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Clark started to get increasingly worried after two minutes had passed from the start of the meeting with no sign of Batman. The rest of the League had assembled on time, with J’onn and Diana arriving ahead of Clark himself, Arthur and Hal seating themselves shortly before the meeting start time, and Barry zooming in with a minute to spare.

Clark had silently noted Batman’s absence when he arrived, but he’d assumed the man would be at the table ready for the meeting shortly.

That was eighteen minutes ago.

He exchanged a glance with Diana, who looked calm, but not as at ease as she had been when Clark had first sat next to her.

Hal drummed his fingers on the table. “Bats doesn’t get a pass for this, does he?” he asked, looking around the table. “Last time I was late, he made me pick up three extra shifts for monitor duty.”

“That’s because you didn’t even try to have a good excuse,” Arthur snorted, thumbing at his trident. “You still had sauce all over your chin.”

“A new pizza place opened a block away from me!” Hal exclaimed in protest. “I didn’t think the line would take so long, and I was still here by five after.” Hal turned his wrist, miming a watch check. “Which—looks like Spooky is about to be later than that.”

“Should we be worried?” Barry interjected, a small frown on his face as he leaned forward on his elbows. “Batman is never late.”

Clark cleared his throat, clenching his jaw against the anxiety bubbling in his gut. “It might be best to contact him to see if something’s wrong.”

Diana nodded next to him. “J’onn, would you be able to send a message?” she asked.

J’onn tilted his head and began typing as Hal started bickering with Arthur.

“You really know how to put your foot in your mouth, don’t you?” Arthur said, his brow cocked with a smug look on his face.

Hal scoffed. “Six days without sleep probably caught up to him.”

Clark frowned. “Lantern, don’t make jokes until we’re sure Batman is safe.”

“So you’re saying you give me permission to lay into him when we find out he’s overslept?”

“I’m saying that this behaviour is extremely unusual for Batman, and we can’t rule out any important reasons he may have for being late.”

Hal rolled his eyes, resting his chin in his palm. “You guys are gonna eat shit when we find out I’m right—”

“It is not likely Batman will respond soon,” Diana interjected, for which Clark was thankful because the anxious twist in his gut was making it harder and harder not to argue with Hal like a child. “Let us adjourn the meeting and reconvene when we know our ally is safe.” Diana stood, glancing over at J’onn. “I must return to Themyscira. Notify us if there is any news.”

“Diana,” Clark started, standing to grasp her inner elbow as the others dispersed, heading for the door. “You don’t think—”

Diana laid a hand over his. “There is no way to know. We must have faith in Batman. He is a capable warrior. I wish I could stay with you and find out more, but my people need me. There have been whispers of a sorceress wreaking havoc across the world.”

Clark nodded. “You’re right,” he said, nodding like it would make him believe everything was fine. “Thank you. I hope you can resolve what’s going on back home.”

Diana squeezed his shoulder and offered a smile, leaving the meeting room with a relaxed hand on her sword.

The room fell silent. J’onn remained seated, flicking through a handful of different screens on the tablet in front of him.

Clark slumped back into his chair with a worn sigh, rubbing at his eyes. He couldn’t pull the anxious feeling from his stomach as he watched J’onn work. “Do you think he’s okay?” Clark asked.

J’onn tilted his head. “There has been no news from Gotham to indicate Batman is in danger.”

Clark frowned. “I’m sensing a ‘but’.”

“Batman has never been late for a meeting, and I struggle to imagine a reality where he would not let us know if it had to be rescheduled.”

Try as he might, Clark couldn’t either. He chewed on his lip, brow furrowed as he thought. He’d spoken with Batman last week, and nothing had seemed out of the ordinary—as much as it was possible, what with Batman being so unordinary. But Clark liked to think he knew Batman, and he spent far too much time staring at his friend not to notice something amiss.

…Could that be it?

Clark had harboured a one-sided crush for Batman for so long he’d forgotten when it began. He tried to keep it under wraps, tried to make sure Batman never noticed, because as much as Clark would love to have a different kind of relationship with Batman, he cherished their current one too much to risk ruining it. They worked well together, they had fun on patrols, Batman cracked jokes when it was just the two of them, and Clark had never felt like he belonged more than he did by Batman’s side.

If Batman were to find out and reject him? Put distance between them as a result? Clark didn’t know what he’d do.

But last week, he…he hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d been staring.

They hadn’t even been doing anything, which was perhaps the worst part—there was no way for Clark to come up with a believable excuse. Batman had been explaining his new gadget, an invention of his own design that Clark initially couldn’t make heads or tails of. But then Batman had sat down right there on a grimy roof in Gotham and dismantled the whole thing to explain it. Just so Clark could understand.

Clark couldn’t keep his eyes off him. He’d taken his gauntlets off to handle the more delicate components, and his pale hands worked so fluently with the gear, broad and rough and yet still so gentle. And Batman hadn’t stopped talking. Clark wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Batman speak that much before. But he went on and on at length about his invention, and he made sure to answer each of Clark’s questions in great detail, and Clark had not been able to force himself to look away from Batman’s mouth. The way his lips moved to form the words, the flash of his white teeth, the brief glimpse Clark got of his tongue when he wet his mouth before continuing to speak—Clark had been a goner from the beginning.

When they’d split up for the night, Clark hadn’t thought about it much afterward, except when he was imagining Batman’s hands and mouth more often than he should have. Maybe he should’ve been focusing on whether or not Batman had been watching him.

Clark hadn’t been subtle. He knew that. He’d just thought—he’d hoped that Batman wouldn’t notice, so he could continue his selfish observations without trouble.

But if he had. Did Batman notice Clark staring? Did it make him uncomfortable enough that he’d gone to great lengths just to avoid Clark? What a horrifying idea; Clark’s stomach churned. He’d have to apologize. He’d have to swear to keep his eyes to himself, something he should’ve been doing anyway. He’d have to hope that Batman would tolerate him again, that they could go back to normal without Clark screwing everything up over some childish fantasy.

Clark scrubbed at his eyes, swallowing thickly around the unease trapped in his throat. What if this was all his fault? How was he going to fix it? Could it even be fixed—?

“Batman has been missing for forty-two hours,” J’onn spoke into the silence, cutting through Clark’s whirling thoughts.

“What?” Clark exclaimed, straightening in his seat.

His heart seized. What the hell was wrong with him? Here he’d been just sitting around when Batman was lost somewhere, unable to return to Gotham. And Clark had been so self-absorbed as to assume Batman had been focusing on him. God, what kind of hero was he to fail to notice his own colleague—his own friend—was unaccounted for?

J’onn cast the message thread to a screen on the wall, and Clark read it three times over while J’onn explained. “The man who assists Batman through his earpiece responded to my message. Batman went out on patrol two nights ago and stopped responding to his regular check-ins. His suit’s bioscanners and vital signs went dark at twelve forty-six AM, and the tracker was also disabled shortly after. He failed to return to any safehouse in Gotham. Batman’s ally has said he’s personally scoped out Batman’s last pinged location, but to no avail.”

Clark stood up so fast his chair tipped over behind him. “Give me the coordinates,” he said, projecting as much steel into his voice as he could muster. “I can find him.”

J’onn nodded and sent another message.

Clark tried to wrangle the vicious beat of his heart. He knew the ally J’onn was referring to, knew that Batman trusted the man Clark had heard in his earpiece implicitly, maybe even more than he trusted anyone in the League. Batman was stubborn, but surely he would’ve let the Englishman know he was alright if he was able. But what did that mean now? Surely Batman couldn’t be—

A string of numbers finally came through. Coordinates. Before Clark could open his mouth to ask, J’onn was inputting them into the Watchtower’s map of the globe.

The location pinged. Gotham Harbour.

Clark clenched his fists and heaved a breath. “Stay here and see what you can find out from Batman’s ally. I’ll sweep the Harbour and report back as soon as I find something. Notify the others of the situation.”

J’onn nodded. “Good luck, Superman.”

Clark was out of the Watchtower so fast J’onn wasn’t in earshot for his reply.

The Gotham Zeta beam dropped him on top of a Wayne Enterprises building, tucked behind a tall AC unit and away from the cameras. Clark had to be careful not to fly fast enough to cause a sonic boom.

It was only around eight PM in Gotham, but it was late enough into fall that the harbour was dark and cold at this time of night. The wind rattled the docks, howling between the cracks in the wood. Clark edged closer to one of the ports at the end of the harbour, where Batman’s location had pinged last.

With the wind sending different smells everywhere, it took Clark longer than he’d have liked to pick up on Batman’s scent. It was faint, but that could be attributed to the fact that it had been nearly two days since he’d been there to leave it. It was also unmissable, at least to Clark. He’d spent far too long surrounding himself in the smell whenever he could excuse being close to Batman.

Clark swallowed around the lump in his throat, following Batman’s scent onto the end of a dock, where it changed, just slightly. There was a heavy note of adrenaline, piercing and familiar, but also saltwater, and…fish? In addition to that, a curious tinge to the scent that Clark didn’t think he’d ever smelled before.

Did Batman get splashed? Clark had heard of Killer Croc—could that be what happened to him? Could that be the foreign smell Clark was picking up on?

He moved closer. Batman’s spoor slumped over the end of the dock in a wide radius, slipping over the edge and down the supports. Clark lost it where water lapped at the wood.

He plunged without a second thought, his earlier anxiety squeezing at his lungs once again. The murky water in the Gotham Bay was dark and let almost no moonlight through further than a foot deep. Clark switched to his night vision and began a sweep.

Most of the seabed was just smooth rock and dirty sand, not much growing or moving with the water. Clark searched for a long time, refusing to surface. Each time he had to push his search radius out further, his heart sank.

As he reached the mouth of the bay, his heart dropped to his feet. There had been no sign of Batman whatsoever. No scrap of black fabric or debris from a broken gadget or even a scuff of black paint against a rock. God, what Clark wouldn’t do to catch a glimpse of that dark cape—

Wait. Hold on.

Clark furrowed his brow, squinting at the dark shape in the distance, drifting with the pull of the water but partially anchored to the seabed by a large rock.

Rushing forward, Clark fisted his hands in Batman’s billowing cape, tugging it hard out of the way with his heart surging up to his throat, eyes already burning with insurmountable grief—

Batman’s plate armour shifted soundlessly in the water, half caught in the sand and underneath the rock pinning it in place. Clark—Clark didn’t know what to do with his hands. He’d expected to see a pale, bloated corpse.

This—wasn’t that.

A somewhat hysterical laugh escaped Clark’s chest, forcing a cloud of bubbles out of his mouth to float up to the surface. Despite himself, he was somewhat relieved, if only for the fact that as far as he knew, Batman wasn’t dead, and that brief, seizing panic that was still affecting his racing heart was unfounded.

Clark turned the front of the suit to face him, blinking harshly. The cape and cowl were still mostly intact, but the suit itself looked like something had torn through it—or out of it. The chest pieces were curled open at the center seams, the armour of the midsection all cracked and torn. The legs of the suit were in worse shape, split open at the groin and down both inseams, barely connected to the panels at the waist. Clark didn’t see the boots anywhere, but there was an undersuit floating in each cavity where a limb would go that was in shreds, tied to the armour of the suit by the catches at the waist, neck, and wrists.

This process was—it was intimate. Clark was touching Batman’s suit in ways he would never allow himself if the man were actually filling it, touching places that only Batman’s skin had ever touched. He smoothed his hands beneath the cape, down the back of the suit, instinctively reaching for the utility belt, which he had used as a handhold more than once in dire situations when Batman had found himself falling.

(In Clark’s humble opinion, it happened way too often—but he would never complain about getting to hold Batman close to his chest while he flew the man to steady ground.)

His hand closed around nothing. Clark looked down, found the catches where the belt would sit, but no belt. With a slight frown, he scanned the surrounding area again, searching for a flash of yellow, but came up with nothing.

Something wound tight in Clark’s core eased further, and he couldn’t help a slight smile. Batman would never leave his suit behind if he could help it, but he’d die before being caught without his belt. Surely he had it, wherever he was. Whatever happened to him, he was able to bring his belt, and Clark knew that it held a wealth of supplies that could help him, including provisions and a med kit.

Clark carefully gathered up each piece of the damaged armour and dragged it upwards. He let the excess water spill out of the suit before bringing the whole mess of it bundled in the cape back to the Zeta, where he promptly teleported to the Watchtower.

He dropped the dripping pile onto the desk where J’onn still sat, explaining what he found with an edge of hope to his words as J’onn relayed the information to Batman’s ally. Clark busied himself with arranging the components on a towel so they could air dry, and soon he and J’onn had created a plan that would help the League comb the ocean for Batman.

It was only a matter of time before he was found. Clark just had to be patient.

In the end, it was Arthur who found Batman.

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise; Arthur was King of Atlantis, he was in the ocean all the time, and still, Clark couldn’t remove the childish notion tugging in his chest that it should’ve been him to find and rescue his closest friend.

But with three days between Clark finding Batman’s suit and Arthur’s message, Clark was mostly just relieved. A total of five days without knowing if Batman was safe had been weighing heavily on him; he found it hard to sleep, couldn’t focus on his work at the Planet, and constantly checked his communicator while asking J’onn for any updates.

It just felt so wrong to go about his daily civilian life while Batman was gone. There was an absence in Clark’s life he didn’t know he was capable of feeling, and he wanted it back. He didn’t care if Batman didn’t feel the same towards him—he’d be happy forever just knowing that his friend was safe, knowing that he could see him again, alive and well.

Needless to say, when Clark received the message from Arthur saying, Found him, followed by a location ping, he had been in his suit and out of his apartment in a few scant seconds.

The Atlantic Ocean was frigid, but Clark barely felt the temperature change as he dived beneath the surface. The further down he went, the more worried he got. The pressure down here was pushing the threshold of what a human could withstand. How was Batman surviving down here? Arthur would’ve mentioned it if something terrible had happened, right?

The Atlantean outpost Arthur was waiting in was a squat thing, made of some type of brick that blended well with the seafloor. It was small, but the doorway had some sort of bubble film across it that kept the water out, and there was enough air in it for a conversation.

Clark swept his wet hair off his face and tried not to feel bad about tracking water onto the floor as he greeted Arthur, who was leaning against one wall with his trident at his side, looking relaxed. That was a good sign, at least.

“You think he’s all the way down here?” Clark asked, pressing a hand to the small window and looking around at the dim seafloor on the other side.

“Yeah,” Arthur said, arms crossed over his chest. “Sneaky fucker scared the shit out of me.”

Clark met his eyes, moving away from the window. That did sound like Batman… “And you’re sure it was him?”

“Yes,” Arthur stressed, looking Clark right in the eye. “I was doing my rounds down here, checking the post and picking up litter, when he slammed into me from behind. Turns out one of the pieces of trash I had picked up was actually an ancient grenade. It exploded when it hit the sand, but we were far enough away by then.”

Clark swallowed the instinctive panic clogging his throat. “So you saw him?”

Arthur winced, crossing his arms tighter over himself. “Not exactly. Guess he’s paranoid ‘cause he lost his cowl—he shoved kelp in my face and swam away. Plus, the explosion kicked up a lot of sand and debris.”

“Did you follow him?”

“Of course,” Arthur said, with the decency not to be offended. “But he was fast. I don’t know how, but he managed to swim away before I could see him properly.” Arthur squinted at him. “Don’t look at me like that—I tracked him to a cave system not far from here. He really is a bat.”

Clark forcibly relaxed his features. “If you didn’t see him properly, how do you know it was him?”

“Well, for one, he was wearing black,” Arthur said.

Clark returned his gaze with a flat stare.

“Relax,” Arthur chuckled. He plucked something off the shelf and tossed it to Clark, who caught it with careful hands. “He dropped that before he could swim away.”

Clark righted the flattened metal, thumbing one of the batarang’s ears. “Okay,” he said, trying not to let his excitement show. “So Batman is down here, he’s unharmed—”

“No way he could swim that fast if he were injured,” Arthur interjected.

“—and you know exactly where he is.” Clark frowned. “I don’t see why you haven’t helped him back yet.”

“Yeah, well,” Arthur began, fiddling with his trident. “Like I said: he doesn’t have his cowl on, and he didn’t seem too eager to stick around for me. I figured that of all the people to see him unmasked, he’d be least upset about you.”

Clark straightened, swallowed. He blinked a few times. “Oh,” he said, nodding. “Okay, I understand.” He cleared his throat, suddenly wrong-footed. But why? It made sense; he was closest to Batman, of everyone in the League. He just…he felt almost—exposed. He didn’t want to appear too eager, because if the League found out about the way he felt towards Batman, they’d all adopt the same pitying looks that Lois had started throwing his way ever since she found out. And if the League could discover Clark’s secret, then Batman definitely could. Clark shook his head. Batman’s safety had to come first, as always. He may not be hurt, but there could be something else wrong. Clark swallowed again and said, “Take me to him.”

Arthur nodded, pushing off the wall and spinning his trident. “And also,” he continued, “you won’t die if he decides to throw a batarang at your face for finding out who the hell he is.”

Clark sighed. “Right. Thanks.”

Arthur left the outpost laughing, jetting off in the water without waiting for Clark to follow. Clark pocketed the batarang and dove after him.

True to Arthur’s word, the cave network wasn’t far. The mouth of it was angled towards the seabed, which meant the whole thing was shrouded in shadow, and Clark couldn’t see past the entrance without activating his night vision.

“I’ll be at the outpost if you need me,” Arthur said, and Clark was suddenly reminded of how jealous he was that Arthur could speak underwater. He could only nod in acknowledgement. “Good luck.”

Clark gave him a thumbs-up and drifted forward, cautiously entering the cave. The light was completely gone, so he laid a hand on one of the cave walls and kept his head on a swivel, trying to focus his hearing to pick up on something. Anything.

Sound carried differently in the water. It travelled faster, yes, but everything was distorted, muffled in a way that sometimes confused him because it was so different from listening to sound waves travel through air.

But he did hear that unnatural rush of water, and he did turn towards it, though nothing could have prepared him for the sight he suddenly faced.

Clark was sure he was looking at Batman. He had to be—the man’s bare torso was…large, muscular in a way that only came from extreme exercise, and Clark had spent far too much time staring at the slope of those broad shoulders not to recognize them. Pale scars littered Batman’s skin, some straight slices, others old, jagged wounds.

But his chest wasn’t the only thing that was bare.

Batman’s eyes were blue. Pale and bright and shining, framed by thick lashes and minuscule smile lines. His full lips were pulled into a frown, and his sharp cheekbones added to the severe look he was levelling Clark, furrowed brow and all.

Clark had dreamed about a day like this, where he could finally meet Batman without a cowl hiding who he truly was. But he never expected it to happen this way—he’d always assumed it would be Batman’s choice, after Clark had finally proven himself to be trustworthy enough to know Batman’s closest secret.

He also never expected to recognize Batman.

Clark Kent had written articles about Bruce Wayne before, had even met the man once or twice, and he’d never even had a lick of suspicion. But why would he? Batman was incredibly skilled—it made sense that he would put genuine effort into separating his identities as much as possible, just like Clark did.

Even if their methods were wildly different. Unbidden, snippets of Cat’s latest article about Bruce Wayne came to mind: a story about Lex Luthor’s gala, where Wayne had arrived late and left early with two models draped over him, a man and a woman. All three had been spotted entering a hotel together, and nobody had been seen leaving until two days later.

Was that an act? Or did Batman truly enjoy bringing people into his bed? Would he enjoy bringing Clark into his bed?

God, he needed to get a grip. Batman—Bruce—B was still staring at him, and Clark realized with a start that he had missed something far more important than Batman’s secret identity, if that were even possible.

Batman had a tail.

Clark tried to draw on the fish biology books he’d read in school, or the lessons his Pa had taught him when they managed to go out. And still, the most accurate description he could come up with was a mermaid tail. It was long and thick, with dark scales that blended in with the shadows of the cave; the yellow utility belt slung low around his waist was a stark contrast. His caudal fin was broad, thin enough to be nearly see-through along the trailing edges, which fluttered with each slow roll of the tail, because even now Batman was moving, keeping himself upright and eye level with Clark.

Clark, who had absolutely no idea what to do. This was about the last thing he’d expected upon responding to Arthur’s message. How did this happen? That fish smell Clark had picked up on in the harbour—had that been Batman all along?

Clark swallowed and refocused. He could figure out the how and why later. The current goal was to return Batman to Gotham. Somehow.

Cautiously, he reached his hand out to B. If he could just—

Before Clark could blink, Batman had surged forward, ducking Clark’s outstretched arm and putting a hand over Clark’s mouth, firmly holding his jaw. In his other hand, Batman held a batarang, which hovered a few scant centimetres from Clark’s right eye.

And his tail. Oh gosh, his tail.

Clark felt the whisper of it against his legs, but he was slow on the uptake, didn’t register the fact that the feeling was coming from all sides before Batman flexed the powerful muscle and squeezed Clark from his hips to his ankles, effectively trapping him.

The flare of heat in Clark’s gut was unwelcome and embarrassing. Their navels were almost flush, and Clark could feel every undulation of Batman’s tail around him like a pulse. He gulped, heart pounding.

Batman’s eyes flit across his face, searching for something. The transformation must have enhanced his vision—even as dark as it was, Batman obviously saw Clark, evidently well enough to trap him so easily. Slowly, Clark brought his empty hands up in an open, placating gesture. From what he could see, Arthur was correct: Batman seemed unharmed—though how Arthur had managed to miss the ten-foot tail, Clark had no idea.

One of the compartments on Batman’s utility belt was open. Clark was familiar enough with it to realize it was the one that held the provisions. Had Batman needed to ration them? How hungry was he, with no reliable food source down here? Guilt gnawed at Clark’s gut. He should have put more effort into finding B and tried harder to prevent all this.

Batman’s grip didn’t ease for a moment, but Clark’s stillness must have relaxed him, because the batarang by his eye retreated very slightly. Batman’s eyes were caught on the El crest of Clark’s suit. More than once, he leaned towards it before blinking harshly and pulling back. Clark’s eyes widened, but he made sure not to move despite the raucous beat of his heart.

His gaze caught on the gills at the sides of Batman’s neck, fluttering with each controlled breath, as Batman’s chest moved closer to his with every inhale. How long had he been stuck like this? Was he able to breathe above water? Did he even recognize Clark? Did he remember who he was—either Batman or Bruce Wayne?

Before Clark could come to a myriad of unhappy conclusions, Batman’s eyes widened. The hand on Clark’s jaw slid downward to his neck, feeling along the length of it.

Despite himself, Clark’s face heated. The touch was featherlight until it wasn’t, the tips of Batman’s fingers pressing into Clark’s neck and almost massaging it, dragging down his mastoid muscle and back up again, pressing his thumbnail into Clark’s skin.

Clark shivered. And then Batman was leaning closer, and Clark had no time to prepare before their lips were sealed together.

Clark’s eyes widened. Batman gripped his jaw again, prying his mouth open and pushing air down his throat.

He had to pull back. “Batman,” he said, or tried to say, but it was only a rush of bubbles between them, wasting the breath that B had just given him.

But that must have been it—breath. Batman had been feeling along his neck for gills, trying to figure out if Clark could breathe the same way he could.

And when he’d found out Clark couldn’t—gosh, it hadn’t been any sort of kiss. Batman had thought he was about to drown, had tried to save him.

As the bubbles floated upwards and out of the way, they revealed Batman’s frown renewed, the divot in his brow deeper. The glare he levelled at Clark was almost more intimidating out of the cowl.

Uh-oh.

Batman moved faster this time, pulling Clark in by the back of the neck and pushing more air down his throat, keeping their lips pressed together as he breathed for both of them, slick and open-mouthed.

Clark, in turn, forced himself to ignore the stab of heat in his gut, the fluttery hope, to grab Batman under his jaw, his chin, and push him away, achingly gentle and unrelenting. The hand at his neck squeezed harshly, but Clark held firm.

B wouldn’t—he wouldn’t want this, with Clark, if he were in his right mind, as much as it pained Clark to admit to himself. But he wouldn’t compromise his years-long friendship over some selfish desire, especially when Bruce only wanted to give him air, seemed to think he’d die without it.

And that answered his earlier question; Batman clearly wasn’t aware of who Clark was—what he was capable of. He had no idea that Clark could hold his breath for hours or break his hold in seconds. But if he didn’t know who Clark was, didn’t know they had built a trusting relationship over several years, how could Clark get Batman to trust him?

Batman’s tail tightened around his legs, enough that it would bruise a regular human. His face was painted with a thunderous expression, snarl bracketed by Clark’s fingers. Moving as close as Clark would allow, Batman grabbed Clark roughly by the hair and pulled, clamping his free hand—when had he stashed the batarang?—over Clark’s mouth and nose. Simultaneously, he loosened his tail around Clark’s legs and took off, dragging Clark along with him.

Clark went limp. He didn’t want to hurt Batman by fighting him, especially when Batman thought he was susceptible to drowning, and probably other injuries by extension.

They moved upwards for a handful of minutes, swimming faster than any human could. Clark barely had time to orient himself as he was thrown out of the water, landing on a slick, flat rock. They were still in the cave; it must have been some sort of large air pocket, because no natural sunlight reached them, but the walls were covered in bioluminescent algae that lit up the entire space.

Batman surfaced and shot out of the water, landing on his hands between Clark’s legs, tail rippling in the water behind him. His eyes reflected in the blue light, glowing as they pinned Clark to the damp rock. He waited.

Clark affected a deep breath, wide-eyed as he watched Batman’s shoulders slump, his small sigh of relief. “I’m alright,” he told Batman, moving to lean back on his hands, careful to do everything slowly so as not to startle B. “It’s okay. I can hold my breath for a long time.”

“Why are you here?”

Clark suppressed a shiver. Hearing B’s voice after so long, after so much time spent worrying, it was almost a punch to the gut. His relief was palpable, evident in his tone as he replied, “I’m here to bring you home. A lot of people have been worried about you.”

“Home,” B echoed, moving to rest on his elbows as he thought. Clark was content to wait. From this angle, he could see the dark adipose fin that travelled from the top of B’s back down his spine, tapering off and smoothing into the scales where the first bend of his tail began.

As selfish as it was, Clark was so curious. He wanted to know everything about how Batman had gotten to this point, what that fin felt like between his fingers, what the texture of those scales would be against his bare palm. He ached to brush his fingertips against B’s gills, just to see if they’d flutter as they had underwater. He wanted to explore every new feature of the transformation, to see how Batman had adapted and how he’d survived.

Above all, he wanted Batman to let him.

“I can’t go home,” B said, cutting through Clark’s thoughts.

Brow furrowed, Clark asked, “Why not?”

Batman frowned. “Not enough water. No way of getting there.”

Clark smiled. “I can take you home. I don’t need the water.”

Instead of looking reassured, Batman squinted at him, frown deepening. “Who are you?”

Clark hesitated. Batman didn’t know who either of them were as superheroes, as colleagues—probably didn’t remember that he was also Bruce Wayne or that he normally had two legs and no tail. Superman was a stranger, a powerful being capable of unimaginable things. Superman may not be received well—maybe even with hostility, because B had no idea who Superman was, and a name that was doubly unfamiliar in its foreignness would not promote any sort of trust.

A name from Earth, a human name that B’s subconscious mind might recognize—that was Clark’s best bet. So, he swallowed and heaved a steadying breath, heart beating against his ribcage as he said, “I’m Clark.”

If Batman remembered this, when everything was said and done, Clark hoped he’d see it as an olive branch, a show of trust. An identity for an identity. If he didn’t, well, Clark would just have to say it again. He didn’t mind the idea of B knowing; he’d wanted to tell him for a long time, in fact. But he’d been worried that B would feel pressured to reveal his own identity and distance himself as a result. Clark never wanted to risk something that would create a rift between them if he could help it.

“Clark,” Batman said, and Clark shivered again. His own name curling over B’s tongue was enough to shock him back to the present, to the man before him.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Clark Kent.”

“I’m…B,” Batman replied.

Clark’s eyes widened. “Yes,” he said, breathless. “Yes, you are.”

“You said people are worried.” Batman tilted his head, changing the subject on a dime. “Are you people?”

Clark huffed a laugh, sheepish. “Yes, I am. One of them, at least.”

“How can you take me home?”

“I know how to fly. I’ll carry you to your house, where your…friend is waiting.” Clark still didn’t know how to categorize the relationship between Batman and the man who had replied to J’onn, but it was reasonable to assume that they lived near each other, if Batman needed tending to as often as Clark believed. It also wouldn’t hurt to mention someone else that B trusted, so he’d be more inclined to go along with Clark. And in that was a test—did Batman remember the man operating his comms? Was their connection deep enough to warrant a memory where it hadn’t been for Clark?

“Alfie,” B said, his whole face lighting.

Clark was certain he’d never seen Batman show so much emotion before. It was mesmerizing. “Would you like to go?”

Batman nodded, pushing off Clark’s thighs and back into the water. “Hurry.”

Clark couldn’t hide his smile as he slipped in next to B. “Okay,” he said, “Ready?”

In lieu of a response, Batman wrapped his arms around Clark’s torso and dragged him downward. Clark’s surprised noise was swallowed by the water and the flurry of bubbles that followed them as B took them downwards.

For the second time, Clark let himself go limp so as not to impede Batman’s movements. The feeling of his bare arms around Clark’s back was a foreign experience with no armour between them; Clark could feel every minute shift of muscle as B readjusted him or even held him more firmly.

Clark would be lying if he said it was a bad experience.

Again, that feeling of shame rose in him. Batman was clearly impaired in some way—responding to Clark in short, simple words and sentences, forgetting his identities—and here Clark was blushing like a schoolboy over the sight of his shirtless chest, the way he felt wrapped around him. This was neither the time nor the place, and Clark was finding it frustratingly difficult to remember that ever since he discovered B was essentially unharmed and in no danger.

Lost in his thoughts, Clark almost missed the water lighting around them. They rocketed out of the cave entrance and immediately swooped upwards. When they surfaced, B was breathing hard, their chests close enough that Clark could feel every inhale and exhale.

“Can you fly from here?” B asked when Clark spent too long staring at him.

“Yes, of course,” Clark said, jolting into action. He wrapped his arms around Batman and slowly rose out of the water. When he noticed B’s heart rate tick up, he paused. “All good?”

They were low enough that the tips of Batman’s tail still skimmed the water’s surface, and B was rolling it back and forward like he was still swimming, looking over Clark’s shoulder and down at the ocean. “This is…wow,” he breathed, his low voice filled with awe.

“You need a minute?” Clark asked. He wasn’t keen on waiting, but so far out in the ocean, they weren’t likely to be spotted before Clark could do something about it.

“No,” B decided after a moment. “I want to go home.”

Clark could do that. He kept their ascension slow, tuned to B’s pulse and the way he breathed all the while. When they reached cloud cover, he rolled onto his back so B could rest comfortably on his chest.

“Do you get tired?” B asked, his face open with wonder.

“No, not really,” Clark said, sheepishly explaining, “This is as easy as breathing.” He tried not to remember Batman breathing for him down in the water, the way his lips had felt pressed against his. “I need to go faster from here on so we aren’t spotted,” he explained, clumsily changing the subject. “Is that alright?”

In response, B lowered himself to Clark’s chest and held onto him tightly. “Yes,” he said, with an undertone of excitement. “I want to see.”

Who was Clark to deny him that? Besides, Batman never let him show off. This was his chance.

He took off, arcing up further as Batman gasped against him. And then he—he wrapped his tail around Clark’s legs again.

It must’ve been reflex—B securing himself where he could, instinctively holding tighter to the only thing he could: Clark. But Clark faltered anyway, slowing abruptly, which only made B cling tighter.

Clark breathed a shaky sigh, hoping B couldn’t hear it over the wind in his ears, and started towards Gotham. Now and then, Batman would lift his head to stare at the clouds whipping past, or carefully stretch a hand out to try to touch them.

Clark wondered how much of B he was really seeing, right now. His mind had been altered enough that he didn’t remember himself, and he behaved uncharacteristically. But at the same time—

At the same time, the first thing Batman did when he saw Clark was try to save his life.

Clearly, some of him was still in there, still influencing his actions. If he didn’t have to shroud himself in shadow and put forward his stoic, dangerous facade, would he let himself relax like this? Would he allow himself the simple wonder of touching clouds for the first time, pillowed against Clark’s chest?

He certainly wouldn’t be as quiet; Clark had been on the receiving end of more than a few one-sided conversations where Batman had explained something mundane that faded into Clark’s everyday life with extreme detail. Heck, B probably knew the type of cloud they were flying through right now and would be able to calculate how much more water it’d need to store before it started to rain.

He stared at B with a frown, overcome with a vicious ache.

More than anything, he just wanted his friend back.

The trip to Wayne Manor was uneventful. Clark had been there once before with Cat when he’d first started at the Daily Planet, so he knew where to go; although this time, he approached from the back of the house, where a huge pond lay nestled between some large willow trees at the end of a long cobbled path.

The sunset bathed everything in a pale orange, glinting off Batman’s scales with each ripple of movement.

Clark lowered them down to skim the water’s surface. “Is this alright?” he asked. “This pond isn’t saltwater—”

The sound of a gun cocking stopped Clark in his tracks. Instinctively, he turned to shield B, looking over his shoulder to spot the barrel of a rifle trained at the two of them. Holding said rifle was an older gentleman, dressed in a crisp black suit and shiny shoes, his weathered face pulled into a sharp frown.

Clark had been so focused on B, he hadn’t noticed the man’s approach.

“Sir,” he began, heart pounding. “I think there may be a misunderstanding—”

“Alfie!” B shouted, pulling himself up and over Clark’s shoulder to hang off it, stretched out towards the man. With the movement, his tail slid up to Clark’s torso, shifting and squeezing to keep himself upright. Clark wrapped an arm around the thick of it as he looked back.

“Master Wayne?” the man asked with an incredulous tone. Even those two words betrayed his English accent. Slowly, he lowered the gun.

Clark offered him a helpless smile. “It’s kind of a long story, sir,” he said, “I found him in the Atlantic. Batman—er, Bruce—is physically unharmed, but he’s not acting like himself.” As if to punctuate that sentiment, Batman grabbed a handful of Clark’s cape and yanked, steering them both towards ‘Alfie,’ who caught B’s outstretched arm with an incredulous look on his face. “Obviously,” Clark finished.

“You know who he is,” the man said plainly.

“Ah,” Clark sighed. “Yeah. He came at me with a batarang and no cowl. He’s not a hard man to recognize.”

“Hm.” The man slung the rifle over his shoulder and furrowed his brow. “What happened to him?”

“I’m…not sure. Aquaman was the one who spotted him first, and B’s not exactly in the right headspace to explain anything. I’m not sure if he even remembers who exactly he is.”

“I’m B,” Batman emphasized with an offended air.

“Yes, you’re right,” Clark replied, dumbfounded. “Um…sorry.”

The Englishman sighed. “Put him in the water, then. I’ll contact one of his associates to come and assess him.”

Clark did as he was told, coaxing B to unwrap himself from around Clark’s torso, then lowering him into the pond gently, ensuring he had a good grip on the dock to keep himself upright before letting go.

“Is there anything I can help with?” Clark asked, turning back to the man, who watched Clark situate Bruce with a cautious eye.

“Stay with him while I make the call. Lord knows he’s far too good at slipping away.”

That, at least, Clark could agree with. He floated down into a criss-cross seated position and leaned back on his palms, watching B intently as ‘Alfie’ turned on his heel and walked towards the mansion.

B stared back.

“Was the flight over okay?” Clark asked, for lack of anything better to say.

B nodded, his eyes lighting ever so slightly. “It was very good,” he said, pulling himself up further so he could rest his forearms on the dock.

Clark’s ears heated at the earnestness. “I’m glad,” he said. “Do you have an idea about what’s going on?” He didn’t want to ambush Batman with a transformation if he could help it; it’d be best to keep B calm throughout the process.

“Alfie’s calling Zee,” B replied, leaning closer to Clark, enough to have his warm breath fan along Clark’s legs. “She’ll help.”

Clark pushed off his hands so he could meet B’s eye. “And you understand that you’re going to change?”

B nodded and then rested a hand on Clark’s knee. “I’ll be okay.”

Clark had to stop himself from releasing a huff of laughter. Trust B to notice when he was worried, even while in a compromised state. “I hope so,” he said. “You had us real tense for a while there, B.”

Batman frowned. “Is the man from before okay? He chased me…was he hurt? Did he need help?”

“No, no,” Clark rushed to reassure, pressing his palm to the back of B’s hand. “Arthur’s fine. He wanted to make sure you were alright.”

B shrugged and looked away. “I’m fine,” he said, as his fingers went stiff under Clark’s hand.

Clark narrowed his eyes. As much as B wasn’t himself right now, Clark knew how instinctual it was for him to hide injuries. “B,” he said, pouring as much disappointment into his voice as he could. “Where are you hurt?”

Batman scowled, glaring up at Clark, who bit his cheek to hide his budding smile. After a long moment, B sighed. “…My fin is bruised.”

Clark slipped into the water immediately to get a better look. “Does it hurt badly?” he asked, reaching into the water to cradle the wide span of it with both hands. His tail was slick and surprisingly smooth, streamlined towards the caudal fin. The fin itself had a different texture—slippery and almost membrane-like, supported by the spines running vertically along it.

Almost like a bat’s wings. Clark smiled helplessly.

He handled the fin with care, ghosting along it with his fingertips to find any tender areas while peeling back the top layers with his x-ray vision to look for the telltale broken blood vessels near the surface. When he touched the outer edge on the left, B’s whole tail twitched, violently enough that he lost his balance on the edge of the dock and splashed into the water.

“Sorry!” Clark blurted, petting along the sensitive spot gently, soothing as much as he could. With his other hand, he pulled Bruce up by the arm so his head was above water again.

Batman’s brow furrowed as he gave Clark a flat stare. “It’s fine. I’m not hurt.”

Now it was Clark’s turn to stare, unimpressed.

Batman blew out an irritated breath, rolling his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

“Still,” Clark said, the churning in his gut sobering him quickly as he checked the fin for any more damage. He’d held B so close, and he hadn’t even noticed the man was in pain. Clark seriously needed to reflect on the large hole in his skill set where observation was supposed to go.

He was Superman; there was no excuse for failing to notice Batman’s initial disappearance, just like there was no excuse to miss an ally’s injury, no matter how good B was at hiding it. What good were his advanced senses if he didn’t even use them when it counted?

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a pointed clearing of someone’s throat. Clark almost startled, but he carefully kept his hands loose around B’s fin as he looked up at the two people peering at him from the dock.

“Alfie” was back, accompanied by a woman dressed in what could only be described as a magician's outfit. Her top hat slanted as she tilted her head, crouching down to his level.

Clark carefully let go of B’s tail and guided him over to the dock.

“Hi, Zee,” Batman said with obvious warmth, which surprised Clark. Who was this woman? How long had she known Batman’s identity? Why did Batman remember her and not—

“Hey, B,” Zee replied with an amused smirk. “Got yourself into some fishy business, I see?”

Clark’s eyes wouldn’t settle on either of them, constantly flicking between the two. “Should I bring him out of the water for this?” he asked when B didn’t reply, trying not to feel useless as he floated in the water.

Zee nodded, and she stepped back with Alfie as Clark hooked his hands under B’s arms and hoisted him out to sit on the dock, tail trailing in the water.

Clark straightened and vibrated his hand dry at superspeed before offering it. “I’m Kal,” he said, defaulting to politeness because his Ma had practically engraved it into his skin at this point. “I wish it were better circumstances, but it’s nice to meet you.”

“Zatanna Zatara,” the woman said, grasping Clark’s hand. “You don’t have to worry; the spell won’t be hard to break.”

“That’s a relief,” Clark sighed, “I’ve been worried sick ever since we found out he was missing. Which—” he turned, offering his hand again, “Thank you for letting us know and allowing us to help, Mr…?”

“Alfred Pennyworth, sir,” the man replied, taking Clark’s hand in a firm grip. “I serve Master Wayne as his butler, among other things.”

Clark quickly hid his surprise, startled to be reminded of the depth of Bruce Wayne’s wealth. It was so odd to think of his quiet, powerful ally as the man who practically lived in the gossip column of every newspaper across Metropolis and Gotham.

“I want to apologize,” Clark said as Zatanna crouched to Bruce’s level and placed a hand on his back. “The Justice League is a team, and it’s my fault it took so long for any of us to notice his disappearance. I take full responsibility.”

Mr. Pennyworth’s eyebrows rose. “I hardly think so, sir, considering how adamantly Master Bruce hides his movements from the rest of you.” His words carried an air of disapproval, and Clark had the distinct sense that the subject had been a point of contention for B and Mr. Pennyworth for a while.

Clark didn’t try to apologize again, though he still felt he was to blame for this whole situation, even partially. Besides, B was about to turn back. That was the most important thing.

“Alright,” Zatanna said, looking over her shoulder at Clark. “You might want to take a step back.”

Clark did, watching with his heart in his throat as Zatanna thrust her arms out and spoke in an odd tone, her words unintelligible to him. A burst of yellow light erupted from her palms, enveloping B completely. A loud buzz sounded in Clark’s ear, and the intensity of Zatanna’s light increased to something blinding before it fizzled out completely, and everything went quiet except for the quiet lapping of the water against the dock.

B’s heartbeat was a steady metronome. He sat on the dock, slick and stark naked, completely unaffected by the whiplash of the transformation. With an annoyed expression, he looked over his shoulder at the three of them and grumbled, “I hate magic.”

Clark forgot how to breathe. His feet were stuck to the ground.

Zatanna had no such trouble, laughing as she leaned down to hug him. “I wish I could stay, but Alfred pulled me out of some important business for this. You’ll have to tell me how you became a deep-sea creature some other time, okay?”

“Sure, Zee,” B said as he put a hand on her forearm. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Zatanna promised. She straightened and offered Clark a wink before she stepped into another one of her conjured yellow beams and disappeared.

Mr. Pennyworth stepped forward next and procured something from inside his jacket. B pulled it from his hands in a flash and yanked on the pair of boxers. Clark observed the faint tremble in his frame, and the goosebumps raised on his arms and legs.

With a few deft movements, Clark unlatched his cape and used his heat vision to get rid of any remaining moisture while also making it warm enough to stave off B’s shivers. As he finished, B took a step forward and rolled his ankle, stumbling.

Clark was at his side in a moment, arm around his back as he settled his cape over B’s shoulders. “Easy,” he said, rubbing his hand up and down B’s bicep to help warm him up. “You bruised your fin, remember?”

B scoffed, breath fanning along the side of Clark’s face. Clark had to work hard to ignore the sheen of wetness glistening on his bare collarbones. He bundled B tighter.

“Arthur needs to get his eyes checked,” B said, easing weight onto his bad ankle again.

Clark watched him do it, if only because he knew B would snap and pull away if he offered to carry him. He observed the steady flex of his muscles, the even measure of his breaths. “You’re okay,” Clark said with a hint of wonder, half under his breath as he searched B’s face for any sign of discomfort. Carefully, reverently, he placed a hand over B’s heart, feeling the beat of it beneath his palm.

B nodded, holding Clark’s gaze. “Yes.”

Clark’s throat threatened to close. All of the worry and fear he had suppressed over the past couple days came bubbling to the surface. “You’d been gone for two days before any of us even knew,” he stressed with a frown, voice tight. “I found your suit in the bay; it was caught under a rock, and I thought—I was so worried that you were—”

“Clark,” B interjected sharply, drawing a wet gasp out of Clark at the sound of his own name. B stared at him with wide eyes and a furrowed brow, mouth parted just slightly. He reached a pale hand up to Clark’s shoulder and squeezed down hard on his clavicle. Proving he was there. “I’m alright. You found me.”

Clark shook his head. “It shouldn’t have taken us that long,” he insisted. “There were a thousand ways we could’ve been too late. I should be better.”

“Clark. A sorceress turned me into a mermaid,” his voice slanted, mouth curving as he acknowledged the absurdity of the situation. “Even I could never expect that.” He squeezed Clark’s shoulder a second time. “You brought me home. I’m alright.”

“You have a sprained ankle,” Clark said, just to be contrary.

B huffed a laugh against him, shifting to angle himself towards the path that led to the house. “Just get me inside, boy scout.”

Clark went home after that.

Mr. Pennyworth offered to have him stay for dinner, but he knew that B would want time to himself to think about everything that happened, and Clark wasn’t sure he’d be able to sit in that big house surrounded by obvious wealth without saying something utterly embarrassing.

He’d politely declined and said goodbye to B, who’d replied with, It’s Bruce, Clark. No use in codenames now when you’ve already seen me naked in my own house.

Clark’s entire face had heated, and he was quick to leave soon after.

The relief that flooded him when he made it home to his apartment with Bruce’s heartbeat in his ears was heavy enough to make his shoulders slump. With a helpless smile, he tucked himself into bed and thought about Batman’s secret identity at length.

It did make sense, in a way. Batman had all kinds of expensive equipment, and now Clark knew he had the bank account to fund it. Both Batman and Bruce Wayne had dedicated their time to helping and improving the city of Gotham, though their methods were certainly different.

But Clark couldn’t get over the cognitive dissonance of their behaviour. Or, well—Bruce’s behaviour, as both Batman and Bruce Wayne. They were completely different people. Clark never would have guessed they were one and the same with all the time in the world.

But that was the point, he supposed. And of all people, Batman would put in the most effort to keep his identity a secret, no matter the means. Clark couldn’t help his fond smile as he rolled over in bed. He quickly dozed off and slept soundly for the first time in five days, affectionate thoughts of Batman swirling in his mind.

Work at the Planet was no longer stressful when it didn’t feel like a waste of his time, and even monitor duty was less tense with everyone more relaxed at the news of Batman’s return.

Clark had been sworn to secrecy about the details of Batman’s rescue, for which he was happy to oblige. A part of him liked having something secret between the two of them, something to hold close to his chest that nobody else could have, except for Bruce.

Diana had been the one to track down the sorceress that transformed Batman. Apparently she’d had a whole world-domination scheme, and her first task was to incapacitate Batman, as he was the largest threat to her later plans. But the transformation spell had weakened her, and before she was able to make her next move, the Amazonians found and captured her.

Clark was happy to hear that, and he said as much to Diana when she sent the League updates.

But on the heels of that news was an invitation to Wayne Manor.

“Clark,” Bruce had called, voice low. And Clark, who had just come home from work, couldn’t help the way he perked up, turning his head towards Gotham on instinct. “Come to the manor. I don’t need Superman.”

Which meant he wanted Clark.

He was out of his window in moments, using the clouds to hide himself as he raced to Gotham.

Bruce stood in a library on the back wall of the house, crouched by a fireplace and stoking the flames. Clark tapped his knuckles against the window and offered a smile when Bruce turned to look at him.

Once he settled onto the plush carpet inside, he asked, “What’s up, B?”

Bruce locked the window and moved to the couch in front of the fire. “I wanted to return your cape,” he said, picking up a neatly folded bundle. “It should be clean, but I’ll admit that neither Alfred or I have any experience with alien fabric.”

Clark reached forward. “Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” he said. Their fingers brushed as Clark accepted his cape. As Bruce shrugged, he doubled down. “No, really. I’ve got plenty. I’m just glad that you’re okay.”

At the word plenty, Bruce’s eyes sharpened, flashing with an interest that Clark noticed immediately.

“You can keep it,” he offered with a helpless smile, holding it out to Bruce. “The Fortress can make me as many as I want. If you want to analyze it—I mean, I’m not really doing anything special with them, so—feel free.”

Bruce hesitated for a moment before slowly taking it from Clark’s hands, smoothing a palm along it with obvious care. Clark swallowed hard and tried not to think about how that would feel if he were actually wearing the thing.

As he set the cape over the back of the couch, Bruce cleared his throat. “I also wanted to…thank you,” he started, his shoulders taut as he faced Clark again. “For revealing your identity to me. You did not have to do that, but I…I appreciated it—I do. I do appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Clark replied earnestly. “I’m just sorry that you couldn’t make the decision yourself. I know how important your privacy is to you.”

Bruce swallowed, and Clark heard his heart kick in his chest as he looked away. He was clearly overwhelmed, and Clark couldn’t blame him—this was the first real conversation they’d had with no masks or hidden identities between them.

Clark felt a little dizzy himself, though that might have been attributed to the fact that he was dangerously close to getting lost in the mesmerizing depth of Bruce’s beauty.

He decided to change the subject before he made a fool of himself. “Actually, I am curious about something,” he said, smiling a little when Bruce met his gaze again. “When you were transformed, did you recognize me? You weren’t overly hostile, but you knew Mr. Pennyworth and Zatanna by name. I guess I’m just wondering how much of your memory was intact.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed as he thought. Clark couldn’t get over how lucky he was to see it, to be allowed to watch his whole face move with each new expression.

“The sorceress wanted me out of the picture, but she didn’t want me dead,” Bruce began. “If I remembered who I was—as Batman, part of the Justice League—I would have done everything in my power to return and warn the League. If she completely wiped my memory, I would have been impossible to find with nothing tying me to Gotham, which meant she’d lose me as a bargaining chip if you managed to catch her before her plan was finished.

“I’ve known Alfred and Zatanna since I was a boy. I’ve theorized that wiping my memory to that point altered my mental age as well, because I hadn’t yet learned everything I know now.” Bruce heaved a breath. “To answer your question: I’m not entirely sure. I think I recognized that you were—that we knew each other, and that your crest meant something, but I didn’t remember your abilities.”

Bruce shrugged, self-deprecating as he said, “Hence the mouth-to-mouth.” He briefly locked eyes with Clark before cutting his gaze to the side. Clark watched in awe as his ears slowly turned pink. “I’m…I apologize for that, by the way.”

“What?” Clark said, failing to conceal his shock. Bruce’s eyes snapped back up to meet his. “You weren’t in your right mind, Bruce—as you just said. You thought I was drowning, and you tried to give me air. Why the hell would you apologize for that?”

“You pushed me away, Clark,” Bruce said slowly, as if Clark was the one misunderstanding here. “I made you uncomfortable.”

“That’s not true,” Clark protested.

Bruce raised a skeptical brow, crossing his arms. The dancing firelight made his hair shine. God, this was so unfair.

Clark breathed out a harsh sigh, swallowing thickly. “I looked uncomfortable because I—I felt like I was taking advantage of you. You only wanted to help me, and I let you get close enough to—kiss me.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, turning back to the fire. “Taking advantage of me would imply you derived pleasure from—”

Bruce’s breath hitched. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Clark’s face burned. He couldn’t control the guilt playing across his features as Bruce slowly turned back to look at him, his eyes widening. They stared at each other.

“I’m sorry,” Clark blurted, and it took all of his willpower to keep looking Bruce in the eye, but he had to face this, had to lay it all out and apologize, even as his face burned. “I pushed you away because you were only trying to help me, and you didn’t understand that I wanted it.”

Bruce said nothing, his brows drawing together.

Clark’s eyes went blurry, and he couldn’t resist burying his face in his hands anymore. His chest hurt. It was a herculean task to even manage a breath. “I’m so sorry, Bruce. If you’d never found out—if I’d just been smarter and stopped you earlier, we could’ve avoided this. I’ll—I’ll do better. I won’t bother you on patrols anymore, or—”

“Bother me?” Bruce echoed, his voice laced with disbelief. “Clark, what are you talking about?”

“I can’t help the way I feel, Bruce,” Clark said in a helpless, shaky voice. How did it come to this? How could Clark screw up this badly? “But I won’t let it affect us. I won’t. I’ll try to stop. You won’t have to see me unless there’s a League meeting or an emergency.”

“Clark,” Bruce said, and Clark felt hands around his wrists, encircling them in an iron grip and pulling them away from his face.

Clark sniffled, blinking harshly to clear his eyes. Bruce searched his face, a crease between his brows. His lips pulled into a slight frown. Even now, Clark wished to tip forward and kiss him. What was wrong with him?

Bruce licked his lips. Clark’s fingers twitched. “When,” Bruce began, pulling his hands up to cradle Clark’s face, “did you ever hear me say I didn’t want it?”

Clark opened his mouth. Paused. The knot in his chest eased. “You didn’t,” Clark replied, breathing hard.

“No,” Bruce agreed. “I didn’t.” He brushed his thumbs along Clark’s temples, into his hairline. Clark tried and failed not to lean into the touch. “When I apologized to you for giving you mouth-to-mouth, it was because I was half-convinced that my subconscious mind used it as an opportunity to get what I wanted with plausible deniability. I—felt bad. About putting you in that situation, and kissing you when there was absolutely no reason to.”

Clark could have cried. His heart pounded against his ribs. He brought his hands up to hold Bruce at the elbows, voice barely a whisper as he tentatively asked, “Do we need a reason? Beyond wanting to?”

Bruce’s lashes fluttered, and Clark heard the exact moment his pulse quickened. Bruce licked his lips, mouth quirking when he caught Clark staring. “I…don’t suppose we do, no.”

Clark laughed, a little wet, and let Bruce pull him closer until he could feel their lips brush, breath mingling between them.

And then Bruce tipped Clark’s head, sealing their lips together. With a stuttered breath, Clark kissed him in earnest, pouring all of his feelings out between them. Bruce received it, received all of it, holding Clark close and pushing forward to open the seam of Clark’s lips with his tongue. Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce, tugging him closer and relishing in the ecstatic pleasure racing up his spine.

“You have no idea,” Clark said between kisses, “how long I’ve wanted this. How much.”

Bruce’s mouth slid off Clark’s, trailing down his chin, along his jaw, over his throat. “I might have an inkling,” Bruce replied, sliding an arm around Clark’s waist to pull them flush.

Clark let his hands rest on Bruce’s shoulders as his head fell back. “Do you know how hard it was to focus when you were transformed?” he asked, voice going strangled when Bruce sucked on the space behind his ear. “You were—oh, god—you were so beautiful. All strong and powerful and—and shirtless.”

Bruce chuckled against Clark’s neck, skimming his teeth over Clark’s jaw. “You liked that, did you?” He walked them backwards until Clark’s knees hit the couch, and then pushed Clark to lie down, climbing on top of him.

“I was trying not to,” Clark protested, exhaling a breathy sigh as Bruce licked up his throat and then started to—started to stroke it, like he’d done when they were in the water, and Bruce was discovering Clark didn’t have gills. “And then you—then you had to go and wrap me in your tail.” The last word was weak and thready; Clark was overcome with the memory of Bruce wrapping him up tight and squeezing, all to keep Clark where he wanted him.

Bruce stopped mouthing at Clark’s skin, and before Clark could ask why, Bruce had pushed himself up to meet Clark’s eye, a curious expression on his face. “Really? You…didn’t find that odd?”

Clark swallowed, and he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “Um. I couldn’t really think about it a whole lot in the moment, but…no. I—you were surrounding me,” he explained, and he couldn’t keep the breathy, pleased quality out of his voice if he tried. “It was…tight. I couldn’t move without hurting you. And I’d never hurt you.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked across Clark’s face, obviously cataloguing his cautious eyes and flushed skin. A slow smile spread over his face. God, he was beautiful. “Mr. Kent,” Bruce said, voice teasing. “Do I have to break that sorceress out of League custody so I can turn back into a mermaid for you?”

“I mean,” Clark said with a shy smile, face so hot even his ears were red, “I wouldn’t be opposed—” He barked out a laugh when Bruce pounced, bearing his full weight down onto Clark and threading his hands into Clark’s hair to keep him still.

“You’re unbelievable,” Bruce said, and it sounded like a compliment.

Clark smiled, reaching up to put his hands on Bruce’s back, not-so-subtly trying to tug him closer. Bruce ignored Clark’s pressure, bringing one of his own hands up to brush the hair away from Clark’s face. His eyes were soft, shining in the firelight, and he was looking at Clark with so much wonder on his face.

Clark’s face heated impossibly further. But he wanted to kiss. “Bruce?” Clark asked.

“Yes, Clark?”

He grinned. “I think I’m drowning.”

“Oh, we can’t have that.” Bruce smirked and lowered himself easily, pushing close, and they were kissing again. Clark wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, if every kiss filled him with this much elation and settled the unease he’d always harboured from hiding his crush. Now he didn’t have to, and not because Bruce found out and didn’t like him back, not because he’d been forced to get over them. Clark almost didn’t know what to do with himself when faced with this exhilarating man.

Almost.

Bruce licked over his lips and laved into his mouth again. Clark readily opened for him, accommodating the intrusion and welcoming the sensation of Bruce’s tongue against his. The wet heat between them was enough to have Clark moaning, clenching his fists in Bruce’s shirt. Bruce rolled Clark’s head back, using the new angle to push further into his mouth and explore. Clark readily let him, sinking into the couch with a contented sigh, relaxing into the steady rhythm Bruce had set.

He heard Bruce’s inhale before he felt it, startling when Bruce forced a large breath into his mouth, enough air to puff his cheeks out.

Clark pulled away laughing, reaching up to wipe the shine from his bottom lip. “You think you’re so funny,” he said, voice full of humour.

“I’m hilarious,” Bruce replied, all pleased and smug.

He smiled down at Clark, bigger than Clark had ever seen, and there was a set of dimples by his eyes, right below where they crinkled at the corners. Magic and mermaids be damned, Clark couldn’t believe he was real.

He tugged Bruce close again, and if he found it hard to reciprocate Bruce’s kisses because he was smiling so broadly, nobody had to know except the two of them.