Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

These big stuffy events had never been appealing to Clark. Not since he started working with bigger stories, not since he started working with his team, and definitely not since he moved to Metropolis, yet here he was, smack-dab in the middle of a crowd of rich folks whose only achievement was throwing enough money at things to get them fixed.

To make matters worse, it was in Gotham, a place notorious for corruption and unequal distribution of wealth, especially in the shinier parts. So why the hell was he here, standing in the corner of the room in his oversized suit, carrying a pad and pencil? Well…

“He’s gotta be here somewhere…” Lois’s sharp voice cuts through the muddled boredom of Clark’s mind. She’s standing next to him, dressed in a black pantsuit with her Daily Planet press badge clipped to her breast pocket. Her eyes are scanning the room, keeping an eye out for the target of the night. Her hands fiddle with the expensive-looking necklace around her neck, trying to keep herself calm.

Jimmy, Clark’s other companion for the night, pipes up in response. “Well, if he hasn’t gotten here yet, then he might just not show up.” He’s also dressed in more formal attire, with a pair of black dress pants and a nice white button-down.

Clark looks down at Lois, showing a slight grimace. “Jimmy’s right, Lois, we can’t just be sitting around all night. Mr. White asked us to cover the event. We should probably at least interview-”

“Shhh,” Lois cuts him off. “Nothing’s more important at this event than this. You know that. It’ll probably just be a bunch of people bragging about their ‘contributions’ to Gotham to make themselves look good. But catching Luthor when he’s vulnerable, now that’ll yield something interesting.”

Clark lets out a sharp breath through his nose. Luthor had been acting suspicious recently, with more activity around the shipping docks than usual, accompanied by reports of overworking his workers and doing nothing about a supposedly dangerous work environment. It made Clark’s blood boil, truly it did, and he did want to do something about it, but at that moment they had a different goal, one that would definitely damage Perry’s trust in them if they failed at it. “Lois, we can at least go and interview some other people while we’re looking.”

Lois looks up at him with a nasty look, before letting out a loud sigh. “Fine, but the moment we see him, I’m heading over.”

“Be my guest,” Clark replies as he follows her irritated path through the gala.

The entire ballroom is opulent, warm light reflected off of crystal chandeliers highlighting the expensive fabrics and stones of the furniture and floors. Clark can smell every last perfume and cologne sprayed onto every last item of silk or cashmere or satin or whatever draped along the bodies of these glorified leeches. It’s a sharp scent, the very scent of opulence, and it’s starting to give him a headache. Over top of it, as is with most events, is the strong scent of booze. It’s overwhelming, and though he’s the one who’s mostly driving this operation forward, it was originally Lois’s idea, and he’s starting to regret agreeing to come.

As much as he loves Lois (platonically, they tried that once and it didn’t really work out), it’s really hard to like someone when they’re the reason that you’re stuck doing something that feels like getting a knife to the forehead every ten seconds. Regardless, they have a job to do.

Clark is still just following behind Lois blindly, rubbing at his temples and trying to avoid breathing in through his nose, but after about a minute of the three of them moving around without stopping, he stops and gently grabs her shoulder. “Lois, are you actually going anywhere?”

Lois stiffens, before turning back to look at him and rolling her eyes. “Obviously.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause we’ve just been going in circles,” Jimmy replies from behind Clark, then walks around to stand next to him and crosses his arms.

“...whaaat? Circles? Nooooo…” Lois waves him off, then tries to shove Clark’s hand off her shoulder.

Clark, not wanting to hurt her but still wanting her to talk, tightens his grip slightly. “Lois-” He cuts himself off as he notices a slightly suspicious-looking woman slowly approaching Lois from behind, a flute of champagne in hand. Her sharper features and slinky demeanor immediately set off red flags in Clark’s mind, but his warning is immediately thrown off course.

Lois, again, snaps back at him. “What? I have a plan.” She turns away from Clark at the same time the woman reaches out for her. “Trust-”

Her statement is cut off by the sound of a body hitting the ground and glass breaking, in addition to the feeling of being coated in ice-cold champagne.

The woman, though she does fall, falls in such a way that looks almost graceful to Clark. She’s fallen a lot before, he can tell, both from her grace and the several areas of raised skin coated in makeup, most likely to hide scars. Clark narrows his eyes at her. What is she hiding? His investigation is cut short by his partner’s reaction.

Lois lets out a few surprised splutters, looking like some sort of lake creature the way that the champagne is causing her hair and clothes to stick to her. The socialites around the group of them stop to stare, before continuing their conversations. The woman, now looking startled herself, stands up quickly. Clark notices that her hand is bleeding, probably from the broken flute, but regardless, she quickly attends to Lois.

“Gosh, I truly am sorry about that, Miss,” she pauses to squint at her press badge, “Lane.”

Clark, though less suspicious about this woman, can still tell that she’s got something hidden behind her more caring facade. The sharp look in her eyes, the way she holds herself, and the steady thrum of her heartbeat despite the sudden event betray her much deeper intentions. He doesn’t have time to unpack all of that right now, though, and the scent of blood in addition to everything else is making his head spin.

Lois pulls her soaked hair away from her face, then responds, “No, it’s fine. I didn’t see you coming. I should have been paying more attention.”

“Ah, but I shouldn’t have just approached someone from behind. That’s not particularly polite of me,” she says while smiling gently, then looks her up and down, letting her gaze linger. “Say, how about I help you clean up? In exchange for running into you.”

Lois’s face twitches. Clark can tell that she’s slightly upset that she’s getting pulled away from the ballroom. “N-no, I think I’ll be fine.”

“No, I insist.” The woman circles around Lois, continuing to eye her. “You can’t just walk around like that. It can’t be comfortable.”

Lois puts her hand up to stop the woman from getting any closer to her. “No, thank you. I have a job to do. I’m fine.”

Her body is saying something completely different. Clark can see the almost imperceptible shivering of her shoulders and the way champagne is drying down into a sticky film on her skin; but, before he can say anything-

“Honey, you’re shivering. You’re not fine.” The woman reaches out a hand to brush a piece of sticky hair behind her ear, then trailing it down to her chin. Her eyes are sharp, attentive, like a cat’s. “At least let me give you my jacket.”

Clark sees Lois’s shoulders tense, before reluctantly relaxing. She’s given up on walking around in a soaking wet outfit, something that is simultaneously relieving and concerning for Clark. Lois doesn’t give up this easily. Then again, she could just be trying to make her job easier and more efficient.

“Fine,” Lois replies dismissively, pulling away from the woman’s touch. She then turns to Clark and Jimmy with a determined look on her face. “If Luthor comes in-”

“Yeah, yeah. Grab him and shake him by the collar until he gives us information, we know,” Jimmy shoots back jokingly. “We’ve got it covered.”

Clark watches Lois’s expression shift to an unamused one, before reluctantly handing him her notepad and pencil. “Don’t let me down.”

“We won’t.” He nods, then follows her figure through the crowd as the mysterious woman leads her towards the food table, most likely to grab some napkins. Just as she vanishes into the crowd, Jimmy tugs his arm.

“Sooo… are we gonna interview some people, like Perry asked us, or are we gonna keep watching for Luthor?” Jimmy looks up at him with a mischievous look.

Clark rolls his eyes, before pulling his notepad out of his pocket reluctantly. He doesn’t want to let Lois down, but Luthor actually showing up is less than likely, considering how reclusive he’s been as of late, and he wants to preserve his job. Besides, he can do some proper investigating as Superman, and Lois probably won’t stay mad at him for long. Probably.

“Let’s go interview some rich people.”

About an hour later, Clark had barely gotten anything from the people he had talked to. As he predicted, it was mostly ultrarich folks bragging about their monetary contributions to Gotham’s system, as well as a few bolder folks flirting with him. He, of course, brushed them off and remained professional, even though a part of him wanted to deck them in the face. Jimmy had taken Lois’s notepad, as he didn’t bring one on account of expecting his two companions to handle the talking part while he took photos, and then had immediately gotten lost in the crowd. Clark had maybe seen him once in his hour-long crawl through socialites, and was honestly getting ready to just find Jimmy and dip. This was definitely a bust. Whatever would come out of this was mostly fluff pieces and endorsements.

Clark sighs loudly as he slumps against the wall at the side of the room. He still feels like vomiting or kicking something or screaming, on account of his raging headache, but he still had to act professionally. He shuts his eyes and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, then focuses on breathing through his mouth. Even with his attempts, he can still taste the perfumes and colognes and alcohols on his tongue. He wants to tear his eyes out of his head, then throw every last person here into the sun. It’s truly awful.

“Are you okay?”

The voice is smooth, yet heavy. Clark looks up, squinting through the sudden brightness of the ballroom as he opens his eyes. Standing before him, in a suit that probably costs his entire year’s salary, is a dark-haired, pale-skinned, blue-eyed man that Clark recognizes as no one other than the host of this gala, Bruce Wayne. He immediately stiffens up, before scrambling to his feet in an unorganized manner. “Y-yes. Yes, sir. I’m okay.” His voice sounds small, unconfident, weak, in comparison to the older man’s.

Mr. Wayne lets out a deep, rumbling chuckle, then takes a quick sip from the champagne flute in his hand. “No need to call me sir, honestly.”

“S-sorry, si- Mr. Wayne.” Clark can feel his face growing red-hot from embarrassment. Gosh, the host of this event is talking to him directly and all he can do is squeak and whimper? How pathetic!

Mr. Wayne smiles again. “Now, ‘Mr. Wayne’ is too formal. How about just Bruce?”

Clark freezes, then hesitantly responds. “A-alright then, Bruce.”

The other man looks him up and down, which only makes Clark want to curl in on himself and die, but his eyes stop on his Daily Planet press badge. His gaze is analytical and sharp, in comparison with the way he’s slightly swaying on his feet, which Clark finds unusual. Yet another strangely alert person at this gala. “Ah, you’re with the Press?”

“Y-yes, I am.”

Bruce looks up at his face and winks. “Well, me and the Press go way back. Say, how about a few questions? A gift for such a handsome man.”

Clark’s brain immediately short-circuits. Bruce Wayne, the most influential person in Gotham, is flirting with him? Clark Kent? Mild-mannered reporter for the Daily Planet? “Uh, yeah, a-absolutely.” He nervously clicks his pen before randomly flipping to the page of questions in his notepad. His eyes quickly flick over the list.

“So, over the last month, what has been the contribution to the city that you’re most proud of?” The question is generic, but it usually gets people talking and lightens the mood.

The sharp look in Bruce’s eyes softens a bit, then hardens back into the tipsy, playful mood he’s putting on. “Well, obviously the annual donation to the Todd Foundation. Truly magnificent work they’re doing, I only wish I could help out even more!” He lets out a short chuckle.

Clark wracks his brain for whatever the Todd Foundation could be. He remembers reading about it a while back, maybe ten years at this point, when it was first founded in Gotham by the man standing before him. It was… helping homeless youth, right? Something along those lines. He straightens up a bit as he asks a follow-up question. “And what kind of work is it that the Todd Foundation specializes in?”

Bruce’s eyes seem to brighten genuinely, then he flashes a wide, press-ready smile. “Well, the Todd Foundation was founded with the mission to assist homeless youth across the city in finding homes, jobs, and education in order to keep them safe and off the streets. Over the years, they have expanded to include older groups of people, but youth still stay at the center of their mission. It’s overall a tribute to my own son, who-” he seems to cut himself off with a cough. “Anyways, apologies for the rambling. It’s just a project I am truly passionate about.”

Clark continues staring at him blankly for a few seconds after he’s finished talking, the genuine sentiment shocking him. With the way that Bruce Wayne had put himself forward as an air-headed party boy in his younger years, this emotion that was spilling out of him felt… uncharacteristic. He adjusts his glasses quickly, then snaps himself back into reporter mode. “W-wow, Mr.- Bruce. You seem very passionate about this.”

“Yes, well, I do have other interests outside of partying and ending up on the front cover of the Gazette,” Bruce replies with a chortle.

Clark’s face flushes bright pink. “Th-that’s not what I was implying-”

“No, it’s fine! I know I have a reputation.” Bruce winks again and playfully grabs Clark’s tie. “I’m fine with the implications.”

Clark, if that’s even possible, feels his cheeks growing redder. Okay, maybe it’s a bad to time to admit that he has a small celebrity crush on Bruce Wayne, sue him, but all that is running through his head, instead of professionalism, are the many, many scantily-clad photos of him that he had either seen online or had been shown by Lois. It’s unfair. “M-Mr. Wayne-”

“Again, I told you to call me Bruce.” Bruce wraps his tie around his knuckles and tugs, causing Clark to have to duck down and get closer to him.

Clark can’t feel anywhere but his bright red face. The notepad in his hands hangs by his side, forgotten in lieu of this development. Not that he’s upset. In fact, he’s in utter bliss at this point, his body relaxing under the force of Bruce’s hands. He closes his eyes gently, leans in…

And is promptly doused in ice-cold liquid.

Spluttering viciously, Clark pulls back from Bruce and wipes at his eyes and face, trying to get… whatever liquid he’s covered in off of him. When he finally manages to get his eyes back open, he’s greeted by the sight of a white-faced server lying on the ground next to them. Their tray is on the ground, along with a bunch of broken glasses. The server seems mortified, and opens their mouth to speak, before squeaking out a quiet, “I’m sorry!” and scrambling away.

Clark turns to look at Bruce, whose outer demeanor has changed entirely. He seems rigid, colder, yet his eyes don’t say that he’s upset as he watches the waiter retreat. Rather, they seem alert, looking for danger of some sort, even while soaked to the bone. He’s an entirely different person, one that truly shows the Gothamite in him, primed and ready to act. It’s… reminiscent of someone Clark knows.

But that moment is over the moment he looks back at him. A wide, cheesy smile breaks over his face, and his body relaxes into the drunken stupor he’s known for. “Ah, looks like I’ve got a little something on my shirt, silly me.”

Clark can’t help it, his eyes drift slightly lower to his silken dress shirt, soaked through with what looks like some sort of fancy wine. It certainly smells like it, the sultry smell making his face flush again. The vaguely outlined shapes of his muscles through the shirt aren’t helping much either. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He’s been rendered speechless.

Bruce definitely notices his slight glances downward, as indicated by the slight smirk and sharpening of his gaze. He leans forward again and trails a hand down the side of his face. “Say, how about we head upstairs to get changed?”

Clark feels his knees go weak, and he leans in to his touch. He almost wants to go, wants to live out his dreams of getting to see Bruce Wayne up close and personal, but…

Clark’s notepad, also soaked in wine, clatters to the ground, breaking him out of his trance. He has a job to do, for fuck’s sake. He awkwardly pulls back from Bruce’s caress and picks the notepad off the ground. “S-sorry, I should probably just…” He trails off, then turns away and walks into the crowd.

Y’know what, actually, fuck the job. That was the worst goddamn response to flirting he’s ever had. Clark can feel his ears burning in shame as he walks towards the exit of the ballroom. He can feel every last eye on him as he walks out, still soaked in sticky wine. God, he’s so stupid. Why would he ever even entertain the idea? Bruce would probably just toss him the moment he got done, and they would never talk again, and he would be shamed everywhere, and…

He’s standing in the elaborate gardens before he knows it, the stormy Gotham sky high above him. He can feel the autumn wind brush over him, cooling his body. It’s nice, and it’s helping him calm down; it doesn’t feel like he’s going to literally explode the moment someone looks at him. He catches a glimpse of himself in the shiny reflections of the rose dividers. His suit is soaked through, the baggy fabric barely doing its job of hiding his musculature, and the red of the wine clashing horribly with the pale blue. He looks like a mess, his curly hair plastered to his head and his glasses slightly askew.

He can’t go back in there. He looks at his notepad briefly, letting out a quiet sigh when he sees the ink running. His notes will most likely be unsalvageable. He briefly thinks of Jimmy, the designated photographer, running around the ballroom trying to get interviews and information after both of his journalists abandoned him. He thinks of Lois, who is probably already back in the ballroom, grilling people about the hard questions while keeping an eye out for Luthor (who didn’t end up arriving), and he turns away from the manor.

He’s just gonna head home now, it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t try to go back in. He didn’t even have anything that good. He turns around briefly, scanning for people so he can quickly head back to Metropolis through the sky, when he spots a pair of heads slightly peeking over one of the bushes.

One of them, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman hisses out a swear, before grabbing, the other one, a dark skinned, brown eyed teenager, and dashing back to the manor. They seem to be in nicer dress, which indicates that they’re attending the party, which makes the interaction all the more baffling. Why would a group of high-class youth follow a random journalist out into the gardens? It makes no sense? Regardless, they don’t seem to be coming back. Clark sighs again, then takes off.

It takes him less than a minute to get back to his apartment in Metropolis. It’s… nice. Sure, it’s small, but it does the job, and that’s all he could ask for. He quickly steps into the shower, his suit still on, and watches as the wine stains the water, and the sides of his shower, red. It looks like a crime scene.

Still, even so far from the party and the watching eyes of those there, he cannot stop thinking about Bruce. That smile on his face when he was talking about the Todd Foundation, the way his eyes betrayed his true feelings about everything, the way his muscles looked dripping wet under his silk shirt-

Clark half-heartedly bangs his head against the shower door. He needs to stop thinking about this. As he said before, he’d probably get thrown aside the moment Bruce got bored. He wasn’t some sort of protagonist in a stupid, cheesy fanfiction or something. The rich, handsome, kind man wasn’t about to drop his playboy tendencies and fall in love with him. That’s a silly fantasy that will get his heart broken. God knows he’s dealt with that enough.

Clark shuts off the shower with a loud squeak, before taking off his suit and leaving it in there. He’ll have to get that dry-cleaned at some point. But tonight is not “some point.” He quickly changes into his pajamas and rests his head on his pillow, his wet hair dampening it. He shuts his eyes and drifts off, Bruce Wayne still resting at the edge of his mind.

Chapter Text

Bruce is tired. He’s tired of hosting parties, he’s tired of the playboy character, and most of all, he is tired of heading a company. Sure, the company lets him pursue his true passion, helping the city, but it’s still a drag. The one thing that keeps him going is getting to help people, truly and honestly, even if that “helping” involves roaming Gotham at night and chasing cases.

That is precisely why he’s in Metropolis, negotiating with Luthor.

Well, not him.

“You seem to be more distracted than usual,” Tim says under his breath. The younger man crosses one leg over the other in his car seat and looks away from the window.

Bruce breaks away from his thoughts and looks over at him disapprovingly. “...what do you mean by that?”

Tim turns toward him with a blank look. “I mean that you’ve been staring out the window for the past five minutes without trying to go over the plan and checking the equipment. Is there something going on or…?”

Bruce narrows his eyes. Sure, maybe he’s been a bit distracted for the past week, but that’s not particularly his fault. With the recent suspicious movement of some highly volatile chemicals by Penguin, he’s been up at all hours of the night, more than usual, trying to figure out what he’s doing. Then, he had the gala, which went disastrously in his mind. It was meant to be a break from the investigation, maybe sneak in a quick hook-up with someone at the party, then get back to work. Instead, he ended up with a wine-soaked suit and a man who wouldn’t leave his mind.

This man, Clark Kent, was a reporter at the Daily Planet, and for some stupid reason, Bruce couldn’t stop thinking about him. Was it the way he seemed close to a meltdown when he first saw him? The way his suit didn’t fit him well, even though photos from his mother’s Facebook account show him in nicer clothing that actually fits him? His relationship with Lois Lane? Whatever it was, he didn’t want to leave, and that frustrated Bruce. His research on him, which his kids call “obsessive stalking,” led him to Lane’s investigation on Luthor’s poor behavior in Metropolis relating to dockworkers. This then pointed him in the direction of suspicious transports of materials from Gotham to Metropolis by Penguin to supposedly Lex Luthor.

Which is how he ended up here.

… Maybe he should go over the plan.

“It’s nothing. Let’s go over the plan again.”

Tim squints his eyes suspiciously, before slumping back on the seat. “Alright.”

Bruce lets out a sigh, then gets into explaining the plan for the third time that day. Oracle had already taken down the cameras earlier in the day, so they wouldn’t have to worry about suspicious behavior on film. Tim would go up to talk to Luthor, as scheduled, to discuss possible plans for a collaboration between Wayne Enterprises and Luthorcorp. Bruce would be wandering around the lower floors, both looking for suspicious documents that may have been left out, along with listening into Luthor and Tim’s conversation through an earpiece. Once the meeting is over, the two of them would leave and discuss what information they gathered and add it to the case file. Oracle would let the cameras roll again, and they’d get off scot-free. A relatively simple mission.

Tim crosses his arms as the car comes to a stop. “You still seem distracted.”

“And as I said before, it’s nothing,” Bruce waves dismissively as he opens his car door and steps out. “You are the main focus of this mission, not me.”

Tim follows after him, crossing around the back of the car and jogging up to catch up to him. “So, you are distracted?”

Bruce looks down at him, then looks back at the rapidly approaching building. “Focus on the mission.”

Tim rolls his eyes, then straightens his posture as they enter the building. There’s a subtle shift in the way he holds himself, less casual and more poised, a way that Bruce knows all too well. He’s done it countless times. It’s routine at this point, switching from Batman to Bruce to Brucie to Batman again. It’s all necessary for the protection of his city.

Tim beelines for the elevator, but Bruce hangs back. He needs to make his staying downstairs more convincing. He changes his walking pattern, puffing up his chest and brightening his smile. It makes him look faker, less human, more brand-friendly. Dick called it “Plastic Bruce” when he was still around. It’s honestly the best way to describe it.

He calls after Tim. “I’m going to go use the bathroom, son!”

The LuthorCorp personnel around the lobby stop to stare at the two of them briefly, before continuing their conversations or jobs. They know Bruce Wayne, they know his mannerisms. This is normal.

Tim stops, turns to look at him, then smiles widely. “Alright, I’ll meet you upstairs.” There’s a subtle twitch in his hand that betrays his tenseness. Bruce should talk to him about better hiding his true intentions after the mission is over. The elevator doors close in his face and he disappears from Bruce’s sight.

Bruce turns towards the bathrooms, but walks past them, heading into a less busy section of the building. It’s quieter here, with people working hard in their cubicles and paying him no mind. They’re not paid enough to care. It’s truly a shame, perhaps he should commandeer some of the people here for his company… Regardless, he should stay focused on the mission.

He gently presses the button on the subtle earbud in his ear. A small beep sounds, indicating that it’s started recording, followed by the slow fade-in of Tim’s voice. He seems to be speaking with a secretary of some sort, checking in for his meeting. Bruce tunes him out for the moment, instead quickly scanning over the desks of the cubicles for stray documents. They are suspiciously clean, considering how little they supposedly care about a random man walking through their workspace. Clearly, he won’t find anything here.

He decides to head back to the main atrium. At this point, Tim has gotten into the waiting room and is waiting for the meeting to officially start. He still has some time to kill before he has to start listening. He makes his way into the elevator and clicks the button for the fifth floor. He’ll just have to check each working floor individually.

The fifth floor mostly consists of more cubicles. These workers seem to be higher in the company, though, if he can guess by the nicer materials of their clothing and the higher proportion of gray hair (and men, but that’s neither here nor there). They might actually have something. Bruce walks through the aisles, maintaining his confident stance. It’s not that he’s not confident, it’s just that he’s not particularly fond of expressing his emotions in an outward way. It’s safer to keep it subtle, unless, of course, he’s trying to appear otherwise.

A few of the workers glance at him accusingly, but the others remain quiet, letting him complete his task. Again, like the first floor, their desks are suspiciously clean, as if Luthor specifically instructed his employees to clean up the offices. This reeks of a cover-up, but he can’t prove anything until he’s got actual evidence. Just as he retreats back to the elevator to head up to the eleventh floor, Luthor’s snide voice comes through the comm.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Drake. It’s so nice to see you.”

Tim’s professional response comes through in response. “And you as well.”

There are footsteps heard. Bruce presses the button for the eleventh floor, one of the higher office floors.

“I take it Mr. Wayne won’t be joining us?”

“He was taking a bathroom break. I’m sure he won’t be long.”

“I highly doubt he’ll be done with his ‘bathroom break’ anytime soon.”

“Mr. Luthor-”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s fine. We can start without him.”

The elevator doors ding open. Bruce steps out of the elevator and immediately takes a right, walking briskly towards where he knows the records room is from when he studied the schematics of the LuthorCorp building. It’s in a room in the center of the building, enclosed in cinder blocks and cement to prevent the destruction of any of their records. For hating journalism so much, Luthor does seem to keep unusually strict records of his actions.

On the other side of the comm link, Tim moves onto the actual contents of the meeting. “So, you were discussing a joint project between Wayne Enterprises and LuthorCorp, if I do remember correctly, Mr. Luthor.”

Bruce spots the door as he rounds the corner of the soulless floor. It’s oddly quiet as he approaches. There should be guards or something protecting this floor with how important it could be.

Luthor’s voice floats through the earpiece. “I was, in fact. I think that we should put aside our long history of rivalry and hatred, and actually work to make the world a better place.”

“Really?” Tim sounds skeptical. Bruce knows that it’s part of the conversation they scripted, but the tone of his voice sounds too genuine compared to the rest of the conversation. It’s based in reason, but the tone shift could ruin the entire mission.

Thankfully, Lex doesn’t seem to notice.

“Well, we both have some of the most fascinating and progressive tech in the world at the moment. Our brains combined could create some real improvements in the realm of technology.”

Bruce rests his hand on the doorknob, but falters. The glass on the window of the apparent records room, while blacked out, is not bulletproof. It’s too thin and the way it reflects light does not show that it is laminated. The schematics showed that it was bulletproof glass, and Lex is too much of a paranoid man to leave something that important out of the actual building. He takes his hand off the doorknob. He guarantees that the records room has been moved, and that if he opens this door, it will trip an alarm.

Tim scoffs. “Well, and I mean this kindly, I’m not quite sure if we even want to work with you, Mr. Luthor.”

Bruce steps back. He needs to find the actual records room. He rushes away from the door, but is suddenly stopped by a loud shout.

“Hey! Stop!”

Bruce turns the volume down on his comm quickly, before continuing to flee. He’s been spotted, but if he manages to get out, nobody will know that he was here. He can feel the man behind him rapidly approaching as he quickly whips around a corner. He starts to speed up, sliding around corners and along hallways as fast as he can without running, all with the man still following behind. No matter what, he cannot shake him.

Bruce looks back, the man is rapidly approaching, a taser in hand. He’s holding it like an amateur, but it’s still a high capacity taser, and Bruce Wayne doesn’t know how to disarm people like that. He turns back just as he turns a corner, but it is too late.

As he turns, he runs into a wall of a man. One who is apparently carrying a hot drink smelling strongly of… chocolate. How would he know? Possibly the massive stain now dripping down the front of his shirt (god, Alfred is going to kill him) and the sensation of burning around the same area (god, Alfred is going to kill him x2).

“Oh gosh, I am so sorry-”

No.

Why…

How is he here?

Bruce looks up from his shirt at the sound of the man’s voice.

The shiny, black hair, the lightly tanned and freckled skin, the unnaturally bright blue eyes… that’s the man he encountered at the gala. Clark Kent, the man who wouldn’t leave his mind. Did he somehow manifest his existence by thinking about him too hard or something?

He doesn’t have time for this. He needs to hide any evidence he was here, including Clark. He needs to act quickly.

Bruce catches the sight of a door out of the corner of his eye. He grabs Clark by the hand, before dragging him through it and into the extremely small space. He realizes his mistake almost immediately when the door closes on the two of them in the closet, but he can’t back out now. He will just have to wait until the guard’s past the door.

The two of them are so extremely close together that Bruce can see each of Clark’s individual freckles, even in the dark. Clark is making an active effort to not look at him, Bruce can tell from his uncomfortable stance and the slight blush across his cheeks. His glasses are slightly askew and his curly hair splayed in several directions, and he’s clutching his notepad in his hands so hard that the cover is slightly bending. His eyes seem to be almost glowing in the low light of the closet, and his eyebrows are furrowed in a frown. He’s tense, and unusual, and something in the back of his mind is screaming at him to ask about it. But no, that will only get him to stick harder. He needs to get rid of any evidence that he was ever interested in this nobody reporter from the middle of nowhere. He can’t… he can’t just get stuck on him like that.

The footsteps from the guard slowly start to fade, and Bruce slowly pushes the door back open. After checking the hallway for more danger, Bruce finally steps out after what feels like a million years, letting go of Clark’s hand. He shifts back into his confident stance and turns back to Clark with a smile.

“You just can’t stop dropping drinks on me, can you?”

Clark shifts on his feet hesitantly, then steps out of the closet. “I’m so incredibly sorry, I didn’t see you coming-”

“It’s fine, genuinely. Nothing a good wash can’t fix.” He, in fact, hadn’t been able to fix the last incident with a simple wash, but he wasn’t going to blame him for that. He just… needs to get out of this conversation as fast as humanly possible so he doesn’t get chased around by a security guard again, and so that he can forget Clark as fast as possible.

“Ah… right…” the other man shifts on his feet again, then turns to look out the window. It’s a gorgeous view, one that shows off the city from above and highlights the beauty of Metropolis. Bruce would almost be jealous of Lex if he wasn’t Lex Luthor.

“So… what is a Gotham billionaire doing on the eleventh floor of a LuthorCorp building?”

The answer almost falls out of Bruce’s mouth with how easily he lies. “I had a business meeting with Lex and got lost on the way out.”

“...lost?”

“You say that as if I’m an idiot.”

Clark’s face pales and he shakes his head. “N-no! That’s not what I meant… it’s just… the exits and elevators are very clearly marked?”

Bruce looks towards one of the very obvious signs pointing towards an exit, then back at him. “Well, what are you doing here?”

Clark stiffens at that, an odd behavior for how he's acted so far. “I… was interviewing people with Ms. Lane and we got separated.”

“...ah. Interesting.” It’s very obviously a lie, with how he’s shifting on his feet and clenching his jaw, but Bruce doesn’t particularly want to care. He just wants to get out and reconvene with Tim.

Bruce turns from him. “Perhaps I should just follow the signs and leave this place. I hope you find your friend.”

Bruce feels Clark hand land on his shoulder, preventing him from moving any further. Clark is very strong, Bruce can tell from his grip, but he seems to be holding back, as if he expects Bruce to not be strong enough to fight back. “Wait, at least let me get you some paper towels to clean up your shirt.”

Bruce plasters a wide smile on his face. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you though, stranger.” He gently tugs his shoulder out of Clark’s grip and starts walking towards the elevator sign.

“C-Clark Kent.”

Bruce stops and turns back. “Well then, thank you, Mr. Kent.” He turns back towards the sign and continues walking towards the elevator. He doesn’t hear Clark following behind him, and as he turns the corner, he drops his shoulders and speeds up, quickly getting to the elevator before he can get spotted again.

As he enters the elevator, he presses the ground floor button, then runs his hand through his hair. His face feels hot, and his heart won’t stop racing, for some reason. Sure, that was a relatively stressful situation to be caught in, but he’s been through far worse and kept a much more level head than this. Perhaps Luthor’s done something to the air in the building, something meant to distract people from breaking in and stealing any documents. That must be it. But if he had done something, it would have come up on the initial scout out of the building. They did many chemical tests on the materials and air of the building before they actually went on the mission, so if there was something amiss, they would have caught it.

But maybe he changed something last-minute, like he did with the document room, to intentionally throw him off. Yes, that must be it. He just needs to get out of the building, reconvene with Tim, and forget any of this ever happened.

He runs his hands through his hair one more time to fix it, then steps out of the elevator as it lets out a small ding to indicate its arrival to the ground floor. He straightens his posture again, then strides through the relatively busy ground floor to reach the entrance. He can see out of the corner of his eye people glancing at him, then his shirt, then back up at his face, probably due to the hot chocolate stain all down the front of his shirt.

God, he’s probably going to get an earful from Alfred when he gets home. This is the second shirt that he’s stained in the past week.

As Bruce exits the building back onto the street, he immediately spots Tim leaning on the car they arrived in, suit jacket held over his shoulder and phone in his other hand. He glances up from the phone quickly to confirm that the person approaching him is, in fact, Bruce, then glances back down at his phone, before doing a double-take and looking back up at Bruce, at the stain on his shirt, then at his face. The corners of his mouth upturn into a slight smirk, and Bruce lets out a quiet sigh, rounding the back of the car and opening the door to enter. Tim enters only a second later, his face and posture breaking from professional to mocking.

“So,” he starts, “how did your side of the mission go?” There’s a wide smile on his face, as if to tease him for whatever caused the massive stain on his shirt.

“Not well,” Bruce says, choosing to ignore his son’s expression. “The blueprints were either wrong, or Lex knew that someone would come looking. The documents weren’t there.”

“Hm. That’s not great.” Tim sits back in the seat and crosses his arms. “And you figured that out…?”

“The glass on the window wasn’t reinforced. Anyone with a brain wouldn’t leave such important documents in a room with easily breakable windows.”

“Right… so where did the stain come from?” he gestures to Bruce’s shirt. “Someone throw their coffee at you?”

Bruce huffs out a quiet breath through his nose. “I ran into someone. It was an accident. A miscalculation.”

“Sure. The great Batman, miscalculating something.”

“Tim.” Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.

“... Sorry.” Tim turns back to the window. “You really are distracted today.”

Bruce tenses, then leans back against the seat and stares out his window. “What information did you manage to get from the meeting?”

Bruce can almost feel Tim’s glare at the back of his head as he switches the subject. “... Well, Luthor is engaging in shady practices within Gotham. In fact, he mentioned acquiring some ‘specialized materials” from a seller in Gotham. I’m planning on running this through the system and looking for any specific sales that could be flagged to both find the specific seller and the materials and stop what he’s doing at the root.”

“Alright, that sounds good, Tim.”

If he were to be fully honest, Bruce is not entirely listening. His mind keeps catching on what happened earlier today, even though he told himself that he would simply move past it. That he would move past him. His heart is still beating erratically. Perhaps he should disinfect himself when he gets home. Make sure that all of, whatever is in the air, is out of his system so that he can finally get back on track. He needs to get his focus back, and after today, hopefully, that will happen.

He feels Tim shift on the seat next to him, before going still and quiet. The silence is heavy, awkward even, but Bruce doesn’t want to be the one to break it. And nobody does, not once on the ride back to Gotham, not once when they get into the house, and not once when they head down to the Cave. And as he stands in the decontamination showers, scrubbing at his skin and hair, he still can’t keep that stupid, bumbling reporter off his mind.

Chapter Text

He’s back in Gotham again.

For the second time in recent memory, Clark is back in Gotham, and again, it’s the fault of no one other than Lois Lane. This time, however, it’s not to directly interview Lex about his behavior regarding his transit employees, but rather to directly investigate what he’s transporting.

During the last section of their investigation, Lois had gone to the docks in Metropolis to ask the workers who had reported the poor working conditions directly about Luthor’s treatment, and had accidentally stumbled upon an open container of canisters addressed to him from a nonspecific address in Gotham. She had asked the workers about it, but they had either denied any involvement or acted suspiciously when she asked about it. Frustrated by the lack of information, she decided that she would go and investigate the actual corporate tower, which turned up nothing, then the other side of the issue directly by investigating Gotham’s docks, which is how Clark ultimately got here, crammed onto a small bus headed towards the docks of the city, fidgeting with his hands anxiously.

Jimmy, who had also gotten dragged into this, yawns, before turning to Lois with a tired look. “Lois, remind me again why we had to do it this late?”

Lois looks up from her notepad with an excited look, a thermos of… something caffeinated in the other hand. “Well, shady deals are more likely to be carried out late at night, right? So if we are also here, at night, we’re more likely to catch them in the act! It’s a foolproof plan, if I do say so myself.”

“Um, I would like to poke some holes in your plan,” Jimmy snarks back. “I’m tired! It’s my bedtime! I can’t work at my best like this!”

“Well, too bad. You should’ve gotten some coffee or something before you started complaining-”

“I don’t like coffee, you know this Lois-”

“Then an energy drink!”

“They make me feel like my heart’s going to explode-”

“TEA!”

“I DON’T LIKE TEA EITHER!”

“Guys,” Clark cuts the two of them off, “Let’s not do this right now. It’s literally 11, it’s way too late to be arguing like this.”

Jimmy huffs, then leans back in his chair, putting his arms behind his head. “Whatever.”

Clark lets out a quiet sigh and rests back in the too-small bus seat, staring up. At least the three of them had managed to get a trio of seats to themselves, so he wasn’t imposing on any strangers’ personal space.

The ceiling of the bus isn’t the cleanest, with a few mystery stains and pieces of chewed-up gum in the crevices, but it’s better than the initial train they took to get here. That one had mystery liquid leaking from the ceiling and screamed every time they went faster than 30 miles per hour. It also stank. At least this one only smells mildly of fish and mildew.

Clark closes his eyes. The buzzing of the lights above him is creaky and shaky. They’ll need to be changed soon. He can hear the heartbeats of every last person on this train, and he finds himself listening, soothing his anxious fidgeting with the sound of people.

He takes a deep breath and starts to think. He’s already not had the best experiences on their investigations of this case so far. Usually, he would leave Lois to do the investigation and drag Jimmy along with her while he worked on busywork around the office, but this was different. This could actually be dangerous, and while he fully trusts Lois to take care of herself, he does know that she has a habit of digging deeper than she needs to, even putting herself at risk for the sake of the article. She’s one of the most dedicated people he knows, but that can be her downfall too, and when dealing with a man who has personally almost killed him, Superman, a god among humans, forgive him for being a bit protective.

But that’s not all that’s running through his mind. There’s what happened last week, at the LuthorCorp tower. In an almost one in a million chance, he had run into Bruce Wayne, again, and spilled something on him, again. Not only that, but he literally dragged him into a closet. He was so close he could hear the neurons in his brain firing and smell the scent of black coffee on his breath from his breakfast that morning. Sure, he did it because he was hiding himself, but still. Clark can still feel his heart racing every time he thinks about that, about being that close to him.

However, there is still the issue of what he was doing there. He was on a restricted floor, and actively knew he wasn’t supposed to be there, so what was he doing? Clark had an excuse, he was looking for suspicious documents, like Lois told him, but what was Wayne doing? He said he got lost, but for a man who’s been in countless meetings, one would think that he knew how to navigate a skyscraper. It’s strange, and it’s been sticking in Clark’s mind for the past week.

Then there’s the problem of Batman. Batman, one of Clark’s closest friends in the suit, one of the few people he can actually talk with about superhero stuff, doesn’t particularly like other superheroes going into Gotham. He’s never explicitly said why, but he’s such a paranoid man, Clark doesn’t doubt it’s for a good reason. Even though he’s going into the city as reporter Clark Kent, it still feels like he’s breaking some imaginary rule by entering the city in the first place. For a gala, maybe that’s fine, but for an investigation, especially one that could be directly related to Superman, it feels wrong.

Clark opens his eyes again and checks his pockets again. Pen, notebook, phone, glasses case, extra lens wipe… yeah, it’s all here. Hopefully he won’t need anything else.

The bus finally comes to a stop with a sharp hiss, the doors sliding open. The trio of them exits the now empty bus, the rest of the passengers having left at previous stops. They throw on their inconspicuous dark hoodies and sweats and start to walk towards the bay. Lois is the first one to pipe up once the bus speeds off.

“Okay, let’s look for the specific loading dock he’s using. It’s probably one of the ones on the right because of how Gotham’s docks are organized.”

“Um, but wouldn’t he want to throw people off his scent by putting it in a different place than expected?” Jimmy replies as he checks over the lens and settings on his camera.

“Not even Lex Luthor can escape Gotham bookkeeping, Jimmy. It’s definitely here.” Lois takes another sip from her thermos, before slipping it in her bag and leading the way along the right main dock.

Clark goes to follow behind them, but feels a sudden chill go over his spine, as if he’s being watched. He turns towards where he thought it came from, squinting a bit and activating his night vision, but even with it, the shadows are too dark, and he can’t catch any movement. He suspiciously turns back towards the rest of the group and walks up to join them.

“-and I was thinking that he’s trying to ferry in drugs to make some sort of super cocktail to make him super strong so he can actually defeat Superman-”

“Jimmy, that is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. He would’ve already done it if it was possible.”

“You never know, it could have only come to him recently.”

“I’m fairly certain Luthor has tried everything you’ve thought of and more.”

“You never know…”

“Jimmy, I will hit you.” Lois pokes him in the face with her pen, clicking the tip in and out.

Clark walks up and gently pushes the two of them apart. “Okay, let’s not get into a fight while we’re walking above Gotham Bay. I don’t know if even the dry-cleaners can get the smell of whatever this is out of our clothes.” It’s truly a horrendous scent. Sewage, blood, salt, and way too much fish for how disgusting this water is.

“...Fine,” Lois slips her pen back into her pocket, then keeps trekking forward.

Eventually, the three of them reach the end of the right hand docks, and again, Clark feels that tingling on the back of his neck, like someone’s watching him. He, again, glances around, scanning for any signs of life, movement, heat, and heartbeats. Again, he finds nothing as the trio walks up the first dock.

The shipping crate is a light maroon color, and coated with barnacles and salt. It definitely looks like it’s been here a while, but it could also be a cover for something more nefarious.

Clark, after carefully unscrewing the latch to the large crate, pulls the door off with a bit of a (fabricated) struggle. Just in case someone else is watching. It appears to have been rusted shut, if the large patches of red dust around the edges aren’t indicative enough. The lid is relatively light, even for what a normal person should be able to lift. He sets it aside, looks inside… and finds nothing. It’s a truly empty shipping crate, possibly retired for emergencies. He closes it back up, and the three of them keep moving.

As they go by each shipping crate, Clark keeps feeling like they are being watched, but brushes it off as just his anxiety about everything going on making him jumpy. However, things change when he notices his partners’ heart rates spiking. Finally, after the twelfth crate in a row with just fabric in it, he speaks up.

“Um, is it just me, or are we being watched?”

Lois jumps a bit at his sudden voice, the three of them having been working in silence for the past few rows, then straightens up. “Yeah, I felt it too. I thought it was just me.”

Jimmy looks downright miserable, swaying on his feet and clutching onto his camera like it’s his lifeline. “Oh my god, what if we’re being haunted by a ghost?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Clark, what is it?”

Clark looks around again, doing the same scan he’s done five times already, before looking back down at her. “I actually don’t know. I can’t see or hear anything.”

“WHAT?!”

Clark winces as they shout at him, his ears ringing as they settle back into normal human range. “I think we’re all just a bit paranoid. It’s late, we’re all tired, and honestly, I don’t think any of us want to be here. We’re just… trying to make an excuse to leave.”

Lois looks up at him indignantly. “Excuse me, I actually want to get further in this investigation. I’m not making anything up. It’s you guys who are the problem.”

“Maybe he has a point, Lois. I mean, he’s Clark. If there was actually something up, he’d be able to catch it. I am personally dying to get back to my bed.”

“I… guess you have a point. But we’re not leaving. Not when we’re so close to finding something.”

Jimmy groans loudly, then continues forward, mumbling to himself and adjusting his camera again.

Clark snorts as he catches a few pointed words towards Lois at multiple points in his rambling, before gently touching her on the shoulder. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Gotham is kinda known for just being creepy.”

“I guess. But if anything changes-”

“I’ll let you guys know. I promise.”

Lois smiles, then speeds up to catch up with Jimmy, Clark following close behind.

The three of them continue walking and checking each dock of crates, but each one is still full of relatively normal things for a shipping crate to have. They’re nearly back at the center where they started, when one of the crates, a dark green one, pops open with surprising ease. Inside, packed neatly, are smaller crates, metallic and stamped with the LuthorCorp logo. They found it.

“Oh my god, we found it.”

“Lois, you’re saying that like you didn’t believe we’d find it,” Clark says as he sets the door aside.

“Okay, I may have been losing hope a bit.” She steps forward and picks one of the boxes off of the top. “Now, to see what’s inside.”

Clark spots the hazard label on the side before she can click it open and snatches it out of her hand.

“Wha- what was that for?”

“There’s a hazard label?”

“...ah. I missed that.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t open it right now if it’s got a hazard warning?” Jimmy calls back from further in the container, his camera trained on the piles of boxes and the small label on the tops.

Clark glances at the label as well. It’s a long list of chemicals, what Clark would presume is inside the package. He tries to look into it with his x-ray vision, his eyes glowing a soft blue, but giving up when he realizes it’s lined with lead. He blinks the blue away, then sighs.

“Maybe not.”

“But how are we going to manage to get one of these back to Metropolis? It’s a pretty suspicious item to be carrying,” Lois replies as she circles around Clark, examining the box. “And, Luthor would know that someone’s been snooping if one of the boxes is missing. Besides, you’re usually good with this kind of stuff anyways.”

“Are you suggesting that I act as a guinea pig for your guys?”

“... Perhaps.” Lois takes a few steps back and gestures for him to open the box.

Clark sighs exasperatedly again, then clicks open the latch on the side. The grooves in the box immediately start to glow, a bright, neon green color, one that Clark, and anyone who knows Superman, knows all too well. Clark sees Lois’s eyes widen out of the corner of his eye, and before he can react, she’s next to him, and batting the, now open, box out of his hands.

Clark watches, almost in slow motion, as the box flies towards the open door of the crate, the glowing green vial inside shoots out ahead of the rest of the box, and then shatters, hitting a figure, tall, dark, scary, and now coated in glowing green goo.

Clark feels his blood run cold as he immediately recognizes the outline of the man he specifically did not want to run into at this moment. Clark can hear the other members of his group’s heart rates tick up. The entire world seems to go silent as Batman reaches up to wipe a smudge of goo off of his cowl, a terrifying scowl on his face.

Clark’s so absorbed in how absolutely fucked they are, that he doesn’t notice a smaller, even darker presence, also in a bat suit, practically materialize next to Batman out of the shadows, at least not until she looks up at him, then at them, then back at him, her shoulders quivering, as if she’s about to burst out into laughter. Clark isn’t as familiar with the other vigilantes in town as he would like to be, but he knows that she’s most likely one of his kids. He also knows Batman notices her struggling not to laugh, as evident by the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth, not perceivable by anyone but someone who knew Batman well.

He thinks this is funny. Clark mentally lets out a sigh of relief, hopeful that they’re not about to get their asses handed to them.

Unfortunately, Lois and Jimmy did not get the same idea.

“I’m so sorry-”

“We weren’t doing anything, I promise-”

“We’ll get out of your hair now-”

“Please don’t eat us!-”

As Lois and Jimmy talk over each other, they start to scramble out of the container, Lois dragging Clark along by his arm. Clark also plays along, trying to make it seem like he didn’t catch Batman’s slight smile by looking even more pathetic than usual as he’s led out of the container, past the duo of Bats.

As soon as they’re clear of the container, Jimmy and Lois take off running, Clark dragging a bit behind (to appear even more pathetic). Considering how close they already were to the center of the docks, they’re very quickly back to the bus stop, huddled together under the flickering streetlight. Lois and Jimmy both have a vice grip on Clark’s arms, sticking as close to him as humanly possible.

“Do you think he’s gonna come back?” Jimmy shivers as he looks around him.

“I- maybe? I’m not quite sure-”

“Goddammit!”

Clark jumps slightly as Lois yells disgruntledly.

“We were so close! Now we don’t have any evidence, Luthor will know someone was messing around with his supplies, and we’re probably on some sort of Batman blacklist.”

“I-I don’t think it’s that serious?”

“You don’t know that. He’s gonna appear out of the shadows and drag us into the shadow realm, and then I’ll never be able to taste your Ma’s apple pie again-”

“Jimmy, it’s fine. He can’t even do that. I think.”

“You never know!”

Lois lets go of Clark and circles around him to face Jimmy, “Jimmy, shut up about Batman. What about the case? We have nothing.”

“Well, we know that he’s working with some sort of chemical agent that he’s importing from Gotham,” Clark replies as he puts his arm between Lois and Jimmy.

“But we don’t know what it is! It could be anything.”

“We can try again-”

“Clark!”

“It’ll be fine-”

“No, it won’t, Clark-”

“Ahem.”

The two of them turn to Jimmy. “What?!”

He holds up his camera triumphantly, the screen clearly displaying the pictures of the box and the label on top. Clark sees Lois’s face light up, right as she practically tackles Jimmy in a hug.

“Jimmy, this is huge!”

Jimmy fumbles with his camera to try and readjust into a more comfortable position as Lois squeezes him. “Yeah, it’s no problem, just, y’know, my job…”

Clark smiles over at the two of them, before turning back to watching for any incoming buses. In Metropolis, this late at night, there’d probably be a waiting period of around half an hour between bus arrivals, but, to his surprise, merely five minutes after they had gotten there, amid much chattering between Lois and Jimmy about what to do with the label, the bus rolled up to the stop, looking as creaky and old as it had just been around an hour before.

The three of them get on the bus, with barely a glance at them by the bus driver, and sit down in the same trio of seats they had before. Surprisingly, there are a few other people on the bus, most of them looking either mildly drunk, or extremely tired. Probably night shift people heading in.

As they sit, Clark relaxes back in the seat, this time without anxiety running through his veins. Whatever nervousness from before the investigation had started had barely crossed his mind since they had gotten back to the bus stop. Sure, Lex Luthor was still a threat that Lois was full set on throwing herself at, but they had a lead, and if they could get further details about what the chemicals were for, they would know what he was planning, and thus know how to take him down. It was a great success.

Bruce Wayne’s suspicious behavior, though still slightly strange, didn’t bother him as much. In fact, he had barely thought about him during the mission at all, a new record for him. Maybe he’s finally getting over his celebrity crush. Besides, Bruce’s behavior wasn’t relevant to the investigation, so he could put it off until they were done.

Then, there’s Batman. A man who, prior to today, he had rarely seen smile in response to something. A man who honestly didn’t seem to care that much about him coming into the city. A man who was probably stalking them for the entire investigation, but considering that he’s Batman, that was a tame response. A Batman who frankly was not like the one he had concocted in his head from their interactions on the Justice League.

He was more… human. The way he smiled, the way he interacted with his fellow Gotham vigilantes, even in the little he’s seen, was… nice. He’s nice.

Clark sits back up, not wanting to look at the same mystery stains he had on the ride there. He glances down at Jimmy on his left side, his camera half-tucked into its case, its owner slumped over onto his shoulder, fast asleep and slightly drooling onto Clark’s hoodie. He gently pushes the camera back into its case and fully buttons it shut, before looking over at Lois. She’s also resting her head on his shoulder, but she’s sipping at her almost-empty thermos and scrolling through her phone, adding a few addendums to a notes file.

As she does, she gets a message from a contact named “cat lady” asking her about her trip to Gotham with a kissy emoji at the end, to which she very slightly shifts and flicks the notification away. It’s clearly bothering her, as he can tell from her furrowed eyebrows and stiffer posture. Clark wants to ask her about it, but if she hasn’t already brought it up, she’ll probably just ignore him if he does.

He sits back again, then shuts his eyes, letting the memory of Batman’s slight smile replay behind his eyelids as he falls asleep to the sound of the bus’s humming lights.

Chapter Text

The mid-autumn is one of the best times of the year for Gotham. From Halloween to the brisk temperatures and wonderful fall-themed beverages and foods, the vibes are immaculate. Of course, there’s still the crime problem, but is it really Gotham without a crime problem? Regardless, Bruce doesn’t have time to think about all the wonderful pumpkin bread waiting at home. He has a job to do.

The cool wind screams past his ears as he swings through the early night, his cape flaring out behind him. He lands on a nearby roof, the clunk of his heavy boots followed by a quieter thunk and subsequent footsteps.

“Is there anything specific we’re looking for tonight?” Robin says as he joins Bruce in standing at the edge of the building overlooking Gotham.

In the past week, they had officially acquired a sample of whatever it was that Luthor was transporting to Gotham, albeit accidentally. Bruce and Cass had been patrolling when he had noticed a few suspicious figures walking around the docks, looking inside the crates, and talking with each other. Obviously suspicious, the two of them had cornered the culprits, only to find that it was that stupid reporter who keeps showing up and his buddies. He probably should’ve chased after them, asked them what they were doing in Gotham again, but he was so surprised by being suddenly doused in a jelly-like, radioactive-looking substance, and Cass was so close to laughing at him, that he just lost focus. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with Clark being there. That would be stupid. Batman’s supposed to be focused.

Regardless, with the sample, they had run it through analysis, but only found trace amounts of radioactivity and toxicity. If Lex was looking for a truly toxic material, this isn’t it. However, they did decide to run it through simulations and combinations with different ingredients to figure out what it could do in certain circumstances. Just for safety purposes. In fact, that’s what Tim’s working on right now, with Steph probably breathing down his shoulder the whole time.

This, while completing his job, was just a way to pass time until they could get to the next step in the case. Babs had already let them know that it was looking like a relatively slow night, with everyday vandals’ fear of the Bat spiking around Halloween and the villains preparing for it. Hopefully this would just be some time spent between Damian and him with few interruptions.

“Not really. You heard Oracle’s debrief.”

Robin stiffens up beside him, before sitting down on the edge of the building, staring off into the sunset. It’s a rare sight, with Gotham usually being cloudy, but that’s not the only oddity. He’s been more distant as of late, maybe Bruce should talk to him-

“So, we’ll be done soon?” His voice is brisk, yet there’s a hint of something else behind it.

“I didn’t say that. I said that it would be a slower night.” Bruce remains well-poised and intimidating as he sits down next to his son, the sun slowly setting beside the two of them.

The sky is painted a million colors, pinks, and oranges, and purples, and blues, and Robin seems to be staring out at them, avoiding looking at him.

“Robin?”

Robin slowly turns back towards him.

“Is there something wrong?”

His face twitches slightly, and he turns back away from Bruce. “No.”

“Are you sure-”

“Yes.”

Bruce lets out a small breath, looking back over the city as the sky fades from the sunset to a deeper color. It’s truly beautiful, seeing the city lights come on, the yellow squares lighting up to fight back the ever-gloomy darkness of the alleys and shadows.

“You know, if you ever-”

Bruce’s attempt at connecting with Robin is suddenly cut off by the sound of Oracle’s smooth voice chiming in over the comms.

“There are reports of a hostage situation at Gotham Central Bank, Two-Face.”

Bruce immediately stands, followed by Robin, albeit a bit less enthusiastically, before grappling in the direction of the bank. This is a total surprise, especially considering how Harvey usually behaves. He doesn’t like cold weather, it’s rough on his scars and the bad knee he got when the two of them were in college. That’s one advantage to being exes with some of your villains, you know their weaknesses and can determine behaviors based off of them.

“Any more information, specifically about hostages or goons in the building?”

There’s the sound of a few keys clicking, then Oracle responds. “Seven hostages, five goons. That’s… weird for Two-Face.”

“He usually doesn’t sort things in odd numbers. There’s something wrong.”

“Right, exactly what I was thinking. It seems relatively normal otherwise, at least from the info I was able to gather, just… be careful, B.”

“Of course. Thank you, Oracle.”

There’s a short chime indicating that she’s left the comm channel, and the two vigilantes continue toward the bank.

They hear the sirens and see the flashing blue and red lights before they see the bank, the lights casting up onto the buildings and painting a mural. Batman stops at the building overlooking the plaza in front of Gotham Central Bank, a ring of police vehicles surrounding the bank, where three of the goons stand outside it, their guns raised in a threatening manner. One of the cops attempts to approach the building, also holding a gun, but the three of them train their guns all on him, and approach, the tallest shouting in his face.

“Bring us Batman!”

The police officer attempts to bash one of the goons in the face in response, only for the other two to shoot him in the leg, and he collapses on the ground.

Bruce’s jaw clenches, before fading back into the growing shadows on the rooftop. He hears Robin’s smaller, quiet footsteps behind him as he leaps from building to building to get to the bank.

“So, Harvey wants to speak with you,” Robin whispers as they make their way around the outer edge of the plaza’s buildings.

“Don’t… call him that. But yes, it does appear that he wants to talk.”

“What do you think it’s about?”

Bruce stiffens, then continues, leaping over the next gap without responding. He doesn’t look back, but he can practically feel Robin’s eyes boring into the back of his skull.

The two of them manage to get above the glass skylights above the main lobby of the bank after a few minutes of moving stealthily. It looks bad. There’s already blood on the ground, trailing from the thigh of one of the hostages, who seems to be desperately pressing a shirt to her bullet wound. There are, in fact, seven hostages, as Oracle had said, and of the hostages, only two of them are bank tellers. The bank tellers are being held at gunpoint by Two-Face himself, whose movements are more twitchy and animated than usual. The other goons are spread out around the lobby, their guns pointed towards the rest of the hostages.

It’s an overall bad situation. He turns to Robin. “I’m going in. I will deal with the ones in here, you deal with the ones out here.” He says it strongly, without any space to budge, because that’s how it’s always been. What’s different is the way that he reacts, tensed body language and a scowl, followed by some less-than-stealthy steps back towards the front of the building. He should definitely talk to Robin. After this is done.

Bruce quietly opens one of the windows and hooks to the edge to slowly lower himself to get closer to the action and hopefully gain the element of surprise.

He’s stopped by the sound of Two-Face’s voice.

“What do you mean, ‘you don’t know the passcode?’”

“I-I mean it got ch-changed a week ago and w-we weren’t given it! Our b-boss has it, b-but-”

Her pleas are cut off by the short sound of metal meeting flesh, and the consequential thump as she hits the carpeted floors, unconscious, her split lip leaking blood onto her blouse.

“Does anyone else have anything to say?!”

The other teller is shivering as he shakes his head no.

Two-Face’s face twists into a look of exasperation, huffing out a frustrated breath, before pointing his gun at the other teller. “Call your boss, and if they don’t answer, I’m flipping for your life.”

The teller looks close to tears as he shakily presses the numbers on his phone for his boss. The line rings once, twice, thrice, then goes to voicemail. There are fat tears now rolling down his cheeks.

Two-Face reaches into his pocket and brings out a shiny silver dollar, rolling it over his knuckles. “Heads, I shoot you, tails, you live. You ready?”

Bruce needs to intervene now. He prepares to leap down into the fray, when there’s the sudden sound of glass shattering. Both his and Two-Face’s eyes snap to one of the other hostages, who appears to have knocked over a small vase resting on one of the tables.

Two-Face turns his gun from the teller to the taller man, his eye twitching slightly. “Well, I’ll roll for your life after I even out the numbers.”

Bruce is down on the ground before the bullet leaves the chamber, flaring his cape up to block the shot. The bullet pings off, lodging itself in the soft wood of the teller’s desk, causing the remaining hostages to jump. Two-Face’s expression contorts into one of rage, followed by one of almost hesitation. That’s unusual, he usually goes all-in when dealing with Batman.

The moment passes, however, and he turns back to the teller. “Well? Get to it!”

The other goons take this as a sign to continue attacking Bruce, one of them raising their gun to aim at him. The shot goes off, then, again, pings off his armor and into the glass windows at the front of the building, shattering them. Bruce takes advantage of the sudden noise to dash forward and knock the gun out of their hand, sending it skidding across the floor.

The goon takes a few steps back, then foolishly launches themselves at him, their blows moving too slow and too weak to properly connect. Bruce dodges back, being careful to avoid the hostages as he carefully lands hits in between each sloppy throw. They are getting tired, he can see it in the way their eyes are crinkled in the corners, the way that sweat accumulates on their ski mask, the way their attempts are only getting worse.

He lunges forward one more time, hitting them over the head, hard, watching as they crumple like a house of cards.

However, that’s only one of the goons.

The second one announces their presence with a splash of cold water and ceramic shards.

Bruce immediately turns towards the attacker, the unbroken rim of a vase still in hand. He scowls at them, the cold water seeping into his suit. Wonderful.

They toss aside the broken vase, then draw a gun and point it at him. Their hands are very slightly shaking, fear in their eyes. These are clearly not the best goons that are on the market, which makes this even more unusual. Two-Face usually picks out the best people for the job, especially in smaller groups such as this.

“D-don’t get any closer! I’ll sh-shoot!” The goon has their finger on the trigger, and their eyes seem slightly out of focus.

Bruce stops, then pauses as they switch their aim to one of the hostages. They’re still shaking, but the look in their eyes is less scared, more cocky. “I-I will shoot!”

It’s the hostage from earlier. The one who alerted Two-Face. The one with… strikingly familiar hair. And eyes. And… clothes.

Is that the goddamn reporter?

He scowls, then launches himself between the goon and Kent, kicking the gun out of their hand as he moves. The goon reels back, almost shocked that they did that, then immediately turns and runs back towards the shattered glass window at the front. Bruce lets them go, watching as they struggle to clamber over the large chunks of glass still sticking up. Hopefully Robin did what he was asked to and the police will take care of the escapee.

Now, he can focus on Two-Face. He turns to the dual-toned man, who is still yelling at the shaking teller on the phone with his boss. As he has for the entire break-in attempt, Two-Face looks nervous, and he only looks even more so as Bruce slowly walks up to him.

He raises his gun, but the safety is on. Bruce can see that, as clear as day. There is something really wrong here. Regardless, Two-Face is still posing a threat to these people, including that stupid reporter who keeps showing up, and the bank, so he really should-

A sharp pain radiates across his face as Two-Face smashes the butt of his gun into his nose. Although his cowl is protective of his face, it’s still not comfortable, and it startles him enough for Two-Face to get around him and the desk, before sprinting out the front door. He hears the sirens of the police rear back up, as if warning him to surrender.

Bruce turns, blinking through the pain, and sees Two-Face, kneeling with his hands behind his head, outlined in red and blue and white lights. He’s not fighting. He can’t.

Bruce rubs his nose just as he hears the sound of a grappling gun descending from the ceiling. Robin comes into his view, his swords sheathed and his expression neutral. The hostages start slowly standing up, pulling out their phones to call their people, to let them know that they’re okay. The unconscious teller on the floor blinks her eyes open, before blearily sitting up and wiping at the blood on her face.

“I was expecting that to take longer,” Robin says quietly as he walks over to Bruce.

“As was I.” Bruce watches through the glass as officers swarm Two-Face, shackling him and dragging him off towards a police car. Something in Bruce has him moving towards him, wanting to ask him what this whole thing was about.

He walks, through the broken glass, through the flashing lights, through the crowds of officers that avoid him like oil in water, melting into the shadows and patterns of light. The window is rolled down.

“Two-Face.”

He’s staring straight ahead, the leather of the headrest his muse. “Batman.”

Bruce waits. Waits for him to crack, to tell him what he was thinking, what this was all about, what he seemed so nervous about, but he stays silent. Intimidation won’t work here. He has to actually ask.

“What’s in the vault?”

He snorts out a humorless laugh. “Well, if you’d’ve given me a few more minutes, you’d know, wouldn’t ya?”

Bruce frowns. “This isn’t a laughing matter. People could’ve died.”

He doesn’t respond. Bruce sighs, then lets his voice soften, trying to tug at his heartstrings.

“Is there something wrong? You seemed off today.”

“And you seemed distracted. You don’t usually let people hit you in the face.”

Bruce scowls even more. Sure, maybe he’s been a bit out of it, but he didn’t think it was noticeable. There’s been a lot going on in his life. That’s why this was supposed to be a casual patrol, to help him refocus. Evidently that didn’t happen.

Two-Face chuckles again at his expression. “What, was that a sore spot?”

“Shut up.”

He raises his hands defensively, the cuffs clinking lightly. “I was just saying-”

“Why were you here tonight?”

“...to rob a bank.”

Bruce snarls, then bangs the roof of the car. “You’re lying.”

Two-Face stares up at him, then rolls his eyes. “Perhaps.”

“Why are you here?”

His face softens slightly, and he can almost see his old friend behind those angry eyes. “... I’m not even sure. I do know there’s something dangerous there. Something big. I…” His eyes dart around nervously. “It’s not good. It’s going to destroy something, and I don’t want Gotham to be in the crossfire. This city may be kinda shitty, but it’s our city. You of all people would get that.”

Bruce watches his face and body shift carefully, and he relaxes his posture. As untrustworthy as he is, he seems genuine. “... thank you. I’ll look into it.”

“You better.”

He blends back into the shadows as he walks back towards the brightly lit building. A danger to Gotham… he should talk with the tellers and hostages about further information. He doubts it will bring anything new to light, but it’s better than not doing anything. It’ll help him keep his mind off of distractions. Speaking of…

As soon as Bruce enters the building, he sees Clark, still standing there among the wreckage, almost comically sticking out from the crowd because of his height, talking with some of the officers and writing down information in his notebook. Of course he’s still doing reporter things after almost getting shot. The man is very animated, and, unfortunately, seems to be the only civilian left in the building. The other hostages had already been taken off to either the hospital or driven back home. After all, this is Gotham, and they had work to do.

He sits and waits as the officer finishes talking to the taller man, before emerging out of the shadows. “Sir.”

The reporter startles, then turns to him with a nervous smile. “Ah, um, hello.”

God, his cheeks are slightly flushed under this light, highlighting the many freckles decorating his skin. His eyes, so brightly blue, shine in the dramatically-cast shadows of the building. He is unfairly distracting.

Bruce clears his throat, then continues, trying to shake off images of the man in front of him. “I’d like to ask you some questions regarding the robbery.”

The man stutters, then looks back over at the police officers. “C-can’t you just ask them for information?”

Bruce scowls. Outsiders and their lack of disdain for the police department. “I don’t work with cops.”

“Ah. Sorry.” The man coughs, before flipping through his notes. “Um, ask away.”

“What were you doing when the bank was hijacked?”

“Um, investigating the site. My partner, Lois, asked-” The rest of his sentence seems to fade away.

Partner.

Partner.

This… this is fine. He doesn’t even know why he suddenly feels like his chest is being ripped open. It’s perfectly normal for people to be in relationships, and, honestly, the way that he and Lane had been interacting, from the gala to the docks, it’s not a surprise. So why does this feel so…

“-the doors busted open. So, yeah. That’s what happened.” The man looks at him with expectancy, as if waiting for the next question. But it doesn’t come. His brain has blanked completely, and he seems to have noticed.

“Um, Mr. Batman, sir?”

He can’t even get himself to speak, what kind of-

“That’ll be all for now,” a younger voice pipes up. “Perhaps you should get back to Metropolis.”

Robin, thank goodness for him, had spotted the awkward situation and appropriately moved it along. The other man looks down at him, then awkwardly wanders through the shattered front of the bank.

The two of them watch as Clark disappears around a corner, then a few seconds more, before Robin speaks again. “There is something wrong with you.”

And he can’t even deny it. He sighs, then grapples back up to the roof. “We have to continue with patrol.”

Robin follows behind him, his eyes boring into him from behind. “Are you sure? You’re behaving unusually, Father.”

Bruce stiffens, then launches himself off the roof, the cool autumn air rushing past him and barely helping to scrub the memories of those freckles from his mind.

Chapter Text

This case is a brick wall. Sure, it’s been difficult to follow from the beginning, but it’s almost unfair how many problems they’ve run into trying to get further than this. First, Lois received a mysterious letter on her desk that threatened her if she went any further, then Clark had almost gotten shot when following a lead into Gotham regarding Luthor’s plans for the mystery chemical. Finally, Jimmy had gotten so sick that he had landed in the hospital and was still recovering, which he had blamed on Luthor poisoning his lunch. Lois had brushed him off, but Clark, considering how well he knew Luthor and his movements, didn’t put it past him. He might’ve absolutely poisoned Jimmy’s lunch as a warning.

Obviously, this meant they needed to move less obviously, but from a less obvious position there was very little they could do to progress the case. They could question witnesses, look at his statements, or try to hack into his accounts. Though, using those methods against someone with enough money was rather pointless. They were well and truly stuck just making hypotheses from the information they already had, which basically amounted to zilch.

That is, until Lois had suggested that Superman, not the three of them, should take a look.

“It’s literally a foolproof plan.”

“Lois…”

“He literally can’t do anything to you, and it would look like just a routine checkup. Foolproof!”

So here he was, hovering hundreds of feet above Metropolis, scanning for unusually large lead boxes or other suspicious materials. The air is clean, and the cool October breeze is certainly bringing up his mood. His cape flutters behind him, waving in the wind as he soars above the central park, spotting a group of children playing tag. Their happy squeals and chatters rise above the noise of the city, and he smiles as one of the children spots him and points, drawing the others’ attention. He waves once, then speeds off. As much as he wants to stop and talk with the children, he can’t. He has a job to do.

He continues flying, occasionally glancing down through buildings to try and find something, anything that would incriminate Luthor’s plans. There’s not much. An occasional lead-lined safe, a couple of teenagers smoking in a dark alley, some hidden firearms, but nothing related to Luthor. Even Luthor’s tower seems to be clean.

This is frustrating. Clark stops for a break on the roof of the Daily Planet, his legs dangling over the edge and his head in his hands. Where else could he go? He’d checked all over Metropolis, and there was nothing. It was almost as if that crate of mystery goo had vanished into thin air.

Clark stares out into the distance, watching over the city. This is his home, no matter how many people try to prove him otherwise, and if Luthor’s plans go through, he has no clue what could happen to it. He needs to do this.

The distant scent of saltwater floats through the air from the harbor. The harbor. He hadn’t checked the docks yet! Clark bolts up, throwing himself off the building and soaring to the docks. Of course! The best place to hide something is where you’d never expect it.

The thick boards quickly come into view, countless boats and crates stacked around and on top of them. It’s a relatively slow day, especially for such a center of commerce, leaving the walkways populated with only a few people every so often. It’s the perfect environment for investigation.

Clark floats down a bit closer to the docks, watching the people around closely. There are a couple of dockworkers, dressed in raincoats and chatting about their recent routes. There’s a food server at the conveniently-placed hot dog stand just off of the docks, talking to her friend on her phone. There’s a nicely-dressed man with slicked-back black hair, his stance cautious and paranoid as he gazes around the dock. There’s a man- wait a minute.

The nicely-dressed man seems out-of-place. Clark squints, zooming in on the man’s face, barely recognizing him without the drunken smirk plastered on his face.

It’s him. Bruce Wayne.

Why?

Why is Bruce Wayne here? In his city? Scowling? And looking like he’s sneaking around?

Clark blinks away his confusion, slowly approaching the man from the sky, staying out of his sight. This is technically gathering information, right? He’s observing a suspicious figure on the docks, one who is also a rich man and may have an idea of what Luthor’s doing. This is a fair and reasonable reason to be following him. Yes. Definitely.

Clark internally scolds himself. Sure, he’s acting strange, but he had rarely seen him outside of work (or sober), and many people put up a front to appear more palatable to others. He could just be here for a business meeting. There are many other reasons he could be here, Clark’s just stalking him because he’s fixated on him. It’s stupid.

He hadn’t even been thinking about him recently. With the case, he’s been too busy to pick up any of the recent gossip magazines and gaze upon his celebrity crush. In addition, there were the incidents with Batman that kind of spun a new vision of him, which had also somehow stuck in his head. He’s stubborn about not getting a crush on Batman, though. That’s his coworker, he can’t do another coworker romance, especially when he doesn’t even know the man outside of work. Just like Bruce. He doesn’t know either of them, so he should just drop both of them. It would probably be better for his focus in the long run.

Speaking of, he focuses back on Bruce, drifting behind one of the crates to peek out at him. He’s stiff, walking with his head down and an earbud in. He could be getting information or feeding it to an outside informant. Maybe there is actually something here. Clark zones in on the earbud to try and listen in.

All that he is met with is the sharp sound of static screeching. He doubles over, covering his ears instinctively, gasping out a quiet breath as harsh pain radiates from his ears. Everything is ringing, and he can feel tears building in his eyes. It hurts. Badly.

After a few seconds of agony, Clark manages to uncurl and wipe at his eyes. The noise is gone, but that’s even more confusing. Where did it come from? It’s vaguely familiar, bringing back distant memories of training with Batman and trying to locate him by sound, only to be thrown off guard by an identical screech to the one he just heard. He had explained to him that it was a sort of sonic force field, meant to confuse anyone with super hearing and fry any recording devices.

Needless to say, Clark is baffled. Does Bruce Wayne have one of these sonic force fields? Didn’t Batman mention not selling any of his technology? If so, why does he have one? Did he steal it?

Clark feels his heart clench as he peeks back over the crate. Bruce has stopped to stare at one of the crates, his arms crossed and his eyebrows furrowed. He’s studying it. What for, he doesn’t know. He starts speaking to himself, the words distant and fuzzy to Clark. Even with the sound gone, his hearing is still wonky. He can’t catch anything meaningful.

Clark growls to himself in anger, his hands clenching and unclenching. What is he doing? And why does it require so much security that even Superman is not allowed to listen in?

Suddenly, a single phrase pops out of the muffled conversation. “-R & D department-”

Something clicks into place. Bruce Wayne’s company is one of the top in the world for tech. Maybe… maybe that’s where the sonic field came from. Maybe he’s attending a meeting regarding tech in Metropolis (he did hear about something related to that happening sometime this week). Maybe the sonic field is to prevent crucial information from getting leaked. Maybe he’s just taking a walk around, not studying anything in particular, before the meeting happens. Literally anything could be a reason. He’s just getting paranoid because of the case.

Clark sighs and runs his hand down his face. He needs a break. Everyone on the team needs a break. He’s not going to find anything here if he hasn’t already. He takes one last glance at Bruce.

There’s a man behind him. Hoodie, shadowed face, hand in pocket. A quick x-ray shows a knife clasped in his hand. And before he can jump in, warn Bruce about what’s going to happen, an awful sound echoes distantly from downtown Metropolis. The signature loud metal squeaking of an el’s supports starting to give out.

It’s almost automatic. Clark launches from his hiding spot behind the crate, going as fast as he can as he zones in on the sounds of screams and tearing metal. The sight is even worse, with people pressed up against the glass as the carriage dangles over the edge of a collapsed portion of the rail. He straightens his posture, then flies in, catching the edge of it in his hands and lifting. The other supports groan as he pushes back, trying to get the carriage back on the rail. A single screw pops and clangs against a nearby brick building. This won’t work. Clearly all the supports are compromised. He needs to get the entire train onto the ground safely or the whole thing will collapse.

He gently lets the carriage back down, before dashing to the connection and lasering it in half. There’s a split second where the hanging carriage is falling, but it doesn’t last, with Clark catching it and slowly lowering it to the ground. He repeats this with the rest of the carriages, albeit with less risk, and once the entire train is on the ground, he helps the passengers out of the no-longer-elevated pods. A few of them thank him heartily, another few are sobbing and shaking as he pulls them out, and one of them landed on their leg weirdly and needed to be helped out. He watches as another bystander calls 911 for an ambulance for any injuries, then waves goodbye to the cheering crowd as he flies off, back to the docks.

His bright and cheery smile falls the moment he leaves. He needs to get back, Bruce could have been injured, or worse. His chest tightens as the docks come into view, the once-calming salty air only making him want to gasp.

The moment he sees the shiny black hair standing right next to where he was originally, he internally sighs in relief. This time, however, he can’t hide, as Bruce is watching him closely as he approaches, a pleasant smile on his face. The other man, the one with the knife, is not anywhere to be seen.

Clark straightens his posture again as he floats down to meet Bruce. There’s a brief flash of something unidentifiable across his face, but it passes, and he walks up to him.

“Bruce Wayne.”

“Superman.”

The way that he says his name is with a slight sense of awe mixed with professionalism. It’s how any higher-up talks to him, from mayors to generals to billionaires. It makes him feel like a museum display, being talked about rather than to.

“I didn’t take you as the sort to vacation in a city like ours, Mr. Wayne.” The phrase is accompanied by a bright smile.

“Ah, well, I’m not here for vacation, unfortunately. There’s a conference that my co-CEO insisted that I attend. I partially think it’s because he didn’t want to go, but I don’t mind,” he says, smiling back and crossing his arms.

“I heard about this conference. Doesn’t it start in a couple of days? It seems you're here awfully early.”

Bruce tilts his head back and glances at one of the nicer boats sitting on the docks. “Well, there’s quite a lot to do in Metropolis. I, personally, have a couple of boats here that I haven’t really had the chance to ride around on. I plan on taking this one out for a spin. Would you care to join me?” Bruce slides a bit closer, placing a hand on his chest.

Clark feels his facade waver slightly as the man in front of him offers him a personal ride out onto the harbor. He’s been out there a million times, flying over the water, but never with Bruce Wayne. This could be the chance of a lifetime to spend time with the man haunting his daydreams since he started being Superman. Personal alone time.

But he has a reputation to uphold. He gently grabs Bruce’s wrist and pulls it off him, before laughing lightly. “I’m afraid I don’t have the time, Mr. Wayne. I have a responsibility to the city. I’m sure you understand.”

Bruce smiles again and lets his hand fall to the side. “Of course. I hope you have a good day, Superman.”

Bruce turns from him, and Clark can feel the blood rushing to his face. The flirting throws him off, breaks his focus, but he still notices something else. There’s a strange odor in the air, sharp, metallic, and oddly familiar.

And he doesn’t get the chance to analyze it, as he watches Bruce stumble, go to grab onto the side of the boat for support, and fall, smacking his head into the side of the boat as he sinks into the water.

Clark feels his chest tighten, again, and he dives in after him, the cool lighting of the water reflecting off of Bruce’s perfect pale skin. He looks like some sort of angel in this light, his dark hair fanned out around his head like a halo. Lazy bubbles drift out from between his lips, and his distant stare indicates that he’s knocked himself out. Clark needs to save him.

He grabs him, lifting him from the water in a princess carry, sheets of cold harbor water running off of his clothing and hair. Water bubbles up from between his lips, and his head hangs back, limp and unresponsive. His heartbeat, slow and steady, is the one thing indicating that he’s alive.

Clark flies him over to the boat and lays him down, being careful not to hit his head too hard. He can practically feel his own heart beating out of his chest, his hands shaking anxiously. He’s not used to this sort of thing. Sure, he’s been Superman for a while, but he’s usually dealing with larger disasters, like car crashes or natural disasters, not reviving a single drowning victim. What if he breaks his ribs? What if he just makes things worse? He usually wouldn’t have these sorts of thoughts, this hesitation, but… it’s Bruce Wayne.

And so, instead of doing anything, like he’s trained himself to do, like he’s supposed to do, he freezes, his hands placed awkwardly on Bruce’s chest. He… he can’t bring himself to do it, to risk it.

His barely moving hands match the barely rising and falling flow of his chest.

It’s quiet for a second.

Then, Bruce gasps and bolts upright, coughing up water like a well.

Clark draws back his hands almost immediately, his face flaring in shame. He didn’t do that. But he should’ve.

Bruce hacks out a final wheeze, then lies back down and rolls over. He looks like a wet rag, his previously dry jacket now laying around him in a puddle. He looks pale, paler than usual, and his eyes have lost their iconic sparkle. He’s staring out at the horizon distantly, though from his view, it’s probably just the inside of the boat.

Clark feels awful. His shoulders slump and he stands. He should at least tell him, admit to what he failed to do. “Um… Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce, for what seems like the first time ever, startles at his sudden voice and rolls back over to look up at him. It seems more like a glare than anything, and Clark almost wants to melt into a puddle and be washed away by the rain. It’s a strangely familiar glare.

Then, like a switch, it’s gone, and he stretches a smile across his face. “Superman. I take it you are responsible for me ending up here?”

Clark wilts even more to that response. “Yes. I… pulled you out of the water, Mr. Wayne. But-”

Bruce cuts him off with a laugh. “I do apologize for that. I’m not quite sure what came over me.” He stands up, with a bit of a struggle, before dusting himself off. “I don’t usually miss the boat. I think I owe you something now, maybe I’ll save your life someday!”

Clark is thrown off a bit by the sudden humor in the wake of his almost-drowning. Surely this isn’t something to joke about, especially with his failure to assist. “Mr. Wayne, you almost drowned. Surely you’d like to go to a hospital-”

“No, thank you.” The response is curt, but polite.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Don’t you have other civilians to attend to, Superman?” The man crosses his arms.

Clark stutters, but doesn’t try to push back any further. He does have other things to attend to, specifically continuing to investigate the Luthor case. He lightly lifts off, then turns from him hesitantly. That strange, metallic scent is still in the air, and as he flies further from the dock, it only seems to get stronger. It isn’t coming from the docks.

Clark looks down. The front of his suit and the palms of his hands are stained red. It’s blood, and, judging from the slight familiarity of its scent, it seems to be Bruce’s.

He was bleeding, and Clark didn’t notice until he left. What kind of superhero is he, getting distracted and ignoring a massive wound? From the amount of blood just on him, it looks like it will be fatal if he doesn’t go to the hospital right now.

Clark wants to dart back, to drag Bruce’s stupid, perfect, pretty boy face to the Metropolis General Hospital, but another, more urgent matter rings out at the edge of his hearing. It’s an angry voice, walking through Chinatown, threatening to blow himself and the rest of the square up. He needs to intervene.

It takes him five minutes. Five minutes to try to talk him down, five minutes to watch him set it off, five minutes to shield the pedestrians and shops from the blast, and five minutes to help any injured bystanders. It’s too long in his mind. There’s a man, possibly bleeding out on the docks because of him, and the longer he takes, the higher chance he dies. He needs to get back. Now.

The air almost crackles around him as he zooms back to the docks.

And it’s gone. The boat that Bruce was flaunting and inviting him to ride is gone.

There weren’t any other heartbeats in the area, he knows. So either the boat is self-driving, or he drove himself off.

Clark’s stomach drops and he scans the area with his X-ray vision. There’s nothing… until he looks at a nearby crate. Inside, there’s a man, slumped over some smaller milk crates, presumably unconscious.

Clark dashes over, a million thoughts ringing through his head. Is that Bruce? Where did the boat go? Did someone steal it? Why didn’t he want to go to the hospital? What kind of-

The man isn’t Bruce. He’s wearing a dark hoodie, a knife coated in blood on the ground next to him. It’s the same familiar scent, sharp, metallic, Bruce, and suddenly everything starts to click.

That was the suspicious man he saw, the one who was stalking Bruce before the el derailment. So, Bruce must have gotten stabbed and knocked him out, or they struggled and he got stabbed in the process, then pretended that he hadn’t gotten stabbed when he came back. But… why? He could’ve gone to the hospital, but instead he lied and then ran off.

It’s… confusing. The man lets out a quiet groan, and Clark holds back the sudden urge to kick him. That’s not right.

Regardless, the man stabbed someone, and should get dealt with accordingly. He’ll drop off a report at the Metropolis police department as soon as he can. And he does, before returning to the Daily Planet through the roof entrance.

He does not feel good. He feels like a failure, both in finding information for the Luthor case and in saving Bruce, and he’s also confused about Bruce’s choices. All of this is culminating in a lot of frustration and an urge to clock out early and go home to nap.

He’s smoothing out his button-down and ruffling through his unruly curls when Lois rounds the corner and spots him. She brightens up immediately, and Clark, although he loves her dearly, wants her to leave him alone for now. Unfortunately, she doesn’t.

“So, what sort of things did you spot on your little escapade?” She falls into step next to him, looking up at him expectantly. He wants to throw himself into a little hole and never leave.

“...you’re not going to like the answer.”

She deflates, her hopeful face stalling. “Oh, god, was there really nothing?”

“Even worse.”

“How? How does it get worse?”

“Guess who I ran into at the docks.”

“... Luthor?”

“No. I think anything’s more likely than me seeing Lex anywhere as dirty as the docks.”

“Then who?”

“Bruce Wayne.”

Lois stops walking, almost as if she’s buffering, before walking back up to join him. “Bruce Wayne? Why?”

“He said he was here for a tech conference. I’m starting to doubt that, though.”

Lois squints at him. “It seems like a solid excuse, why do you think he’s lying?”

Clark sighs and gestures with his hands as he sits down at his desk. “There’s a lot of weird stuff that happened at the docks. It’s a long story.”

Lois rolls her eyes. “You don’t have anything to do today. We have the time.”

Clark glares back at her. He’s been absent for the entire day, being the guardian of this city, surely he has some work to do. Yet, as if to mock his failures, when he opens his inbox, there’s nothing for him to do. Curse you, Perry.

He groans and turns back to Lois. “It’ll sound stupid when I say it out loud.”

“You don’t know that. You could actually have a point for once.” Lois sits down in the chair next to him, tucking her hair behind her ear and pulling out a pen and paper.

“Ha ha, very funny.”

Lois makes mocking noises at him, before gesturing with her hand to start talking.

Clark pinches the bridge of his nose, then leans back in his chair. “So, I was down at the docks, investigating, like a reporter would do, and I notice that Bruce Wayne is there, for some reason. I notice that he’s got an earpiece in, and when I try to listen in to his conversation, I am assaulted by the worst screeching sound known to man.”

Lois squints at him. “Where’d that come from?”

Clark shrugs. “I assumed it was from a sonic shield thing, like the one that… my scary coworker designed.”

Lois flutters her eyelashes at him. “Oh, am I the scary coworker?”

Clark rolls his eyes. “Other job.”

“Right, right. Continue.”

“So, sonic shield. Then I see this guy, he’s dressed like he’s trying to hide something, and he’s got a knife in his pocket. Bad news. But I have to run off to help with something else, and when I get back, the guy’s vanished, and it smells kinda weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Metallic.”

“In a place with a buncha metal ships?”

“A different kind of metallic. Like blood.”

“Ah.”

“So, I assume it’s nothing, and Bruce is talking to me, tells me he’s here for the tech conference and riding his boats, then offers to take me on a ride.”

“This guy has the balls to flirt with Superman of all people?” Lois snorts out a quiet laugh, scribbling down something on her notepad.

Clark flushes slightly red, then continues. “Anyways, I refuse, ‘cause I have a job to do, and when he goes to get on the boat, he falls off the dock and smacks his head into the side. I have to drag him out of the water, and I freak out too much to give him CPR, but he somehow magically revives himself?”

“‘Magically’?” She notes down an additional line.

“Don’t.”

“I wasn’t doing anything. Gosh.”

Clark rolls his eyes. “So he’s awake, and when I offer to take him to the hospital, he says no. I’m concerned, but I respect his privacy and fly off, and then I notice that I’m covered in blood. I’m super worried about him, but another thing happens and I have to run off, and when I get back, the boat’s gone. No traces of him being there.”

Lois nods her head, scribbling away.

“Even stranger, I look around and find the suspicious guy lying unconscious in a crate, with a blood-stained knife. It’s… it’s weird, that’s what it is.”

Lois hums non-committally. “Honestly, it sounds like an average Gothamite. Kicking ass, and being weirdly mysterious about it.”

Clark glares at her. “He’s not though, he’s the richest man in Gotham, surely you’d expect him to be less… abrasive.”

Lois shrugs. “I think… this is a smaller deal than you think it is.”

“What?”

“We’ve all been kinda running on empty, which is ironic coming from me, I know. This just seems like a couple of weird coincidences smashing together to make it look more suspicious than it is, and the heightened stress or whatever is getting to you.”

“Lois-”

“And if there is something there, what are we going to do about it? I’ve already been pushing the boundaries of how many times we can sneak off to Gotham without Perry firing us. What then?”

“This does not sound like you.”

She stiffens, then shrugs and leans back in her chair. “I think that if we start focusing on other things, we’ll lose focus on what’s actually important: the Luthor case.”

Clark frowns. “But it could be connected-”

“But we don’t know if it is. It’s probably not, considering how public the two’s rivalry and hatred for each other is. If Bruce is somehow channeling Gotham’s nastier parts, which he is known for destroying through aid, into an alliance with Luthor, I’ll quit being a journalist forever.”

Clark pouts and crosses his arms. “I’m certain there’s at least something there.”

“Right, which we can get to after the Luthor case.”

“But it seems important, Lois!”

She turns from him in the chair, ignoring his concerns. “I’m certain we’re so close to a break in the case. Once Jimmy recovers, there’s a few tips I want to investigate.”

“Lois…”

She stands and faces him, leaning on the cubicle wall, an irritated look on her face. “Unless it’s about the Luthor case, I don’t want to hear it, Smallville.”

Clark glares up at her, noting how tense she seems to be. Something tells him that her avoidance of this other possible case is more than just not wanting to get distracted. It seems like she’s actively avoiding something. What it is, he has no clue, but he doesn’t really want to get into a massive fight with one of his closest friends in the middle of their workplace. He sighs, then leans back in his chair. “Yes, ma’am.”

She narrows her eyes at her, then steps away from his desk. “I’m gonna look over the stuff we already have again, try to look for any more patterns.”

Clark doesn’t have the heart to tell her just how many times she’s already gone over them, and fairly quickly, she vanishes around a corner. He opens his computer inbox again, lazily tracing around the send icon with his mouse. He genuinely doesn’t have anything left to do.

He needs to take a break. After a few minutes of waiting for nothing, he stands and starts walking. Where, he has no clue. He’s certain he’s right, that there’s something going on with Bruce Wayne. No normal person behaves like that, and certainly no normal person just shakes off a stab wound. He needs to get down the evidence.

Before he knows it, a staticky voice rings out over the intercom of the Daily Planet, announcing the end of the day for everyone at the company, five o’clock. Clark quickly darts back to his desk to retrieve his briefcase, catching the sight of a brightly-colored sticky note attached to his computer screen.

He takes it off the screen. It’s a small doodle of himself with a thought bubble of himself and Bruce kissing. In the corner, there’s a quickly jotted message:

Clark, take a break from thinking about your little crush. - Lois

He crumples the doodle in his hand and dumps it in a can on the way out of the building. It’s not like that. He’s got genuine suspicions about him this time. It’s not just him picking up the most recent gossip magazine and ogling the first vaguely spicy picture of Gotham’s hottest bachelor he can find, it’s a gut feeling that something’s wrong. That somehow, someway, Bruce Wayne is not who he claims to be.

His apartment is cold when he gets there. The windows are open, blowing the frigid air into the single room. Considering how cold it’s been getting, he’s not surprised if they get snow pretty early this year. He sets down his briefcase, then unbuttons his pressed shirt and hangs it up. As frazzled as he is feeling right now, Ma Kent didn’t raise a barn animal. He can put away his clothes correctly.

He puts his kettle on to boil, then turns to the large cork board sitting above his bed. Currently, it’s decorated with pictures of his parents and friends, along with a few scattered fliers and reminders for events in the weeks to come. It all needs to come down.

Piles of memories start to build up on the bed, leaving behind a blank slate to work from. He quickly makes a cup of tea, then comes back to the board. Clark pulls a pack of index cards out of his briefcase, along with a pen. “Sonic shield,” he writes, then sticks on the board. “Shakes off stab wound,” another pin on the board. Then another. And another. All pins on suspicious behaviors exhibited by Bruce Wayne. “LuthorCorp hallway incident,” “Always seems on edge,” “Resuscitated himself?”

Then, the first theory. “Mob boss.” Then another. “Secret society of some sort?” It doesn’t stop, ideas flying out of his head faster than he can write them down. He feels like he is truly channeling his inner Jimmy here, but at this point, anything could be true. He starts linking the pieces of evidence to his theories, red thread practically strangling the cork board.

However, there’s not enough for him to truly land on one theory. There are three threads linking to the “Ghost” theory, and five to the “Alien” theory, but they draw from the same pools of evidence. It can’t be slimmed down, because there is simultaneously too much evidence and too little. He doesn’t have a direction to be pointed in, and now he’s stuck.

Clark runs his hand through his hair and sits back from the absolute mess he’s made of the board. He glances at the oven clock. 2:46. And there’s been practically no progress made. He growls to himself, then swats the rest of his notecards and the original photos and fliers off the bed, before grumpily throwing the blanket over himself. He’ll figure this out in the morning.

Chapter Text

He’s been grounded. As much as he insists on it being called “forced leave,” Alfred, the wonderful man that he is, continues to call it being grounded. It’s humiliating. But how did he get here?

It started with a tip last week, a secondary shipment of the mystery chemical, the one Luthor is importing from Gotham, the one they could use to further point them in the right direction on Luthor’s plans. They had already run through hundreds of different simulations with the chemical, trying to find what this relatively inert chemical could be used for, and found nothing. No volatility, no toxicity, and certainly no capacity for destruction. They were stuck, and with Two-Face’s warning still echoing in his mind, he knew they needed to get unstuck quickly.

Thus, he went to investigate the shipment himself, with the excuse of visiting the Metropolis Technology Conference later in the week, and hoping that the environment and workers could help point them in the right direction. Unfortunately, all he got out of it was a concussion, a stab wound, and a hefty amount of suspicion from Superman. Even worse, the stab wound got infected, leaving him bedbound for a couple of days. It killed him that he couldn’t help with the investigation, that all he could do was sit and wait for new information to come from the simulation or any of the many bugs they’d planted in Metropolis.

Then, when he had finally gotten cleared by Leslie, Alfred had banned him from doing his duty as Batman until he was fully healed. But he had to do it now. The thing that Two-Face mentioned was quickly approaching, he could feel it, and he just knew that it was somehow related to the Luthor imports.

However, Alfred only banned him from going out in the suit, which means that he could go investigate on his own, without any gear, and he couldn’t technically get in trouble.

So, he finds himself back in Metropolis a week later, a slight limp in his step and a twinging pain in his left side. He’s out on the edges of Metropolis, the warehouse sector, scanning for any Luthor warehouses to investigate and possibly wreck. If the mystery chemical isn’t there, then Luthor can’t do anything with it, and if he gets caught, he can blame it on being drunk, as he usually does. It’s a foolproof plan.

It’s a cool day, the brisk wind tugging at his overcoat. The sunlight is gray through the spattered cloud cover, painting the landscape of dull warehouses in an even duller light. It’s a lot different from the main sectors of Metropolis, with their brightly colored murals and neat gardens on rooftops. This feels less like Superman’s hometown and more like any other boring big city. It doesn’t even feel dangerous, just… plain.

Bruce starts walking along a row of warehouses. They’re identical; large gray buildings with a metal roof and skylight, no windows, and an occasional piece of graffiti behind the wooden crates stacked along their sides. It’s overly non-threatening. He’s about twenty minutes into his investigation, looking for the LuthorCorp storage warehouse, when he hears a small chime from the comm in his ear, the telltale sign of someone joining him.

“Breaking curfew, I hear?” Oracle says, a hint of a laugh in her voice.

“Hm.” Bruce moves past a large piece of graffiti calling for the death of Superman, trying to spot any suspicious guards or technology.

She waits for a moment, as if gesturing for him to continue, before continuing herself. “Y’know, A probably wouldn’t be very happy if he knew what you were doing.” He can hear her clacking her nails on the keys of her computer over the comm.

“...do you plan on telling him?” His voice is sharp as he responds.

“Nah. I don’t care enough about you to snitch.”

“...thank you, Oracle.”

“Was that sarcasm?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She pauses again, then switches the topic. “I took down the cameras around here, by the way. They were weirdly hard to break into. I think there’s something up.”

“I do too. I think that Luthor’s got another shipment coming in. I’m planning on finding it, then destroying as much as possible.”

There’s the sound of keys again. He can almost feel the judgment in her voice. “...you really think that’s the smartest idea?”

“It’s the only one we have currently. The longer it takes for him to get what he wants, the longer we have to run more simulations.”

“We’ve tried so many already, are you sure there’s something there?”

“Why else would someone want an inert chemical other than to do something with it?”

Oracle goes quiet again, then chimes in again, reluctantly. “There’s a suspicious amount of guards on the far west side of the warehouse sector, specifically around the one furthest to the west. If you go left from where you are, you should find it.”

“Thank you, Oracle.”

“Now that one was genuine.”

“Hn.”

Bruce starts walking, following Oracle’s instructions. The warehouse sector isn’t super wide, but because of how similar things look, it’s more than likely that one would get lost in here without a guide. He’s walking for five minutes when he spots the first guard.

The man is dressed in riot gear, or at least a close approximation of it, with a small LuthorCorp logo stitched into the body armor over his heart. They’re definitely on the right track.

Bruce ducks back into the alley, behind a stack of boxes labeled as “glue sticks.” The man stops in the middle of the four-way path between the warehouses, does a lazy spin, barely scanning the area for anything, before walking back down the path where he came from.

He doesn’t seem especially motivated, but the gun strapped to his back tells Bruce that he can be dangerous. If a person could be dangerous, it’s best to treat them as such, that’s how you avoid getting surprised.

He’ll have to be sneaky.

He glances around, spotting a ladder leading to the top of one of the adjacent warehouses. It’s rusty and it seems like it’s never been used, but it’s probably the best thing to move undetected. Surprisingly, the thing holds his weight, and very quickly, he is leaping between warehouses, soaring over guards undetected. After around fifteen minutes, the warehouses start to clear out, and, surrounded by the same armed guards, is a warehouse marked with a monochrome LuthorCorp logo.

This one is out in the open, with around twenty feet of free space on each side. There’s nowhere to hide, and the guards are actually holding their guns.

Bruce checks his pockets. There’s a smoke bomb, a small knife, and a lighter in his right pocket, and a gas mask and small explosive in the other. Perfect. He’ll toss down the bomb and knock everyone out, then steal a key card to get in. Once he gets in, he’ll set off the explosive and get out. He just needs to double-check with Oracle.

“Oracle, are there any extra security measures that I should know about?”

Oracle types out a couple more lines, then replies. “It looks good. There’s just the key card.”

“Thank you.”

Bruce presses the button on the top of the smoke bomb, then lobs it into the group of guards down below. The effect is almost immediate, the small object starting to emit large puffs of gray smoke while the guards instinctually back away. As the smoke fills the clearing, Bruce dons the mask and jumps down into it, stumbling as he feels his stitches pull, then throwing a punch at the first guard-shaped silhouette in the fog. It hits with a harsh smack, Bruce’s fists dinging off the armor and causing him to wince. Despite the failed hit though, the guard is still disoriented by the mist, and Bruce has the time to slip his hand into his back pocket while he shakes off his other hand, grabbing the key card. It’s just as he planned.

It’s quite easy to find the front door of the warehouse, with the glowing lights shining ominously through the fog. He slides the key, opens the door, and slips in, closing it behind him.

The room is strangely empty. There are a few stacks of wooden crates decorated in hazard labels, but they appear sparse, and there’s nothing like the original larger shipping container they found on the Gotham docks around a month ago. There’s not even a single capsule out in the open. His side stings as he tunes back into the comms.

“Oracle, are you sure this is the place?”

“Uh, yeah, B, I’m pretty sure-”

Her statement is cut off with a sharp squeal, loud, inhuman, ear-piercing. It’s too loud, and it feels like it’s shaking his brain. He doubles over, the sound scratching into him, making everything too loud, too bright, too painful. He stumbles and falls, his stitches pulling at his skin. He scrambles for his earpiece, tossing it to the side and trying to stand back up. He needs to get out of here. His mind registers that Lex is talking, or at least a recording of him is, but as he manages to crawl to the side of the room and stand with support from the wall, it’s fading in and out, like he can’t hear it fully. He brings his hand up to his right ear, and it comes away bloody. Great.

His left ear is barely picking up words. From the flashing lights and sirens, to the absolute agony his body is in, it’s hard for him to pick anything more than a few words up. “...bomb…” “...twenty seconds…” “...never…” “...die…” From what he can glean, it appears he’s got a limited time to get out, or else he is getting burned alive. Wonderful.

He limps over to the door he originally came through and puts the key card up to the pad. It blinks at him with an angry red light.

“Shit-”

And suddenly there are arms. There are arms around him, and they’re big and strong, and the person’s pressed up against his back, holding him close to their chest. They’re protecting him, trying to take as much of the blast for him as possible. He almost wants to turn around, to tell them to get behind him, but when he sees the characteristic blue of his sleeves, he knows it’s useless.

Superman would never let someone else take the blow. He knows that.

There’s a loud bang (at least in his left ear), and the two of them are flung forward, heat circling around them.

Bruce hits the ground rolling, tugging his stitches again, almost to the point of ripping, and scraping up his face and knees. He’s in absolute agony, but grabs onto a fractured portion of the building, hauling himself back up onto his feet.

It looks like a war zone. The guards from earlier are scattered out around the clearing, along with large pieces of the building. A few of them are groaning, while the others are eerily still. There are black marks streaking from the center of the blast, the warehouse. Bruce pushes off of the debris, hobbling through the wastes to try and find an easier way out.

As he does, a bright shimmer among the wreckage catches his eye. It’s green, almost toxin-like in its brightness. The edges are rough, but sharp, formed into a thin crystal structure.

It’s a Kryptonite arrowhead.

Superman.

Bruce feels his heart leap in his chest. He needs to find him now.

He gazes back over the warehouse remains, now scanning for any colors not black or gray. All he sees is green. Green here, green there, green scattered in a million directions, embedded in surrounding walls, in the backs of guards, in the debris…

He limps over to the remains of a crane cabin, barely having the strength to pull himself up and into the seat. He gazes through the broken window and spots red beneath a toppled wall. It’s dark, and seeping out, but it’s nowhere near any of the guards. It’s him.

All that Bruce is focusing on is that pool of red as he scrambles over the terrain, holding his stitches shut and ignoring the scrapes and blown eardrum. He can deal with that later. Kryptonite poisoning acts fast, he needs to remove it as fast as possible.

Superman is lying beneath a wall, his head slumped down and a cut across his cheek. A singular piece of Kryptonite is sticking out of his shoulder, green veins spiraling out from the center. It’s lodged in, and his flesh, hot and inflamed, seems to be clinging onto it, blood barely leaking from the edges in thin rivulets.

Bruce needs to help him. It’s his fault, after all, that he ended up in the trap and needed to be saved. He was too stubborn, too injured, too unprepared to tackle this, and what happened? Something bad. Something bad always happens when he’s unprepared, when he doesn’t know what’s going to happen, when he underestimates his opponents, when he drops his guard. He shouldn’t have come.

Bruce reaches out with his right hand, his fingers painted in his own blood. His hand is shaking, quivering. If he grabs the shard now, he’ll only push it deeper. He needs to be careful. Bruce lets go of his side, grabbing his wrist to stabilize it. He winces out in pain as the stitches tug again, but keeps going. He doesn’t come first. Superman does.

The shard is humming ever so slightly, it’s as if it’s mocking him, taunting him to touch it, grab it, pull it out, and he does. The end is sharp and slippery with blood, but with a sharp tug, the piece is out.

Immediately, the wounds on Superman’s face and in his shoulder start closing up, along with the veins retreating back from where they came. It’s fascinating, watching the skin mesh and form back into a protective layer, leaving behind light scars. The cut on his face, its scar strikes through his freckles like a constellation.

Bruce finds himself staring. He’s used to seeing Superman as he is, large, imposing, and a protector of the world, albeit a friendly one. He feels larger than life, as if he’s embracing the alien part of his heritage to help establish a more intimidating mask for those against him. But here, with him passed out on the ground, his slicked-back hair coming back into its curls, his freckles clearly on display, he looks human. Well and truly human, mistakes included.

And Bruce doesn’t know how to feel about it. His stomach is in knots, but he’s not sure if that’s because of his injury or something else.

If anything, he should at least help keep him safe until he can wake back up. Bruce stuffs the piece of Kryptonite in his pants pocket, then takes off his overcoat. The shirt under it is soaked in blood, mostly his own, but a little bit of Superman’s as well. Great. He’s definitely not going to be able to hide this from Alfred. This is at least the fourth shirt he’s ruined since he’s started pursuing this case.

He shakes his head. He’s not the priority.

He gently rests the coat over Superman, hiding any of the bright colors of his suit with the dark gray fabric. Hopefully that will keep him safe until he can come to and recover on his own.

Now he can focus on himself.

Bruce stumbles back through the wreckage, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He doesn’t need to dial the number, as she has already been calling him.

“Bruce! Bruce, are you okay?”

“Oracle… can you please quiet down…”

“... Bruce, are you okay?”

“...”

“Bruce.”

“I need an extraction. Preferably with a change of clothes.”

“Bruce, what happened?”

“Lex set us up.”

“Well, I know that. He put up a shit ton of firewalls that I couldn’t get through for a bit, but when I did, you weren’t responding through the comm link.”

“I had to discard it.”

“Why?”

“He must’ve copied the sonic shield tech.”

“... Bruce, can you hear out of both ears right now?”

“I can hear fine.”

“That’s not what I was asking.”

“... no.”

“Bruce-”

“I’ll fill in the rest in the case file once I get back to the cave.”

“Bruce-”

He hangs up as he stumbles his way over to the non-exploded warehouses, leaning against them for support. He can feel his head starting to spin. He glances back once, spotting the trail of blood behind him. Well, that’s probably not good, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. Hopefully whoever picks him up washes away the evidence.

He turns and leans his back against the wall, sliding down slowly and coming to rest on the floor. He feels cold, and can barely feel his fingers. His vision is going slightly blurry, with the edges fading into a black nothingness.

He’s sitting there for a while, waiting, listening to the wind and the birds, the darkness inching ever closer. He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he hears chattering. Out of the corner of his vision, he sees a duo of taller men, one dressed in a navy blue Gotham knights sweatshirt, and the other in a crimson hoodie. He can’t quite focus on their faces, and he knows their voices, but he can’t quite place them.

He should know, but he doesn’t. He can hear them calling his name, can see them waving their hands in front of his face. He almost doesn’t register when the taller of the two scoops him up in his arms and carries him to a car, dark and sleek and familiar, and he certainly doesn’t register the car starting and driving off. They’re going fast, he can tell, and the two men’s voices are raised. He almost wants to chastise them, like they’re children again, to stop fighting and get along.

But they won’t. Things won’t ever be like they were. He should stop trying to reach into the past. He knows he won’t.

Then it goes dark.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he was awake, but when he does awaken, it’s to the sharp antiseptic smell of a medical room. The sight of the dark stalactites far above him further confirms his suspicions; he’s back in the Batcave, and in the med bay specifically.

Another cursory glance around the room makes him aware of another person in the room with him, fast asleep in one of the chairs off to the side of the operating table. It’s the same dark red hoodie as before, but this time his vision is actually clear enough to focus on his son’s face. Jason is slumped down in the chair, his head tilted back, lightly snoring as drool drips down his chin.

Bruce sits up, wincing as the new stitches in his side pull against his muscles. His head is still spinning a little bit, but the IV in his arm indicates that it’ll probably be fixed relatively quickly. He’s… a little bit surprised to see Jason here. As per usual, they had been fighting, and Jason had decided to go stay in Blüdhaven for a bit, to “try and get away from your stupid ass,” as he had said. Yet here he was.

Bruce swings his legs over the side of the table, grabbing onto the IV pole for support as he stands up and walks over to Jason. He looks peaceful, yet tired. Bruce hesitantly reaches out for his face, then stops himself. He’s probably just here out of necessity, or he needed to grab something before he left, or someone else asked him to watch him and he fell asleep. He’s not here for him.

He steps back, then leaves the med bay, rolling the IV with him. The stitches in his side seem stiffer this time around, as if the person doing them knew that he was going to try and do something stupid again. Wonderful. He briefly wonders how Alfred feels about… everything that just happened, then brushes it off and continues to the Batcomputer. Someone is already there when he gets there, though.

Tim is sitting in his seat, his hand running through his hair and his heel bouncing as he watches another simulation for the mystery chemical run through. There are bags under his eyes and a concerning number of empty energy drink cans around his feet, even for Tim. The computer lets out a short beep as the simulation finishes up, and Tim slams his face onto the desk. The properties of the resulting reaction are listed next to it: inert, nontoxic, safe. Another fail.

Bruce rolls up and places a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Tim?”

Tim lets out a screech and launches himself out of the chair and onto the ground, crushing the cans below him. “Wha- Bruce! Why are you out of bed?”

“... how long has it been since you slept?”

Tim narrows his eyes, then stands back up, brushing off his Nightwing-themed pajama pants. “You of all people shouldn’t be asking me that. Why are you out of bed?”

“... what’s the status of the warehouse in Metropolis?”

Tim rolls his eyes, but sits back down and pulls up the file. “Secure. Steph and Cass went in after Dick and Jason to clean up your mess, and most of the guards who were there are already out of the hospital. They say they don’t remember what happened, which is both a good sign and a bad one. It could indicate some sort of memory-wiping tech that Luthor-”

Bruce tunes out Tim as he reads over the report himself. There’s something missing.

“Where’s the Kryptonite?”

Tim stutters to a stop, looking at him incredulously. “What Kryptonite?”

“There was Kryptonite at the site, planted in the bomb to weaken Superman.”

Tim’s face hardens. “There wasn’t any there when those two went in to clean, and that was right after you passed out. Are you sure-”

“Yes, I am sure.”

Tim’s brow furrows. “Well, that’s not good. Why would it vanish?”

Bruce crosses his arms. “Lex doesn’t want us to know that he’s using Kryptonite again.”

“But why?” Tim’s heel is back to bouncing, and he’s grabbed a pen from the many scattered across the desk, twirling it around his fingers.

Bruce thinks for a second, then something crosses his mind. “... have you run Kryptonite through the simulation yet?”

Tim turns to look at him, then back at the computer. He reopens the simulation program and scrolls through the list of tested materials. It’s not there. Tim draws back and runs his hands through his hair again, then leans back in to type in the chemical makeup of Kryptonite. It’s a long formula, one that Bruce knows has been memorized by him front to back for reasons he doesn’t talk about.

The simulation only runs for a minute. The way the molecule forms and twists, then expands on itself, it looks all too familiar to something Bruce knows well. Something they all know well.

“Is that…”

“It looks like it.”

“... we need to tell Superman.” Tim looks stressed, the pen straining between his fingers. “You’ve got that League meeting coming up, right?”

“Tim, this could cause destruction now. We need to tell him now.”

“But if Luthor catches on to anything, he’ll just launch it early, and we won’t have any time to work out a plan. It’s better to tell him where no one else can hear.”

Bruce clenches his jaw, then turns from the computer. “If this happens early-”

“Then we can use the contingency plans. You made them specifically for something like this happening.”

Bruce’s heart clenches, for some reason. He… he doesn’t want to have to resort to something as drastic as that. He knows it’s weak of him, so he doesn’t make that clear. “... right.”

Tim, the psychic that he is, turns to him with a suspicious look on his face. He clearly caught the hesitant tone in his voice, but the way he turns back to the computer indicates that he doesn’t want to open that can of worms. “Right. I’m going to head to bed soon, you should do the same.”

“Alright.” Bruce grabs the IV and starts walking back to the med bay. Behind him, he hears the sound of the Batcomputer power down, followed by shuffling steps and cans being pushed aside.

He’s… worried. Well and truly worried. About Superman, about Gotham, about these strange feelings that keep getting in the way of his mission. He knows what they are, deep down, but he’s already been through enough. He can’t get more emotionally attached, especially in his field of work. They’ll just die or leave him, and he… he doesn’t want to experience that again. Besides, it’s unprofessional to date your coworker. Anyone who’s anyone knows that. So he’ll just jam these feelings down, and hopefully, he won’t feel them again.

Yet, as he walks back, he reaches into his pockets, feeling over the smooth, humming surface of the Kryptonite shard, still coated in dried blood. It’s like a heartbeat, like he’s holding someone’s heart in his hand, and for some reason, it reminds him. Reminds him of the curls, the freckles, the humanity of the man on top of the world.

And again, deep down, he knows he won’t be able to push them down.

Chapter Text

Clark feels sick to his stomach. Today is the monthly Justice League meeting for general upkeep and sharing information about what they’ve done in the past month. It’s one of the most relaxing and chill times during his month, when he can just zone out and listen to his fellow heroes talk about new training they went through or boring ceremonies they had to attend. It’s nice and relaxing, some of the few times when he can truly be himself, albeit without mentioning the “being a journalist.”

However, Lois was right. He is kind of going stir-crazy from the Luthor case. Lois had managed to find the new shipment, or at least what she had been informed was the new shipment, and instead, he had gotten a kryptonite chunk to the shoulder, and an even more confusing perception of Bruce Wayne. He can now add, “medically capable,” and “warehouse investigating” to his board, which had only grown busier in the weeks he had spent studying Bruce’s past.

After dropping out, he had apparently gone on some sort of self-discovery trip and came back an entirely different person. Before, he was a troubled kid who had a habit of ending up in juvie every few months, usually with his buddies right behind him, and when he had come back, he was a glamorous, although slutty, playboy philanthropist. It just… didn’t make sense, and judging from the cracks in his mask that he had seen, he was right in thinking that. He wasn’t really like that. In fact, it’s more likely that he was entirely different. What if he was a serial killer or something?

However, Bruce Wayne hadn’t been the only source of his anxiety. He was still worried about Batman, although it was in the back of his mind. Not in a “scared of him,” type of way, but rather, “he was acting weird,” type of way. Batman had always been a steady person, poised and scary towards people who didn’t know him. Yet the last time he had seen him, he was trailing off, staring at him strangely, and Robin had been the one to dismiss him. It was weird. Hopefully he could ask his friend about it today. Maybe.

The zeta ride is dizzying, as per usual, and when he gets to the Watchtower, the main area is empty. He had arrived a bit early, as his Ma had taught him to, and so he decides to go and sit down in the meeting room.

There’s a single person in the room when he gets there, standing at the wall of files with a focused expression on her face. It’s Wonder Woman.

She shifts her posture and expression as he enters the room. “Ah, Superman, it’s good to see you, my friend.”

He waves. “It’s good to see you as well.” He then walks over to join her in standing in front of the filing cabinets. “Is there something you’re looking for?”

She looks at him with a frown. “Yes, actually. I want to show you something.” She walks out of the room, Clark trailing behind her hesitantly.

He can hear the problem before he sees it. There’s loud clanging, like someone banging a wrench against the wall repeatedly. As the two of them turn the corner, he spots it. The door to the locker room is opening and closing rapidly, like a large, robotic mouth, and the panel to the side of it is sparking slightly. There’s a toolbox sitting below the door pad, a sign that someone was trying to fix it before.

“I found it like this and was trying to locate an instruction manual to fix it.”

“... I can see that.” Clark steps forward. The door lets out a hiss, as if threatening him to get any closer, then sparks at him, making the lights in the hallway flicker.

“I don’t assume you know how to fix it?”

Clark lets out a quiet laugh. “I’m more versed in vehicles and farm equipment than anything.”

“So that’s a no.” Wonder Woman lets out a sigh and leans against the wall. “It’s a shame, I had something in my locker and now I can’t get it.”

“What sort of thing?”

Her eyes brighten slightly. “A pottery sherd that I was borrowing for a research paper. I intended on working on it during today’s meeting, but without it, I’ll have to use my notes. Nothing is better than the real thing, though…”

Clark looks at her sympathetically. “I’m sure that someone can fix it before the meeting. Probably Batman. He is, after all, the genius behind most of the systems here. And he’s always early, so he can nip it in the bud without pushing the meeting forward too much. Not to mention his knowledge regarding electrical systems, and how prepared he always is, and-”

His rambling is cut off by giggles from his companion. Clark looks down at her- down? Clark looks down at his feet. He’s floated off of the ground slightly, now towering over the taller woman. He feels his face go red, and he floats back to the ground. “I… I apologize.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” She waves her hand at him. “Go on about Batman.”

Clark’s ears go pink and he rolls his eyes. “He’s a good leader. That’s all I was saying.”

Her laughter rings out again, and he feels small for probably one of the only times in his life. Then, something changes in her eyes. Her expression softens. “A good leader he is. But I think there is more to what you are saying than simply admiration.”

Clark shrinks under her intense gaze, and he responds quietly. “Maybe.”

Wonder Woman nods, then stands back up fully, placing a hand on his shoulder. “If there is something more to what you are feeling for him, the best way to deal with it is talking to him about it.” Her smile quirks to the side. “Maybe outside of work?”

Clark snorts, then nods in agreement. “Alright, I’ll… I’ll talk to him about it after the meeting.”

She smiles genuinely, then steps back. “Perhaps we should go prepare for the meeting.”

“Yeah… yeah, let’s go.”

The two of them head back to the room and sit in their assigned seats, waiting for everyone else to arrive. Slowly, as the minutes tick by, people start to trickle in. However, as the meeting approaches, Clark still hasn’t spotted Batman yet. It’s unusual. By the time there’s only five minutes left, he’s starting to feel concerned. With a man who is usually thirty minutes early, anything less is rationally concerning. Perhaps something happened in Gotham?

The meeting start time comes, then goes. The other members start murmuring amongst each other, all of them questioning where the Dark Knight could be. It wasn’t like they couldn’t start the meeting without him, he’s just known for being the one to lead them so that they don’t get off track and get nothing done. Without him-

The doors suddenly slam open, and from them, Batman enters. He’s tense, and his heart is beating faster than usual, and there’s a slight limp in his step. The entire room quiets as he enters, sits down at his seat, then clears his throat. His voice sounds hoarser than usual. “Let’s begin.”

Everyone suddenly scrambles to sit up and appear like they are paying attention. Batman is clearly sick or injured or some other type of thing, and if they want to avoid being raptured, it’s best that they act right.

Batman starts off the meeting talking about financial reports, a boring topic for everyone except for him. However, this time around, Clark feels like he’s on the edge of his seat. Batman keeps glancing over at him, his mouth in a tense line. His eyes feel like they are boring into him. Clark can feel himself literally sweating.

Unsurprisingly, the rest of the League is also strangely quiet. Everyone can tell that something is off with Batman, and none of them want to be the one to point it out or piss him off further, so the meat of the meeting goes strangely smoothly. No whining, no snoring, and certainly no interruptions.

Clark feels his thoughts going elsewhere. Every time Batman’s eyes sweep over him, they’re sharper, desperate, and he can hear his heart beating faster. It’s strange, as if he’s anticipating something from him. It makes Clark’s gut sink. What did he do that warranted this? Did he find out about his secret identity? Does he know that he’s been investigating Gotham? Or Bruce Wayne? It doesn’t feel good, and Clark can tell that he’s spiraling. At this point, there will be another cork board in his apartment, entirely dedicated to Batman, right alongside his Bruce Wayne one. Any thoughts of talking to Batman after the meeting have gone completely out of his head; he should at least wait for him to be less… sick? Injured? Whatever it is that’s making him like this.

Batman ends the financial report—at least Clark thinks that they’re still talking about that—and coughs lightly. “Does anyone have anything else to add to the report?”

There is a round of No’s from the rest of the League, and Batman sighs. “Alright, I believe that’s all the official business we have to discuss.” He then turns to Clark, a grim look on his face. “Superman, I would like to speak with you in private.”

Clark’s brain buffers for a moment, before his mouth catches up, albeit with less grace than he’d like. “W-what?” His heart is pounding in his chest anxiously.

“I need to speak with you,” he repeats, his voice inflection barely revealing anything. It never does.

“I-um- of course.” Clark stands, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders and the eyes of the rest of the League glancing between him and Batman. Walking out the door, Batman leading him, it feels like he’s dragging the Earth behind him. What… what could he possibly want to speak about?

The walk to the locker room goes by in a nebulous blaze, Clark barely keeping himself calm and present enough not to stomp through the metal walkways. His hands are shaking and sweating at the same time. They never do both, even in the worst situations. Maybe this is what actually kills him, Batman being mad at him about something.

The view outside of the large window opposite the locker room is beautiful, the moon, Earth, and Sun all visible in the vast inky darkness of space. It looks almost like a painting, the greens and blues of the Earth complementing the silver and blinding white of the other two celestial bodies. Despite its beauty, Clark still feels like throwing up. He can feel himself starting to anxiously hover above the ground as Batman starts off.

Batman goes still as he sees the clanging door. “... I should probably fix that at some point.” It feels like an attempt at a joke, maybe trying to lighten the mood, but it falls flat.

“M-maybe.”

Batman seems to notice the nervous tone in his voice, and his mouth falls into a deeper frown. Great. Wonderful. He seems even more upset. “You seem nervous.”

“Haha, what? No! This is… a conversation between friends. About…”

Batman’s face turns stony. “Yes. About something important.” His voice sounds harsh.

“... which is?”

Batman opens his mouth to speak, but seems to falter as a tinny voice comes through his comm. It… doesn’t have the sonic defense thing like he showed him a while back, which is unlike him. He would usually try to take every possible security measure, especially when it comes to confidential information that could be shared through comms. Perhaps he scrapped it?

Regardless, this means that Clark can hear what’s coming through. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but when he can hear a pin drop in Malaysia, it’s kind of not his fault. The voice is strong, masculine, and vaguely reminds him of the few times he’s worked with Nightwing in the past.

“B, did you go to the meeting?”

Batman hisses softly and speaks to Clark. “There’s something-”

“OH MY GOD, B!!”

Batman flinches again. Clark almost feels bad for him, then that rising feeling of dread reminds him that there’s something important at stake. “C-continue?”

“You need to get back now. I am not dragging your stupid ass out of the Watchtower like I did Metropolis.”

Clark’s heart drops. He was in Metropolis? When? Why did he have to get dragged out? He pushes all his questions away, noting them down for when he starts his other murder board.

Batman sighs, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “There’s something going on with-”

“B. Now.”

Batman grits his teeth.

Clark halfheartedly laughs. “Do you have duties elsewhere?” It’s mostly a ploy to get him out of this anxiety-inducing talk, but also a reason to get Batman to go back to his… house? (does he have a house?) He’s clearly hurting and needs rest.

Batman’s face flushes and he raises his hand to mute his comms. “You heard that?”

“It’s k-kinda hard not to.”

“This is import-”

The banging door beside them lets out a loud whine and slows to a stop, the metal screeching against each other. Clark brings his hands up to cover his ears, as does Batman, his face contorted in pain. As it squeals to a stop, there’s a loud banging from above, and suddenly the ceiling panels collapse under the weight of a pipe falling out of place, landing between the two of them with a clang. Not even a second after the pipe lands, Clark feels a cold, slimy liquid seep into his hair and down his face and shoulders. He splutters blindly, shutting his eyes and stumbling out of the random fountain as he wipes at his face and eyes. It has a sharp chemical taste, slippery and bright. He knows it from that one time his Pa tried to teach him how to fix his old car and he ended up getting soaked in all the wrong liquids in all the wrong places. It’s coolant.

As he finally wipes away enough to see, he notices that Batman is standing on the other side of the now-dripping coolant fountain, doubled over and a look of pain on his face as he also wipes coolant from his face. Clark, even through all the coolant, can smell the faint telltale sign of blood, sharp and metallic.

Clark straightens up and walks over to him, going around the leak. “Batman?”

Batman lets out a hiss of pain in response.

Clark frowns. This isn’t good. “I think you need to rest.”

“...th-this is important…”

He’s never heard him stutter, not even in the throes of battle. “No. This can wait. You need to rest.”

Batman looks up at him, a desperate look on his face, before giving up and leaning in to Clark. He’s warm, unnaturally so, and he can only now feel him shivering and sweating. Clark’s heart starts racing, this time for a different reason, but now is not the time for that. He puts his arm around his shoulder and starts to walk him towards the zeta tubes. As much as he wants to put him in an infirmary bed and care for him, Batman has made it explicitly clear that he would never receive medical aid in the Watchtower or from anyone aside from himself while he was still conscious. Even then, it was usually not him who took care of him.

The zeta room takes an excruciatingly long time to get to, and every time Batman lets out a quiet hiss or whimper, Clark can feel his stomach turning. Eventually, they get there, and Batman lets go of him to limp over to the console and type in his ID and destination. Clark wants to stand next to him, to assist him as much as possible, but he also wants to respect his privacy, so he stands back, and watches as the other man practically collapses into the zeta tube and zooms off.

Clark continues staring at the empty tube for a few more seconds, probably a bit longer than one should. Then, he silently walks over to the console, types in his ID and destination, then steps into the tube. He’s done for today. The ride goes by in a haze, as does his flight back to his apartment in Metropolis. He doesn’t feel good.

It’s only when the window shuts behind him that he breaks. He dashes to his kitchen sink, collapsing against the counter as he retches out his breakfast. His head is spinning, and even after everything is done, he can still feel his stomach churning with anxiety. What was that? What the hell just happened? Why was Batman acting like that? What did he want to tell him? What was so important as to shrug off a stab wound to come to the meeting?

Clark can barely hold himself upright as he stumbles into the bathroom. He doesn’t even take off his suit as he steps into the shower, curling up on the floor as warm water rains down on him and washes the coolant away. He can feel a tightness in his throat. He’s lost, so lost, and it’s making him feel like everything is out of control. He’s never been out of control, at least in this way, and it makes him feel powerless. Sure, he could go over to Gotham and ask him about what happened, but there was something about the way that he was talking that made it clear that it was a private, confidential matter that had to be discussed away from both of their cities. But what was it? What was that important?

Clark lets out a quiet sob into the mostly empty bathroom. He stays there long enough for the water to run cold, and it’s only then that he comes out of his dissociative state. He scrubs at his face as he exits the shower, changing out of his suit into a more comfortable set of pajamas. He quickly makes himself some tea and sits at the kitchen counter, blankly staring off into space. His Bruce Wayne murder board is directly across from him, the bright red thread covering up most of the pictures and ideas that he had made. On his nightstand, he can see the smaller stack of papers and photos that had originally been on it, and he sighs. He’s gotten much too wrapped up in… in everything, honestly. Batman, Bruce Wayne, the Luthor case… it’s all dragging on him. Making him miss things. Making him anxious about every tiny thing that happens.

He looks down at his tea, seeing his tired face on the surface of it. He needs to take a break. His thoughts seem to clear up a bit as he sips at it. He trusts Batman, deeply, so if he has something to say to him, he’ll manage to get the message to him as fast as possible. At least he hopes so.
Clark quickly finishes the tea, then goes and lies down in bed. He just needs to rest. Let his mind stop thinking for once.

Yet, as he lies there, his brain won’t stop running, and sleep does not come to him.

Chapter Text

Bruce has been “grounded” for three weeks at this point, and it’s starting to drive him a little bit crazy. The first week, he got blown up by Lex Luthor, the second one, he snuck away for a League meeting and tore his stitches, again, and the third week, he had been practically chained to one of the upstairs beds, Alfred watching over him. It was infuriating, and with the information that he had, it was also dangerous. He knew that Luthor would launch his plan any day now, and it was not something to take lightly. It could bring destruction to Metropolis, Gotham, or honestly anywhere, depending on where he launched it. Bruce needed to talk to Superman about it.

Yet, like he was a small child, Alfred had also limited his access to any of his technology. Something about “recovering from his concussion,” and “keeping him away from his work.” It was meant to help him stop straining himself, both mentally and physically, but if anything, it was only increasing his anxiety about what was going to happen.

Today wasn’t any different. Alfred had gone downstairs to prepare a meal for him, and he had been looking through some old paper case files in an attempt to distract himself. However, his mind kept drifting back to the plan. He needed to get out there, even if it risked Luthor trying to interfere.

He puts aside the case file he was looking at, before quickly standing up from his bed. He had mostly recovered from the infection he had gotten, and the actual wound had mostly closed up, so he only occasionally felt small twinges of pain from the slit and a mild fever. He detaches himself from the IV stand and sneaks to the door, checking both ways before slipping down the hall. He knows that if he is caught, by anyone in the house, he would definitely be put on lockdown until he fully healed, and he can’t have that.

The house feels strangely empty as he walks through it, but he blames it on it being early in the day. Most of them would be sleeping at this point, aside from maybe Tim, but even he knows when it’s beneficial to take a power nap. He finally gets down to the study where the entrance to the Batcave is, and opens the door to it easily. There are no alarms, and the door itself isn’t locked. It’s kind of suspicious, but he’s too focused on getting out of here to dwell on it for too long.

The elevator down to the cave is quick, and it soon opens up into the vast cavern of the Cave, various vehicles, machines, and memorabilia from past adventures decorating the walls. It’s dark, damp, and spooky, but after many years of being down here, it feels like home.

He exits the elevator and walks out onto the main platform, quickly slipping over to the Batcomputer. It boots up as he presses the “on” button, the screen bright and colorful in front of him. It slightly hurts his eyes, but he can work around that. When he types in the password and opens the Luthor case file, he hears a small “ahem” from behind him. His blood runs cold as he turns his chair.

There, standing behind him, are his children (and Stephanie), all of them dressed in plain clothes, none of them with an amused look on their face. Even Dick is there, and he seems the most ticked off out of the rest.

They’re quiet for a second longer, awkwardly staring at each other, before Bruce clears his throat and straightens up. “Good morning.”

Their faces scrunch up even more, but instead of responding, they step to the side, splitting his crowd of children (and Stephanie) down the middle. It’s dark behind them, but as he squints into the darkness, it takes form, rippling and shifting into a more humanoid form. It’s a skill very few people that he knows have mastered, being able to practically fade into the darkness to hide, but as she walks forward, her heels clicking on the metal flooring, he knows exactly who it is.

“Good morning to you too, Brucie.” Selina stands before him in a dark pantsuit, her arms crossed and a smirk on her face. “I hope I’m not intruding on anything too important.”

Bruce huffs out a breath through his nose, then crosses his arms as well. “Why are you here, Selina?”

“Wow,” she chuckles softly, “getting right to the point, are we?” She uncrosses her arms and looks down at him. “Your companions called me for help. They’re apparently just as bad at communicating as you are.”

Bruce narrows his eyes, then glances around her at the others. They’ve softened their expressions slightly, most of them avoiding eye contact. He looks back at her. “What about?”

“Well, they said, and this is their words directly, that you’ve been ‘acting a lot more paranoid than usual.’” She walks around his chair and sits down on the desk. “Now, I know you, Bruce, and I know them, and I know that if they’re telling me that you’re being paranoid, they’re telling the truth.” She trails off, almost as if she’s asking “what about?”

Bruce sighs again. “Something’s happening in Metropolis. Something big.”

Selina’s eyes flicker slightly, betraying a bit of hesitance at the mention of Metropolis. Strange. The hesitance vanishes as she continues. “And you want to get the information to Big Blue, right?”

He clenches his hands in his lap, then nods.

She smirks. “Alright. Well, you didn’t hear this from me,” she stands and walks back over to the others, “but it’s probably unwise to go through the Cave exit. Could be an alarm.” She spins back around to face him. “Besides, I think that your kids have something else in mind.”

Bruce looks at the rest of them. Their faces have shifted into expressions of determination, although Dick is still scowling at him. There’s a feeling of warmth in his chest, batting back the anxiety and despair. He stands from his chair. “Oh?”

Tim perks up from his place in the crowd. “We have some ideas on how to distract Alfred long enough for you to get out. I’ll send down a signal through the computer when it’s a good time for you to go.”

Dick spits out an additional addendum. “You have to promise that you won’t hurt yourself again, okay?”

Bruce sighs, then nods. “I’ll do my best.”

Dick hesitates for a moment, then turns back towards the elevator, clearly resigned. The rest of his kids (and Stephanie) follow behind, throwing encouragement towards him. Eventually, it’s just him and Selina.

“... once you get back, we’re talking about it.”

Bruce feels his chest clench up again. “... I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.”

“...” Bruce hesitates for a moment, before responding. “Fine, but we’re also talking about the other thing.”

Selina’s shoulders tense, before relaxing, a faint smile on her face. “Alright. I can talk about it.”

He nods again as she starts to walk off, before muttering out a quiet “thank you.” She turns back to face him with a genuine smile, before joining the rest of the crew in the elevator. The doors shut, and he’s left with his own thoughts.

He knows what she was referring to, his feelings towards the other man. It’s… not something he is quite ready to talk about, but maybe getting to talk about it will help his brain move on from it. He’s not ready for something like that, he’s… afraid, at least he thinks. He’s afraid of being vulnerable, of getting attached, of trusting someone, because time moves onwards, and things change, and eventually he’ll be longing for a past that no longer exists, one where he got too attached and lost someone. He always does. So maybe, at least until he can learn to move on with people, he can move on without it. He quickly dons his suit, equipping as many gadgets as he possibly can, then also slipping the chunk of Kryptonite from his escapade in Metropolis into one of his belt pockets.

It doesn’t take too long for the signal to come, a simple message on the Batcomputer telling him that they’re good to go. He enters the elevator and watches the cave disappear through the glass walls as he rises. Eventually, he’s back in the study.

Again, as he dashes through the halls, it feels strangely empty, but with the additional weight of his suit and the others’ involvement in his escape, it feels tense. He can distantly hear people talking as he nears the kitchen, so he turns away, taking a different, more convoluted path to the foyer. It’s easy, as he would expect, with the assistance of his family.

He turns the front door handle just as he hears someone clear their throat behind him. Not again. He turns to face the other person, only to see Alfred standing on the stairs.

“Master Bruce, I see that you are out of bed.”

Bruce clenches his jaw. “Alfred.”

Alfred starts to make his way down the staircase, his hands behind his back. “Where do you think you are going?”

“Metropolis.”

Alfred’s eyes narrow as he comes face-to-face with Bruce. He opens his mouth to speak, then hesitates as he sees his face.

“You can’t stop me, Alfred.”

Alfred sighs. “I suppose I can’t.”

Bruce straightens up. “I’m going to Metropolis to warn him.”

Alfred pauses, then continues. “Don’t pull your stitches again.”

Bruce feels a mix of emotions go through him, before turning back to the door and exiting the manor.

He bolts for the garage, opening it quickly and throwing himself into one of his cars, before tearing out towards the highway to Metropolis. There’s definitely quicker ways to get there, but this is the one that will be the safest for him, and there’s a lot more helpful tech in here than there is in one of the planes.

It takes him a few hours to get to Metropolis, the shining city rising up out of the highways and suburbs dotting the landscape. Among the skyscrapers, he can see smoke rising from buildings, almost as if they’re getting attacked. However, as he gets closer, the only thing he can see is the hero of the city, Superman himself, dashing between buildings in an almost erratic manner. It’s odd.

Bruce, once in the actual city, finds a spot to park the car, before swinging up onto one of the buildings, his practiced form hurtling through the air like a black bullet. Superman doesn’t seem to be stopping in his manic behavior, and Bruce can almost see how wide his eyes are. There’s a sinking feeling in his gut as he watches him, but he doesn’t have too much time to process it before he sees Superman hurtle through one of the buildings, sending debris spraying out in all directions. Now is the time to act, not watch.

Bruce swings down towards the street below, watching as the civilian crowd parts to avoid the debris. There’s a person who trips, and Bruce is barely able to grab them and move them out of the way before the slab of concrete smashes to the ground. The person thanks him graciously, tears streaming down their face, as he swings back up onto a different roof.

The golden globe of the Daily Planet shines above him as he watches Superman erratically move through the Metropolis airspace. He almost doesn’t notice the duo coming up behind him, but they don’t seem to be masking their location as they walk up behind him, and he turns around to face them.

The woman, who he now sees is Lois Lane, speaks up. “Batman? What are you doing in Metropolis?”

Bruce narrows his eyes at her and steps closer. He knows that she and Superman are close, if the many dating rumors in the tabloids say anything, so she would most likely know what’s going on. He chooses to disregard her question and ask her a question instead. “Do you know why Superman is acting like that?”

Her face flickers briefly, before she sighs and answers. “Luthor shot him with some sort of chemical weapon while he was on patrol. He came back here because he was panicking, and then he just sort of… checked out. He’s been flying around ever since.” There’s a short pause, then she continues. “I assume that that’s the reason you’re here.” She’s looking at him with some level of apprehension, but he pushes it to the side.

“Thank you, Miss Lane. You should get to safety.” He briefly sees a flash of annoyance across her face, but he doesn’t stick around to hear more. He turns from her and swings off, his mind running. This is exactly what he was trying to prevent. This was the plan that Luthor had been working on for months at this point, and now he had to be the one to stop it. Somehow. He stops on a taller building, rummaging around in his pockets. His hand closes around the cool syringe in his pocket and pulls it out. If he was right about the formulation, this would hopefully solve the problem. He stuffs it back in, the Kryptonite tip shining in the setting sunlight, and he swings off again. He just needs to intercept Superman, and he’ll be able to stop him.

The other man has started flying faster, smashing into more buildings, and Bruce can’t do anything about it. Thankfully, the streets have cleared, so there are no more risks of getting squished, but unless he gets him now, the entire upper level of Metropolis will be destroyed. He grits his teeth and swings again, trying to get into the path of Superman so he can hopefully grab on.

The opportunity comes much faster, and much more abruptly, than he thought. He swings once from a high-rise hotel, and is immediately knocked off course by Superman smacking into him. His grappling gun is wrenched from his hand, and he hears something crack in his hand, but he’s hanging off of Superman now, who is still dashing around like there’s not another superhero hanging around his neck. Bruce slightly shifts his grip and looks up at Superman, who, as he correctly guessed, is staring ahead with wide, empty eyes. He’s muttering, so quiet and so fast that he can’t quite comprehend it, but regardless, it checks off another box on the list in his head.

He’s staring ahead blankly, he’s muttering, he’s behaving erratically, and, to his slight disgust, he’s sweating an unreasonable amount, enough for it to be literally dripping off of him.

Yep, looks like fear toxin, but ramped up to the level that it would need to be in order to properly incapacitate Superman.

That day that they had run the Kryptonite and mystery chemical simulation, it had formed into a structure that looked nearly identical to the base of fear toxin, but this time with an almost puzzle-piece-like attachment that would connect with others of the same resulting chemical. That way, it could build itself up to be stronger and more potent, as well as mixing with the radiation from the Kryptonite to weaken Superman. It was a perfect plan, as there was very little that Metropolitans would have known about fear toxin and its effects. The blame would fall on Superman, and Luthor would have a bioweapon to further damage him in the future. In addition, it would make Superman more paranoid with it building in his system without an antidote, maybe cause him to cut off his friends, family, and coworkers. He’d be stripped of what made him strong, and that would leave a vacuum. A vacuum for someone else to come in and pose as the defender of Metropolis. A vacuum for Lex.

But that wouldn’t happen. Bruce won’t let it. As the two of them continue to fly around, smashing into a building every so often, he waits. Waits for the perfect chance to grab the syringe out of his pocket. It comes quickly, with Superman pitching upward. Bruce reaches down with one of his hands, but just as he manages to pull the syringe out, the other man swerves in the air, almost knocking Bruce loose and causing him to lose his grip on it. He watches as it falls, then shatters on the road below.

Shit.

He doesn’t have time to react before Superman swerves again, knocking through another building. Bruce grabs back onto him with his other hand, grabbing a fistful of cape as his other hand comes loose, leaving him hanging on by a thread. When they finally get through the building, Bruce is hanging off of his cape like a flag flowing in the wind.

Superman is still flying faster still, his muttering getting louder and more desperate. With some effort, Bruce grabs onto the cape like a handhold, pulling himself on top of the other man. He loops one arm around his neck as he reaches into his pockets for something else. Anything else that would help. His knuckle grazes a cold, slightly humming object. The Kryptonite. He grasps it, then pulls it out, his entire body buckling as they lose momentum, then start losing altitude. Clearly he’s lost control, and Bruce can’t figure out how to steer, so he resigns himself to grabbing around his waist and pressing himself as close as he can get, using Superman as a meat shield.

There’s a loud clunk as they land, followed by ice cold water and the brief sensation of drowning. Then, they break through the bottom of whatever they landed in, and the scent of sewage fills his nose. They finally stop, and Bruce detaches himself from the taller man with a groan. His stab wound is twinging slightly, but it’s not bleeding, surprisingly. His arms, however, are cut up, the usually strong armor flaking away in pieces. They must have taken most of the impact.

He briefly examines the wounds, before scrambling over to Superman, holding the Kryptonite out as a sort of barrier from the panting man.

Then, he looks at him, and there’s a cloudy, distant, panicked look on his face. There’s a slight shine in his eyes, bright red and glowing, but it’s fading as he brings the crystal closer. There’s a cut across his eyebrow, glistening in the dim light of the sewer. He suddenly whimpers and withdraws, his mouth moving in silent horror.

It only seems to be getting worse, and maybe the weakening effects of the Kryptonite are to blame. Bruce slips the crystal back into one of his pockets, then steps a bit closer, prepared to dodge out of the way.

But a hit never comes. Superman just continues looking up at him in horror, making quiet, terrified sounds in the back of his throat. He looks like a cornered wild animal. Bruce feels… sorry for him, almost. He crouches down, trying to appear as non threatening as a man in a bat suit can be. He knows that doing anything surprising when someone is under the effects of fear toxin can have some nasty effects, and when doing it with someone who can lift the moon with ease, there’s even higher risks.

He lets the familiar gravel of his voice go, shifting into something more gentle. “Superman?”

There’s a soft whimper, then an even quieter whisper. “B-Bruce?”

Bruce feels his heart drop into his stomach as he hears his own name tumble from the man’s lips. It’s… it can’t be. He can’t know. He must be hallucinating someone else. There are millions of people named Bruce, it’s not likely he’s talking about him.

“P-please, I’m sorry-” He sounds terrified.

“You don’t need to be sorry.” The response is almost natural. It’s what he might say to an abused kid or someone suffering from survivor’s guilt.

“I-I didn’t mean to! I didn’t- I wasn’t-” The man’s chest is rising and falling faster than it should, and his hands are shaking.

“I know that.”

“I-I only wanted to i-investigate, I-I swear!”

The responses are disjointed, entirely disconnected from what Bruce is saying. He frowns and backs up from him. His eyes do not follow the movement, just continue staring straight ahead at a person that is not there. This is going to be harder than he thinks.

“Please! You-you wouldn’t! You couldn’t!”

His voice is getting higher, cracked, desperate. Bruce walks around the side of him and kneels down. He reaches out to touch his face, trying to wake him up from whatever nightmare he’s having. He’s stopped by Superman’s gaze shifting away from the phantom to over the river of sewage flowing by. “B-Batman?”

Ah. Great, he’s having hallucinations about him. Bruce catches a tear rolling down his cheek as his eyes widen. “P-please don’t hurt him! I promise I won’t publish anything!”

Bruce can’t help himself. He has never shown interest in finding out his fellow heroes’ identities, fearing that he’ll owe them his own identity in turn. He’s afraid of his coworkers being disappointed. But there’s a tiny compartment in the back of his mind where he stores facts and information about them, where someday, when he finally feels secure enough, he’ll pull out the pieces and start to put them together. Today, especially now, however, is not the time.

He reaches out and gently touches Superman’s face, shifting back into his usual gravelly tone. “Superman.”

The effect is nearly instant. The fogginess in his vision clears up and his eyes snap to him, still streaming tears. “B-Batman?”

“Yes.”

“Wha- what-” He stumbles over his words a few times, glancing between what Bruce thinks is hallucination-him and the real him.

“You got drugged. I need to take you somewhere safer to recover.” Giving people a task to complete, be it just breathing or counting the number of tiles on a ceiling, tended to help in bringing them down from the fear toxin high. That and other grounding exercises. Of course, he didn’t expect the other man to fly them to a safe place, just name somewhere they could possibly go.

The other man’s eyes fog up again as he thinks. It takes a moment, his fists opening and closing as he tries to focus, but finally, he manages to make eye contact and stutter out a response. “L-Lois’s place. She- I-I trust her.”

Bruce nods. He knows where she lives from the countless hours of research and snooping related to the Luthor case. It’s not a far walk. He stands. “Do you think you can walk?”

Superman stares up at him blankly, then pulls himself up onto shaking legs, tears still running down his face. “Y-yeah, I should-”

He stumbles forward, and Bruce instinctually catches him, before slinging his arm around his shoulder and supporting him. There’s a beat of silence, followed by a quiet “thank you.” He hums in response, then pulls up a map of the Metropolis sewer systems in his cowl. The two of them start walking, taking the first right turn they come to.

It takes about a minute for Superman to start shuddering, his eyes wide. He’s muttering again, his mouth moving in silent pleas. Bruce feels him try to tug away from his hold, but it’s weak, and he stays holding on to him. He’s almost dragging him along, the taller man’s walking reduced to shuffling steps.

He speaks up softly. “Superman, focus. Count the lights.”

Almost as if to draw attention, one of the visibility lights flickers as they pass it. Superman’s eyes flit to the wall, and his mouth stops moving. They speed up after that. Clearly it’s getting worse.

Bruce can feel his own heart in his throat. As much as he is acting calm and collected, like he usually does with victims of fear toxin, he doesn’t feel it. There’s a deep level of concern for and attachment to his fellow hero, and an even deeper level of self deprecation for not being able to put the pieces together and stop it in time. He knows it’s not his fault, he knows that no one will blame him for it, especially not the other man, but it’s still… there. He’ll just stay rotting in his own shame and affections forever, and then the feelings will die with him. He’d rather die than be vulnerable and lose someone because of it. Again.

The final ladder up to the surface before Lois’s apartment building quickly approaches, and the two of them, albeit with a lot of support and shaking hands, manage to get up it. Superman’s shaking again as they get out onto the streets, which are still thankfully empty from the earlier incident. The clerk at the desk barely glances up at them as they limp into the elevator.

As soon as the doors close, Superman lets out a quiet whimper and looks over at Bruce, who is trying his best to stare at the floor as hard as possible. He doesn’t want to think about his feelings towards the other man anymore, but his presence is making that difficult. Superman grabs his arm, and he almost wants to jump out of his skin.

“Y-you won’t leave me, right?”

“... I won’t.” And he curses himself internally, because he knows he won’t be able to. He can’t just leave him. He cares too much. Curse the human impulse to care.

The elevator ride seems too long, and when it finally dings at Lois’s floor, it’s too loud. Bruce grabs him again, and the two of them walk down the hallway, dripping water behind them onto the nice-ish carpet floors. Her door is on the far end of the hallway. Bruce raises his bare knuckles to the door, then knocks.

Chapter Text

There’s shuffling behind the door, then the door opens to Lois, still dressed in her work clothes. There’s a look of confusion on her face that quickly transforms into concern and shock as she sees the state of the two men in front of her. She steps to the side and opens the door wider, and Bruce takes that as a sign to drag the two of them through it.

“Where’s the bathroom, Ms. Lane?”

She looks at him blankly, then snaps herself out of the haze with a shake of her head. “It’s, um, that room.” She points at an open door, and Bruce brings Superman over, before lifting him up and gently placing him down in her smaller-than average bathtub. It’s almost comical how big he is in comparison, if it weren’t for the distant look in his eyes and the soundless apologies slipping from his lips. He’s… always been kind and polite, but those aspects only seem to be amplified by the toxin to a concerning degree.

Bruce reaches over him and turns on the shower, letting the cool water run over him. He sits on the bathroom floor next to him, watching. “Superman.”

He doesn’t respond, instead closing his eyes and trying to relax his body. He’s still clearly not doing well, but the attempts at grounding himself are an effort. He hears footsteps behind him and turns to see Lois standing in the doorway, a bowl of cereal in one hand and a spoon in the other. She says nothing and sits down on the toilet lid, joining Bruce in watching over the other man.

Finally, after just a few minutes of the sound of water, she speaks. “So, how’d you know where I live?”

“Public records.”

He’s not looking at her, but he can almost feel the judgment from her. She huffs out a quiet breath, before switching the topic. “Do you know why he’s acting like this?”

“Is this an interview, Ms. Lane?”

“Just answer the question.”

“... fear toxin. It’s a… Gotham specialty.”

“Mm. Got it.” She goes quiet again, then asks another question. It really is starting to feel like an interview. “Why did you bring him here?”

“He trusts you to be a safe space for him.” He goes quiet for a moment, before breaching a more sensitive topic. “... you two seem close.” His heart aches as he says it, knowing that there’s a high likelihood that there’s at least something happening between them.

“I mean, yeah. He’s one of my best friends. I trust him with my life.” He can almost feel her squinting at him. “But that’s not really what you were asking, right?”

“...”

She sighs and shoves a spoon of cereal into her mouth. “We dated for, like, a month, but it didn’t really work out. He’s all yours, Batman.”

Bruce’s shoulders stiffen and he looks away from Superman for the first time since Lois sat down. “...”

“... what’s with the pouty face?”

Bruce looks up at her face in disbelief. He’s… he can’t. He won’t.

Lois puts the bowl to the side. “Why do you look like I just force-fed you a lemon? You like him, right?”

Well, he does. He doesn’t want to, and it’s certainly not his best idea, but he does. He does like Superman, but…

“We barely know each other.”

Lois squints at him. “What do you mean, ‘barely know each other’? He talks about you all the time.”

“We’re coworkers.” The words sting as they leave his mouth, but they’re true. They’re just coworkers, stuck in a weird limbo where they know more about each other than anyone else in the world, but they don’t even know each other’s first names. He can’t have a crush on someone he doesn’t know.

Lois’s eyes widen. “Do- do you guys not share your identities with each other?”

Bruce feels his frown deepen. “No.”

“Why?”

And what is he supposed to say to that? Abandonment issues? Trust issues? Issues in general? Fear of disappointment? He stares up at her silently, then back at Superman, who’s breathing has slowed into sleep.

He doesn’t even talk about these sorts of things with his family, let alone people he’s met a couple of times, yet there’s something about her that makes him want to spill. Maybe just something small.

“I… don’t want him to be disappointed by who I am.”

She lets out a quiet snort, which Bruce thinks is entirely not appropriate for the mood. He’s just poured out his heart for what feels like the first time since he stood in that alley, and she’s laughing?

“Why are you laughing?”

“‘Cause he’s Superman! He’s literally one of the nicest, most welcoming people you’ll ever know, and you’re afraid he’s gonna be disappointed?”

It does sound kind of silly when she says it. He feels the blood rush to his face from embarrassment, and he goes to say something else, but she interrupts him.

“I’m gonna go make myself a cup of tea, and you can figure out what’s actually up with Big Blue himself.” She stands from the toilet, taking her half-empty bowl with her. The bathroom seems strangely quiet without her in it, and the sound of water hitting tiles is all that is distracting him now. He sits, staring at the sleeping man in front of him, before sighing and gently reaching over to poke him awake.

The man startles awake, his eyes wide and afraid in the split second before he processes where he is. Then his eyes soften and he looks at Bruce properly for the first time that day. No fogginess, no tears, and no fear. Then, a look of… guilt? Shame? Something of that sort, appears on his face, and he looks away from him.

“I-I’m sorry.”

Bruce squints at him. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Nothing for either of them, he has to remind himself.

Superman shrinks in on himself. “I’m sorry for having you come all the way out here, I’m sorry for probably injuring you, I’m sorry for whatever it is you wanted to talk about last week-”

“Superman.”

He stops rambling and turns back towards Bruce.

“I… you don’t need to apologize. None of what happened was your fault.” He squints again at the final apology. “... what I wanted to talk about last week was warning you about what was going to happen. It’s… if anything, what happened today was my fault.”

“What?!” Superman straightens up in the tub, an upset look on his face. “It’s never- what? You were injured! You shouldn’t have been at the meeting at all! It’s not your fault.”

Bruce huffs out a soft breath. “Maybe if I hadn’t been so paranoid about a message getting intercepted, I could have-” There’s a hand on his shoulder before he finishes his thought.

“It’s not your fault, Batman.” The other man is staring at him intently, his bright blue eyes wide and caring.

Bruce wants to believe him, he does, but… what was he even thinking about? Superman is looking at him with such care and holding him so gently, even though he knows he could do a lot worse. It’s nice and- damnit, not again. He can’t be doing this. He awkwardly coughs and pulls his arm away.

“I guess it’s not.”

He can almost feel how bright the other man’s smile is. Maybe… maybe he could do something about this. Open up to another person. Share… be vulnerable for once. It would be nice…

“Superman, can we talk about something else?” Bruce looks over at the man as he asks, and a brief flash of something akin to fear goes over his face. Maybe not.

“Y-yes?”

“... never mind.”

It’s awkward, the silence in the bathroom again. Bruce wants to curl up in a ball and throw himself into Gotham Harbor in embarrassment, but he knows he can’t show it. He’s not ready for that much vulnerability.

“... th-thanks for saving me.”

Bruce responds with a curt nod, still avoiding looking at him.

“... it means a lot. I… I don’t know if I could have stopped myself.”

“... people rarely can. It usually takes an antidote.”

“Oh. I… um, you didn’t give me an antidote, though?”

“... or grounding techniques.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s it.”

They fall into another awkward silence for a moment, before he continues talking, sounding more sentimental.

“I… gosh, it sounds silly now, but I truly thought that you were going to die in my hallucination. I… it felt like the worst thing that could happen to me. I guess that shows just how much you mean to me, Batman.”

Bruce feels his face flush and he finally meets Superman’s gaze. “... you mean a lot to me too.”

He wants to trust him so much it hurts. There’s yearning clawing at the bars of his ribcage, yearning to be loved back, to be trusted back, to be known back. It feels hungry, and there’s a buffet on the other side of the cage. He knows this. He knows that he won’t hate him, he just doesn’t want to lose him.

His hand reaches up, then back down, before finally committing to it and sliding his cowl off.

He’s scared to look. He keeps his eyes trained on his cowl, now in his lap, waiting for Superman to say something. When he doesn’t, he breaks the silence.

“I understand if… this… changes your feelings about me. It’s fine if you don’t want to be friends or work together anymore, I just had to get this off my chest. I, just, trust you so incredibly much, and-”

There’s a shocked-sounding laugh that cuts him off. “B-Bruce.”

It’s like ice, but not unpleasantly so, the way that his name sounds coming out of Superman’s mouth. Sharp, casual, refreshing, it’s… nice. It’s nice. He looks up, and he’s smiling. Shocked, but still smiling.

“I… I don’t want to stop being your friend, Bruce. Not by a long shot.”

He wants to cry, but that’s still too much emotional vulnerability for a single day, and he’s already given out enough. He distantly reminds himself to mask his actual expression and he feels it shift into a neutral look.

“Well, that’s good- Great. Wonderful. Friendship.”

“Friendship.” He pauses dramatically. “In which I also trust you greatly.” There’s a flash of movement, almost too fast for him to notice, and suddenly Superman is standing behind him, his hair out of the usual slicked-back style and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses on his nose. Glasses he’d know almost anywhere.

That’s. That’s Clark Kent.

He’s staring down at him expectantly, but Bruce can’t think of anything productive to say other than “yeah, actually, that does make sense.” Superman, a Daily Planet reporter? One who he had run into a shocking number of times in the last few months? Maybe the universe or some other higher power had planned this all out. Planned that they’d run into each other a total of… god, eight times?

“Wow,” is all he says, his mind combing through their interactions. How had he never noticed? Maybe he had, but just shoved it down to distract himself. “We have run into each other a shocking number of times.”

Clark thinks for a second, then snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s weird. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalking me.”

Bruce can’t help but let a slight smile come to his face. “You do know better, though. That is definitely something I’d do.”

“Yeah, it is.” Clark looks practically radiant as he laughs again, his face stretched wide. “I think I owe you at least a couple of shirts from how much I’ve spilled on you.”

“Yeah…” Bruce winces and reaches up to run his fingers through his slightly damp hair.

“Or some drinks.”

Clark seems to notice the boldness of his action about two seconds too late, and his face flushes bright red, before being buried in his hands. Bruce’s brain buffers and he can also feel blood rushing to his face. He likes him. He’s at least willing to admit that to himself. He likes him in both forms. He can’t stop a cheesy smile from forming on his face and he stands up to meet Clark.

“I’d be willing to take you up on that offer.” He lets a bit of Brucie bleed through as he responds, gently pulling his hands away from his face. “There’s a nice place in Gotham downtown. I think you’d like it.”

Clark looks down at him with admiration in his eyes, his face still flushed red. He smiles.

“I’d love to go with you, Bruce.”

And his heart soars in his chest.