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Bruce stalked over cement that shimmered like graphite, the asphalt slick from rain and petroleum, glimmering with the lights of Gotham. Thunder rattled overhead, blew a torrent in his face. Wind battered his cape and screeched through skeletal foundation. The tempest didn’t stall him. Rather, it fueled Bruce’s desire. It gave him a dark that blotted out the sun, like an offering from some unknown force.
Bruce narrowed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and dug his boots into the ground as he pulled limp weight out from a crater that once was a road and piping. Superman’s cloak twisted in his hand, the downy fabric a sharp contrast to the harsh bite of the scene. A toppled water tower continued to glug as the torrent filled cracks and holes. Lightning broke apart the night to illuminate splintered walls and the desperate mark of fingerprints embedded into steel.
His thighs burned, a sharp ache in his temple where the cowl had been dented, blood metallic in his throat as he spat on the ground. Bruce had known this day would come. He’d prepared. His life had been dedicated to protecting Gotham from every threat that turned its eyes on her. He didn’t cower beneath the might of a Kryptonian alien.
Invincible?
Nothing was without vulnerability. Without weakness.
The hiss and crunch of Superman’s lank body filled him with a righteous vindication. This being, that had blasted himself into the light of the world, claiming to be a beacon of justice, a symbol of hope, an emblem of kindness?
He was a lie.
If it were that easy, Bruce would never have cloaked himself in shadow. He wouldn’t have become the Dark Knight. Superman was everything Bruce knew the world could never be, even if that trinity was everything the world needed.
It’s a clever deception, proclaiming transparency while grooming the masses for subjugation. Bruce understood deception, too. Superman smiled, then plotted. Bruce snapped his cape, then struck with his batarang. The Kryptonian figured out that fear festers in what people don’t understand—what they don’t know—and so, he pretended to let the world know him.
Except for the Fortress filled with advanced weaponry in the arctic.
Except for the hidden, military-trained Kryptonian soldiers like Kara-El.
Except for the damning fact that his parents sent him here to rule over humanity.
Bruce halted, panting, then ripped off his cowl and tossed it to the ground. The relief on his temple was immediate. He blinked up at the abandoned block of buildings before him, a part of Gotham that had yet to recover from the Riddler bombings. Every day, evil crept up from the crevices of cobblestone and glass like vines, burrowing into the infrastructure of all Bruce worked to keep safe. He whacked at the overgrowth, poured chemicals on it, ripped it out with his bare hands, but it always grew back stronger. More determined. More alien.
“Please. Batman.”
Bruce grit his teeth and yanked the cape in his hand, dragging Superman a few more yards. Then, he dropped his hold and curled his lip at the being. It’s unbearable, how human Superman looked. How beautiful. How trustworthy.
More deceptions, Bruce knew.
Superman’s lashes fluttered, his chest heaving as he rasped for each and every breath. Why did he bother? They both knew he didn’t need to breathe. An unfocused gaze searched out Bruce, locking on his face without the cowl. A whine hit the back of Superman’s throat. Bruce turned his gaze on the source of the sound, took vicious satisfaction in the poisonous infection that curled up and over once sun-kissed flesh. How long will it take the Kryptonite to kill him?
“Batman. B-Bruce, I’m not going to hurt anyone. Hurt you. I—”
A howl cut off Superman’s words as Bruce stomped on the green element already lodged in the Kryptonian’s side. It slipped deeper between his ribs. The scream ratchetted up, only to be caught in the hale and whipped away.
“Stop talking.”
Lank hair fell into Bruce’s eyes. He pushed it back with a gloved hand and stepped forward, slinging a foot over the prone form before him, his boots caging Superman in by the hips. Then, he settled down, one knee on the ground, the other moved to press into Superman’s sternum, locking him in place. From his utility belt, Bruce produced a meticulously constructed blade of Kryptonite.
The ill hue of it reflected in blue eyes. Stunning. Otherworldly. Superman’s lids fluttered again and he let out a low sob. “I’m s-so sorry. I—” He choked on a gargle, like blood had made its way into his throat.
Bruce’s suspicion was confirmed when Superman coughed and red splatters painted plump lips.
And Bruce … hesitated.
The sureness of the moment wavered at the appearance of that blood. Those injuries. The nauseating humanness of Superman’s agony.
The lapse of unknowing pulsed, then faded, replaced by a resurgence of hate so deep in Bruce’s core that it lanced up into his mind, sending a bolt of white-lightning beneath his skin until he was covered in gooseflesh. Bruce sneered down, thrilled by the defeat in Superman’s features. “You did this.”
“I know,” Superman whispered.
Bruce adjusted his grip on the Kryptonite. He’ll end the alien and be done. Done with protecting. Done with vigilantism.
Bruce had a no-kill code for a reason. It’s not because he always believed sparing a criminal was the right thing to do. Of course not. But there had always been a part of Bruce that teetered too close to the ledge of corruption. A part of him that knew, if he wasn’t a hero, he would likely be a villain.
But this kill … it was necessary. His final act as Batman. His last blow, like a parting kiss to his city. Bruce’s hand shook, nostrils flared on the fury that screamed within him. How dare Superman bask in the sun and laugh with the people like he was strength incarnate, good incarnate. Bruce hated him for it.
He could never be those things. And that was fine. Bruce didn’t need any of that. But he wouldn’t watch a liar poison a future he had only ever dared to dream of.
It was a dream.
It wasn’t real.
And Bruce despised Superman for pretending otherwise, just so he could snatch the promise away with a cruel twist of deception.
A weak hand clasped at Bruce’s hip. Familiar. Eerie in how right it felt. The warmth, the comfort, the low pulse of something more. A pained keen left Superman. “I should have been there for you, Bruce. Should have loved—”
Bruce slipped the Kryptonite blade into Superman’s heart, cutting off whatever words might have been shared between them. A shock of blue burned toward him as Superman’s eyes widened in surprise, before settling into death with a grief that had Bruce’s skin clammy.
Ice slithers in his veins. His lips tremble. The hand not holding the kryptonite curls back into a silken cape as the body before him sags. Listless eyes cast themselves unfocused and dull past Bruce’s shoulder.
The loathing and fury that he’d felt with the weapon in his hand fades away.
Horror curls in Bruce’s gut as he puts numb fingers against a pale cheek. His voice cracks. “Clark? Kal?”
His heart calcifies at the realization of what he’s done, of who he—
Bruce wakes with a gasp, paralyzed, his heart hammering. His limbs are locked up, blocks of lead where there should be muscle and flesh. He sucks in a stuttering breath, tries to blink through the tightness in his eyes. His vision blurs. The only source of heat he can sense comes from the fiery trails of tears that splice down his cheek and a bar clenched about his waist.
He tries to open his mouth and wail, but all that works its way out is a pitiful moan.
The bar on along his waist tightens, shifts, and Bruce has a sudden awareness of a weight on his chest, a line of heat against his left side. A sigh breaks into the silence of the room, then a slurred voice. “B? ‘S’wrong?”
At Clark’s sleep-rough tenor, Bruce begins to tremble.
He’s alive. Clark—Kal—Superman—is pressed against Bruce, his heart pumping, his breaths even. Bruce tries to speak again, tries to move so he can cling to his husband. But he’s still frozen in place, caught somewhere between his nightmare and the waking world. Another moan rips low and broken from him.
Clark stiffens.
Bruce wants to scream when his husband untangles their limbs, until a light flicks on and Clark is back, straddling Bruce. Strong, bone-shattering, steel-crunching, lovely hands cup Bruce’s face with a tenderness that sends another traitorous wave of tears down his cheeks.
Clark makes a soothing noise, chasing the molten tracks with his thumbs. “It’s okay, B. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
Bruce’s hand twitches upward, his brain lining back up with his body. As soon as he’s able, Bruce has his arms wrapped around Clark, pulling his husband into him, curling his fingers into feathery hair and his legs around defined calves and his arms against a broad back. He gasps into Clark’s neck, breathing him in. Ink and coffee and the muddled scent of hay from Clark’s visit to the Kent farm invade Bruce’s senses.
He squeezes his eyes shut, clinging to the man sprawled overtop him. It doesn’t matter. Clark’s solidity doesn’t banish the image from Bruce’s sleep, half memory, half dreaded conclusion. The venom in Bruce’s words. The glee in having Superman, broken beneath him.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce says. He presses the words against Clark’s skin, sun-bronzed and warm. “Clark, I—”
“Sh, B, you have nothing to apologize for. It was a nightmare. You—”
“I did, though. I tried to … I almost … I did, Kal.”
Clark tenses, then an agonized keen leaves him. Bruce blinks to find them flipped, Clark on his back and Bruce clung to the man’s front like he’s attempting to embed himself in Clark’s skin. When gentle knuckles nudge beneath Bruce’s chin, he wants to resist. But he can never deny Clark anything. Not after all these years.
He finds cerulean eyes watching him, earnest and pained. “Baby, that was so long ago.”
Bruce swallows. “It still happened.”
Clark’s lashes flutter, long and dark and so pretty Bruce still can’t believe that this man, and everything he is, exists. “I … yes. It did. And I forgave you, almost as soon as it happened. Bruce, I love you for all of the qualities that made you take the actions you did. It’s not your fault that you didn’t know me. You’re fierce, loyal, protective, and ready to risk your life and soul for this world.” A hand roves up Bruce’s bare spine until Clark can squeeze his nape. “And in case you’ve forgotten, your inability to encase yourself completely in darkness is why I’m still alive. You, more than anyone else, teeter on that edge. And every day I’m breathless at your strength in going no further than the shadows.”
“Stop,” Bruce says. He can’t take this … this … love. Not when he can still feel the frigid flesh of Clark’s lifeless body beneath his fingertips, or picture the absence of joy and hope in those azure eyes.
“I won’t. Never. I’ll remind you every day of how incredible you are.”
Bruce makes an aborted noise of disagreement, but it doesn’t matter. Clark is already rearranging them again, tucking Bruce’s back to his chest, curling over him until he’s caged between Clark’s body and their bed.
No. Not caged.
Shielded.
Clark sighs. “I’ve always loved you, B. Always will. I love you even when you don’t love yourself, and that’s never going to change.”
Caught in a battle of wanting to argue with Clark, and hoping with all his might that he’s earned such a proclamation, Bruce thread’s their fingers together and burrows even closer. “You’re my heart, Clark.”
Clark hums, already drifting back into sleep. “Love you, B.”
Bruce doesn’t sleep. He can’t, the nightmare too fresh. Instead, he matches his breathing to Clark’s. He counts the number of times Clark subconsciously tugs Bruce closer as he dreams. He thinks on every moment they’ve had together since that night when Gotham smelt of rain and petroleum and blood. And he promises himself that he’ll protect Clark with his life and soul, always.