Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

June 18th - The summer heat has landed over Gotham, and for once, as opposed to the constant rain of winter, the streets are almost clean. Now, citizens stick to the air-conditioned luxury of the inside. I do not have the luxury, nor do those above common thugs. As the sunsets later, I wait out in the misty half-covered night, shifting in the shadowed halls I am allowed and waiting where those in the light grow bold with assumed anonymity. Those like that man above the sea wall, spotted once more waiting, calling, teasing me…

The figure had been floating over the Gotham’s seawall for several nights now. Up in the pollution where it could hide, but Bruce saw it each night as he went out. Where it stalked his city, sometimes for only a minute or two before disappearing, other times for hours. But it was always within Bruce’s sight, playing with him. The game, Bruce did not yet know, but he sat looking down at the video again and again, at the stagnant figure in the sky, desperately looking for any ID he could get on him, if only from a body type or an old meta-human registration.

There wasn’t much to take from a silhouette besides that it was indeed a man, one thick with muscle. He was larger than Bruce was himself; he was sure of that. With cropped hair and a confidence to him, but any movement he made closer to Gotham beyond the seawall seemed hesitant. That, for all that description fell short of, was all Bruce had.

“You do not know him?” Alfred was amused, Bruce knew that much: “If you went out more, you would know him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The cape, the outline, heading toward and from Metropolis. If you spent any time at all outside, you would know him, Bruce. He is no secret.”

“You know him,” it was an observation, not a question.

“Few don’t know Superman.”

“Superman,” the name fell flat on Bruce’s tongue. It was too childish, too bravo, it belonged much more to a circus freak than a man. But he was a flying man… a flying super man.

Bruce paused the video, his attention instead going to the search bar, looking for this Superman in question. For Bruce only having the outline of the man, but he was able to recognize him well enough as a plethora of videos, images, and newspaper articles filled the screen. Each one more horrifying than the last. Superman flying out and saving a child, him defeating an inter-dimensional imp, him lifting a car with his bare hands, him firing lasers from his eyes, him hearing cries for help miles away. The man had too much power for a single individual to go unchecked. And yet here he was, unchecked and with supporters, not even seeing how dangerous the man was. He was a ticking time bomb.

With his smiling face, and rippling abs, and blue eyes, and perfect hair. He was too much, far too much, and no one outside of Bruce seemed to realize it. As one article after the other praised him as if he were a god. He might have well be. What could a man like this possibly want with Gotham? What wrong could he bring here? What citizens could he manipulate into loving him before it was too late and he finally sna—

“This could be good for you,” Alfred interrupted, “you could make a friend.”

“A friend?” Bruce grumbled, “he is Superman.”

“And you are Batman,” Alfred smiled, “both protectors of your city. Already have something to talk about.”

“Batman doesn’t have friends.”

“It would make me worry less if he did.”

The cocky grin taunted him, staring back at him. Bruce could see it in his eyes; there was something to Superman. Something bound to slip that he needed to get to first. Uncover first and plan for it, find a solution before Gotham was infected further by this man.

“I will meet him.”

“You will?”

“It is about time I visited Metropolis again.”

Bruce watched Metropolis from an apartment rooftop he was able to sneak his way into with a resident. Something that would have never happened in Gotham, as any person trailing behind another was more likely a thief or murderer than neighbor, but no, the woman had held the door open for Bruce, welcoming him in and making basic conversation in the stairwell.

Superman appeared often throughout the day as needed. However, as quickly as he was done, he vanished again until a cry came out for him. Within the last four hours, Superman had appeared six times (one of which was to help a cat climb down from a tree, another to help an old woman cross the street). It was a Saturday, and Metropolis did not make up for the weekend with crime like Gotham. It must get boring for a man like Superman; maybe that was why his eyes ventured to Gotham, a want for something more thrilling. What was considered thrilling to an invincible man?

Bruce had allowed himself to be distracted by the peacefulness of the city. So stark opposite from home as he leaned closer to the edge, looking down the building's wall to people below, where not even a pickpocket was in sight. It was this calm that fell over Bruce that he would blame for not having noticed the rush of wind that accompanied him suddenly on the otherwise stilted and sunny day.

“You are standing awfully close to the edge there,” Bruce would deny being caught off guard in any capacity, but he might huffed an inaudible gasp.

There, Superman was in all his tight, and bright, absurd glory. The deep red shorts looked as childish in person as they did on Bruce’s computer scene. His face was ruffled in deep concern as if Bruce were a friend and not a stranger. But what caught Bruce off guard, the only thing he would allow was the soft southern drawl to Superman’s voice. As if lost ever so slightly after years away from home, but the man was southern. He might claim alien origin, but Bruce was hesitant to agree that any extraterrestrials naturally sounded like they came from the Bible Belt.

“I’m just looking.”

“Looking straight down?”

“It’s too sunny to look straight out,” Superman laughed like Bruce had made a joke.

“You're not from around here,” it wasn’t a question but an observation. Bruce supposed dark Gotham fashion didn’t fit in around these parts. He was already starting to sweat through his layered suit (this, he remembered, was why he didn’t visit Metropolis).

“What gave it away?”

“Your— pale…” the words spilled out slowly but still seemed to slip unconsciously before Superman could stop them as they tumbled from him awkwardly, and he reddened at the admission.

“I’m pale?”

“Not like— I meant—”

“I’m from Gotham.”

“Gotham is a beautiful city,” Superman went with the change of subject quickly.

“You visit often?”

“To sightsee,” a deep red color climbed up his neck further.

“Which sights?”

“The popular ones.”

“The seawall?”

“Sure.” What did Superman want with the seawall? Surely Gotham wasn’t going to be flooded again. Bruce would make sure of it.

“Anything else?”

“Well, you know.”

“I know?”

“There’s tons there, hard to point to just one thing,” then Superman paused, his head tilting to the right slightly as if he was listening to something before he started to float up, his feet just barely hovering above the ground. He was quite agile, like a ballerina, Bruce noted.

It was clear Superman planned to leave, but stopped himself, “What’s your name?”

“Bruce.”

“I’m Superman.”

“I know.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m sure it was,” Superman chuckled, and his hand went to rub against his neck bashfully as if he were a school boy and not a grown man.

“I have to go now.”

“Bye,” Bruce was ready to see him go. He moved fluidly, rising further before shooting off almost violently into the wind, letting a force pick up strong enough to ruffle Bruce’s hair out of sorts. He was ready to get out of Metropolis.

He had a sunburn, of course, he did. His cheeks flushed with it and stung against the grease paint he was now desperate to rid himself of after an entire night with it on. Alfred was waiting while Bruce cleaned himself of it, watching him wash his face aggressively with wet wipes.

“Did you get an ID yet?”

“One,” Bruce pulled up the images on his computer, still frustrated with the result.

“So that’s him.”

“Hardly,” Bruce sighed, “it looks nothing like him.” While Bruce could admit that Clark Kent was a similar height and had similar features to Superman, his face was just all wrong. They might have been cousins at most, but that was it.

”Did you run it again?”

“I tried,” it made no sense. Never before had a malfunction of this level happened. Bruce had coded the software himself he couldn’t figure out where the error was. But Clark Kent was no facial match for Superman, Bruce’s eyes could tell that.

Bruce moved to the breakdown, trying to figure out where the program failed. First, the eyes match, but they were both blue and oval so it was unsurprising. Next was the chin and jaw, both strong and prominent. The lips matched, both plush and a pale pink, not even chapped in the Metropolis sun. Their hair was both a deep black and curly, though it was harder to see with Superman’s slick back style. Their skin had the same deep tan, their necks both taut with muscle. All the features divided were the same, but together didn’t match.

It made no sense. When separated Bruce could see it clearly, and yet the two images next to each other looked nothing alike.

“How unusual,” Alfred noted, still standing over Bruce’s shoulder.

Bruce grumbled his agreement as his annoyance rose.

He went in deeper, pulling more photos of Kent with his blocky glasses and cheap suits. But they were all different and yet still matched each time. He went back further to university, to high school.

It was his senior yearbook photo, where Clark Kent was in all his country bumpkin glory, that Bruce knew Superman was too.

He had the same smile and no glasses obstructing his face. Bruce saw it finally. In this young Clark Kent, he saw Superman. As if suddenly the features matched. Yet Clark Kent looked nothing like Clark Kent at all. As if in ten years, his face had changed substantially. But suddenly, it was so obvious it nearly hurt. So it was the glasses (it must be)… but how? Bruce had no clue how glasses could change a man’s face so desperately that he became nearly unrecognizable.

He turned away from that (for now at least), instead focusing on Clark Kent himself. The man was no hermit. He was easy enough to find; most journalists were. He worked at the Daily Planet writing on and battling corruption in the papers, same as Superman supposedly did in the streets.

His writing was fine, the topics were interesting enough, but it was the top articles, the ones he was famous for, that turned Bruce’s head. The Superman interviews. He interviewed himself; how egotistical. Unsurprisingly, he painted quite a good picture of himself. It was all just propaganda. That’s what Clark Kent was, propaganda to build up further pro-Superman sentiments, but for what purpose? Bruce couldn’t be sure. On the outside, Superman seemed no different from any other hero with his fair share of villains, but something was brewing; Bruce could feel it in his gut. Every time he looked at a very picture of the man, every time he thought back to their conversation, he felt it building inside of him. That instinct of… something. Surely something wasn’t right here.

“Alfred, I need you to schedule an interview.”

“Are you sure that is wise?”

“I thought you wanted me to make more public appearances?”

“You know this is not what I meant.”

“I am making friends, is all,” Bruce smiled, “Kent is someone I must acquaint myself with.”

“…If you insist.”

“I do.”

Chapter Text

Clark Kent could not believe his luck, or maybe it was his misfortune, but Bruce Wayne wanted an interview with him. Something Clark did not expect, but what he was truly not prepared for was to find Bruce Wayne to be his Bruce. Well… not his Bruce, but the handsome Bruce he had met on the rooftop only days prior. Surely it was not his fault for not knowing the face of the famous Gotham recluse. The guy hadn’t exactly been photographed for nearly ten years now, but Clark still did feel a bit foolish.

However, it brought into question something Clark wasn’t even sure he could ask: why would Bruce Wayne want an interview with Clark Kent? Honestly, it made no sense. Clark didn’t exactly do interviews either. Outside of the Superman stuff, he was only really known as an investigative journalist, but Perry was too excited by the prospect to ask any questions before shipping Clark off to Gotham (with an encouraging “working you magic, Kent!”), where he now got off a train minutes away from Wayne Enterprises.

With only a short walk ahead of him, he couldn’t help his feet moving just slightly faster than necessary as his nerves spiked.

The people of Gotham were less willing to let Clark file through the street traffic, instead meeting him with hard glares and shoves. But he made it to Wayne Enterprises on time to be faced with an unwelcoming receptionist who directed him to an elevator but left him to guess the rest after flatly telling him to go to the “30th floor”. It was only once he got there, impatience growing in him as he slowly rose, that he realized why he lacked direction. The 30th floor was the entirety of Wayne’s office. It felt like a waste of space, but the man watching him with a salutary smile didn’t seem like the type to care. In fact, he didn’t seem anything like the man Clark had met before at all, if only in the way he carried himself.

“Mr. Wayne, it’s an honor to meet you.”

“I am sure it is.” Bruce’s handshake was firm and polite despite his words and his refusal to stand from his desk, leaving Clark to hustle over to him.

“I am Clark— Kent.” He added after a moment, “I am here to interview you.”

“I know,” Clark stumbled a moment getting his bearings as he pulled a recorder from his bag and his notepad and pen.

“You don’t mind if I record this, do you?”

“By all means.” After a moment of stumbling with the device, and Bruce’s stern eyes focused on him, Clark got the pesky thing to work, settling it on Bruce’s desk.

Clark’s eyes flickered between his notes and Bruce’s face, “Lex Luthor has made several statements on Wayne Enterprises and Luthor Corp. coming together to work on a project. Is there anything else you can tell me about this currently?”

Bruce laughed, truly laughed, “only that the man is lying or concussed. There are no plans to work outside Gotham.”

“You don’t plan to expand outwards ever?”

“I have no reason to,” Bruce’s hand waved methodically back and forth, “We make enough profit as it is. What reason would there ever be to expand to some other city? It would never be Gotham.”

“You are aware of the profit margins from this past quarter, then?” Clark was slightly shocked (though he felt briefly ashamed) as almost everyone had heard that Bruce Wayne was hardly even a figurehead, much less did any real work for his company. That was easy to back up with how little the man left his own home.

“Sure,” he agreed easily enough.

“What can you tell me about the day-to-day production within factories and the office?”

“I’m never in the office.”

“Ohhh?”

“My attention is elsewhere.”

“Like the charity funds that Wayne Enterprises raises?”

“Sure,” Bruce laughed, his eyes moved away from Clark toward the windows behind him, focusing out at the water line where they stayed firmly on the sea wall, “do me a favor, Kent, look out.”

“Ohh,” Clark adjusted his glasses, his eye fluttering out toward the window, then back to Bruce’s face, then out again, “it’s very beautiful.”

Bruce hummed, “is beauty all you care for?” His eyes were too sharp, staring too strongly at Clark like he was waiting for something more than just idle conversation.

“I am supposed to be interviewing you, Mr. Wayne,” Bruce laughed heavily, all seriousness spilling out of him and onto the floor as his shoulders lay back, flopping into his chair. It was jarring as if the man had suddenly fallen drunk within a moment.

“It’s just Bruce.”

“My apologies, Mr. Wayne.” Bruce laughed before it fell silent for a second as Clark focused back onto his notepad.

“Next question,” Bruce pushed, his hand waving with his speech.

“Can you tell me about some of Wayne Enterprises’ philanthropic projects?”

“Sure,” Bruce stared off a moment, seeming to think, “there was the testing and replacing lead pipes, the university education scholarship fund,” Bruce was counting them on his fingers like a child, “the orphan to adulthood project, mental health and medication programs, and… that’s all I can think of.”

“Are you worried that by funding these programs, it allows the government an excuse to not step up?”

“Wayne Enterprise pays its taxes, which helps fund governmental programs.”

“So you don't believe in long-term privatization of community issues?”

“That’s a question about big government, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Wayne.”

“I believe if citizens pay their taxes, they should directly reap the benefits of being a citizen of that city.”

“And if they are not a citizen?”

“They are still a person,” Bruce shrugged, “people should help people.”

“So you believe in increasing government funding to stop the privatization of community problems and stop corporations from becoming political figures?” Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed together, clearly confused (but his eyes didn’t match his expression, all too analyzing for the dumbed out look on his face), before he shrugged it off.

“I like Ms. Reál, whatever she thinks is the best course of action, I agree with it.”

“Wayne Enterprises funded her campaign, correct?”

“No,” Bruce shook his head heavily, “I did.”

“Some accuse your donations of just being a PR stunt.”

“She is nice,” Bruce’s face scrunched together, “I like that.”

“Some people think you bought her into office.”

“Don’t people have to vote, though?” he seemed genuinely confused, and Clark almost felt bad for the man. It still made no sense, though, why someone so lost would want to be interviewed.

“Why did you want me to meet with you today, Mr. Wayne?”

“You make people seem very important when you write about them.”

“You want to seem important?”

“No,” Bruce laughed, “I wanted to see how you do it.” Bruce Wayne was confusing. He was jumping between seeming to know what he was talking about and just being a complete airhead, as if the man himself didn’t know if he was an idiot or not. Maybe his stupidity was an accident, or maybe his intelligence was.

“Do you plan to make more public appearances?”

“Depends on how I feel later.”

“Do you suffer from agoraphobia?” Clark asked it more out of curiosity than anything else, as an attempt to actually understand the man before him.

“I don’t know that word,” Bruce jumped to his feet suddenly, causing Clark to jump slightly in his own chair, which didn’t go unnoticed as Bruce’s eyes whipped to him harshly before the expression faded. “Do you drink?”

“No, thank you.” Bruce hummed as he poured himself a brown liquor, most likely whiskey (though Clark couldn’t pick up its smell), despite it only being eleven am.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?” Because honestly, Clark wasn’t sure what else could be wanted from him as Bruce wandered his office around passively with a drink in hand, clearly hinting at the conversation coming to an end.

“Ask me about crime. I want to talk about that.”

“What about it?”

“The declining crime rate.”

Clark had to think a moment as he struggled to find a question he had not prepared, “Do you—believe the declining crime rate is related to vigilante activity in Gotham?”

“Meaning The Batman?”

“I know no others.”

“It’s not because of Batman,” Bruce hummed, “it's because of fear,” he seemed excited now, “fear keeps people away. Batman can’t stop every crime from being committed, but now people are too scared to even commit them. Did you know Penguin stopped committing tax fraud without any intervention— don’t put that in the article, no one knows about that,” Bruce interrupted himself, seeming panicked (but his heart rate never rose), “you can’t—”

“I won’t,” Clark promised, and he meant it.

“It’s just that it's not the vigilante, it’s fear that for once they will get caught. If Gotham wasn’t so corrupt— you can’t say that I said that, so many of these crimes would have never happened in the first place. Once Gotham gets back on her feet, there will be no need for The Batman.”

“Does Batman know that?”

“One can only hope,” Bruce quirked a smile at Clark before downing the rest of his drink.

“So are you going to drink with me or not?”

“I believe it is my time to go, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce,” he corrected.

“It’s time for me to be seeing myself out, Mr. Wayne.” Clark got to his feet, collecting his things quickly before shoving them into his bag and rushing out toward the elevator as Bruce smiled lazily at him before pouting at Clark’s speedy departure, his eyes sparkling still, though, and he flicked the drink in his hand purposelessly. Something was off about the man, but Clark couldn’t find the words for what, only that in some strange sense he pitied him and in some stranger way was no less attracted to the mess in front of him than he was to the charming man on a Metropolis rooftop.

Clark did not leave Gotham after that. Maybe he should have, but he had the day, and he spent it writing up what little of the article he was allowed and made sense tucked away in a cafe.

The food of Gotham mirrored the city. The coffee was bitter, no matter how much cream and sugar was added. Nothing in Gotham was sweet, not even the pastries. It seemed strange that Bruce Wayne was the only one there that Clark would consider remotely sweet, or maybe it was Bruce being naively welcoming.

But something was off about it all. How, in only a few days, could he change so drastically? As convincing as Bruce Wayne’s act was, his eyes were just as harsh as Clark remembered them. Even when he smiled, they held a distant edge like he was looking inside of Clark. Like he knew something Clark didn’t that he hid behind drunken laughter and distant confusion.

But Gotham was like that, all of it a performance. A constant rush back and forth as people gave themselves more agency than they needed, dressed and poised hard and rough to any passerby. All to call attention away or call it forward and scare off any wandering eyes.

Clark, because of it all, stood out like a sore thumb. Not just in the cafe, and not just in the restaurant or shops he would busy himself with later, but on every street, every window, every person stood out against him. As the sunset and darkness fell quicker here than in Metropolis, he felt it more so. He stayed, though, to wait for when someone would finally come crawling out and Clark would have a chance to truly see the man. It was nothing more than a professional crush, just as he had on Lois (though that professional crush had led to a two-year relationship that fizzled into lifelong friendship), but this and the thing with Bruce Wayne were surely to go nowhere, so Clark allowed himself to indulge in both only in his mind.

Now, Clark indulged in the Gotham night. Clark could understand why Gotham at night was scary. Without his enhanced senses, he would be scared, too. But he could hear the men graffitiing two blocks away and see the group in the alley waiting to mug him, and sighing their disappointment when he crossed the street in time to avoid them but let him go anyway.

Voices raised against the quiet night, and cars sped past. Wind blew in just enough to whistle between the buildings, but not chase away the oppressive heat. Voices mixed too fluidly until Clark struggled to untangle them. His enhanced senses overstimulated him suddenly, until they became a disadvantage against the environment. The speed at which Gotham became overwhelmed was disarming. Clark held his bag tighter against himself. He knew no one would be able to actually harm him, but something about Gotham made him jump, made him feel human.

He pulled himself from the streets into an alley where it remained thankfully quiet from lurkers. Clark knew any alley in Gotham was a gamble (he had heard the stories), but in Metropolis, they were guaranteed to be empty and clean. He tried to calm himself. Events like these had become uncommon as he got older, but Gotham, the way it lit up so quickly at night with such anxiety, horrified screams nearly constant, where they were often few and far in-between in Metropolis was overwhelming. Clark knew he couldn’t go out after them. Maybe that was the event of the anxiety, how helpless Clark felt so suddenly, with no re—

“Give me your bag,” the voice had a nervous shake to it, but the cock of a gun was clear enough, and Clark’s hands rose into the air as he turned slowly to meet the man… the kid, a kid covered in sweat as the summer heat seemed to cook him alive. He looked so young with the gun shaking in his hand, desperately. In some way, the event was grounding and forced Clark back into reality, into the moment, as his senses zeroed in on this alleyway once more instead of the bustling city.

The kid was skinny and scared and needed Clark’s money more than he did. The laptop had his article, but he was sure he could back it up from the cloud at home. It would be annoying, but he couldn’t find it in himself to deprive the skinny boy of anything he asked for, despite knowing how easily he could get himself out of this situation.

“Of course,” Clark's voice was calm as he pulled the letter bag from around his shoulder, making sure to keep his movements slow. But once he extracted the bag, holding it out in his hand outstretched, a heavy weight fell down next to them. A figure in black stepping out of the shadows. One that Clark somehow didn’t hear (this city was far too much for him). The kid recognized the man before Clark did, stepped away and back out of the alleyway slowly, before his body tensed entirely as if the situation had finally caught up with him.

“Oh shit,” the kid took off running, dropping the gun behind him, but Batman didn’t go off after the teen. Instead, letting him run off into the night, fear dripping off him. Batman’s attention turned away toward Clark, eyeing him up and down with (what only Clark would call) a flattering analytical gaze.

“I’m okay.”

“I know,” this voice was rough. A deep growl that filled the alley and let the rest of the city fall into white noise. It bubbled in his throat. Clark had never heard anyone sound the way this man did. “Get out of my city, Kent.”

“You know my name,” Clark couldn’t help his cheeks heating at the realization. Batman knew who he was… wow!

“Out.”

“Yes, mister Batman,” he knew Clark’s name. He probably read his articles…. Wasn’t that a thought?

Batman stared him down, and for a moment, Clark wasn’t sure what he was expected to do with himself, before he realized the stare was supposed to be a frightening one. One that would make Clark scram, and as much as he wanted to stay. Stay and chat with the man; he knew Batman would never allow it. Clark rushed out, getting himself back to the train station and away from the overstimulating city, with the sound of footsteps following after him on the rooftops. If the sound made Clark flush red from his feet to his forehead, it was no one's business but his. As absurd as the thought once seemed. Clark almost thought he might just have a chance with The Batman.

Chapter Text

Clark Kent was up to something. Bruce was sure of it. Finding Clark in that alleyway, disarming a young armed thief with his charm was all the proof he needed. Why would Superman allow himself to be robbed unless there was another motive to it? Surely there was one. Particularly with the peculiarity in the way he interacted with Batman. Like he was scared, his face flushed as if he experienced a sudden stress of Bruce’s very presence. It was a good thing for Bruce. Meant that, for whatever reason, Superman thought he was vulnerable to Batman; now Bruce just had to make sure that was the case.

Just like any danger to Gotham, it had to be solved by first staking out the target. Superman was a peculiar case because he did not interact with The Batman, but instead Bruce Wayne. A figure that was much easier to move in and out of Metropolis without raising any eyebrows.

And Superman, for whatever reason, had invested interest in saving the people of Metropolis. It was hardly any trouble for Bruce to place himself in a situation that needed saving. While Metropolis lacked a criminal underground, they made up for it with dimensional rifts, fire-breathing monsters, and now a manmade earthquake ready to destroy the subway system and everyone inside it. Bruce, for his part, did not allow himself to be useless, helping people stuck under rubble and reuniting children with their parents.

Bruce was only of use for so long, though, before the people surrounding him disappeared in a flash, pulled from the underground by Superman before he returned for Bruce himself, placing Bruce (now slightly disoriented) on a rooftop, the same one they met on, he realized.

“I will be right back,” Superman promised before flying away once more. Bruce wondered how many people he promised that to. Or if the man was coming back at all, but still Bruce nodded stupidly to the empty air around him and waited, if only out of his own need for a perceived weakness. It would not come out of this conversation, but trust needed to be built, and Bruce needed to get a lay of this man.

He found himself, embarrassingly, waiting twenty minutes for Superman as he caught the man flying about, but missed any actual fight, not that Superman was known to throw humans around, even murderous ones. But Superman came back flying toward Bruce rapidly before stopping before him, seemingly shocked that Bruce actually waited, “You are still here.”

“You expected me to leave?” Bruce stepped around Superman once he landed, circling him. He needed a full 360; he just hoped the cape wouldn’t get in the way. Superman tried to follow him, turning with Bruce and irritating him to no end. It was clear they were stuck in a stalemate, both turning with each other. Bruce gave up, having at least gotten Clark’s front.

“You seem like a busy man, Mr. Wayne.”

“You know my name.”

“Ohhh,” a deep blush filled Superman’s face as he cleared his throat, “I read the article on you.”

“Daily Planet’s?” Bruce teased.

“Are there any other ones?”

“I guess I didn’t imagine Superman as a reader.”

“You imagined me?” The question was awed, Bruce raised a brow, “I just— I— you are back in town.”

“I have business to attend to here.”

“Of course,” Superman's smile was relaxed and boyish, and not at all forced. But his muscles were still bunched; he was tense, on high alert. Or maybe his smile was practiced enough to seem so (Bruce now often practiced his own smile until it sat just right upon his face; did Superman do the same?), “I hope to see you again, Mr. Wayne.”

“You will,” Bruce turned toward the exit. He would not get his scan or DNA sample today; Superman was too stressed in the suit to put his guard down. He had to recalculate. Of course, Superman would be hesitant to turn his back to any man, but maybe Clark Kent… wouldn’t.

Superman did see Bruce again one week later as the man strutted into his place of work, peaking across desks, trying to find Kent at one of them.

“Mr. Wayne, how can I help you?”

“I am looking for a Clark Kent.”

“I can assure you, Mr. Wayne, while Mr. Kent did interview you, any information he published that you found unflattering or incorrect can be redacted. There is no—”

“I am not here because of the article,” Bruce pushed forward as reporters turned to watch him and the man who kept stepping into his path.

“Perry,” it was Kent who called it, rushing in between the two before turning to Bruce, “Mr. Wayne, how can I help you?”

“I was hoping I could treat you to lunch,” Clark seemed truly baffled, not even flattered but just confused.

“His lunch break is in thirty minutes,” Perry interrupted.

“I can wait.”

“Uhhh,” it seemed everyone’s attention had now shifted off Bruce to Clark, “sure?”

“See you in thirty.” Bruce did wait. It seemed he did a lot of that for Kent, as now he waited outside of the Daily Planet on a busy street with nothing better to do. Superman made no appearance during it; he surely couldn’t with Kent currently being hounded at his desk with questions (that was why you never became friends with journalists).

Clark eventually appeared from the Daily Planet’s door, appearing more ruffled than Bruce had seen him this morning and looking around rapidly. Once he spotted Bruce, his face was overcome with shock as if that reality had only now just settled in. Clark stopped in front of Bruce, his hands sat stiffly in the air a moment as if he wanted to reach out, but he thought better of it and dropped them to his side.

“You waited.”

“I said I would,” Bruce smiled, “now can we go? I have been waiting.”

“Of course,” Clark jumped as if his own impoliteness finally registered with great anguish, “I am so sorry you had to wait, Mr. Wayne.”

“I told you to call me Bruce,” he winked, “and I understand. It’s part of the job.”

“Right,” Clark’s shoulders were hunched, and he seemed to fall in on himself. Without the shield of Superman or an interview, the man looked pathetic, as if he was truly intimidated by Bruce. It angered Bruce pointlessly, as he knew as well as Clark that Bruce was no threat at all, and to act as if he were was an insult, a tease. Like the man knew just how to play with him.

“I hope you like Japanese.”

“Of course,” Clark sounded genuine, but then again, Bruce wasn’t even sure the man before him needed to eat. The alien apparently got his powers from the sun. Did he photosynthesize? It was all a large question mark, one Bruce needed to solve. Would Superman eventually wilt without access to the sun like a common house plant? It would be quite convenient if he did.

Kent’s alien nature made more sense as the man struggled with conversation. Though such an accusation was ironic coming from Bruce. They walked with little to talk about until they came to the restaurant Bruce had prepared for them, Kyosho. It was a small hole in the wall. Not a place Bruce frequented with any real familiarity, but his parents loved the food. He was there often as a child. Now it hurt, but for some reason, he brought Clark here as some sick form of punishment (whether it was punishment for either Bruce or Clark, it was unclear; maybe it was for the both of them).

“After you,” Bruce held the door open, and Clark stepped in after him. Finally, allowing Bruce’s contact lens to get a scan of his back to match the ones from earlier, he should now have the entirety of the man at his disposal.

“Thank you.” There was no need for the rest of this. Bruce got what he came for, and yet he wanted to have lunch with Clark. Most likely born out of a mix of his own hunger, loneliness, and curiosity.

Clark, for his earlier politeness, seemed confused by sushi. He struggled to order before Bruce intervened, and that only grew once the food arrived and he saw that the fish was indeed raw.

“You haven’t had sushi before.”

“There is not a lot of seafood in Kansas.”

“You could have told me,” Bruce sighed, “we could have gone somewhere else.”

“No!” Clark jumped before settling again, “I am excited to try it with you.”

“Do you know how to work chopsticks at least?”

“Ahhh…” Kent blushed too easily. Maybe that was from his alien nature, thinner skin, though Bruce would think it to be the opposite, with the man being bulletproof and all. But maybe his skin was thinner as a way of helping photosynthesis; Bruce would need to test it out himself, if only he had a chance to pinch the skin gently between his fingers. He wondered if Clark would let him if he asked… maybe.

“I will teach you,” Bruce leaned across the table, placing the chopsticks between Clark’s fingers. Bruce’s fingers gently rubbed across his flesh as he did so, which felt just as soft as any other human's. He let himself twist his fingers to touch Clark’s palm, which wasn’t calloused as he expected but just as delicate. Clark Kent grew up on a farm, but he didn’t have the hands of a worker. It felt fragile beneath Bruce’s touch, softer than human, vulnerable. Bruce would need further testing before coming to any conclusions on the density of Superman’s skin.

“Have you got it?”

“Yeah,” Clark was staring down at the food instead of Bruce.

Clark’s first attempts to pick anything up were pathetic, but Bruce had long since learned how to keep a straight face. However, the man was a quick learner; once he got the hang of it, it was as if he had been using chopsticks all his life. Bruce wondered if that was a Kryptonian thing, too, or just a Clark thing.

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” Clark was agreeable.

“You can be honest if you don’t.”

“I do,” he was quick to reassure, “I really do.”

“You can calm down,” Bruce laughed, “I wasn’t the one who made it. I won’t be offended.”

“It was really nice of you to take me here,” Clark redirected.

“Well, Wayne Enterprises is known for its kindness,” Clark laughed, and it made Bruce smile. Not even a practiced smile, and it felt weird on his face, and he wasn’t sure why he did it, but he smiled. This… this was the propaganda everyone else seemed to fall for, but Bruce wasn’t so easily fooled as he wiped it from his face.

Bruce reached across the table, plucking a fallen eyelash that had been sitting on Clark’s cheek for a good second now. Clark startled at the touch, “eyelash,” Bruce explained.

“Going to make a wish?”

“No,” with something like this, Kryptonian DNA, Bruce didn’t need wishes; he had it all here, “I don’t need a wish.”

“Can I?”

“No!” Bruce realized it might have been a bit too forceful as he pulled his hand back where the eyelash now rested in his palm. “It's good luck, I will keep it,” he explained, and Clark looked at Bruce like he was crazy, but didn’t argue. Though that looked faded soon enough as it dissolved into an amused smile.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to interfere with your luck.”

“It would do me no good if you did.”

“You’re superstitious?”

He wasn’t, but Bruce Wayne could be whatever anyone needed him to be, “only when it matters.”

“And it matters now?”

“You tell me.”

“I would never say no to some good luck.”

“You have a scan of him.”

“It allows me to find a weak spot without needing personal interaction.”

Alfred stepped off to the side, looking over what else Bruce had scattered across his desk, “and… a DNA sample?”

“It is necessary”

“Of course,” Alfred stared over Bruce’s shoulder, “you plan to see him again,” it wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” he answered anyway.

“Good,” Bruce turned to Alfred, but he had already started to leave the bat cave, and Bruce was now alone.

With the scan and DNA sample, Bruce was able to test exact poisons. All of which the Kyrptonian was immune to. It led to growing frustration. What would Bruce do if there was nothing here on Earth the man was weak to? If Superman was just as invincible as everyone believed.

The only positive was the increasing lack of Superman sightings in Gotham with the new constant of his interactions with Wayne. Bruce only needed to know the angle now. Maybe Superman saw Bruce as a way in, so now he didn’t need to visit because he depended on Bruce’s loose lips. Not that Bruce would ever actually speak without intention, but he had already let Clark think that he would. He needed to see exactly what Clark’s game in all this was. He could feel himself coming upon it; the pieces just needed to fall into place.

Bruce was most comfortable at night, above the city than in it. He might not be dressed as Batman, but never a night went by that he didn’t patrol. Now he looked out at the city from a gala rooftop. He could hear the party still going on, but was much more comfortable here, watching, waiting for a call. He had finally allowed himself to depart quietly without Alfred knowing, so there would be no lecture later about being social.

“Mr. Wayne!” Bruce really had celebrated too early with the whole thinking Superman was done poking around Gotham thing.

“You shouldn’t yell at me people on high ledges,” Bruce smiled, “it’s a long way down.”

“I could have caught you. And you shouldn’t be standing on a high ledge,” Bruce couldn’t help feeling like a chastised child as he huffed his annoyance, and he jumped down from the ledge back onto the rooftop.

“Better?”

“Significantly,” Superman sighed as if relieved before he fell quiet a moment, “what are you doing by yourself?”

“It always gets too loud,” it was true. The galas got too loud, and people got too touchy, and the air got thick with the heat of bodies around him. It made Bruce’s skin crawl and want to scream until everyone learned what personal space was, but he instead had to settle for running up a fire escape and waiting it out on the rooftop until his disappearance was noticed and he had to slip back inside.

“Galas aren’t your thing.”

“Are they anyone’s?”

“The people who throw them?” Superman offered.

“Sure,” Bruce snorted, “Why are you here?”

“I— I—” the man was stammering.

Bruce’s eyes focused more intentionally, “Why?”

“I was looking for Batman.”

“Why?”

“I am a big fan,” the man admitted like it was being pulled from him. It was a lie. It must have been, Bruce was sure of it, but it was clear Superman was now a direct threat to him.

“What do you think you will achieve from meeting him?”

“Not sure,” Superman blushed like Clark, his hands shuffling in front of him.

“Why are you here with me?” Because it couldn’t be that Clark knew. Superman couldn’t have learned his identity yet, Bruce wasn’t prepared for it to come out so soon. He knew it would eventually, that Superman had too much power at his disposal and that Clark Kent was an investigative journalist, but Bruce should have had more tim—

“I couldn’t find him and saw you up here. It was just good luck.”

Bruce laughed, of course, Clark Kent would believe in luck, or maybe he only said it because he thought Bruce believed in such an absurd concept. “So you came to…?”

“You said I would see you again.”

Bruce forced the edge to slide out of him as he fell lax once more, perfectly Bruce Wayne once more, “I did, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“So did you just come to look or did you want to say hi?” Bruce could hear Clark swallow. He wondered if that was a Kryptonian thing or a human trait he forced himself to replicate. Another act to manipulate his prey into thinking him innocent,

“No, I mean yes,” Clark had an interesting way of talking himself into circles, “I mean… hi.”

“Hi,” Bruce smiled just the way he practiced, all sweet-like, all kind.

Bruce could hear his name being muttered about questionably from an open window below. His disappearance had been noticed, and it was his time to return: “I’m needed somewhere else.”

“I can hear that,” Superman stared Bruce Wayne down like he was trying to memorize him, like he thought he would never see him again (it was disconcerting). “It was good seeing you.”

“I know.”

Bruce had made a point of patrolling the sea wall extra the following two weeks, but Superman never came back into Gotham. His absence was slowly driving Bruce more insane than his presence ever did. It was like Bruce was waiting for something, waiting for the next shoe to drop; he knew something was coming. He couldn't sleep because of it, could barely eat, and his cheeks flushed red at the very thought of the man as if just the anger of his existence was already eating away at him. Bruce’s stomach had tied itself into knots until he could not take it a moment longer.

He drove to Metropolis because he needed to get ahead of it all. He let Clark have the ball in his court for too long. He still had no clue what the man was up to, and he couldn’t stand it for another second. Bruce would discover his plan and finally rid himself of this growing anxiety.

Clark was at work now. Bruce knew that with growing confidence. He had long since learned the man’s schedule that only ever deviated with the need for Superman, but still, there would be no need for him to return home.

Kent’s lock gave away far too easily as Bruce pried it open. He supposed that was a luxury Superman was allowed (to have lax security), or maybe that was a benefit of living in Metropolis. No constant fear of home burglaries.

Clark’s apartment was what would be expected for a man like him. It was clean and welcoming, lived in, but still clearly a man’s apartment that lacked a certain level of decoration. His bed was unmade, and his towel was still wet in the bathroom. He had a lack of facial products on the counter and food in his fridge (Bruce supposed an alien had no need for either). He had dishes, though, glass cups, and… and a Batman mug. Something he must have ordered online. It sat there mocking Bruce, staring back at him. Why would Superman own such a thing?

His counter was covered in papers. Notes and abandoned drafts for articles. But outside of the research for different articles, his home was void of anything incriminating. His living room was human, his life looked human. His bedside drawer even had a half-empty container of lube and… and Bruce’s business card that he never gave to Clark. It was a crumpled thing, tucked in between an old birthday card and a phone charger. Bruce was tempted to swipe it. Clark had no need for it, and Bruce hadn’t given it to him. Clark had either gotten it from someone else or swiped it from Bruce’s person when he wasn’t paying attention. He would have had to go through too much trouble for him not to notice it missing. Bruce’s fingers fiddle with it a moment before sliding it back into place.

The apartment was a bust. It was no more incriminating than anything else about the man. The clock was ticking to Clark’s inevitable return. Bruce wasn’t sure he was willing to allow this to be a failure, too. Should he bug it, he considered?

…No, it was too much of a risk. An alien with superior senses would surely be able to hear any microphone, if not smell Bruce’s presence. He could only hope the place aired out enough or that Clark couldn’t trace it back to him.

Bruce left Metropolis with no Superman spotting and an anger-inducing disappointment boiling up inside him.

He was being held down. He was sure of that, by a being, a figure, a big one. Bruce’s eyes were firmly shut, but when he opened them, he saw a man. No, not a man, Clark staring down at him. Clark with no shirt and no glasses (it wasn’t Clark, it was Superman specifically), it was all too discerning. He was clean of scars, and he was leaning far too close. Caging him in against his bed sheets (Kyrptonians didn’t have a sense of personal space supposedly).

Superman was breathing heavily. Too heavy and wet against the skin of Bruce’s neck, but he couldn’t shift away from the touch. Superman only got closer. Settling himself into Bruce’s neck and smelling him before his lips latch to his neck, as if Bruce was something to eat, as if the alien, the animal, was going in for the kill. Superman’s hips pushed against Bruce, and for whatever reason, Bruce pushed ba—

He was wet. He had broken out into a cold sweat in his sleep. And it seemed the alien now tormented him in all manners. He was not able to peacefully sleep as the fear infested him, forcing his heart rate to buzz busily against his chest. His body shook; he sat up, allowing himself to catch his breath as the sun was now high past noon. He had several more hours if he wanted them; he knew he needed them…

There was no way he could sleep now. The growing discomfort settled in his stomach too heavily.

“Batman,” it was not that Bruce could ever actually be snuck up on. Only that Superman was too fast to avoid. That was the only reason that the man had found him.

“Superman,” Batman greeted back.

“I have evacuated the build.” Great, just what Batman wanted, to cause a panic. That meant the police would be here soon, which was never a good sign for him.

Bruce’s attention stayed on the bomb in front of him, instead of Superman staring over his shoulder (Bruce hated that). He didn’t need the extra stress when he was already almost done.

“I can fly it out of her—” the bomb fizzled out fully deactivated and useless now under Bruce’s fingers, “ohh, good job!”

“Why are you here?” Bruce stood now fully turned to Superman.

“I was in the area.”

“Why?”

“I was just stopping through,” Superman seemed more and more confused by Batman’s clear distaste, “I have been meaning to sa—”

“Stay out of my city,” Bruce knew if simply words like that would have actually worked he would have said them a long time ago. Though villains were hardly persuaded by words, and Batman was, unfortunately, still in no shape to face the invulnerable alien before him.

“It seems we have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Superman was smiling, his hand rubbing gently against his neck, oozing out boyish charm that wouldn’t so easily work on Bruce as it did on others.

“You are a threat.”

“What—”

“You have no weakness, no—”

“I would never hurt anyone,” it was said with such a pout and offense that Bruce almost believed the words, but he was a much harder man to trick.

“And what if you fell under mind control?” Bruce pivoted (people hardly ever admitted they were actually bad; some didn’t even know it), “Or Poison Ivy’s pollen? Or—”

“Kryptonite,” Superman interrupted, “my weakness is kryptonite.”

”Why would you tell me this?”

“So that you trust me,” Bruce wasn’t so stupid as to think Superman had actually admitted any real weakness to him, but it was a starting point for new research.

“You are a fool.”

“Okay?”

“Get out of my city,” it fell a little softer, lacking his usual growl, but Superman seemed just as crestfallen, finally following Bruce’s order and leaving.

Kryptonite was not nearly as hard to acquire as one would think. It now sat heavy in Bruce’s pocket, encased in lead (the only item that seemed to fully contain its radioactive nature), waiting to be opened at a moment’s notice, because now Bruce had won.

He had won in all the ways that mattered; he only needed to play his cards right. Play them in the correct order, as he waited on a Metropolis rooftop, his heart calm, his breath slow, but his brain alight with strategy.

It was a slow day for crime in Metropolis, but compared to Gotham every day was slow. Superman had yet to make an appearance, and Clark Kent was a minute away from arriving home, finally back from work. It was a fourteen-minute walk, one he always walked instead of flew. His door would be unlocked by now, and his bag abandoned by the doorway. Bruce gave the man another minute, a minute of silence before calling out a whispered, “Superman.”

It took much shorter than Bruce had calculated for the man to be across from his, flushed and hair only half slicked back as if Bruce was capable of catching him off guard, “Sorry, were you busy?”

“What?” Bruce gestured to his appearance, and Superman laughed, “No, no, just… excited to hear from you.”

“Good.”

“Yeah?”

“I was stopping through, thought I would give you a call.”

The thing was that Superman could attack Batman. He could kill Batman, and the public would most likely defend it. Batman wasn’t liked enough to be mourned, but Superman couldn’t kill Bruce Wayne. Sure, people hardly cared for him truly, the recluse, the moron, but he was still a civilian, one Superman couldn’t kill. And if he did, Bruce would still win. Any aggression Bruce could goad from the man was a win, no matter how it ended for him. The security cameras above them would catch it, even though they didn’t have audio (a plus in Bruce’s mind); they would catch it, and Superman would be revealed for what he truly was, a villain. Even if Bruce never knew the man’s original motive, it didn’t matter if he still stopped him.

He thumbed the box again in his pocket. A way out, a just in case.

“So when are we going to get this over with?” Bruce asked. He tried to sound calm, tired, and not at all as buzzed with adrenaline as he felt.

“What?”

“I know it’s you, Kent,” Bruce laughed, his hand still firmly on the box.

He stiffened, seeming thrown, “I don’t—”

“Your disguise is a pair of glasses,” not that Bruce knew how they worked yet, but they were still absurd in concept.

Superman froze, really froze, a shock running through him. Bruce waited for the moment to break, for the man before him to realize the threat and eliminate it.

“I—” Superman sighed, “When did you realize?” It was a smart question to ask, one Bruce would too. Figure out what the weakness was before getting rid of the loose thread, so it would never happen again.

“It wasn’t hard to figure out. I do have eyes after all.”

“….You took me on a date.”

“Yeah.”

“Ohh,” and he seemed to be considering something before he moved. Moved far too quickly, and Bruce knew this would be it. His hand still firm in his pocket, waiting, just hoping he didn’t wait too long.

The sudden force of it was shocking, then it was gentle. Clark had his arms around Bruce, holding him, but not too hard that Bruce could not pull away. It made no sense, no sense at all.

Clark had kissed him… why had Clark kissed him…?

It took a second too long for Bruce to understand it at all, but then he did and knew he had truly, indeed, actually won. He had shown his cards and won because Clark was dumb enough to think he could distract Bruce with sexuality. He had confused Bruce and Batman (he hadn’t even realized they were the same) and thought Bruce dumb. But Clark was the idiot who couldn’t see the full picture. Bruce had used his trump card, and it had perfectly worked out.

Clark might have been smart not to prove Bruce right so quickly. To not be driven to violence the way Bruce had tried to goad him into, but now Clark was desperate. Using sex to save himself or delay Bruce's now necessary death. For Bruce’s part, he now needed to know why Clark didn’t want to get rid of him just yet. What was Superman gaining from Bruce Wayne being around? What did Bruce have access to that Superman needed?

“Sorry,” Clark was blushing again when he pulled back (maybe he could do that on command, Bruce realized, maybe it was all part of the persona), “I have just wanted to do that for a while now,” sure, Bruce laughed internally, sure you did, “was that okay?” Superman was good, his voice held just the right amount of worry.

“Of course, it was, baby,” and he blushed again, deeper red this time. Now Bruce knew the role he needed to play; he just had to wait and see where it got him. He would have to be patient (he was never much good at that).

Chapter Text

Clark could not believe how lucky he was to end up with someone as smart, generous, and handsome as Bruce Wayne. Bruce must have been onto something with eyelashes being a sign of good luck because Clark had never in his life been luckier. He had imagined before what would happen if someone found out his secret identity, and he always imagined it would include more extortion or torture than dates and exchanged flowers. It was just perfect, completely perfect.

And Bruce… Clark could hardly stand to be away from him, which was why he was now walking into Wayne Enterprises with a bouquet of roses and a good attitude no snooty receptionist could take from him as he rode up to Bruce’s office for his lunch break.

With Bruce knowing he was Superman, Clark didn’t even have to pretend he didn’t fly here or waste his time with the train. It was so completely perfect, and well, it was freeing. Freeing to finally actually be allowed to be himself without rejection, or fear, or feeling like a bug under a microscope. Maybe that stemmed from Bruce not being at all how Clark imagined him, either.

Bruce was often at work until late at night or early in the morning. The man was silent more often than not and always tired; he had once passed out on Clark’s couch for thirteen hours before grumbling an apology and leaving (Clark had received a thank-you letter a day later from one Alfred Pennyworth that Clark was still rather confused by). Bruce would at times put up a front, some more flirtatious character that would always fall away eventually as he either got bored or exhausted himself, leaving just Bruce.

Clark was starting to suspect that Bruce didn’t have much experience with relationships at all, as the first time they held hands, Bruce just stared at their hands for about ten full minutes without blinking. Bruce wasn’t particularly social either; he seemed to hate being recognized, which was happening more and more often following the Daily Planet article and his new introduction into Gotham’s social sphere.

The point was that Bruce was weird and seemingly unashamed of it, making it a whole lot easier for Clark to not feel all that alien.

“Clark,” Bruce looked up from his desk, covered in papers and pens empty of ink. Bruce’s office often looked like a disaster, which it didn’t look anything like when Clark had originally interviewed him. He wondered how long it took to clean (and how many people). “You brought flowers… again.”

“Yeah,” Clark handed them over. Bruce first felt the petals between his fingers, before peeling a few apart, looking inside the flowers, and eventually, and always hesitantly, taking a sniff. Clark had once broached the topic with Bruce. Had suggested he get Bruce something else, given how hesitant he always was about receiving flowers, but Bruce declined. He said he wanted the flowers. That he needed them. Clark nodded along easily enough, though he wasn’t sure where the intensity came from; maybe Bruce was just really into plants. Bruce was really into a lot of odd things, in fact, like cameras, microphones, suit fabrics, sock density, and really any small nocturnal animal.

“Thank you,” Bruce put them on his desk on top of the ruffled papers, making no move to clean them (there was apparently a system in it all), “Jenna will be up with lunch in two minutes.” Bruce was always exact about timing, too.

Jenna came up two minutes later on the dot. And it fell silent until Bruce’s attention waned from his food to staring Clark down as he took another bite, “hmmrr?”

“I was wondering if you would be interested in having dinner with me tomorrow night at the manor?”

Clark chewed quickly, swallowing. “Of course.”

“Good,” Bruce seemed to actually mean it, as if Clark would ever say no.

Wayne Manor was as imposing as Clark had imagined it. It was dark, and just outside of Gotham, where the forest grew thick and the night fell over it tightly like a blanket.

Clark walked up to the doorway, knocking all too gently and nervously, surely the sound won't be heard with how big the place was. What were the chances someone was just waiting at the—

It swung open to an older gentleman dressed in a suit and bowtie. He scanned Clark before recognition seemed to sparkle in his eyes, “Mr. Kent—”

“It’s just Clark.”

“Mr. Kent, it’s an honor to meet you. The name is Alfred Pennysworth.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, sir,” Clark shook his hand before stepping inside.

“Right this way, Mr. Kent. Master Bruce will be down in a moment.” Alfred led Clark from the entryway through several too-long hallways to a dining room all too big and empty. Clark sat there a moment, alone, as the house creaked loudly, and the pipes ticked around him (it was an old house, a loud house), before Bruce appeared in the hallway in a white button-up shirt with the first two buttons undone, his work slacks, and dark circles still permanently tucked under his eyes.

“You came,” Bruce shuffled over to sit across from Clark, blinking at him stupidly a moment. As if the very sight of Clark in his home was too alien to process.

“Of course,” Clark smiled, “how was work?”

“Boring.”

“Why?”

“My shareholders think I am stupid,” Bruce sighed, “they keep trying to explain basic stocks and accounting to me.”

“Did you correct them?”

“Lucius doesn’t want me to cause a scene.”

“And correcting them would cause one?”

“Apparently.”

“Well, you can be quite dramatic,” it was Alfred walking back in with two plates in hand: both lamb chops with smashed yams and green beans. Bruce glared at the accusation.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Kent.”

“It’s just—”

“Master Bruce doesn’t often have guests over—” Alfred interrupted, but his words were quickly stopped by a harsh glare from Bruce.

“Alfred.”

“In fact, he went most of his childhood without much social interaction.”

“Alfred.”

“I was always nervous he was too stunted, especially as his anti-social nature followed him into adulthood.”

“Alfred!”

“I was amazed to hear he made a friend, and then well… I thought romance would be too far out of his comfort zone for him to ever actually experience it, and I feared that he wouldn’t even be self-aware enough to even realiz—”

“ALFRED!” Bruce yelled, horrified, “stop.”

Alfred smiled politely at Clark, “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Ignore him,” Bruce’s cheeks had stained a light pink, “I don’t know what he was—”

“I am so grateful you feel comfortable enough to share this with me.” Bruce seemed to relax, falling back into his chair and taking a shaky breath before he evened out fully into a clean demeanor. He slipped into the too-relaxed, too-fake personality that Clark would now have to pull him from.

“Of course, I’m comfortable with you,” Bruce hand grabbed Clark’s as he rested his fingers against Clark’s pulse on his inner wrist feeling his blood rush by quickly, “why wouldn’t I be?” Bruce searched Clark’s face quickly, almost too seriously before it fell away and his focus moved to his food, his hand shifting away from Clark toward his silverware. There was much more on the table mats than just a fork and a knife; Clark had to follow Bruce’s lead before picking up anything.

The heatwave had spread to Metropolis as the ocean breeze was no longer enough to chase it away. Clark always loved the heat, but then again, he never broke out into a rough sweat. It was becoming increasingly clear that Clark really hadn’t thought this through at all. It was just that it was hot, and Clark loved the beach, especially after not growing up around one. Sure, when he invited Bruce, the man had grumbled a hesitant agreement, and Clark thought that would be it.

But now they were there, and Bruce’s cheeks were already flushed red as he wore swim shorts (that looked too new to have ever been worn before) and a dark long-sleeved shirt. He was sweating almost pathetically next to Clark, hiding himself in Clark’s shadow.

“You will cool off faster if you take your shirt off.”

“I will burn without it,” Bruce grunted, despite Clark having already watched the man lather himself in sunscreen so thick it managed to further wash out his already pale skin.

“I can help you put more sunscreen on,” Clark offered, “you will feel better.” The thing was, it wasn’t even a trick. Clark hadn’t really thought past his suggestion beyond that Bruce was clearly burning up and uncomfortable. It didn’t help that he felt guilty for having invited the man to begin with. Sure, Bruce was pale, but it was like he had never stepped out into sunlight before (with how much time Bruce supposedly spent in his office, maybe he hadn’t).

Bruce studied Clark for a moment before shucking his shirt off with a grunt, and Clark really hadn’t thought this through at all because now he had a shirtless, grumpy Bruce Wayne staring him down. He was sweating, and his chest was heaving uncomfortable breaths. It was all really too much. Clark stared out toward the people lying around them, but no one seemed to notice the state Bruce was in (how did they not notice? It was damn near pornographic).

Bruce grabbed his sunscreen again when it lay in the sand next to his feet, bending over and revealing the vast expanse of his back to Clark. Bruce was lean, but still muscular as his body bent and twisted tensely. But he had one too many scars for someone his age and occupation, but despite Clark’s own stupidity, he knew better than to ask, at least, not ask right now.

Bruce squirted an absurd amount of the white, thick formula into his hand before tossing it at Clark, “Do my back,” he commanded before once more turning away and splatting what he had onto his chest and rubbing it outward to his stomach and shoulders.

Clark poured some into his hand as well, though noticeably less than Bruce had put on his front. Clark rubbed it into Bruce’s shoulder blades, then down his back. Bruce tensed at the first touch, his body freezing under Clark’s fingers before eventually continuing on as if nothing had happened.

Clark had to be particularly firm as the formula was far too thick to blend in smoothly, instead catching dryly across Clark’s palm. Bruce started to relax into the movement, slowly letting his weight fall back until Clark was holding him up with one hand and rubbing in his sunscreen with the other.

“Done,” Bruce’s half-lidded eyes looked back over his back a moment before scowling.

“I need more.”

“Right, sorry,” Clark poured out more, rubbing it roughly down Bruce’s spine, then out across his sides. He made sure to get the stubborn spots under Bruce’s arms before rubbing up his neck and below his hairline. Bruce was firm with muscle; his skin, outside of the scars, was smooth, soft, and milky pale… Bruce felt good under his hands… Clark wasn’t sure what to do with that. “Done?”

“Thank you.” Bruce’s face and chest were already red when Clark stepped back. Maybe Bruce was right; he really was going to burn without his shirt on.

“Do you want to swim?”

“No,” that was probably smart. Clark wasn’t sure what he would do with a wet, shirtless, grumpy Bruce Wayne.

Bruce had somehow managed to always avoid Lois the few times he did stop by the Daily Planet (luckily, both for Bruce and Clark). However, today his luck seemed to finally run out. Bruce had arrived right at five, strolling in without being stopped, as the newness of Bruce Wayne had finally worn off, and people no longer gawked, making Bruce’s path to Clark’s desk much smoother. He leaned against the desk, looking over Clark, still typing away and just about finished. Bruce seemed happy to watch silently. He often watched Clark silently; it seemed almost like a guilty pleasure of his to just view without having to interact.

When Clark was finished a moment later, he looked up at Bruce’s tense concentration as he stared down at Clark’s computer screen, “It’s on Luthor Corp’s new factory outside Bludhaven.”

Bruce looked over at Clark, slightly jumping, seeming almost startled to be caught looking. Clark could see from this angle and lighting the dark red tint of Bruce’s cheeks and forehead, where he was still burnt despite all the precautions taken. Clark couldn’t help but feel guilty.

“Interesting.” Lois was still in the bathroom, and Clark noticed her bag still tucked next to her desk.

“Let’s go.”

“Hmmm?” Bruce was back to staring at Clark’s computer screen.

“Yeah,” Clark shut his computer, shoving it into his bag and trying to hurry them out of there, though Bruce stayed firmly planted as he gazed around suspiciously, “I will make breakfast for dinner, your favorite.”

“That’s your favorite.”

“It’s everyone’s favorite.”

“Why are you trying to get me to leave so quickly?” Bruce asked.

“No reason,” Clark wasn’t above pulling Bruce out of here with him, “I just want to go home.”

“Okay….” Bruce went back to tracing the building with his eyes, seemingly looking for something and wasting more precious time doing so, but finally he stood up with a long stretch before walking with Clark to the door (to safety).

“Leaving already, Smallville,” and it was too late.

“Lois!” Lois Lane was, by all means, Clark’s best friend, and he loved her… but she was also his best friend and an asshole. Not really, but enough to embarrass him in front of Bruce more than he is already capable of embarrassing himself.

“You must be Bruce?” she asked once she had caught up to them. “I have been wanting to meet you for a while, but Smallville hasn’t let me.”

“Smallville?” Bruce questioned, and gosh, could Lois just drop the nickname once, but “Ahhh,” something seemed to dawn on him before Bruce pulled on his most charming smile, “Ms. Lane, right? It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Bruce shook her hand and then turned his attention back to Clark, seeming to wait for instructions or maybe even praise, Clark wasn’t entirely sure.

“So you are stealing away our country boy once more?”

“Work hours are over. There is nothing to steal.”

“Sure, but you have been taking him from us every lunch break.”

“I have?” Bruce seemed baffled, “I only see Clark three times a week at most.” Clark couldn’t help but huff a laugh at Bruce’s genuine confusion, “I would know if I spent more time with him.” Lois’ brows furrowed at second, before she smiled once more, seeming now unbothered, but with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Did you know Clark calls your assistant almost every day to ask what you have for lunch?”

“Yes.”

“You do?” Clark asked.

“Well, did you know—”

“Lois, I think I broke the printer again!” It was Jimmy, walking over all too fast and marinating himself in stress.

“Again?” Lois groaned, “How is that even possible?” before walking off with Jimmy, and for the first time ever, Clark was thankful that Jimmy always waited till the last minute to print out his proposals.

Clark could hear his phone ringing, and yet he could do nothing to reach it. He lay in bed with the curtains open, the sun still shining on him, with his suit in the way. And it was barely enough, his face still ghosted with the deep, dark black lines. And he shouldn’t be here (he should be in the Fortress Of Solitude, not his apartment in Metropolis), but he could barely fly, must less stand. Clark was, by all means, lucky he made it to his apartment, much less was able to stumble to the soft surface of his bed.

His phone rang again, he stared on at it, too tired to reach it on his bedside table. It fell silent again; it would ring soon, but finally Clark’s eye started to slip closed, and the pain was just far enough away to let him rest.

Distantly, he came back to the sound of a lock fidgeting and jiggling, but his thoughts were too muddled to concern himself with it. Instead, he lay on his stomach staring down at one of his hands spread out in front of his face, and the way his fingers shuffled ever so slightly. A door clicked open, and Clark could feel the air pressure change, but he wasn’t sure why, and his body ached too much to move. He lay staring out at his hand still, then at the open window. It was still day, or maybe it was tomorrow; he wasn’t entirely sure.

“Clark,” it was Bruce’s voice; he knew that much. He forced himself to crane his neck to stare at Bruce in the doorway. His suit was ruffled, and his hair messy, like he had been running his hands through it. Clark’s neck gave out, and his head fell back onto the mattress with a heavy sigh.

Bruce then snapped out of his staring, rushing to Clark’s side, crouching down till they were eye to eye, “I saw it on the TV.”

Ohhh, Clark supposed someone would have recorded it, wouldn't they?

“You could barely fly, you…” Bruce’s hand rested against Clark’s cheek before moving to push his hair out of his face. “What happened?”

“Kryptonite poisoning,” his voice sounded rusty and choked, even to him.

“What—”

“It should go away,” Clark added.

“Why isn’t it then?”

“No—” his throat constricted on itself, forcing out a cough, “not enough sunlight.” Bruce’s eyes shifted between the wide-open curtains and Clark’s stagnant form. Before standing and pulling off Clark’s boots and fidgeting with his suit and cape.

“Is there a zipper?”

“What?”

“You need more sunlight, right?” Bruce huffed, “I don’t suppose you can get it through the suit.”

“Yeah,” Clark mumbled, “on the front left, by the cape.” Bruce moved to slowly roll Clark onto his back, not because he seemed to struggle with the weight of Clark’s body, but because he seemed worried about hurting him. It was sweet, but Clark couldn’t help but imagine how he must look to earn just gentle treatment.

Once Bruce got Clark on his back and his face no longer buried in his mattress, Clark could feel a particularly thick, small piece of paper flattened on his cheek that Bruce peeled away almost immediately. Clark recognized it, despite not remembering making any grab for it.

He watched Bruce look the item over, particularly focused, “It smelled like you.” Clark could already feel his cheeks heating up at the admission, the embarrassment of it all almost too much.

Bruce grunted, placing the card onto Clark’s nightstand and continuing to undress him until he was only in his underwear (this wasn’t how Clark imagined the first time Bruce would undress him in his bedroom). The dark lines followed down his chest and legs, standing out starkly against his skin, but once Bruce stepped out of the way of the window and Clark was fully bathed in sunlight, he felt a particular ease fill him that was quickly erased as Clark noticed the business card in Bruce’s hand once again.

“Sorry, I know it’s probably weird, it’s just—” Clark’s words caught in his throat as Bruce rubbed the card between his wrists and then on his neck before returning the card onto Clark’s cheek, where it stuck surprisingly easily. It smelled again warm and fresh of Bruce. Clark could feel himself relaxing further into his sheets. “Thank you.”

Bruce was analyzing him, his eyes tracing the black lines. Clark wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the look, only that it was intense. Something that made Clark feel studied. He wanted to throw a blanket over himself (he would have if he had the strength and could suffer the loss of that much sun per square inch), to hide away until Bruce stopped looking at him like he was… like he was an alien.

“How do you feel?”

“Better.”

“Good,” Bruce paused, “would the poisoning have killed you?”

“Maybe. Probably, if I was exposed to it for a little longer.”

“Okay,” Bruce sat down, taking off his shoes and sitting up in bed next to Clark. He stared a moment longer before his hand went to Clark’s hair, brushing the curls back.

Clark eventually couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer with Bruce’s steady heartbeat, warm scent, and puffed breaths luring him back to sleep.

Chapter Text

Patience was hardly a virtue, and it was most certainly not Bruce’s, though he was attempting. He just couldn’t wait any longer for Clark to wake up once more, nor could he waste another moment, or one more day, or dinner trying to figure out Clark’s motive in all of this. Clark was still sleeping instead of running his mouth to Bruce, and it was a terrible waste of time as Bruce spent the night and now morning in peace. Clark had the benefit of usually being at least interesting even when he wasn’t incriminating himself or revealing more about the elusive Kryptonian species.

Bruce sat at Clark’s kitchen counter, drinking black coffee that wasn’t nearly as good as Alfred’s, but was good enough for the moment. Bruce could hear shuffling now in Clark’s bedroom, soon something of use was sure to happen (it better at least).

Clark did wander out. With a ruffled shirt and jeans that were still unzipped that Clark was desperately trying to shimmy up his hips, but refused to quit his speedy exit to do so. Clark finally looked up, staring out dumbly at Bruce a moment before looking down and realizing the state he was in, quickly zipping his jeans up and fixing his belt, “You are still here.”

“You’re leaving.”

“I need to go.”

“Where?”

“I have to go heal.”

“You’re not healed?”

“No— yes,” Clark corrected, seeming confused by his own answer before sighing, “I need to go to the Arctic. I should have gone yesterday, but I couldn’t exactly fly. I get… better sun there.”

“How long will that take?”

“I don’t know… not long. You can wait, and we can go get breakfast, or I can make you something after.”

“Maybe I’ll stay,” Bruce smiled. It would give him more time to snoop. Clark was still staring at him, blinking owlishly behind his glasses. And that was something that Bruce had noticed during all of this. Kryptonians had just slightly too big eyes. It wasn’t something most people would notice unless they were paying close enough attention; one had to really look at a Kryptonian every day, like Bruce was, to realize, “go, Clark.”

“Kal-El,” he breathed it so softly Bruce almost didn’t hear it.

“What?”

“Kal-El,” Clark said again with a muffled cough and heated cheeks, “it’s my real name— birth name,” he corrected, “it’s what my parents named me.”

“Clark Kent isn’t a universal name, then?”

“No,” Clark smiled, it was all too bright, too relaxed, too kind, too happy. “Are you going to be here when I get back?”

“Yeah,” Bruce promised (it would get Clark out of his apartment faster), “go, Kal-El, I am getting hungry.”

Clark is too perfect. It’s like he read a manual on dating. One he was inconsiderate enough not to share with Bruce afterward.

Clark sent Bruce flowers when he couldn’t make it to dinner because he was too busy saving the world.

Clark helped old ladies cross the street and cats climb down from trees.

Clark massaged Bruce’s shoulders when he had been hunched over his desk all day.

Superman walked kids to school and talked to them about their Pokémon card collections.

Superman played lifeguard so parents could go to the bathroom.

Superman always took pictures even when he had much better things to do.

Kal-El was somehow both Superman and Clark Kent and yet couldn’t be either of them. He had to be something else entirely, or Bruce had wasted his time and been wrong. Bruce never wasted his time. Bruce was never wrong. He just needed patienc—

“I want you to meet my parents.”

“What?”

“I just mean… I have met Alfred, but if it’s too soon, I can wait,” Clark rambled, “they have heard so much about you and I can tell them no, though. It’s not that big of a deal,” it clearly was to Clark, but why? It didn't make sense to Bruce why Clark would want someone like Bruce Wayne anywhere near his family… unless it was part of ‘it’. The overwhelming ‘it’ that was the answer to whatever it was Kal-El had planned for Gotham, for the world. “We can do all that later. I didn’t mean—“

“Clark,” Bruce warned.

“Yes?”

“I will meet them.” It would only help Bruce to know the people who raised Kal.

And that was how Bruce had signed himself up for a weekend in Kansas, on a farm. He had no experience with farms, or Kansas heat (that was somehow more oppressive than Gotham’s), or animals, but he was there pretending he wasn’t completely out of his element. More than anything, it was the first time Bruce had been away from Gotham for more than a single night since starting up The Gotham Project. Alfred now watched the city alone as Bruce interacted with people far too kind for his sensibilities.

Which was to say Mr. and Mrs. Kent were not at all as Bruce imagined them, and yet they were entirely as he imagined them. They were old, and easily confused by technology, and all too welcoming (Bruce supposed that was why they adopted an alien), and they were everything Clark Kent was. It made sense he would be raised by them; it also made sense that they had nothing to do with whatever Kal-El’s plans were. They were too aloof to play characters and too genuine to be malicious.

The trip did little to offer Bruce anything useful other than amusement from baby photos and embarrassing stories: “Clark didn’t learn to swim until he was fourteen.”

“Ma!”

“I would think flying would help with that?”

“I didn’t learn to fly until later,” Clark admitted.

“He was always a late bloomer, our Clark,” Mr. Kent called out from where he was washing dishes in the kitchen.

Clark grumbled to himself, mildly sinking into the couch cushions.

“It’s true, Clark didn’t hit his growth spurt until he was sixteen, used to be just the shyest kid.”

“I wasn’t shy!”

“He had this crush on this girl, who—”

“Ashley Palmer,” Mrs. Kent interrupted.

“Yes, Ashley… and he would just wave at her. Never spoke, only waved, was always too scared to talk to her. Thought he would make a complete—”

“Pa! Stop,” Clark’s face was an entire deep red.

“You know he’s only joking, Clark,” Clark grumbled for a moment, but settled back easily enough.

By their second dinner, stories had been exhausted, which was to say there weren’t many. Clark seemed to hold the Boy Scout title his entire life, even through the awkward teenage years. Playing the perfect part of a kid too honest and kind for his own good. The only problem with that was that those were two human characteristics, and Kal-El was anything but.

Though with the lack of stories for his parents to use against him, the attention had turned away from Clark toward Bruce: “You’re too skinny,” Mrs. Kent pouted, adding more food to Bruce’s plate before he could comment otherwise.

“Ma.”

“You too, Clark,” Mrs. Kent huffed, “it would do better for you to come around more often.”

“I know, Ma.”

“Clark says you are a big businessman,” Mr. Kent added once Mrs. Kent had firmly sat down once more.

“Yes, sir.”

“You work in Gotham, right?”

“Yes.”

“Does that get scary?”

“Only if you let it,” Bruce admitted, but smiled politely, turning his gaze to Clark and reminding himself to play this correctly, “and I always have Clark to watch after me.”

“Clark tells us there's a vigilante there.”

“Yes,” Bruce's eyes darted to his plate, where his fork pushed around too much food he couldn’t possibly finish, “The Batman.”

“Is he half bat?” Mrs. Kent asked.

“No, just dresses as one,” Bruce laughed, “It’s a true crime against fashion.” The Kents didn’t seem as taken with the insult as other Gothamites often were. Bruce let the laugh slip away, taking another bite, “This is really good, Mrs. Kent.”

“It’s just Martha, dear,” when she smiled, her eyes crinkling up at the corners and her face scrunching in around her wrinkles, “and thank you.”

“I think he’s admirable,” Clark added seemingly out of nowhere, “Batman, I mean, I think he’s admirable,” Bruce scoffed at the words (’admirable’) before he could stop himself, “you don’t like him?”

“He’s too dangerous,” it was meant to be a warning, a threat to Clark. One to keep him away from Gotham, one that wouldn’t work, because nothing ever did, “it’s better to stay away from people like him.”

“Like what?” Mrs. Kent asked.

“Violent people,” Bruce corrected, “he is too unpredictable.”

“He only goes after criminals.”

“How does he know who is a criminal and who isn’t?”

“I trust him,” Clark stated, “as a fellow superhero, I trust him.”

“I don’t think I have ever heard anyone call him that before.”

“He is one, though.”

“Sure,” only because Bruce couldn’t dare to fight in front of Clark’s parents, and it had nothing to do with the fluttering settling in his stomach. And Clark seemed pleased to have changed Bruce’s mind, or at least have him relent for now.

“Clark has always had a good sense for people’s character,” Mr. Kent added, “if he thinks the man is good, I think he ought to be.”

“Thanks, Pa.”

Patience, patience, patience was wasted on old men like Alfred, who didn’t seem to understand Bruce’s growing frustration. It had been over three months since Bruce Wayne had become Superman’s ‘boyfriend’, and there was hardly anything to show for it. Bruce truly couldn’t take it anymore. Something needed to happen; Batman needed to step in. Clark Kent was already on his way to Gotham for a dinner date with Bruce Wayne that he wasn’t going to make because Batman was staring down at him from a building's edge, waiting to drop down below when the streets cleared.

Clark could hear him; he knew that. Kal-El could hear him as his steps faltered and his eyes strayed up before forcibly focusing on the empty street before him. Once he came to an alley, he stepped in smoothly, waiting. Clark really never did learn any better. He got robbed last time. Why would he risk it again? Why would he be so blatant? Unless he knew, just as well as Batman did, that his charade was over.

Bruce dropped into the shadows, knowing that Clark could see him anyway; his enhanced senses had to make sure of it as he focused too clearly on what should have been his shapeless form and too silent landing.

“Clark Kent,” Clark jumped as if finally he had truly noticing the reality of his situation (he played his role well).

“Mister Batman!” Clark was fidgeting with his glasses, a habit he often did when nervous, “I’m not getting robbed this time.”

“I can see that.”

“I am not trying to cause you any trouble either.”

“I will decide that,” Bruce scoffed, and Clark seemed truly shocked by the sound, and finally, Bruce had actually caught him off guard.

“I am just on my way to a date, promise.”

“I know.”

“What—”

“I know, Superman.”

“What?” The word was breathed out, drawn out, and whispered between them.

“I’m on to you.”

“Look,” Clark seemed to finally be with the program, “I’m not Superman, I’m complimented, truly, but I’m not him.”

“There is no point denying—”

“I’m not denying I am just saying you are wrong—”

“I am never wrong,” Bruce growled.

“Sure, but right now you are,” Clark proposed, “I’m just a reporter.”

“A reporter who always interviews Superman and yet has never been spotted with him.”

“I don’t like to have my picture taken.”

“You can’t possibly think I’m that stupid?”

“I’m not calling you stupid, just confused,” Bruce used his best Batman stare that wasn’t as effective as he hoped, consistently failing to scare Clark into submission. “Look,” Clark finally deflated, “I am not here for any super-heroing or to step on your toes or anything. I was being honest when I said I have a date.”

“I know because I invited you,” Clark’s face morphed from confusion, to anger, to realization as his eye looked on, unsteadily across Bruce’s face before smelling the air between them as discretely as possible (which wasn’t discrete at all).

“…Bruce?” Finally, his situation had dawned on him.

“Yes, Kal-El,” the alien name rolled from his lips (just the way he would never admit he had practiced).

“That’s… amazing!” Clark was… giddy, “No wonder you realized I was Superman. You really are the best detective.”

“No.”

“Yes, you are, Bruce. No one has ever gotten close to finding out my secret identity before,” Bruce highly doubted that. “Wow. This is the best day ever. Oh my gosh! My boyfriend is Batman… that actually explains a lot,” he whispered that last part more for himself, but Bruce could still hear it rather clearly.

More importantly than any of Clark’s excitement was that this had not gone at all how Bruce had planned it to.

“I am threatening you,” Bruce clarified.

“Ohhh?” Clark’s face morphed from confusion to understanding too quickly followed by a deep red blush, “Ohhh?”

“Yes.”

“Is it like a confidence thing?” What?

“What?”

“The suit. I mean… You waited for me to see you in the suit before broaching,” Clark gestured between them briefly and far too erratically for Bruce to clearly discern what he meant, “this.”

“I know the truth.”

“Truth?”

“I know exactly how dangerous you actually are, Kal-El. I know you aren’t stupid either. You have to have known I was on to you. That’s why you wasted my time so far, but I won’t let you play your games anymore. This ends tonight” The lead box was safely in his belt, where it sat heavy, and Bruce’s hand reached for it.

“I’m going to be honest,” Clark’s cheeks were rosy with what could only be anger, and his hand was rubbing gently against his neck, and his smile was fond, but confused, but Bruce saw the real emotion behind it so well hidden, “I am a little confused. I think you are going to have to walk me through how you want us to do this.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Bruce growled, and Clark shivered at the sound.

“I’m not,” he squeaked. Bruce pulled the lead box from his belt, holding it out enough for Clark’s focus to zero in on.

“Is that kryptonite?” he seemed a little sick at the question, his voice wobbling slightly before he swallowed the sound hard in his throat.

“So you finally understand what’s happening here, don’t you?”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Clark’s eyes shifted between Batman and the dirty pavement below him at the realization (why? Bruce wondered), “I don’t— what did I do wrong? I mean, it's only been three months, I think we can still fix it. Just give me another chance, please.”

“We end this tonight.”

“Why?”

“You’re dangerous, far too dangerous to be allowed on this planet without being checked. It has gone on long enough. I have come to stop you, finally.”

“I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

“You played your part perfectly, Kal-El,” Bruce growled, “Too perfectly, no one in the world acts anything like the way you do without intent.”

“I— Bruce please, I don’t understand.” He was really playing dumb as his eyes kept shifting between Bruce’s masked face and the lead box. He really thought he could act his way out of this.

“You think me so ignorant?”

“No,” Clark rushed, “but maybe I am.”

So Kal-El wanted to play the long game. He wanted to see how long Bruce could do this. And Bruce might lack patience, but he was competitive more than Clark would ever realize, and admittedly, investigating Superman was the greatest enrichment he had had in a while. Most cases were solved too quickly, too easily, but Clark was making him work for it. The man was slow, waiting to strike, and Bruce could admire that; he liked to think himself much the same. Waiting in the shadows for the perfect moment. He could wait longer until Clark couldn’t keep up anymore. Clark might be an alien, but Bruce was relentless.

“You want to play this game longer?”

Clark sighed, relieved, “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Bruce agreed.

He was playing the game that was all, and soon, soon, the rest of the world would see in Clark what he saw, soon, the game would end as it is meant to. Surely he would bring this all to light soon enou— “Are we still going to dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to change or…?”

“I will meet you there,” Bruce stepped back into the shadows, and what should have been away from view. Clark turned and started walking back in the direction he had come. Bruce would beat him to the restaurant by ten minutes, even with Clark’s head start.

The Bat Cave was not what Clark imagined. There weren’t nearly enough places to hang upside down or shadows to hide in. But Bruce’s endless notes and files, and his computer setup was expected. What wasn’t expected was how much of it was dedicated just to Clark: his sleeping habits, his eating habits, his clothing, his work hours, his friends.

“This is…”

“Impressive?”

“Sure.” The files would have been disconcerting if they were anyone else's. Maybe it was Clark’s perception of Bruce that had been so obviously twisted that he found it endearing, “You have such a big crush on me.”

Bruce growled before snagging Clark’s glasses, “Hey.” Bruce ignored the cry, placing them on himself and stepping away from Clark’s prying hands to glance in the mirror. He still looked like Bruce Wayne… almost. More like an impersonation of himself than the real version. His jaw just wasn’t quite right, and his nose was smaller.

Bruce took them off, then put them back on, watching his face morph in the mirror. He would figure these things out. “Is it magic?”

“Ahhh, no,” Clark shrugged, “hypnosis,” so that was part of Kal-El’s plan, world domination through hypnosis, one that was first practiced through small usages like these glasses. Bruce was on to him, finally. Now, with Clark really playing the game, they would get somewhere, wouldn’t they? Bruce handed the glasses back over, their fingers brushed, and Clark smiled just as bright, just as flustered as always. He was having just as much fun with this as Bruce, Bruce could tell.