trying to survive under the crushing weight of capitalism. The usual.”

Bruce blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “I see. Well, if there’s anything I can—”

“You can not hover,” Clark cut in. “That’d be a great start.”

Bruce didn’t budge. “Hovering? I was just saying hello.”

“Right. Because billionaires always show up to newsrooms just to say hi,” Clark shot back, finally looking up at him. “Don’t you have a boardroom to haunt or a stock market to manipulate or something?”

Bruce paused, studying him with those infuriatingly calm blue eyes. “You seem tense. Did something happen?”

Clark’s fingers froze over his keyboard. His mouth worked for a moment before he managed to spit out, “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Bruce asked, his tone so gentle it made Clark’s frustration spike even higher.

“You know what, Mr. Wayne?” Clark said, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe I’d be less tense if certain people didn’t keep showing up uninvited, throwing everything off track.”

To his mounting annoyance, Bruce just nodded thoughtfully, as if Clark had offered some profound insight.

“You need coffee,” Bruce said decisively. “And maybe something to eat.”

Clark blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not yourself when you’re running on empty,” Bruce said, as if he were discussing the weather. “Stay here. I’ll take care of it.”

Before Clark could respond, Bruce turned on his heel and walked away. Clark stared after him, baffled. “What just happened?”

When Bruce returned fifteen minutes later, he wasn’t empty-handed. He placed a steaming cup of coffee and a small paper bag on Clark’s desk.

“What’s this?” Clark asked, eyeing the offerings suspiciously.

“Your usual,” Bruce said, pointing to the coffee, “and a blueberry muffin. I noticed you like them.”

“You noticed?” Clark asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

Bruce shrugged, his expression open and almost boyish. “Everyone deserves something to make their day better. Especially when they’re having a rough one.”

Clark stared at him, his frustration tangling with something softer, something that felt too much like guilt. He didn’t want to feel guilty. He wanted to stay mad.

“Thanks,” he muttered, picking up the coffee.

“No need to thank me,” Bruce said with a small smile. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

As Bruce walked away, Clark looked down at the overpriced coffee and the muffin sitting neatly on his desk. The coffee smelled perfect, and the muffin was the exact kind he always grabbed from the corner bakery on his way in.

He took a bite of the muffin, begrudgingly savoring the sweet burst of blueberries. The frustration he’d been clinging to softened ever so slightly, replaced by an unfamiliar warmth he wasn’t ready to name.

Clark sighed, resting his chin in his hand as he stared at the small act of kindness sitting on his desk.

“Step four,” Clark grumbled, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself, “complete disaster.”

Bruce leaned back in the leather seat of his car, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a rare, faint smile. The interaction with Clark replayed in his mind—his sharp words, the barely concealed exasperation, the way his brow furrowed when he thought Bruce wasn’t looking.

Clark had been different today. Not that Clark was ever particularly warm toward him, but today had been... pointed. Snappish. The kind of frustration that could make most people retreat. Most people, but not Bruce.

If anything, it only made him more determined.

“He’s tired,” Bruce thought to himself, glancing at the paper bag on the seat beside him. It was simple, really. Clark wasn’t the kind of man to complain—his pride wouldn’t allow it—but Bruce could see the signs. The tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers fumbled slightly on the keyboard, the unguarded frustration in his voice.

Clark needed someone to look out for him.

Bruce wasn’t sure when he’d started thinking like that—when the fascination had shifted into something more protective. But here he was, making mental notes of Clark’s coffee preferences and which pastries he reached for during late-night stakeouts.

The soft sound of Alfred clearing his throat broke Bruce from his thoughts.

“Sir,” Alfred began, his tone dry as ever. “Might I suggest that buying muffins and coffee isn’t a long-term strategy for wooing Mr. Kent?”

Bruce ignored the comment, instead reaching for his tablet to glance over the day’s schedule. “He likes blueberry,” he said, more to himself than to Alfred.

Alfred sighed, the kind of sigh reserved for someone enduring the antics of a very stubborn child. “Indeed, sir. I noticed that as well. Along with the fact that Mr. Kent seems to harbor a distinct dislike for you.”

“He doesn’t dislike me,” Bruce said, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was convincing Alfred or himself. “He’s just... going through something.”

“Ah, yes,” Alfred replied, his tone layered with unimpressed sarcasm. “That must be why he looks like he’s ready to launch you into orbit every time you walk into the room.”

Bruce glanced out the window, hiding the smile tugging at his lips. “He’s passionate.”

“Hmm,” Alfred muttered, shaking his head. “Passion. Of course.”

Bruce didn’t mind the disapproval radiating off his oldest companion. He could endure Alfred’s pointed remarks, his skeptical looks, because deep down, Bruce knew Clark wasn’t angry. Not really. There was something else beneath all of that, and Bruce was determined to uncover it.

Clark wasn’t just a puzzle—he was a man worth knowing, worth understanding. And Bruce wasn’t going to stop trying, no matter how many sharp words or glares were thrown his way.

He glanced at the paper bag again, remembering the way Clark had looked at it—equal parts surprise and suspicion, the way his expression softened for just a moment before he masked it with frustration again.

Bruce found himself smiling. He’d be back tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Everything he’d done wasn’t working. The petty jabs, the passive-aggressive comments, even outright hostility—none of it made Bruce Wayne back off. None of it stopped Batman’s voice from echoing in Clark’s mind, soft and dreamlike, talking about the person who had stolen his heart. Someone who wasn’t Clark.

Clark tightened his grip on his champagne glass, standing off to the side of the gala like a spectator in someone else’s life. His suit was too tight, the air too warm, and the sight of Bruce Wayne mingling effortlessly among Gotham’s elite too much to bear.

This had to end.

If Bruce didn’t get the message, then Clark would make him get it. He couldn’t keep doing this—watching Bruce’s easy charm, listening to the way he spoke about love, and pretending it didn’t twist something deep inside him.

So, when Bruce approached, Clark didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“Clark,” Bruce greeted, his voice as smooth as ever, that faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He looked so self-assured, so infuriatingly composed. “I was wondering if you’d made it tonight.”

Clark stared at him, his jaw tight. “Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce tilted his head, clearly bemused. “Still so formal. Do you ever loosen up?”

Clark exhaled sharply, his patience snapping. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Bruce blinked, the faintest furrow forming between his brows. “Get what?”

Clark took a step closer, his voice dropping to a sharp, cutting whisper. “You, Bruce. You’re a walking cliché. The charming billionaire philanthropist who pretends to care about people. But it’s just a mask, isn’t it? Just like everything else about you. Beneath all that polish, you’re as hollow as the buildings your name is plastered on.”

Clark should have stopped there, but he didn’t. He leaned in, his voice icy. “And you know the worst part? For all your charm, for all your money, you’re empty. You’re just a man playing dress-up, trying to fool everyone into thinking you’re something special. I don’t like you, and I never will.”

Bruce didn’t respond. His face was carefully neutral now, but Clark could see the tension in his jaw, the slight shift in his posture.

Clark stepped back, his chest heaving as he tried to rein in his emotions. “You wanted honesty? There it is.”

Then Bruce’s expression shifted. His smirk was gone, replaced by something colder, sharper. “You’ve made your opinion of me very clear, Clark.”

Clark hesitated, but only for a second. He wasn’t going to back down now. “Good. Maybe now you’ll finally leave me alone.”

Bruce gave a single, curt nod. His expression didn’t waver as he turned and walked away, his steps measured, his shoulders rigid.

Clark stood there, his chest heaving as he watched Bruce disappear into the crowd. The weight of his own words hung over him like a storm cloud. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To drive Bruce away, to put an end to this spiral of frustration and longing that was slowly tearing him apart.

So why did it feel like he’d just lost something irreplaceable?

Forcing himself to breathe, Clark took another sip of his champagne. It was over. He’d ended it. He should feel relief.

But all he felt was empty.

Bruce Wayne knew how to handle rejection. It was an inevitability in his line of work, whether it came from city officials, allies, or the criminals he hunted every night. But this? This was different.

He replayed Clark’s words in his head as he walked away from the man who had just eviscerated him. Each sentence had been like a precisely aimed strike, designed to hit him where it hurt most. Hollow. Empty. Nothing but a man playing dress-up.

Bruce’s jaw clenched as he stepped out onto the balcony, away from the noise of the gala. The cold Gotham air bit at his face, but he barely felt it. He’d been accused of worse before—on both sides of his life—but somehow, hearing it from Clark was...

He couldn’t even finish the thought.

Bruce leaned against the railing, his hands tightening on the cold metal. Clark had been more than clear. The bitterness in his voice, the sharpness in his eyes—it wasn’t just frustration or a misunderstanding. It was genuine disdain.

“God, I’m such an idiot,” Bruce muttered under his breath.

How long had he been fooling himself? How long had he convinced himself that maybe Clark’s hostility was just a mask, a way of hiding something deeper? That underneath all of that, there was a spark—something that mirrored what Bruce felt?

Apparently, he’d been wrong.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. This was what he got for hoping, for allowing himself to think, just for a moment, that someone like Clark could see past the façade of Bruce Wayne and care about him anyway.

Hollow. Empty. Nothing.

Bruce had built his life around those truths, hadn’t he? Around the knowledge that Batman mattered and Bruce Wayne didn’t. But hearing Clark say it aloud, hearing him confirm what Bruce had always believed but never wanted to face...

It shouldn’t have hurt this much.

Bruce pushed himself upright, his gaze drifting to the skyline. Gotham stretched out before him, the city alive with its usual chaos. There was comfort in that, in the familiar hum of his city’s problems. There was no time for wallowing, not when there was work to do.

And yet, the tightness in his chest remained.

He thought of Clark’s face as he’d spoken, the coldness in his eyes, the anger in his voice. It wasn’t just rejection—it was loathing. How had he been so blind to it? How had he let himself believe there was anything else there?

Bruce shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. He could handle this. He’d handled worse. He’d survive this, just like he always did.

But as he stood there, staring out at the city, he couldn’t shake the hollow ache in his chest.

For the first time in years, Bruce Wayne let himself feel the weight of his own loneliness.

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne didn’t come to the Daily Planet anymore.

For weeks, Clark had noticed the absence, though he wasn’t sure why it gnawed at him so much. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was the sharp echo of his own words ricocheting through his mind. Hollow. Empty. Playing dress-up. Each phrase replayed in his head like a mantra, and every time it did, Clark felt a pang of regret.

He’d gone too far.

Clark hunched over his desk, staring blankly at the article he was supposed to be finishing. He hadn’t even noticed Jimmy standing beside him until the younger man cleared his throat.

“Hey, uh... you okay?” Jimmy asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Clark.

“I’m fine,” Clark said too quickly, adjusting his glasses.

Jimmy’s gaze didn’t waver. “Haven’t seen Mr. Wayne around lately. Not that I miss the awkward tension or anything, but it’s... weird.”

Clark stiffened, but he forced a casual shrug. “He’s a busy man. Probably got better things to do than hang around here.”

Jimmy didn’t say anything, but the suspicious look he gave Clark before walking away was enough to make Clark shift uncomfortably in his chair.

He wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all himself.

By the time Clark left the office that evening, he’d made up his mind. He couldn’t undo what he’d said, but he could at least try to make it right. Bruce Wayne didn’t deserve the venom Clark had spit at him, no matter how justified he’d felt in the moment.

So, Clark did something he never thought he’d do: he called Bruce Wayne’s office.

The assistant who answered sounded almost startled when Clark asked for an appointment, but within minutes, it was arranged. Tomorrow. Wayne Tower.

Clark hung up the phone, his stomach twisting into knots.

The next day, Clark found himself sitting in the sleek, minimalist lobby of Wayne Tower, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. The receptionist’s polite smile did little to calm his nerves, and when she finally told him Mr. Wayne would see him, Clark’s heart was pounding.

Bruce was seated behind an enormous desk when Clark entered, his expression unreadable. He gestured toward the chair across from him without a word.

Clark sat, the weight of Bruce’s silence pressing down on him like a lead blanket.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Clark started, his voice quieter than he intended.

Bruce inclined his head slightly, his eyes sharp and watchful. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kent?”

Clark winced. The formal tone was like a slap, but he’d earned it.

“I... I wanted to apologize,” Clark said, forcing himself to meet Bruce’s gaze. “For what I said at the gala.”

Bruce didn’t respond, his expression giving nothing away.

Clark swallowed hard and pressed on. “I wasn’t being fair to you. It wasn’t about you—it was about me. Someone I... care about doesn’t feel the same way, and I took that frustration out on you. That wasn’t right.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened slightly, but his tone remained cold. “I see.”

“I’m sorry,” Clark said again, his voice softer now. “You didn’t deserve that.”

For a moment, there was only silence between them. Then Bruce leaned back in his chair, his gaze still locked on Clark.

“Apology accepted,” he said finally, though the words were clipped, distant.

Clark nodded, the tight knot in his chest loosening slightly, though it didn’t disappear entirely. He’d done what he came to do, but the air between them still felt heavy, strained.

“Thank you,” Clark said quietly, standing.

Bruce inclined his head again but said nothing more as Clark turned and left the office.

Bruce didn’t know why he’d agreed to the meeting.

When his assistant had relayed Clark Kent’s request to see him, Bruce had almost said no. Almost. But there was something about the name—Clark Kent—that twisted like a thorn lodged under his skin.

It wasn’t the same as when Superman filled his thoughts. That was different. Superman had always been larger than life, a blinding presence that Bruce couldn’t ignore even when he wanted to. Clark Kent, though? He was small, human, and yet somehow he’d managed to pierce through the layers of armor Bruce had spent years perfecting.

Bruce told himself it didn’t matter. Let Clark come. Let him say whatever he felt needed saying. It wouldn’t change anything.

When Clark walked into his office, Bruce kept his expression neutral, his posture relaxed. But his fingers twitched slightly where they rested on his desk.

Clark looked... uncomfortable. He adjusted his glasses, his shoulders stiff, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as he sat down.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Clark said, his voice quieter than Bruce remembered.

Bruce inclined his head, keeping his tone measured. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kent?”

The way Clark winced at the formal address was satisfying in a petty, hollow sort of way. Bruce hated himself a little for finding it satisfying at all.

“I... I wanted to apologize,” Clark said, his eyes meeting Bruce’s.

Bruce didn’t respond, waiting.

“For what I said at the gala,” Clark continued, his voice steadier now.

Ah. That.

Bruce kept his face blank, though his stomach twisted at the memory. He could still hear Clark’s words, sharp and cutting, like shards of glass piercing skin. Empty. Hollow. Playing dress-up. He’d spent years building himself into something untouchable, impervious to criticism, and yet Clark’s words had left scars he hadn’t anticipated.

“I wasn’t being fair to you,” Clark said, his voice faltering slightly. “It wasn’t about you—it was about me. Someone I... care about doesn’t feel the same way, and I took that frustration out on you. That wasn’t right.”

Bruce blinked, the pieces clicking into place with startling clarity. So that’s what it was. He’d been collateral damage in Clark’s heartbreak.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Bruce should have felt nothing but indifference. Instead, the cold weight in his chest settled deeper.

“I see,” Bruce said finally, keeping his tone deliberately detached.

Clark’s apology continued, quieter now. He sounded earnest, and Bruce hated how much he wanted to believe him.

When the apology finally ended, Bruce leaned back in his chair, studying Clark carefully. There was a tightness around Clark’s eyes, a tension in his posture that suggested he was bracing for something—anger, maybe, or rejection.

“Apology accepted,” Bruce said, the words cold and clipped, even as something inside him screamed to soften them.

Clark nodded, his shoulders sagging slightly with relief. “Thank you.”

Bruce didn’t respond. He watched as Clark stood, hesitating for a moment before turning and walking out of the office.

The door clicked shut, leaving Bruce alone.

For a moment, he sat there, staring at the space where Clark had been. Then he leaned forward, pressing his palms against the desk, his jaw clenched tight.

He’d forgiven Clark, but the ache in his chest hadn’t eased.

“Collateral damage,” he muttered to himself, his voice bitter.

But even as he said it, Bruce knew it wasn’t entirely true.

Because Clark Kent—irritating, frustrating, entirely too human Clark Kent—had always been more than collateral to him.

Chapter Text

Clark had been flying through the night sky, lost in his thoughts, when he spotted the familiar silhouette perched on a Gotham rooftop. Batman. The dark, imposing figure was sitting there, slumped, more defeated than usual. His cape, usually so regal and striking, hung limply behind him. There was something about him—something off—something Clark hadn’t seen before.

Clark landed softly beside him, his boots barely making a sound.

“Hey,” he said, voice quiet, not wanting to startle him. “What’s going on?”

Batman didn’t respond right away. He just stared ahead, his posture stiff, like a man who had already given up before he’d even begun. Clark watched him, his chest tight with something he couldn’t explain. He had seen Batman angry, determined, indignant... but never like this.

“I thought you never needed a break,” Clark teased, trying to lighten the mood, but Batman didn’t crack a smile. There was no sarcastic quip, no scowl, nothing. Just a sigh—a long, tired exhale that carried the weight of years of pent-up frustration.

“No one loves me,” Batman muttered, the words more to himself than to Clark.

Clark froze. That wasn’t a line Batman said lightly. Clark had seen Batman, had fought beside him, had known the man long enough to know that he hid his pain behind the mask. But this? This was different.

“What do you mean?” Clark asked softly, stepping closer, his brow furrowing in concern.

Batman didn’t look at him. He just kept staring at Gotham, like the city had swallowed him whole.

“I’ve spent all this time fighting. Protecting people. Protecting this city,” Batman continued, his voice low and hoarse, like he hadn’t said those words out loud in far too long. “But at the end of the day, I’m still alone. I pushed everyone away, thinking it would make things easier... but it just made me... empty.”

Clark’s heart clenched. He had never heard Batman speak like this. Vulnerable. Raw. And for the first time, it struck Clark that maybe Batman wasn’t the impenetrable figure he’d always assumed. Maybe, just maybe, the man behind the mask needed someone to hear him.

“You’ve been heartbroken, haven’t you?” Clark asked, his voice soft, though a hint of understanding leaked through. Batman didn’t answer immediately, but Clark could see the slight downturn of his lips, the way his shoulders tightened.

“Yeah,” Batman muttered. The single word was more powerful than any punch he could have thrown, because in it, Clark could hear the truth—the pain.

“I'm sorry,” Clark said quietly, his voice full of sincerity. He could hear the hurt in Batman's words, and it broke something inside him. The idea that Batman, the man who always seemed so unshakable, could feel so deeply alone... it hurt. It hurt more than Clark was prepared for.

Batman didn’t respond. He didn’t want Clark’s pity. He never had. He just stared ahead, his face as hard as stone, but Clark could see the cracks. They were there. Deep down. They always had been.

Clark didn’t know how to fix it, or even if he could. But he did know one thing: Batman deserved to know that he wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

“You’re not alone, B,” Clark said, his voice trembling just a little. He took a step closer. “You never have to be. You’ve got me. You’ve always had me.”

Batman didn’t look at him, didn’t move. The silence stretched between them like a tangible thing. But there was something in Batman’s posture—something in the way he held himself—that softened just slightly.

“I don’t just mean as Superman, either,” Clark continued, his heart pounding in his chest. He was nervous now, but he couldn’t take it back. Not anymore. “I care about you. More than you realize. I’ve cared about you for a long time, B.”

It was out now. His confession. His heart, laid bare on the rooftop of Gotham.

Batman didn’t speak for a long time. Clark’s breath hitched, his stomach a mess of nerves. He waited for Batman to turn him away, to scoff, to remind him of the thousand reasons they could never be. But instead, Batman just tilted his head, his eyes still hidden beneath the cowl.

“You love me?” Batman asked, his voice low, but Clark could hear the disbelief there.

“Yeah. I do,” Clark said, his heart in his throat.

Batman was silent. Clark could feel the weight of the moment, like everything was hanging in the balance. He had no idea what to expect. Rejection? A brush-off? A laugh? He wasn’t sure what he wanted, only that he couldn’t stand this silence any longer.

Batman finally spoke again, but this time, there was something more biting in his tone. “You know, Superman, confessing your love now... It’s kind of a dick move.”

The words hit harder than Clark expected. They weren’t cruel—just... blunt. It stung, but he hadn’t expected anything different. Not from Batman. He never had. He’d known that admitting his feelings would change things. It had to.

Clark’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t back away. He’d said what he needed to say, and that was that. “I’ll think about it,” Batman added after a pause, his tone more neutral now.

Clark blinked, trying to make sense of it all. “I’m sorry.” he muttered.

Batman didn’t respond, and Clark wasn’t sure if it was because he was trying to process everything or because he truly didn’t know what to say. Either way, the tension between them was thick, and Clark didn’t have the strength to push any further.

“Well,” Clark said, pulling his thoughts together. “I’ll... I’ll leave you to it.”

He hovered for a moment before stepping back, feeling a strange mix of relief and uncertainty. It wasn’t the answer he’d hoped for, but it wasn’t the end, either. It was a start.

As he flew off into the night, the weight in his chest felt a little lighter, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was still so much left unsaid. He didn’t know what would happen next, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like maybe he was on the right path.

And Batman? Well, he said he would think about it. That was more than Clark had expected.

Chapter Text

They had been dating for a year and a half when Batman brought up their secret identities.

Clark had assumed it was a joke at first. It had been an offhand comment during a particularly chaotic mission, Batman’s voice calm as always, even while dodging a flurry of laser blasts.

“We should meet as civilians sometime,” he’d said, like he was talking about the weather.

Clark had nearly flown into a building.

At first, he tried to play it off. Surely, Batman wasn’t serious. Batman had said before that their dynamic worked precisely because they weren’t tangled up in their respective lives outside the cape and cowl. That separation kept things clean. He didn’t think Batman would change his mind, although he was quietly thrilled about the perspective of the face of a man he’s been pining after for years for the first time.

But Batman didn’t drop it. Subtle hints turned into less subtle nudges, and finally, Clark found himself agreeing to what Batman had called a "civilian rendezvous." Clark, in an attempt to lighten the tension, had muttered the phrase "blind date," which Batman had pointedly ignored.

Now, standing in front of his mirror, Clark was regretting every life decision that had brought him to this moment.

He tugged at his shirt collar, frowning. The fabric felt too stiff, the color too bright, the fit all wrong. No matter how much he adjusted it, the shirt seemed determined to make him look like someone’s nervous intern rather than a man about to meet his… boyfriend? Partner? Lover? Whatever Batman was.

The worst part was that Clark didn’t know what to expect. He had no idea what Batman would look like under the mask. Tall, obviously. Lean but strong. And that jawline—it haunted him sometimes, the way it caught the light just so, sharp and perfect.

His imagination ran wild, conjuring images of a man so effortlessly handsome it bordered on unfair. Batman had that kind of aura, the kind that made people turn their heads without understanding why.

Then there was Clark Kent.

He squinted at his reflection, noting the unruly curl of his hair that refused to lie flat, the thick glasses perched on his nose, the slightly crooked tie he kept readjusting. Superman had been called breathtaking, awe-inspiring, even godlike. Clark Kent, meanwhile, had been called “pal” by the guy who sold him coffee every morning and once mistaken for a lost tourist in his own city.

“This is a terrible idea,” Clark muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair for the tenth time. “He’s going to take one look at me and—”

He cut himself off, shaking his head. No. Batman wasn’t like that. He wasn’t shallow. If anything, he’d probably respect the mundane anonymity of Clark Kent. Maybe. Hopefully.

Still, the thought gnawed at him as he grabbed his coat and headed for the door. The idea of Batman seeing him like this—just Clark, not Superman—felt oddly vulnerable.

The walk to the restaurant didn’t help. Each step felt heavier, his nerves coiling tighter. He imagined every scenario that could go wrong. What if Batman didn’t recognize him? What if he did and was disappointed? What if he laughed?

No, Batman didn’t laugh. Not like that, anyway.

Clark arrived early, of course, because he was Clark Kent and punctuality was in his DNA. He stood outside the restaurant, shifting from foot to foot, debating whether to go in or turn around and fly straight to the Fortress of Solitude to hide for the next decade.

“This is fine,” he whispered to himself, a feeble attempt at reassurance. “It’s just Batman. My boyfriend. The guy who probably knows seventeen ways to disarm me with a toothpick.”

That thought wasn’t as comforting as he’d hoped.

He sighed, squared his shoulders, and stepped inside.

Clark stood awkwardly by the front desk, pretending to admire the potted plants as he waited. His nerves still hadn’t settled. He was about to meet Batman—his Batman—in civilian clothes, and the anticipation was killing him.

The door jingled as it opened, and Clark instinctively turned.

There stood Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s most famous billionaire, looking polished and impossibly handsome in a tailored coat that probably cost more than Clark’s apartment.

Clark stared. No. No way.

Bruce scanned the room, his gaze landing on Clark with mild curiosity. A polite smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—barely enough to qualify as a greeting but enough to make Clark’s stomach flip uncomfortably.

“Good evening,” Bruce said smoothly, stepping closer.

“Uh, hi,” Clark replied, suddenly hyper-aware of how underdressed he was compared to Gotham’s golden boy. “What brings you here?”

“I’m meeting someone,” Bruce said, his tone as calm as ever. “My boyfriend.”

Bruce Wayne has a boyfriend now? “Your… boyfriend?”

Bruce nodded, giving him a curious look. “What about you?”

Clark adjusted his glasses, trying not to panic. “Same. I’m here to meet my boyfriend.”

The awkward silence that followed was enough to make Clark want to melt through the floor.

“Well,” Bruce said after a pause. “Enjoy your evening.” He turned toward the hostess desk, his steps confident as ever.

Clark watched him lean down to speak with the hostess, his voice low but audible enough to make Clark freeze.

“Reservation for Bane Wood,” Bruce said, the words rolling off his tongue smoothly like he hadn’t just uttered the fake name Batman had said he’d booked as.

Clark blinked, then took two long strides forward. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice tight. “That’s my reservation.”

Bruce turned, one eyebrow arching. “I don’t think so.”

“No,” Clark said firmly, crossing his arms. “My boyfriend said he booked the table under that name.”

Bruce blinked, his expression shifting to something between confusion and mild exasperation. “I booked under that name”

They stared at each other, the tension so thick it could have stopped a speeding train.

And then it hit them.

Clark mouthed, “Batman.”

Bruce’s eyes widened slightly, and he mouthed back, “Superman.”

They both straightened abruptly, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention.

“Oh,” Clark finally managed.

Bruce tilted his head. “Huh.”

The hostess, visibly confused but too polite to say anything, led them to their table. They walked in awkward silence, side by side, each lost in their own spiraling thoughts.

When they sat down, Clark couldn’t hold it in anymore. He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Bruce Wayne and Bane Wood? Really?”

Bruce gave him a deadpan look. “Says the man who showed up looking like Superman’s shy cousin.”

Clark flushed, tugging at his collar. “I was trying to look casual!”

Bruce smirked, a rare glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Well, you succeeded. Casual disaster.”

Clark groaned, rubbing his temples. “I'm so embarrassed. I--I can’t believe this. I rejected you because I was in love with you.”

Bruce shrugged, completely unfazed. “And I got over you just to fall for you again.”

Clark stared at him for a moment before breaking into a laugh—soft at first, then uncontrollable. “We’re so stupid.”

Bruce’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. “Painfully.”

And yet, as they settled into their seats, the absurdity of it all didn’t feel so bad. They were stupid, sure, but at least they were stupid together.