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Sleep was a rarity for Bruce Wayne. What didn’t pull him towards his suit late at night ran around his head until he had no choice but to awaken. There was likely some irony to this - surely the man who thrived in shadow would conquer them as easily as he did the common criminal. He who striketh fear in one must draw from somewhere, Master Wayne. Truly, Alfred was a master of poetic insight.
Grunting, Bruce swung his legs over the side of the bed. Silver moonlight flooded the open room, casting long, foreboding shadows. The price of a glass wall, it seemed. He grimaced. A dull ache gnawed at his lower back. And upper back – really everywhere, damned Kryptonians and their inhuman strength…train of thought derailed, cradling his head. Never once would he dare to view his life as a walk in the park. Bravado be damned, he’d seen hell, and anyone who knew him well (namely Alfred) knew that. His past littered his body like a map, ghosts occasionally flickering behind his eyes. Bruce Wayne hadn’t only seen hell, he’d been given a personal tour through it. Like some bastardized Dante’s Inferno. He was starting to sound like his butler.
The truth, however, lay in distraction. A deep sigh rattled his aching form, threatening to fold him in two. Though a resilient man at heart, Bruce found himself relenting, carding through his salt-and-pepper hair. It was easier before. Gotham was his – the Batman’s home. Bruce Wayne was the cover, moving seamlessly through the surface level. Like two sides of a – ha – coin, he’d memorized the city. Knew what to expect, and likewise where he stood within it. A hero in so many words. A monster in some others…and underneath it all, a man. A man so buried in his grief he’d assumed the very role he’d stood against. Sent a good man to his grave on the grounds of personal vision.
From tourist to Hades himself.
Your parents would be proud.
“Fuck—”
Arms dropped, smacking his knees with a sharp THWAP. Bruce stood, raking through his hair once more. ‘This isn’t my fault’ danced on the tip of his tongue but it was, it was, Superman (Clark Kent) was dead and left Bruce holding the kryptonite-infused scythe. Spear. Close enough. At some point he’d begun pacing, clueing only when his step slowed. You’re one of them, you said so, yourself. No, he’d specified. Criminal did not mean killer. He stopped, gaze flitting towards the door. Another place, time, he might vacate his quarters; rouse his eldest friend from sleep and seek his wistful answer. Alas, Alfred had already relayed such wisdom – hammered Bruce day after day until it faded to white noise in his disillusioned vigor. There’d be nothing left to say but I told you so.
Too little, too late to realize.
A second or two longer, then he tore his gaze away. “I need a drink,” Bruce muttered, turning back towards the bed. Where had he misplaced his robe? Not that he explicitly required it; walking about so late appeared less despairing in one’s evening coat—
The silver lighting flickered. Well-accustomed to the greenery in proximity to his home, Bruce spun around. A figure, cast in shadow, hovered over his deck. A cape billowed behind, weaving through the night’s glow; a likely culprit for the unexplained fluttering. The Batman-in-civilian-wear nearly stepped back, briefly calculating travel time verses this sudden presence. Could he make it to the Batcave without exposing his identity? What of Alfred? Could he fetch him or had he a better chance, luring this man away? For it was a man, that much was evident. Broad shouldered, muscled; if Bruce dared to look closer he might notice a square jawline…
Square jaw. Well-built. Levitation. Cape.
Now Bruce did back up, mouth agape, dark eyes wide. “…Impossible.” A step above impossible: this simply could not be. He’d condemned this man. Brought him home – went to the damn funeral. Know anyone else who fits his description?
No one yet discovered. No one who’d seek him out.
Beyond the glass, his would-be subject touched the ground, otherwise not moving. What does he want, what is he waiting for, has he come to kill me? If he had, it was well-deserved. Except… except the man he’d learned had been Clark Kent did not possess a murderous heart. Not unless (so it went) there’d been no choice. So why then, would he be here, now? Maybe I’m dead, Bruce thought. He closed his mouth. Maybe his body gave out, and he’d passed on in his sleep. Forced to face his crime day in and out for all eternity.
Again, well-deserved.
Drawing in a breath (which put in question his state of ethereal existence) he approached, moving as though treading thin ice. Eyes remained forward, fixed on the outline of his … of the man he’d wronged. Toe hit the door. He raised his hand. The glass slid away, nothing but night air between them.
“…Clark…” At first, meant as an inquiry. Closer, without reflection to distort, Superman’s blue eyes bore into his, unquestioned. Unreadable. Perhaps judgement lay in wait after all. Something tight, unpleasant, squeezed the elder man’s chest; despite best effort, his guard faltered. If Death had come to collect, what had he to lose? “I – I’m sorry. I never…shit,” Bruce went on, nerves slipping at a similar pace. “…this isn’t what I wanted.”
“What isn’t?” Quiet. So quiet, at first, he thought he’d imagined it. But Clark’s expression shifted; softer, sadder... the same face he’d seen that day.
“…your death.” Bruce continued. The words themselves tasted of ash. “I should have listened to you … should’ve listened to a lot of people.” Alfred, Lex… he should have found the pieces, earlier. Should have learned from his damned experiences and brought this whole thing to its clean-cut, natural end. Not every madman wore a costume. Not every costumed clown intended harm.
Silence settled over them; a frequent aid to the Batman. For Bruce, an uninvited guest. There was nowhere to hide, and even if there were, nothing would muffle his racing heart. How unnerving, he’d once thought, there existed beings impervious to basic human privacy. Detecting all but thought itself… it served him well, at present. Swallowing, his shoulders squared and straightened. True, the Kryptonian visitor (victim), possessed otherworldly senses. Yet somehow, amidst leaping tall buildings and outrunning speeding bullets, he too possessed a human spirit. So desperate to save his mother’s life he’d come to Batman for help. The man who’d openly threatened him. Who’d spent the last two years building an arsenal against him. The idiot who saw a threat that simply wasn’t. Clark had always been human, more than Bruce, more than anyone he’d known before or after.
“I’m sorry.” Reiterated Bruce, almost choking. The guilt hadn’t cleared from his throat. Of course not… A beat, waiting for the other to respond. When he didn’t, the taller man crossed the remaining distance between them. It was odd, looking down at someone he’d once deemed invulnerable. Had Clark always been leaner? A few inches shy of eyelevel? Does it matter? No… merely easier than obeying the straining organ in his chest. One arm rose. Clark flinched, but didn’t turn away. “It’s… really good to see you.” Bruce rasped, hovering next to the Kryptonian’s (human, he’s human) cheek. Inhale, exhale, then touching, curving, holding that prominent jaw. The younger man blinked. Beneath his palm Bruce thought he felt teeth grind. A warning or sign he’d gotten through?
Only one way to know for sure.
Second hand joined the first, between them cradling Clark’s chin. How oddly fragile he felt; as though if he squeezed hard enough, Bruce might crush him. He really didn’t suit a godly title, nor did he stand for one in marble. Yes, and? And nothing…flesh against flesh, warmth of breath, pulse beneath his chin, drove home the stake picking at the Batman’s heart. You murdered this man.
He wasn’t sure what led him forward. What sealed his mouth over the Man of Steel’s (in title only.) Maybe that’s what it is. Two years, two months and too many sleepless hours, he finally understood. The frightened son, the intuitive journalist, the man who bled like any other.
“Forgive me.” Murmured Bruce, breaking away at last. Say something, say anything, thrummed in time with his pulse. Tell me I’m absolved, or punish me as you see fit. As before, silence followed. Those damned blue eyes fluttered closed. Fuck, Wayne agonized, lowering his gaze. So much for forgiveness…
Quiet. So impossibly quiet, an ordinary individual might believe they’d misheard. Parched and punctured, too fragile to survive the world, alone. Head rose again, and sure enough, a space breached that previous tight-lipped line. Further inquiry shriveled, noticing the glimmer staining Clark’s cheek.
It didn’t take a seasoned vigilante to pinpoint the source.
“I-” Bruce faltered. You what? He’d played his hand, what else remained? I don’t know.
The farm boy in hero’s clothing must have. Another tear slid down his face. Wordlessly, he reached forward. “I need…”
“Need what—”
Eyes snapped open. Clark disappeared. Instead, a ceiling stretched above, spacious and…confusing. Where… drifted in and out of mind. Think, barked a voice, hanging, as it always was, above irritable panic, where the hell should you be?
The billionaire by day sat up, pulling at his hair. “…in bed.” He croaked, sagging. Where else would he be?
Depends on the night.
For the Batman, maybe. For Bruce…a heavy sigh. For Bruce, business carried on as usual. Another terror come to chase him awake. Another ghost without closure. Hands climbed down his face, curses slipping from his tongue. A soothing breeze rolled in, dissolving each word the moment it fell.
Breeze…?
He sat back, wounded muscles crying out. Paying no heed, Wayne scrambled out of bed; sure enough, the glass protecting his fourth wall lay tucked away. “Clark..!” Panting, grasping at the doorway he stopped, surveying his surroundings. If the Man of surmised steel had been here, he left no further indication. This is stupid, I was at the service. He’d also gone to bed with his door shut. Shoulders rolled forward, suddenly all too aware of his injuries. Using the wood as his guide, Bruce lowered to the floor. Clark was dead. The dead did not come back to life. Not on Earth…
Licking his bottom lip, he looked towards the sky. It would be dawn soon. The unfamiliar in-between for Gotham’s Knight and his alter ego. An open-ended question with no answer…and a place, it seemed of impossible possibility.
If Alfred could hear him now…