Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Darkness wasn’t something Clark Kent used to fear.

In his childhood, when he was still discovering his powers, darkness had been a relief; a space without noise, blinding lights, and the muffled screams his ears could pick up from miles away. A refuge.

But this darkness… It was different.

It was heavy; thick. Like a damp cloak that covered his thoughts, slowed his heartbeat and shrank his lungs. It felt like a dream where nothing happened, just… a vast darkness surrounding him, not suffocating, but one that didn’t let him feel anything beyond that dreamlike state.

Clark knew he was not indestructible, nor nearly as brave as many may believe. Superman was, but right now, he found himself in a situation that specifically required Clark Kent. That immense willpower Clark gave to Superman, a resilience that surrounded him and granted a strength more powerful than any physical force, something no superpower could ever provide.

It’s not that he pretended to be something he’s not, but when so many people look up to you as an example or a role model, you show them the best version of yourself you can. That hadn’t really been his original goal; he simply wanted to help people in general. But when he discovered his presence inspired something good in others, why not lean into that and allow it to become something greater? And what better way than by sharing a part of himself with the world? He liked that idea.

But now, at this moment, he was lost. The person he needed to save… was himself. He had made it through countless other situations; this wouldn’t be the exception. He just needed something to hold on to.

Something he could reach for or recognize easily. He stretched his awareness outward, hoping to find some point where he could feel more grounded.

Nothing. He felt exhausted as if something was pulling him back to the vast darkness. He decided to rest for a bit.

He tried again, this time trying to not exert himself.

Ba-dump

That’s it! Finally, a sound! He just needed to focus on the source it was coming from.

Ba-dump, ba-dump

He exhaled in relief, it was a heartbeat. Strong, steady, calm. He could feel his body reacting again, his brow furrowing as his awareness slowly began to regain a sense of presence.

Ba-dump, ba-dump, BA—, Ba-dump

The heartbeat had skipped a beat.

“--rk..?”

With the external accelerating pulse pounding in his ears, he slowly felt rays of sunlight concentrated on his skin, contrasting with the cold air around him, a scent of expensive cologne with a faint hint of salt. It all struck him at once, and yet… None of it felt familiar.

Except for one thing, that heartbeat. Fast, strained, like a drum in an orchestra.

He shifted on the surface beneath him, soft, warm. With hardship, he slowly opened his eyes.

“Clark…” The voice was deep. Serious. The kind of tone used to stop a catastrophe before it began.

A blink, a soft groan, and finally, their eyes met.

A man was there. Tall. Dark suit. Cape brushing the floor. Eyes hidden behind a mask that looked carved from the same shadow that surrounded him.

“Bruce.”

Clark didn’t know why that name came to him so quickly. He didn’t remember it clearly. It was like a word learned in another language, familiar, yet foreign. The connection was there, but not the meaning.

Clark blinked a few times, his gaze unfocused at first, before settling on Bruce. His brows furrowed slightly.

In a second, ‘Bruce’ grabbed his communicator.

“He’s awake!” He announced.

He heard exclamations on the other end of the line. But the man silenced the communicator and set it aside.

He took off his gloves, and his hands grasped the Kryptonian’s, feeling their warmth, noticing the contrast with his own.

“You had me worried,” he confessed in a whisper.

Clark smiled faintly, though his expression remained puzzled.

“Sorry… I didn’t mean to.”

Clark gently tried to sit up, and Bruce immediately placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t even think about it.” He said, sharply.

“I’m fine,” his voice came out hoarse, rough from disuse.

“Barely,” Bruce replied in a hard whisper.

Clark smiled again, not understanding the intensity in the other man’s eyes.

After a few moments, in a slow, inevitable movement, guided by instinct, Bruce let out a shaky exhale, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Clark’s forehead.

“What are you doing?” he chuckled nervously.

Batman took a step back.

Clark sat up more, now looking at him with concern.

“Are you okay?”

“Kal-El!” Diana entered the room cheerfully, followed by Martian Manhunter and Hal Jordan. “You had us so worried!”

Bruce didn’t even look at them. He just stepped aside to let them through.

Barry, arriving last, peeked in with a mix of relief and barely-contained excitement.

“Hey, big guy!” he called softly, raising a hand in an exaggerated wave. “You seem well! We thought we were going to have to beat you back to life.”

Clark looked up, still half-confused. He blinked several times.

“Flash…?” His voice was still low, like the name didn’t quite fit in his mind.

“Of course it’s me! Fast, handsome. Ring a bell? Maybe?”

“Uh… I think so?” Everyone shared concerned looks.

“Don’t push it.” Hal lightly pushed Barry in the shoulder. He looked at Superman, curiously. “Are you… feeling okay?”

“Lantern…” He sighed with a smile. “It’s hard to explain, I know who you all are, it's just… my mind somehow feels… foggy”.

Diana smiled, though her eyes stayed fixed on Clark with clinical attention. “It’s understandable,” she approached slowly. “You’ve been unconscious for several weeks.”

“Weeks you say?!” Clark, in a hurry, adjusted himself better to get a better view of everyone. Everyone around him tried to tell him to take it easy. “”What—” He looked around, he didn't recognise the place he was in. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the Hall of Justice… Well, the the infirmary, that is.” Said Hal, confused.

“The Hall of..-?” He felt as if a migraine was going to take over his mind. He pressed a hand to his temple with a grunt of pain.

“Your mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, take it easy. What’s the last thing you remember?” J’onn asked with curiosity.

“I’m not sure… Just a few flashes.”

“It doesn’t need to be anything specific,” Hal added.

“Well… I remember waking up, sending someone a good morning message, having breakfast, dressing formally because there was going to be some kind of award ceremony, I think.”

“What kind of award?” Barry asked.

“I, uh…” Clark looked thoughtful for a few moments, and the others’ faces were filled with confusion and anticipation. “A Pulitzer. I think… Someone I know was going to receive one.”

“Could he be talking about the award Lois Lane received?” Barry whispered to the others.

“Something else you remember?” Diana asked.

“I was called by one of you, to form some kind of… Alliance.”

A deathly silence filled the room.

“That was almost two years ago.” Hal said dreadfully.

“Kal, is that all you can recollect?” Diana sat on the edge of the bed, looking at him with anguish.

Clark sighed heavily. “I...”

“Maybe something related to what happened to you? A scent? Perhaps even a place? Maybe you could even remember someone or something familiar!” Barry asked, speeding up with each question.

“Barry!” Hal scolded. “One thing at a time, you’re going to overwhelm him.”

“Sorry! It’s just, doesn’t it freak you out that he can’t remember anything from the past two years?!”

“Flash—”

“He’s right… he barely knows who we are,” Diana said sadly.

That sparked a discussion among the present members, all except one.

Clark looked around. He paused on each of them with the confusion of someone remembering in broken pieces.

Until his eyes landed on Bruce, who stayed in the shadows, silent, lips tightly pressed.

“You were there…”

The words became murmurs before falling into absolute silence. Everyone turned to look at Batman.

Bruce kept his expression unreadable.

Clark tilted his head slightly. There was something else in that silent figure. Something he didn’t understand, but it hurt. Like a word he knew but couldn’t pronounce.

“I remember your voice...” He furrowed his brows, as he tried to recollect his memory. “You were calling my name.”

Bruce didn’t respond. His throat tightened.

Barry frowned. Hal exchanged looks with Diana while she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. J’onn watched in total silence, reading beyond the words.

“Spooky?” Hal whispered, surprised.

“Dark Knight, you can go rest. We’ll stay with him,” J’onn said.

“Hey, wait but—” Hal tried to make sense of what just happened.

J’onn looked at Diana, who received the message almost instantly. She knew this wasn’t the time to press any further yet.

“It’s okay, we all know how these three weeks have been, we don’t want to overwhelm anyone.” She looked directly at Bruce, smiling softly, giving him a nod.

And without another word, he left the room. The others watched him go, exchanging silent glances.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Clark heavily sighed.

“Don’t apologize, Kal,” Diana answered with a soft smile. “You’re just… still recovering. We’ll figure this out, you’ll see.”

But J’onn stared at him longer than the others.

Chapter Text

Bruce had been sitting by his side for what felt like an eternity, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of Superman’s chest with each shallow breath.

The others had offered to take shifts. Of course they had. The concern was genuine, the support unwavering. Diana, ever the diplomat, had insisted on making a schedule. But Bruce had refused. Calmly. Firmly. He told them he would take as many shifts as possible, all of them, if he could, save for a few hours at night when Alfred insisted he rest. Still, he returned before dawn each day, always before anyone else.

The League respected his determination. Diana, especially, admired what she thought was his composure. Living up to his title as a master strategist, spreading a sense of calm to the rest of the team. A master of control. A man of discipline.

But they didn’t see the truth.

They didn’t see the way he clenched his jaw until his teeth ached, how his fingers curled into fists when no one was watching. They didn’t see the storm beneath the cowl.

They didn’t know he was waiting.

Waiting for a sign. A sound. A breath that meant more than just muscle memory. Something real.

He told himself Clark would wake up. Told himself that Superman had to wake up.
Because if he didn’t…
Bruce didn’t let himself finish that thought. He had not once in three weeks.

And then, finally—

“Clark…” he breathed. His voice cracked before he could suppress it.

Clark’s skin shifted under his, his body responding, reclaiming presence.

Clark’s eyes opened.

Blue. Dazed. Searching.

He looked at him, and Bruce for a moment, stopped breathing.

Bruce said his name, maybe louder than he should’ve, and grabbed his comm without thinking. “He’s awake,” he told them. The words felt like a miracle.

Voices exploded through the line. But Bruce shut them out. Set the device aside.

This moment wasn’t for them.

He took off his gloves and grasped Clark’s hand. The warmth of it nearly buckled something in his chest.

“You had me worried,” he whispered. It was rushed, insufficient. But it was all he could get out.

Clark smiled faintly. Confused, but there. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to.”

It was such a Clark thing to say, even now, waking up after weeks unconscious, he was apologizing for someone else’s pain.

Bruce almost laughed.

He felt Clark try to sit up, stubborn even now, and stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m fine.”

“Barely.” He growled that out more aggressively than he should’ve.

Clark smiled again, without understanding the weight behind Bruce’s words. Bruce didn’t know what compelled him. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was weeks of quiet suffering bursting in a single, uncontainable gesture. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Just one second.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t calculated.

Just the smallest contact. A silent reassurance. You’re here.

But when he pulled away…

“What are you doing?” Clark asked, his voice small and nervous.

Bruce felt the room grow smaller. It was the way he said it. He had imagined this moment a thousand ways. Thought he’d be ready. But nothing prepared him for that look.

Not rejection.

Not anger.

Just… Confusion.

He took a step back. One heartbeat. Then another.

His expression cracked, barely, but enough.
Terror crept into his eyes, not for the man lying in the bed, but for what it implied.

He studied Clark’s face, the dilation of his pupils, the tension in his muscles, the forced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He was uncomfortable.

Clark saw the fear in Bruce’s eyes and tilted his head, concern replacing confusion. “Are you okay?”

No. No, he wasn’t.

But he didn’t answer.

He couldn’t trust himself to speak anymore.

And he didn’t get the chance even if he had wanted to.

Blurry figures rushed inside the room as he just stepped aside. No, not just figures. Familiar faces. Loud voices. Too much noise.

His hands kept clenched at the side of his body as he faintly listened to the conversations before him. He stayed silent the whole time.

Memories of two years ago was all Clark could recall.

Clark didn't know where he was. When he was. His mind was wrapped in fog.

And Bruce could do nothing but stand there, silent, every word becoming another weight pressing on his chest.

Then Clark looked at him again.

“You were there…”

Everything stilled.

“I remember your voice. You were calling my name.”

Bruce felt it like a punch. A heartbeat of recognition. Something small. A piece.

But not enough.

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Bruce stared back at Clark, knowing that the man before him saw something, but not him.

J’onn noticed. He always did.

“Dark Knight,” J’onn said softly. “You can go rest. We’ll stay with him.”

More noise came after that. But Bruce didn’t pay much attention to what it said.

It was a mercy, really. A quiet dismissal wrapped in compassion. And Bruce understood.

Without a word, he turned and walked out.

He didn’t look back.

Because if he did, if he saw Clark’s face again, he might not be able to keep walking.

The Batcave was silent. The low hum of machinery echoed in the vast hollow, accompanied only by the occasional drip of water from the stone ceiling. Then, tires screeched. The Batmobile slid into position, harsh and uneven.

The cockpit hissed open.

Batman didn’t move at first. But slowly, deliberately, Bruce pulled himself up and out of the driver’s seat. His cape snagged, just for a second. He didn’t curse. He didn’t sigh. He only tugged it free with a sharp jerk and stepped down.

His boots hit the ground harder than usual.

He didn’t take off the cowl.

He didn’t head to the console.

He just stood there. Breath shallow. Shoulders tight. Jaw clenched until it ached.

The echo of that voice, Clark’s voice, still rang in his ears.

“What are you doing?”

A beat passed. Then another.

He exhaled once, short and sharp through his nose, and then moved; quick purposeful steps to the far edge of the cave, out of reach of the computers and lights. He braced both hands against a stone wall, head lowered.

The rock was cold. Solid. Unmoving.

He wished he could say the same about himself.

His fingers trembled, and that made him curl them into fists against the stone, nails biting into his gloves. He refused to let them shake.

It was fine! He’d handled worse! His ribs had been broken before. His mind torn apart by toxins. He had even watched cities fall.

But nothing had ever left him feeling this hollow…

Nothing had ever made him feel like a stranger in his own damn life.

He took a breath. It caught halfway down his chest.

He tried again. Same result.

Bruce shoved away from the wall suddenly, the movement too fast, too sharp. His breath hitched as he turned, stumbling backward, trying to steady himself. The cave blurred, not from tears, but from the pressure building behind his eyes, from a body locking itself down against emotional failure.

He dropped to a knee. One hand to the ground, the other gripping his thigh tight enough to bruise. His chest felt tight. The suit felt heavier than usual.

He ground his teeth, trying to focus. Five. Four…

He heard Clark again.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t remember him.

He didn’t remember him.

Three… A noise rose from his throat. He swallowed it. Hard.

Two… But then another followed. A sound not quite a sob, not quite a breath, more like something caught in between. It escaped before he could lock it down.

He pressed his back to a column and slid down, sitting in the shadowed edge of the cave. Not collapsed. Just… Still.

His gloved hand hovered near his face, shaking.

He stared at it.

Trembling again.

He hated that.

Clark had always been the one to see through it. To put a hand on his shoulder and say, “You don’t have to be made of stone, you know? I’m here for you.”

Not anymore.

Not now.

His head fell forward, resting against his knees, arms loosely braced around them. His fingers grabbing tighter into the fabric of his cape.

He didn’t cry. Not out loud. But his eyes burned, his throat ached, and when he breathed, it came out without permission, shallow and uneven, like every inhale scraped against a rib.

A voice called down the stairs. “Master Bruce?”

He didn’t move.

Alfred’s footsteps came soft and deliberate. Then, a sharp intake of breath as he saw him. “Bruce…”

Bruce didn’t look up. His body was too heavy. He heard the older man drop beside him, knees cracking faintly against the cave floor.

“Oh…” Alfred’s voice trembled. “My boy…”

Still nothing. No words. Just the sound of his own breathing, strained and rough, filling the quiet space between them.

Alfred placed a hand gently on Bruce’s shoulder. “Look at me, please.”

Bruce didn’t want to.

He was still wearing the cowl. Still playing at control. But the mask was useless now. It hung off-center, shadows casting crooked over his face.

Finally, he lifted his head.

One glance was enough.

Alfred’s breath caught. This wasn’t the Batman the world feared. This was a man unraveling from the inside. Holding the flood back with nothing but willpower and an aging spine.

“Alfred…” Bruce’s voice cracked, lower than a whisper. “I think I’ve lost him.”

Alfred didn’t ask who.

He wrapped an arm around Bruce’s shoulders, slow and steady.

“I know, my boy,” he said. “I know.”

Bruce let his head fall slightly toward him, a breath escaping like it hurt.

“I always fix things, Alfred. I predict things. Plan for them. I had backups for every scenario… but this?” He scoffed weakly. “I didn’t even see it coming.”

His voice cracked again. Just once.

“I thought I could handle losing him to death. But this? He’s alive. And he looks at me like…” Bruce swallowed hard. “Like I’m just another stranger.”

He stared at the floor, expression hardening.

"And I know that shouldn’t matter. But it does. Because I keep thinking… What if he gets to know me again, and doesn’t like what he sees..? What if he realizes he never should’ve trusted me in the first place?"

Bruce’s voice dipped even lower.

"We didn’t start out smooth. He thought I was cold. Rigid. Dangerous. And maybe I am. Maybe I only got one chance to be someone he could care about. And now that’s gone."

Alfred’s reply was firm. “Don’t jump to conclusions yet. I’ve seen the way that man looked at you in the past. That sort of love doesn’t disappear. It may fade, but it never vanishes.”

Bruce shook his head, eyes locked on the floor. “I’m Batman. I don’t work on maybes. I work on evidence. And I know what I saw.”

“You don’t fix memories like broken bones,” Alfred said gently. “You give them space to mend on their own.”

“I don’t wait.”

“No,” Alfred agreed. “But Bruce Wayne loves. And love is patient.”

Bruce let out a sound, dry, sharp, almost a laugh, almost a growl. “Not exactly my strong suit.”

Alfred let the silence stretch. Then, quietly, he reached up and removed the cowl, slowly peeling it away.

A pause.

“You said he remembered your voice,” he murmured.

Bruce’s mouth twitched. “Yeah... Just for a second.”

“Then not everything is lost. You can show him again. Not as Batman. Perhaps not even as Bruce Wayne. But as the man who brought light into a god’s life. One heartbeat at a time.”

Bruce sighed, “You’re being weirdly optimistic about this.”

Alfred smiled, softly. “The mind is fragile, my boy. And the heart even more so. But if there is one thing I have learned, it is that love endures more than pain. It survives through scars. Through silence. Sometimes through complete reinvention.”

Bruce was quiet for a long time.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was low and trembling. “He looked scared. Like I was the one who had hurt him.”

“Was there really fear in his eyes?” Alfred asked, tone soft.

Bruce hesitated. “No. Just… confusion. Distance. Like I was reaching for him from behind glass. Every word I said felt wrong. Every gesture, foreign. I didn’t recognise myself in his eyes.”

“That is grief, sir. You’re mourning the familiarity. A shared language.” Alfred leaned back. “Perhaps you must learn a new one together. One built slowly. One without expectation. It will hurt. But then, all meaningful things do.”

Bruce stared ahead, past the computers, past the suit deck. Toward the cave wall, the silence, the future.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” he whispered.

“With something simple,” Alfred said. “Something you know he would recognize. A book. A meal. A piece of music.”

Bruce breathed in. Slower this time. More even.

“He liked punk rock,” he muttered. “What happens when disillusioned youth realize they can’t afford therapy, so they start a band instead.” (It was either that or “Punk rock is three chords, a grudge, and a middle finger in audio form.”)

Alfred gave a faint smile. “You could hold a listening session.”

A pause.

“I wouldn’t survive that.” A faint grin accompanied with a scoff.

“Then you could do something easier for you. Something that allows you to communicate while helping you process what you’re going through.”

Bruce said nothing. But he didn’t resist when Alfred guided him to his feet.

They walked in silence, step by step, through the cavern and into the manor. Through shadows, and into the firelight.

And the silence, finally, didn’t feel empty.

Chapter Text

Clark wasn’t sure how long he had been staring at the same spot on the wall. The soft pulse of the machines beside him, the quiet hum of the Hall’s air conditioner, and the distant murmur of voices he couldn’t place, it all blended into a quiet noise. A background melody to a mind in recovery.

He remembered sounds. Not moments. Not faces.

A laugh. A voice calling his name. A city’s ambience. Wind through curtains.

But nothing clear. Nothing solid. His memory felt like an old film reel left too long in the sun; scorched frames, broken pieces, unspooling before they could make sense.

The sun filtered through the tall windows of the Hall of Justice, casting slanted light across polished floors. Clark sat on the edge of the infirmary cot, dressed in a soft gray shirt and black sweatpants someone had laid out for him. The morning light made dust particles shimmer, but his thoughts remained muddied.

He'd barely touched his breakfast tray. The food smelled good, he wanted to eat it, but something about eating while his mind felt like broken glass seemed... wrong. Like pretending nothing had changed.

He rolled a piece of bread between his fingers, eyes unfocused. Bits and pieces had returned to him. Faces with no context. Names that sparked recognition but no emotion. He remembered how to fly. How to listen to the wind. But he couldn’t remember who he was now.

The door creaked open softly.

Diana stepped in.

She moved with the kind of grace Clark vaguely remembered being in awe of. She wore her armor, but not the tiara, today. She didn’t come as a symbol or royalty, she came as someone who cared, as a friend. Her hair was pulled back, and in her hands she carried a small, leather-bound journal.

"May I join you?" she asked.

Clark nodded, shifting slightly to give her space on the bench beside the cot.

She sat without speaking for a moment, offering him the silence as something kind rather than uncomfortable.

"I feel like a stranger in my own skin," he finally said.

"That feeling has a name," Diana replied softly. "Disassociation. Many who survive trauma face it. But you are not a stranger, Kal. You're simply remembering in reverse."

He looked at her. "Do you call me that often? Kal?"

She smiled faintly. "Only when I want to remind you of your roots. When you need grounding."

"Right now, I feel like I'm standing on water." He paused. "Could you... tell me what happened? Just... those two years? Who I was during that time?"

“This might help,” Diana looked down at the journal. “Reminders of who you were. Of who we all are. J’onn, Bruce, Arthur, even Barry, they all helped me compile it. We were going to put this in a holotape but… J’onn said it’d help you better if it was something tangible. Only what you need to know. Nothing overwhelming."

Clark took the journal gently, running a hand over its cover. It was warm from her touch.

"I’m afraid to read it," he admitted.

"That’s fair," she said. "But you’re not alone."

He opened it slowly.

The handwriting shifted from page to page, some neat and sharp, others looping, expressive. He recognized none of them. The words blurred at the edges of his focus. He caught glimpses, a location, a celebration, fragments of sentences too fragile to hold.

With each line, something inside him grew heavier. Not painful. Just... distant. Like watching someone else's life through fogged glass. A name made his stomach turn. A location felt like a heartbeat. But nothing stuck.

He closed the journal halfway through a page.

"I can’t finish it," he said softly. "Not right now. It feels like I’m trespassing in someone else's memories."

Diana nodded. "That’s okay. It’ll wait for you."

Clark held the journal loosely in his hands. "It’s strange. I’m not scared of what’s in it. I’m scared that I’ll never feel this again, even if I read every page."

She turned toward him, her expression gentle. "You may not remember everything the way it was. But you can start again."

He looked at her. "Start how? I don’t even know what normal looks like for me anymore."

Diana gave a small smile. "Live your life. Resume your routines. Go back to the places that made you feel human. Even the smallest acts, talking to people, your parents, writing, flying at dusk, those things bring pieces back. Not always as memories. But as sensations. That matters."

Clark let her words settle. "So I just… pretend to be myself until it feels real?"

"Not pretend. Rebuild."

He nodded slowly. "Then I guess I should start somewhere."

"You’re already doing it," she said. "You’re here. You’re trying. That’s how it begins."

He let out a long breath. And shrugged with a nod.

Footsteps echoed in the hall.

Barry appeared, then Hal. Both with tentative expressions.

"Is this a bad time?" Barry asked.

"No," Clark said, and gestured them in. "Come in."

What followed wasn’t a briefing. It was... storytelling; anecdotes. Barry showed him a photo album saved on his phone full of snapshots of missions, barbecues, and movie nights, while Hal teased Clark over a bet he lost during poker night, and Diana explained inside jokes.

Clark laughed, softly at first, then with a little more confidence.

He didn’t remember the stories. But he remembered how it felt to laugh. And that, somehow, felt like a beginning

The hallway outside was quiet. But something in him felt just a little steadier.

He didn’t have his past.

But he still had his steps forward.

And that was enough for now.

The wind rustled through the tall cornstalks, bending them with a familiar grace. Even from a distance, Clark could hear the sound of a tractor in the distance, the quiet cluck of hens behind the barn, the buzz of old power lines swaying overhead. Everything about Smallville felt untouched by time, and yet, when he stood at the edge of the gravel driveway leading to the Kent family home, he felt like a visitor to someone else’s life.

Still, he decided to take Diana’s advice.

He didn’t arrive by flight, not this time. Perhaps as a way of easing into it, or maybe because he didn’t want to show up at his parents’ doorstep as Superman. He wanted to come as Clark. Even if he didn’t quite remember how to fully be him.

A bark at the distance called his attention. He smiled.

“Hi boy! How’ve you been?”

Krypto came in flying with excitement, jumping over him, making him trip over while he whimpered happily as he licked his owner’s face.

“I missed you too!” Clark gleefully laughed as he tried to sit down.

Once he could carefully take the dog off him, he looked down at his clothes. “Come on, dude! I didn’t bring another shirt to change into, you know? Maybe later we’ll both need a bath.”

And just like that, Krypto barked and fled into the nearest cornfield. Clark gently shook his head, keeping a small smile on his lips as he dusted himself off as he stood up.

The house looked as it always had, a little weathered, a little crooked in its corners, but glowing in the sunlight like a painting that refused to age. The screen door creaked open before he even reached the steps.

Martha Kent stepped out with a towel in her hands and an apron around her waist. Her eyes locked onto him like a radar guided by years of maternal instinct.

She didn’t speak. Not at first.

Clark stopped at the edge of the porch.

"Hi, Ma." He smiled, nervously.

Tears welled in her eyes instantly, and she crossed the distance without hesitation. Her arms wrapped around him tight, warm, soft, familiar. He froze for just a second too long before easing into the embrace.

She smelled like bread and clean linen.

Jonathan joined them a few moments later from the barn, wiping his hands on a rag. He wasn’t one for theatrics, but his expression, the quiet relief and raw pride nearly made Clark’s knees buckle.

They sat inside shortly after, sunlight spilling into the kitchen through the lace curtains. Clark stirred a cup of coffee he didn’t need, grateful for the sound it made. The clink of ceramic. The scrape of chair legs.

"You’re skinnier than I remember," Martha said with a teasing edge.

Clark smiled faintly. "That makes two of us."

Jonathan chuckled.

"How much do you remember, son?" he asked after a beat.

Clark looked down into his mug. "Pieces. Nothing whole. Just... echoes."

"That’s alright," Martha said gently, reaching across the table. "Memory’s only one way of knowing people."

He squeezed her hand lightly. "I’m trying to... feel normal. Diana told me to try and live again. Said it might help."

"She’s right," Jonathan said. "The land remembers. The body remembers. Even if the mind needs time."

“I suppose it does.” Clark hesitated, then exhaled. "But what if I’m not the same? What if these two years changed me in ways I don’t understand? I keep wondering how different I must have been… what I did, what I said. And the truth is, I might never be that version of me again. I don’t know if I ever will."

Martha’s smile was soft, but firm. She leaned forward, placing a hand over his. "Clark… you’ve been many things since you came into our lives. A quiet boy with questions, a young man learning his strength, a hero carrying the weight of the world. And you’ve changed every step of the way. But none of that has ever changed the fact that you’re our son."

Jonathan nodded, resting his arms on the table. "People change, son. Even without memory loss. It’s part of life. But love, real love, doesn’t need you to stay the same. It grows with you. We’re proud of who you were, and we’ll be proud of whoever you become."

Clark looked between them, a lump forming in his throat. Their faces, weathered with age and wisdom, held a kind of patience that no memory could recreate. It was real, unshakable.

He nodded, eyes shining. "Thank you. For never letting me go."

"Never," Martha whispered.

The day passed in quiet fragments. Clark walked through the barn, brushing his hand along the wood beams. He fed the chickens. He helped Jonathan with a stubborn gate hinge. He fetched fresh apples for Martha’s pie.

Every movement brought a feeling, even if it didn’t bring a recent memory.

He paused in front of the treehouse behind the barn, the one with initials carved into the base. His and someone else's. The other set was smudged and weathered. He ran a finger over them.

He didn’t need to know the name to know it mattered.

Evening came, soft and gold. He sat on the porch with his parents as the sun dipped behind the fields. Fireflies blinked in and out. Martha had dozed off in her rocking chair. Jonathan handed Clark a glass of sweet tea.

"You don’t have to force it," his father said quietly. "You’re still our son. Whether you remember or not."

Clark watched the horizon, the faintest smile on his lips.

"I believe that," he said.

For the first time in days, he meant it.

Chapter Text

Metropolis hit differently from the sky.

But Clark Kent didn’t fly in. He stood at the corner across from the Daily Planet building, watching as pedestrians weaved through crosswalks and taxi horns blared. The iconic globe atop the newsroom spun like a memory made tangible. It loomed above him, solid and real, a monument to a life he could almost remember having.

He clutched the strap of his shoulder bag a little tighter, adjusted his glasses, and stepped forward with the crowd.

The lobby was just as he remembered it, marble floors, chatter echoing off walls, the scent of over brewed coffee lingering near the elevators. Yet every footstep he took toward the familiar office felt cautious, like he was walking into a story he hadn't finished reading.

The elevator ride was quiet. A woman in a green blazer glanced at him, then did a double-take. Clark gave her a polite nod. She smiled back, hesitant, and didn’t say a word.

The doors opened onto the bullpen.

It was chaos, as always, printers humming, keyboards clacking, reporters on phones, chasing sources. Perry White’s bellowing voice echoed from his office. Clark took a slow breath and stepped out.

Lois Lane was the first to greet him.

She didn’t rush over.

Instead, she walked slowly, her heels clicking on the tile, her expression unreadable until she was only a few feet away.

"Clark!" she said.

"Hey, Lois," he replied.

They stared at each other in silence, the noise of the newsroom somehow dull around them.

"You’re really here," she said at last, softer. "Perry said you might be back. I didn’t believe him."

He smiled faintly. "I didn’t either."

Her gaze flicked over him like she was trying to find what had changed.

"I heard about the accident. The head trauma—are you okay? I tried to come see you but they wouldn’t tell us the hospital you were staying in. Do you remember any of…?"

"Not all of it," he admitted. "Some names. Faces. Feelings. It’s... like being underwater and hearing music. I know it’s there, but I can’t quite make out the melody."

Lois nodded. "Well. Come on then, Smallville. Your desk missed you."

He followed her through the familiar maze of desks and columns and dangling cords. His desk sat in the same spot. There was even a stack of books and a potted plant, miraculously still alive.

Someone had cleared the dust. Left the picture frame face down. Clark lifted it. It was a photo of the newsroom team. He and Lois stood side by side, her elbow leaning into his arm.

He smiled faintly. "Did you water the plant?"

"Don’t push your luck," Lois said, arms crossed but voice gentler.

Perry White’s door slammed open.

"Kent!" the editor barked.

Clark turned.

"You standing there or are you back on payroll? Because I’ve got three investigations on my desk, and I’d rather give them to someone who doesn’t whine at city councilmen."

Clark stepped forward. "I’m here. For real."

Perry stared at him, hard and long, before nodding. "Then let’s see what you’ve still got."

And just like that, Clark was back.

The rest of the day passed in a strange rhythm. He read through old case files. Edited articles. Got caught up on policy changes. Everyone treated him kindly, if slightly distant, like someone recovering from a long illness.

By late afternoon, he sat back and watched the way sunlight filtered through the blinds. He could hear Jimmy Olsen laughing down the hall.

Lois sat at her desk, glancing over the top of her monitor to study him when she thought he wouldn’t notice.

He did.

But he let her.

Clark opened his laptop. His hands hovered over the keys.

A password was required.

Fortunately for him, he used the same password for everything since he was in highschool, so entering wasn’t a problem.

And slowly, steadily, he began to write again.

After his shift ended, he decided to just head home for the day.

Another day at the Daily Planet. The rhythm of the newsroom had begun to settle into something familiar. Not comfortable yet, but familiar, like a jacket that hadn’t fit right at first, now slowly adjusting to his shape. Clark sat at his desk, eyes scanning the latest city report he’d been assigned, fingers occasionally brushing the keyboard though his mind kept drifting.

He was getting better at faking it.

He was just finishing a rough outline when she approached.

"Hey," Lois said, voice calm but steady.

Clark looked up. Her dark eyes held something deeper today, not the teasing spark, but something more grounded. Compassion, maybe. Or patience.

"You settling back in alright?"

Clark nodded, a little slower than he meant to. "Yeah. Mostly."

Lois didn’t speak right away. She leaned on the edge of his desk, her arms crossed.

"Listen, Clark… I know this isn’t easy. Coming back, trying to step into a life you don’t remember living. But you’re doing it. And if you ever need someone, anything, you know I’m here, right? No expectations. No pressure. Just me."

He blinked at her. There was something powerful about her sincerity. It made the walls he hadn’t realized he’d been holding up soften.

"Thanks, Lois," he said, voice rougher than he wanted. "I mean that."

"I know you do," she said with a small, knowing smile. She reached over, squeezed his shoulder briefly, then walked back to her desk.

Just then, a voice called from behind him.

"Mr. Kent!"

Clark turned and saw Jimmy Olsen hustling toward him with a tray of coffee in hand and his camera slung across his chest like always.

"Coffee break? You owe me one anyway," Jimmy grinned.

Clark stood and followed him to the small breakroom, where the noise of the bullpen dimmed just enough to breathe. Jimmy handed him a cup and leaned against the counter.

"So," Jimmy began, sipping his own drink, "How have you felt?"

Clark nodded, but Jimmy gave him a look that clearly said, Don’t lie to me, Kent.

He sighed. "I don’t know. It’s strange, Jimmy. I can’t really put my finger on it. It’s like I’m walking into a highschool reunion where I’ve barely talked with my classmates."

Jimmy’s easy smile faded to something more thoughtful. "That’s got to be scary, man. But you’re here. You came back. And that counts for something."

"I guess. It’s just... hard. I don’t even know how I acted before. What kind of person I was. What if people expect someone I can’t be anymore? I mean, I even found out some people on our floor don’t work here anymore. I’m supposed to know that already."

Jimmy shook his head, stepping forward and putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Clark, you’ve always been the real deal. Kind. Honest. A little awkward, but in a charming way. If anything’s different now, we’ll roll with it. Nobody’s expecting you to bounce back perfectly. We just want you." He gave him a gentle squeeze. “Woah, see? You’re still built as a rock as you’ve always been.”

Clark smiled.

"Thanks, Jimmy."

Jimmy winked. "Anytime. And hey, if you ever want help jogging your memory, I’ve got like a thousand embarrassing photos of you from Christmas parties and costume-themed newsroom birthdays."

Clark chuckled. "Maybe start with the non-embarrassing ones."

"No promises. It’s way more fun."

They laughed, and for a moment, everything felt light again.

Later, after the newsroom had calmed down and Clark returned to his desk, he noticed something.

Sitting atop his closed laptop was an envelope.

No name. No sender. Just a plain, gray-colored paper folded neatly, edges aligned like the person who placed it there had done it with great care.

He looked around. No one seemed to be watching him. He slowly opened the envelope.

Inside was a single piece of stationery, handwritten in dark ink. The handwriting was angular, controlled, a hand used to order.

Clark scanned it.

The letter didn’t start with a name. It wasn’t addressed.

There are things you may not remember, not yet.
But memories aren’t the only truth.
What we built, the time we shared, the pieces of each other we carried… they were real. They still are.

Even if you can’t see the shape of what I’m talking about, I remember. For both of us.

You trusted me. That trust was everything.

They told me you need time to adjust, that overwhelming you isn’t going to help. And I don’t want to put any pressure on you. So, I’ll wait. As long as it takes.

Clark stared at the words.

His fingers tightened around the page slightly. There was a tremor in his chest, not fear, not pain. Something softer. A sense of… being known. Even if the meaning was unclear, even if the letter didn’t say who it was from, he could feel the weight of it. The gravity.

He read it again. And again.

Whoever had written this knew him deeply. Loved him, maybe. Or had. There was care in every line. Not desperation, but devotion. Quiet, patient. A voice from the shadows, or the past.

This… He had a relationship with someone?! Who?! Of all things he couldn’t remember… This one felt the most devastating.

Clark folded the letter carefully, slipping it back into the envelope. He didn’t know who it was from.

But a part of him, some buried instinct, whispered a name he can almost remember.

He shook his head. Too uncertain. Too fragile to name it yet.

Still, the paper felt warm in his hands.

He slipped it into the top drawer of his desk and closed it gently.

Outside, the sun dipped low over Metropolis. The globe above the Daily Planet spun quietly on.

And inside the newsroom, for the first time in weeks, Clark Kent felt like a man on the edge of rediscovery.

The soft click of the apartment door echoed into the stillness.

Clark stepped inside his apartment, setting his bag down near the entryway. The low golden light of the Metropolis sunset filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows on the floor. He took a breath. The air was still. Familiar, but not quite comforting.

He loosened his tie with one hand, hesitated by the coat rack, then pulled out his phone.

Her number was already in his favorites.

He tapped it.

It rang twice.

Then-
“Hi, sweetheart!” Martha’s warm voice crackled slightly through the speaker, and behind her words, he could hear the low murmur of something, the rhythmic thud of dough being rolled out, the faint hum of the radio, and the sizzle of the oven heating up. “You’re on speaker!”

“Hi, Ma,” Clark said, sinking into his old couch with a quiet exhale. “You busy?”

“Well,” she said with a smile he could hear. “Got my hands full wrestlin’ this pie crust, flour and peach filling all over me. But I always have time for you.”

“Peach?” he asked, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s the last of the season. Had to get one more in before the cold sets in. What about you, how was your day?”

Clark paused. “Strange.”

There was a moment of quiet on the line, not silence, just Martha listening.

“I- Uh, also found something today,” he added. “A letter. It was… Left on my desk.”

“Oh?”

“No name. No explanation. Just…” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “It felt personal. Deeply. Like someone writing from… Love. Or loss.”

Martha stopped what she was doing. He could hear the wooden rolling pin set gently on the counter.

“What did it say?”

He hesitated. “That I trusted them. That they remembered what we had, even if I didn’t. That they’d wait for me to remember.”

Martha was quiet again. Then she said softly, “Oh, honey…”

“I called because… I don’t know what to do with this. I’ve asked myself over and over, and I still can’t remember. And now I’m wondering if I was with someone. If there was another part of my life that I… Lost. And if that’s what this letter is.”

He heard her sigh, not impatiently, but like she was holding something gently inside her chest.

“I remember you mentioning someone,” she said eventually. “Not by name. You were always a little cagey about it, actually.”

“Cagey?”

“In that polite, Kent way, I wonder if you got it from me,” she teased. “You told me it was complicated. That they were from your workplace. Said it wasn’t the kind of thing you could just explain over dinner. I think you were protecting it.”

“Protecting what?”

“The relationship. The person. Or maybe even yourself. But I knew it mattered. You never said you were happy, not out loud, but I could hear it in your voice. It was different. You even told us you were expecting to introduce us one day, once things ‘got sorted out’”.

Clark leaned back into the couch, brow furrowed. “I wish I knew who it was.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Martha said gently. “Maybe not all at once. But the pieces are still there, sweetheart. They’re part of you. You just need time.”

Clark let the silence stretch a little. Then he smiled faintly.

“You know, I’d trade a dozen Pulitzer nominations for one memory that actually made this make sense.”

“Well, now that’s your father’s stubborn streak talking,” she chuckled. “You’ll find your way back. And in the meantime… You’ve still got people who love you, whether you remember them or not.”

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him.

“Thanks, Ma.”

“Anytime, baby. Now, I’ve got to put this pie in the oven, and I’m not letting it get soggy just because my son’s in an existential crisis.”

Clark laughed, softly. “Fair.”

“Call me if anything else happens.”

“I will. Love you ma’.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

He ended the call, slowly set the phone down, and sat in the quiet that followed.

The words from the letter replayed in his head.

You trusted me. That trust was everything.

Clark closed his eyes.

He imagined a voice. Someone from his workplace…

He couldn’t place it.

But it sounded like someone standing just out of sight, waiting with the kind of patience only love could afford.

He opened his eyes and looked outside his window. The sky had already darkened, stars starting to decorate the night sky.

That gave him an idea.

Perhaps… he needed to look somewhere else.

The Watchtower’s upper levels were almost empty at this hour, the orbital station drifting above Earth in its endless path, silent and still.

Clark walked its corridors slowly, his cape brushing softly behind him. Since waking up, he’d grown used to navigating the place with half-familiarity, muscle memory doing the work his recollection could not.

He wasn’t supposed to be here today. But he knew his mind wouldn’t let him rest unless he found some kind of answer. He needed someone who might’ve known something. Someone he trusted.

He found Diana in the training room, finishing a fluid kata with her sword, elegance and power woven together in every motion. When she noticed him, she sheathed the blade in one smooth motion and offered a calm smile.

“Kal,” she greeted warmly. “What are you doing here at this hour? That’s unusual for you. Well- was. Is… sorry. It’s just— you get it.”

He chuckled, “It’s okay I just—” he looked at her, hesitant. “I needed to ask you something.”

She tilted her head, concerned but composed. “Of course. What is it?”

Clark stepped closer, voice low, uncertain. “Do you remember if I… had someone? I mean, before the incident. Was I… seeing anyone?”

Diana blinked, the question catching her off guard. For a moment, her expression softened in a way that said yes, she had wondered when this would come up.

“I was hoping you’d ask that,” she said gently.

He felt his heart jump in excitement. “You were?!” He tried to reel it in, but the grin was already spreading across his face. “I mean—uh. You were?”

Clark raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“I wasn’t sure if it would come back to you on its own,” she explained, folding her arms, a thoughtful crease forming between her brows. “You were always private about it. Most of us never really knew the full story. But there were signs.”

“Signs?” Clark echoed, slightly frowning.

She gave a small, knowing smile. “You had someone. That much was clear. You never said a name, but… you changed. Not in a dramatic way. Just… you were steadier. Quieter in a different way. More grounded. And you smiled more, if that’s even possible, even when you thought no one was looking.”

Clark looked down, something fluttering in his chest, a hollow feeling, like reaching for something he couldn’t see.

“I never mentioned who?” he asked.

Diana shook her head. “Once, maybe. We were returning from a mission. You were in a strangely ‘over the clouds’ mood, and I teased you about it. You didn’t give much away. Just said something like, ‘It’s not official,’ and that it was complicated.”

She gave a soft chuckle. “I remember you said you never expected it to happen. That it surprised you.”

“My mom said the same thing…” Clark ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “It’s strange. I found a letter. Anonymous. But someone wrote to me, saying… they remember everything, that I trusted them. It was patient. Kind. They’re waiting.”

Diana’s eyes softened with sympathy. “That sounds like someone who loved you very deeply.”

“That’s what scares me!” Clark said, voice tight. “I don’t even know who to picture… What kind of person were they to me? And what I meant to them? I just- I can’t give that back.”

“Hey, hey! You don’t have to rush anything, Kal,” she said. “Memory or not, you’re still you. That connection… if it was real, it’ll still find its way to you.”

Clark didn’t answer for a long time. The weight of the unknown sat heavy on his shoulders. He could see through walls, hear across oceans, and yet the truth of his own heart eluded him.

He finally sighed. “I just wish I knew where to start.”

Diana stepped closer and touched his arm. “The Fates never lose a thread, Kal. Not truly. Even when it's tangled, frayed… It still exists. You already hold one in your hand. ”

Clark looked up at her in despair. “My mother… she said I mentioned they were from my workplace.”

Diana nodded, listening attentively.

“I thought maybe it was someone from the Daily Planet.”

“Then there it is. Maybe the thread leads there. You don’t need the whole tapestry at once, Clark… just the courage to follow the string.” She stepped back, her expression kind, but serious. “Trust that the path is still yours to walk. Even if you can’t see where it ends yet.”

He nodded faintly, offering a small smile of gratitude. “Thank you.”

Diana watched him as he turned to go, a thoughtful expression on her face.

If only they knew how close that thread already was.

Chapter Text

The flickering cursor on Clark’s screen felt like a metronome ticking down his patience.

He sat at his desk in the Daily Planet newsroom, the midday noise having simmered to its usual chaotic white noise, phones ringing, conversations echoing through the walls, printers clunking. Perry’s voice barked once or twice from his office, but even that faded into the periphery. Clark barely noticed.

The assignment in front of him was simple enough. A follow-up on a string of corruption reports at the municipal level, something he’d apparently covered a year and a half ago, before the accident. It had landed on his desk that morning, a file folder from Perry with a note:

“You dug into this before. See if there’s anything new. Or anything you remember.”

Clark stared at the name of the contractor involved in the report, and felt a flicker of déjà vu, like a note of a song he couldn’t name.

“Giti Construction”

He opened his docs. Perhaps he had backups of his work?

Groceries, pending taxes, gift ideas for his friends, some weary thoughts, links to songs, a few notes about finishing pending reports but nothing related to the one he was looking for.

“No.” He sighed, and checked his notepad.

There was only another place he could find answers.

His inbox.

Hundreds of unread emails stared back at him. Great, he thought. He began filtering by keyword, typing in the company name, sorting through everything he’d sent or received before the timeline of the memory loss.

There were dozens of entries. He clicked through one, then another, then another…

Most were mundane, a lot of bureaucratic jargon, meeting notes, city press releases. Nothing stood out. He scanned line after line until his eyes ached.

Then he saw the name.

Lois Lane.

It was a forwarded message, the subject line reading:

Re: Giti Construction follow-up (Read this when you get a break, Smallville)

It was dated nearly twenty months ago.

Clark opened it, heart skipping a little despite himself.

Inside was a short message from Lois, sent late at night.

From: Lois Lane
To: Clark Kent
Subject: Re: Giti Construction follow-up (Read this when you get a break, Smallville)

Alright, here’s the stuff you asked for, but before you look…

You’re pushing too hard again. I know you want the truth, but even you need to sleep eventually.
I say this as someone who’s watched you chase stories until your voice goes hoarse and your spine forgets what standing straight feels like. You always try to carry the weight alone, Smallville. But you don’t have to with me, you can take a rest if you want and talk to me if you need it. I’ll be here, waiting. As long as it takes. And I’m serious, please rest!

Lois

Click here to see attachments

The moment he finished reading, something inside him tilted.

Clark leaned back in his chair, breath catching, rereading the message like it might shift beneath his gaze. His thumb hovered over the edge of the screen.

‘I’ll be here, waiting. As long as it takes.’

It felt like a key. Like it matched something he couldn’t quite name.

He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the gray envelope, the letter.

Hands trembling slightly, he unfolded the page again.

They told me you need time to adjust, that overwhelming you isn’t going to help. And I don’t want to put any pressure on you. So, I’ll wait. As long as it takes.

He didn’t move for a long time.

The phrasing wasn’t identical, but the tone, the feel of it… the waiting. The reassurance. The way both voices wrapped around a kind of quiet devotion, asking nothing in return but for him to find his way back.

Clark ran his thumb over the signatureless letter again, eyes flicking between it and the email.

“Kent! I need an update!” Perry shouted from the other side of the room.

He snapped himself out of his thoughts and clicked on the attachments. “On it!”

Now wasn’t the time to think about that.

Reporters were filtering out in twos and threes, voices softening, computer screens dimming. The chatter quieted to occasional typing and the shuffle of feet across linoleum. Outside the wide windows, the sun dipped low, casting golden slants through the blinds. Metropolis glowed like a city just catching its breath.

Clark lingered.

He wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. The letter still rested in his desk drawer like a phantom heartbeat, and Lois’s old email was still opened in another tab on his screen.

He stood up slowly and scanned the room.

Jimmy Olsen was still at his desk, perched on the edge of his chair, hunched over a camera, fiddling with the lens like it owed him money.

Clark crossed the floor.

“Hey,” he said, quietly.

Jimmy jumped a little and looked up. “Oh! Man, you move quiet. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

Clark managed a small smile. “Sorry.”

Jimmy sat up straighter, stretching his arms with a groan. “You need something?”

Clark hesitated. “Can we talk? Just for a minute?”

Jimmy’s eyebrows raised. “Uh, sure. What’s up?”

Clark motioned slightly toward the break room. Jimmy followed without protest, throwing a curious glance over his shoulder. Once they stepped inside, Clark closed the door behind them.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and lemon cleaner. Faint music played from someone’s forgotten Bluetooth speaker in the corner.

Jimmy leaned against the counter. “Okay… what’s going on?”

Clark folded his arms. “I need to ask you something important. And I need you to be honest.”

Jimmy blinked. “Dude, okay. Yeah. Of course.”

Clark took a breath. “Before my… accident. Did you ever notice anything between Lois and me?”

Jimmy tilted his head, genuinely confused. “Like… notice what? Like how you’re both prone to get into trouble just to get an interview?”

“What? No, just— anything… more than work. Did you ever think we were together-... romantically?”

There was a long pause.

Jimmy looked like he was trying to calculate the square root of a cloud.

“Well…” he said slowly, “I mean… you and Lois were always close…”

Clark nodded slightly, pressing. “Close how?”

Jimmy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You know. Like… you always had each other’s backs. She teased you a lot, but she doesn’t do that with people she doesn’t like. She isn’t always like that with me. And you—” he shrugged, “you were always looking at her like you were waiting to hear her next big idea.”

Clark frowned. “But nothing that ever looked… like more?”

Jimmy scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, yeah, maybe sometimes I thought something was going on, but it was always hard to tell. You both kept things pretty close to the chest.”

Clark looked down, thoughtful. “There was never a moment? Something obvious?”

Jimmy squinted. “Well… there was that one time Perry caught you two bickering in the copy room and told you to ‘either make up or make out,’ but that’s just Perry being Perry. And Lois rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d fall out.”

Clark gave a quiet huff of laughter, more breath than amusement.

Jimmy leaned forward a little, trying to read him. “Why? You remember something?”

“Not exactly,” Clark admitted. “But I found a letter. No name. Just… someone reaching out. Someone who says they were important to me. That I trusted them.”

Jimmy’s face softened. “Damn…”

Clark stared at the countertop. “The way it’s written… I thought maybe it was Lois. It sounded like her. Kind of. At least in how she cared. But I keep waiting for something to click. And nothing’s clicking yet.”

Jimmy was quiet for a moment, then said carefully, “If you’re asking me if I ever saw her look at you like she was in love…?”

Clark’s eyes met his.

Jimmy frowned slightly. “Well- I mean, she cared. A lot. I may be good with reading people’s body languages but hers is… hard to tell in general.”

Clark nodded slowly. It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but it was honest.

“Sorry, man,” Jimmy added. “I’m not saying it couldn’t have been her. Just… if it was, she hid it real well. She’s a professional after all.”

Clark offered a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Jimmy.”

“No problem.” Jimmy hesitated, then gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “You’ll figure it out.”

Clark nodded again, his smile fading as he turned back toward the newsroom.

But inside his chest, doubt propagating like smoke.

As he was walking to his apartment, he took the time to review everything that he’d discovered today.

Lois. It made sense, didn’t it? They’d worked together for years. They trusted each other. Maybe that trust had deepened. Maybe he hadn’t said anything because it had been private, fragile. Maybe-

His stomach knotted. Could he have loved her and forgotten?

Once he got to his home. He opened more emails. Began searching for answers, for her. For traces of anything that hinted at something deeper, language, invitations, secrets between the lines.

A dinner scheduled.
A joke shared.
A reminder about an event they both attended.

But there was nothing else. No thread that shouted ‘we were in love’, just a slow, unfolding friendship. Familiarity. Kindness.

Maybe that’s just how they were. Maybe that’s what they had.

His heart pounded against his ribs.

Suddenly the memory of Diana’s voice echoed in his ears:

“You had someone. That much was clear. You never said a name, but… You changed.”

Could it really have been Lois?

Could someone like that write something so quiet?

Maybe she had. Maybe he had softened her.

Maybe that’s what love looked like, in the end.

He pressed a hand to his chest, brow furrowing.

Something didn’t feel right. But he didn’t know why.

And though he tried to silence it, a single question whispered at the edge of his mind:

If it wasn’t her… then who?

"Incoming reports of seismic activity along Star City’s border," J'onn's voice crackled through the comms. "Possible underground destabilization. Recon only. Avoid civilian detection."

Clark had arrived not too long ago, waiting for the rest of the league, he heard the sound of a jet flying over his head along with the sound of a cape falling beside him.

He turned. Batman stood behind him, silent and still. Watching him.

Superman greeted with a nod. But the other shifted his gaze to the city before them.

Ever since the day Clark woke up, Batman had been distant. He knew they had a strong friendship, based on what he’s seen on the journal Diana gave him, and on what Jordan had told him. Apparently, Batman and him were known as the World’s Finest, since they had the most synchronization out of all pairs in the league. Their trust was unmovable, unbreakable, something that many described as complete and utter understanding of each other’s minds.

But recently, he hadn’t felt like that was true at all. He’d barely seen the Dark Knight in the Hall or the Watchtower. It was as if Batman had been avoiding him. If he was truly his friend, he would have checked on him at least once.

World’s Finest? Yeah, World’s Finest lie, he supposed.

But then again, he couldn’t blame him for being distant. He was a stranger to him, he couldn’t remember the years of friendship they’ve shared. And Arthur told him that out of them, Batman’s always been awkward with relationships.

Before any of them could say anything, Green Arrow and Wonder Woman arrived.

After a brief discussion the team scattered, Flash along with Green Arrow speeding ahead to map tremor zones, Diana flying high to keep eyes from above. But Batman lingered at Clark’s side.

Too close. Something contrary to what's been happening recently.

Everywhere Clark moved, Bruce shadowed him. A pace behind, sometimes beside; wordless, calculating.

At first, Clark said nothing.

But by the third silent sweep of the perimeter, he couldn’t take it anymore.

"Are you going to keep following me like a lost dog, or are you going to trust that I can handle walking on solid ground?"

The words came out harsher than he meant. Bruce’s head tilted slightly, but he said nothing.

Clark exhaled sharply. "I’m serious. You've been two steps behind me the entire mission. You don’t think I noticed?"

A pause. Then Bruce finally spoke, voice low and unreadable through the modulator.

"I was watching for signs of instability in the environment."

Clark folded his arms. "As if! You were watching me!"

Bruce didn’t deny it. Just stared.

Clark’s fists clenched at his sides. "You think I’m going to lose control? You think I’m going to screw up and bring a mountain down on our heads because I don’t remember the last two years?"

"I don’t think that."

"Then why are you stalking me?"

Silence again.

Bruce stepped closer. His voice dropped, barely audible over the wind.

"Because I’ve been watching you for two years. Fighting beside you. Trusting you with my life. Trusting you with everyone else’s. I knew how you moved. What you’d do before even doing it. And now, I don’t know what you’re thinking."

Clark blinked.

That wasn’t what he expected.

Bruce continued. "It’s not about you being dangerous. It’s about not knowing what you need. I don’t want to treat you like glass. But I also don’t know what happens if I step away and something hits you sideways."

Clark looked away. The tremors in the distance were nothing compared to the one in his chest.

"I’m sorry," he muttered. "I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I just... I don’t remember how we… functioned together. And that makes this harder. You’re trying to look after me, but it feels like you’re doubting me. And… I don’t like that."

"I’m not doubting you," Bruce said, more gently this time. "I’m trying to remember how to work with someone who doesn’t remember me."

Clark met his gaze. "And I’m trying. I just... need space to figure it out."

Bruce nodded, slowly. A rare, quiet understanding in the gesture.

"Alright," he said.

“So… ‘Partner’, where should we keep looking?”

Bruce looked away and started moving, prompting him to follow.

Later, the team regrouped at the base of a fractured bluff where the tremors had cracked the surface. J'onn hovered above, scanning below with his mind. Diana landed gracefully beside Bruce, her eyes flitting between the two men.

"You two alright?" she asked gently.

Clark gave her a small nod, then glanced at Bruce. “Yes, I think we are.”

Diana smiled faintly.

They completed their sweep in companionable silence. As Clark soared overhead, charting structural weaknesses in the fault lines, he noticed Bruce keeping his distance this time. Still vigilant, but allowing space.

Clark didn’t resent it anymore.

He landed beside Bruce an hour later, boots crunching on scorched earth.

"You were right about the northwest ridge," he said simply.

Bruce gave him a look. "I usually am."

Clark rolled his eyes. "Just saying thanks."

For the ridge. And maybe for more than that…

Bruce didn’t respond, but the tension between them had shifted. And Clark knew this was the first of many missions.

Maybe they wouldn’t fall into rhythm right away. But Clark felt something in his chest loosen.

Clark felt his life was getting into place again. But underneath it all, there was a quiet unrest he wasn’t ready to confront.

It lingered at the edges of his mind, a quiet shadow cast by that letter. The words inside held a promise he couldn’t yet grasp, stirring a gentle unease that settled deep beneath the surface, hinting at secrets waiting patiently to be revealed.

The Daily Planet, even at its quietest, still buzzed with energy beneath the surface.

Clark stood at his desk, shifting a notepad from one side of his workspace to the other. His fingers twitched. He’d gone over the idea in his head more times than he wanted to admit.

He wasn’t nervous, not exactly.

He just didn’t know if he was about to make a mistake.

Across the room, Lois leaned back in her chair, wireless headphones in, tapping the screen of her phone. Her coffee, probably cold, was pushed to the side, and her blazer was slung over the back of her seat. Casual, comfortable.

There was something so easy about her presence.

But underneath, there was something else that kept getting to him.

He stepped toward her desk before he could overthink it.

“Hey,” he said, softly.

She pulled out one earbud and glanced up. “Hey, Smallville. You done with your piece on the construction site?”

“Yeah,” he said automatically. “Just turned it in.”

She looked at him for a moment, waiting for the real reason he’d walked over.

Clark hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture he didn’t realize still came naturally.

“I was wondering…” he started, voice careful. “Do you have plans this weekend?”

Lois blinked once. “Hmm… No. Not really. Why?”

There was a small pause.

“Well, I was thinking that maybe… If you want, of course, we could… grab dinner?” Clark said, watching her closely. “Just the two of us.”

Lois arched a brow. “Dinner?”

“Yeah. Nothing fancy. Just…” He offered a smile. “A friendly catch-up. You and me.”

Lois tilted her head, a small smile on his lips, curious now. “Is this a date, Kent?”

Her voice wasn’t accusatory. If anything, it was amused, maybe even fond.

Clark swallowed. “Not unless you want it to be.”

She studied him for a beat longer. “You’re full of surprises lately.”

“I’m still figuring things out,” he admitted, quiet again. “But I remember you. I mean—! I know you. Even when everything else feels like fog, you’re still… you. Here. Uh—” he cursed internally, “You bring me a sense of familiarity, is all.”

Lois’s expression softened just a little.

It wasn’t romantic. Not quite. But it was something…

“I’d like that,” she said at last, with a small nod. “Dinner.” A smug smile. “Just us.”

Clark let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Great. I’ll text you!”

“Do. Oh, and don’t show up in a suit, Clark. It’s not a gala. I’m picking the restaurant.”

He smiled. “Fair enough.”

“Saturday?” she asked, standing to grab her bag.

“Saturday”.

Lois slung her bag over her shoulder and glanced at him once more. “Friendly date, then.”

She stood up from her desk, gathering her things with a practiced ease, stacking papers, slipping on her coat.

But when she finally turned and walked away, Clark stood still for a long moment, staring at the spot she’d just left. The newsroom around him was starting to go dim. Lights switching off, chairs squeaking as people left for the weekend.

He nodded.

He felt the envelope being heavier in his jacket pocket.

Maybe dinner would clarify things.

Maybe this was what he’d been missing. Maybe this was the thread!

Maybe…

Chapter Text

The Watchtower’s communication network buzzed with the routine shuffle of voices, icons lighting up one by one across the central holographic display. J’onn was looking at the screen attentively while Batman was typing in the console a few feet away from him.

“I’m calling all of you out of importance.” J’onns voice rang through the comms with calm precision. “We need to schedule the monthly intel debrief. Mission reports are piling up since Superman’s return, and our field communication is fractured. I was hoping we could meet up on Saturday, 1800 hours. Is that agreeable?”

“I can make that,” Hal said.

“I’ll be there”, Diana responded.

Barry piped up next. “A meeting that early? How could I say no? I’m in!”

“I’ll have to check, but I’ll probably be free.” Said Oliver.

“I’ll surface for it,” Arthur said gruffly. “Rough tides, but I’ll make it. Let’s just keep it quick.”

Bruce didn’t speak right away, he didn’t need to. He had already cleared his schedule for it. His part of the logistics was in motion, protocols updated, tactical reports uploaded. He was always ready.

Then Clark’s hologram appeared.

“I won’t be able to make it,” came his soft, unassuming voice.

Diana’s brow furrowed. “You won’t?”

Barry, predictably, jumped in. “What kind of plan outranks a Justice League check-in?”

Clark’s voice didn’t waver. “Nothing urgent. I just- I have a date.” He nervously smiled.

Silence. Pure, undisturbed silence.

It lasted longer than anyone cared to admit.

“A date?” Diana repeated, careful not to let her voice betray the surprise in it too much.

“Yeah… with someone I used to know,” Clark explained, his tone uncertain, hopeful. “I think- I’m not sure yet. But I want to see if it helps me remember more”.

Bruce stopped writing, His lungs felt like they’d locked.

The words echoed in his skull: I have a date.

That one sentence made every other plan in Bruce’s mind falter. Files flickered on the screens in front of him, but he didn’t see them and didn't even blink.

The letter, the silence, the waiting. All the time he’d spent at Clark’s bedside, saying nothing, hoping something would come back on its own.

Clark was reaching.

But not toward him.

Barry, oblivious, grinned through the comms. “Well, damn! You didn’t say it was a romance subplot!”

Hal let out a low whistle. “Look at you! We were all wondering if you'd ever let someone in. Proud of you, man!”

J’onn nodded, offering a quiet but meaningful, “I hope it brings you peace, Superman.”

Arthur raised a brow, but his smirk was approving. “Make sure it’s somewhere with good food.”

Clark chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks, guys, really.”

Bruce could feel J’onn watching him. He didn’t look back at him.

“In that case, perhaps we could make the meeting later? Or on Sunday? Unless someone has an inconvenience?” Asked Green Arrow.

“Fine by me.” Said Barry.

“Not a problem.” Said Arthur.

“Schedule without him,” Bruce interrupted. “The debrief can proceed with the remaining members.”

Hal raised a brow. “Wait, Spooky—”

“Saturday. We’re not rescheduling for just one person.”

“But—”
Bruce didn’t give him the chance to finish. He reached for the console and severed the connection to everyone.

The moment the comm feed went dark, the Watchtower’s silence became too loud.

It was suddenly interrupted by Bruce’s steps going elsewhere. J’onn didn’t move.

The stars never blinked, even if they appeared to do so in the human eye. That was something Bruce always found… unsettling.

They hung out there in the abyss, eternal, unflinching, cold in their beauty. Watching everything, watching him, it sometimes felt like. As if the entire universe had the gall to bear witness.

He stood before the observation window, cape still, posture as rigid as ever. The Earth turned slowly beneath them, blues and whites swirling in its own oblivious peace. Somewhere down there, Clark was probably choosing a shirt.

For his date.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. He knew how Clark liked to prepare days ahead of those.

He had said it so casually, “I have a date.” Like it was just another Tuesday, like it wasn’t a knife in the ribs of someone who’d waited three weeks at his side for the faintest flicker of memory.

Clark was trying to remember.

And he might remember love.

Just not Bruce’s.

The silence of the Watchtower was comforting to some. To Bruce, it was a weight. The kind of silence that grew limbs and wrapped around your throat when no one else was looking.

A faint sound of footsteps broke through the stillness.

“You’ve been standing here for forty seven minutes.”

Bruce didn’t respond at first. His eyes remained locked on the slow rotation of Earth.

“Monitoring orbit stability.”

J’onn stopped a few steps behind him. Not too close, but not far enough to let him believe he was alone.

“Orbit hasn’t shifted.”

Bruce sighed through his nose. Of course it hadn’t. “Is there a reason you’re here?” Bruce asked, voice flat.

“I sensed unrest,” J’onn answered. His voice, calm and ancient, held no judgment. “Not from the planet. From you.”

Bruce’s shoulders twitched, just a little. A microexpression of irritation.

“Don’t scan me.”

“I didn’t have to,” J’onn said gently. “Your silence is… very loud.”

Bruce finally turned halfway, enough to glance back with narrowed eyes. “I’m fine.”

“That kind of pain... it shouldn’t be endured in silence.”

“I don’t need a therapist.”

“I’m not offering therapy.” J’onn paused. “I’m offering companionship.”

Bruce gave a short, humorless breath that might’ve once been called a laugh in someone else’s chest. “That’s worse.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m working.”

“No, you’re brooding in front of a window.”

Bruce turned more fully now, his cape shifting with him, boots scraping faintly against the floor. “You’re very persistent for someone who prides himself on empathy.”

“I am empathetic,” J’onn said calmly. “Which is why I know you’re hurting. And why.”

Bruce looked away. The silence dragged on, the ache in his chest had settled so deeply, it had begun to feel like a permanent part of him, like scar tissue layered over muscle.

“You stayed with him,” J’onn said quietly. “Every morning, every night, you didn’t need to. But you did.”

“I didn’t do it to be rewarded. He doesn’t owe me anything.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you acting like I lost something?” Bruce snapped, more bitter than he intended.

J’onn paused. “Because I think you did.”

Bruce’s hands turned into fists. “Superman is not mine to lose.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like it.”

Another silence, this one stretching longer. Bruce turned away again, staring back at Earth like it could answer him.

After a long moment, J’onn stepped forward, softer this time.

“You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Bruce exhaled slowly. When he spoke, his voice was low, controlled. But beneath that control was something cracked.

“I do, J’onn.”

J’onn watched him. There was sorrow in the Martian’s eyes, not pity, never that. Only understanding. Quiet, steadfast understanding.

Bruce gave a short shake of his head, “I’ve already processed it. It had already occurred to me that this would happen.”

“That,” J’onn said, “is the first lie you’ve told me tonight.”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly, as if that would contain whatever was welling up beneath the surface. Then he turned fully toward the teleporter.

“Thank you,” he said, not unkindly. “But I don’t need counsel.”

“Dark-”

“I said I’m fine. See you on Saturday.”

He walked past J’onn without another word, boots steady, shoulders squared. It was the walk of someone who refused to limp, even while bleeding.

J’onn didn’t stop him.

As the echo of his footsteps faded down the corridor, the observation deck grew quiet again.

The Earth still turned.

The stars still refused to blink.

And J’onn stood alone in the silence Bruce left behind.

On the next day, rain dripped steadily down the grand windows of the Manor. Gotham’s skyline blurred behind the glass, smudged by stormlight and fog. Inside, the clock above the fireplace ticked methodically, loud in a house that had been far too quiet.

Bruce sat in his study, eyes scanning across a projected report. His fingers hovered above the keyboard but didn’t type. Every few seconds, his gaze would drift, not toward the window or the flickering fire, but nowhere. Just... away.

He was still thinking about the Watchtower. About Clark’s voice when he said, “I have a date.”
How gentle he had sounded, full of hope.

Bruce hadn’t slept. Again.

The door creaked open. Alfred stepped in without ceremony, a silver tray in his hands.

“I brought tea,” he said gently. “Chamomile. You haven’t slept, I imagine.”

Bruce didn’t answer. Alfred didn’t expect him to.

He set the tray down on the small table beside the armchair across from Bruce’s desk, then straightened, smoothing a hand down his sleeve.

After a pause, he said, “You’ve been quiet, even for you.”

Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose. His voice came quiet and flat. “Working.”

Alfred gave a mild nod, as if that were an acceptable answer, but he didn’t leave.

Instead, he stepped toward the window and gazed out at the blurred skyline. “It’s all right to feel things you don’t have names for, Master Bruce.”

Bruce’s gaze flicked toward him. Tension coiled behind his eyes as he fought to keep from glaring.

Alfred continued, his voice even softer. “It’s all right to feel disappointed. Or… lost. When someone who matters drifts away.”

Bruce looked away. “Clark isn’t mine.”

“I know,” Alfred said. “But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

The silence stretched.

“I didn’t expect anything,” Bruce muttered. “I never asked for-”

“You waited for him,” Alfred interrupted, not sharply, but firmly. “Every day. Every quiet hour.”

Bruce leaned forward, pressing his hands to his temples, elbows on the desk. “And now he’s—” He didn’t finish.

Alfred gave him space. Then, after a long pause, he offered something new:

“There’s a small traveling circus in Gotham this weekend. Set up near the East End Pier. Trapeze. Acrobats. A touch of magic, I hear.”

Bruce looked up at him, frowning faintly. “…a circus?”

Alfred met his gaze. “I thought it might be… a distraction. Or perhaps a chance.”

“For what?”

Alfred stepped closer. “To remind yourself that you’re still capable of enjoying something, even if just for a few hours. That you’re allowed to live, Bruce. Even when it’s messy. Because you’ve been wound tighter than a clock spring for weeks. You’ve scarcely let yourself breathe, let alone smile. I’m not asking you to dance in the aisles, sir.” His tone softened further. “Just… sit among people. Let yourself feel something other than the weight you carry.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. He looked out the window, admiring the city lights, their restless flicker reflected in his eyes. “You think I should take someone.”

“No, I think,” Alfred replied gently, “that an empty seat beside you would make the night feel longer. But the choice is yours.” He allowed a faint smile, one more tender than Bruce had earned in days. “It doesn’t have to be a date, it could be a friend. Or even no one at all, if you’d rather keep your own company.”

Bruce didn’t answer. He didn’t move.

Alfred turned toward the doorway, his voice quiet as he paused in the frame. “I left two tickets on your dresser. Do with them what you will. If nothing else, it’s an excuse to put on something other than armor.”

The silence after Alfred left wasn’t empty. It pulsed like a bruise, deep and aching.

Bruce sat there, staring into the city, thinking of the one person he wanted beside him, and knowing he wouldn’t be the one to take that place.

Chapter Text

Saturday came in a flash.

Clark had saved cities with less anxiety than he felt lacing his shoes that night.

His apartment, modest and sun-drenched during the day, now held a kind of humming tension. His tie had been knotted, then unknotted, four times already. He kept looking in the mirror and seeing someone he didn’t fully recognize.

Not because of his reflection, but because of what tonight meant.

A date.

With Lois.

Well— it wasn’t a real date.
Just a friendly dinner.

Just a maybe-you-were-someone-I-loved-once meal.

He repeated that in his head like a mantra, as if it would steady him. As if it made sense.

Still, his hands trembled slightly as he combed his hair, adjusting it twice before finally giving up and mussing it slightly the way it always fell naturally.

It was absurd. He’d gone to war alongside the League, faced gods, monsters, things outside of time, and yet here he was, hands cold, chest tight, worrying about whether the collar of his shirt sat right.

He glanced toward the small drawer where the envelope still sat.

The letter that had made him wonder, that had made him hope.

But tonight, for some reason, his heart whispered that maybe… Maybe all his doubts that ate his insides like a fiery storm, would finally be calmed.

His mother’s words echoed in his head. “You said they were from work.”

And Lois was— is from work. Smart, sharp, endlessly brave… she had made him laugh, made him nervous, she understood him. Or at least, she tried.

He exhaled.

Tonight he might get a piece of himself back.

He kept reminding himself of that as he walked toward the diner Lois had suggested

Not the sleek downtown restaurant he half-expected, but a street-corner diner, with cracked vinyl booths and windows fogged from the warmth inside. The kind of place that smelled like grilled onions and old radio music.

He spotted her through the window, already at a booth. She was flipping through the menu with one hand, her coat already off, and a ketchup packed spinning idly between her fingers.

Clark stepped inside and the bell above the door jingled.

Lois looked up. “Clark!” she called with a grin. “You clean up nice.”

He smiled, tugging nervously at the collar of his jacket. “You said burgers, so I wasn’t sure if I should wear a tie or a bib.”

“You’d look good in either,” she teased, sliding a menu across to him as he sat. “But come on, admit it— this place is great.”

“I’ll take your word on that”, he admitted, “I guess I expected something a little more… formal.”

She leaned on one elbow, giving him a look that was half challenge, half amusement. “That’s exactly why I picked it.”

Clark blinked. “Because it’s not formal?”

“No, because it’s simple, greasy, and honest.” She gestured to the cracked salt shaker between them. “Places like this don’t lie to you. You come here when you’re craving something real, not performative. No tiny appetizers.” She looked around, “Just food that gets your hands messy and makes you feel alive.”

He tilted his head. “That’s… actually kind of poetic.” He smiled. “You always have a way with words.”

“I’m full of surprises,” she said, winking.

And it worked. The nervous tension in his shoulders slowly eased.

They ordered burgers, fries, milkshakes… The kind of meal that ignored all the rules of a first date. Which made sense, he kept reminding himself, because it really wasn’t one.

They talked, smoothly, joyfully, jumping between topics as if they were easy waves to surf. About the Daily Planet, about stories they were working on, Perry’s refusal to switch to digital calendars, Jimmy’s latest obsession with candid rooftop photography.

Small and inside jokes that made their laughter fill a small part of the diner.

But beneath it all, there was a current neither of them addressed directly.

Until Clark finally cleared his throat, fingers playing with the edge of his napkin.

“Lois,” he said quietly. “I need to ask you something.”

“Sure.” Her laughter died down, leaving a warmth behind.

“Were we…”

Clark paused. The words sat heavy on his tongue.

He could say them. He wanted to say them.

But he didn’t.

He looked down at his burger. “Never mind.”

She tilted her head. “Clark?”

He could try to ask her.

But in that instant, he understood– asking would mean forcing something to change, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for what might follow.

He imagined the hypothetical scenario where she’d said yes. Then he’d give her the hope of her loved one coming back and making an effort to remember her. Which he was! But if she asked him if he felt something for her at the moment. He’d plainly say… he wasn’t sure. He was just confused.

And if it indeed was her, then— it would feel like losing her twice.

BUT— there was the other possibility.

If she said no, the ache in his chest might never settle. Leading to more anxious nights, turning endlessly on his bed trying to think of who else it could be.

So, for now, the truth could wait.

“It’s just…I don’t remember if we’ve been at this diner before.” He smiled, gentle but guarded. “Just trying to make sense of most things I don’t remember, is all.”

Lois nodded slowly, understanding something unspoken. “No, I don’t think you’ve been here before.”

They continued eating in silence a few moments before changing the subject.

By the end of the meal, the tension in his shoulders had melted away. He wasn’t thinking about what he couldn’t remember. He wasn’t searching for something.

He was just… present.

They walked outside together as the streetlights flickered on. The city was quieter here, fewer cars, slower pace. They kept a comfortable silence until they reached the entrance of her apartment.

“Well,” Lois said, hands in her coat pockets, “for a friendly date, I’d give it a solid eight out of ten. You didn’t spill anything on me, so bonus points!”

Clark smiled, his voice quieter now. “Thanks for coming out with me.”

She stepped a little closer. “Hey, you needed a break from doom and gloom. And I needed an excuse to eat fries without sharing any, so, win-win!”

Then, with no warning, no hesitation, she leaned in and kissed his cheek, just a soft brush, warm and quick.

Clark’s breath hitched.

Lois stepped back, smiling.

“For being good company, and for reminding me that you’re still in there, even if you don’t have all the pieces yet.”

He looked at her for a moment, almost dazed.

“It was a good night,” he said.

“Indeed it was,” she agreed. “A friendly one.”

She winked and turned to walk away, her heels clicking against the concrete.

Clark stood there a moment longer, the chill of the hall brushing over him. The city buzzed around him, lights, sounds, movement, but none of it felt overwhelming.

Just… alive.

And he felt alive in it.

When he finally got back to his apartment, everything was still. He stepped inside quietly, shrugged off his coat, and loosened his shirt collar. The place smelled like coffee and paper and the faint hint of whatever candle Ma had insisted on sending him last Christmas.

He sat on the couch, letting out a long breath.

He didn’t go for the drawer. Didn’t open the envelope. Tonight wasn’t for answers or questions.

It was just for peace. He deserved it.

For laughter over fries and the surprise of a soft kiss on the cheek.

He leaned back, eyes fluttering shut, a small, quiet smile still lingering on his face.

Saturday night at the Watchtower had never felt this suffocating.

Bruce sat in his usual chair at the meeting table, surrounded by familiar voices: Diana, J'onn, Hal, Arthur, and the others, all gathered to go over rotations, threat assessments, and updates from across the globe. It was routine. Usually, he found solace in the structure of it.

But not tonight.

He kept his eyes on the datapad in front of him, but his mind wasn’t absorbing a word of it. All because a single thought kept pulling his peace of mind from the present moment.

He briefly looked at the empty seat in front of him.

A date.

That word had carved itself into Bruce’s thoughts like a blade. Every scenario that should have occupied his mind, criminal activity, world threats, League logistics, blurred into the background.

He barely registered Diana finishing her updates or Hal cracking a joke about how Bruce must be the only person who could look more annoyed than usual. Bruce offered a short grunt in response.

When the meeting finally adjourned, Bruce was the first to stand, datapad tucked tightly under one arm, cloak swirling behind him as he walked away. Diana called his name softly, maybe to ask if he was okay, but he didn’t stop.

He made it to the teleporter, returned to Earth, and descended into the Batcave before he let himself exhale.

The cave was quiet. Empty, aside from the low hum of the computer and the rhythmic clicking of bats overhead. Alfred was waiting at the base of the stairs, holding a tray with a cup of tea.

“Evening, Master Wayne,” Alfred said with quiet care. “Meeting over already?”

Bruce pulled off the cowl. His eyes were tired, but his body coiled with restless tension.

“Yes.”

Alfred studied him for a moment, then extended the cup. “I would advise you to rest. You've been running yourself into the ground more than usual.”

Bruce didn’t reach for the tea.

“I'm going out.”

Alfred's brow lifted ever so slightly. “On patrol?”

Bruce nodded, already turning toward the suit vault.

“It’s late. Gotham is quieter than usual tonight.”

“Good,” Bruce replied. “I need the quiet.”

Alfred’s voice was softer now. “And what of peace?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He stepped into the shadows.

The night would be long.

And he didn’t want it to end.

Rain poured softly, painting the city in streaks of silver and amber. The pavement shimmered beneath Clark's feet, soaked and glistening under the faint glow of distant streetlamps. A hush had fallen over the world, not silence, exactly, but the kind of quiet that made everything feel suspended.

He stood in the middle of a rooftop, he didn’t know which one, he couldn’t place the street below, or even recall how he got there. All he knew was that the air smelled like petrichor, and his heart was pounding.

In front of him, the silhouette of a person. Smaller than him by a few inches. The features were obscured by shadow and rain, the way dreams tend to blur the edges of what matters most.

But there was warmth there. Something in the way they stood, in the quiet gravity between them, that made Clark's chest ache.

Clark felt a pull toward them, something older than memory, stronger than language. The distance between them felt electric, charged by some invisible thread.

Clark stepped closer, slowly, carefully as if the figure would suddenly dissipate into the shadows.

No words. Just the sound of rain against fabric, the faint hum of city life below, distant and softened by the storm. Time didn’t seem to exist here, only feelings did.

A hand brushed against his jaw. Clark closed his eyes at the touch, a shiver working through him that had nothing to do with the cold.

A mumble. He opened his eyes, admiring blurry features. He could faintly see their blue eyes.

“You’re beautiful…” Clark whispered.

The other gave a chuckle disguised as a sigh.

They leaned in slowly, giving Clark a chance to stop it. But he didn’t.

The figure stopped, hesitantly just before their lips met.

Clark helped and closed the distance.

A small, tentative kiss.

They slid a hand to the back of Clark’s neck, and Clark responded by drawing even closer. The second kiss was less hesitant, deeper and more certain.

The kiss was a promise and a confession.

Clark gasped softly into the kiss. His skin was buzzing, his heart thundered in his ribs.

The warmth, the pressure, the way his breath hitched when fingers ghosted over the curve of his jaw…

“C–rk… D–n’t go….”

He didn’t want to let go.

But as the dream began to fade, as light filtered in, as the rain slowed, the figure stepped back. Gently, with sorrow in the motion, like they knew this was all they were allowed.

And Clark still couldn’t see their face.

Just a blurry outline. Just the aching sense that this meant everything.

A whisper lingered in the air, just as the dream dissolved.

"I don’t want to lose this forever..."

When he woke up, his skin still tingled.

A dream?

He pressed a hand to his chest. His heart painfully beating with longing.

No. A fracture of a memory.

He lay in the quiet of his apartment, the city once again distant but real beyond his window. It was still dark, probably early in the morning.

He got up from the couch and looked outside; perhaps this was a good sign that he was on the right track.

The rooftops of Gotham were slick with fresh rain, the kind that never truly washed anything away. Streetlights reflected in the puddles like fractured memories, and the city groaned beneath its usual blanket of midnight gloom.

Batman moved silently across the skyline, each leap calculated, every landing soft. The rhythm of patrol was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat, controlled.

That was why he noticed the disruption instantly.

"Well, well," a silky voice called from above. "If it isn’t the brooding prince of Gotham. Out for a stroll?"

He didn't look up, he didn't need to. He knew that voice.

"Selina," he muttered.

She lounged lazily on a fire escape above him, half-hidden in the shadows, one knee hooked over the railing like this was her own private balcony.

"You didn’t even flinch. I must be losing my touch."

He landed on the rooftop across from her and kept moving, silent.

She dropped down lightly, boots clicking on wet concrete. "You're usually good for at least one verbal jab. What's the matter? Did your Batmobile get a flat? Tires stolen, perhaps? If that’s even possible…"

No answer.

She tilted her head, frowning slightly. "Cat got your tongue?” she muttered, letting out a sigh when she still got nothing in return. “You're quieter than usual. And I know you, Bruce. I know that silence, that's the kind you wear when something's gnawing at you."

Still, he said nothing. His cape fluttered slightly as he adjusted his stance, gaze fixed on the city, not her.

Catwoman approached him slowly, not with flirtation now, but something gentler. Her voice softened.

"You're heartbroken."

That made him stiffen, just barely. But Selina knows his tells too well not to notice.

"You don't have to confirm it. I can see it all over you, in the way you move and the way you don’t move."

He didn’t deny it, still didn’t even glance her way.

"Listen," she continued, "I know what it's like to lose something you never got the chance to hold properly. To want to say something and realize the moment passed before you even saw it coming."

The city hummed below them. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance.

“Look, I know I may not have been the first one to tell you this but…”

For a moment, they stood in silence. Rain still fell in a misty drizzle around them.

Then she turned, her silhouette elegant against the light haze.

“Whatever it is, whoever it is... Don’t let it eat you alive. You're allowed to hurt, Bruce. But you're also allowed to want. To need…"

He didn’t respond.

"Try not to drown in it, alright? Even bats are social animals."

And by the time she looked back, he was gone.

Just the whisper of his cape disappearing into the dark.

Selina sighed. “You sure hit him hard Big Blue.”

Chapter Text

The city sounded different tonight.

Gotham’s usual symphony of sirens and chaos had dulled to a strange, fragile hush, thinned by winter air and the weight of clouds overhead. It should have soothed him. Instead, the silence pressed harder, amplifying the thoughts he’d tried to bury for weeks.

Three weeks.

That’s how long he’d kept moving like a machine: patrols, board meetings, League missions. Anything to outrun the echo of Clark’s words that refused to leave him. Anything to ignore the ache that carved deeper every night he lay awake in an empty manor, listening to nothing but the hum of old stone.

He’s happy. With someone else. The thought came like a blade every time Bruce slowed down. So he hadn’t slowed. Not once.

But Alfred noticed. Alfred always noticed.

Bruce adjusted his tie with more force than necessary, glaring at the cufflinks as if they’d personally betrayed him. “This is a waste of time.”

Across the room, Alfred remained the picture of calm, gloved hands clasped neatly. “On the contrary, sir. This is a much-needed reprieve from your…relentless nocturnal endeavors. Besides, you’ve already agreed to go.”

“To make you happy,” he scoffed, “This is a distraction,” Bruce said flatly. “And you know it.”

“Distraction, relief…sometimes they’re one and the same.” Alfred’s gaze softened as he stepped closer, fingers deftly straightening Bruce’s lapel like he’d done since Bruce was a boy. “One evening away from the cave won´t make the city fall apart.”

Bruce looked away, jaw tight. “You think I can just…turn this feeling off?”

Alfred didn’t flinch, he didn’t take his defensiveness personally. “No. I think you’ve forgotten how to feel something without letting it bleed you dry.” His tone softened, weight in every word. “And I fear what that’s doing to you, Master Bruce.” Alfred grimaced, “You’re circling grief like a moth to flame. And if you’re not careful, it will burn you whole.” A beat passed, the butler’s voice gentling even further. “I doubt he’d want that for you.”

Bruce froze, the words lodged deep, sharp as glass. Alfred didn’t say Clark’s name. He didn’t have to. Bruce let out a slow breath, forcing his chest to rise and fall like it didn’t ache.

“You don’t understand,” Bruce muttered.

“I understand perfectly well,” Alfred countered softly. “I understand that the world you’ve built for yourself leaves very little room for light right now. And that if you don’t let something in, just for an hour, you’ll forget what it feels like.”

That was why Bruce was here now, hours later, standing at the edge of Haly’s Circus grounds like a man exiled from his own life.

The main tent loomed ahead, glowing like a jewel under a velvet sky. Strings of lights crisscrossed the entrance, reflecting in puddles on the damp ground. He didn’t dare look at the happy couples that surrounded him. Reminders of a life he’d never give to anyone else. Instead, he decided to shift his focus to something else.

Children darted past, laughing, their faces smeared with candy colors while their parents looked proudly at them. Bruce stood still for a beat, watching them. It felt like another life; a life he’d never get back.

He heard the gasps of people who started recognising him and whispering while starting to crowd him.

He drew a slow breath, squared his shoulders, put on a fake smile for the cameras, and stepped inside before people completely surrounded him.

Warmth and noise swallowed him whole. The air inside the tent pulsed with brass music, the scent of caramel and greasepaint thick as fog. Rows of families filled the stands, their chatter rising like birdsongs. Performers in sequins and feathers glimmered under spotlights, their smiles stretched wide, painted bright.

He kept to the shadows, watching the spectacle with sharp eyes that refused to soften. His posture screamed ease to anyone looking, but inside, every muscle was coiled. His eyes mapped exits, scanned crowds, tracked every oddity of movement without conscious thought. A lifetime of vigilance didn’t switch off for circus lights.

He told himself to breathe. Just… exist for a moment. Let the noise drown out the silence Clark had left behind.

The lights dimmed. A hush fell, broken by a drumroll that thrummed through the floor. Then the ringmaster strode out, his voice booming like thunder as he welcomed them to a night of wonder, a night of stars!

Bruce’s gaze tracked upward to the ropes strung high above the sawdust floor.

And then they appeared.

The Flying Graysons.

A man, a woman, and a small boy, whose debut was tonight. All of them dazzling in emerald, gold and scarlet; their smiles bright as the arcs they traced above the ring. Gasps rippled through the crowd with every twist, every somersault, every breathtaking catch.

They trusted each other completely. You could see it in the way their hands met midair, in the way their eyes never faltered. The child was waiting for his turn, like a baby bird waiting to leave the nest. They laughed as they flew, faces open and alive, as if gravity were nothing more than a suggestion.

Bruce’s chest tightened. He could feel that old wound ache, the one that had never truly closed.

The act climbed toward its crescendo: the triple somersault. The boy prepared to leap, arms outstretched as he grabbed the bar, the lights glinting off his sequined costume. Bruce could almost feel the crowd holding its breath.

And then—

A snap.

Sharp, like a gunshot cracking the air—but so sudden, so out of place that for a heartbeat Bruce thought he’d imagined it. Then came the scream, raw and ripping through the big top as the mother’s line gave way. She plummeted, the father diving after her, catching nothing but air.

Screams tore through the tent as the drums faltered. Bruce was on his feet before the crowd even understood what just happened, muscles moving on instinct, cutting through the chaos as the world collapsed into slow motion.

They hit the ground with a sickening force accompanied by a horrible cracking sound.

While the others looked down to the ring, Bruce’s gaze never left the child.

The boy was still clinging to the bar above, frozen. For one second, Bruce swore he could hear the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears.

Then the boy screamed.

The tent dissolved into chaos. Gasps turned to sobs, performers rushed forward, the ringmaster’s voice cracked orders, futile against the rising panic. The audience surged toward the exits, shouting, crying, covering their children’s eyes.

Bruce pushed past them all, he needed to get that child down. Taking advantage of the diverted attention, he rushed up the heights with practiced ease and reached the wobbling boy, frozen in shock. With one steady arm, he gathered the child close, anchoring him gently.

Careful not to jostle him, Bruce climbed back down, step by sure step, shielding the boy from the chaos below. Only when his feet touched solid ground did he release the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and set the child down safely.

The small figure kneeled in the sawdust, his tiny hands trembling as they tried to reach for his parents’ still forms.

Black hair slicked to his forehead and cheeks, with sweat, and maybe tears, though none had fallen yet. His mouth opened soundlessly, like the air itself had abandoned him.

Bruce knew that silence. Knew the shape of it in his own bones.

Bruce dropped to his knees so fast the sawdust flew, blocking the boy from the worst of it. Around them, voices fractured into chaos, the ringmaster continued barking futile orders, someone screaming, but Bruce forced it all into static. None of it mattered, just the child.

His hand found the boy’s shoulder, steady but firm, anchoring him. Bruce’s thoughts screaming: Ground him. Don’t let him spiral.

“Hey…” Bruce murmured, voice low, almost swallowed by the din. No response. The boy’s eyes were locked on the ground, glassy, unblinking, as if letting go even for a second would shatter the world.

“Don’t look.” Bruce tried again, softer, closer now. His fingers curved just slightly, not to restrain, but to hold him in this moment, keep him from breaking apart. “You don’t need to see this.”

Nothing. Just the tremor in those small shoulders.

Bruce leaned in until his forehead almost brushed the boy’s hair, his voice dropping to something only he could hear.

“I know it hurts…” he said. Slow, certain. “I know it feels like everything’s gone,” He let that hang, just long enough to be real, before he gave him something else, something to hold. “You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever. Someone’s got you. I’ve got you.”

The child finally looked up. Eyes impossibly blue, wide and wet with sorrow.

Bruce internally sighed in relief. “What’s your name?” Bruce tried again, quieter now.

A tiny whisper; thin, breaking: “Dick.”

Something splintered inside Bruce at the sound. And then, without a word, the boy leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Bruce’s neck. It wasn’t a tight hug, not at first. Just contact, need. But then his small fingers clenched into the fabric of Bruce’s suit, and the child buried his face against his shoulder, shaking. Bruce held him close, one arm around his back, the other cradling his head, letting him hold him like he was the last solid thing left in a collapsing world.

This small, fragile life standing on the same edge Bruce had once stood on. Somewhere deep inside, he understood: this night would change everything.

And for the first time in weeks, the ache Clark had left behind twisted into something else; something sharper, heavier. Responsibility. A new life to shield from the storm.

Bruce Wayne didn’t believe in fate. But as he lifted the boy into his arms, feeling the small weight curl against him like a question, he wondered if destiny had found him anyway.

The chaos didn’t stop when the sirens arrived. It only changed shape.

Bruce stood like a wall against it all, his coat draped around the boy’s trembling frame as if that thin fabric could hold back the night. Dick didn’t speak, not when the paramedics tried to check him, not when the police asked questions he couldn’t bear to answer. He just stayed where Bruce kept him, silent and small, his fists gripping the coat like a lifeline.

Bruce never let go. Not once.

When the bodies were covered and carried away, when the crowd was ushered into the cold like ghosts, the circus owner came. His face was pale beneath the greasepaint, his voice hoarse.

“Mr. Wayne, I…. I don’t know what to say,” the man stammered, wringing his hands. “John and Mary were the heart of this show. The best we had. And now—”

He raised a hand signalling to stop and tilted his head to the child, a subtle gesture to stop him.

“Oh. Right…” the man murmured, falling quiet.

The little boy looked between the adults, wide-eyed and silent. Dick, who had been clutching the coat tightly around himself, let it slip from his shoulders and fall from his hands as he reached for Bruce’s. His small fingers found Bruce’s larger ones, clinging without a word.

Bruce glanced down, startled to feel small fingers grasping his. He hadn’t expected Dick to reach for him, not after everything. His expression softened. He knelt beside the boy, voice low and steady. “I’m going to be right back, okay?”

He picked the coat up from the dirt, gave it a light shake, then carefully settled it back over the child’s shoulders.

The boy didn’t speak. Bruce offered a faint smile before rising, giving the boy’s hand a gentle squeeze. Then he turned to the ringmaster, leading him a few steps away, far enough that the child wouldn’t hear what needed to be said.

“What happened?”

The man swallowed. “It wasn’t an accident. That rope… someone cut it.”

Bruce’s jaw locked. “Who?”

“Tony Zucco,” the man spat the name like poison. “He’s been leaning on us for months, blackmailing us for money; old debts had already been paid but it apparently wasn’t enough. We refused to pay. Guess… guess this was his answer.”

Bruce felt the heat of anger rise in his chest, another child, torn from his parents because of organized crime. It was too familiar. Too cruel.

“I’m really sorry Mr. Waye, I know this is–” Bruce let the other man’s words fade into background noise.

His eyes flicked back to Dick, who stood a little ways off, quiet and still, clutching the too-large coat around his shoulders.

“Does he have any family?” Bruce interrupted him.

The man sighed, then shook his head. “No one. They were his whole world.”

Bruce already knew. He saw it in the boy’s hollow stare.

“From what I’ve seen tonight I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s better if the circus… dissolved. I wouldn’t want this to happen to anyone else. Besides… they were our main stars. And without them–” The ring master looked at the child too. “I don’t know what will happen to him …”

Something settled in Bruce’s chest then, heavy as lead and sharp as glass.

“I’ll take him,” Bruce said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

The man blinked, startled. “You, Mr. Wayne? Are you sure? This… this is a big responsibility and—”

“I know what it is.” His gaze settled on the boy again, steady, unwavering. Not threatening, but resolute. A vow. “He won’t end up in the system. Not while I’m alive.”

He felt the promise form before he could stop it, iron-clad and merciless as any vow he’d ever made.

You won’t fall, too. Not while I can hold you.

The circus owner hesitated, then nodded, relief and grief battling in his eyes.

The funeral was small according to the circus owner’s wishes, even after Bruce offered to pay for it. Rain fell like a mourning veil as Bruce stood with the boy beside two simple graves, the earth raw and dark beneath the flowers. Dick still hadn’t cried, not once, but Bruce could feel the tempest inside him, silent and violent.

When the service ended and the last mourner drifted away, Bruce stayed. He didn’t speak, didn’t push. Just rested a hand on the boy’s back, steady and grounding against the weight of a sky that felt too big now.

Finally, when the world was quiet, Bruce crouched again, meeting those hollow blue eyes.

“Dick,” he said softly. “I can’t bring them back. Nor can I make the pain disappear. But I can promise you this– someone’s going to stand with you. Always. You won’t go through this alone. Not if I can help it.”

The boy stared at him for a long, shattering moment.

A quiet mumble. “Okay.”

The ride back to Wayne Manor was silent.

Dick sat in the passenger seat, his small frame swallowed by the leather interior. His eyes fixed on the blur of passing lights, expression vacant, trying to make sense of a world that had just cracked in two.

Bruce gripped the steering wheel harder than necessary. Every so often, his eyes flicked toward the boy, noting the way his hands twisted in his lap, fingers clenching and unclenching. He recognized the signs. The desperate attempt to hold it together. The quiet rage simmering under grief.

He’d seen it before, on his own face in the mirror years ago.

“Dick,” Bruce said finally, voice low, steady. The boy turned his head slightly, but didn’t speak. “What happened… it wasn’t your fault.”

The boy swallowed hard, his chin trembling. “The rope…” His voice broke like brittle glass. “It broke. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve—”

“No.” Bruce’s tone was firm enough to cut through the spiral. “You couldn’t have stopped it… you don’t have to blame yourself for something that wasn’t your fault.”

Dick stared at him for a long moment, eyes shimmering, before looking back out the window. Bruce didn’t push further.

Wayne Manor loomed like a mountain of shadows, its gothic spires cutting the twilight. Alfred was waiting at the steps, his face etched with something Bruce rarely saw: unguarded deep worry.

The car rolled to a stop. Bruce stepped out first, walking around to open the door for Dick. The boy hesitated, glancing up at the towering figure beside him, then slid out. Trailing just behind Bruce, he clutched his small suitcase which looked even smaller in the expanse of gravel.

Alfred descended the steps with silent grace. “Master Wayne.”

Bruce gave the faintest nod. “Alfred,” Bruce said, his voice quieter than usual.

Alfred’s gaze softened the moment it landed on the boy. He bent, offering the child a gentle smile. “Welcome, young man. I’m Alfred. This old house will be your home from now on, it has been waiting a long time for someone as brave as you to bring a bit of light to it.” He then extended a hand, to take the kid’s suitcase. “Let’s not keep it waiting longer, shall we?”

For the first time since the fall, Dick’s eyes flickered; not quite a smile, but something less hollow as he gave the butler his things.

Bruce felt it like a spark in the dark. A fragile thing, but real.

He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, steadying him as they crossed the threshold together.

For a short moment, the smell of polished wood and old books felt like a sanctuary.

“Come with me young master, I’ll show you your room.”

When Dick disappeared upstairs with Alfred, Bruce walked directly to the great room and sank into the leather armchair by the fire. His elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped tight.

He didn’t know what this meant, not for his life, not for Batman's mission, not for the part of him still bleeding over something he couldn’t name.

But bringing a child into the heart of his darkness... was that mercy, or selfishness?

For one dizzying second, Bruce thought of Clark. Of what he’d say if he were here. Probably something simple. Something that stripped away all the noise and gave him comfort.

You don’t have to do this alone.

But Clark wasn’t here, he hadn’t been in weeks. And Bruce couldn’t afford the luxury of needing someone. Not anymore. He’d slammed that door shut himself the moment he made his choice.

Because this child needed him now, really needed him in a way Bruce couldn’t fail. He couldn’t afford to crumble, couldn’t afford to let the hollow ache inside him dictate his choices. The armor wasn’t just for Gotham anymore; it was for the boy upstairs.

As the crackle of flames filled the silence, Bruce allowed his thoughts to wander for the first time in a long time.

After a while, almost before the fire died down. Bruce finally understood.

The mission hadn’t vanished, but it had shifted, sharpened. This wasn’t just about vengeance anymore.

It was about making sure this child never walked the same road he did.

And if that meant burying what was left of his own heart to do it, then so be it. As for the first time in a long time, the weight of his thoughts felt bearable.

Later that night, at the Batcave, Bruce typed the message slowly, his fingers hovering over the keyboard longer than usual before hitting send:

[Sender: Batman]
[Priority: Standard | Encryption: Max]

“I’ll be unavailable for the foreseeable future. Personal matter. All systems and contingencies remain operational. Contact only in case of global threat or a real emergency.”

— Batman

Read by: 7 people.

[Reply: Wonder Woman]
“Personal matter? Bruce, that’s not like you. Are you all right?”

[Reply: Aquaman]
“👍”

[Reply: Green Arrow]
“You’re not serious, are you?”

[Reply: Flash]
“Whoa, wait, THE Batman is taking a break? Is hell freezing over or…?”

[Reply: Green Lantern]
“You’re seriously bailing on the meeting next week? You never miss those. Like– ever.”

[Reply: J’onn J’onzz]
“Understood, Dark Knight. If you require assistance… you know where to find me.”

Bruce did not respond. The thread went silent after that.

He didn’t offer details. He never did.

The cursor of the batcomputer blinked on the screen. His eyes lingered on the message:

Read by 7 people.

There had only been six replies.

A sharp ache flickered in his chest. But before the feeling could dig any deeper, Bruce shut the terminal down without a second glance, stood up and took the elevator.

Down the hall, he heard soft footsteps. Alfred guiding Dick to bed after dinner. The quiet murmur of reassurance that had once soothed him too.

He wasn’t thinking of leaving. He was thinking of staying.

For the boy.

For both of them.

Chapter Text

The Daily Planet was buzzing, the way it always did.

Clark moved through the chaos like a man underwater. On the outside, he was calm; polite smile, quick nods, steady hands as he stacked printed drafts on his desk. But inside, something restless churned.

For weeks, he and Lois had been orbiting each other, slowly drawing closer without ever naming what this was. Lunch breaks blurred into evening walks, newsroom chatter stretched into rooftop talks under the hum of city lights. They laughed together easily, as if time itself had been kind to their bond, yet every time Clark thought about pushing beyond that line, something inside him pulled back.

He had found a photo on his cloud drive a few days ago; a relic from before the accident. Him and Lois, standing close at some office celebration, her hand brushing his sleeve, her smile soft and unguarded. The kind of smile that looked like it belonged to someone who trusted him completely. Someone who maybe… loved him once.

He’d been meaning to tell her. That he trusted her now, that he knew of the letter. That he was ready to keep walking down whatever path they’d left unfinished. To pick up where their story had paused.

But when the words formed in his mind, they didn’t fit. Every time, they snagged on something unseen, something deep. Even asking her on a proper romantic date, not just a casual hangout, felt like stepping onto unfamiliar ground.

And still, he wanted to try.

But couldn’t.

The envelope sat in his apartment’s drawer now, heavier than a slip of paper had any right to be. He hadn’t opened it today and didn't need to. Its words lived behind his eyes, carved in fire.

He wanted to believe Lois had written them. No, he needed to.

It wasn’t just the letter anymore. Or the fragments of dreams that clung to him like whispers. It was the way their nights together felt: easy, warm, like home. The way she smiled sometimes, the edges soft, unguarded… dreamy. Everything was pointing at her!

And now, what reassured him, was that photograph.

Clark had stared at that photo longer than he should have, warmth curling low in his chest. Maybe this was the thread Diana had spoken of! The one that would lead him back. Maybe it really had been Lois all along…

The thought steadied him, even if it trembled at the edges.

He looked at the photo one last time before turning off his phone, walking back toward the bullpen. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Phones rang. Chatter rose and fell like waves.

And there she was, Lois Lane, typing furiously at her desk, hair catching the late afternoon sun in streaks of fire.

Clark drew a slow breath, his heart drumming like a warning. Maybe tonight, he’d finally tell her.

I’ll wait for you, as long as it takes.

He shouldn’t keep her waiting any longer, she deserved that much.

But before he could even greet her–

“Clark,” she said without looking up, “tell me you brought that zoning report before Perry loses his last good nerve.”

He smiled faintly and handed her the papers. “Hot off the presses.”

She glanced at them, then at him. Her eyes softened in a way that made his chest tighten.

“Thanks, Smallville.” A beat of silence passed before she added, almost casually, “Hey… you doing anything tomorrow?”

Clark blinked. “Uh… no, I don’t think so.”

Her grin turned playful, a spark in her eyes that reminded him why people wrote songs about women like Lois Lane. “Good. Because I just got two tickets to that rooftop jazz night by the river. Best skyline view in Metropolis. And before you ask, no, it’s not work-related. Just thought it’d be nice to… you know. Just enjoy our company.”

Something warm flickered in Clark’s chest. “Yeah,” he said, smiling in spite of the nervous thrum in his pulse. “I’d like that.”

“Great! It’s a date, then.” She winked and went back to her screen, fingers flying over the keyboard like nothing monumental had just happened.

But for Clark, the world tilted a little.

He stood there for a second too long before retreating to his own desk, lowering into his chair with a quiet exhale. His hands hovered over his keyboard, unmoving.

A proper date.

Clark smiled. Lois had taken the first step before he could, direct as always, something he’s always admired of her. Well… he thought about it first though.

Maybe this was what he’d been missing. Maybe the answers weren’t in dreams or cryptic letters; they were here, with someone who’d always been by his side.

And yet…

When he looked out the window at the city beyond, raindrops began to pepper the glass. The sound hit him like a shiver down his spine.

For a heartbeat, he remembered the scent that always came with the rain, and the feel of a hand against his face, as if it had only just left.

Clark gripped the edge of his desk, grounding himself in the now. Tomorrow, he had a date.

He would make this work. He had to.

Because the alternative, the possibility that the person in his dreams wasn’t Lois, felt too sorrowful to even imagine.

The apartment was quiet, save for the soft whistle of the wind rustling the trees outside and the occasional creak of the old floorboards beneath Clark’s boots. The city whispered through the open balcony door, distant traffic, the low murmur of voices on the sidewalk.

He rarely took extra work voluntarily, but this time he felt the need to distract himself. A notification pinged softly on his League communicator, dragging Clark’s attention from the article draft glowing on his laptop.

Batman never sent casual messages. Every line from him was deliberate, sharp-edged, designed for clarity and control. Clark opened the encrypted feed and read:

“I’ll be unavailable for the foreseeable future. Personal matter. All systems and contingencies remain operational. Contact only in case of global threat or a real emergency.”

His brow furrowed, scanning it twice. A third time. Personal matter. Bruce didn’t do personal matters. Nothing stopped him. Not the Bruce Clark remembered, at least, the little fragments of him Clark had pieced together from others, the journal, and from small thoughts that came to him from time to time.

Messages from everyone began flooding the thread, ping after ping. Clark just stared, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He should say something...something supportive and friendly.

But what exactly?

Bruce had been silent since the day Clark was brought into that infirmary. He’d sat by Clark’s side through every blurred hour, through the confusion, through the shattered fragments Clark couldn’t piece together, through the endless stillness of unconsciousness. Bruce had never left in those first days; others told Clark that much once he woke. And then…? Nothing.

Clark remembered, too vividly, the way Bruce had looked at him in the infirmary, like something fragile was breaking inside Bruce, something he was struggling to hold together.

And then there was the forehead kiss.

Clark shifted uncomfortably, shoving the thought back before it could take shape. It wasn’t real, just a dream. Some strange manifestation of a brain trying to stitch itself back together. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Still… the weight of it lingered.

He tried to recall the man fully. The mask was easy, Batman, the unshakable strategist, the shadow in every corner. But beyond that? Bruce felt like a ghost. He knew the same information as the media about Wayne. He’s tried, really tried to reconnect with him. But with every attempt he tried to get closer, it just appeared it repelled the Bat even further. And now this message. Cold and distant.

Foreseeable future.

It sounded like goodbye without saying it.

Clark’s chest felt heavy. He cared about him, of course he did. Bruce had been his friend. Still was, he hoped. But there was something else tangled beneath the surface. A pull that felt too strong for someone who had put so much effort into becoming a stranger to him.

His fingers hovered above the keys, trembling just enough to notice. He didn’t even know what he planned to say, only that if he said the wrong thing, he might push Bruce further away. If that was even possible.

It scared him more than he wanted to admit.

But…what to type?

“Everything okay?” Someone had already written that.

“You sure you don’t need anything? We’re here for you. You’ve already been distant lately.” Too invasive. Too long.

“Please, take care of yourself.” Too… detached. At least it wasn’t like Arthur’s.

“Hey, want someone to come over? Maybe I–” No. Just, no.

The cursor blinked. And blinked. And blinked…

Why, when Bruce’s name disappeared from the thread, did it feel like a door closing? Why did he feel like something was slipping away before he even understood what it was?

Clark shut the communicator off out of frustration.

He exhaled, slow and shaky. He picked up his phone, staring at Lois’s chat on the screen. He had another date with her tomorrow. Another step forward.

But for some reason, when he set the phone down, his reflection on the dark screen didn’t look happy. It looked… lost.

Clark stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his tie with trembling hands for the third time. “You don’t have to wear something too fancy,” Lois had said. But it didn’t matter that it was only a rooftop jazz night, he still wanted to make a good impression.

The photo was still in his gallery. The letter was left abandoned in the drawer. Both proof that there was an answer waiting if he just looked hard enough.

Lois was vibrant, magnetic, everything in his head told him this made sense. All the signs were there! So why did the thought of rain against pavement keep intruding? Why did the image of a blurred figure in a dream feel heavier than the weight of the tie around his throat?

Clark pressed his palms against the sink and exhaled. Tonight was about certainty. About building something real again.

He took off the tie and left the apartment before the doubt could catch up to him.

Lois was already there when Clark arrived, her hair swept back, city lights painting gold in its dark strands. She waved when she saw him, and something in Clark eased; a piece of warmth blooming despite the conflict inside his head.

They sat, they laughed, they talked about work, their friends, their hobbies, and all sorts of topics. Clark smiled, listened, and let himself fall into the rhythm of her voice.

But then, a saxophone began to cry in the background, low and aching, and his mind betrayed him. For a heartbeat, the notes weren’t music, they were rain.

He blinked and saw it briefly: a rooftop, water streaming down his face.

Lois leaned closer, her lips brushing his cheek in a warm, brief kiss, returning him to the present. “For old times,” she said softly, smiling.

Clark smiled back, forcing himself to enjoy the present moment.

The quiet streets near Lois’s apartment, the world felt muted, just footsteps, city wind, and the weight of things yet unsaid. Some street lights weren’t working, making the way feel a bit desolate.

“Ugh… they need to fix those, all this darkness gives me chills. The streets at night are already scary as they are.”

Clark glanced at her, curious. “Afraid of it?”

She gave a small shrug, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “No, not so much anymore. But when I was a kid? Definitely. It wasn’t about monsters under the bed or anything… I just hated not knowing what was out there. All that empty space where anything could be hiding.”

Clark hummed, thoughtful. “Makes sense.”

Lois tilted her head at him. “What about you? Ever afraid of the dark?”

Clark chuckled. “No, growing up I saw it more like a refuge. A safe place where I could find relief from the rest of the world.” He paused, eyes drifting toward the blackened skyline ahead. “Still feels that way sometimes. People think of the dark as absence, but… it has its own kind of beauty. It makes the light honest, sharp against the void. There’s something… comforting about that.”

Lois watched him with mild surprise, amusement softening her expression. “That’s almost poetic, Clark. I wouldn’t have imagined you as a romantic about shadows.”

Clark smiled faintly, but then, as they continued walking, his expression shifted. His gaze lingered on the stretch of unlit pavement ahead, something stirring at the edge of his thoughts.

He let out a quiet laugh, almost to himself.

Lois caught it immediately. “What?” She asked teasingly.

Clark hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Oh, it’s just… I remembered someone once telling me they were terrified of the dark too when they were a kid. They said it was bad, phobia level. That every shadow felt like a threat.” He exhaled, his smile deepening. “But, it’s ironic.”

“Ironic having one of the most common fears?” She raised her brow, with a smug grin. “Well forgive us.”

Clark opened his mouth, a smile decorating the edges of his mouth. “No! I didn’t mean it in a bad way. It’s ironic because–” He frowned, his smile slowly disappearing. “This person– they…” He really couldn’t put his finger on it at the moment.

“Hey it’s okay. Don’t push it.” She smiled at him.

Clark walked beside her, hands buried in his coat pockets, heart drumming like a runaway train. He wasn’t sure why his chest felt so tight. The conversation replayed in his mind, the memory he almost caught, the name that slipped through his fingers. Who was it? Why did it feel important, like a thread tied around his ribs? And yet, when Lois grabbed his hand, it pulled him back to the present, anchoring him in something real, something he could hold onto. A few moments of silence passed as they arrived at the door of her apartment complex.

“Lois,” he began softly.

She glanced at him, curious, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Hmm?”

How could he do this without sounding like a fool? Without spilling everything; the fog, the dreams, the letter that kept him awake at night? He chose the simplest thread, hoping it would lead him to the whole.

He swallowed, gathering courage. It was now or never.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice low, careful. “About how hard it must’ve been…waiting...”

Her brow furrowed slightly, then smoothed as a faint blush crept into her cheeks. “Waiting?”

Clark nodded, eyes searching hers for a flicker of recognition. “I know you’ve waited for me. You didn’t have to. But you did anyway. And… I want you to know that I see that now. Even if I don’t… remember everything the way I should.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched like glass between them. Then Lois exhaled, a laugh, soft, nervous, but real.

“Clark… You realized..? Was I that obvious? You–” she said, shaking her head lightly, “you really are something else.”

“Was I wrong?” he asked quickly, panic whispering at the edges.

“No,” she admitted softly, her voice taking on a warmth that surprised him. Her gaze flickered downward before finding his again, steady but carrying something almost tender. “But… I guess I did wait. In my own way.”

Clark felt his pulse quicken as she went on, her words unspooling like threads pulling him deeper into certainty.

“I kept thinking… maybe someday, when everything wasn’t so confusing or blurry—” She gave a little laugh, breaking her own intensity, as if embarrassed by how much she was revealing. “Maybe then I could finally… reach out.”

His chest tightened, heat blooming through his ribs.

She’s confirming it! She’s telling me it was her!

Relief surged like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

He smiled, soft, stunned. “I’m so glad you did.”

They’d reached her building now, the stoop slick with leftover rain. Lois turned to face him, arms folding lightly against the chill, her eyes holding his like something fragile.

“So what now?” she asked, half-teasing, half-sincere.

Clark hesitated only a second before answering the truth clawing out of him: “I don’t know how to be the person you loved. Not yet– But… I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

For once, Lois Lane didn’t have a quick comeback. Her breath hitched softly, and then, without a word, she stepped closer.

“Oh, Clark...”

The world seemed to shrink to the sound of her heels on pavement, the faint hum of the city behind them, the halo of a streetlight crowning her dark hair in pale gold.

When her hand brushed his arm, he froze. Not because he didn’t want it, but because something deep inside him trembled like a fault line under pressure.

He didn’t realize he was leaning down until her lips touched his.

The kiss was tender, sweet. Warm in a way that seeped through the cold air and settled against his bones. Her lips moved slowly, almost testing, and he let himself respond; soft at first, then steadier.

He felt how her other hand rose to his jaw, fingers feather-light against his skin.

Until—

The sound of rain. A gloved hand cradling his face with such aching reverence that it burned into his soul.

“Clark…” a thunder, resonating through the night sky.

He frowned.

“Don’t go,” a whisper, so raw it hurt. Then, a muffled groan, vibrating against Clark’s mouth.

Clark’s breath stuttered mid-kiss. Lois didn’t seem to notice at first, but when he pulled back so suddenly, the look in her eyes sharpened.

“Clark?” Her voice was soft, tinged with concern. “Are you okay?”

He forced a smile, even as his pulse roared in his ears. “Yeah–” he shakily sighed, “Yeah, I… I’m fine.”

Her brows knit slightly. “Are you sure? You seem–”

“Sorry Lois, the kiss was perfect… it’s–” He interrupted her, swallowing the lump in his throat. The lie slid out with practiced ease, but it still tasted bitter. “I’m just tired. And the sudden adrenaline just made me a little dizzy.” He gave her an awkward smile.

Lois studied him for a heartbeat longer, then nodded, her lips curving into that patient smile he’d always admired. “I’m not so sure I believe you,” she touched his arm gently. “But I trust you’re telling the truth. Go home and get some rest.”

He nodded, grateful and guilty all at once. “Thank you… for tonight.”

“Anytime, Smallville. Text me when you get home, okay?”

With a last, soft smile, she turned and entered her building. Clark stayed rooted to the spot, watching her go, feeling the echo of her kiss on his lips; and the ghost of another layered beneath it, one that made his chest ache with a yearning he couldn’t explain.

And yet, he felt his heart fall in despair. He now realized that whatever he was building with her, it wasn’t something that had already existed. But he didn’t want to accept it, not yet.

When he finally walked home, the night felt colder. Heard that voice; low, rough, and certain, whispering into the dark.

“Clark… don’t go…”

The taste of a faint tang of cold rainwater and the faintest trace of dark chocolate, bittersweet, like the echo of nights spent alone.

And somehow, the voice didn’t sound like Lois’.

Clark’s throat tightened. His fingers curled into fists. Why couldn’t he make that voice sound like hers?

Chapter Text

A week and a half had already passed since his last date with Lois. In that time, the League had continued handling missions without Batman. But they’ve managed, more than managed, really. Coordination was a little messier, a few plans less airtight, but they got the job done. Still, Clark noticed the silence, the absence.

Once, he'd gone early in the morning for a few things at the Watchtower. No Diana, no J’onn, no one— just a quiet hum and that familiar shadow near the main console. Bruce. Clark had taken a single step toward him, heart lifting in cautious hope.

But before he could say a word, Bruce activated the Zeta Beam and vanished in a flash of cold blue light.

Clark stood alone in the empty chamber, blinking at the space Bruce had left behind.

And the truth was, it hurt.

He’d tried not to dwell on it. Clark knew how tightly Bruce kept things to his chest, how he built his armor not just around his body, but around his heart. Maybe he wasn’t ready to talk yet.

So Clark let it be.

He told himself not to take it personally. That whatever Bruce was going through, he’d come back when he was ready. Because even through the silence, through the retreat and the avoidance, Clark still believed, hoped, that his friend knew he could reach out to him.

Anytime. Always.

But for now… he had other things to think about for now. He needed courage for today.

Since the kiss, Clark should’ve felt lighter, happier, even. Lois had been warm, gentle, beautiful, steady, everything he remembered her to be, and yet… the weight in his chest hadn’t eased. If anything, it had grown heavier, a quiet dread pressing against his ribs like storm clouds unable to release their contents.

He couldn’t explain it. Why couldn’t he let himself feel more? What was stopping him?

Every time he chased the answer, his mind veered off course, circling back to the same place; that darn letter. Those words that clung like fingerprints on his soul, promising devotion, patience, forever. And if he wanted peace, if he wanted to silence the chaos clawing at him for good, there was only one thing left to do—

Ask the author herself. Lois.

The midday rush at the Daily Planet was its own kind of symphony, one which Clark’s already grown accustomed to. He sat at the edge of his desk, balancing a coffee in one hand and a sandwich in the other, trying to ignore the turmoil in his chest.

Lois dropped into the chair across from him with the ease of someone who owned the space, a cup of noodles in one hand and her ever-present notebook in the other. She looked tired but radiant in that Lois Lane way, like the world had thrown bricks at her all morning and she’d built a castle out of them.

“Big plans tonight?” she asked between bites, lifting an eyebrow.

Clark blinked out of his daze, managing a soft smile. “No. Just catching up on some reading.”

“Reading,” she echoed, smirking. “Is that code for more of your mysterious post-recovery hobbies?”

He chuckled faintly, setting his coffee down. “Something like that.”

For a few seconds, silence settled between them, filled only by the hum of the newsroom. Clark’s eyes drifted to her; sharp, curious Lois, who’d always been a constant in the fog of his mind.

He’d rehearsed the words a hundred times, softened them, reshaped them, buried them; but they always rose again, especially at night when he was alone and the memory of the letter returned like a whisper in the wind. He wanted– needed, to ask her, just to finally silence the gnawing doubt that clawed at the edges of his heart. But fear gripped him. He’d have to face the truth if he was wrong.

Before he could second-guess it any longer, he asked.

“Lois, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Oh? Sure, what is it?”

“About… how I admire your patience and dedication. But most of all…about the letter.”

Her fork paused halfway to her mouth. “Letter?”

His heartbeat stumbled. “Yeah. The one you wrote to me.”

“Like–the one I wrote for you to the co-manager of that building site, requesting a meeting?”

“No, this wasn't work related.” He tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out brittle. “Maybe I phrased it wrong. I meant the one you left for me after the accident.”

The words hung in the air with a pause.

It stretched on longer than it should have, long enough for Clark to hear the hum of the vending machine across the break room, the distant chatter from the bullpen, even the uneven rhythm of his own heartbeat. The silence wasn’t just empty, it pressed on him, thick and suffocating, every second carving a deeper pit in his stomach.

Anxiety crawled up his spine, whispering, Say something. Please say something.

“Clark, I didn’t leave you any letter.” Lois tilted her head, raising her brow in confusion. Now she was staring, cup of noodles forgotten. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The air between them changed, tightened.

Every word he’d been carrying of it like gospel suddenly felt heavy and hollow in his chest.

“You didn’t—” His voice faltered. “You never wrote anything like that?”

Lois shook her head slowly, eyes softening at the edge of concern. “No. Why? What’s going on?”

He couldn’t answer. Not without sounding unhinged. Not without tearing open the fragile thread of normalcy he’d been clinging to.

“Nothing,” he said finally, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just… must’ve gotten my wires crossed.”

Lois didn’t look convinced, she seemed to want to ask more about it, but she let it drop; for now. For Clark’s sake.

Someone else had written those words.

Someone who had known him, someone who had traced the map of his heart in silence and carved their devotion into every curve of ink. Someone who had loved him, not lightly, not in passing, but with a depth that felt endless, a love so fierce it still bled through the page, even weeks later, haunting him like a phantom he could almost touch.

And the worst part, the part that made his chest ache like splintered glass, was that he couldn’t remember them. Couldn’t remember them, or what it felt like to be loved that completely. That knowledge pressed down on him like a cruel weight: there was a version of him who had belonged to someone. Someone he’d been stolen from.

He couldn’t even remember how it felt to be theirs. And somehow, that made the loss feel more like his fault. Like he was walking around wearing someone else’s name, someone else’s love, while that person watched a stranger wear the face of their loved one.

The letter’s sentences burned through his mind again, sharper now:

I’ll wait. As long as it takes.

His throat tightened.

Was the other person still waiting for him?

Not knowing hurt him more than anything.

Clark closed the door to his apartment with a muted click, the city’s noise whispering faintly outside his window. Normally, that type of background noise was a comfort. Tonight, it only made the quiet inside louder.

He loosened his tie and sank onto the couch, the fabric of his shirt clinging damply to his back from the warm evening air. His mind had been chasing itself in circles since lunch with Lois.

If it wasn’t her…

The thought repeated like a bell tolling in his head, relentless.

He set his glasses on the table, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. For days, weeks, he’d been convincing himself Lois was the answer. That if he just leaned toward that thread, everything would start to make sense again.

But the thread was fraying. And the memory of that dream pulled at him like a bad hangover.

He needed something that brought him comfort. Something he could be sure that happened and hadn’t changed at all.

He pushed himself up and crossed to the desk in the corner. The leather-bound journal Diana had given him weeks ago sat there, heavy and patient. “This might help,” she’d said. “Reminders of who you were. Of who we all are.”

Clark flipped it open where he’d left it, thumbing through the pages filled with handwriting from each League member; a kind gesture, meant to anchor him.

Barry’s scrawl darted like lightning, cramped and crooked. Hal’s was bold, all sharp angles and swagger. Diana’s, elegant as calligraphy, each word balanced like a blade. J’onn’s handwriting was precise, measured, like a scientist cataloging the human soul.

And then…. Bruce’s.

Sparse and controlled. Only a few clipped sentences scattered through the pages, as if the act of writing cost him something.

Clark stared at those words longer than he intended. They were blunt, but efficient. The man behind them, invisible, except for the pressure carved into each letter, like restraint barely holding back something fierce.

He lingered on a photo tucked between the pages; a few of his friends were there, candid and imperfect. Diana laughing, Barry mid-blink, Hal pretending not to pose, J’onn almost smiling.

He flipped to another page. Clark exhaled, slow and shaky, his fingers tightening on the journal. His gaze drifted across the page to another picture of the whole League, taken who-knows-when. They were all smiling. Even Batman, though only barely, in that way Bruce always did when he forgot to guard his face.

How could someone who radiated so much silence and now kept him at an arm's length have been his closest friend? It seemed impossible and yet… something inside him whispered that it wasn’t. That it never had been.

He felt something within his mind stir.

Batman… he’s always three steps ahead, quietly putting together pieces no one else even sees. He doesn’t just fight crime; he dissects it, understands it down to its roots. There’s grace in the way he operates, not in movement, necessarily, but in thought. Everything is deliberate. Controlled. But it’s not about ego or power, it’s about protecting people, no matter what it costs him.

And it does cost him more than he lets on…

He’d seen him anticipate an entire chain of events with a glance, solving mysteries in minutes that would take others days.

Bruce…

Clark traced the edge of the photo with his thumb. Something twisted in his chest.

He swallowed hard, looking at the sharp lines of Bruce’s jaw in the photo, the weight of that presence even in a still image. If there was anyone who could help him now, anyone with the patience and skill to unravel a mystery like this– it was Batman. Even through the fog of his fractured memory, he knew that much.

But would the Dark Knight agree to help him?

Clark exhaled, long and shaky, and reached for the drawer in his desk. The letter was still there, folded with almost painful precision, edges aligned as if the person who wrote it needed control to survive.

He pulled it out and unfolded it slowly, careful not to crease it further, as though damaging the paper would damage whatever truth was hiding inside it.

His eyes traced the familiar words, burning them into his mind for what felt like the hundredth time. Whoever wrote this knew him. Not Superman. Him.

He looked back down at the journal, at those sharp, deliberate lines of Bruce’s handwriting. Felt the faint echo of a bond he couldn’t ignore.

Batman.

Bruce had told all of them not to reach out unless there was something really important going on. He’d stepped back from the League like a shadow pulling away from the light.

Clark’s jaw clenched. He hated the idea of breaking that boundary. But this—this felt like the edge of something vital. Something that could change everything.

This was something deeper, something in Clark’s chest desperately clawing for answers, for connection, for the missing pieces of himself.

And there was only one person he trusted enough to help him find them. He decided to hope that Batman still felt something deep down just enough at least to help him with this.

A final attempt to reconnect with him. Like old times, partnering up to solve almost impossible cases, just as the journal implied.

His fingers closed around the letter, holding it tight as a decision crystallized in him like frost.

He would find Bruce. He would find Bruce, even if it meant showing up at his door and having it slammed in his face.

Even if it meant reopening wounds he couldn’t see yet.

Because there was someone out there who’d seen Clark completely, and he wanted them to know he’d been looking for them.

Chapter Text

The message was anything but direct or simple.

Clark: Hi Bruce. I know you’ve probably been through a lot lately, and work’s been keeping you busy. I hope you’ve been doing okay. I wanted to ask… would it be alright if I called or came by? There’s something I’d like to talk about

After a few minutes he was left on read. He decided to be patient.

Almost a whole day passed. But still… No reply.

Clark stared at the screen, thumb hovering over it, the soft hum of his apartment like static in the back of his mind. He’d typed and deleted the next message three times before settling on: Please. Just five minutes? It’s important.

Still nothing.

He reluctantly sighed. He could hear the city outside, sirens weaving through traffic, a distant heartbeat of Metropolis that usually grounded him. Tonight, it only reminded him of how far away Bruce was, by choice.

He’d said it clearly the last time they all spoke: “Contact only in case of global threat or a real emergency.”
And maybe this wasn't an emergency, not in the way Bruce meant, but it felt like one. And perhaps the world wasn’t ending, but Clark felt his crumble. When the silence stretched on, Clark made his choice.

Gotham it is then.

He hovered just above the platform, cape still dripping from Gotham’s endless rain. The Batcave was quiet, except for the sleeping bats disturbed by his descent.

The sound of his wet boots on the metal floors echoed faintly in the cavern. Every step Clark took felt heavier than the last, the cool damp air clinging to his skin like a warning. The cave breathed darkness, alive with the restless flutter of wings high above.

Clark could hear the faint hum of the technology around him, a quiet, constant presence and, just ahead, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. Familiar in a way that startled something deep inside him. Like the memory of a song he couldn’t name.

He took another step toward it—

“You shouldn’t be here.” Batman’s voice was low, flat, but edged with something sharp enough to cut.

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward, cape trailing like living night. The cowl caught the pale glow of monitors as Batman emerged fully into view. His silhouette, more shadow than man, remained distant, physically and otherwise.

Clark swallowed. “You didn’t answer my messages.”

“That was deliberate.” Bruce said firmer this time. “When I said I wanted to be left alone, I wasn’t making a suggestion.”

He could feel his own voice sticking in his throat, but he forced it out. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not enough,” Bruce snapped. “You need to learn to respect boundaries.”

Clark felt his heart wrench, he hesitated. “I needed to see you…”

“No. I told you not to contact me.” His tone was controlled, measured. Which meant he was furious. “Not unless the world was ending. And if my perception is correct, that is not happening right now.”

Bruce stared at him, like a predator sizing its prey. The cowl was still on, his eyes white and unreadable; but Clark didn’t need x-ray vision to feel the weight in that stare.

“I didn’t know what else to do.” The words came out rougher than he expected, and he hated how small they sounded against the cave’s vastness. “I… needed your help.”

Bruce’s shoulders tensed, and his voice dropped, sharp as broken glass. “With what? You’ve got the entire League and a lovely reporter to help you. Go to them.”

“I didn’t want them.” Clark shot back before he could stop himself, voice ringing too loud against the rock walls. “I wanted you!”

That stopped Bruce. Just for a second, the air felt heavier, like even the bats above had stilled.

Clark swallowed hard, pressing on before Bruce could tear the silence apart. “I don’t understand what happened between us… or whyyou are like this.” His voice cracking under the weight of what he didn’t remember but felt. “After our last mission together I thought that everything was fine between us. And I really wanted to believe that, but just a few days later, out of the blue you act like… like I’m the plague.”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Clark swallowed and took a careful step forward. A pause, softer now. “Even before you took your break from the League, I noticed it. You’d drop out last minute.”

Bruce’s jaw tensed behind the mask, but still he said nothing.

“You haven’t spoken to me. Haven’t answered my texts or calls. You don’t even look at me when I try to talk to you on the Watchtower or at the weekly meetings. You just… leave or flat out ignore me.” His breath caught in his throat. “I thought we were supposed to have been best friends! That I meant something to you!”

That last part slipped out—more wounded than he meant, more honest than he’d prepared for.

Bruce turned away. “Don’t go there.”

“Why not?” Clark stepped closer. “I keep asking myself what I did wrong. But it’s all so confusing! And don’t tell me you’ve always been like this. You cared, Bruce! I know you did, everyone’s told me how often you visited me while I was in that bed!”

“I said stop.”

Clark’s voice cracked. “You surely can’t just pretend we’re strangers. Not after everything… I may not remember all of it, Bruce, but I know you were the one I trusted most and I know I was the one you trusted the most too. I see it in the photos, stories and past reports. I feel it every time I look at you...”

Bruce’s shoulders rose with a slow breath, the only sign of unrest beneath all that armor.

“Why are you running from me?” Clark pressed. “If I used to matter to you that much, why are you constantly pushing me away?”

The silence that followed was a canyon.

Finally, Bruce muttered, “Because it’s easier than pretending this doesn’t hurt.” His voice was rough, barely holding it together. “I lost something, Clark. Someone. And I've spent every day since accepting they're not coming back.”

Clark stilled. The ache in his chest pressed inward, sharp and sudden.

Bruce’s eyes stayed fixed on Clark’s. The cave felt heavier now, like it was listening. Waiting.

Then he spoke, quiet, cutting.

“You say I am– was your best friend,” Bruce said, voice low, almost calm, but frayed at the edges. “And you want that to continue. But the only time you truly come looking for me is when you need something. He didn't do that.”

Clark flinched, stunned silent by the weight of the words. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. The accusation hung in the air, more painful than a blow. He hadn’t expected that. Not from him.

Bruce turned away again, the motion sharp, as if the nearness burned.

“You didn’t come back for me, Clark. Not specifically looking for my friendship or understanding. You came back because something didn’t make sense. You found something, didn’t you? There was a hole in your memory and you need it filled.” His voice dropped. “Not because you missed me.”

“That’s not true,” Clark said quickly, but it came out too soft, too uncertain. “All this time I’ve been trying to reconnect with you, trying to understand what we were to each other! To ask you why you so abruptly turned away!”

Bruce’s laugh was bitter and short. “I’m not some puzzle to solve.” He turned, his gaze sharp and tired. “It's impossible for me to comprehend– if I’ve been so awful to you, Clark, so cold, so unreachable and avoidable, then why do you keep looking for me? Why insist on coming here, to continue trying to save something when the other person has already made clear that they’ve lost interest?”

Clark faltered. His lips parted, no answer ready on his tongue.

Bruce took a step back, the shadows swallowing the sharp edges of his silhouette. “You don’t even know what you’re chasing. You just know you’re missing something. And I’m the last shape that memory left behind.”

Clark faltered. “I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Exactly. You came here because it was familiar. Because after exhausting every other option, you landed on the only place that felt like something.”

“No, Bruce.” Clarks shook his head, taking a step forward, his eyes trying to search for Barman's face. “That's not it. The truth is… I kept coming back because, even if I don’t remember what we were, you feel like home. Not out of habit nor out of convenience. Because something in me still trusts you. Still needs you.”

Batman stopped breathing for a moment.

“You’re not just the last place I had left. You're the only one that felt right.” His voice was shaking now, raw. “And I don’t care if it makes sense or not. I don’t care if I found a trail, or a thousand clues, I would’ve ended up here anyways. With you. Because somewhere inside me knew I wasn’t finished with you. Not then. Not now.”

A pause.

“And I’m still here because I don't believe you've lost interest, Bruce. I really don't believe that. Because if you really didn't care, you wouldn't be avoiding me. You wouldn't be this afraid to look at me.”

Bruce’s mouth tensed as he remained in sepulchral silence.

“You say I'm chasing ghosts. But I think you're the one who sees one when you look at me. And maybe it's not me you're running from… maybe it's from the version of you who cared for me.”

Silence spilled in again. Bruce just stared, didn’t walk away.

For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the Batcomputer and the distant drip of water in the cave.

Bruce looked at him, really looked. The mask didn’t hide how tired he was. How hollowed out he looked by grief.

Clark dared to reach out, gently placing his hand over Bruce’s forearm.

“Don’t leave me behind, Bruce,” he said. “Not when I’m still trying to find where I belong. It hurts that you'd rather vanish than give me the chance to find my way back.”

Bruce didn’t speak, but he didn’t pull away either.

And in the silence between them, something cracked—not in pain, but in surrender.

Bruce exhaled through his nose, sharp, controlled. His cape shifted with the motion, like even the fabric was tense around him.

Another beat. Then Bruce spoke, quiet but heavy:

“…What do you need, Clark?”

And those five words hit harder than any punch. Because for one flickering second, it felt like old times. Like the rhythm they used to have, silent trust strung between them like an unspoken vow.

Clark’s throat worked. “Your detective skills.” He reached into his costume's hidden pockets, and held up a folded piece of paper, the letter, edges worn from his fingers tracing them night after night. “I… need you to help me find someone.”

Bruce didn’t move.

“Someone…” Bruce repeated, voice stripped down to something almost hollow.

Clark nodded once. “They matter to me. More than I can explain.” His grip on the letter tightened. “Please, Bruce.”

The plea was soft, raw.

Clark didn’t know the truth bleeding under Bruce’s ribs, the reason that letter existed in the first place.

Bruce pulled and turned away abruptly, facing the Batcomputer as if the glow could burn this feeling out of him.

“Leave it,” he said finally, voice cool steel again. “I’ll look into it.”

Clark blinked, hope flickering like the faintest spark. “You will?”

“I said I would.” The cowl didn’t move, but his hand grabbed hardly against the console like restraint was a physical act. “Now go.”

Clark hesitated, searching for something, anything, in that rigid silhouette. But there was nothing left to find.

So he nodded, slow, putting the letter on top of a nearby metallic desk.

“Thank you,” he said softly, meaning it more than Bruce could stand. “And Bruce?” The other didn’t move. “I’m still here for you. No matter what version of me you think you lost, this one isn't going anywhere.”

Again, silence was Batman’s answer.

Clark turned to leave, boots echoing faintly against the stone. The sound of his cape vanished into the hum of machines and the cold air of the cave.

Bruce stood motionless until the last echo died. Then, only then, he let his head drop forward, gloved hands braced on the console like he could hold the world steady if he just pressed hard enough. He tried ignoring his now-watery eyes.

But the truth clawed up anyway:

Clark had come to him for help finding… himself.

And Bruce had no idea how to survive that.

Before he could spiral any further, he deeply sighed and quickly wiped the corner of his eyes behind the cowl. “I know you’re there. Come out.”

“Was that Superman?” A small voice echoed through the cave.

Bruce turned. “What are you doing awake?”

Dick Grayson, small but stubborn, stood at the edge of the lower platform in his pajama pants and a too-big hoodie. His hair stuck up on one side, and he held his stuffed bear by the arm like it had been dragged down the hall.

He pointed vaguely toward the exit Clark had taken. “Was it?”

Bruce exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”

Dick crept closer, eyes big with curiosity. “Is he your best friend?”

Bruce gave him a confused look. “Were you eavesdropping?”

Dick’s mouth twisted. “No.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“I mean… maybe a little..?” Dick admitted while doing a gesture with his fingers. “I didn’t try to. I just heard… the last part of it.”

“That’s still eavesdropping.”

“Well, you do it all the time!”

Bruce blinked. For a beat, his stern expression threatened to hold, but then it cracked, ever so slightly, into something softer. Resigned, amused, even.

“Hmph.”

Dick stepped closer, leaning against the side of the console, swinging his bear absently. “Are you gonna help him? Can I meet him? Will he come back soon? Is he going to help us?”

Bruce hesitated. His fingers twitched where they rested on the keyboard, his jaw tightening again with the question he’d been asking himself for weeks now. He didn’t look at Dick when he answered.

“…go to bed.”

Dick rolled his eyes in the overdramatic way only an eight-year-old could. “Sooo, is that a yes or a no..?”

Bruce said nothing, giving him a look.

Dick gave him a look that was far too knowing for someone so small, then turned and padded back toward the stairs, dragging his bear behind him.

He paused halfway up and called over his shoulder, “he looked sad when he left.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a second. Just one.

“Goodnight, Dick.”

“’Night, Bruce!” Came the soft reply, before the boy disappeared up into the manor.

Bruce stood there long after he was gone, staring at nothing, surrounded by the soft flutter of bats and the distant echo of a voice that still haunted him.

This chapter had two gorgeous pieces<3

Chapter Text

A few weeks before Clark’s visit, shortly after he delivered his break announcement to the League. Bruce was already trying to confront one of the hardest challenges any person can experience: Parenthood.

The manor had been quiet for a long time. Since the tragedy of Bruce’s parents, nothing but quietness and the occasional party Bruce hosted to keep up with appearances in the public eye had filled the halls.

Its silence had a rhythm Bruce had grown to understand and appreciate. Like the pulse of a calm heart that barely experienced any changes in its throbbing.

But now that rhythm had changed.

The youngest member of the family was quiet in a way that felt wrong for someone so young. After the funeral, he'd barely spoken a word. He trailed after Bruce and Alfred through the echoing halls like a shadow, his small fists clutching the sleeves of his new shirts and jackets.

Alfred did what he’s always done; tried to turn chaos into comfort. He cooked more than he had in years, warm soups, buttery biscuits, dishes meant to fill hollow spaces. He brought out old board games, dusted off records. But most of it barely earned a glance from Dick. The child ate because they reminded him, not because he wanted to.

He mostly spent his time sitting in the library looking at books with colorful pictures, the only things that brought him back a feeling of home, since they contrasted in a monotone mansion full of browns and greys.

It wasn’t only Alfred that had tried to do something. Bruce tried too.

He wasn’t good at this, he never claimed to be. Charity events full of children for a short period of time, talking to strangers, putting on a show for the press, pretending to be flirty with everyone at parties, or short conversations with allies? That, he could manage.

He already had a facade for every single one of those scenarios.

But with a child, his child, staring at him like the floor was safer than his eyes?

It pained him. He didn’t have anything planned for this.

He hadn’t had time to prepare, no space in his life had he ever carved out for the possibility that someone might need him that way. That someone so small, so fragile, would depend on him; look up to him for more than orders, superficial talks or gossip.

He felt useless.

Bruce had been trying to greet him every morning, not putting any pressure on the boy to talk if he didn’t want to.

Bruce told himself it was fine. That the kid just needed more time. But as the days stretched on, a subtle ache began to settle in his chest.

Maybe… maybe it wasn’t just about waiting for the boy to open up.

Maybe he needed to be the one to meet him halfway.

A piece of himself that hadn’t been rehearsed or restrained.

It terrified him.

Because once, that now felt like a long time ago, doing that had shattered him.

But now… there were small eyes watching him with quiet hope.

Hope .

He realized with a slow, aching breath, that if he wanted this child to trust him with his fears,

He had to be brave enough to share his own.

He found the boy that evening, with his legs tucked up on the couch while covered in a blanket looking at a colorful picture book in the lower wing of the manor’s library, as usual. The lights were dim. Shadows stretched long across the bookshelves.

Bruce hesitated in the doorway before stepping inside and sitting on the floor, not too close.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just waited.

Eventually, small wary, tired eyes peeked out over the book.

“What’s your book about?” he softly asked.

The little boy put the book just low enough to show him.
It had drawings of ghost pirates who haunted a foggy coast with their ghost ship.

“Ah… I know that one, it was my favourite when I was your age. But my parents never allowed me to read it at night as they said it’d bring me bad dreams.” He looked up to meet the child’s eyes.

“Ghosts don’t scare me,” the boy said simply.

Bruce blinked, then let out a soft breath through his nose; half a laugh, half a hum of quiet admiration. “No?” he asked.

The boy shook his head, stubborn and sure. “They’re not real. And even if they were, I wouldn’t be scared. I’d just make one my friend.”

He smiled faintly, more aching than amusement. “Make a ghost your friend? Even after it tried to scare you?”

"Maybe it didn't want to scare me on purpose, maybe it just wanted company."

Bruce’s breath caught. The answer was so matter-of-fact, so innocent; and yet it cracked something in his chest. "How'd you be so sure?" He now sat next to the boy.

The boy shrugged, eyes earnest. “Perhaps they might be in the shadows because they're lonely, not because they're scary." He pointed at the pictures of his book while putting it between them. "Look, these ghosts are happy because they're together." He flipped the page, there was a ghost of a sad pirate who was stuck on a deserted island. "This one is sad because he's lonely."

Bruce smiled, gently. “You’re a lot braver than I was.”

The child gave him a look.

"Hey! What's that look for? It's true!" he chuckled lightheartedly. Then, softly, “You know something?” Bruce’s voice was quieter this time. “When I was little… I was afraid of the dark.”

That got a reaction. The boy’s brow lifted just slightly as he partially turned to look at him.

Bruce smiled, faint and self-deprecating. “Not the kind of dark you see in cartoons. Not monsters or ghosts. Just… the empty kind. The kind that wraps around you so tight it feels like it might swallow you whole.”

The boy stared.

“I used to pretend I wasn’t scared. Even when my hands were shaking. Even when I couldn’t sleep. I thought if I kept pretending long enough, the fear would go away.” He paused. “It didn’t. Not really. But with help and after a while, I stopped seeing the darkness as something wanting to hurt me. And that helped.”

Then, the smallest whisper: “You’re not scared anymore?”

Bruce glanced at him. “Sometimes I still am. But I embraced it, and just like you with ghosts. I made it my friend.”

The boy looked down, fidgeting with the corner of the blanket.

Bruce leaned in just a little. “It just took me longer than you to realize that.”

The boy didn’t answer, but his eyes now shone brighter than the dim lights around them.

“That's why you're braver, chum.”

The boy looked down, a small, bashful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Bruce opened the book and settled in beside him. “Now come on,” he murmured, “Let’s see if you’re brave enough for my terrible reading voice.”

And when the boy chuckled, Bruce felt it like sunlight on an old stone. A little warmth in a place that had been cold for far too long.

Days blurred into weeks. Slowly, something shifted. It wasn’t dramatic, just small things. A question at breakfast, quiet at first. “What… what’s in the east wing?” A flicker of curiosity when Bruce showed him the grounds. One morning, Alfred found a crayon sketch tucked into the corner of the kitchen counter, crooked and messy, a stick figure holding the hands of two other taller stickmen.

The first real laugh came days later. Bruce had been in the study, trying to work through patrol reports, when a strange thud echoed from the hall. He found Dick in the foyer, clinging to the chandelier like some feral monkey, his tiny sneakers dangling dangerously close to an antique vase.

“Dick!” Bruce said sharply, more fear than anger in his voice.

The boy froze, wide-eyed like a kid caught stealing cookies. Then, just as Bruce prepared himself for tears or worse, Dick grinned. A quick, cheeky flash of teeth before he swung down, landing with the grace of someone born to fly.

Bruce didn’t know whether to scold him or marvel at him. He settled for a long exhale and reprimanded him, “The chandeliers aren’t monkey bars.”

“Then why do they look like them?” Dick shot back, that grin still in place.

Bruce felt something loosen in his chest, a knot he hadn’t realized was there.

When Bruce had to work late for the company, the boy would wait for him.

He never said anything about it, never asked to stay up, never made demands. He would just quietly settle himself at the top of the stairs near the main doors, small hands gripping the balusters, eyes fixed on the entrance like if he stared long enough, Bruce would appear.

Sometimes he waited for hours.

Alfred offered warm milk or suggested bedtime more than once, but the child always shook his head, gaze unblinking, hopeful in a way that made Bruce’s chest ache when he finally came home to find him there, fast asleep with his head resting on the polished rail.

He never woke him.

He simply gathered him in his arms, the boy murmuring something soft and unintelligible against Bruce’s chest, and carried him gently to bed. Tucked him in with care, pausing to brush the hair from his face, lingering just a little too long in the doorway before finally descending into the cave below.

But sometimes, the boy woke in the middle of the night.

Quiet, barefoot, small.

He would pad through the darkened halls of the manor, checking rooms, his voice too small to call out properly, just a whispered, hopeful “Bruce?” echoing into the quiet.

But Bruce… wasn’t there.

Not in the study. Not in the kitchen. Not in the halls or his bedroom.
Letting the silence reign again in the empty halls.

Just a dark house and a heartbeat waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back just yet.

He always returned before dawn. But by then, the boy had usually given up, curled up with a blanket in the corner of Bruce’s room or on the living room couch, fast asleep again.

And when Bruce found him like that, guilt wrapped tight around his ribs, he’d kneel down and whisper softly, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Even if the boy never heard it.

He said it anyway. Every time.

But this was something that had to stop. This shouldn’t become a habit.

Alfred had warned him.

“Master Wayne,” he’d said one evening, arms folded, eyes calm but unwavering, “as you may very well know, the boy is becoming attached. And you, whether you like it or not, are no longer simply a guardian. You are a parent now. And that is not a part-time obligation, it’s a full-time job.

He gestured toward the grand staircase. “I’ve grown rather weary of finding the young master asleep at the top of the steps every night. Or curled up in your bed, blanket half slipping to the floor, waiting for you to appear in the morning like some ghost of yourself.”

Bruce sat back in his chair, running a hand down his face with a low exhale. He knew Alfred was right.

“I know Alfred, I know… But I can’t tell him, not yet. Perhaps in a few more years–”

“Nonsense.” Alfred tilted his head, quiet but firm. “And what makes you so sure he hasn’t guessed yet? The boy isn’t blind, nor unobservant. He may be young but he’s not dumb, sir.”

Thinking of putting the weight of the cowl on a child like that would be risking everything he worked on with him. He just gained his trust, he wasn’t going to lose it again so soon.

“I just–” he paused, his voice becoming thinner. “The only thing I want for him is to be safe. That’s it. He’s already lost too much. If I bring him into this part of my life, even just to understand it… I could pull that light out of him.” He thickly swallowed. “Even if that means hiding things from him for now… if that’s what keeps him safe.”

Alfred stepped forward. His voice slower, kinder. “With all due respect, sir… I believe the boy already feels the distance. And I fear what he imagines in the silence may hurt him far more than the truth ever could.”

Bruce went silent.

“You’re not doing a bad job, my boy. But he waits for you, Bruce. And he knows you’ll come, every night. That kind of trust is a gift. One you ought to honor while it’s still yours to have. Or at least before he reaches puberty.”

Bruce closed his eyes grimacing.

He didn’t feel like Bruce or Batman. He felt like a man trying to let a child down.

And already fearing he was.

Then, one night, the truth unraveled itself, quietly, and entirely by accident.

It was late. Bruce had just returned from a meeting downtown, and he found little Dick fast asleep at the top of the stairs again. Or so he thought.

With the same care as always, he lifted the boy into his arms and began the slow walk to his bedroom. His tiny fingers clutched unconsciously at Bruce’s coat, head tucked beneath his chin.

But Dick wasn’t asleep.

He kept his breathing even, limbs still. Just enough to be convincing. His eyes stayed shut, but his ears stayed open.

After Bruce tucked him in, he took the opportunity to sneak out of bed and follow Bruce to his studio.

There he saw how he entered a secret room using the old grandfather clock that was attached to the wall.

After making sure no one was watching him, , Dick followed him inside.

With care, he slowly descended in the elevator, taking him to the stairs that lead directly to the Batcave.

He could barely contain his emotions, but he had to for now if he didn't want to get in trouble.

He peeked into one of the corners, and there he was.

An imposing figure carved from night itself, draped in a mantle of silence and storm. The shadows didn’t just surround him, they obeyed him, laying at his feet like loyal hounds, parting only when he moved. Above him, the cave pulsed with the fluttering wings of a hundred bats, circling quietly like a black crown in motion.

Drops of water fell from the stone ceiling in a steady rhythm, echoing through the chamber like distant drums. Somewhere nearby, the quiet hum of electricity flickered, casting pale light that never seemed to touch him fully.

The Batman.

He stood before his massive computer, cape trailing like torn velvet behind him, his posture rigid, regal, watchful.

Dick heard everything.

The words "patrol," "Watchtower feed," "Hall of Justice," and "Joker" floated through the air like secret spells.

And just in a blink of darkness, the Dark Knight was gone. Gliding off into his batmobile.

That night, the boy learned the truth.

And the next morning?

He could hardly contain himself.

“You’re Batman?!” he exclaimed in awe, eyes wide with wonder, legs swinging from the kitchen stool. “Like, THE Batman?!”

Alfred’s chuckle could be heard behind them. Amused.

“That’s so cool! Can I help? Can I ride in the car? Pleaaaaase? OH! Can I throw a batarang? I can keep a secret! I swear!”

“No,” Bruce said flatly, too quickly. “Absolutely not.”

“But I won’t tell anyone! Not even Alfred, well, he doesn't count, but still, you get my point!”

“No.”

“Not even a little grappling hook? Not even—?”

“No.”

And yet…

Bruce didn’t make him stop asking.

And he didn’t shut him out completely.

Before leaving the kitchen, Alfred smugly smiled at Bruce, as if saying “I told you so.”

From that day on, Dickwas granted a quiet kind of permission. He wasn’t allowed on missions or in danger, not even close, but he was allowed in the cave.

He’d sit near the monitors after school, legs criss-crossed on the floor, drawing in a sketchbook while Bruce patched up reports or ran analysis. Sometimes he’d fall asleep in the old chair beside the Batcomputer, blanket up to his chin, the glow of the screen reflecting off his soft features.

Bruce would glance over now and then and find himself smiling without realizing it.

Because even if he never asked for this, even if he didn’t believe he’d earned the right to be someone’s father…

The boy was already looking at him like he was something heroic.

And maybe, just maybe, that was what made him want to live up to it.

Chapter Text

Clark stared at the name on his screen longer than he should have.

Lois .

The name still meant something. It always would.

His thumb hovered over the call button. His chest was tight, there was a knot in his throat that hadn’t gone away for days.

She didn’t deserve silence, nor sudden distance. But she didn’t deserve a heart that couldn’t fully meet hers the way she gave hers to him either. She deserved someone whole. Someone who didn’t look at her with a quiet ache of apology not said aloud.

He loved her. But not in the way she wanted. Not in the way he wished he could…

With a sigh, he let go of his fears and tapped the button.

It rang once. Twice.

It kept ringing as his mind wandered. Had she somehow noticed his change of demeanor since the last time they saw each other? How couldn’t she? She’s always had a keen eye for these things and he wasn’t subtle at all.

Before he could hang up, her voice reached him.

“Hey, Clark,” Lois answered, voice bright, laced with that familiar warmth. He could almost see her tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, balancing the phone on her shoulder. “Sorry, I was busy sending Cat a summary of some of the stats we’ve compiled while I was juggling with some shopping bags. What’s up?”

Clark swallowed. “Hi Lois, I was just thinking–” His voice came out too soft, too unsure. “Uhm… do you have any free time later today? I was wondering if we could talk... in person.”

“Everything okay?” He could almost picture her raising an eyebrow.

“It’s just… we need to talk.”

There was a pause. Not long, but long enough.

Lois Lane was never slow on the uptake. And he knew she heard the weight in his voice even before he understood it himself.

“Sure,” she said, her tone dimming. Gentler. “Same café on 6th?”

He took a deep breath. His body was trembling.

“I was thinking…” he rubbed at the back of his neck in an attempt to calm himself, voice thinning, “maybe the park? Near the fountain.”

A longer pause this time.

“…Yeah,” she finally said, almost like a sigh. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you there at five.”

“Okay,” Clark whispered. “See you there then.”

Neither of them said goodbye.

The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden wash across the sky, while water danced gently behind them. Lois sat on a nearby bench, looking over at trees while their leaves moved in an elegant dance as the wind passed through them. She looked up as Clark approached, his steps slow and heavy like he was walking towards his execution.

He sat beside her. “Hey Lois.” He gave her a timid smile.

“Hey, Smallville,” she said, smiling faintly when he slid into the bench across from her.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. They let their environment fill the silence between them.

Children’s laughter, the sound of the wings of pigeons fluttering around, faint excited barks in the background of happy dogs with their owner going for a walk.

It was peaceful, sadly, not peaceful enough to calm the tension between them.

Clark decided not to wait any longer. The moment was already heavy, and if he stalled too long, the words might never come out.

“I’m glad you agreed to come here,” he said gently. “The café was a good idea, but... it brings back embarrassing memories.”

Lois turned to him, brow furrowed, a half-smile playing at her lips. “Why’s that?”

“You remember the first time we met there?” he asked, voice quiet, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I dropped coffee on my boots while I accidentally bumped into you.”

She let out a little laugh, tired but real. “You still wore those hideous farm shoes back then.”

“Heyy! They were practical,” he said, grinning.

“They were tragic,” she shot back, her tone teasing but laced with something deeper, nostalgia, maybe. “But you were a sweet, nervous wreck. You apologized about twelve times.”

“I was just trying to be polite!” He said with mock indignation.

“You were trying to hide behind your bag and trip over your own feet at the same time,” she said fondly.

They both laughed, and for a brief moment, it felt like nothing was about to be changed. But the laughter faded too quickly. As if even the air around them knew this wasn’t a reunion. It was a goodbye.

Clark’s smile lingered for a second longer, then faltered. His gaze dropped to his hands. He rubbed his palms together slowly, trying to find the right words.

“Lois…” His voice was faint, careful, like he was afraid it might cut her. “I’ve been thinking a lot,” he began. “About… us.”

Lois stilled.

Clark didn’t look up. “I care about you, so very much... You’ve always been there for me. You’ve been patient, kind. And being with you… it feels like having a chance at a normal life. A life I thought I wanted.”

She was quiet, watching him with unreadable eyes.

“I guess I kept hoping I’d catch up to what I thought I should feel,” he said. “But the truth is… you deserve more than that. You deserve someone whose heart is all yours. Not someone who’s been… chasing ghosts inside his own.”

Lois swallowed. “Clark—”

He finally met her eyes, and they were wet. “You’ve done nothing wrong..! This isn’t about you not being enough. It’s about me not being whole. And I know you’ve felt it too. The way I hesitate… the way I drift. I haven’t been the best.”

She didn’t deny it. Instead, she reached across the bench and gently took his hand.

“I always wondered,” she whispered. “If there was someone else. I never thought you were cheating, instead it was more about someone… you couldn’t remember.”

His breath caught.

“And I don’t mean that in a jealous way,” she added. “I just… I could feel it. That there was a place in your heart already claimed by someone.”

Clark’s chest tightened. His throat burned.

“I didn’t want this,” he said, voice shaking. “I didn’t plan to hurt you... I wanted to be the man you deserve.”

“But you’re not,” she said softly. “And that’s okay.”

He squeezed her hand.

They sat there like that for a long moment, neither speaking. Just breathing in the weight of what they’d built, and what they had to let go of.

Finally, Lois smiled through her tears. “You’ll always be part of my favorite chapters, Smallville. Even if it didn’t last as long as I'd liked it to.

He tried to look for the right words, but nothing came to him, instead, he let out a soft, trembling laugh.

She picked up on it and leaned forward to wrap her arms around him. The hug was strong and shaking and full of everything they couldn’t say out loud.

When they pulled apart, both of them were crying. But there was no resentment, no blame. Only a quiet kind of love that would never leave, even as it changed shape.

“Go find them,” she said gently. “Whoever they are.”

Clark nodded, wiping his eyes. “I will.”

And when they stood, neither of them looked back. Because they didn’t need to.

They had mattered. But what came next mattered more.

The Batcave was quiet except for the rhythmic clack of keys as Bruce finished compiling Zucco’s financial network. Dick sat cross-legged on the platform floor, tossing an old batarang into the air and catching it with startling precision for someone so small.

“You’re going to dull the edge,” Bruce murmured without looking up.

“It’s already worn out, besides– you’ve got, like… a hundred more,” Dick shot back. His grin faltered when Bruce didn’t answer. For a moment, silence stretched again, the kind of silence that used to fill this place like a second skin, before a boy with too-bright eyes invaded it. “You only let me use the super ancient ones.”

Bruce allowed it for only another breath before glancing over, voice soft. “It’s not a toy, Dick.”

The boy huffed but set it down carefully, almost tenderly, like it was alive. “You don’t trust me,” he muttered, kicking his heels against the platform.

Bruce’s fingers stilled over the keyboard. The words shouldn’t sting. They did. “It’s not about trust,” he said slowly, each word iron. “It’s about keeping you safe.”

“You know how you could keep me safer?”

Bruce didn’t respond.

“By taking me with you!” Dick blurted. “That way you could always keep an eye on me.”

“Absolutely not.” Bruce didn’t look at him. “Besides, I already trust Alfred with you when I’m not here.”

Dick groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Oh come on! Pleaaase? I can help! You need a side kick!”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do!” Dick shot back. “Even Sherlock had Watson!”

Bruce turned his head again, one brow arched. “Sherlock wasn’t running around in body armor chasing criminals across rooftops.”

Dick grinned. “Yeah, but he was just as grumpy. And guess what? He still needed someone to keep him grounded!”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Bruce said, turning again to the monitor.

Dick huffed. “It’s not that late. And I’m not tired.”

Bruce gave the smallest glance over his shoulder. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Dick scowled, then grinned. “What if I just wanna hang out with you? Y’know… bond.”

Before Bruce could respond, a familiar sound echoed faintly from the upper levels, a soft gust of air, nearly imperceptible. Only one person moved like that.

Dick’s eyes perked up. “Is that—?”

“Go,” Bruce said sharply, shooting him a worried look.

“But—!”

“Now, Dick.” His tone softened, but it was firm. “Please.”

The boy hesitated, lips pressing into a pout. “You never let me say hi to him…”

“I’ll explain later.”

Dick grumbled under his breath but obeyed, slipping behind one of the cave’s stone pillars with practiced stealth, though not without a theatrical sigh.

By the time Clark’s boots touched the platform, the boy was gone from sight, hidden in the shadows but still listening.

Bruce didn’t turn from the glow of the screens. “I figured you’d show up eventually.”

Clark folded his arms. “You knew I’d come.”

“I knew you wouldn’t wait,” Bruce muttered. “A message would've been nice.”

“You never read them, besides… I’m not here to push you,” Clark said gently. “I just wanted to know if—”

“I told you I’d let you know when I had results.” Bruce interrupted him plainly, shutting down the last file.

Clark took a few steps closer. “That’s not the only reason I came.”

Bruce finally looked at him. “Of course not.”

“I also wanted to make sure you were okay,” Clark added, voice gentler now. “And to ask you about something else.”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that when you’re not,” Clark said, echoing words from another night.

Bruce gave him a tired look, the edges of his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to keep checking on me like I’m unraveling.”

“I’m checking on you because I care,” Clark replied. “You’re still important to me, Bruce.”

Batman faltered. Just slightly.

“I already told you, even if I don’t remember everything, I remember how you made me f–” Clark tilted his head. His superhearing caught the faintest shuffle of movement, too light for Alfred, too heavy for a bat.

Bruce asked quietly, “What is it?”

“…Are you alone?” He looked around the cave, eyes scanning its familiar shadows.

Bruce’s back stiffened. “Why?”

“I thought I heard…” Clark trailed off.

Bruce stood up abruptly, subtly blocking the view. “It’s nothing. Bats nesting closer to the server wall… the cave echoes.”

Clark searched his face for a beat, then let it go. For now.

Bruce changed the subject. “You said you wanted to ask me something?”

He looked down, then back up with a small, hesitant smile. “I was hoping maybe… you’d let me stay a little… talk. Like we used to.”

“We don’t really do that anymore,” Bruce said, voice low.

Clark stepped closer. “I know…”

Bruce didn't answer.

Clark took a breath, then let the truth crack through his chest like glass. “I talked to Lois.”

Bruce’s expression shifted, but his silence persisted.

“She deserves someone who’s all in. And… I’m not. I needed to be honest with her… and with myself.” He gave a long sigh. “I’ve been trying to piece myself back together, Bruce. I’ve tried everything at this point, the League, flying halfway across the world, I even hung on to the idea that Lois and I... I was hoping it would feel like something felt right. But none of it did. I sometimes still feel like I’m wobbling around like a toddler learning how to walk.”

Bruce gave a slow blink, his face unreadable in the low glow of the Batcomputer’s monitors. The ever-present flicker of shadows danced across his cheekbones, but there was a pause, an unmistakable softening.

“I guess… I’ve just been trying to find some kind of solace,” Clark admitted. “You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this.”

A pause.

Clark’s voice shook a little, but he pushed through it. “Because you’re the one constant that hasn’t felt like a lie.” He gave a soft, self-conscious laugh. “Which probably sounds crazy. But when I think about where I feel most grounded, where I don’t have to pretend or search for something to hold onto, it’s here.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed, though not in judgment. There was something cautious in him, like a hand reaching for something it’s not sure is still there. “…why me?” he asked, the question barely above a whisper.

Clark met his eyes, earnest in the glow of the cave lights. Then he stepped a little closer, his voice a bit gentler than before.

“Because I want to reconnect with you. Not just because we used to work together, not because we were friends, colleagues, best friends, or whatever we were. I just… I want to have you in my life again. In any way you’ll let me.”

He hesitated, searching Bruce’s face for understanding.

“I didn’t come here to pry,” he added softly. “I didn’t say any of this hoping you’d open up or spill secrets. I don’t want anything from you, Bruce. I just wanted to offer something to you. The truth. A piece of me. Because I—” He faltered, but pushed forward. “Because I want to let you in again. Not because I need answers, but because I want you to know that door is still open.”

Bruce stared at him for a long moment before speaking.

“You’ve been carrying that alone for too long.”

Clark gave a faint, almost rueful smile. “Feels like it.”

“I’m sorry, Clark. I meant to be there for you. I did.” He looked away, jaw tightening before he added, “I didn’t handle it well. I thought… keeping my distance was the right call.”

Clark didn’t speak, just listened.

“I can’t undo that,” Bruce continued, his voice softer now, like it didn’t want to press too hard. “But if you ever need to talk, I could make room for you.”

Clark’s throat tightened at the simplicity of it. “Thank you, Bruce.” A kind smile formed on his lips. “ You have no idea how much that means to me.”

Bruce let the corner of his mouth twitch upward, barely there, but real.

Clark lingered a second longer, he suddenly felt the need to hug the other, but contained himself, eyes soft. Then nodded once and turned to leave.

When he turned toward the exit platform, Bruce’s voice stopped him.
“Clark!”

He glanced back.

“You’re welcome here. Whenever you want.”

Clark’s smile this time was brighter, though tinged with something fragile. “I’ll hold you to that.”
And then he was gone, a blur of cape and motion disappearing into the night.

The cave was quiet again. Almost.

From the corner of the shadows near the stairs, a small voice piped up.
“Are you ever gonna introduce Superman to me?”

Bruce turned, finding Dick’s wide eyes blinking at him, mischief and curiosity mingling in his face.

Bruce huffed out a laugh he didn’t know he still had in him. “Not anytime soon.”
He crossed the floor, ruffling the boy’s hair gently before guiding him toward the manor. “Come on. Bedtime, Robin.”

As they climbed the stairs together, Dick grinned. “You’re stalling! He’d like me, you know?”

Bruce allowed his smirk to get bigger. “I don’t doubt that.”

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, the Batcave, usually a monument to silence and shadows, slowly began to fill with the gentle murmur of conversation late at night. Bruce had spoken to Dick. Much to the boy’s clear displeasure, they’d agreed he would only be allowed in the Batcave during the hour before bedtime.

That way, if anyone happened to visit, particularly Superman, if he was still awake, he’d have time to slip quietly into the shadows or back upstairs without being seen. It was a compromise neither of them fully liked, but Bruce insisted it was necessary. The child huffed every time, but never argued too much, especially when Bruce ruffled his hair and promised he’d make it up to him with extra time the next night.

Clark started dropping by more often, not often with fanfare or announcement, just the soft sound of boots meeting stone and the familiar hum of his voice echoing into the cavernous stillness. He’d talk as Bruce worked, sometimes aimlessly, sometimes with a spark in his tone, about the chaos at the Daily Planet, about Perry’s relentless shouting, or Jimmy's latest conspiracy theory. He told stories about his Ma, about dinners that turned into debates, about the messes Krypto makes and how loud he gets whenever he sees a bald guy.

And Bruce listened.

He didn’t always respond with words, but the way his shoulders shifted slightly when Clark spoke, a little grunt from time to time, or how he glanced sideways whenever Clark laughed, it all said enough. It meant he was there. That he was hearing him.

And gradually, something began to shift.

Bruce started speaking too.

Not all at once. Not with anything heavy, but with little things. He let Clark see the case files spread across the monitors, explained the patterns he was tracking, the people involved. He even muttered dry observations about Gotham’s latest criminal absurdities, almost like sharing an inside joke with someone he trusted.

Then came more personal details. A quiet complaint about Wayne Enterprises board meetings, a soft grumble about shareholders demanding reports. He mentioned the pressure of keeping a public image, of smiling when he didn’t want to, of shaking hands with men who’d once tried to buy out the company from under him.

One evening, as the cave glowed in its usual dim light and Clark sat perched casually on the edge of the Batcomputer’s platform, Bruce told him about a merger that had gone sideways, how he’d spent three weeks trying to fix the damage because a partner had acted without consulting him.

Clark had blinked, almost startled. “That sounds… exhausting.”

Bruce hadn’t denied it. “It is,” he had murmured, gaze not on the screens, but somewhere farther away. “But it’s part of the job. I built something, and now I have to protect it.”

Clark had smiled, warm and soft. “You do that a lot.”

Bruce glanced at him then, brow raised. “Do what?”

“Protect what you build.”

For a moment, Bruce didn’t answer, he just stared at him.

The days continued like that. A kind of rhythm between them that neither spoke about but both noticed. Conversations came easier. The silences between them felt less sharp.

Clark never pushed. Bruce never offered more than he could.

But somehow, each visit stitched something invisible between them back together, thread by thread.

Among the things that were discussed there were others not so easy to talk about.

Clark didn’t press him about the letter anymore.

Bruce had said he was still looking into it, and Clark, out of respect or something more uncertain, chose to believe him every time. He never asked why it was taking the world’s greatest detective so long to find the truth. He never questioned the quiet delays, the vague updates, or the way Bruce always shifted the subject when the letter came up.

But something had begun to stir inside him… Quiet, persistent.

A feeling he couldn’t quite name.

It wasn’t suspicion. It was more like… a pull. Like the answer was hovering somewhere just out of reach, waiting for him to be still enough, patient enough, open enough to catch it.

Somehow, he had started to believe that if he gave it time, if he listened closely, he might figure it out on his own.

A few nights later, Clark arrived without the usual theatrics, no sonic boom, no wind stirred by landing. He simply appeared on the edge of the platform, the light hum of the Zeta beam fading behind him. Bruce didn’t turn around immediately, but Clark knew he was aware. He always was.

“I brought coffee this time,” Clark said softly, holding up the two cups.

That made Bruce pause.

He turned, just slightly, brow arched in faint amusement. “What kind?”

Clark smiled. “Yours is black, no milk or sugar. I remembered.”

Bruce gave a short huff, almost a chuckle. “Lucky guess?”

Clark shook his head, “No. Just muscle memory.” He offered the cup with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I guess… some things stick even when you don’t know why.”

Bruce accepted the cup with a quiet nod, their fingers brushing briefly, just enough for Clark to feel the cool press of gauntlet and the warmth beneath.

Bruce kept typing away, gloved fingers dancing over the keys as diagnostic scans flickered across the screen while Clark leaned against a nearby railing, watching the blue and green lights cast gentle shadows across Batman’s mask, both sipping quietly. The cavern walls echoed faintly with dripping water and distant wings.

No words passed between them for several minutes, they didn’t need them to. They just sat like that for a while, enjoying each other's company.

Finally, Clark spoke, voice quiet “By the way, I almost forgot to tell you… the League says hi.”

Bruce didn’t look up. “Do they?”

“Diana wanted me to remind you that your seat’s still warm,” Clark said, with a half-smile.

Bruce just shook his head slightly, giving a hint of a small smile, just enough for Clark to notice.

“Are you going to come back to the League?” he asked softly, careful not to startle the fragile peace between them.

Bruce didn’t stop typing. But he didn’t answer either. His jaw tensed slightly, his eyes narrowing at the data in front of him like it might give him an excuse not to respond.

Clark waited.

After a long moment, Bruce exhaled and sat back, the tension in his shoulders stubbornly refusing to leave. “I don’t know.”

Clark stepped closer until he was one step away from Bruce. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either.” Bruce scoffed.

A pause passed between them.

“You’re missed,” Clark said, voice low but sincere. “By everyone… but especially me. It’s just not the same without you around, our main voice of reason.” Clark’s gaze lingered on Bruce with a quiet vulnerability in his eyes.

Bruce didn’t dare look up at him. The glow from the monitor outlined the sharp lines of his face. His expression was controlled, as always, but something in his eyes gave him away, something tired, something that hurt.

“Clark…” His jaw flexed once before he let out a quiet breath. “The truth is— I didn’t just need distance from the League.” He hesitated, the words heavy as they left him. “I needed time,” Bruce said, after a while. “To step back. To put myself together again. To understand… how far I’d let myself go. And to make sure I could still be… someone that someone else could rely on.”

Clark’s brows drew slightly. “And?”

Bruce’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. He turned slowly fully toward Clark instead, the silence stretching between them again, but not in an uncomfortable way.

Clark had the sudden urge to look past the mask, to see what Bruce wasn’t saying. To read the truth in the sharp lines of his face, the eyes that always gave him away with just a quick scan. But he didn’t. Instead, he took a final step closer, softening his voice as he spoke.

“You don’t have to decide yet,” Clark said quietly. “I just wanted you to know that you’re important… to all of us.”

Bruce finally turned toward him, slow, deliberate, the smallest flicker of something unguarded breaking through in his eyes. “If I came back… it wouldn’t be like before.”

Clark smiled, the kind of smile that carried warmth and weight all at once. “I wouldn’t want it to be.”

That seemed to catch Bruce off guard. His mouth opened as if to argue, but no words came.

“I won’t push,” Clark added gently, and this time he barely leaned towards him. He could hear the tension in Bruce’s breathing, see the way his hands twitched minutely at his sides. “You’ll come back when you’re ready. And if you don’t…” He gave a small shrug, voice dipping softer still. “You’ll still have me.”

And Bruce, who always had a retort waiting, Bruce who kept walls like fortresses, just gave a quiet nod. His eyes were still unreadable because of the mask and lights covering them.

Clark hesitated, then reached up. His fingers brushed the edge of the cowl, slow and careful, like asking permission without words. Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t stop him. So Clark eased the cowl back, revealing his face in the soft glow of the Batcomputer’s light.

For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other.

Clark’s breath caught. God, his eyes… they were sharper than he remembered, but there was something there that made his chest ache with a strange, aching familiarity. Too familiar. It sent his pulse racing, a dangerous thrill skimming under his skin.

And Bruce, he looked like a mesmerized man, pinned in place by the sheer sincerity on Clark’s face, by the way the dim light turned his blue eyes into something infinite.

Bruce swallowed hard, his voice came out softer than he intended, almost tender. “Clark–thank you.” Bruce blinked, and Clark thought that he saw the faintest tremor in those guarded eyes.

Clark smiled at that.

For a breath, the world stilled.

Then the Batcave’s alarm system shattered the quiet like a crack in glass, sharp, clinical, merciless. Overhead lights stuttered against the stone walls as the central monitor flared to life, bathing the cavern in a harsh red glow.

PRIORITY ONE. INCIDENT IN GOTHAM.

The moment collapsed between them.

Bruce blinked once, and the softness Clark had seen in his eyes vanished, sealed behind steel and shadows. His jaw tightened, his body moving before thought could catch up. Already turning, putting on his cowl. Already Batman again.

Clark watched him stride across the platform, the hum of machines surging awake, consoles lighting up like a storm. His cape swept the air like a blade as he approached the car, every motion precise, relentless.

“Bruce—” Clark started, his voice low, uncertain.

Batman didn’t look back. “I’m okay. Stay out of this one.” His tone wasn’t sharp, but it left no room for argument. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

Both knew he wouldn’t.

Clark stood there for a beat, the cave’s glow painting harsh lines across his face, hands curling uselessly at his sides. He wanted to call to him again, but Bruce was already gone, swallowed by motion and shadows.

Clark exhaled slowly, his chest tight, that strange ache clawing at him again. He glanced once at the empty platform, at the red pulse still flashing across the monitors, and then, quiet as the cave itself, he lifted off the ground.

The cold night swallowed him as he broke through the mouth of the cave, the wind rushing past like a whisper he almost recognized.

High above Gotham, the city stretched beneath him like a restless heart, pulsing with light and shadow. But Clark’s thoughts drifted elsewhere, drawn to the Bat-Signal etched against the night sky; bright, unwavering, and impossible to ignore.

Pulling him back every single time.

Chapter Text

Clark couldn’t shake it.

The echo of the moment followed him long after the alarms had faded and Gotham’s skyline swallowed Bruce into its shadows. That breath between them, where the world had stilled, where he’d almost leaned in, almost done something he didn’t even know he wanted until it was too late, it burned through him like a second sun.

And it wasn’t just the physical closeness. It was the look in Bruce’s eyes. Exposed in a way Clark had never seen before, not even in the fragments of memory that returned in fractured dreams. That look wasn’t calculated; it was raw, terrified and wanting.

And God help him, Clark felt the same.

He hovered above the city now, high enough that the wind drowned out his sighs, his breath fogging in the bitter night air. Below him, Metropolis pulsed steady and bright, but tonight , strangely, it didn’t feel like home. Not in the way Bruce’s company had, not in the way his name had sounded on his lips.

Clark sighed.

What am I thinking?

He tried to rationalize it, to shove the feeling into something neat and explainable. Maybe it was nostalgia… the human heart clawing for familiarity in the wreckage of lost time. Perhaps it was guilt? Or maybe… maybe it was the simple gravity of Bruce Wayne, who had always been impossible to ignore.

But deep down, Clark knew it wasn’t any of those things. Not entirely.

When he closed his eyes, he saw Bruce leaning into his touch, barely, but enough. He felt the heat between them, the faint tremor in Bruce’s breath.

Clark swallowed hard.
God. Was this what his heart had been searching for all this time? Was this the piece he thought he’d lost?

And if it was more than closeness, if what he felt for Bruce was becoming something deeper, then what did that say about Lois? About the love he thought he understood? The memory of her still held weight, still deserved respect. He didn’t want to reduce what they had to a mistake. But this… this quiet pull toward Bruce… it scared him.

What if he was doing it again? Reaching out to someone in the dark, not because he loved them, but because he needed something, someone, to hold onto. What if he was wrong about this, too?

His chest ached with doubt. He couldn’t bear to hurt Bruce the way he’d hurt Lois. Couldn’t let this be another confusion mistaken for connection. Not again…

But Bruce wasn’t just an anchor. And that terrified Clark more than anything.

Because if he was wrong, if this was a phantom feeling born from déjà vu and half-buried memories, then crossing that line could destroy everything. The League, their partnership, the fragile trust Bruce still allowed him…

And Clark couldn’t lose him–not again.

He landed softly on his balcony, boots crunching against a thin layer of frost. Inside, the apartment felt too big, too quiet. He took off his cape, tossing it on the counter, and braced himself against the glass door, staring out at the blur of city lights. His reflection stared back at him, tired, restless, and more conflicted than he’d ever admit out loud.

A laugh, hollow and soft, escaped him. “You’re a mess, Kent,” he muttered to himself, dragging a hand through his hair.

But even as he said it, his mind betrayed him, conjuring the memory of dark eyes under a shadowed brow, the rasp of a voice that had said his name like it mattered. Clark felt like a man on the edge of something he didn’t understand, of something he wanted anyway.

And God help him, he wasn’t sure he could stop wanting it.

He could barely sleep. The next day stretched on, but Clark moved through it like a ghost. Perry barked something about deadlines, Jimmy waved from across the bullpen with his camera slung over his shoulder, Lois left a message on his desk with her neat handwriting, but none of it stuck. None of it mattered.

He told himself it was fatigue, the weight of too many rescues, too many headlines. But deep down he knew the truth: his mind was elsewhere. Back in the cave. Back with him.

With Bruce.

The name sat heavy in his chest, pulsing like a quiet heartbeat. He hated how easily it came now, unbidden, slipping past walls he didn’t even realize were there. Every time Clark tried to chase the shadow of the person he thought he’d lost, the one he was certain loved him once, the one tied to that letter, the memory bent, blurred, until it wasn’t a stranger’s face he saw. It was now Bruce’s.

God, why?

Because he was the constant! The one who didn’t flinch when Clark broke, the one who looked at him like he wasn’t a symbol of something or a protector, but a man. Because in that quiet moment, eyes locking across the dim cave light, Bruce’s voice low and frayed at the edges, Clark felt something undeniable. Like a thread snapping between them after being stretched too thin for too long.

And now, the letter felt like it didn’t matter. It had just brought him problems, confusion, and anxiety. He stared at it in his mind, the ink, the words meant for him. Words that once drove him to claw for answers, that made him lose sleep and made him question almost every decision he'd taken so far in his love life. But now? Clark wasn’t sure if he wanted to know who wrote it anymore.

Maybe it wasn’t about the letter. Maybe it never was.

He let out a breath and leaned back in his chair, the soft hum of the newsroom fading into white noise.

Clark dragged a hand down his face and laughed, hollow and shaky.

“No,” he whispered to himself. “No, you’re not doing this.”

Because this wasn’t safe. Because this wasn’t simple. Because what if he was wrong? What if these feelings weren’t his, they were indeed remnants of something past, something the accident twisted and scattered? What if he reached for Bruce and tore everything apart?

He thought it felt right with Lois once, too.

And it hadn’t been right. Not the way he’d wanted it to be. Not the way he’d hoped.

What if he reached for Bruce believing in something that wasn’t there, and ruined whatever fragile thing still connected them?

But the other truth, the one that terrified him more, was this:
What if he wasn’t wrong?

What if, deep down, this was real?

Because if Bruce was the center of every thought, if Bruce was the gravity pulling him back every single time, then maybe that was the answer he’d been chasing all along.

Clark stared out the window, the Metropolis skyline bleeding orange under the dying sun, and found himself wondering what Bruce was doing right now. If he was safe. If his eyes still held that flicker of vulnerability he allowed him, and only him, to see.

His phone buzzed once on the desk, a sharp tremor that snapped him out of the daze he hadn't realized he’d fallen into. A news alert, but he ignored it. And for the first time in weeks, the world could wait, because Clark Kent had a different battle now, one he couldn’t fly away from, one that began and ended in the same place: Bruce Wayne.

After his day ended, he decided to head home to rest his mind. He laid in bed, eyes open. The clock on the bedside table glared back at him in merciless red digits: 1:14 a.m.

Clark laid flat on his back, staring at the ceiling of his Metropolis apartment like it held answers. Sleep was a stranger tonight, every time he closed his eyes, they dragged him back into the cave. Back to the shadowed glow of monitors and the warmth of someone standing too close.

He exhaled hard and swung his legs over the side of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands dragging down his face. The city outside was quiet, save for the occasional siren and the hum of a world that never truly slept. And yet…

His mind wasn’t on Metropolis tonight.

It was in Gotham.

Clark rose slowly, almost mechanically, like the decision had been made hours ago and he was only just catching up to it. He put on his suit and stood at the window, heart a runaway train in his chest.

If I see him… maybe I’ll know.

Maybe this isn't what I think it is… maybe it’s pity, nostalgia or the human need to cling to what feels safe when everything else is chaos…

But then he remembered Bruce’s eyes.

God, if this is wrong…

He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and let the world blur into streaks of light as he lifted off the ground. The wind swallowed him whole, cool and sharp against his skin, carrying him across miles of darkness toward the one place that refused to leave his thoughts.

Toward him.

The cave was still when Clark arrived, save for the sound of the electricity and the occasional flicker of a screen left running. Clark touched down lightly on the platform, boots making the faintest sound as they met steel.

“Bruce?” he called softly, his voice swallowed by the cavern’s vastness. No answer.

The glow of the Batcomputer drew his eyes, its screens cycling through data, case files, surveillance feeds, a name repeating itself “Tony Zucco” over and over again. And there, in front of the monitors, was Bruce, slumped forward, one gauntleted hand hanging off the console, the other resting near the keyboard. His cape had slipped to the floor, his head bowed at an angle that looked painfully uncomfortable.

For a moment, Clark just stood there, taking in the sight, the man who carried the weight of a city, now looking almost fragile in the glow of cold blue light.

He walked forward, careful not to disturb the air too much. With a gentle motion, Clark reached out, sliding an arm across Bruce’s back and carefully shifting him to lean against the high-backed chair instead of the edge of the console. Bruce murmured something in his sleep but didn’t wake. Clark’s lips curved faintly as he grabbed a folded blanket from a nearby ledge Alfred always prepared, shook it out quietly and draped it across Bruce’s shoulders with the kind of care that felt too intimate, tucking it in just enough to keep the daft at bay.

As Clark adjusted the blanket, his fingers brushed against a sleek black pad embedded in the armrest, and as he did, his hand grazed the biometric scanner.

“Partial match detected. Confirm identity.”

Clark froze, eyes darting to the monitor. He frowned, pulling his hand back instinctively.

What was that?

A biometric pad. Of course Bruce would have one here. But why would it react to him?

Curiosity gnawed at him, and slowly, hesitantly, Clark pressed his full palm against the pad. For a breath, nothing happened, then the system came alive.

“HANDPRINT VERIFIED. AUTHORIZATION GRANTED.”

“Confirmed. Kal-El. Full administrative clearance granted.”

He frowned, a crease forming between his brows. Full clearance?! He couldn’t remember Bruce ever granting him access, let alone telling him he would. Yet the scanner pulsed in response, recognizing his handprint as if it had always belonged.

The system chimed softly as the interface unfolded, bathing the cave in a pale blue glow. Line after line of encrypted data cascaded down the screen, case files, network grids, surveillance logs, each thread weaving a map of Gotham’s underworld with Bruce’s precision. Years of secrets lay just beyond a click, secrets Bruce had locked away from everyone. Everyone but him.

But Clark barely saw any of it.
Because nestled between the sterile patterns of crime and evidence were two folders, isolated at the top, like secrets begging to be touched.

PERSONAL LOGS.

CONFIDENTIAL.

Not their names, but their dates struck him hard enough to leave him breathless: the week of the accident. And another, a week after he woke up, the same week he received the letter.

His stomach knotted hard. The glow of the monitor painted his hands in cold light as his pulse roared in his ears. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just stared until the edges of the screen blurred.

Slowly, his gaze slid to Bruce.
Still there, folded in the chair with his arms crossed on the desk, blanket wrapping across his shoulders like a fragile attempt at softness he’d never allow himself while awake. He looked untouched by the storm spiraling only feet away.

Clark’s fingers hovered over the controls.
Just one press… One command…

The answers he’d been chasing, bleeding for, clawing for in the dark–they were right there! His missing pieces, spelled out in words Bruce had kept locked away.

He could end this ache in a heartbeat.

The breath left him in a sharp rush as he pulled his hand back, flexing his fingers like they burned. His throat was dry, the weight of temptation pressing against his ribs like iron.

What am I doing?

He backed out of the console, step by slow step, until the glow dimmed into standby and the shadows reclaimed the cave. Then he sank down beside Bruce, elbows braced on his knees, dragging both hands through his hair.

The silence pressed in, humming servers, dripping water, the steady rhythm of Bruce’s breathing.

There were answers here, they had always been here… And Bruce, whether he wanted to or not, held the key.

Clark’s chest ached with it, the choice clawing through him, relentless. He turned back once more, staring at the pulsing green light of the biometric scanner like it was some kind of dare.

He could. God help him, he could!

But at what cost?

If he opened those files, he wouldn’t just break into a system. He’d break something else, something he didn’t know how to fix.

Something he just gained back.

Something fragile between them that, for all his missing memories, still mattered more than the truth.

Clark frowned, determined, and whispered into the quiet, a vow only the cave could hear.

I don’t want to take this from you. I want to understand it… with you.

He stood up, getting closer to the console again, wanting to shut it off, until a voice interrupted him.

“You won’t find what you’re looking for in there.”

Clark froze. His head whipped toward the sound. Bruce was awake, shadows carving deep lines across his face, eyes dark and unreadable.

Bruce pushed himself upright slowly, and though his tone was calm, there was steel under it. “If you’re hoping that console has the answers to your missing pieces… it doesn’t. Some things aren’t on any system.”

Clark’s heart thudded against his ribs, words catching in his throat. “Bruce—”

“Don’t.” The single word cut through the cave like a blade, low and steady. Bruce stood fully now, the blanket sliding from his shoulders, pooling soundlessly on the floor. He didn’t take his eyes off Clark, not for a second, as he moved closer, each step deliberate, controlled.

“I didn’t touch anything, I was going to turn it off–” But Bruce wasn’t hearing him. He crossed the space in three strides, shutting the system down with a hard swipe, tension coiled in every movement.

“You don’t touch my systems without asking,” he snapped, words sharp as a batarang. “Ever.”

Clark’s chest burned. “I said I didn’t look—”

“You shouldn’t even have been near it.” Bruce’s tone was iron, but Clark heard the fracture underneath, anger that wasn’t just anger. Fear.

Clark hesitated, searching his face. Then, softly “What are you so afraid I’ll find, Bruce?”

Bruce froze. Then, slowly, he turned his head, not fully, just enough for Clark to see the edge of his profile, the sharp line of his jaw tight with restraint.

“I’m not afraid you’ll find anything,” Bruce said, voice low, but there was something under it, a thread of raw honesty that cut through the calm. “I’m afraid of what it’ll do to you if you do.”

“What?” Clark asked him quietly.

Bruce’s hands rested against the edge of the console, knuckles pale against black gauntlets. “Go home, Clark.”

“No.” The word was soft but unyielding. Clark took another step, close enough now that the dim green glow spilled over both of them. “I’m not walking away from this.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, sharp and steady, like someone holding a faultline together by sheer will. “Clark, please, I’m not in the mood–”

“Then when will you be?” Clark’s voice cracked, just slightly. “Why do I feel like every time I get close to you or the truth, you pull further away? We were doing so well!”

That landed. Bruce’s jaw flexed once, twice. Then, slowly, he turned his head, and this time, Clark saw it more clearly. Not just anger, not just restraint, but something raw beneath it all. Vulnerability, quiet and lethal as a blade.

“I know you don’t remember everything,” Bruce said at last, voice raw enough to cut through bone. “But maybe you shouldn’t…”

Clark’s breath hitched. “What does that mean?”

Bruce looked away, but not before Clark caught the smallest flicker of pain, old, relentless, stitched into every line of his face. “It means there are things you lost that might be better left buried. And maybe that's a mercy.”

Clark’s breath caught. “Mercy for who?”

Bruce swallowed hard, his gaze held Clark’s, blue against light blue, and didn’t look away.

“Both of us,” he said finally.

The silence after that was unbearable. It pressed like gravity, thick and relentless, filled with everything Clark wanted to ask and everything Bruce refused to say. The sounds of the Batcomputer and the faint drip of water in the distance only made it heavier, like the cave itself was holding its breath.

Clark stepped closer. Slowly, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal that might bolt. Close enough now to see the flicker of light dancing across Bruce’s eyes, close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating from him through layers of Kevlar and restraint. And in that breathless space between them, something stirred, something that had survived fire and wreckage and time, clawing to breathe again.

His voice broke the quiet like a whisper across glass. “I’m not here to dig through files or force answers out of a machine,” Clark said softly. “I want to find them with you. Whatever they are and how far you want to help me.”

Bruce’s breath shuddered once. His hands pressed tighter against the console as if letting go meant surrendering everything, control, distance, the walls he had built like a fortress. But then, slowly… achingly, his posture shifted. The tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction, enough for Clark to see it, just a glimmer, that maybe, just maybe, Bruce had been waiting for those words all along.

Clark’s throat tightened, but he pressed on, his voice steady even as his heart thundered. “I know there’s something missing. Someone.” His eyes fell for a beat, then lifted again, blue and earnest. “And I keep finding pieces of that someone… here. With you.”

Bruce swallowed hard, barely a movement, but Clark saw it.

“You think I can tell you who they were?” Bruce’s voice was low, fragile around the edges.

Clark shook his head faintly, stepping closer still until the glow of the console brushed over both of them like moonlight. “I think you already have,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “In how you look at me… in what you don’t say.”

The cave felt smaller now. Still, like the world itself had stopped turning to watch this moment.

“I know someone loved me,” Clark murmured, softer now, as if afraid the words might break between them. “Someone left me that letter. Someone who saw me, even when I couldn’t see myself. And for so long, I didn’t know who they were…” His chest rose and fell slowly, eyes locked to Bruce’s. “…but standing here, it doesn’t feel like a mystery.”

Another step forward, close enough now that Bruce could feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek, close enough that Clark could hear the faint catch in Bruce’s breath, like the sound of a man fighting himself and losing.

“I don’t know what we were,” Clark said, the words trembling with something fierce and tender all at once. “But I know what I feel now, I think I’ve always known… and I want to believe that’s enough to start again.”

Bruce’s gaze dropped then, not in shame, but in surrender. Just for a moment, his jaw tightened as if he was holding back something unhinged and dangerous. And then, slowly, he looked up again, meeting Clark’s eyes with an honesty that could cut steel.

“Clark…” His voice was low, ragged. “I spent so long convincing myself that letting you go was the right thing. That you’d be happier not remembering.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, like steadying himself against the weight of every word. “But it never stopped hurting.”

Clark’s breath caught like a gasp trapped in his chest. He stepped forward again, until there was nothing left between them but air.

“Then why push me away?”

Bruce’s answer was barely a whisper, but it hit like thunder.

“Because I didn’t believe you’d fall twice...” His voice cracked, stripped down to something naked and bleeding. “Not after everything. Not after losing it all. And when I saw you with Lois… smiling like I never could make you…” He faltered, looking away as if the admission itself burned. “I thought maybe that was how it was supposed to be.”

Clark reached out then, slow and deliberate, his fingers brushing Bruce’s wrist before settling there, a quiet anchor against the chaos. His grip was gentle, grounding, his voice softer than the shadows.

“It wasn’t.”

Bruce’s lips parted, like he wanted to say something, anything, but couldn’t find the words.

“You don’t owe me your heart,” Bruce said at last, voice rough at the edges, barely holding steady. “Not if you’re still trying to find where it belongs.”

For a moment, Clark just looked at him, like the answer had always been written in the shadows of Bruce’s face. Then he smiled, softly and achingly, a glimmer of warmth breaking through the weight between them. His thumb traced gently over Bruce’s wrist, grounding him.

“Then let me start here,” Clark whispered.

Bruce blinked. For a moment, neither of them moved, the world holding its breath as something electric passed between them, unspoken, inevitable.

Clark raised his free hand and touched Bruce’s jaw, gentle and slow, thumb brushing just barely along the stubble there. Bruce didn’t flinch, his eyes fluttered half shut at the contact, breath shallow.

“Tell me if this feels wrong,” Clark whispered.

Bruce didn’t answer. But he let himself lean into the touch, only the slightest fraction, but it was enough.

Clark stepped even closer. The faint brush of fabric against fabric, heat blooming in the cold cavern air. The console hummed softly behind them, the blue glow painting half of Bruce’s face in shadow, like two worlds clashing and neither willing to yield.

“This isn’t new,” Clark murmured, his voice a low, reverent thing. “Whatever we were… whatever I forgot… it didn’t die with the memories. It’s still here.” His thumb traced a ghost of a line along Bruce’s jaw, stopping just beneath his ear. “I feel it every time you look at me like that.”

Bruce’s voice scraped out like gravel. “You’re not ready.”

Clark searched his face, eyes bright and unflinching. “But I’m willing to try again. Are you..?”

For a second, Bruce said nothing. His throat worked as if the words he needed were caught like glass inside him. He stared at Clark like a man staring at the edge of a precipice, knowing the fall would kill him and wanting it anyway. The silence stretched long enough to ache, long enough for the cave to feel too small for everything between them.

“Clark…” Bruce’s voice broke on his name, quiet, almost pleading. “Don’t make me want this.”

“Why not?” Clark whispered, closing the last sliver of space so their foreheads nearly touched, breath mingling like a secret. His pulse roared in his ears, each beat screaming at him to close that distance, to claim the truth his soul already knew. “You already do.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened under Clark’s hand, but his eyes… God, his eyes betrayed him. For one unguarded heartbeat, Clark saw it, everything Bruce buried, everything he swore he’d never need again. The weight of years, the ache of loving in silence, the fear of losing what little he had left.

“I can’t…” Bruce forced out, the words raw and ragged. “If I start this with you, Clark… I won’t survive losing you again.”

Clark’s breath caught, and something inside him twisted until it hurt to breathe. His voice was barely more than air when he spoke. “Then don’t lose me.”

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut like the plea burned him. His hands, gloved and trembling, lifted halfway, as if to push Clark back. But they didn’t. They hovered there, caught between surrender and restraint, fingers twitching like they remembered a time when holding Clark was second nature.

“I wish it were that simple,” Bruce said, voice hoarse.

“It is,” Clark whispered back, steady and sure. “It is for me.”

Bruce opened his eyes then, and the look in them nearly leveled Clark. Something fierce and broken and impossibly tender. For one dizzying second, Clark thought he’d close that last inch between them. Thought he’d finally—

The Cave alarm shattered the moment again like a gunshot.

The piercing wail ricocheted off stone walls, harsh and merciless. Red strobes lit the cavern in angry pulses, cutting through the fragile bubble they’d built in the dark. Bruce tore his gaze away first, shoulders snapping taut as the Batmask slammed back into place. His hands dropped like lead.

“PRIORITY ALERT, GOTHAM NATIONAL BANK, HOSTAGE SITUATION. CODE OMEGA.”

Clark’s heart sank, heavy as an anvil. He swallowed hard, forcing the ache back down where it belonged. “Bruce—”

But the man was already moving, cape flaring like a black flame as he strode toward the car. “Another night,” he said without looking back, his voice was flat. “If you mean it.”

Clark stood there in the glow of the monitors, chest aching with everything left unsaid, the echo of warmth still clinging to his fingers. He could still feel Bruce’s breath against his lips, still taste the weight of what almost happened.

As the Batmobile roared to life and vanished into the tunnels, Clark whispered to the empty cave, soft and certain:

“I do.”

Chapter Text

The gala was already in full swing by the time Bruce arrived, music swelling beneath the low hum of conversation, crystal glasses clinking as laughter and politics mingled in the air. He stepped inside, every bit the image of Gotham’s most elusive heir, sharp in a dark suit, charm in reserve, smile just shy of sincere.

He hadn’t come to socialize, not entirely.

Harvey Dent had extended the invitation personally, and Bruce had accepted, knowing the names on the guest list might be more useful than the wine, and to support one of his best friends with his upcoming campaign. He wasn’t here to enjoy the event; his time was limited, and Zucco’s name had surfaced in too many dark corners lately; Someone in this room knew more than they were letting on.

He moved through the crowd with practiced ease, offering nods and handshakes, lingering only long enough to listen. Polite questions disguised behind casual banter. A mention of the docks here. A passing reference to a union dispute there. Someone, a contractor with too much to drink, let slip a name Bruce had been chasing for weeks. It was enough.

He turned toward the exit, steps quiet, already planning his next move.

“Leaving so soon, this early in the evening?”

Harvey’s voice stopped him cold. Bruce turned slowly to find him standing near the edge of the ballroom, drink in hand, a wry smile tugging at his mouth.

“I thought I’d at least get one full conversation with Gotham’s most elusive billionaire?” Harvey said as he approached, his grin easy. “But noooo, you’re already planning your escape, aren’t you?”

Bruce gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “You know me, Harv. Crowds aren’t really my strong suit... I mainly came to support you.”

Harvey raised an eyebrow. “Sure, I know that and I’m glad you came, but tonight you’re staying. You owe me, remember? The last two events you bailed before dessert!”

Bruce hesitated, scanning the glittering room. The intel was collected. Mission accomplished. And yet… Harvey wasn’t going to let him vanish this time.

“...one drink,” Bruce said finally, adjusting his cufflinks with a resigned exhale. “Just for you.”

Harvey’s grin widened as he clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s all I wanted! No social masks, no speeches, just relax for once… you might actually like it!”

Bruce smiled just enough to pass for amused, but his mind was already elsewhere, cataloging everything he'd overheard. One step closer.

And now, one drink further from the shadows.

An hour and a half later, Harvey had already loosened his tie, halfway into a story Bruce had mostly tuned out until his name came up.

“—and you laughed. I swear to god, Bruce, you laughed! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you like this.”

Bruce smirked faintly, resting his glass against his knee. “Don’t act like I’m a stranger to joy, Harvey...”

“Oh, come on,” Harvey scoffed good-naturedly. “These past weeks you’ve been the reigning king of brooding!” He raised an eyebrow. “And now here you are! And it's not just because I’m your friend that you’re here. Out... drinking... smiling… something’s changed.”

Bruce didn’t answer at first. He swirled the amber in his glass, eyes distant for a beat.

“You’ve actually smiled twice, you know? Three times if I count that thing you just did with your eyes.”

Bruce gave him a dry look. “Don’t get used to it.”

Harvey chuckled. “No promises! It’s just… good to see you like this. A few weeks ago, I couldn’t even get you to return a call, and now you’re sipping scotch and making small talk like you invented it.” Harvey’s smile faded to something more thoughtful. “What is it? New partner? Finally got that elusive eight hours of sleep?”

“No. Nothing like that.” Bruce swirled the drink in his hand, not looking up. “Things change.”

Harvey’s tone softened. “Yeah. But that fast?”

There was a pause between them, one that Harvey didn’t fill with a joke for once.

“What happened?” he asked, genuinely. “You disappear for weeks, then come back acting like the sun came out just for you. You can’t expect me not to notice, Bruce. I’ve known you since we were kids.”

Bruce exhaled slowly, eyes flicking toward the crowd, then back to Harvey. “It’s nothing dramatic,” he said, and for once, the evasion didn’t feel cold, just careful. “I think I’ve just… reconnected with someone. Someone I didn’t think I’d see that way again.”

Harvey blinked, then smiled, softly, surprised.

“Damn. That’s the most honest thing you’ve said to me in years…”

Bruce gave a quiet shrug, lips just barely lifting. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Harvey raised his glass. “I hope they know what they’re doing. You’re a hard man to save from himself.”

Bruce looked down, a small, honest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “They’re trying.”

Harvey chuckled and clinked his glass gently against Bruce’s. “Then here’s to trying, to the start of a family and to finally getting you out from whatever cave you crawled into!”

“And to getting back what matters.” Bruce added and met the toast, for a brief, fragile second, let himself feel the warmth of it.

“I’m glad to see you happy again my friend,” added Harvey after.

Bruce excused himself not long after, offering Harvey one last promise, “we’ll talk soon”, before slipping out into the cold Gotham’s streets. The gala’s hum faded behind him, replaced by the low growl of the engine as he slid behind the wheel of the black car waiting in the shadows.

By the time the cave’s stone mouth swallowed the vehicle whole, his jaw was tight, his pulse unsteady. He shed the tux like a skin that didn’t quite fit and traded silk for armor, but the thoughts clung stubbornly, refusing to let go.

Belonging.

That was what it felt like tonight, fragile, but real. The way Harvey’s words had cracked something open inside him. The way his mind kept circling back to Clark like a compass locked on one direction, no matter how many times he told himself not to.

He couldn’t wait to see him again. To look at him without the weight of pretense. To let Clark see the pieces Bruce had spent so long hiding, the man who had something left to lose.

And then there was Dick. The boy who’d carved light into a life Bruce thought was beyond saving. He was already turning over ideas in his head, imagining how to bridge those two worlds: the boy who trusted him without question and the man whose trust Bruce would die to keep.

But first… Zucco.

A soft beep sounded from the batcomputer, an incoming message. Bruce clicked it open without sitting.

“Master Wayne, I apologize. I’ll arrive late at the manor tonight. While you were at the gala, Lucius asked me to oversee an urgent shipment from Zurich. I fear the usual privacy measures are being fumbled, and I’d rather not risk a press leak. I’ve also told the young master to go to bed early and stocked the medbay in case of… well, you. Do try not to bleed too much while I’m away. Please sir, do not put yourself at risk.” – A

Bruce exhaled through his nose, barely a smile at the corner of his lips. “Noted.”

He didn’t like going into a night without Alfred nearby. Not just for the patchwork medicine or mission logs. But for the voice, that quiet, persistent presence that soothed him and kept him grounded in his missions.

Bruce’s eyes sharpened as the main screen flared to life, blueprints and intel bleeding across the glass. Zucco was still out there, and every lead pointed to him tightening his grip on Gotham’s upper circles. Bruce scrolled through the list of names he’d overheard tonight, piecing threads together with a precision that was almost ruthless.

Every second Clark’s face tugged at the back of his mind and every pull of that longing felt too much like hope. He pushed it aside. There was work to do. Justice came first. He owed Dick’s parents that much, and couldn’t keep them waiting any longer.

The night air bit cold against his jaw as Bruce vaulted from one rooftop to the next, Gotham sprawled beneath him like a sleeping beast. The intel he’d pulled from the gala and put together in the batcomputer had led him here.

And Bruce wasn’t the only predator on the trail.

He landed on the slate shingles of a decaying high-rise, cape snapping in the wind. The shadows rippled behind him, then spoke with a voice like silk.

“You’re tougher tonight,” Selina murmured, perched on the edge of the roof like she’d grown from the stone itself, one leg swinging lazily into the void. “Something on your mind, handsome?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He moved toward her instead, slow, deliberate, until the glow from a flickering billboard painted them both in fractured neon.

“Zucco,” he said flatly. “I know you’ve crossed paths.”

Selina smirked, the curl of her lip sharp enough to cut glass. “You really know how to make a girl feel special... No hello, no small talk… straight to business.”

“Do you know where he is?” His tone left no room for games, but with Selina, there were always games.

She stood, rolling her shoulders like a cat stretching after a long nap. “I know he’s been spending a lot of time down by the docks. Bleake Island.” Her eyes glittered beneath the mask, teasing, dangerous. “Word is, he pissed off some very expensive people. Guess he figured dancing with Gotham’s highest bidders was better than ending up in your claws.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Which factions?”

“Your favourites", she said with a low laugh, stepping close enough that the tips of her boots brushed his. “Falcone’s crew, the remnants of Maroni’s line… even whispers of Black Mask sniffing around. Zucco’s desperate. Desperation makes people stupid.”

“Or reckless,” Bruce muttered.

Selina’s smile widened like she’d been waiting for that. “Sounds like someone I know.”

He ignored the jab, eyes narrowing as he processed. If Zucco had bought himself protection from Gotham’s elite, storming in guns blazing wasn’t an option. He’d need precision, timing and no mistakes.

“Bleake Island,” Bruce repeated, voice like gravel.

Selina tilted her head, studying him with that feline curiosity that always felt too sharp. “Careful, Bat. This isn’t just some street thug anymore. He’s tied up in threads you don’t want tangled around your neck.”

Bruce turned, the city lights casting his shadow long across the rooftop. “Then I’ll cut them loose.”

“You’ve been running yourself ragged, Bruce. You’re good, better than anyone, but even you don’t have nine lives.”

He didn’t look at her, didn’t slow. The wind pulled at his cape like it was trying to drag him back as he stepped onto the ledge.

“Just… take care of yourself,” she said finally, softer than before. “Would hate to see you end up as one of Gotham’s many tragic tales...”

For half a heartbeat, Bruce paused, glancing at her from over his shoulder. The cowl hid his eyes, but something in the set of his jaw said enough. Then, without a word, he launched the grapnel and disappeared into the night, a shadow swallowed by the city.

Selina stayed where she was, arms folding across her chest as she let out a slow breath. “That fool,” she muttered under her breath, though her gaze followed the line of his flight like a prayer.

Then, movement.

Just beyond the next roofline, barely a flicker of color against the dark. Red, green and a glint of yellow. Quick, nimble, hugging the shadows like a small mouse.

Selina’s brow arched, lips curling in the faintest smirk. “Well,” she purred, the words trailing like smoke as the figure leapt after him, silent and sure. “Looks like the Bat’s picked up a shadow of his own.”

The night had grown heavier by the time Batman reached Bleake Island’s dock. The old shipping yard stretched out in eerie silence, broken crates and rusting containers forming narrow corridors of shadow. The moon hung low, silver bleeding into the water below. He moved with purpose, Zucco’s scent was in the air. A cornered animal running out of safe burrows.

Bruce dropped silently behind a stack of crates, eyes scanning for movement. He could hear voices, scattered footfalls, and the clink of hurried metal, Zucco had guards. A lot of them.

The dock creaked beneath Bruce’s boots in the forgotten pier, the salt-thick air clinging to his skin like sweat. Everything here reeked of rot, rusted chains, soaked wood, and the oily breath of the Gotham Narrows. He started moving swiftly, blending with the darkness that engulfed that place, taking advantage of the blind points the guards didn’t go through. He went inside one of the crates, guiding himself by sound alone, by the heavy footsteps above him.

Then—

A smaller sound.

Light footsteps.

Too light.

A voice, low and rough, just ahead. “HEY! Found something!”

A sound of a crate opening and closing hurriedly. Bruce’s eyes narrowed.

“Little rat’s hiding in the crates!”

A pause.

A laugh. “Gotcha!” A little scream.

A kid.

His .

Time stopped.

Bruce’s vision tunneled, the quiet between his heartbeats cracked open into panic. A scream, silent but deafening, ripped through him, curled deep in his chest.

His son.

They had his son.

The earpiece distorted for a moment as another voice barked, “What do we do with him?”

A second laugh. “Boss said make it clean. We can’t allow any intruders.”

“Let me go!”

And that was it.

All stealth dropped like shattered glass.

A roar broke from Bruce’s throat as he surged from below like a shadow demon being summoned, cape flaring, the sharp crunch of gravel underfoot replaced by the explosive slam of his body through the nearest stack of boxes. Wood splintered, men shouted, ran, but he didn’t hear them.

He couldn’t hear anything over the pounding in his ears.

The fear… it wasn’t the kind that sharpened his senses. It blinded him. It hollowed out everything but get to him, get to your son, move faster… Faster… Faster!

A flash of a small figure between the shadows.

Crates, smoke, shooting, more voices.

A small cry.

Dick.

His body moved on instinct, brutal and relentless. One thug barely turned before Bruce was on him, fists cracking bone. Another reached for his gun but didn’t make it, Bruce’s elbow shattered his jaw with a sickening snap.

“Where is he?!” Bruce growled, voice shredded, feral.

No answer. Only fear in the man’s eyes before Bruce dropped him, breath ragged, blood screaming in his ears.

He vaulted over a shipping container, saw the flicker of a too-small shoe disappearing behind another stack of crates. Heart in his throat, chest burning, not fast enough—

Another shot rang out. Close.

Bruce howled, tearing around the corner, lungs raw, a broken whisper escaping him before he even knew he spoke it:

“Dick.”

The child flinched but turned, eyes wide, terrified, but alive.

“Behind!” the child cried, the click of a gun.

Bruce didn’t hesitate.

He slammed into him, sending them both crashing to the ground, gravel biting into skin, the gun skittering away. He didn’t stop, didn’t breathe until the man stopped moving beneath him, unconscious.

He turned.

Dropped to his knees.

His hands trembled as he reached out.

“Dick,” he said again, broken now. Shaking. “It’s me… I’ve got you.”

The boy hesitated… then launched himself forward, small arms clinging to Bruce’s neck.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I was just trying to help and–” The boy started wailing.

Only then did Bruce realize he was shaking. Sobbing. Holding him tight. Rocking slightly, trying to ground himself in the fact that this, was real.

“We’ll talk later, it’s okay… you’re okay…”

The moment should’ve ended there.

The boy in his arms, trembling but breathing. Bruce pressing a hand to the back of his head, grounding himself in the warmth, the life, the fragile heartbeat under his fingers. He could’ve stayed like that forever.

But the sound of boots skidding on metal yanked him back into the storm.

One of the thugs, still conscious, had seen them.

Not just seen, understood.

“Boss,” the man rasped into his comm. “You’re not gonna believe this, this is no normal ass kid. It’s his! The Bat’s got a soft spot!”

Silence.

Then Zucco’s voice crackled through the line, low and vicious.

“Bring me the boy!”

The thug reached for his weapon.

And Bruce moved.

He twisted his cape around Dick’s small form in one fluid motion, drawing him in close, body curling around him like a living shield, protective, primal. Like a bat closing its wings around its young. His head bowed over Dick’s, one arm under his legs, the other against his back.

“Hold on to me,” he whispered, breathing hot and uneven. “Don’t let go. No matter what.”

“Bruce—” the boy murmured, voice shaking.

“Don’t let go.”

Gunfire lit the shadows a split second later.

Bruce pivoted with terrifying speed, dodging behind a rusted container, the bullets pinging off metal as he ducked, cradling the boy against his chest, body hunched protectively. He didn’t think. He couldn’t afford to. Every instinct screamed the same thing:

Protect. Protect. Protect.

“You think we won’t shoot a damn kid?” another voice yelled from the shadows.

More movement. They were surrounding him.

Bruce’s grip tightened.

He couldn’t run, not yet. Not without exposing Dick, not without a clear exit. He glanced around, mapping it all in seconds: shadows, angles, debris, breath, distance.

Dick’s small hands clung to the armor at Bruce’s chest, eyes wide, but silent. Trusting him completely.

“Good,” Bruce murmured, more to himself than anything. “That’s good.”

He shifted, one hand reaching back toward his utility belt, the other keeping the boy wrapped tightly in the folds of the cape.

Another voice rang out from the dark. Zucco.

“You care about that boy, Batman? Makes you slow! Makes you weak!”

Bruce’s lips peeled back in something that wasn’t a smile.

You’re about to see just how wrong you are.

Bruce moved fast, too fast for them to track. Shadows and smoke swirled as he burst through a side opening, cape flaring wide like a shroud, Dick clutched tightly against his chest.

They were almost there. The exit loomed just ahead, a rusted doorway with moonlight pouring in like hope.

And then—
Boom.

The explosion tore through the world like a scream.

The blast lifted them off the ground and threw them apart.

Bruce hit the floor hard, pain blooming sharp in his ribs, his ears ringing. But all he could see, all he cared about, was the small figure rolling across the concrete in a blur of cape and terrified eyes.

“Robin!”

The boy coughed, scrambled to his hands and knees. “Batman!”

Before Bruce could move, a second groan echoed above them. The warehouse’s cracked ceiling had given up holding.

Debris rained down. Chunks of rusted steel and fractured wood cracked the ground between them. One beam slammed into the floor inches from the boy.

Bruce didn’t hesitate. He launched himself forward, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder. He got to him, just in time. One arm wrapped around the boy, pulling him close again, shielding him beneath the thick folds of his cape.

“Stay with me,” Bruce said, breathless, wild-eyed. “Stay with me! We’re going!”

He fired the grappling gun upward, snagging a beam half-exposed through the roof. Smoke choked the space, the floor buckling beneath them. He turned, and hit the retraction switch—

But his leg wouldn’t move.

A jagged support beam had collapsed behind them, trapping Bruce’s foot under a twisted mess of metal and concrete.

He tried once, twice… But it wouldn’t budge.

Another groan, the structure was failing. They had seconds.

Bruce stared at the grappling hook, at the child in his arms and he knew.

“Look at me,” he said, grabbing Dick by the shoulders.

“No,” Dick whimpered. “No—”

“Look at me.” Bruce’s voice broke through the fear like ice.

Dick’s eyes, glassy with tears, met his.

“I need you to hold tight,” Bruce said, every word a blade in his throat. “You’re going to fly. You know how to land and roll. Like you’ve always done.”

“I don’t want to go without you,” the boy said, voice cracking.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Bruce lied, gently brushing his thumb over Dick’s cheek. “But you have to go. Right now. You understand?”

Dick nodded, but his lip trembled.

Bruce wrapped the line around the boy’s harness, his hands moving fast despite the pain. The hook reset with a metallic click. He put one of his comms on the boy's hand.

The warehouse groaned again, louder, menacingly closer.

Bruce hit the trigger.

Thwip.

The grappling line shot upward—and Dick was yanked into the sky, crying out as he rose, cape fluttering behind him like a desperate prayer.

Bruce watched until he disappeared through the crumbling beams.

Then the ceiling came down.

He barely had time to raise his arms.

A cloud of dust and debris swallowed everything.

Dick tumbled out onto a rooftop, the grappling line swinging him safely onto solid ground. He rolled, landing in a rough crouch, he turned back immediately, eyes wide, searching the gaping wound where the warehouse once stood.

But it was gone.
Collapsed.
Swallowed in smoke and ruin.

And Bruce…

“Bruce?” he called into the comm. “Bruce!”

Only static answered.

The boy stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving.

Alone.

Chapter Text

Clark hovered high above the Philippine Trench, the wind a silent scream in his ears as he held the groaning freight ship steady. Its engines were dead, the hull cracked and listing, drifting helplessly in open water. He kept it from capsizing, muscles locked against the current, buying time until the coast guard and salvage crews arrived.

Beneath him, terrified sailors shouted in English and Filipino, their voices frantic, but he calmed them with a wave of his hand.

“Just one second! Dadalhin kita sa isang ligtas na lugar!” He promised, his voice cutting through the chaos as he guided the wreck slowly toward an approaching coast guard vessel.

He adjusted his grip, then stopped. His head tilted slightly, brow furrowing.

Ba-dum…

A heartbeat. Of all things he could hear around the world… it was as if the sound had isolated itself out of habit.

Clark’s eyes narrowed, focusing into the distance without meaning to. The Pacific was vast, and his senses were tangled in ship radios, screaming gulls, sonar beacons, even the deep rumbles of shifting tectonic plates miles below the surface.

But that sound—

Ba-dum… Ba-dum…

Familiar.

It sounded accelerated, fearful. It made his own heart fill with anxiety. And wherever it came from, it was almost half a world away.

Clark blinked hard, shook his head, and turned back to the crew. He guided the final lift of the ship, offering the captain a reassuring nod before taking to the air again, too fast for thanks.

The sound had to be a fluke, a stray memory or perhaps just something he’d imagined.

But just a few minutes later, right as he broke through the cloudline over the Central Pacific Basin, heading east—

A small, high pitched and frantic plea.

“SUPERMAN!!”

Clark stopped mid-flight, body tensing in the air as if someone had grabbed him by the spine.

What—?

The name echoed in his ears like thunder, loud and close even though it couldn’t be.

He turned in a sharp arc, eyes scanning, trying to focus. But the world was too loud, sirens, radio signals, engines, voices in a dozen languages pleading for help from across the globe.

Then—

“You hear people, right? That’s what you do—you hear everything!”

Clark blinked rapidly, eyes flicking from one distant sound to another.

Where is that coming from?
Where?

More words cut through, thin and strangled, riding on the edge of wind.

“Please… Help me… He’s under there…”

His heart stuttered, it was a child, a boy… and he was terrified.

“It was my fault—please!”

Clark’s breath hitched. The sound of that voice dug into his chest like a wire pulling tight.

And then—

“Please, Clark… save my new dad… Save Bruce…”

Everything stopped.

His mind went blank.

And that was it. The world blurred. Clark didn’t even realize he’d moved until the sky cracked open behind him, thunder trailing his wake like a storm set loose.

The world below vanished in a blur of cloud and light as he raced toward Gotham, heart pounding, a single plea looping in his head, again and again:

Let me be in time.

Clark landed hard, the heat from the blast still hanging in the air. Smoke curled upward in thick ribbons, ash clinging to the shattered pavement. His ears were ringing, trying to catch every heartbeat, every breath.

But before he could move the small, choked, pleading voice from before reached him.

“Superman!”

Clark turned.

There, just beyond the crumbling support beams, stood a child.

Clark blinked, perplexed at what he was seeing.

A child in costume, clad in bright red, yellow, and green. Vivid colors that practically shouted recklessness, especially here, in Gotham, at this hour, in the middle of a war zone.

And not just any child—one who had called Clark by name.

One who had said Bruce was his father.

Clark’s mind reeled, trying to make sense of it. Bruce hadn’t mentioned a child, there hadn’t been a public notice. No subtle clues and Bruce was meticulous about details.

But it was the raw grief on the boy’s face that froze him in place.

Ash streaked across his small face, his lips trembled. And those wide blue eyes… so much like Bruce’s, were brimming with tears.

Then Clark’s gaze dropped, and his soul wept.

In the child’s hands… was Batman’s grappling hook. Unmistakable, burned, scratched… the very same. Clark’s heart ached.

What the hell was Bruce thinking?

Every cell in his body was screaming to move. To tear the rubble apart with his bare hands until he found Bruce; alive, breathing, whole.

But the boy… his whole body trembled, heart pounding in a rhythm too fast, too loud, like it was trying to outrun the panic. And Clark, still reeling, even while feeling overwhelmed, knew he couldn’t leave him like this.

He forced the chaos inside him to quiet. Just enough to stabilize his voice, to be what the boy needed, even while his own emotions were barely holding steady.

He stepped closer, carefully, his movements slow and open. “Hey, hey, it’s okay... I’m here.” His voice softened instinctively. “What’s your name?”

The boy looked up at him with tear-glazed eyes. “D-Dick. I’m Dick Grayson.”

Grayson. He knew that name, a distant memory in a sea of headlines. He’d read it, maybe even mourned it months ago, when the circus tragedy had hit the news and spread from the Gotham Gazette.

Clark crouched, looking the boy over; sweat, soot, skinned palms. But he was breathing. Alive. And clearly terrified.

“You’re hurt,” Clark said gently.

“I’m fine,” Dick choked. “But he’s not! He—he saved me but it… he’s still in there! I should’ve pulled him faster—he was trying to get me out, and I couldn’t—I was—he gave me the hook, and—”

“Hey,” Clark said firmly, pulling back just enough to cup the boy’s face in his hands. His thumbs gently wiped at the tears. “Hey…”

Those wide, watery eyes finally met his.

“This is not your fault,” Clark said, voice steady like bedrock. “Do you hear me? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But it was! He—” the boy sobbed. “What if he’s not—what if he’s—”

Clark pressed his forehead gently to the child’s.

“He’s not gone,” he whispered. “I would know.”

He swallowed hard, feeling the ache deep in his chest. “I promise you—we’re going to find him. Together.”

There was no time for questions, no time to untangle the ache rising in his chest at the thought of Bruce bringing a child into his life without mention.

Clark scanned the wreckage with x-ray vision, sweeping left to right, then again. Steel, glass, rebar, movement—but all too slow. Nothing that stood out.

“Batman!” he shouted, voice shaking the broken rafters. “Batman, can you hear me?!”

No reply.

Clark moved faster now, hands clawing through debris, lifting sections of wall like they didn’t weigh anything. Panic buzzed behind his sternum. He couldn’t let it end like this. He wouldn’t.

Beside him, Dick cried out, cradling his arm but still searching, still refusing to stop.

“Come on,” Clark muttered, his voice breaking now. “Come on, don’t do this—”

He pushed forward, eyes glowing red-hot as he sliced through collapsed walls and splintered beams. Metal groaned beneath his weight, the smoke stung, thick with chemicals and ash, choking even his lungs.

His hands moved faster, tearing debris away, hoisting support columns like they were twigs, but his thoughts wouldn’t shut up!

Stop. Focus.

Clark’s jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He tried to listen, ears stretching through the storm of collapsing metal and distant sirens, but it was all too much, panic and noise and the weight of what he was about to lose—

Focus.

He closed his eyes.

Everything in him screamed to keep digging, to scream, to tear through the world until it gave Bruce back.

But he was forced to freeze himself in place, fists shaking.

Let the chaos fade, let the fear dim. Then he did the only thing that ever worked… he tried to remember. Not words, nor images… but a sound.

A rhythm that had been invading his thoughts non-stop. A frequency that tended to reach him even in his dreams, a sound that welcomed him, that had made him wake up after being so long in the vast darkness of the unconsciousness. Bruce’s heartbeat.

And it was just like remembering how to breathe or ride a bike again.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum…

Clark’s eyes snapped open. He turned, body moving before his mind caught up.

There.

Bruce drifted in and out, pain blooming like fire beneath his ribs, his arm numb, everything else a blur of sound and light. But then, there was a voice.

Clark.

It came through the haze like sunlight piercing smoke. Not just heard, felt. The way it resonated in Bruce’s chest.

He felt someone removing the heavy weight off his body. He was barely conscious, suit torn, blood slick along his temple. One arm pinned beneath the wreckage, his chest rising shallowly with effort.

Clark dropped to his knees beside him, and relief broke into Bruce like a wave. Not because he was saved, but because who had come.

“Bruce,” he whispered, brushing dust from Bruce’s cheek. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, I’m here—”

And he was.

Because he had found him. Because he always would.

Bruce blinked, groggy. “Clark…?”

“Yes, it’s me,” Clark smiled at him, barely breathing. “He’s here!” he called to Dick, who rushed over. “He’s alive!”

Dick stumbled forward, eyes going wide, tears falling freely now. “Bruce!”

Clark reached out, gently pulling more debris away as carefully as he could. “We’ll get you out, just hold on.”

Bruce’s gaze drifted to Dick, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for him.

Clark squeezed his hand. “He’s alive… you saved him.”

Bruce smiled.

They were going to get him home.

Arms lifted him, steady and strong. The air shifted around them, wind rushing past his ears as they moved through the night sky. Bruce tried to speak, to ask if Dick was okay, but the words tangled in his throat.

Then he felt it, something small and warm pressed to his side. A tiny hand clutching his glove.

Dick.

He was there. Nestled against Clark’s opposite shoulder, head buried under his cape, heart racing with frightened little thumps Bruce could feel more than hear. The boy was quiet, trembling, but safe.

And Clark, Clark held them both as though they were weightless and precious.

Bruce tried to lift his head, to catch one last look at them, to tell Clark something, anything. That he was sorry. That he was grateful. That he hadn’t felt this close to home in years.

But it was getting harder to keep his eyes open.

So tired.

He let his head fall against Clark’s shoulder with a sigh. He felt the arms holding him tighten just slightly. He heard a heartbeat, not his own, and it soothed him. A rhythm he knew.

Clark’s.

Bruce allowed himself to sink into that sound, into the sensation of safety, of belonging.

They were safe. Clark had them. That was good.

He let darkness take over.

The world returned slowly, first as a buzzing in his ears, then the sterile scent of antiseptic and engine oil.

Bruce’s eyes slowly opened.

The ceiling of the Batcave loomed above him, jagged and cold. He slightly shifted and pain flared across his ribs, but it was manageable. He was bandaged, stabilized.

Right.

Clark had saved him.

“Good afternoon, Master Wayne.”

Alfred’s voice greeted him gently from the chair beside him. Bruce turned his head slightly and saw him seated, hands calmly folded over a datapad, eyes steeled with disapproval tempered with concern.

“You’re awake… and yet somehow I’m not surprised. Even your unconsciousness seems to operate on a strict timetable.”

Bruce winced, not just from the injuries. “Alfred—Dick—”

“He’s fine,” Alfred interrupted, standing. “Tired. But otherwise unharmed, Master Kent saw to that.” A pause. “Both of you, in fact.”

Bruce’s throat worked. “I failed—”

“You did not.” The words were a sharp cut through the cave’s quiet, sharper than any scalpel.

Alfred’s eyes narrowed, stood up and walked closer.

“You did what you always do, what you were never meant to do alone. You protected him. You shielded him with your body and your heart and every ounce of stubbornness your father cursed and your mother adored.” His voice gentled, but only slightly. “And then you entrusted him to someone who could help—because you knew you couldn’t stand on your own anymore.”

Bruce looked away. “It wasn’t enough. Zucco got away—”

“No, sir.” Alfred pulled something from his pocket and handed it to Bruce, a thin report, freshly printed. “While you were unconscious, I took the liberty of checking the trail left behind. You gave us everything we needed. After ensuring you were out of immediate danger, I traced the last route Zucco took, one that led into a hiding place he’d protected like a dragon hoards gold.”

A small, proud breath.

“GCPD found him cowering in a warehouse not five blocks from the pier. He is currently behind bars and, judging by the terrified gibbering they reported, rethinking all his life choices.”

Bruce blinked. “You…”

“I am quite used to cleaning up after your messes, Master Bruce. Do not look so surprised.” Alfred folded his arms. “But don’t expect me to approve. If you ever scare that boy like that again, I will have words with you that’d make the Bane weep.”

Silence settled between them for a moment, but not a cold one. Bruce finally nodded.

“Thank you.” He whispered.

Alfred regarded him a beat longer, then placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Rest, my boy. They’ll both want to see you well.”

And with that, Alfred turned and walked back toward the cave’s quiet heart, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts.

After a few hours, Bruce stepped carefully down from the medical platform, the ache in his body like an echo, coming and going, more tolerable now though. The Batcave wasn’t quiet, he could hear the faint sound of laughter in the distance. Not something the cave was used to. Not something he was used to.

He moved down the steps, past the giant penny and the silent figures of his old suits, toward the center of the cave near the big monitors. The cold light of the screens felt warmer than other times.

In the middle of the platform, Clark was crouched, talking gently with Dick who was in an oversized shirt Alfred had probably given him to sleep in, he had band-aids and bandages in his knees and elbows. The boy was animated, pointing at something in the book he was coloring, laughing, and Clark responded with that easy charm. His cape was gone, jacket sleeves rolled up, the Man of Steel at complete ease beside a child.

Bruce’s steps slowed.

He hadn’t dared to imagine this. But here they were; his son, smiling again. And Clark… being part of it.

Clark turned slightly, as if sensing him, he always did, and when his eyes met Bruce’s, something lit up in his expression. He rose and took a step forward, face soft, eyes filled with relief and quiet joy.

Bruce smiled, small, tired, but at ease.

Before he could say a word, Dick turned too, saw him, and his eyes went wide.

“Bruce!” the boy cried, scrambling to his feet.

He sprinted toward him, launching himself forward before Bruce could brace. The pain flared, but Bruce knelt anyway, arms catching the small weight as Dick clung to him tightly, face buried in his shoulder.

“You took a long time to wake up…” Dick whispered, voice trembling.

Bruce held him close, pressing a hand gently to the back of his head. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you alone,” he murmured. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

From behind them, Alfred’s familiar voice rang out, gentle, but firm as always. “Master Dick, I believe our patient needs rest, not crushed ribs.”

Dick reluctantly pulled back, sniffling but smiling. “Sorry, sorry…”

“Now,” Alfred continued, sweeping closer with a faint smile of his own, “you promised to assist me in preparing tea for everyone when he’d woken, did you not?”

Dick nodded, wiping at his eyes. “Can I have cocoa instead?”

“Very well,” Alfred nodded. “But only if you stop tackling the recently recovered.”

He extended a hand and Dick took it, sparing one more quick glance over his shoulder before following Alfred to the Cave’s elevator.

Left alone, Bruce turned to Clark, who was standing just a few feet away now.

“You saved us,” Bruce said quietly.

Clark’s smile was soft. “He did.”

Bruce’s gaze lowered. “Of course he did.”

“You’re raising him well,” Clark said. “He’s brave.”

“But reckless… I know he wanted to help, but he's too young and knowing him, he won't stop trying… perhaps in a few years I'll let him accompany me.” Bruce gave a quiet chuckle, a little hoarse. “I think I’m just figuring it out as I go.”

“Aren’t we all?” Clark replied gently.

There was a silence between them, once that filled the cave with unspoken things. They stepped closer to each other, just enough to feel the warmth between them.

After a while, Clark broke the silence gently. “You never told me.”

Bruce glanced at him.

“That you had a kid,” Clark said.

Bruce inhaled slowly, looking away, “I know.”

Clark’s voice wasn’t accusing, just curious, his eyes soft. “Why?”

“I was going to,” Bruce said quietly, looking down at his hands. “Eventually. I just… needed more time.”

“You wanted to wait for things to settle down a little…” Clark gave him that familiar look, patient.

Bruce nodded. “I didn’t want to keep him a secret from you... I wanted to protect him. And, maybe… I was trying to figure out how to connect it all. You. Him. My life in the cowl and the one I was starting to build without it. I didn’t know how to bridge it yet. I didn’t want the boy to feel like I wanted to replace his family or overwhelm him with paparazzi if I announced the adoption too soon.”He looked up, eyes a little tired, a little vulnerable. “He’s been dying to meet you. Always asking about you, he thinks you’re the reason I still sleep at night.”

Clark smiled; soft, touched. “Is he wrong?”

Bruce gave the barest shake of his head, something close to a laugh escaping him. “Not really.” He put his hand on top of a railing, looking at the cave.

The quiet settled again, not heavy this time, but comfortable.

Clark reached out, putting his hand over Bruce’s. “I meant what I said the other night.”

Bruce watched Clark for a long, quiet moment. The weight of everything that had passed between them, what they were, what they could still become, sat on the edge of his mind.

“Are you sure about this?” Bruce murmured, his voice low, almost wary.

Clark didn’t hesitate. He took a step closer, eyes steady and full of quiet warmth. “About wanting to belong in your life, about trying again..? Of course I do… if you let me, that is. Even if it’s not exactly what we had. I’d like to build something new. With you.”

Bruce’s breath caught, just a fraction. He looked down at their hands. Then at Clark. “You already do belong, Clark, you always did…”

Clark’s smile deepened, eyes soft. “So do you.”

Bruce nodded slowly, his thumb brushing once over Clark’s knuckles. “I like it.”

Clark tilted his head. “Like what?”

Bruce looked at the man who carried him from the rubble, who stayed beside his son, who kept smiling like hope wasn’t foolish. “Having a family again.”

Clark’s expression softened, his eyes bright.

The air between them shifted. Clark took a final step, already touching the side of Bruce’s body. Their eyes locked; hungry, aching… calling to each other.

Clark’s hand rose first, fingers brushing along Bruce’s jaw. And this time, Bruce leaned into the touch without hesitation, closing his eyes like it meant everything. Because it did.

Clark’s smile widened, his eyes shone with joy. “Of course… it’s always been you.” He caressed the other’s cheek with his thumb.

The words didn’t just land, they sank in, blooming somewhere deep beneath Bruce’s ribs. He opened his eyes just enough to see Clark already moving closer, eyelashes lowering, lips parting on a quiet breath.

And just like in Clark’s dream, their lips finally touched.

It was tentative, imperfect, soft, like they were relearning the shape of each other after too long apart, trying to remember how to melt into the other’s kiss, how their mouths used to find each other perfectly. Bruce exhaled shakily against Clark’s mouth, and Clark shivered at the sound. One hand cupping Bruce’s cheek as if settling himself in the warmth there.

Fingers clung into fabric, into skin. Both let the world fall away around them.

Clark’s hand slid up into Bruce’s hair, like muscle memory waking from sleep. He pulled him closer, not forceful, but with a quiet, aching need. Bruce let him, let himself be gathered up in that touch as his hands found Clark’s chest, pressing lightly, as if to steady himself. Clark stepped forward, guiding them back, until Bruce’s spine met the railing. The contact rooted them both, and Bruce gasped softly into Clark’s mouth, a sound low and helpless nobody else had been able to draw out of him before.

Their mouths moved in sync now. A shared hunger bloomed slowly between them. Clark’s thumb swept across Bruce’s jaw with such reverence it made Bruce’s chest ache.

Clark kissed him like he was afraid this might still be a dream. Like every second was a chance to remember with his hands, with his mouth, with the way he whispered Bruce’s name like a prayer between gasps.

Clark pulled back just enough to leave a lingering kiss on Bruce’s lips. He looked at him, eyes trailing over every of Bruce’s features like he was admiring the most beautiful of treasures. Bruce could feel the heat rising to his cheeks under that look; not just from embarrassment, but from something deeper, something vulnerable.

Clark smiled, soft and full of quiet affection, then leaned in again.

A kiss to his nose, gentle.

To his forehead.

To his cheekbones, one, then the other.

His cheeks, slow, deliberate.

His jaw, firmer now, trailing lower.

And his neck, a press of lips that lingered a second too long, warm breath following after.

Bruce shivered.

By the time Clark found his mouth again, Bruce’s lips were already parted, waiting, wanting. And when they kissed again, it wasn’t just passion, it was trust, history, and the kind of tenderness that made it hard to breathe. The kiss deepened enough to steal air from both their lungs. Clark’s hands gripped Bruce’s waist, pulling him in until their bodies met, until Bruce could feel every inch of him… solid, hot and trembling with restraint.

Clark’s hand slipped beneath Bruce’s jaw, tilting his face up just enough to press deeper, like the contact alone wasn’t enough, like he needed more.

The heat between them was unbearable and addictive all at once, Clark's body radiated it like the sun, and Bruce drank it in like a starved man, like he had been cold for all his life. His knees nearly buckled at that.

A breathy groan slipped past his lips, like he was trying to hold himself back and failing.

Clark’s hips rolled forward before he could stop them, just enough friction to draw a sharp inhale from Bruce, who broke the kiss with a soft gasp, lips swollen, eyelids heavy.

“Clark—” he whispered, hoarse.

“I know.” Clark’s voice was wrecked with restraint. “I know.” His forehead resting against Bruce’s, both of them panting lightly, mouths brushing, breath mingling.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice cracked and quiet, almost ashamed of how far he’d let the moment carry him. I remembered what it felt like to need you. And I—lost myself for a second there.” Clark was the one who pulled back, this time with more effort, more reluctance, eyes half-lidded and lips flushed. He exhaled a breathless laugh. “You still need to recover.”

Bruce smirked faintly. “You didn’t seem to mind five seconds ago.” He was breathless.

“I wouldn’t want to–when you’re bruised and barely stitched together.” Eyes tracing over Bruce’s face like he didn’t want to look away. “You’re worth the wait.”

Bruce nodded slowly, the ache in his chest both frustration and gratitude. He leaned forward, brushing one last kiss to Clark’s mouth.

“Well… I tend to recover quickly.”

“Good,” he said, lips brushing Bruce’s hair. “But not too quickly. I like having an excuse to stay close.”

Bruce met his eyes, “Wouldn’t like to keep you waiting for too long. I’m not that fragile.”

Clark smiled. “Then I plan on testing your limits. Slowly, thoroughly…”

“We’ll take our time.” Bruce’s voice dropped low, warm and rich. “There are a lot of things I’ll make you remember. And when you do…” Bruce murmured against his lips, “you’ll realize just how dangerous it is to say things like that around me.”

Clark gasped, caught off guard, cheeks flushing. “Bruce! I-If you say another word like that, I swear I’m—”

Bruce chuckled, cutting him off with a light tap to his chest. “Come on, Clark. Tea’s waiting.”

They settled again, the air lighter between them, but still charged with everything that had passed in that kiss. Clark had to take a breath, a very deep breath, heart still pounding in his ears like a drumline.

Bruce walked a step ahead, composed as ever, but Clark caught the faintest flush at the tips of his ears.

As they reached the elevator, Clark finally spoke, voice soft, touched with wonder.

“…you always do that to me.”

Bruce glanced over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Do what?”

Clark glanced at him, Bruce grinned.

As they entered the elevator, Clark spoke again.

“I meant to ask…” Clark said. “The letter. The one you left me–”

Bruce blinked. Then, lips twitching, he leaned back slightly. “Alfred said I needed a coping mechanism. Something to… deal with the idea of losing you.”

Clark’s eyes softened. “So you wrote a letter.”

Bruce nodded once. “Putting it into words helped.”

Clark studied him for a moment. “And the different font? It looked like someone else wrote it.”

Bruce’s lips curved, just barely. “I’m ambidextrous. I used my left hand for that one. Different pressure, different rhythm…”

Clark blinked. Then laughed, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”

Bruce’s smile was faint, but real. “Old habits die hard.”

Clark reached forward, fingers brushing against Bruce’s. “Good thing some things don’t die at all.”

Their hands lingered together as they walked to the kitchen, with the faint sounds of Alfred and Dick moving around somewhere.

Bruce glanced at Clark out of the corner of his eye, the weight of months pressing on his chest starting to lift, replaced by hope. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to imagine a future, warm and shared.

Clark squeezed his hand gently, a small, content smile playing on his lips. He felt it too, that profound sense of belonging he’d been chasing for so long. In Bruce’s steady presence, he finally found the missing piece he’d been searching for.

The quiet strength between them promised that whatever came next, they wouldn’t face it alone.

Chapter Text

Six months later…

The teleporter whirred softly behind them, depositing Bruce and Clark back into the cave’s cool gloom. The hush was immediate, blessedly so, after hours of League-wide congratulations and an overwhelming number of group photos Barry kept insisting on taking, for posterity he claimed. For memes, Hal corrected hushedly.

Clark tugged off his cape and let it drape over a chair, hair still slightly askew from Hal ruffling it. “I think that went well.”

Bruce was already unhooking his cape and peeling off the outer layer of armor, pulling off his cowl with a low tired groan.

“You’re mad,” Clark said, amused.

Bruce didn’t answer. He moved to the console, gloved fingers tapping in commands. The system logs loaded, but so did the League group chat, open on the far right screen.

The group chat was on fire.

Barry Allen: ok but seriously when’s the wedding??? 💒

Hal Jordan: I knew Spooky had a heart behind all that kevlar.

Diana Prince: You’re both very brave. And very cute. 💙💫

Oliver Queen: I always knew the Bat was a sucker for big arms. No judgment.

Patrick O’Brian: Finally. Took you long enough, World’s Slowest Romance!

Barry Allen: should we throw them a party?? idk i can book a venue in Themyscira?

J’onn J’onzz: They are both allowed privacy. Please stop flooding the channel with celebratory implications.

Barry Allen: 👀 [Image, one of the photos he took of them, labeled “Gotham Gloom & Kansas Broom”]

Hal Jordan: I give them three weeks before Big Blue moves into the cave

Dinah Drake: Or Batman could move to the fortress, yk?

Kendra Saunders: OMG!!

Arthur Curry: Wait, is this canon now?

Patrick O’Brian: it’s Earth-69 canon now baybeeee 🥂

Bruce’s jaw twitched.

Clark peered at the screen over his shoulder and smiled, all warmth and zero help. “I think they’re happy for us.”

Barry Allen: okay but hear me out— SteelBat 👀

Oliver Queen: nah nah, ManMan has a nice ring to it.

Hal Jordan: no no no — SuperSpook. Final answer. 😌

“They’re not going to stop,” Clark said, barely containing a laugh.

“They won’t have the chance.” Tap. Tap. Tap. Blocked. Blocked. Muted for a year.

Clark actually giggled. “You’re going to have to speak to them eventually.”

“Not tonight.” Bruce stood, stretching his back with a quiet groan.

“They’re sending congratulations, not death threats.”

“…the jury’s out.”

Clark shook his head, still grinning as he leaned in to kiss Bruce’s cheek. “You know they’re only doing this because they care.”

“I preferred when they feared me.” Bruce sighed like a man carrying the weight of twenty years of repressed affection and one extremely persistent speedster.

“They’re annoying. But they’re ours.” Clark raised an eyebrow at Bruce, teasingly.

Bruce looked at him, stared for a long moment, and then relented with a low grumble.

He shut the group chat window with a decisive flick of his fingers, the monitor going dark in a low hum of surrender. The cave dipped back into its natural quiet, the low flicker of lights, the soft mechanical breaths of machinery and the distant trickle of the underground stream.

Clark was still smiling as he leaned against the railing near the workstation, arms folded casually across his chest. He didn’t speak right away, just watched Bruce with that open, knowing gaze.

“I checked the queue,” Bruce said, tone dry, eyes still fixed on the console. “No patrol scheduled… no company meetings and no overdue missions.”

Clark’s brow lifted, playful. “You almost sound disappointed.”

Bruce gave him a look. “I’m not.”

A silence settled between them again, not awkward, nor uncertain… just heavy. Waiting.

Then Clark said, voice lower, thoughtful. “You know, I think this might be the first night we’ve had without anyone around.”

Bruce didn’t reply, but he looked away.

Clark took a slow step closer, boots barely making a sound against the metallic floor.

Bruce took a deep shaky breath. “Dick was ecstatic when Alfred proposed to accompany him to England visiting his family there. Then he also somehow convinced him to enter a fencing competition, said it was crucial ‘training for his legacy.’”

Clark stood close enough now that Bruce could feel the heat coming off him. “So,” he said softly, eyes trying to encounter Bruce’s, “it’s just us.”

Bruce nodded once, slowly. “Just us.”

“Whole mansion.”

“Yes.”

“No emergencies.”

Bruce grinned. “Yet.”

Clark sighed. “Why do you tempt fate like this?”

“I’m not tempting fate.” Bruce held his hand. “I’m tempting you.” He finally looked up watching him with that sharp, assessing stare, the one he used for targets, for threats, for things that mattered.

Clark’s eyes shone brightly, his voice dropped to a murmur. “No excuses, then.”

Bruce didn’t move, didn’t breathe. “I wasn’t looking for one.”

Something shifted in the air. Both of them knew. The promise in it. The inevitability.

Bruce’s undersuit clung to him, damp at the collar, half-zipped, exposing the curve of his throat, the hard line of his collarbone. Clark’s fingertips traced a slow path down Bruce’s chest, deliberate; brushing lightly along the skin just beneath the seam. Still not quite touching him, not really. Just close enough to remind Bruce that it was happening.

He didn't protest when Clark leaned in and kissed him, tenderly, lovingly.

And didn’t move either as Clark’s hand came to rest over his heart; palm spread flat, fingers splayed, his thumb dragged slowly across the center of Bruce’s chest, like he could read him by touch alone.

Bruce just lifted his own hand and slowly, deliberate, laid it gently over Clark’s.

A moment passed between them. Clark separated slightly, eyes half-lidded and full of intent, and murmured against Bruce’s lips. “I still remember the first time I heard this.”

Bruce didn’t speak. His hand stayed right where it was, feeling Clark’s thumb slowly caress his chest in circles.

“Before I even knew your name again,” Clark continued, quieter now. “That was the first thing I remembered. Your heartbeat. I didn’t know why it mattered. I just… followed it.”

He smiled. A little breathless.

“You were the first thing I remembered...”

Bruce didn’t answer; couldn’t. But Clark felt the shift in him, subtle and seismic. The way tension drained from his shoulders, the way he let himself feel it instead of shutting it down.

So Clark didn’t push. He just rested his forehead against Bruce’s, breath soft between them, waiting for whatever came next.

Then Bruce’s hand came up, not fast, not dramatic, just slow and careful, like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to do this. His fingers brushed the side of Clark’s face, the way someone might touch something they weren’t used to being allowed to have. His thumb dragged gently along the edge of Clark’s jaw.

Clark leaned into the touch. Eyes fluttering closed. Letting himself have this one quiet second.

After a while, Clark spoke again. “Bruce…?” he whispered.

He felt Bruce hesitate, and then let go.

Clark opened his eyes just as Bruce’s gaze lifted to meet his. Open, vulnerable in a way only he ever got to see.

“No one’s watching,” Clark said, voice low, steady, full of something old and infinite. “Can I–can I have you?”

And Bruce didn’t answer with words.

He kissed him.

Hard. Hungry. But not thoughtless; never thoughtless. It was the kind of kiss that came after longing, after loss, after two people found each other again in the dark. Bruce pulled him in by the front of his suit, fingers twisting in the fabric like he couldn’t stand the space between them another second. Clark responded instantly, mouth parting beneath him, his hands finding Bruce’s waist, his ribs, anywhere he could root himself.

Bruce made a sound into Clark’s mouth, low and caught halfway between a sigh and something breaking. It undid Clark completely.

He deepened the kiss, hands sliding up Bruce’s back, pulling him impossibly closer, like if he could just hold him right, it would make up for the time they’d lost.

When they finally pulled apart, it wasn’t far. Their foreheads rested together again, both of them breathing hard, lips swollen, eyes closed.

“Okay,” Bruce murmured, breathless, voice cracked and raw. “You can have me.”

Clark’s breath caught, full of wonder and something deeper, something steady, like a prayer finally answered.

He kissed him again, like he could memorize every part of Bruce’s mouth if he just took his time. Their hands roamed gently, reverently, Clark’s thumb stroking the side of Bruce’s neck, Bruce’s fingers threaded into the curls at the base of Clark’s skull.

There was nothing rushed about it, and still, something in both of them trembled with how much they wanted. How long they’d waited. How close they’d come to never making it back.

Clark slid his hands lower, under Bruce’s thighs, and he lifted him.

Not with a show of strength. Not to prove anything.

Just… because he could.

Because Bruce let him.

The chair slid back with a scrape as Clark stood, Bruce in his arms. Bruce made a small, startled sound; and then bit it back immediately, as if even now, he had to pretend he wasn’t shaken by this.

But he didn’t fight it. Didn’t ask to be put down.

He just held on, fingers held tight into Clark’s suit as Clark turned and set him down on the edge of the Batcomputer desk.

Right on the console.

Right on the goddamn Batcomputer.

The monitor behind them flickered dimly again, ignored now, background noise to something far more urgent.

Clark stepped between Bruce’s legs, hands bracketing his thighs, and kissed him again.

And this time it was nothing gentle.

It was heat and hunger and history— months of restraint burning away all at once. Bruce met him with equal force, teeth catching Clark’s lower lip, his fingers dragging across the broad planes of his back, anchoring them together like he was afraid of being pulled away.

Clark’s mouth moved to his jaw, his throat, murmuring soft, open-mouthed kisses against skin that tasted like salt and steel and something only Bruce could be. He felt Bruce exhale sharply when he found the pulse just beneath his ear and lingered there, breathing him in.

“Oh… How you undo me…” Clark whispered.

Bruce didn’t speak, couldn’t when Clark kissed him again, rougher, like he couldn’t help himself.

He tugged at the zipper of Bruce’s suit, eyes locked with his, asking and not asking all at once. Bruce reached up, grabbed Clark by the front of his suit, and pulled him in until their mouths met again.

Clark’s hands moved slowly, worshipfully, as he finally eased the zipper down, the soft rasp of it loud in the quiet of the cave. The fabric parted, revealing Bruce inch by inch: his chest, scarred and strong; his stomach, tight beneath the slow rise and fall of breath. Clark dipped his head and pressed a kiss just beneath Bruce’s sternum, lingering there, lips barely brushing skin.

Bruce’s throat bobbed. His fingers curled around Clark’s wrists, not to stop him, but to steady himself. Then, slowly, he pulled Clark up, kissing him briefly again.

Now it was Bruce’s turn. He reached for Clark’s suit, fingers tracing the familiar seams. He undid it with care, peeling it back like a second skin. Clark shivered, not from cold, but from the way Bruce’s touch lingered on his ribs, his sides, the dip of his back.

“You’re trembling,” Bruce said softly, voice rough with emotion.

Clark’s smile curved against his mouth. “Only when you look at me like that.”

Bruce’s hand skimmed the waistband of Clark’s briefs, but stilled. His breath hitched, forehead pressing to Clark’s again.

“We shouldn’t do this on the Batcomputer,” Bruce muttered, voice rough, low. “It’s… wildly inappropriate.”

Clark’s brow arched, his smile lazy, hungry. “You say that like you don’t want me to lift you again.”

Bruce exhaled; a huff that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Shut up—”

But Clark was already shifting. Hands slid beneath him again, and with a warm, gentle motion, he picked Bruce up a second time. Like he meant to carry him all the way to something better.

The bedroom was quiet, bathed in the soft gold of a bedside lamp and the silver sliver of moonlight pushing through the curtains. Clark nudged the door open with his foot and stepped into Bruce’s bedroom, the space colder than it should have been.

He set Bruce down carefully, like setting down something he couldn’t afford to drop — and Bruce just stood there for a moment, breathing, watching Clark like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“You okay?” Clark asked, voice soft, breaking the quiet.

Bruce nodded, slow. “Yeah. I just…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Clark reached for him again, his fingers found the waistband of Bruce’s briefs, and this time, there was no hesitation.

He undressed him like he was unfolding a secret.

The fabric slipped down Bruce’s hips slowly, like it didn’t want to let go. Clark’s hands trailed after it, following the curve of his thighs, the backs of his knees, until Bruce stood there with nothing left between him and the air but Clark’s breath, his gaze.

“You’re staring,” Bruce said, though his voice lacked any real protest.

“I’m memorizing,” Clark replied.

Bruce gave a soft, breathy laugh—one that was swallowed quickly by a kiss. And then his hands moved, adoringly, pushing at the last barrier of Clark’s own clothing. He dragged it down with the kind of patience that was almost cruel, his knuckles brushing against too-warm skin, earning a sharp inhale from Clark that sounded like longing made flesh.

Clark’s mouth found the slope of Bruce’s shoulder, the hollow of his collarbone, the space just beneath his ear. Bruce answered with hands that slid over Clark’s ribs, down his back, pulling him closer until skin met skin and nothing could come between them.

Clark pulled back just long enough to look down at Bruce beneath him, hair tousled, lips parted, eyes heavy with want and something deeper—trust.

“Tell me what you want,” Clark said, the words brushing Bruce’s lips.

Bruce reached up and curled his fingers into Clark’s hair, pulling him down until their foreheads touched. “You,” he said simply. “Take your time. We have all night.”

Time seemed to slow around them, the world narrowing to the press of skin, the slide of breath, the quiet music of sheets shifting beneath them. Clark leaned down, and Bruce met him halfway, lips brushing once more.

Clark kissed Bruce’s temple, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, as though building a constellation across his skin, one star at a time. Bruce’s hands traveled up Clark’s sides, mapping every muscle, memorizing the warmth that radiated off him like light from the sun. He pulled Clark closer, wordlessly asking him not to hold back.

They moved together like gravity and flame. Like breath drawn in and finally released.

Clark traced his fingers down Bruce’s chest, over the dip of his stomach, to the curve of his hip, watching the way Bruce responded to each touch, how his lips parted in soft gasps, how his eyes fluttered half-shut only to reopen, glassy with feeling. Clark’s eyes were tracing every inch of him like a man reading scripture in flesh. Bruce looked up at him with flushed cheeks and parted lips, chest rising fast, skin already damp where Clark’s hands had touched. Bruce opened up to him, offering everything without a word.

And Clark, Clark had never seen anything more beautiful than Bruce like this: undone, open, his.

He kissed him again, deep and slow, one hand cupping the side of Bruce’s face, the other sliding down on his side, the dip of his waist, rubbing the inside of his thigh. Bruce’s body squirmed under Clark’s touch, grounding himself with firm hands against broad shoulders. Tongues tangled slowly, breaths exchanged, hearts pounding in sync.

“Drawer…” Bruce murmured into the kiss.

Clark blindly reached for a small tube that was tucked in the drawer. Bruce’s breath caught the moment Clark’s fingers returned, slick, warm, devoted. His touch wasn’t greedy, on the contrary, it was slow, gentle, worshipful.

“You’re beautiful like this…” he whispered, he didn’t need Bruce to answer, he only needed him to feel it.

His hand moved lower, slow and sure, tracing the curve of Bruce’s thigh before easing inward. The first finger pressed in gently, deliberately. Bruce exhaled a shaky breath, holding himself with one hand on Clark’s bicep, like his voice was still too far away to reach, breathing started to feel like a task.

Clark paused only to kiss him again, unhurried.

The second finger followed, stretching him further. Clark’s palm was warm where it braced his thigh. His mouth stayed near Bruce’s ear, murmuring quiet reassurances. For comfort, giving him presence, reminding him that he was there, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Bruce’s spine arched, knees falling open in invitation. He gave in without resistance, not passively, but willfully. Choosing to be known like this to him.

And when the third finger pressed in, Bruce shuddered, not from pain, but from the overwhelming depth of sensation, of fullness, of being so intimately explored. Clark stilled, kissed the hollow of his throat, and held him through it, fingers moving in slow, coaxing motions, learning every place that made Bruce’s breath stutter, every angle that made his grip tighten.

Bruce clung to him, gasping softly, legs trembling, his voice catching on half-formed sounds that never quite made it into words. Clark never looked away, eyes dark with want, yes, but lit with something softer underneath. Something like awe.

He worked him open with infinite care, until Bruce was shaking, undone, lips opened on hushed, pleading sounds that barely formed into speech.

When Clark finally pulled back, fingers slick, breath uneven, he leaned in again and kissed him, like it was the only language he had left to give.

And when he finally pressed inside, it wasn’t with urgency. It was with adoration.

Like he knew exactly what Bruce was giving him, and how much it meant to be let in.

There was no resistance, just a soft, rough sound from Bruce’s throat; breath hitching as Clark sank deeper into him with infinite care, like it was the first time. Like it would always feel like the first time.

They both stilled. Save for Clark caressing Bruce’s legs to ease the pain.

Their foreheads pressed together, mouths parted, chests flush. Bruce’s fingers dug into Clark’s back, not from soreness, but from need, and Clark groaned, low and barely restrained, at the heat, the tightness, the way Bruce fit around him.

Then he began to move.

Slow, steady thrusts. Each one deeper than the last, dragging breathless sounds from Bruce that cracked through the quiet like breaking glass. Clark kissed him between every motion, jaw, throat, temple, mouth again, never giving him space to retreat, only space to feel.

Bruce’s knees framed his hips, pulling him in harder, deeper. The rhythm grew bolder, sharper, bodies meeting with a quiet rhythm that echoed softly against the tall ceilings and the creaking bedframe beneath them.

Bruce’s voice broke around a gasp. His head tilted back as Clark shifted the angle, on purpose, precise, hitting something inside him that made him shudder.

“Right there–!” Bruce muttered, rough and already unraveling. “Clark—”

Clark moaned in response, hips rolling with greater urgency, burying himself deeper as his name spilled from Bruce’s lips again and again, reverent, wrecked.

They moved like a single tide, every breath, every movement crashing together. Clark’s hands gripped Bruce’s hips, holding him like he might be pulled away, and Bruce clung back with equal force, no more shields, no more silence, just two men claiming what had always been theirs.

The tension built unbearably; pressure mounting in waves until Bruce’s entire body arched off the mattress, trembling with release, gasping Clark’s name like a plea.

Clark followed moments later, buried deep, mouth pressed to Bruce’s throat, whispering his name like he was afraid to stop saying it.

And then stillness.

Heavy and warm.

Clark collapsed gently against him, careful not to crush him, their limbs tangled beneath the sheets, breath slowing together. He pressed soft, lovingly kisses to Bruce’s shoulder, his collarbone, throat, and the space over his heart.

“Let me stay,” Clark murmured, voice thick with feeling. “Right here.” And pressed another kiss right above Bruce’s heart.

Bruce's hand curled at the nape of Clark’s neck, pulling him down until their foreheads touched, their breaths shared. “You don’t have to ask,” he whispered, voice hoarse and tender. “You already are.”

And for a while, they said nothing more.

Just the hush of skin brushing skin, the way their bodies knew what their words no longer needed to say. Fingers found familiar paths again, mouths rediscovered places that made the other gasp, tremble, sigh. The world outside faded until it was only the two of them, tangled in heat and reverence again, in the slow, sacred rhythm of being loved and letting themselves be.

They stayed like that, stayed, in every sense of the word, until the hours melted into each other like honey poured slow. Until even the stars outside seemed to dim their glow, giving them privacy in the dark.

And still, they did not part.

__________________________

Morning came gently.

The golden light filtered through the curtains, casting soft streaks across the tangled sheets. Clark stirred first, the warmth beside him grounding, anchoring. Bruce laid on his side, turned toward him, his breath slow and even, lips just barely parted in sleep. His lashes casted faint shadows on his cheeks, and for a moment, Clark didn’t move.

He just watched him.

There were still echoes of the night before in the room—the faint smell of skin and sweat and something sweeter, the memory of whispered names and quiet surrender still pressed into the sheets. Clark smiled softly, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to Bruce’s temple. He let his lips stay there, just breathing him in.

“I’ll be back before you miss me,” he whispered against his skin, though he knew Bruce probably wouldn’t hear it.

Quietly, Clark slipped out of bed. He moved through the room with practiced care, not wanting to disturb the fragile stillness of morning. His reporter’s suit, folded and neatly placed on the chair. But before he reached for it, his gaze drifted toward the desk near the window, where his portfolio rested.

He opened it without thinking.

And there it was, just where he always kept it: the letter. The one Bruce had given him long ago, handwritten, no signature, only the raw edges of a heart bared quietly on paper. He read it sometimes before flights, before battles, when doubt crept in like a storm. He didn’t need to today. But he did anyway.

His eyes lingered over the lines he knew by heart. He closed his eyes for a moment, holding the words against his chest before sliding the letter back in its place.

Then he saw it.

A smaller note on the nightstand. Folded once, Bruce’s handwriting now unmistakable, elegant, meticulous, with just enough pressure on the pen to reveal the weight behind the words. Clark reached for it, unfolding it with the same care someone might handle something fragile.

He read:

"I woke before you. Only for a moment.

You were curled around me like you were made to be there, like I wouldn’t be whole without you. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to wake you. I’ve fought wars in silence, but peace, this kind of peace, is loud in its own way. Loud enough to break something open in me.

Months ago I had almost accepted that nights like last night were meant for other people. People who had the time. People who didn’t build walls out of duty. But you, Clark, you come crashing through every wall I thought I needed.

You make me want things. You make me brave enough to have them.

You don’t ask me to be anything but what I am, and still, with you, I feel like something more. Not Batman, not a successful businessman. Just...me. And somehow, that’s enough.

Come back to me soon. Not because I need you to—but because I want you to. And maybe for someone like me, that’s the bigger truth.

—B"

Clark stared at the note for a long moment, his throat tight. The words blurred at the edges as tears threatened, not from sadness, but from the simple, staggering fact that Bruce loved him, even if he didn’t say it in so many words.

He pressed the letter to his chest for a moment, breathing in deep, steadying himself. Then he folded it carefully, slipped it into his portfolio—right beside the old one. He carried them both now.

He dressed slowly, glancing back at the bed once more before he left. Bruce had turned slightly in his sleep, brow furrowed faintly as though he'd reached for something in a dream and missed it.

Clark smiled.

He’d be back before the dream turned into a waking ache.

And next time, maybe he would be the one to write something down and leave it on the pillow—something Bruce could carry with him through the quiet.

A note to say: You are loved. You are never alone. And I will always come home.

BEAUTIFUL ART BY hngryazn!