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“I didn’t need help,” Bruce says, shaking out his hair while shucking the Batsuit. “It’s not personal.”
“Oh,” said Clark. Can’t help but watch toned, scarred skin being revealed until, fuck, Bruce is looking at him and, wow, his face is neutral. A storm approaches. “Well, it kind of seemed that way when you were dangling above the river. Without the grapnel. Two hundred feet up.”
“I had it under control,” Bruce says forcefully.
“But—”
“I don’t need you, Clark,” Bruce says and something in Clark shrinks away as if slapped.
All his life, he’d been needed. By Ma and Pa, though they tried to never let him see it, but harvesting corn was so simple at a tenth the speed of light. By Metropolis, who needed him to set wrongs to rights, rescue cats from trees, and uphold the faith that everything in the world was going to be just fine. And now with the Justice League; trillions and trillions of sentient creatures need Superman, love Superman because of what he protects them from.
It was the thing that ended his marriage with Lois: the world had always needed him more than she had, and that need was something he couldn’t ignore.
I feel like I only have a part of you, Clark, she’d said. Like I’m leasing you from the rest of the world until something bad happens, and then you’re gone for hours or days before I get you back. I can’t live like that. I deserve better.
She was right: Lois always had been able to slice through bullshit.
Bruce—well, Bruce had always been good at slicing through Clark.
Clark follows Bruce into his bedroom, the secret one just off the cave. Dank and moody, opposite of the light and airy rooms upstairs. Regular life, secret life. Day, night.
“You can’t deny that sometimes it’s helpful to have backup that can fly. Or see through walls. Or—”
“When I ask for it.” Bruce whirls around. “I don’t ask for you to swoop out of nowhere, like a goddamn red and blue knight in shining armor, rescuing me from a situation I very much have under control.”
“You’re not even a bit grateful? That you didn’t have to spend thirty minutes hauling yourself up, scraping your palms and tearing off your nails, just to not accept my help? I want to help you, Bruce.” Clark gestures wildly. “Helping you was easy .”
Clark knows that’s the wrong thing to say as soon as it comes out of his mouth.
“Oh, fuck you, Clark. Fuck you. What’s the point of going on patrol, then? If I’m not efficient the way you are. Should I sit around and call for Superman every time I see a mugging? Hail you like a cab? Just because you can take care of it in two seconds instead of five minutes?”
“Now, baby, you know that’s not what I—”
“Do not follow me on patrol. I mean it. Just because we’re involved does not give you carte blanche over what I do at night.” Bruce inhales, and Clark can sense that he’s nearing the punchline. “You are not needed , Clark. I do not need you. Not on patrol, not in Justice League meetings, not even at the fundraiser galas when you feel the urge to protect me from people I’ve spent my whole life glad-handing! I do not need you, and for once I wish you would get that through your fucking head!”
“Alright,” Clark says. His chest caves in. “I got the message,” and he does. Bruce doesn’t want him, Bruce doesn’t need him. He's got a whole Rolodex of people on call that are sexier, smarter, more well-read than Clark. What else does Clark have to offer, other than his help?
“Good,” Bruce says.
“I suppose I’ll just—head home then.” Clark jerks his thumb at the door, and Bruce nods.
There are a lot of things in the room that’ll need to be collected. A pair of red flannel pants draped over the desk chair, too ugly to be anyone but Clark’s; the glasses case on the nightstand; spare suits in the closet for when he has work the next day. The comb in the bathroom he can leave, he thinks. That’ll be thrown away by Alfred within twenty-four hours, or maybe moved to the upstairs bathroom, mystical realm of travertine tiles and light, filed away for Bruce Wayne’s rotating cast of guests.
Bruce hasn’t left yet, is still looking at him, silhouetted in the bathroom door, stark naked. Completely unbothered by his nudity—why would he, when each scar is proof of his strength and cunning? Half of Gotham has seen the view anyway. Neither needed nor special, Clark thinks, and isn’t that a horrible thing to know?
“Don’t follow me again,” Bruce says as he closes the door like a death knell, and the last thing that Clark hears before leaving from the balcony, material possessions in hand, is the sound of the shower running.
Of course Bruce notices the absence of Clark’s stuff in his room: being observant is his job. Far more surprising is that he shows up at Clark’s apartment the next day, swinging through an open window as Clark turns off the living room lights to go to bed.
(Clark heard his heartbeat an hour ago—he tracks it unconsciously. Bruce would flip if he knew).
“Clark.”
“Batman,” Clark says flatly. Bruce has a policy of only using codenames in the suits or outside the cave. He had said it was for safety, but even while flying at Mach 4 over the Atlantic, he’d enforced that rule, so Clark had figured it was just another one of Bruce’s isms that allowed him to compartmentalize day and night for twenty years. True to form, he’d never seen Bruce unmask anywhere but the Cave, and Bruce had suggested that Clark do the same, which he’d promptly ignored.
The wall of black standing in his living room winces, then gathers and tries again.
“I came out of the shower last night and you were gone.” The grapnel slithers back into his gun with a mechanical whirring sound, and Batman holsters it.
“I told you I was leaving.”
Clark knows he doesn’t want to ask the more uncomfortable question, which is what happened to your stuff?
Batman crosses his arms. “I didn’t have work until two the next day. You could have slept over.”
“I figured I’d save you the trouble of moving things out.”
“Moving out?” Batman ghosts through the living room, lit by the full moon. “What did I say?”
“What did I say? ” Clark scoffs. “I got the message loud and clear. You don’t need me.”
“I asked you not to follow me on patrol. I feel like that’s not a hard boundary to respect.”
Clark is too tired to play semantics. Secrecy, codenames—everything in service of the mask. Bruce’s double life, with Clark neatly boxed into the category of Batman. It was enough for a while, and now it’s not.
What Clark wants is to be left alone, at least until he patches over the chasm in his chest.
“I’m really not in the mood to speak with you right now. I’m going to sleep.” Clark turns around and walks into his bedroom.
“Clark.” Batman catches the bedroom door as it swings shut and follows him inside.
“Go home, Br- Batman .” Clark turns around at the nightstand and pins a glare at the shadow in the doorway. He knows the mask has night vision; the Batman can make out his features just fine.
“Okay, so it’s about what I said. I’m sorry. Maybe I could have said it more nicely.” The metallic rasp of the Batman voice trying to deliver a half-ass apology is pissing Clark off.
“You meant what you said, though, didn’t you? That you don’t need me?”
“Yes.” The word is gruff.
“Then that’s all there is to say, then. Why would I want to be part of your life if I’m not needed, Batman?” Clark punctuates that last word with something vicious, and it’s almost worth it to see the Batman flinch. “You made that very clear.”
“I—”
“I don’t want to see you,” Clark cuts off. He’s had enough. “Go back to Gotham, or Bludhaven—hell, I don’t care, just leave me alone, please.” he says. The figure actually freezes, stands still for a moment while the words pummel him, and then Batman unconsciously steps forward before jerking still.
“Clark, I—” The figure reaches up and yanks off the mask. Bruce’s eyes are silvery in the light of the bedroom, forehead and hair sweaty from patrol or whatever ridiculous acrobatics he did in order to get through the window of a fifth-story walkup, and for one traitorous moment, Clark’s heart leaps before his brain stomps it back down.
“What.”
“I don’t need you, but that doesn’t matter—”
“My god, Bruce,” Clark says. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me. This won’t get in the way of our work, I promise,” because no matter what, saving the world always comes first.
“No, this isn’t coming out right,” Bruce says, grimacing as he scrubs a hand over his face. When he continues, he picks his words carefully. Pleadingly, even, or the slightly-less-gruff voice that counts for pleading. “Clark, I don’t need you to x-ray a wall for me. Or fly me somewhere; or follow Sionis for me, or even fucking hang a painting on the wall for me. All those things, I can do myself, or at least try to. They’re not special.”
Clark wants to jump in and say, no I don’t really mind because I want to and that’s all that matters, but Bruce soldiers on, eyes like mercury.
“I said yesterday that I don’t need you, and I don’t. I’ve trained for over twenty years to not need a Superman, to be that hero for Gotham, and I would be betraying myself if I let you take over patrol. Or attend the galas. You're needed elsewhere, and I know Gotham.” And that kind of stings, but it’s true. Clark opens his mouth to speak, but Bruce keeps talking, “I don’t need you, and I do a lot of things to make sure I don’t. Professionally, that is.”
Here Bruce takes a deep breath, and shifts on his feet. “And despite all this… I find myself needing you anyways.” He cracks a small, helpless smile. “Wanting you around. Your company. Not because of what you can do for me, or how many lives you save every day. But because of you.”
Bruce comes closer and sets the cowl on the nightstand. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I know, and I’m sorry. But I don’t want you to have to worry about me, and I do all these things to keep it that way, because it would kill me if I’m just another person you save. I—” and this is where Bruce stumbles, but he’s well-versed in enduring painful things, so he grits out—”I really… care for you, Clark, and I—I would hate it if you thought I didn’t.”
Bruce not only wanted him, but needed him. Cared for him, and maybe even loved him, though he’d never say it in those exact words. And Clark had used his superspeed to surgically, efficiently excise himself from Bruce’s life.
Fuck.
“You’re not an obligation. I want to help you, and I won’t apologize for it. Hauling up the Batmobile takes me two seconds. And if you don’t want that, then that’s basically as good as saying you don’t want me. In any form.”
“Clark. Fuck.” Bruce hesitates, then pulls Clark into a full-bodied embrace, hands crossed awkwardly behind Clark’s back like he never does this. He probably doesn’t: Bruce is the furthest thing from a hugger. But he knows Clark is, so maybe that explains it. Bruce’s voice is stilted when he says, “Batman, Bruce—even Wayne. None of it changes anything, you know.”
Bruce Wayne had been caught flirting with Clark Kent on multiple occasions, but Clark had always chalked that up to Bruce’s profligate cover, rather than something more profound. Maybe that hadn’t been a cover, after all. Just another side of Bruce, quashed by the cowl.
Clark buries his face where the sweat builds up over a night of patrol—the line where the Gotham air clings and mingles with the sweat, makes him smell like salt and smoke and gunpowder. It’s the smell of Bruce, and Clark draws over himself like an emergency blanket.
“I love you too, Bruce.” he says, which he really should have said earlier, and the arms draw even tighter around him because for all that Bruce is good at inferring, Clark’s never actually said it out loud until now. “But I really don’t enjoy being yelled at. Particularly for things that aren’t my fault.”
“I was frustrated, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
It was almost an apology. Bruce must really be sorry.
“Hmph,” Clark sniffs. “Don’t do it again.” Bruce makes a sound of acknowledgment somewhere near Clark’s left ear.
Clark presses a kiss to the side of Bruce’s neck, and some of the tension in Bruce’s arms releases.
Now things make more sense. Bruce had said he didn’t need him because he was grasping for independence— trying to show that he could be an equal partner to Clark.
Being the only human in League leadership is an insecurity—though in his painstakingly formatted slide presentations, he calls it a “security vulnerability” or "operational oversight”—Bruce has voiced on multiple occasions. Clark hadn’t thought much of it; Batman makes up the brains, the spine of the League. Ripped out, and the organization collapses.
But maybe he should have examined how deeply Bruce believed that. Evidently, enough that it had impacted their relationship. Even worse, Bruce would have perceived it as his failure, of separating personal from professional. Unsurprising, then, that Bruce would be harboring a simmering resentment.
As complicated as the man’s system of personalities is, Bruce himself is almost laughably simple. He feels vulnerable; he lashes out.
Clark reluctantly untangles himself from Bruce.
“You should probably go on patrol,” he says, trying to keep his mouth from twisting unhappily.
“I already asked Robin to cover for tonight,” Bruce says, standing up and starting to take off his armguards, still looking at Clark. “I’m in Metropolis for the foreseeable future.” The armguards plunk heavily on the nightstand. He freezes. “Unless you don’t want me to stay over? I can—”
“Stay.”
Clark watches Bruce pile armor plates onto the cheap IKEA armchair in the corner, borrow Clark’s toothbrush and perfunctorily scrub his face before turning off the bathroom lights and pulling back the coverlet on the other side. After some tossing and turning, Bruce settles next to Clark, twining their fingers together. Clark turns his head, taking in the sights and sounds of Bruce in his bed, spending the night. Both types of home in one place.
“Good night, Clark,” Bruce murmurs from next to him, quiet and assured, and Clark falls asleep to the sound of the desk fan Ma bought him for college and Bruce’s heartbeat, strong and steady next to him.
Not needed, no. But wanted, and that’s good enough for him.