Work Text:
Bruce’s mornings are usually spent in bed, trying to ignore the pain in his hips and his knees as he finally gets up and answers Alfred’s insistent calls to breakfast. He expects to find Alfred waiting patiently in the kitchen, arms crossed and ready to tie Bruce to a chair if he needs to.
Instead, there’s Clark Kent, eating his toast and drinking his orange juice and decidedly not dead.
Alfred could’ve warned him.
“Scoot over, will you?” Bruce grumbles, because it’s easier than asking Clark how he’s alive or when he came back to life or where he’s been for the past two months.
“Good morning to you too,” Clark says, but he does so nonetheless. Bruce thinks that this is the first time he’s seen Clark smiling up close, and it makes Bruce’s chest hurt.
“Master Bruce doesn’t exactly do good mornings,” Alfred says, not even looking up from the eggs he’s masterfully frying from across the room.
Bruce loves Alfred. He does. Sometimes, though, he also wishes Alfred would just leave him alone in the mornings.
“Because he’s a creature of the night?” Clark asks. Bruce should feel annoyed by the obvious amusement in Clark’s voice, but he isn’t.
“Why, of course, Master Clark,” Alfred agrees mildly, and the look he sends Clark’s way is already fond.
Bruce supposes Clark has that effect on people. It took Bruce a couple of years, having only warmed up to Superman after the incident, but like Alfred would imply, blame it on his stubborn ass. It doesn’t matter anyway. He trusts Clark now, trusts this person trying to do the right thing in ways Bruce never can as Batman.
“I’m glad you’re getting along,” Bruce mutters, stealing a piece of bacon off Clark’s plate and taking a sip from Clark’s glass. It’s supposed to be his breakfast anyway.
“Yes, well, Master Clark isn’t as difficult as you are, that’s for sure,” Alfred says, and honestly, see if Bruce ever gives him another raise.
“I’m not sure Perry White would agree with you. I never did write those sports features he assigned me,” Clark says, but there’s an edge to his voice, and—of course. It isn’t just Superman who’s supposed to be dead. Clark is, too, and his resurrection would be a little harder to explain than Superman’s.
“Too busy going after some poor, unassuming bat vigilante,” Bruce says. He ignores the sound of Alfred and Clark scoffing.
“Right. Batman, poor,” Clark says slowly. “Like he doesn’t have billions of dollars’ worth of gadgets.”
Bruce grunts. “Shut up, Kent. It’s too early in the morning for this.”
“It’s eleven o’clock,” Clark deadpans, and it’s what Bruce expects him to say. However, he doesn’t expect what comes next. “And call me Clark.”
Bruce stares at him for a moment and wonders if, for those two months he was supposed to be dead, anyone’s ever called him by his name.
“Shut up, Clark,” Bruce says eventually, turning his gaze down to the plate of eggs Alfred’s somehow put in front of him without him noticing. It really is too early for this.
He doesn’t see the relief on Clark’s face, or the way his grin now reaches his eyes until they’re crinkling. It doesn’t matter. Bruce wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway.
Clark stays over that night, swayed by Alfred’s unwavering requests for him to rest and take one of the many spare rooms Bruce has.
“I can stay at a hotel in the city,” Clark keeps saying at first, his cheeks tinged pink as he tries his best not to sound like he means any offense. “I’ve been working odd jobs so I have some money to spa—”
“Nonsense. You’re a friend of the family and we have a perfectly good room right here,” Alfred says, and Bruce knows that tone. He’s not going to take no for an answer.
Clark eventually relents, saying, “Alright, I suppose. Just one night.”
Bruce wonders how many times Martha Kent has held Clark’s face, looking up at him with a kind smile and asking him sit down and eat with her, take a break. Clark looks like he could use it right now and even though Alfred does well enough when it comes to motherhenning costumed heroes, Bruce doesn’t think even Alfred can reach out to Clark better than his own mother can.
They can try, though.
“Why don’t you stay over another night?” Bruce tells Clark the next day. “I could use some help figuring out how to talk to Aquaman.”
The day after that, Bruce asks for help with a local case—a string of kidnappings targeting street children. Then, the day after that, Bruce asks for Clark’s opinion about his new designs for his heavily armored suit.
Again and again and again until eventually, Bruce doesn’t have to ask anymore.
“No one else knows,” Clark says one day. He’s standing at the door of Bruce’s office, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Well, technically, it’s Bruce’s shirt, which is why it hangs a little loose on Clark.
“Alright,” Bruce replies, because now he knows to guard this secret more closely.
“Not even my mom,” Clark continues, and that makes Bruce pause his reading, makes him look up at Clark and purse his lips in concern.
He isn’t sure what to say. They don’t talk about things like this. They don’t talk about things too close to their hearts.
Maybe it’s time to change that.
“My mother’s name was Martha. Did you know that?” Bruce says, setting his tablet down.
Clark hesitates, crosses the room to sit down beside Bruce, and keeps his head hung low. “After I—well. When I was able to get on a computer again, it wasn’t so hard to find that out.”
Bruce nods. “She used to tell me that Gotham was a great city. The people just need some help, someone to pull them back up. We could be those people, she said. We should be those people. When my parents died, I lost my way for a while. I forgot what she taught me. But eventually, I found my way back to her.”
It takes Clark a while to respond, but Bruce just sits still and waits.
“Is this your way of telling me I should tell my mom I’m alive?” Clark says eventually, and Bruce doesn’t notice the tinge of amusement in his voice.
“Yes,” Bruce says, because it is. Because Martha Kent deserves so much more than this. “I’m not going to force you to do it, Clark, but you know you’re going to have to tell her someday. Lois Lane, too.”
There are lines in Clark’s forehead when he frowns. Bruce decides he doesn’t like seeing them at all.
“I miss her so much,” Clark says, and Bruce isn’t sure if he’s talking about Martha or Lois or both, but he reaches out and squeezes Clark’s shoulder comfortingly, just to say that he knows. He knows and he can’t do anything about it but he’s here for Clark.
Bruce doesn’t expect Clark to surge forward and wrap his arms around Bruce’s neck, or tuck his nose in the crook between Bruce’s neck and shoulder, or to stay there, his breath ghosting over Bruce’s skin.
“I know,” Bruce murmurs against the top of Clark’s hair. If Dick were here, he’d say that if Superman hugs you, there’s nothing else to do but hug back. And so Bruce does. “I know.”
“How’s Diana?”
Bruce pulls at his necktie, but he doesn’t even bother taking it off all the way because the couch is right there and he swears it’s calling to him.
“She’s asked for Poseidon’s help in finding Aquaman,” Bruce says, wrinkling his nose a little bit because Greek gods actually roaming the Earth—Jason would have an aneurysm if he knew they were real and available for interrogation on how real the Iliad is. But of course, Bruce shuts down that thought right away, careful to keep it locked away where it can’t eat him alive. “Apparently, he’s sending her on a quest before he gives her his location. She said it might take another week or so.”
Clark smiles. “Typical Greek god, eh?”
Bruce doesn’t roll his eyes, but he allows a small upturn of his mouth. Clark sees it, of course, with vision like his, but Bruce likes to think that they’ve spent enough time with each other that Clark doesn’t actually need superpowers to see.
“But actually, I was asking how Diana is,” Clark says, just a little bit of wryness slipping in his tone, “not how her mission is going.”
Bruce stares at Clark for a moment, because he knows Clark is a good person, but sometimes, he gets caught off guard and suddenly he can’t wrap his head around just how good Clark is—how selfless and passionate and brave he is. Clark opens himself up to the world and yet he’s a wonder and a mystery all the same.
“She’s doing fine,” Bruce says eventually. Then, hesitantly, he adds, “She—she’s been talking to Lois.”
Clark’s eyebrows furrow, as if he doesn’t know what to do with that information. “Lois? Really?”
“Diana’s looking after her,” Bruce remarks, because Diana hasn’t really told him much, but he knows she’s been trying to keep Lois safe—or as safe as a reporter of Lois’ caliber and stubbornness can be. It’s her way of honoring Superman’s memory, Bruce supposes, just like his is bringing all the metahumans together in order to protect this world Clark loves so much.
Clark sighs, and it’s like the world’s been lifted off his shoulders. “I’m glad.”
Bruce nods and lets himself smile a little bit in the hopes that it’ll get Clark to smile again.
“I’m glad too.”
Sometimes, Bruce wishes that he didn’t feel so alone in Gotham.
He has Alfred and Barbara in his ear, of course, but Dick is deep undercover and Selina’s never really been a team player. Commissioner Gordon is a friend, though he and Bruce keep their distance, if only for the sake of the image the police have to keep up.
Really, Bruce just misses Jason. He misses having someone fighting beside him and hearing Jason or Dick’s laughter as they swing into the night and having someone to nag about doing their homework or training or not trying to adopt all the cats in Crime Alley.
And Bruce—Bruce feels so guilty for wanting that again. For wanting to endanger even more people just because of his own loneliness and selfishness.
Except one day, Timothy Drake shows up on his doorstep and demands to be Robin. He barges into Bruce’s house and shows himself to the living room, but he stops short when he sees Clark, sitting on the couch, hair damp and glasses perched on his nose as he browses the web on Bruce’s laptop.
“You’re alive,” Tim says, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise.
“I’m alive,” Clark confirms.
“You’re Superman,” Tim says, and Bruce supposes he should have expected that as well.
“He knows I’m Batman,” Bruce says when Clark looks at him for answers.
“How did that happen?” Clark muses, and already, he sounds like he’s just accepted it.
“I figured out that Dick Grayson was the first Robin. After all, there are some things only a Grayson can do,” Tim says, shrugging a shoulder as if what he’s done is no big deal.
“Who else do you know about?” Clark asks, and Bruce is glad for that because he doesn’t think he could have found the nerve to ask it himself.
Tim flails a little bit, and it makes Bruce want to put a hand on his shoulder and steady him, ask if he’s okay, and sic Alfred on his too-tiny frame.
“Batgirl, though I suppose she doesn’t go by that name anymore.” Tim pauses, hesitates, and of course, Bruce knows what he’s going to say next. “Robin. Jason.”
Bruce nods, but he can’t help the way his shoulders tense and his jaw clenches when he hears Jason’s name again.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Clark says, standing up so he can cross the room and kneel in front of Tim so that they’re eye to eye.
“Timothy Drake.”
Clark smiles and extends a hand that Tim shakes.
“I’m Clark Kent, but I suppose you know that too. It’s nice to meet you.”
Bruce supposes if Clark trusts the kid well enough, he should as well.
It wouldn’t hurt to run a background check, though. Clark would understand.
“I want to tell them. I want to tell my mother and Lois,” Clark says one day.
“Alright,” Bruce replies, even though Clark doesn’t actually need his permission. “Do you need me to come with you?”
Clark doesn’t even think about it, just blurts out, “Yes.”
Bruce nods and reaches over the table to hold Clark’s hand and squeeze it comfortingly.
“I’ll get the car.”
One night, Bruce lies in a warehouse with bullet wounds littering his body and his suit torn apart. It’s a miracle he hasn’t bled out yet, especially since he only has two hands to staunch the bleeding happening in ten different parts of his body.
“I’m sorry,” Alfred says over the comm.
“For what?” Bruce manages to choke out, because he should be the one apologizing, not Alfred. Because he drinks and he fights and sometimes he feels like he’s just doing this—being Batman—just because it’s all he knows to do. Because he’s probably the most difficult person to take care of and yet Alfred’s stayed with him for all forty-three years of his life.
“For what’s coming,” Alfred says, and for a moment, Bruce thinks he means death. And death wouldn’t be so bad, he supposes. Diana can handle protecting the world, especially with Barry and Arthur already having agreed to help. He’s sure Victor will as well, just as soon as they can get past Silas Stone.
And Clark—well. Sometimes, Bruce thinks about his dream of Superman becoming a dictator and Bruce having apparently been at fault for it. He thinks about it now, and he thinks maybe a world without Batman might not be a bad thing after all.
But he doesn’t have a choice in this matter, because there’s a boom in the air and glass shattering and then he’s in the air, held so gently and so carefully even as Clark keeps him close to his chest.
“You’re going to be fine, Bruce. You’re going to be fine,” Clark is saying, and it makes Bruce want to nose at his cheek and never let go.
“Of course I’m going to be fine,” Bruce rasps. “I’m Batman.”
Clark chokes out a laugh, hysterical and pained and definitely not as happy as Bruce is used to. “Yes, you are.”
Bruce hums, because he can’t really come up with anything else when his vision is blurring and his lids are getting heavier and heavier with every second that passes.
“Bruce, you have to stay with me. You have to stay awake,” Clark says.
It’s cold. Bruce is used to standing on rooftops and swinging across buildings and flying in a helicopter, but flying with Clark’s a whole different experience altogether. He leans into Clark’s warmth and tries not to fall asleep.
“I will.”
When Bruce comes to, two days have passed.
Clark’s standing vigil on his bedside and there’s a newspaper on his nightstand with a headline saying, Streak in the Sky, Bat or Not?
“Alfred’s frightening when you’re injured,” is the first thing Clark says to him.
“I know,” Bruce says, because he was there every time Dick or Jason went home with blood soaking their suits. He’s seen Alfred pull them onto a chair and start working on their injuries and making it look like they have no other choice but sit there and let Alfred just happen.
“You had nightmares. Alfred told me it was normal,” Clark says, sounding worried. Like he didn’t die. Like Bruce didn’t have to watch him die and go to his funeral and have nightmares about Doomsday stabbing Clark in the chest.
“It is,” is the only thing Bruce says, because he’s only just woken up and he finds he doesn’t want to scare Clark away.
Clark frowns. “I wish it didn’t have to be.”
Bruce does too.
Bruce has to stay in bed for three more days. Clark stays with him through all of it, doing Alfred’s bidding and letting Bruce work on his laptop for a maximum of only three hours a day.
Then, after his work is taken away from him, Bruce shuffles over to one side of the bed as Clark settles beside him, and he’s forced to watch nighttime television.
Sometimes, on Tuesdays, Alfred brings along one of the armchairs from Bruce’s office and sits with them. Sometimes, Tim comes by to take some of the work off Bruce’s hands, which Bruce always grumbles about even though Clark and Alfred both seem happy enough about it.
“You’re all so old,” Tim complains when a classic movie comes on and everyone else mumbles and nods in approval.
“You’re just tiny,” Clark says, rolling his eyes.
“Clark isn’t that old,” Bruce defends, because Clark is eleven years younger than he is and he doesn’t deserve this kind of rude.
“The movie is starting,” Alfred says, and Bruce can practically hear it in his tone how he’s struggling not to ruffle both Clark’s and Tim’s hair and ask them to please settle down, children.
Everyone listens, of course, because it’s Alfred and no one dares disobedience when it comes to Alfred. Except Bruce when he’s being especially stubborn, but that doesn’t count because he’s Bruce and he was here first.
So Bruce wraps himself tighter in his blanket and he also maybe shuffles a little closer to Clark because Clark is a living, breathing furnace and Bruce is recovering from his wounds, okay, he can indulge himself.
And it’s all good anyway, because Clark takes it as his cue to wrap an arm around Bruce’s waist and tuck himself into Bruce’s side and press the top of his head against Bruce’s cheek.
“The first time I watched this movie was with my Ma and Pa. There were cookies on the table and Ma made me hot chocolate before we sat down and played it on the VCR,” Clark murmurs.
“Every Friday, I would watch a movie or a play with my parents,” Bruce says. “No matter how busy or tired they were, they would always make time for me. We watched this together when I was seven. I didn’t appreciate it back then, but I do now.”
“I’m sorry,” Clark says.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Bruce says, and it’s true. He doesn’t know why Clark’s saying sorry and why he constantly feels like he needs to be sorry or like he should apologize for things that aren’t his fault. Bruce remembers the US Capitol bombing and the Nairomi incident and he wonders again if he should’ve branded Lex Luthor like he intended.
“I’m sorry,” Clark repeats.
You can’t save everyone, Bruce wants to say. Not people in the past. Not people who have already been dead for thirty-five years.
But he doesn’t because now isn’t the time for this conversation. Tonight, Clark’s supposed to be relaxing and watching a movie and drifting off to sleep with a smile on his face.
So Bruce presses a kiss against Clark’s hair, doesn’t whisper his grievances into the curls, and keeps his silence.
The day finally comes when Lex’s words ring true.
Of course, Clark’s standing in front of the Batmobile, dressed in his Superman garb, standing tall and ready to protect his world once again.
“I’m coming with you,” Clark says, and Bruce knows from his tone alone that he’s been thinking about this for a while now.
“Alright,” Bruce says, because he can’t exactly stop Superman, nor does he have any reason to.
Clark smiles his brilliant, beautiful smile, and Bruce hopes that they survive the next few days for him to see that smile again. “Thank you, Bruce.”
And that’s just bullshit, Bruce thinks, because Clark has done more for Bruce than Bruce has ever done for him. Because Clark brought Bruce back to the Batman he should be. Because Clark has been the light in this house, and because even though Bruce is the strategist between the two of them, Clark always seems to be better at the decisions that actually matter—the decisions involving people they care about the most.
“Are you flying?” Bruce asks.
“Not that I don’t love your car, but I’d like to be able to stretch my legs,” Clark says.
Bruce glares. “You’re shorter than I am. You don’t have the right to complain.”
Clark ignores him, the bastard.
“Clark,” Bruce calls just as Clark’s getting ready to fly away. Clark pauses, tilts his head to show he’s listening. “Try not to give them a heart attack when you show up.”
Clark does fly away, then, but not before Bruce hears him laugh.
It’s enough.