Chapter Text
As Bruce leaned over the railing of Trigate Bridge, he reflected on the contents of his life so far. With his parents having been shot in an alley, one of his closest friends having turned into a psychotic murderer, and countless deaths on his hands, it was more often than not that he dwelled on his past. Especially at night, when his demons haunted him in the voice of his parents, calling, pulling him into the depths of his consciousness. On the nights where sleep did find him, he awoke drenched in his own sweat, shirt clinging to his back, his lungs hyperventilating. It always captivated him that no matter how much he psychoanalyzed every moment of his past, he could never picture the future. In fact, most of his days were spent in a clouded trance, eyes glossed over, wandering the halls of the manor.
Today was spent in the same stupor, except Bruce had dared to venture outside, only to hide from the disappointment in his butler’s eyes.
So as he half bent over the parapet of the bridge, his hair flowing like a curtain over his eyes, it wasn’t difficult for him to imagine the sweet relief of letting gravity pull him down over the barrier. He envisioned the humanistic panic he would feel plummeting towards the icy river, and then the pang of pain he would experience upon impact with the water. His brain visualized the calm that would settle over him as he swirled in the frigid depths of the torrent, and he mindlessly leaned farther over the barrier, closer to the silence. . .
“Uh,” he heard a voice say from behind, “you’re not going to jump, are you?”
Shook from his daze, Bruce shifted back so his weight was less against the railing. He slowly rotated to face the source of the voice, and was met with the view of a brawny man, about half a head taller than he was. The man’s hair was unruly, the curls defined in some places and wild in others. On his body, the man wore an ill-fitting plaid suit with a white dress shirt underneath. His tie was too loose, and his dark acetate glasses were unquestionably too clunky for his face. Bruce absentmindedly wondered what prescription they were. Most noticeable of all, the man’s eyes were a breathtaking lapis. They held a weight that was comforting, yet unsettling all the same.
“No,” Bruce murmured, averting his eyes from the piercing blue.
“What was that?” The man said, leaning closer into Bruce’s bubble.
Bruce backed more firmly against the railing, causing the stranger to shift back in return.
“No.” Bruce replied, elevating his volume slightly.
The man tilted his head slightly, giving Bruce a condescending yet humorous look.
“I can’t hear you when you whisper like that y’know.”
“No. I wasn’t planning on jumping.” Bruce lied, practically yelling now. “And I wasn’t whispering, I was speaking at a perfectly intelligible volume.”
The man rolled his eyes and breathed out a chuckle. Bruce thought he could hear a “Sure you were,” muttered under the man’s breath.
Bruce scoffed. “Now who’s mumbling,” he remarked, turning back to the river, expecting the stranger to have left.
Bruce whipped around in surprise when he heard a bellowing laugh resonate over the rush of the river current. The man was laughing a deep laugh, hand over his chest, cheeks flushed, head tilted back.
Bruce stood nonplussed as the man joined him in leaning over the handrail. His gaze remained on the man as he pulled out a box of cigarettes and a lighter.
“Want a smoke?” he asked, flapping open the case of Marlboro’s and extending them towards Bruce.
“Sure,” Bruce murmured, causing the man to smile.
He reached in the box for a stick and retrieved the lighter from the man’s outreached hand. Cupping his hand around the flame to shield it from the wind, he lit the stick, inhaling and then exhaling the smoke into the frigid air. He handed the lighter back for the man to do the same, and was shocked when the stranger pocketed the lighter and the cigarette. Bruce studied him for a moment and then returned his focus to the view from the bridge. He chuckled under his breath.
From his peripheral vision, he saw the man turn to look at him inquisitively.
“What’s so funny?” he asked sincerely.
Bruce hesitated before asking, “You do realize it’s odd to offer people a smoke and then not actually smoke yourself, right?”
The man laughed again, loud and hearty. Bruce watched in awe. “Yeah, I suppose it’s sort of odd. But y’see, my friend Lois– she’s my coworker— she likes to smoke on breaks quite a lot, so I keep them around for her. I couldn’t smoke myself though, I’d surely choke on the fumes.”
Bruce blinked at him, nodded his head, and took another drag of his cigarette.
The man stayed silent for a moment before turning to Bruce and saying, “Y’know you really shouldn’t smoke either.”
Bruce glanced at him and looked away, forgoing a reply.
“Bad for your lungs,” the man explained solemnly.
“For someone so passionate about lung safety, you offer cigarettes quite willingly,” Bruce quipped despite himself.
The man laughed once again. Bruce noticed he was prone to doing so. He ignored the man’s eyes boring into the side of his skull, in turn twiddling the cigarette between his fingers.
The man raised an arm to rub his neck sheepishly before saying, “Gee, I suppose you're right.” Moving his hand from his neck, he extended a hand in greeting and said, “Uh, it’s Clark Kent, dail–uh nice to meet you.”
Bruce marveled the man– Clark was it?- and returned the greeting, shaking his hand once before pulling away.
Clark readjusted his glasses with a finger before asking, “And you are?”
Bruce dropped his cigarette into the river, ignoring Clark’s sniff of judgement, and turned to him, holding his gaze firmly.
“Bruce.”
Clark’s smile resurfaced, his eyes twinkling with joy. He repeated once again, “It’s a pleasure meeting you.”
Bruce scoffed. “That remains to be seen.”
Replying with a chuckle, Clark gestured a hand back down the bridge, motioning to the city beyond.
“Care to join me on a walk, Bruce?”
Bruce scrutinized the man. He briefly wondered if Clark knew who he was, billionaire-recluse, Bruce Wayne. Head of Wayne Enterprises, Bruce Wayne. He then realized that he didn’t quite care. Whether Clark knew of his status or not, something about the man gave Bruce the impression that Clark’s actions towards him wouldn’t be warped by his social standing.
He also found that he didn’t mind Clark’s company, and so he answered, “Sure.”
Clark beamed and nodded his head rigorously. “Alright then. I’ll lead the way.”
And so they continued down Trigate Bridge, Clark humming an old showtune as they went. Though the wind whipped Clark’s voluminous suit jacket, he seemed unfettered by the cold. Bruce shrugged his coat tighter around his shoulders.
Picking up his pace so he was walking alongside Clark, Bruce asked, “Are you not cold?”
“Hm?” Clark said. “Oh yeah! Yeah. Is it always this cold in Gotham?”
“Usually, yes. Are you. . .not from around here?”
Clark nodded his head in affirmation, readjusting his glass when they slipped down his nose.
“I’m originally from Kansas, but I moved to the Metropolis area recently,” he explained cheerily. “What about you?”
Bruce analyzed Clark, and then responded, “I’m from Gotham– born and raised.”
“Oh really,” Clark responded politely, deliberately glancing away.
Bruce scoffed humorously.
“I don’t mind if you have questions, Clark. I wouldn’t take offense.”
“It’s not that,” Clark replied quickly, his hands gesturing in a flurry. “It's just that I can’t even envision being raised in a place like Gotham. Growing up in Kansas is a far cry from this place. I mean, on the way to Trigate I got mugged at gunpoint.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Harley Quinn?” He guessed.
Clark huffed. “Right on the money.”
“How’d you get out of that one?”
“Long story short, I charmed her with southern hospitality and humility.”
Bruce barked a laugh. “Oh did you?”
“Mm,” Clark replied with humor.
Upon entering the city, Bruce surveyed the streets. Garbage littered the bike lanes and gutters, he could hear sirens ringing in the distance, and a gang was perched by the parallel sidewalk, hidden in the shadows of an alley. It was unquestionably Gotham. Despite the dismal environment, Clark walked with the same sense of felicity, periodically waving politely to the homeless people on the promenade. Bruce watched in awe as each time, the people waved back.
He was certain that leaving Clark in Crime Alley for one week would turn it into Sesame Street.
Clark stopped abruptly, and looking up Bruce noticed he had stopped outside a media store.
“Well this is my stop,” Clark declared, looking at Bruce intensely. Pools of deep blue bore into Bruce’s eyes intently.
They stood looking at each other for a moment, before Bruce nodded jerkily and mumbled, “I’ll just go the–”
“Bruce.”
Bruce’s eyes jumped back to Clark.
“Would you like to join me?”
Bruce’s eyes traveled between Clark’s. Slate eyes gazed into lapis.
“Mm.” Bruce hummed in affirmation. Clark gestured for Bruce to enter. He did.
The first thing Bruce noticed as he entered the media store was the smell of paper fused with dust. Tall rows of dark oak shelves lined the walls, some teeming with books, others displaying DVDs. The lighting was dismal but warm, illuminated by antique yellow lamps here and there. Posters spanned the walls, showcasing different bands and movies. The Smiths blared over the store speaker. Bruce wiped his shoes on the doormat as Morrisey sang of Jeanne d’Arc and walkmans.
Bruce watched as Clark scanned the store in wonder, a slow smile spreading across his face. He eyed the section brimming with novels, and turned back to Bruce, his expression reminding Bruce of a dog pleading to play fetch. Bruce rolled his eyes (he had a premonition that this was something that would occur frequently when with Clark) and followed after the man.
They halted in front of the shelf, and Clark pulled a novel at random from a stack, quickly shooting out his hand to block the avalanche of books that shifted with its departure. Despite his efforts, a pile of books tumbled from the shelf. Clark fumbled to pick them up as Bruce watched with pity. Leaning down to pick up the last book, Clark’s glasses slid off his nose and fell to the floor.
Bruce leaned down, picking up the chunky frames and extending them out to Clark before muttering, “I can’t take you anywhere, can I?”
Clark sputtered, covering his eyes like Dracula and reaching out to retrieve the glasses. Once he had them on, he lowered his arm, to reveal a blushed face.
Bruce tilted his head inquisitively.
“I’m insecure!” Clark explained, far too loud for the quiet store. The teenage clerk behind the front desk eyed him with disgust. Bruce eyed him with confusion
“I’m insecure. About—about my eyes. They’re uh, sensitive.”
“Right.”
Clark turned back to the bookcase, taking a book from another shelf and then turning it so Bruce could see the cover. It was a tattered copy of Sherlock Holmes. The pages were stained yellow, white creases evidently marring the cover.
“Have you read this?” Clark asked, opening the book and flipping through the pages.
“Yes.”
Clark nodded his head. “I thought you’d like it.”
Bruce huffed. “We barely know each other.”
“Well-yes,” Clark bumbled, flushing once more, “it’s just that, you remind me of Holmes.”
“Would that make you Watson?”
Clark beamed, then winked at Bruce, “If the shoe fits!”
Bruce groaned. Clark chuckled. Bruce took a turn pulling a novel from the shelf, retrieving a copy of The Notebook. He groaned again, returning the book to its spot.
“Let me guess, you're not a fan of romances,” Clark surmised.
“How’d you guess?” Bruce deadpanned.
Clark pulled out a floppy copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. He smiled. “Gee, I’d been meaning to read this book!” He sighed to himself and returned the novel to its spot on the shelf.
“If you want to read it, why don’t you buy it?” Bruce muttered.
“Ah.”
Clark sheepishly soothed the back of his neck, averting Bruce’s eyes intently.
“Clark?”
Clark winced, still avoiding Bruce’s gaze. He sighed.
“I don’t. . .have any money.”
Bruce blinked. Blinked again. Barked an amused laugh and asked, “You came to a foreign city with no money?”
Clark cleared his throat. Obnoxiously. Bruce thought he saw the clerk’s eye twitch violently.
“The thing is-,” Clark murmured, still averting his gaze, “I uh– lost my wallet. On the way to the bridge.
Bruce sighed. He wasn’t called the World's Greatest Detective for nothing.
“You let Harley Quinn mug you.”
“She didn’t mug me Bruce!”
“Oh really. She just asked politely and you handed your wallet over.”
Clark averted his gaze. Bruce’s eyes widened slightly.
“Clark, tell me you didn’t willingly give a criminal your wallet.”
Clark remained silent.
“Sweet Jesus-”
“Give me a break, Bruce. She needed it more than I did! She was mugging people on the streets for Pete’s sake!”
Bruce snatched the copy of To Kill a Mockingbird from the shelf, checking the price on the back. He pulled his own wallet from his pants pocket and said, “What am I going to do with you?”
Clark huffed. “You really don’t have to pay for me Bruce. I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Good thing you didn’t ask,” Bruce refuted, walking to the register.
Clark followed, his head hung low.
Bruce slid the book across the counter, thumbing through his wallet for his card. The cashier began to package the book, wrapping it in brown paper.
“Cash or cre–”
The clerk halted their work, peering at Bruce intently. Bruce peered back.
“Holy crap,” the clerk gasped. “Yo-your Bruce Wayne.”
Bruce smiled sarcastically, pulling his card from his wallet and sliding it through the processor.
“That’s me,” he said.
The clerk continued to stare in awe before returning to their work. Bruce kept his stance forward, deliberately avoiding Clark’s gaze.
“Have a nice day,” the clerk said, handing the package to Bruce, who handed it to Clark. Bruce quickly moved to the exit.
“You too!” Clark chirped, following Bruce out the door.
There was a lull in conversation as they walked down the avenue.
Clark broke it by declaring, “I wanted to walk through Aparo Park.”
Bruce nodded, following Clark through the crosswalk.
“Soooo,” Clark drawled, sideyeing Bruce.
Bruce glanced at Clark briefly.
“….Why didn’t you tell me you were Bruce Wayne?”
Bruce sighed.
“Honestly I half guessed you already knew. Frankly, I’m shocked you haven’t seen a picture of me once, I tend to be featured on the Gotham Gazette quite frequently.”
Clark chuckled.
“I’ve been so busy working that I haven’t had the chance to sit and watch television yet,” he said.
Bruce wondered what Clark did for work. He asked.
“I’m a reporter for the Daily Planet!” Clark gloated proudly.
At this, Bruce bristled. His experiences with reporters had a tendency to run sour. Bruce hated how they pried, harassing him with questions about his parents and their legacy. He despised the paparazzi who followed him around Gotham after galas, enhancing his paranoia. It was hard for Bruce to imagine Clark doing any of those things, however. Bruce was frightened to find that what worried him the most was whether his interactions with Clark had been a fabrication- an illusion with the goal of gaining a selling story.
Clark seemed to read his mind, waving his hands wildly before stating, “Gee Bruce who do you take me for! I’m not that kind of reporter! I’m an investigative reporter. I write research papers on crime and the government and corporate corruption and justice! I don’t run the gossip panel!”
“Oh.” Bruce sighed in relief. “What’re you writing about here in Gotham?”
Clark grinned before leaning in and whispering, “The Batman!”
Bruce blinked, then schooled his expression before asking, “Really.”
“Mm!”
“Well do you have anything yet?”
At this Clark visibly deflated. “Uh, no. The problem is, the guy’s impossibly hard to catch!”
Bruce scoffed. “Don’t tell me you're trying to interview him.”
Clark cleared his throat. “Well. . .yes.”
Bruce rolled his eyes. He would have to watch out for Clark on patrol later. Despite his liking for the reporter, he knew he wouldn't be in the mood for an interview any time soon. In the early days of dawning the cowl, Bruce frequently dwelled on his parents. He wondered how they would react to seeing their son dressed up as a cryptid, bleeding on the streets for justice. He imagined they would feel dissatisfied, or perhaps proud, or maybe confused. On the days where his bones felt heavy, and the dark crescents under his eyes weighed him down, he would push on, protecting the streets of Gotham. Deep inside, he still believed that fighting as The Batman was the continuation of the Wayne legacy. He would not let them down. He would not let their name tarnish any further.
As he walked with Clark, he felt that same deep need for validation. It scared him, but he nevertheless asked, “What do you think? About Batman?”
Clark was silent for a moment. Bruce waited.
“I think he’s swell!”
Bruce marveled at the man’s verbiage.
“Swell?”
Clark nodded.
“Y’know Clark, there aren't many people in the world still using that word.”
Clark laughed. They entered Aparo Park.
“Care to explain?” Bruce pushed.
“I just think he’s good for a place like Gotham. I mean look at this place! People are getting mugged at gunpoint left and right!”
Bruce breathed a laugh. “Are you ‘people’?”
“Well- yeah.”
“Some people don’t agree with his ethics. The Batman, I mean. They think he’s too. . .violent.”
Clark slowed his pace, taking time to survey the park. Bare willow trees stretched like spider webs over their heads, failing to conceal the cloudy sky. The grass was dead at their feet, dirt patches littering the floor. Litter itself populated the park, from cigarettes to soda cans. A small replica of Lady Gotham holding a light to the sky topped a fountain at the center of the park. Clark sped towards it. Bruce followed.
“Y’know this reminds me of Batman,” Clark mused solemnly.
Bruce breathed, “How?”
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door,” Clark recited.
“The New Colossus?" Bruce guessed, recognizing the poem.
“Mm,” Clark hummed in affirmation. “About Lady Gotham. In the poem, she’s welcoming the poor and needy into the city. She’s meant to represent hope and refuge. I think Batman’s a lot like her. I mean sure, he’s quite violent sometimes. But I think in a city like Gotham you have to be. To me, that’s not what he stands for. There was a flood in Gotham about a year ago, wasn’t there?”
Bruce nodded in affirmation.
“I thought so. My coworker– Jimmy Olsen– was working a story here around then. He got this crazy good photo, of Batman guiding civilians through the water. He had this flare in his hand, and when I saw the picture, it reminded me of that poem. Like Lady Gotham, his obligations to the city hoist a guiding light, providing refuge for people in need. He’s a beacon of hope for the citizens here. When people see the Bat Signal in the sky, they know that when the government and the politicians aren’t fighting for them, Batman is. That’s what Batman stands for. The people. Resilience. Hope. At least, that’s what he means to me.”
Bruce looked at Clark intently, and then quickly looked away. He struggled to swallow around a lump in his throat.
“So yeah,” Clark finished, “ I think he’s swell.”
Bruce nodded.
Clark took in the fountain one more time, before moving past it and looking at Bruce to follow. He did.
“I really do hope I get a quote for my boss. Because I don’t think enough people see that. How good for Gotham Batman is, I mean. He’s the whole reason I do what I do, for Pete’s sake!”
Bruce nodded absentmindedly, going over Clark’s monologue in his head, over and over. He comprehended Clark’s words and asked, “He’s the reason you’re a reporter?”
Clark turned to look at Bruce, puzzled, before a look of realization crossed his features. He flushed, pushing his glasses up his nose once more, “Y-yes! Of course. That’s- that’s what I meant.”
Bruce returned Clark’s gaze. Clark looked away.
“Golly! We’re here!”
Bruce looked away to find that they had long left Aparo Park, and were now standing in front of the entrance to the Gotham Museum of Art.
“Shall we?” Clark asked and then attempted to wink. Frankly, it looked like his face was twitching.
Bruce groaned, shoving past Clark towards the revolving doors. He stepped into a section, only to whirl around when he felt a presence inches behind him. Clark had stepped into the partition with him. As Clark sputtered apologies, Bruce pushed them back, shoving Clark back out into the street. He looked Clark up and down. The man was flushed down to his neck.
“Darn, I’m sorry Bruce I wasn’t looking where I was going I–”
Bruce watched him sputter, his amusement growing. Driven by a sudden spur of jackassery, he muttered, “You’re lucky you're cute, Kent.”
Clark looked moments from passing out. Bruce chuckled deeply, turning to continue entering the building.
He waltzed in, refraining from looking back at Clark. He strode up to a painting of a dog, staring at it intently.
He pretended not to hear the “good grief, Bruce!” muttered under Clark’s breath as the man joined him in standing in front of the portrait.
“Tell me, Mr. Kent,” Bruce asked, continuing his teasing spree, “how does this painting make you feel?”
Catching onto the banter, Clark chuckled under his breath and muttered, “How it makes me feel. How. It. Makes. Me. Feeeeeeel. Well Mr. Wayne, usually I feel with my hands.”
Bruce mockingly groaned and knocked his shoulder against Clark’s, nudging him to the next exhibit as Clark laughed at his own joke. They continued to tour the museum, making stupid jests at each artwork.
“And what about this one?” Bruce asked.
The painting was abstract, a few splotches of paint spattered on an all white canvas.
“Well, I’m not sure what to think Mr. Wayne. For one, I feel as if the negative space does most of the heavy lifting.”
“Mm. Heavy lifting?”
“Yes, very hefty lifting Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce laughed arbitrarily, lifting a wrist to cover his mouth as he did so. Clark watched in awe at the most emotion he had seen Bruce display yet. Seemingly noticing this himself, Bruce’s expression quickly returned to neutrality.
Clark watched Bruce move to the next painting, eyes tracking the billionaire passionately. He followed after him.
“Tell me Bruce,” Clark began, “if this painting could speak what story would it–“
Clark stopped abruptly, whipping his head to the entrance of the museum and staring intently there.
Bruce watched in confusion as Clark’s eyes darted to and fro, as if watching a scene play out.
“Clar-“
“Bruce, you've got to get out of here, it’s not safe.”
Bruce glanced between Clark and the entrance.
“Unlike you, I don’t think the revolving doors are gonna take me out any time soon.”
“Bruce.” Clark said, his grim voice resonating with gravitas.
Bruce began to grow alarmed, reaching a hand to grip Clark’s upper arm, pulling the man’s gaze back to him.
“Clark, what’s going o–”
“Just stay behind me Bruce.”
“C-”
The revolving doors leading to the museum spun wildly, and four figures dressed in black entered the building.
“This is a goddamn robbery! Everyone stick em up and get to the middle of the room. Now!”
The robbers held up their guns, the glint of the muzzles catching Bruce’s eye instantly. He felt dazed, like he had been knocked upside the head with a brick. Of course, being Batman, Bruce had seen his fair share of guns. But for some reason, in the light of day, without the Batman armor standing between him and the barrel of the weapon, he felt weak kneed and dazed. He was petrified, a far cry more than he had been at the sight of a gun since…
Distantly, he could hear someone muttering his name.
“–ruce!”
“Mm,” Bruce hummed absentmindedly.
Lapis eyes bored into Bruce’s, analyzing him.
“Bruce.”
“Hm?”
“Look at me.”
“I am looking at–“
“No you’re not. You're looking through me. Look at me.”
Bruce blinked back into consciousness, eyes refocusing.
“There you are,” Clark whispered, smiling fondly.
Vaguely he realized Clark’s hands were steady on his shoulders. Bruce shrugged them off.
“Let’s head to the middle of the room, okay?” Clark said delicately.
“Okay,” Bruce whispered.
They began to walk towards the center of the building, and they had almost reached it when one of the robbers nudged Clark forward with the muzzle of his gun, barking, “Hurry the hell up!”
Bruce gasped minutely, reattaching his hand to Clark’s arm.
“Gee, sorry,” Clark said, apologizing to the armed robber before pulling Bruce quickly to the middle of the room.
They gathered with the other civilians, most of them quivering in fear, clinging to one another. Under the haze of his stultification, Bruce debated changing into the Batsuit, but quickly realized that it would cause more harm than help to try and escape to do so. He watched Clark survey the room before turning to Bruce and asking, “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Bruce whispered before repeating louder, “Yes. I’m not. . . usually like this. For the life of me I can’t figure out why I’m reacting this way.”
Clark breathed a laugh. “It’s perfectly normal to be nervous right now, Bruce. Even if you are a Gothamite.”
“Ha. ha.”
They stood in silence for a moment before Clark turned his head to look at Bruce fiercely. Bruce returned his gaze.
“Bruce.”
Bruce noted that Clark said his name quite a lot. He was shocked to find that he didn’t mind at all.
“Mm?”
“I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
Alarm riddled Bruce’s expression, and he instinctively shifted between Clark and the outside of the circle.
“What are you thinking about doing?”
“I need a distraction.”
“A distraction? For what?”
“I need to trust that you’ll make a distraction, Bruce. I need to know that if I do something you won’t overreact. Can I trust you to do that?”
Bruce scrutinized Clark. Despite a voice in the back of his mind (that for some reason sounded like a little boy –‘it can’t happen again, itcan’tcan’tcan’t) Bruce nodded his head yes.
Being Batman, he constantly had methods of distractions at the ready, but without the armor that held the batarangs and smoke bombs and diversions he was at a loss for what to do.
“Ey, Jude!” one of the captors called from in front of the revolving doors, “Should I block these off?”
The other captor- the one who had nudged Clark with the gun- responded, “What’d’you think?” sarcastically, breathing ‘ya dunce’ under his breath.
“Still waiting on that distraction,” Clark murmured.
“Yeah I’m working on it, Clark.”
Absent-mindedly, Bruce noted that the robber near the door had called the robber who shoved Clark ‘Jude’. He marveled at how a city as crime-riddled as Gotham could have such amateur criminals. Suddenly, a fond memory from early in his childhood (before the crimson death of his parents and all those years spent wandering the manor, chasing ghosts) resurfaced and like a lightbulb over his head, he got an idea.
He groaned to himself, turning to Clark and muttering, “Not a word about this later.”
“About wh–”
A boisterous humming sound permeated the air, interrupting Clark mid sentence. Whipping his head to Bruce, he realized in bewilderment that it had come from him.
“Bruce, what are you doing?” Clark whispered fiercely as several civilians turned to gawk at him.
Bruce paused his humming to roll his eyes over to Clark before muttering, “You wanted a distraction. I’m making one. Just give me a second to get to the lyrics.”
“The lyri–”
Bruce gave Clark a look sharp enough to kill, instantly shutting Clark up.
Continuing to hum, Bruce’s droning notes began to get clearer, the notes resonating more distinctly, so much so that Clark began to recognize the song. His eyes lit up, and he began to lightly clap along to the beat. Bruce recalled his life, wondering how he could have possibly got to his point. Nevertheless he began to lowly sing:
“Hey Jude, don't make it bad,
Take a sad song and make it better,”
As Bruce crooned, he felt a slight flush pinken his neck, slowly moving up his face. He thought of his parents’ legacy, certain that if he hadn’t tarnished it before, he was now. Meanwhile, Clark looked practically ecstatic. Bruce continued, be that as it may:
“Remember to let her into your heart,
Then you can start to make it better,”
Distantly, Bruce could hear Clark’s clapping grow louder. He looked around as he sang, and was shocked to find that the other captives had begun to clap along. ‘Lord, this is cliche,’ Bruce thought, internally groaning. He continued:
“Hey Jude, don't be afraid,
You were made to go out and get her,”
It was with a pang of panic that Bruce realized that the captors had noticed his singing and were making their way over to where he and Clark stood. Seemingly sensing the same thing, Clark waved his hands at the crowd, signaling all of them to join in. Some civilians did as the songs bridge continued:
“The minute you let her under your skin,
Then you begin to make it better,”
Just as Bruce took a breath to begin the chorus, Clark yanked him into the middle of the circle, away from the guards’ reach. Clark turned to a woman holding hands with a man and murmured, “Watch him for me, please.” Despite his confusion, Bruce proceeded to the chorus, noticing in shock as he did that most of the crowd had begun to sing along:
“And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain,
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders,
For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool,
By making his world a little colder,”
His eyes flashing with awe, Bruce watched as the crowd of thirty or so Gothamites grew louder in volume. His own singing quailed as he stopped to listen to the cacophony of voices. Though he had hoped his plan would work, he never expected something tantamount to a concert to break out during a hostage situation. After all, this was Gotham. Unity of this magnitude was tantamount to a crime-free moment. Turning to Clark to remark on this, he was shocked to find he was no longer there. Taking a moment to analyze the situation, he surmised that Clark must have escaped through the back door.
And though he was astounded to find that Clark had left without him, he felt almost lightheaded from the nauseating wave of relief he experienced at the man’s departure. Bruce surprised himself with this thought. Despite his better judgement, Bruce didn’t mind Clark’s presence. Just as he began to reflect on this, the sight of many blue uniforms moving in the distance interrupted his thoughts. The crowd didn’t seem to notice, as they continued to sing.
“Hey Jude, don't make it bad,
Take a sad song and make it better,
Remember to let her under your skin,
Then you'll begin to make it,
Better better better better better better, oh,”
Searching beyond the throng of civilians, Bruce peered at the entrance, seeking out a better look.
“Na na na nananana, nannana, hey Jude,
Na na na nananana, nannana, hey Jude,”
“The police are just down the street.”
Bruce wheeled around to find Clark standing beside him, readjusting his glasses.
“C-clark?”
Clark raised his eyebrows in question, his expression looking impressively sincere.
“Yes, Bruce.”
“Where were you?”
“I could ask the same question,” sneered a voice from behind them.
“Na na na nananana, nannana, hey Jude,”
Now it was Clark’s turn to wheel around, and when he did he found the captor -funnily enough, Jude himself- lurking behind him, the barrel of his gun pointed at Clark's chest.
“Oh, darn!” Clark exclaimed, looking like this was but a slight inconvenience.
However, Bruce didn’t hear him. He didn’t hear anything aside from the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, like the torrent from Trigate Bridge. Once again, he found himself frozen in the face of a gun, fear coursing through his veins violently. In that moment, he understood why fear had seized him so voraciously when Clark had been nudged by the gun what felt like hours prior. It was because he cared for Clark. No matter how much he wanted to pretend he didn’t, he did and now Clark’s life could be over with a squeeze of a trigger. Bruce cursed himself for his propensity with confronting his feelings under the pressure of a pistol and the fear of losing someone. Over and over again he lost and lost and lost, and no matter what he did, no matter how many nights he fought tirelessly, he could do nothing to stop it when it came down to this. The squeeze of a trigger.
Bruce’s voice was hoarse as he called out Clark’s name, his breath rasping.
Once more, deep pools of blue turned to look at him.
“Bruce, it’s going to be ok-”
Clark’s body ricocheted with the force of the bullet tearing through his flesh.
As he fell to the floor, GCPD officers rushed in, morphing the revolving doors into turbines. The singing of the civilians had long since died down, and the room had dissolved into pandemonium. Bruce felt a dull pang in his knees as he fell to the floor, leaning over Clark’s body. Over his chest, Clark’s hand covered the wound, twitching as he breathed hoarsely.
“Clark, it's gonna be alright. The police are here, you'll be fine. You're going to be okay,” Bruce grated, his voice still gravelly.
A sudden wave of calm seized Clark’s features as he peered at Bruce. The hand not occupied by covering his wound reached out to push the curtain of hair shadowing Bruce’s face. Clark’s eyes jumped between Bruce’s.
“We need to go.”
Bruce startled, instinctively leaning into Clark’s touch, yet shaking his head hysterically.
“No, we need to get you to the hospital you’re–”
“Bruce.”
“What!”
“Do you trust me?”
Over the sound of Bruce’s hyperventilating, Clark watched him hesitate, and then nod yes.
Bruce doesn’t remember sneaking out through the back door of the museum but his shoulder is sore from Clark leaning on him for stability.
As soon as they enter the alley, Clark’s weight on him lessens, and Bruce tenses as Clark wraps a hand around the back of his head, pulling him in so their foreheads are touching.
“Bruce. You need to breathe.”
Remotely Bruce realized that he was still rasping for air, oxygen coming in few and far between.
“I-I can’t. Your chest. The bullet.”
Clark moved his hand to card through Bruce’s hair, tilting Bruce’s head up as he did so.
“Breathe.”
“I-”
“Look,” Clark said delicately, removing the hand from over his chest to show that his body was perfectly fine.
“But–th-the bullet. It hit-”
Unbuttoning his dress shirt slightly, Clark exposed his bare skin, displaying its unharmed state.
“See,” he said grabbing Bruce by the shoulders once again, “I’m all good.”
Bruce stood staring blankly at Clark’s bare chest, the seizing of his lungs dying down. He looked up at Clark, an expression of confusion and exhaustion marring his face.
“I’m all good,” Clark repeated, pulling Bruce to his chest and burying his nose into the side of Bruce’s neck. Bruce’s body immediately relaxed, and he slowly raised his arms to reciprocate the embrace, his grip turning firm and desperate.
They stayed like that until Clark chose to release Bruce slightly, his arms still loosely hanging around Bruce’s torso.
Picking up his head from Clark’s shoulder, Bruce made eye contact with Clark, distantly noting how close they were.
He cleared his throat, averting his eyes from Clark in favor of looking at the floor.
“You okay?”
Bruce hummed absentmindedly, before his head shot up and he stared at Clark with wide eyes.
“Your chest. How are you not-”
Clark huffed a laugh, fully releasing his hands from Bruce and saying, “I figured you’d catch on by now Bruce.”
Bruce’s face remained bewildered as Clark reached up to his glasses slowly removing them. His posture straightened, his height raising at least an inch.
Bruce blinked. Blinked again. Superman blinked back.
“Y-you’re Superman.”
Clark nodded. Bruce gaped, and then slapped his palm to his face in humiliation.
Clark startled, reaching out to pull Bruce’s hand from his face, “Gee, Bruce don’t hurt yourself.”
‘So much for World's Greatest Detective’ Bruce thought. He would have to forgo that name after this.
As the sun began to set over the Gotham skyline, Bruce reflected on the contents of the day. It seemed like light years from now that he was leaning over the side of Trigate Bridge, debating leaving everything. And then he had met Clark. Now, Clark seemed like everything. Even now, after Clark had faced death, he didn’t think he’d ever tell him how we felt. How was he expected to, after self preservation has been the only way he’d lived for the past twenty years. How was he expected to live away from him, even for a moment?
“–ruce? You still with me?”
“Mm,” Bruce hummed.
Clark looked around the street, musing the city landscape.
“Y’know, I’ve always wanted to see the sunset in Gotham. I mean, the skyline in Metropolis is swell but the view of Gotham is in a league of its own! I’ve seen pictures.”
Bruce huffed. “Those are edited, Clark. Trust me, the acres worth of pollution obscures it from most angles.”
Clark deflated, looking at Bruce pleadingly.
“Really? There’s nowhere we can go?”
“I said ‘most’ angles, Clark.”
Clark perked up, his eyes wide with exhilaration.
Bruce smirked, looking away before saying, “I may know a place.”
After a pit stop at Bat Burger, Bruce and Clark found themselves on top of a factory in Gotham, legs dangling over the edge, as they watched the sun sink beneath the skyline.
“Golly, Bruce, you really outdid yourself with this view,” Clark said, carefully removing the tape from the Bat Burger to-go package. Oil seeped through the bottom of the paper bag.
Bruce scoffed. “Y’know, I’ve been meaning to ask about that,” he said, taking his order of the classic Bat burger and fries as Clark handed it to him.
“What?”
“The way you speak. It’s odd.”
Mid bite, Clark halts his eating, tilting his head to the side in genuine confusion.
“Is it odd?”
“Yes, very,” Bruce said chuckling, pulling the wrapper back on his burger.
Clark continued to eat as if the conversation never happened.
Bruce rolled his eyes fondly, pulling out a cup of Scarecrow sauce. He opened it, placing it between them on the concrete.
“Try this with me?” Bruce asked, his voice unsure.
Clark looked at him in confusion which quickly morphed into amusement.
“Sure,” Clark said cheerily, retrieving a fry from his bag. He knocked his fry against Bruce’s, before dipping it in the sauce and exclaiming, “Sante!”.
Bruce groaned before dipping his own fry in and taking a bite.
Frankly, the sauce was vile. Clark seemed to have this same thought, for he gagged obnoxiously before snatching his vanilla milkshake from the concrete and gulping it down vehemently.
Bruce laughed, full and heartily, at Clark’s apparent disgust. Clark scowled. Bruce didn’t even know he could scowl.
“What, you didn’t like it?” Bruce asked amused.
Clark coughed again, before side eyeing Bruce viciously.
Bruce laughed again. Clark’s scowl faded into a smile of admiration.
“Are enhanced taste receptors a part of Kryptonian anatomy?”
“Don’t nerd out on me now, Bruce.”
“I am not ‘nerding out’ ,Clark. But surely you acknowledge that your being Superman is going to raise a few questions.”
“If an inside scoop on Superman is what you desire, you’ll have to try harder than that.”
“Mm. You're the reporter, Kent.”
“Yet here we are.”
“Yeah, here we are,” Bruce mused, eyes glued to Clark’s. Clark flushed, smiled sheepishly and looked away.
“I have a proposition,” Bruce began, eyes still watching Clark intensely.
“Whuft?” Clark asked, his words muffled by the burger he was ravishing.
“Let’s play a game. We’ll ask each other questions. If you want to answer, answer. If you don’t, then you have to eat the sauce.”
Clark grimaced weakly, before seeing the pleading look in Bruce’s eyes and giving in.
Bruce grinned . Clark groaned. Bruce internally marveled at how their roles had switched.
“First question, I’ll go easy. What ability do you have? I've seen articles and papers on it but nothing's ever been confirmed.”
Clark was silent as he thought and then he answered, “It’s more of a multitude of things, rather than one specific power. X-ray vision, flight, super speed, invulnerability, enhanced strength, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Interesting,” Bruce mused, drinking from his bottle of water.
“Is it?” Clark said, entertained.
Bruce nodded. It was silent for a moment, before Clark perked up and said, “My turn!”
“Ask away,” Bruce said, leaning in absentmindedly.
“Hmmm. What is. . .your favorite smell?”
Bruce raised an eyebrow in question. “My favorite smell? That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Bruce thought for a moment.
“Let me guess,” said Clark, disrupting Bruce’s chain of thought, “it’s smoke.”
Bruce chuckled. “You would think so but it isn’t. If I had to choose, I’d probably say the smell of flowers.”
This time, Clark’s eyebrow raised. “Flowers? That's . . . surprisingly delightful for you. Why?”
Bruce scoffed, then took a deep breath, using the time to collect his thoughts.
“My mother. She would plant flowers in the garden quite frequently. Alfred, my butler, always insisted on doing it but– she liked to work on them herself. She used to say she enjoyed getting her hands dirty once and a while. I remember. . .”
Bruce trailed off, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. Clark waited for him to continue.
“I remember I would be in the study, working on schoolwork or researching some book I’d been reading, and she would walk in, hands covered with mulch. She would–”
Bruce took a hitching breath.
“She would smell like flowers. In the winter it would be cammelias, in the fall chrysanthemums. Sometimes, she would snip them from the garden and put them in vases around the Manor. It used to smell like flowers all the time.”
He paused.
“The manor doesn’t smell like flowers anymore.”
He inhaled weakly.
“So yeah. I like the smell of flowers.”
Shifting the packages of food to the side, Clark scooted closer to Bruce, putting an arm around his shoulder. Bruce leaned against him.
“My turn,” Bruce said, his voice gravelly. “What was Kansas like?”
He heard Clark smile beside him, a soft exhale of adoration.
“Where do I even start,” he laughed, pulling Bruce tighter into his side, “It was always sunny. Even when it snowed, the sun painted the ice golden. In all the time I lived there, which must have been eighteen years, I think it only rained once or twice. Of course, I liked the sun because of my powers, but aside from that, I think the weather was a large reason why it was so hard for me to leave.”
Clark stopped speaking, for so long in fact, that Bruce thought that was the end of the answer. However he continued, saying, “I think a lot of people would think it’s the best there in the summer, but really the best time to be there was autumn. It was warm, not really cold, but there was always a chill. The breeze would make the wheat fields sway, so it was never quiet. At night, the chirping of bugs and the harmony of the animals worked like a lullaby. In the mornings, Ma would always pick the best apples from the orchard to make apple pie with. Gee, you don’t know good food until you’ve had my Ma’s apple pie. I’ll have to bring you a slice sometime.”
Bruce breathed a sigh of relief, both at the serenity of Clark’s words and the notion that today wouldn’t be the end of their– whatever they were.
“Mm,” Bruce agreed.
“Aright, I’ll ask now,” Clark murmured softly, preserving the moment.
Bruce waited. Clark remained silent, dwelling on his question.
“Permission to get deep?” He asked.
Bruce gulped and nodded yes.
“Earlier today, when we first met,” he began hesitantly, “you were planning on jumping, weren’t you.”
Bruce closed his eyes, exhaling faintly.
“You don’t have to say anything just–” Clark said subduedly, “shake your head yes or no.”
Bruce was still for a moment. He briefly considered lying, or eating the sauce, but quickly he realized that he didn’t want to be anything less than honest with Clark.
He shook his head yes. Above his head, Clark sighed resolutely. He shifted his head so his face was in Bruce’s hair, kissing the top of his scalp.
They sat like that for a moment before Clark broke the quiet and said, “Your turn.”
“Mm,” Bruce agreed.
“When-” Bruce paused, shifting closer to Clark. “When are you returning to Metropolis?”
Clark’s vice on Bruce grew ever tighter.
“First thing tomorrow morning,” Clark spoke.
Bruce nodded minutely, his eyes unfocused.
“You know I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t have t–”
“I know, Clark.”
“And I am Superman y’know. I can be in Gotham in seconds. I’ll visit so much that you'll get sick of me.”
Bruce snorted.
“Yeah?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good,” Bruce replied solemnly.
When Clark returned to Metropolis the following morning, he sent Bruce a text through his flip phone to notify him that he had arrived, per Bruce’s request. ‘Good,’ he had replied. Then, a text five minutes later, ‘Check your mailbox’.
Clark replied with a winky face - ;) - and an ‘Okay’ before heading to the inbox in his apartment. The first thing he noticed as he peered in the box was his wallet, set atop an envelope. He gawked at it, pulling it out of the tin box along with the envelope underneath it.
He gaped at his wallet, turning it from and back, then opening it to check that its contents were the same. Checking his cash pocket, he gasped audibly when he discovered that not only was his money still there, but there was an additional two hundred bucks in there too. Shaking his head in disbelief (and adoration) he delicately opened the envelope, expecting a heartfelt letter, and instead finding an article titled, “Batman Interview: Unreleased Exclusive”.
If Clark had been gaping before, his jaw was surely on the ground now. Using his super speed, he read through the article quickly, noting that all the information was new, something that couldn’t be found on any other tabloid or website.
Checking the envelope once again, he realized that there was in fact a letter written by Bruce. His face was flushed as he read:
Dear Clark,
I hope you’ve made it back to Metropolis safely. At the time of writing this, I have just returned to the Manor. Alfred is very curious as to where I have been, as I don’t go out much. I don’t intend on telling him about. . .us. Not yet, at least. I want it to be special when I do. You must be wondering about the impromptu Batman interview. Well, I pulled a few ropes while you were in Bat Burger. Vicky Vale was pleased to lend you this interview, in the hopes that you would publish it in her and your names. Fingers crossed that works with your boss, Mr. White.
As for the wallet, I called in a few favors to retrieve it from Ms. Quinn. Prince of the City and all that. Don’t worry it was nothing conspiratorial. Or at least, nothing worth writing about.
In all seriousness, I hope you know how much our time together meant to me. I look forward to the next time we meet in person, which I desire to be soon. Take care of yourself, Clark.
Yours Only,
Bruce