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The night is calm above Gotham, calm in a way Bruce doesn’t trust. Below, the city glows faintly under clouds, the heartbeat of crime slow but steady. He’s alone in the Batplane, running silent patrol. Or he thinks he is.
Until the comm crackles.
“Rough night?” comes the voice, smooth, familiar, impossible to mistake.
Bruce exhales through his nose. “You don’t sleep, do you?”
A flash of red and blue sweeps past the cockpit window. Superman hovers outside, his cape rippling in the wind, eyes soft in the moonlight. “Someone’s got to make sure you take breaks,” Clark says lightly.
“Don’t,” Bruce warns. “Not tonight.”
“Batman—”
He doesn’t finish, because Bruce banks sharply left, the Batplane slicing through clouds. He doesn’t want this, not the conversation, not the concern. Superman follows effortlessly, of course. Always does.
“Talk to me,” Clark calls, keeping pace easily.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Then listen.”
There’s something in his tone, quiet, steady, human. Bruce’s hands still over the controls. For a moment, he looks at the man outside his window. Not the alien. Not the god. The man.
Clark.
The silence stretches, heavy and electric.
Finally, Superman speaks again, softer this time. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“With what? Not sleeping? Not eating?”
“Don’t start.”
“Then stop running,” Clark says. The Batplane lurches slightly as a gust of wind catches it, but Bruce knows it’s not the wind. Superman is there, hand steady on the wing, grounding him.
“You can’t just show up and—”
“Why not?” Clark says, voice tight. “Because I care?”
That stops him. For a second, Bruce can’t find words. He’s good with silence, he built his life around it, but not this kind. This silence feels like being seen.
“Land the plane,” Clark says gently.
Bruce hesitates. Then, almost in spite of himself, he obeys.
They touch down on a rooftop, quiet and wind-swept, the city stretching below like a living heartbeat. Superman lands beside him, the cape falling around his boots. Bruce climbs out, cape and armor casting long shadows across the roof.
For a long moment, neither speaks.
Then Bruce turns, eyes sharp behind the cowl. “Why are you here?”
Clark looks at him steadily. “Because I can’t keep pretending I don’t know who you are under there.”
The words hit like a blow.
Bruce’s throat tightens. “What did you just say?”
Clark steps forward, slow and deliberate. “I know, Bruce.”
A beat. A heartbeat.
“You—” Bruce begins, but the sentence shatters. His fists clench reflexively, but Clark doesn’t move to defend himself. He just stands there, eyes earnest, almost sad.
“I didn’t want to keep secrets anymore,” Clark says quietly. “Not from you.”
Bruce’s voice is raw. “How long?”
Clark swallows. “A while.”
The wind cuts between them, cold and sharp. Bruce turns away, pacing a step, the tension in his shoulders betraying every thought he refuses to say aloud.
“You violated—”
“I trusted you first,” Clark interrupts, softly but firmly.
Bruce freezes.
Clark’s voice gentles. “I knew the risks. I knew you’d be angry. But I couldn’t—” He hesitates, then takes a breath. “I couldn’t keep lying to you. Not when…”
Bruce’s heart beats once, twice. “When what?” he demands.
Clark meets his eyes. “When I care about you too much not to tell you the truth.”
The city hums below them. Sirens, distant. Wind, constant. Two hearts, unsteady.
For a long moment, Bruce just stares. And then, slowly, deliberately, he reaches up. His fingers find the edge of the cowl. He hesitates, then removes it. The air hits his skin cold.
Clark’s breath catches.
“Then you should see me, too,” Bruce says, voice low, breaking just slightly.
Clark steps closer. The mask dangles from Bruce’s fingers, forgotten. Their eyes meet fully, human and unguarded.
“You knew,” Bruce says finally, not as an accusation now, but as realization.
Clark nods once. “I hoped you’d see me.”
The S-shield glints faintly in the dark, but the man who looks back at Bruce isn’t the god of Metropolis. It’s Clark Kent, awkward, gentle, sincere.
The silence that follows is more powerful than any declaration.
Bruce lets out a long breath. “You’re… ridiculous,” he mutters, though his tone has softened.
Clark smiles faintly. “So I’ve been told.”
“You risked everything by telling me.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Clark steps closer until they’re only inches apart. “Because I trust you,” he says simply. “And because I wanted you to trust me.”
Bruce’s eyes flicker, guarded even now. “You shouldn’t.”
“Maybe,” Clark admits. “But I do anyway.”
There’s a long, quiet moment. And then, something in Bruce finally gives. He exhales, tension bleeding out of his shoulders.
“You really are impossible,” he mutters.
Clark smiles, warm and certain. “You keep saying that.”
And before Bruce can respond, Clark reaches out—slowly, giving him every chance to step away, and lays a hand gently against his jaw. Bruce doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans into the touch, eyes half-closing, breath trembling.
The world fades. There’s no cape, no cowl, no League, just Clark and Bruce, standing together beneath Gotham’s restless sky.
“I see you,” Bruce says softly.
Clark’s smile deepens, quiet and full of relief. “Finally,” he whispers.
Their foreheads meet, gentle, steady, the contact grounding them both. It’s not dramatic. It’s not cinematic. It’s real.
Above them, clouds shift. A hint of dawn creeps over the horizon.
And for the first time in a long time, Bruce Wayne feels the night lighten.