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“Fancy seeing you out here.”
A smile tugs at Bruce’s lips at the sound of the voice calling out behind him. The low resonance of Clark’s words melts into the dark of evening, sending a flutter of warmth into Bruce’s belly. A click as Clark shuts the balcony doors, muting the conversation and laughter from the party inside. It’s just the two of them out here, so Bruce doesn’t have to keep up the mask. But that doesn’t mean he can’t have a little fun.
“Mr. Kent,” Bruce says with affected amiability. Cold seeps through his shirt and jacket from the stone where his forearms are folded over the top of the railing. Rather than turning to greet Clark properly, Bruce keeps his gaze absently on the horizon, watching as the last remnants of sunlight fade into black. Petrichor permeates the air, drifting in from the manor grounds. “If you’re looking for an interview, you’ll have to schedule an appointment with my secretary.”
“Oh, no. I’m just here to appreciate the view.”
His tone, soft and alluring, draws Bruce’s attention like iron to a magnet. When Bruce finally turns to look at him, the sight of Clark’s smile washes over him, more beautiful than any sunset. It makes Bruce smile in return; it’s perhaps the most genuine smile he’s worn all day, a warm and comfortable expression that feels right at home in Clark’s company. What a sight for sore eyes. Bruce hasn’t seen him all week and he feels the thread of longing in his chest pulling taut.
Clark’s gaze roves down Bruce’s body in a leering once-over. There’s a champagne glass in his hand, though he’s probably not had a sip of it. His off-the-rack suit, slightly creased and too wide in the shoulders and too loose around the hips, used to make Bruce roll his eyes. Bruce has long since stopped trying to provide him with a properly fitted suit—Clark is stubborn, the kind of stubborn Bruce recognizes on account of being in possession of it himself. By now, Bruce has learned to pick his battles. And it doesn’t really matter; Bruce knows what Clark is hiding underneath that ill-fitting suit anyway.
It’s been a long day—week, really—and Bruce snuck away to the balcony hoping for a moment to himself, just to catch his breath. But as Clark steps forward to lean his mouth against Bruce’s, it’s stolen away again.
Bruce slides his hand up the front of Clark’s chest and kisses him back. They’re far enough from the party that no one will accidentally stumble upon them, and at any rate it wouldn’t be Bruce’s first time caught in the heat of passion. A pleased sound escapes Clark’s lips, and Bruce swallows it down.
The champagne class plings against the stone as Clark sets it down on the railing so he can slide both hands around Bruce’s waist. Their heat radiates through every layer of clothing, sparking warmth in Bruce’s skin as they move smoothly over Bruce’s spine, down to his waist, circling his hips—
The breath that hitches in his chest is barely audible, but Clark pulls back immediately, almost quicker than Bruce can register the pain. Despite Bruce’s best efforts to suppress his flinch, Clark is reading him like an open book. Attentive as always, tuned into Bruce like they’re the only two people in the world. It sometimes feels that way with Clark.
“Gosh, I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean…are you hurt?” Clark’s startingly blue eyes are bright with concern behind his glasses. He’s holding his hands up as if in surrender, and stares down at Bruce’s hip where his hand had elicited a reaction. Always so considerate; Bruce admires that about him.
“Just a bruise. Fencing mishap.” The lie runs smoothly off his tongue. He does fence on occasion, but this particular bruice had come from a crook swinging a pipe at him and not an épeé.
“Oh, of course.” Clark raises an eyebrow. “Have you considered picking up a less harmful hobby? Coin collecting or something.”
“I will take your suggestion into consideration.” If only Clark knew about the giant penny in the cave downstairs. Bruce flashes Clark a flirtatious smile, eager to take this somewhere more private with a bed. “How about I give you a tour of the house, Mr. Kent?”
“A private tour, hm?” Clark grins and leans in for another kiss. Bruce indulges him for a second, two seconds, before pushing him back with a hand on his chest. It’s easy to get lost in Clark, caught in his orbit.
“Oh, yes. I’m particularly looking forward to showing you the bedroom.”
“Well. How can I say no to such an offer. Lead the way, Mr. Wayne.”
“What makes you think it’s sentient?” Dick says through a mouthful of cucumber sandwich. He’s sitting cross-legged on the desk, slowly making his way through the tray of sandwiches Alfred had left some hours ago and that Bruce had admittedly forgotten about. Good thing Dick invited himself into the cave to eat the leftovers so maybe Alfred could be tricked into thinking Bruce had eaten food this evening. (Wishful thinking; Alfred can’t be tricked into anything.)
“Its behavior shows a semblance of intelligence. It’s driven by reason and motive, not instinct.” Bruce steeples his hands and peers at the footage playing on the monitors, a furrow in his brow.
“Maybe it’s a very advanced robot. You don’t know.” Dick leans forward to scrutinize one of the screens and as he shifts, he accidentally knocks against a stack of case files. The avalanche of folders sends papers flying all over the floor. “Oops,” he says, but makes no move to pick any of it up. Bruce grimaces and bites his tongue instead of berating him.
“Unlikely.” He’s picked up biological samples from scenes where the entity has appeared, but he hasn’t been able to analyze any of it properly. So far, the only thing he’s managed to assert is that it’s not terrestrial in origin.
“Have we ruled out dimensional displacement? Since, you know.” Dick waves his sandwich in the general direction of the screen and the creature displayed on it, sprinkling bread crumbs all over the keyboard.
“What?”
“Well,” Dick says, “since it looks like it came out of Game of Thrones.”
On the screen, a large serpentine creature descends from the sky. The video was captured on the mobile phone of a spectator who was filming the collapse of a bridge in California last week. As the bridge cracks and starts to split, the enormous creature ducks beneath it to stabilize it with its own body, an effort which bought emergency services enough time to evacuate all the people off the bridge.
The first captured footage of the alien creature when it first appeared years ago called it a dragon. It’s not hard to gather why, looking at its massive body and its broad wings, skin covered in scales and several sets of frills and spikes. But Bruce refuses to use such an erroneous term, because obviously dragons aren’t real. It’s an alien which just happens to resemble a fictitious creature. While it has aided in disaster relief all over the world, it has appeared the most often in Metropolis. Maybe that’s where its den is located, and it’s protecting its territory; it’s often spotted circling the skies around the city. The Daily Planet has dubbed the alien the Guardian of Metropolis, a moniker that Lois Lane came up with. Clark has actually written a few articles on the Guardian himself, but it’s not his preferred topic to write about. He always accepts those assignments begrudgingly, though Bruce hasn’t been able to figure out exactly why that is.
“The dragons in Game of Thrones have two legs and two winged limbs,” Bruce says because while they are on the topic of dragons he might as well. “They’re wyverns. Very different.”
“Right, of course.” Dick rolls his eyes. Shoving the rest of the sandwich into the mouth, he wipes his hands on his pants and hops off the desk to start shoveling up the papers he’d so kindly arranged on the floor earlier. “In any case, I’m not sure this is the best use of your time and energy.”
“What do you mean?”
“At this point it’s safe to assume that its intentions are good. Whenever it shows up, it’s to help people, right? So why spend so much time on this,” Dick says, holding up one of the files. The first page shows a blueprint of an experimental proton beam weapon that could potentially harm the alien. It seems to be invulnerable to any type of external damage, its thick hide too tough to pierce, but Bruce has a theory that it could be vulnerable to particle radiation.
“It hasn’t communicated with anyone. We don’t know what it wants, and it could turn on us at any moment. If that happens, we need to be prepared.” A being of that power could lay waste to entire cities. Planning for the worst case scenario isn’t cynicism; it’s just being practical.
“Just saying. Hey.” The files are dumped on the desk with a thump, all of them entirely disorganized at this point. “What does the League think of what you’re doing here?”
Bruce says nothing.
“Wow,” Dick says, eyes narrowing. “You haven’t told them.”
“The League isn’t involved in my private projects.”
“Listen to yourself. ‘Private projects’.” Dick puts his hands on his hips. “On the topic of private projects,” he says, and Bruce sighs upon hearing the ribbing tone of his voice. He knows where this is going. “How’s it going with that reporter guy?”
“Fine,” Bruce offers flatly, desperately hoping Dick will take the hint. Dick does not take the hint.
“I hear it’s your anniversary.”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations, sincerely,” Dick says gleefully, clasping Bruce’s shoulder. “But I’m wondering,” he starts and Bruce already feels his blood pressure spiking before Dick says the words, “when are you planning to tell him about Bat—”
“I’m sure you have places to be,” Bruce interrupts sharply.
“Oh, probably. It’s more fun to hang out with you, though.” Dick grins, and thankfully relents. His eyes soften and when he speaks again, his voice is fond and genuine. “I mean it, though. I’m happy for you, he seems like a good guy.”
The tension in Bruce’s shoulders releases and a small smile tugs at his lips. A warm feeling flutters in his chest. “He is.”
It’s just after two in the morning when Bruce finally tip-toes back into the bedroom. The door shuts with a soft click behind him, throwing the room back into darkness. A beam of moonlight sneaks past the curtains, just enough for Bruce to trace the path to the bed. Bruce lets the robe fall from his shoulders to the floor before he tries to slip into bed as quietly as he can manage. He’s exhausted and aching and the bed is soft and warm and everything he could’ve dreamed of—and more. From underneath the covers, a pair of strong arms emerge and wind themselves around Bruce’s waist to pull him in close. The solid bulk of the slumbering beast stirs awake momentarily, only to wrap itself around Bruce with all of its limbs, coiling around him like a cuddly, affectionate octopus. It’s obvious they’re not going to let go of him anytime soon, fully intending to keep him there until morning.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” Bruce whispers to the half-sleeping creature clinging to him. A noise of sympathy comes from the mess of black curls resting on his chest. “Work emergency,” Bruce explains.
“E’rythin’ okay?” Clark whispers drowsily, words muffled into Bruce’s chest.
Bruce hums in assent. He brushes a hand through Clark’s soft curls. “Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”
As fine as things ever tend to be, in his line of work. He had to sneak out of bed shortly after Clark had fallen asleep to respond to an urgent League call down in the cave. Fortunately the others got the situation under control and Bruce didn’t have to suit up. Between him and Diana, they have their hands full with the organization and daily operations of the Justice League. As it turns out, crime doesn’t sleep, although Bruce sorely needs to. He’s glad Clark doesn’t have to deal with that kind of thing. It’s not a life he would wish upon anyone else, least of all his boyfriend.
“Are we still on for tomorrow?” Clark murmurs, with slightly clearer diction. Bruce smooths his hands over Clark’s back, feeling the tension leak from his muscles.
“Of course. It’s our anniversary.”
He feels Clark’s smile more than he sees it in the dim light. It presses against his chin as Clark lifts his head to place a kiss there, so tenderly. One of Clark’s hands releases its death grip on Bruce’s waist and touches the side of Bruce’s face. Even in the dark, even in the haze of exhaustion, Bruce can sense the endless affection in the gesture and the loving awe of it.
An entire year with Clark. It feels surreal at times, when Bruce thinks about it. When he first set out as Batman years ago, he accepted that the mission came with a price. He would leave behind any chance of a normal life, any chance at peace or happiness or—love. And then he met Clark. Brilliant, kind, exceptional Clark. Who kisses Bruce’s scars without hesitation, who pushes his buttons because he knows Bruce can handle it, who continuously inspires Bruce with his extraordinary humanity.
Clark, who is currently snoring and drooling on Bruce’s chest. He smiles, pulling the sheets closer around them. Clark always runs hot, but Bruce appreciates the extra warmth to soothe his sore muscles.
Bruce doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, to deserve Clark. But he’s determined to keep him. Even if that means having to tell him Bruce’s most deeply guarded secret. Clark will surely have a thing or two to say about that kind of hobby.
It’s not that Bruce doesn’t trust him—Clark is one of the most trustworthy people he knows and without a doubt the most honest and genuine man he’s ever had the pleasure to meet. He knows Clark would guard Bruce’s identity with his life. And it’s not fair to Clark to keep lying to him with the quiet deception of leading a double life. It’s just that sometimes, with Clark, Bruce can pretend for a little while that he’s normal. No capes, no supervillains, no guns or riddles or exploding wind-up penguins. Just him, and Clark. A little taste of normalcy.
Bruce will tell him, he just has to find the right time. Which probably isn’t at their anniversary dinner. Bruce has been planning this for weeks, down to the last detail; the restaurant, the table, the menu, even the damn napkins. It has to be perfect. And it will be. He’s cleared his schedule, tied up all loose ends in Gotham, booked the penthouse suite at the Met Grand, and called in a favor from Nightwing so he doesn’t have to worry about patrol.
It will be perfect.
Besides, it’s only Tuesday. What’s the worst that could happen?
“Hi. I’m so sorry, I’ll have to reschedule our dinner—something came up with work.” Bruce flicks a switch on the overhead panel and the engines of the plane roar louder. Hopefully Clark won’t question the background noise when he listens to the voicemail. The exasperation in his voice is more than genuine. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Bruce ends the call and his hands tighten on the flight controls. It’s not like Clark to not pick up the phone, especially since he’s already clocked out for the day and should be at home. They were supposed to meet at the restaurant in an hour from now, but Bruce doesn’t have time to mull it over. He steers the plane towards the outskirts of Metropolis while he activates his communicator.
“Diana.”
The comm line crackles to life with a shout. There’s a sound like metal grating against metal followed by the crash of a heavy impact. When Diana replies, she sounds almost out of breath. Not a good sign. “Batman.”
“What’s your status?”
“I cannot hold it back on my own for much longer,” Diana calls out. Bruce hears her grunt as something strong and solid hits her shield with a resounding clang.
“Lantern and Hawkgirl are on their way. ETA two minutes.” Bruce activates the autopilot so he can watch the monitor while the plane brings him closer to the battle. The video footage is blurry and out of focus, but he can make out Diana as she swings her sword against her foe. Her strike glances off the android’s metallic exterior, and it responds with a punch that sends Diana flying back a hundred feet, her boots drawing long gouges in the asphalt. From the looks of it, Bruce won’t be much help here: his instruments can’t detect an electromagnetic signal from the android for him to lock onto and disrupt, and if it’s giving Diana a run for her money, he’s better off focusing his efforts on crowd control and civilian evacuation should the fight veer back towards the city.
The android hasn’t spoken a single word since it appeared in Downtown Metropolis six minutes ago and started tearing through the train station, wrecking most of the building in the matter of seconds. Its goal seems to be exclusively focused on causing as much destruction and collateral damage as possible—a call for attention, possibly. The question is, whose attention. Bruce can think of an answer, but he’s still waiting on the proof. It should be here at any moment.
Diana has to actively work at redirecting it from the populated areas of the borough, keeping it occupied just off the highway going out of Park Ridge. The League doesn’t usually operate in Metropolis, but Diana was close to the scene. The League rarely needs to intervene here; the city has its own protector. But right now, it’s nowhere to be found. Strange.
Diana wrestles the android down, the ground cratering around the two of them. The plane circles overhead, and Bruce glances down at the fight for a moment before turning his gaze outwards to the sky again, keeping an eye out for movement.
A gasp cuts through the comm line and Bruce looks down. A beam of bright green energy shoots out from the android’s core, flinging Diana back. The blast hurtles straight up through the air, and Bruce feels a jolt go through the plane. A klaxon starts blaring.
ENGINE FAILURE, the monitor helpfully informs him. He suspects the engine is no longer even attached to the plane as it starts to tumble downwards towards the ground. His hand scrambles for the ejection handle and tries to yank, but—of course it’s jammed. He pushes the emergency release instead and the canopy disengages from the plane. The wind slams into him with full force, and envelops him fully as he releases the seat belt.
“Requesting air support,” Bruce calls into his comm, extending the glider in his cape. It will slow his descent, but he’s in for a harsh landing if no one responds in the next minute or so. “Now would be good.”
“Copy that, almost there,” Lantern says. Bruce spots Diana below, taking the full force of an energy blast with her shield. The ground’s closing in fast. At this point, his velocity is too great for his grapple to break his fall without snapping, but if Lantern doesn’t get there in time and it’s his only option—
He feels the displacement of air before the wind rushes past his ears at full force. Bruce grunts as his momentum abruptly slows down, his cape jerking back as something grabs hold of it. There’s a moment where he tries to reorient himself, obviously still high up in the air, but no longer on his way to become a smear on the pavement. He thinks at first it must be Lantern, although he can’t see the telltale green glow of his constructs. Shayera, then.
They’re closing in on the ground at a tolerable pace, aiming for where the android still has Diana in a deadlock. There’s something strange about the way they’re cutting through the air, like they’re sailing rather than flying.
It’s not until he feels a warm puff of air from above that he puts two and two together.
A dozen feet from the ground, the grip on his cape releases and he tucks and rolls. He stays crouched as a massive tremor rocks the ground, the immense weight of a large creature landing right behind him. Its shadow settles over him, and a rumbling growl ripples through the air.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the towering column of a scaly forelimb stretching upwards, connecting to an enormous torso some thirty feet above. The scales on its limbs are dark as gleaming sapphire, while sparkling gold adorns the underside of its belly, running up the length of its throat. Sharp, curved talons at the ends of its feet digs into the asphalt. He’s close enough to one of its legs to feel the heat radiate from its body—warm-blooded, unlike a reptile.
It’s the first time Bruce is seeing it face to face and it seems so much larger in real life. Especially as it is leaning over him, one large limb moving backwards with the sound of grinding rock as scales shift against scales and its claws rake along the ground. Its long, serpentine neck lowers and curves, and hot air drafts along the ground as a colossal head comes into view. A series of spiked frills sprouts from its diamond-shaped head, running over the top of its neck and down its back, out of view from where Bruce is standing.
A huge, shimmering eye fixes itself on Bruce. The pupil is vertically elongated like a snake’s, surrounded by an iris the color of brilliant cerulean. It gives a slow blink as Bruce stares, fully transfixed. There’s intelligence in its eyes, but also something more. Emotion. Almost…recognition, although—
The eye sharpens and looks beyond Bruce. In a move much faster than something that size should be able to achieve, the creature lunges forward, making Bruce duck his head as its massive body shifts above him. The ground cracks with a heavy impact, the shockwave nearly knocking him off his feet. As the dust settles, Bruce turns to see one of its large feet lifting away from a crater in the ground. At the center of it, sparks flicker from the android’s crumbling form. Its exposed core burns a sickly green. Despite its rough shape, it clambers to its feet and in less than a second it’s flinging itself forward into battle again.
A long silver blade springs from its arm. The android leaps forward and the blade embeds deep into the creature’s leg, straight through its thick hide. A sharp, piercing howl cuts through the air, so loud it makes Bruce’s ears ring, so powerful the air vibrates with its frequency.
The glowing coil of Diana’s lariat curls around the android’s bladed arm and pulls it back. As it retracts, black blood pours from the creature’s wound and spills to the ground, sizzling. Steam rises from the puddle of blood. The acrid smell stings in his nose.
He pulls an explosive batarang from his belt and aims for the core, darting forward to get clear should the beast suddenly happen to flinch and accidentally crush Bruce underneath one of its limbs. The batarang detonates and Diana drags the android back, but its core seems undamaged. It looks as if it’s some sort of crystal, maybe.
Before Bruce can open his mouth to call out for Diana, the android shakes the lasso off. Thrown off balance, Diana doesn’t have time to recover before the next energy blast hits her square in the face. She’s left dazed while the android starts charging up another blast. Bruce reaches for his grapnel gun, intending to retreat to higher ground, but there’s no buildings around here, nowhere for him to retreat to. Except for—Bruce shoots his grapnel towards the creature’s shoulder, and the hooks catch on its scales. Hopefully it won’t mind.
Right before he’s about to retract the grapnel, he notices the android doesn’t spare Bruce a single look; it’s aiming straight for the creature, which lets out a threatening growl. Bruce sees its lips pull back into a sneer, revealing a row of razor sharp teeth, each one longer than his arm. It spreads its wings, raised wide like the war sails of a battle ship. The sun passing through the scarlet of its wing membranes tinges the scene in a bloodthirsty red. It opens its mouth and frost sparkles in the back of its throat, but it doesn’t get the chance to release the icy breath as the android dashes forward lightning fast. It launches itself blade first into the creature’s chest, and its core flares brightly before it bursts and shatters, detonating like a grenade.
Bruce throws his cape up in front of his face to catch the flying shrapnel, but a bright green construct blinks into existence in front of him to shield him. The air splits with a deafening bellow, so loud he feels it reverberate in his chest. As the light construct dissipates, he sees a pool of steaming blood flooding the ground underneath the creature. It staggers, wings trembling for a brief moment before it casts itself into the air, rocking the earth with its launch.
With Bruce still attached via grapnel. He clenches the gun in his hands and secures the line to his belt without thinking as he hurtles through the air. He should hit the release, and he’s half a moment away from calling into his comm for assistance, but he thinks of the blood and the gaping wound in the creature’s chest. It’s hurt. It might need help. His fingers click the switch for the retraction and he finds himself flattened against a patch of warm and surprisingly smooth scales. Bruce has no idea if the creature even knows he’s there; he has to notice as Bruce’s hands scramble for a hold and grips a crimson spike at the side of its neck, hauling him over the top of its shoulder. But it doesn’t shake him off, and there’s no acknowledgement from it. It could be too out of it from the pain and the blood loss. So Bruce might have a chance here.
“Batman,” Lantern’s voice crackles in his comm. It’s barely audible over the air whistling past with every beat of the beast’s wings. “Do—”
“Stay and help with the clean-up. I’ll be in touch.”
There might’ve been a reply, but Bruce doesn’t hear it as his head starts to spin as they accelerate faster than he thought physically possible. He clenches his eyes shut to fight against the vertigo, pressing his head to the creature’s scales. Super speed. That must be why Bruce’s satellites haven’t been able to track its flight patterns.
It’s only been seconds when he feels them start to slow down, shifting towards the ground. Its wing beats are more sluggish, faltering, and Bruce realizes they’re not landing as much as they’re falling. If he strains his hearing, he can hear the being’s breaths growing heavier and more labored. It’s probably on the verge of passing out and the ground is quickly approaching. Bruce tightens his grip, bracing himself.
Bruce lifts his head, though he can’t see much from up here on its back. What he does make out is the freezing cold against his face and the bright sun overhead. That’s the last thing Bruce notices before the harsh force of the impact flings him from its back, the ground coming up to meet him as he slams against it, unconscious.
Bruce wakes with a breath of shockingly cold air. He coughs and gasps as his lungs and throat struggle to warm the air he swallows down desperately. Slowly but surely, breathing becomes easier, and after a moment he no longer feels like he’s choking on ice. His body is sore and bruised from his fall and his mouth tastes like metal. When he’s able to blink his eyes open, he’s blinded by a field of stark, endless white. Snow drifts lazily to the ground, a soft breeze sends swirls of snowflakes dancing across the icy ground.
A glance at his gauntlet tells him he’s currently located in the Arctic. Wonderful. He’s only been out for a few minutes by looking at the clock, but he notifies the League and Alfred that he’s alive and to send a plane to his location, though it will take hours to get here. The creature has apparently dragged him as far away from human civilization as possible. Speaking of…
Bruce looks out over the barren landscape. There’s no tracks on the ground, no trace of the creature. Just snow and ice for miles and miles ahead. He turns, and that’s when he sees it.
Towering spires of gleaming crystal springs from the ground, stretching towards the sky. The sunlight throws glittering reflections from the crystalline surface, showering the area with a resplendent glow. The crystals form a jagged dome and there’s a wide and tall entrance carved in the front, gaping like the mouth of a cave. As Bruce nears the entrance, tracks of blackened blood become visible where the snow has melted from its heat. The air smells of sulfur. His stomach turns. It’s a lot of blood.
The mouth of the cave opens into what must be a corridor, large enough for the creature to be able to navigate with its immense size. The walls shimmer with lucent sunlight. Inside, the air is tepid and humid, and the change in temperature hits him like a slap to the face. Smooth, crystal tiles clack underneath his boots as he steps forth, following the blood trail as it disappears around a corner. It’s strangely quiet in a way that has his chest constricting, making him fear the worst. There’s loose scales interspersed with the blood; at first just one or two individual scales here and there, but as he goes in further, entire patches of skin and scales starts appearing.
A vast space opens up before him, a large circular chamber with the same crystalline construction as the rest of the building. Bruce’s gaze falls upon a large sheet of scales, dulled in color like a lizard’s shed skin and specked with glistening blood. The trail stops here, but the creature is nowhere to be found, as if it’s disappeared into thin air. Bruce looks around. A large opening in the ceiling allows the sunlight to pool in the center of the chamber, bathing the pile of shed scales in bright light. Something there catches his eye and he walks over to investigate, hoping he can find a clue as to where the creature has gone. Circling closer, his gaze falls upon a humanoid shape among the mass of scales, and Bruce starts. A pit of dread opens in his stomach. He blinks. It’s a man. It’s…
It can’t be.
Clark.
Clark is ashen, skin turned a sickly pallor, his face creased in pain. Bruce falls to his knees with his heart in his throat and checks for a pulse. He gasps in relief when his fingers press against Clark’s carotid and feels his fluttering pulse, sluggish but there. Bruce frowns. Clark’s skin is tacky, covered in a thin membrane that separates from his skin at Bruce’s touch. Strips of scaly skin and lamina are still attached to his legs and abdomen, slowly sloughing off with his weak movements. Christ. Okay. He’ll worry about—whatever this is later. Clark is alive, but unconscious, and still grievously injured. That’s Bruce’s priority right now.
His eyes catch a glimpse of green on Clark’s chest, where a shard of green mineral pierces the skin above his heart. He can’t tell how deep it’s embedded, if it’s touching any vital organs or just sitting superficially. At the moment, it’s tamponading the bleeding, but the veins around the wound are pulsing with an ugly color, as if it’s poisoning him. It’s killing him.
Making a split-second decision, Bruce grasps the shards and yanks it out. Blood sprays from the wound and Clark arches off the ground with a pained gasp. Bruce throws the piece of mineral as far as he can before turning back to Clark. Pulling a trauma dressing out of his belt, he presses it to Clark’s chest.
“You’re okay,” Bruce promises. Clark’s eyelids are fluttering, and one of his hands lifts weakly to his chest, brushing against Bruce’s gauntlets. “I got you.”
A groan escapes Clark’s lips. Noise, that’s good. His breathing is already better, stronger. The mineral must’ve been exceptionally toxic to him.
“Bruce,” Clark mumbles, and if Bruce wasn’t already laser-focused on applying pressure to Clark’s wound, he would’ve frozen like a deer in headlights. He can’t know, can he? Clark’s delirious, he’s hypovolemic and in shock. It’s just the shock talking.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Bruce says, making a great effort to keep his voice even and neutral. He stares down at the dressing, soaked in dark red blood. It’s so hot he can feel the scorching heat even through his gauntlets. “I have back-up on the way.”
“Bruce,” he says again, clearer now. Bruce hesitates for a brief moment before he turns his head to look at Clark. His eyes are open and lucid, vertical pupils watching Bruce with obvious recognition. He looks exhausted, but not incoherent. “You’re blocking the light.”
He blinks. Bruce looks up at the skylight. Ah. He shifts backwards on his haunches, keeping his hands on the bandage, but moving out of the way to let the light soak into Clark’s skin. It seems to wash away the pain from Clark’s bones, flooding his skin with a healthy glow as he sighs in relief. The rest of the scales have fallen off by now and he looks to be completely human again, at least on the outside. His eyes are back to normal too, pupils shrinking to a normal circular appearance. Underneath Bruce’s hands, he feels the flesh knitting itself back together again. When he removes his hands, the skin underneath is smooth and unmarred; he touches it lightly, feeling the freshly healed skin. Remarkable.
“You came to help me,” Clark says quietly, breaking Bruce’s reverie. Clark is looking at him with admiration, a smile playing on his lips.
“You were hurt.” Bruce swallows. “I followed, thinking I could gather intel, study it—you.”
“Oh. Ever the detective.” Clark rolls his eyes, sitting up to face Bruce. His voice is light, trying to ease the tension in the room. “I should’ve expected nothing less from you.”
“When did you find out?” Bruce says. Clark didn’t seem surprised, so he must’ve known Bruce’s identity for some time. Bruce breathes deeply, evenly, in an attempt to calm his racing mind and stay centered. If Clark has been lying to him for so long—
“I always did,” Clark says, and here his eyes flicker away, tinged with guilt. “Your suit doesn’t hide your—scent.”
“Are you saying I don’t shower well enough?” Bruce says, affronted. Clark’s been leading him along from the start. “You’ve known from the very beginning. And you never said anything.”
“My senses are very acute. And don’t look at me like that. You weren’t exactly very forthcoming, yourself. I was waiting for you to be ready to tell me.”
“You lied to me—”
“So did you!”
“I—it’s not the same thing.” Bruce grits his teeth. His heart hammers against his ribs. He needs to be rational about this. It’s still Clark. It’s him. But there’s so much more to him Bruce never knew about. It’s a lot to take in and he knows he’s not handling it in the best manner. “I didn’t lie about—” Bruce snaps his mouth shut.
“About being human?”
“Well,” Bruce says. “That does seem an important detail.”
“It’s not exactly something you bring up on a first date. And…Bruce, I am sorry. I was going to tell you. It’s just…tell me you understand. Please.”
One of Clark’s hands twitches, as if he wants to each out but then thinks better of it. His shoulders are hunched in on themselves, and for a moment he seems unsure. Scared. Vulnerable.
“No,” Bruce says, because he doesn’t, and Clark’s face falls. He can’t understand what it must be like for Clark; to soar the open skies and feel the sun shine on his scales; to know there’s no one else in the world like him; to be so absolutely other that he’s forced to make himself small, wearing a different skin in order to fit in.
It’s more than Bruce can understand, and it’s unfair for Clark to have to carry that burden on his own. But Bruce wants to learn. He wants to help. He wants Clark, and while that seems to be more than Bruce initially signed up for, Bruce isn’t one to back down from a challenge.
“But it doesn’t matter,” Bruce says honestly. Clark looks at him, startled, as Bruce takes his hand between his own, and raises it to his lips. A smile dawns over Clark’s face, bright sparkling delight in the creases of his eyes. Clark’s laughter is a joyful sound, and he surges forward to wrap Bruce up in a tight hug, embracing him in his furnace-hot warmth and toppling them both to the floor.
After a moment, the pressure relents and Clark leans back and presses their foreheads together.
“Hey,” Clark says, breath gusting against Bruce’s lips. “Happy anniversary.”
Clark kisses him slowly and delicately, like a dream come true, like a fantasy made real. He tastes like a hearth, like glowing embers and incandescent comfort and the feeling of coming home. Bruce kisses him again, and again, and doesn’t stop until Clark’s brilliance crowds out every doubt and every fear, until his radiance makes Bruce forget there’s a whole world out there waiting for them. Until it’s just Clark, and Bruce. Bruce’s heart soars, full of luminous love, and Bruce thinks that if Clark wasn’t holding him down he might just float away.