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Red cape flapping in the atmosphere, there, Superman floats just above the ozone. The air is thin, crisp, tinged with the faint scent of ionized electricity from the city far below. Nearly bowling over the black shape cutting through the sky, he slows, adjusting mid-flight to hover just above it. The Batplane. Sleek, angular, and silent in its deadly grace. Clark recognizes it instantly; there is no mistaking the machine, or the man within.
It has been months since he last saw Bruce like this. Months of missions that never aligned, of messages left unread, of silent nights when Clark would glance at the Bat-Signal from Metropolis, hoping, waiting. Nights when the world demanded everything of them, yet neither could allow the other a private moment.
Bruce sits in the cockpit, cowl sharp against the cockpit’s shadow. His eyes flicker toward Clark, a spark of recognition passing—quick, guarded, but real. The faintest curve of a smile ghosting his lips, something almost imperceptible, yet enough to set Clark’s chest tight.
“Clark,” Bruce’s voice cuts through the hum of the engines and the rush of wind. Low, even, measured.
“Hey,” Clark replies softly, voice catching on the wind. He hovers closer, cape tugging in the stratospheric breeze, but the sensation is nothing compared to the gravity of seeing Bruce after so long. “It’s been… a while.”
Bruce inclines his head slightly, a tilt that says both acknowledgment and scrutiny. “Too long,” he says, voice carrying years of unspoken things.
The Batplane banks subtly, matching Superman’s hovering pace. They move together over the glowing cityscape, Metropolis alive with lights and traffic, Gotham shadowed and brooding in the distance. Clark studies Bruce’s profile: the hard line of his jaw, the faint furrow of his brow even in the rare moments of calm, the way he carries the weight of the world as if it’s a second skin.
“I wasn’t sure you’d respond,” Clark admits, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I didn’t know if you’d even want me to be here.”
Bruce’s hand hovers near the console, then relaxes. “I had to make sure you weren’t throwing yourself into unnecessary danger,” he says evenly. “You’ve… a habit of doing that.”
Clark chuckles softly, the sound almost lost in the wind. “And you’ve got a habit of making me wish I had a plan.”
The words hang between them, a delicate truce in the open sky. For a moment, the world narrows to the space between Clark and Bruce—heroes, yes, but also something far more human, more fragile, more urgent.
“League’s been asking about you,” Bruce says after a pause, voice careful. “They want you at the Watchtower for a debrief on the last mission. You’re… overdue.”
Clark nods, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I know. I just… needed to see you first.” His voice drops almost to a whisper, as if saying it too loudly would shatter the fragile moment.
Bruce studies him, eyes narrowing slightly, not in suspicion, but in evaluation. Finally, he speaks. “You didn’t have to,” he says. “You could’ve let me stay in my routine, in my… shadows.”
Clark’s eyes soften, shining with an emotion that goes beyond words. “I wanted to,” he admits. “I wanted to see you, to make sure you’re… okay.”
There’s a stillness, a pause, as if the wind itself waits for Bruce’s answer. The glass screen of the batplane cracked open, opening like Aphrodite's sea shell to reveal Bruce, elated in the pilot seat. Bruce leans slightly forward, just enough to close some of the distance, the subtle tilt of his cowled head a gesture Clark reads with perfect clarity. “You always make it impossible to ignore you,” Bruce says, voice low, private, intimate.
Clark laughs quietly, a warm, unrestrained sound. “Good,” he says. “Because I’m not leaving without this.”
He gestures toward Bruce, toward them—their hands, their presence, the unspoken tether between them that had persisted through countless crises and near-death encounters.
Bruce doesn’t move at first. Then, ever so slowly, carefully, he reaches out. Their hands meet. The touch is electric, small, human, yet more powerful than any punch, any laser, any threat they’ve faced in the skies. Fingers entwine, tentative, searching, confirming the reality of each other.
“I missed you,” Clark says, voice low, intimate. “More than I realized.”
Bruce’s grip tightens fractionally. “I… missed you too,” he admits.
Above them, the sun dips lower, painting the sky in shades of amber and violet, streaks of light catching Clark’s cape and the matte black of the Batplane. The city sprawls beneath them, unremarkable and infinite all at once. In this altitude, above human concerns and heroic duties, they are just two people, one in red, one in black, holding onto a fragile, stolen moment.
Clark leans closer, resting his forehead against the edge of Bruce’s cowl. “Promise me something,” he murmurs.
Bruce raises an eyebrow, cautious but attentive. “What?”
“Promise me we won’t let months go by again,” Clark says, the honesty in his tone unshielded, raw. “Not like this.”
Bruce studies him, eyes searching, reading, weighing. Then he nods. “I promise,” he says simply.
Clark smiles softly, exhaling relief he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Bruce’s lips twitch into the faintest smile, almost imperceptible, yet luminous in the fading light.
They linger there, hovering, above the sprawling cities, above their endless responsibilities. Superman finally speaks again, tone teasing, light. “You know, the League will never believe I paused a mission just to see you.”
Bruce smirks faintly, humor threading through his usual stoicism. “Let them not believe.”
And then, without hesitation, Clark leans further, bridging the final gap. Bruce doesn’t pull back. He meets Clark’s closeness with a subtle lean of his own, their foreheads resting together, a quiet affirmation in a world that so often demands action over affection.
Clark closes his eyes, feeling the warmth, the solid certainty of Bruce’s presence. “I’ve waited a long time for this,” he whispers.
“So have I,” Bruce says, voice husky with the weight of all those months of restraint and longing.
A gentle pulse of wind lifts the Batplane, and together, they rise higher, shadowed in gold light, red and black moving in tandem, no longer simply hero and protector, but two people navigating their own fragile happiness above the chaos of the world.
As they approach the Watchtower, the hum of the engines and the wind blends with the voices of the League, faint over the comms. Diana’s laughter, Barry’s cheerful complaints, Hal’s sarcasm, it all floats up to them, a reminder of the world they protect. But neither moves to separate; they are together in this small bubble above it all.
“I have to brief them,” Clark says, eyes still closed, still holding Bruce’s hand.
Bruce tilts his head slightly, a question in his gaze.
“I want them to see us together,” Clark continues, voice soft, tender. “Not just as heroes, but… as us.”
Bruce’s expression softens, the familiar armor of his stoicism melting just enough. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, but there’s warmth threading through the words.
“Not impossible,” Clark corrects, teasing, “just… inevitable.”
They share a quiet laugh, small and intimate, a stolen moment in a life defined by urgency and sacrifice. Then, Clark releases Bruce’s hand just enough to gesture toward the Watchtower, both of them ready to return to the wider world—but not without carrying this moment forward, a seed of something enduring.
Inside the Watchtower, the League greets them. Diana raises an eyebrow knowingly. “Looks like someone’s in a good mood,” she says, and Barry adds with a grin, “Finally! About time one of you guys let someone see some happiness.”
Clark glances at Bruce, and Bruce glances back. Their hands brush briefly under the table, subtle, but deliberate. A shared acknowledgment of intimacy, of connection, of care.
“Mission debrief first,” Bruce says, voice flat, but his eyes betray him.
Clark leans in, close enough that only Bruce can hear. “Afterwards?”
Bruce’s jaw tightens fractionally, then he allows a small nod. “Afterwards,” he replies.
They survive the debrief, Clark sharing details, Bruce observing quietly, and the day stretches on with League protocols, holograms, strategic assessments. Yet beneath it all, a quiet thread of anticipation runs between them. By the time the sun sets over Earth’s horizon as seen from the Watchtower, they are alone in the observation deck, bathed in the soft glow of twilight.
Clark steps closer, hovering, cape catching the reflected light. Bruce waits, stoic as ever, yet every line of his body betrays anticipation, hope, longing. And when Clark finally bridges the space, their foreheads meet, lips brush, hands find each other once more, and the world shrinks to a heartbeat, a whisper, a promise kept.
“Together,” Clark murmurs.
Bruce nods. “Together.”
Above Earth, above the chaos, they hold onto each other, red and black, light and shadow, two people, two heroes, finally unafraid to be both.
And in the silent expanse of space, with Metropolis glowing below, the promise of love endures, tender, real, and unstoppable