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“Kent. Pay attention.” Batman barks, snapping his fingers. Superman is immediately broken from his unplanned reverie by the motion, met with the irritated face around the cowl.
Gotham’s Dark Knight turned from him before he could summon an appropriate response, cape swishing. The Man of Steel bristled, hackles thoroughly risen. They were core members of the League, no man more than the other. Equals. Who was Batman to presume he could order him around?
“Sorry.” Not exactly the most firm of retorts, but in all fairness, he really hadn’t been paying attention.
Batman grunts, which he presumes is Batspeak for ‘Don’t let it happen again’, fiddling hither and thither with the papers on the table before them. Back into speculation they dive on the subject of their latest joint outing. City limits are an enforceable boundary between the men, but when the superstitious and cowardly of one city come running to the other man’s jurisdiction, they are met with double the force. Superman hears and reads plenty about the manifests of every warehouse on Clinton and Bessolo, contributing his own specific theories based on the observed behavior of the local gangs and the efficiency they’ve taken on with collaboration between crooks of sister cities. The buzzing at his mental periphery continues, taut as tightrope against his distinct efforts to get some focus.
Batman snaps his fingers. Clark faces the man anew.
“What?” He is far snippier than he intends to be, but he genuinely can’t help it. “We’ve been combing the same manifest and arguing about it for twenty minutes.”
Batman’s jaw clicks, the lenses of his cowl narrowing.
“You’re doing it again.” Batman, to his credit, does no more than make the observation. He doesn’t need to do more for the Kryptonian to feel seized with guilt the instant it’s made. He thought he made some rather specific and helpful notations for their purposes.
“You’re distracted.” And what does Clark say to that? No, he hasn’t been using every sense he has to follow the tenuous leads they’ve dredged up? No Batman, his full attention is on the blurring pages and not on the building pin-and-needle pressure in his skull?
The Kryptonian breathed hard through his nose, tamping down enough on the exhale that it doesn’t send millions of dollars of equipment flying. That’d be a real disaster, and he’s on about half of half a reporter’s paycheck now. The condenser went out on the A/C back home, and despite their hemming and hawing about his fussing, Ma and Pa Kent were too up in their years to brave the dry August heat in that house. He’s eaten a lot of toast this past week. He’s gonna eat a lot more over the next month.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” His shoulders sag, less the man of tomorrow, and more a man doing everything he can to get to the next minute. Kal-El of Krypton is tired, and Clark Kent of Kansas is very tired.
Batman neither scowls nor shouts. Rather, he looks as if he’s been faced with a puzzle or some unfinished sequence that demands his attention. Then, he reaches up and tugs his cowl down, revealing dark eyes and creased brows. His hair’s a lost cause, bangs plastered to his forehead. He doesn’t mind, and little does he know, Superman doesn’t either.
“What is it?”
“Huh?”
“You never go down this easily. Something must be on your mind.”
“It’s nothing.” Bruce raises a pointed brow at this.
“It’s nothing important.” Clark amends, raising both hands.
“The sooner you come out with it, the sooner we can get back to work.” Like it’s anywhere near that simple. Leave it to Batman to play pot to his kettle. Gotham’s protector shows no signs of movement on his premise.
“It’s the noise.” Silence is a hard thing to parse with the Bat, a thousand words in the yawning quiet. It’s Clark’s talent, or perhaps his luck that he can pull it apart with varying statistics of success.
“You know how I can hear everything?” Clark’s ears are hot now. It sounds stupid, pointing out the obvious. “I don’t do it on purpose. Think of it like a water filter. All of the sound, the water, comes in. I filter out the extra particulates. That way I’m not snooping into every house. I let a little bit come in though, just in case…“
“Someone needs your help.” Bruce finishes for him.
“Right. And sometimes, because I let enough in to catch a call for help, the other stuff comes in too.” He finishes lamely.
Bruce crosses his arms by way of reply. Something about it makes him feel shameful all of a sudden. ‘Look at these amazing powers I have, don’t they suck?’, as if the ability to know where and when everything happened coupled with the ability to be there wouldn’t be a massive aid for the Dark Knight. He shouldn’t have opened his mouth. After all, the problem was his concentration, and now they were losing valuable planning time to his inability to get it together—
The sound of snapping fingers draws him to attention. Clark looks down and sees that he’s left dents in the table’s edge. He sucks in a harsh breath.
“Rao, Bruce. I’m—”
“Don’t.” Clark clamps his mouth shut and nods, eyes stinging and face drawn. He can’t tell where he sits on the line of mercy and condemnation, of patience and agitation. Falling’s no threat for a man who can fly, but he’s never borne disappointment well, an open book of earnest sentimentality. It was the subject of frequent debate. Kal-El the kind, Kal-El the trusting, Kal-El the naive. Unable to hide his hurt and helpless to the call of heroism. How one day it’d get someone else killed, if not him.
Batman snaps his fingers.
“Tell me what you hear now.” He rumbles. It’s not a request.
“There’s so much... I wouldn’t know where to begin.” Where’s a man to start when nowhere in the world is off limits?
“Try.” Bruce’s edict is a gentle one.
So it’s mercy then.
“I can hear Ma and Pa’s heartbeats.” Bruce hums his acknowledgement. In it, Clark finds the knot in his head start to give way. “I can hear the airways over Metropolis. Every plane’s got working instruments.”
The other man grunts, clicking his tongue. Having known him so long, Clark knows it’s to cover his approaching chuckle. Even Batman’s heard ‘it’s a bird, it’s a plane…’
“I hear bat wings fluttering. Hundreds.” Perhaps thousands. The thought is terrifying in its magnitude. “I don’t know how you manage to keep them out.”
“Artificial rock formations and sonic emitters. What else?”
“I can hear Alfred vacuuming the manor. Tim doing his homework. I hear the Batcomputer’s components and the lights.“
“You can hear the lights?”
“Yes. You’ll have to change those bulbs out soon, by the way.” Bruce grunted and typed something into one of the nearby keyboards.
“I can…” His mouth is dry. Why is it so difficult to say? To his credit, Bruce is, and has always been, a patient man. He pointedly waits for Clark to put himself back together. Whether it takes a minute or an hour is of no moment, he is a man of his word, and he has chosen the path through, not around.
“I can hear your heartbeat.” He admits quietly, chest tightening painfully around the concession. All of his strength is channeled into facing the man. For someone so private and solitary as Batman, it seemed that this would be a major intrusion, a violation. Against his self-preservation, Clark cannot summon the strength to lie or evade. His respect for the other man won’t allow anything else.
Bruce leans forward, holding his stare.
“Describe it to me.”
The man of steel blinks, wondering for a moment if this wasn’t some illusion. Batman’s predilection for feelings avoidance and lectures on self-control is strangely absent on this night.
“Steady. You don’t waver for a second.” Not when the Bat leaps from skyscrapers, not when he dives into the unending abyss of Joker’s insanity, not even when staring down the personified evil of Darkseid, a being whose shadow still hangs over Clark’s nightmares.
“Been keeping an eye on me, have you?” Bruce’s lips twitch, and it makes him feel like he’s in high school again, caught staring a little too long at the substitute teacher popping the top buttons on his shirt. Before he’d known it, the projector screen was on fire and he discovered another thing that separated him from his peers. His face had been as red as the tomato harvest when he told Pa about it. Only now he’s a 30-something year old man, and thus too old to feel so thoroughly chastised by one question.
“I don’t do it all the time!” As if that makes it any better. “It’s just— It’s to see if you’re alright.” If he sounds defensive, no he does not, please and thank you.
“Am I?”
“What?”
“Am I alright, Clark?” The use of his name makes the Kryptonian all-too aware of how close they are now. Some time between admissions the other took another step forward, putting him nearly chest to chest with Clark now. He smells of worn leather, aftershave, and engine oil. The combination is like a bolt of lightning to the chest.
“I…Ah. Um.” Neurons firing and skin hot beneath the suit, he is at a loss. At this distance, Clark can see the pink seam of a split lip on its way to the final stage of healing. He can’t tear his eyes from it. It’s a testament to trust on Clark’s part that he feels only a little tested by all this.
“It’s alright. You can listen.” The dark knight’s harsh baritone had softened into something utterly hypnotic. A promise. An invitation.
Clark’s eyes were closed between one breath and the next.
All the world fell away as the rhythmic pulse of a single heartbeat met his ears. Not unlike a metronome, it ticked away at time and set the pace for the songs to follow. Was this what it was to be the charmed snake? Clark, ever consistent, followed faithfully. He’d know Bruce blind, deaf, and universes away. Batman’s heart never stutters. When it does, Superman breaks the sound barrier to see it back to its rhythm.
He catches Bruce’s wrist milliseconds before middle finger meets palm, meeting his gaze.
“Well?” Dark eyes crinkled at the corners.
“You’re in good health.”
“Small favors.” The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched. “How is it now?”
“Better. Thank you.” The world significantly smaller, relief washed over the Kryptonian.
“Don’t mention it.” Really, don’t, the Wayne heir’s sour expression said. After all, the Batman couldn’t have the world thinking him capable of things beyond cold retribution and tactical brutality. A man had his reputation to keep.
“I won't make this a habit.” Clark assured sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “I usually find something to ground myself when this happens.”
“I won’t mind if you do.”
“Weren’t you the one who put a moratorium on metas in Gotham?”
“I’ve been known to make an exception.” The older man shrugged, yet to break their staring competition. Bruce’s breath fans his cheeks, their chests rising and falling in sync. It was no secret that Bruce Wayne was beautiful. All high cheekbones and flint stares, he was a face to rival Helen of Troy. Batman was a dark beauty, liquid grace and furious precision in every swipe, swing, and strike. One and the same, they draw him forward, wide-eyed, open mouthed and wanting.
Gloved fingers press against his lips abruptly, stopping him short. He realizes in that instant that he’s made a terrible mistake in all this. Of all the presumptuous, inappropriate… God. He’s an idiot. Bruce had given him an inch and he took ten feet, projecting his desire and hope for reciprocation.
Clark opens his eyes, expecting to see a furious, snarling face.
Only… Bruce is smiling.
“Not so fast, Boyscout.” The older man’s eyes glittered with mirth. “We’ve got work to do.”
Oh.
Oh.
“And then?” Clark asked, a touch breathless.
“We’ll see.” Canines scrape the gentle curve of his bottom lip. He stares openly at Clark’s mouth. Another invitation. Another promise.
Clark‘s smile is the first spot of sun on the dawn horizon.