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And Bruce— Bruce freezes.
His brain shuts down — somewhere, it’s reporting an error code. Data does not fit. System crashing. Running diagnostics.
“I know it must be a shock,” Clark is saying, “and I’m sorry I had to hide it from you. I know you know all about keeping secrets to protect yourself, especially from the press—” if Bruce wasn’t completely offline at the moment, he’d be laughing— “but… I never liked lying to you, Bruce. Never. And I just knew I had to tell you, especially when my— my Superman stuff is such a big part of my life, and I know it means I’ll be late to dinner, or have to skip date nights, or—”
Because Clark is Superman. Bruce’s boyfriend is Superman. He’s dating Superman. New data absorbed. Reconfiguring worldview.
“—I just… I don’t want to see you hurt, Bruce,” Clark finishes, and Bruce knows he missed half of what Clark has just said, but he thinks that he gets a pass, just this once, because holy fuck shit fuck, Clark is Superman, and he didn’t know.
Clark Kent is Superman, and Bruce didn’t know.
“—Bruce?” Clark says, and now he sounds concerned, en route to panicky. “Bruce, please— say something—” Because, oh yeah, Bruce hasn’t said a word since Clark took off his glasses, and he should probably change that, should probably say something, so he opens his mouth— “I’m sorry, I really am, I—”
“Stop.” The single word is the only thing that comes out of Bruce’s mouth, all hollow and emotionless, and the part of him that’s not struggling to think, struggling to plan, struggling to figure this out, winces at how dead it sounds. Clark’s jaw snaps shut, and he flinches back from where he’d been reaching out a hand. A rush of guilt floods Bruce’s still rebooting system. Shit. “Wait,” he adds, and then cringes because it’s not much better. But Clark, because he’s perhaps the best man that Bruce has ever known, waits, his hand dropping to his side. He even takes a step back. Bruce searches for words — and he never has this problem, never, even when he’s surprised he knows how to figure out some bullshit to cover until he can get his mental feet back under him, so why the fuck does it feel like the hardest thing in the world to figure out what to say to Clark? It hits him, suddenly, that it’s not the words themselves that are the problem — it’s that he has no idea what he wants to say.
But Clark’s still watching him, and he’s waiting patiently, but Bruce can see the tension in his shoulders, the fear and worry that is building in his boyfriend’s heart with every moment Bruce keeps not saying something. And he knows he’s standing too still, the way he would stand if he were out patrolling as Batman, all eerie and statuelike, but Bruce can’t figure out how to force himself move like a human being right now, not while he’s dealing with… everything else. Somehow, though, he manages to take a breath. It doesn’t really help, what with the fact that his emotional capacity is completely overwhelmed and he’s pretty sure his normal processing systems are so far from online it’s not even funny. But it’s something.
“I don’t— Clark—” Bruce presses his lips together as he stops and starts. “I—” He growls in frustration as he clenches his jaw and lets out a sharp breath through his nose, irritated at himself.
“I’m sorry—”
That kickstarts something within Bruce, and suddenly, he’s mostly back online. Systems engaged. “No,” he interrupts quickly, and oh, thank God, there are the words. “Don’t apologize. Don’t apologize. You don’t— Don’t apologize.” It’s not his best, but it’s something, at least. “I just need—” His shoulders slump, and he scrubs a hand down his face as he lets out another long breath. This time, thank fuck, it actually helps. “I just need time to think.”
Because all of Bruce’s plans, all his calculations — about Clark, about their relationship, about Batman, about telling Clark he’s Batman, about ending his relationship with Clark because he’s Batman — not to mention his Superman contingencies and the Justice League and his relationship to Superman and his relationship to Superman within the Justice League — each and every one of them has just been pummeled with a baseball bat, stomped on, and then run over with a tank, and he just needs a minute to reorganize his thoughts, to put the pieces back into place, to think it all through again now that Clark is Superman—
He just needs a minute to think.
“Oh— okay. Okay,” Clark says, nodding slowly, his face a strange mix of hopeful and crushed with rejection — which is not what Bruce intended. “Yeah, sure. Of course. Take— take all the time you need, I can give you some space for, for as long as—”
“Clark,” Bruce interrupts again, suddenly incredulous. Does Clark think he doesn’t want anything to do with him? Does he think Bruce needing space is the prequel to a break-up? “When I said I needed time to think, I meant I need—” He checks his watch, does some mental calculations. “—about twenty-eight minutes to sort through things.” To reconfigure his life, probably. “Then we can go from there.”
The tension leaves Clark’s shoulders almost instantly, and he smiles quietly, almost guiltily, almost giddily, at Bruce. “Oh. Okay. Yeah,” he says, but he sounds much more settled, this time, and Bruce internally sighs with relief.
“I’m just— I’m going to sit outside in the hallway,” he says, stepping back towards the door. Even though with Superman’s— with Clark’s x-ray vision and supersenses it means next to nothing, the idea of trying to think through… everything while in the same apartment as Clark, with his presence hovering — potentially literally, now — feels slightly unbearable. “Twenty-eight minutes.”
Clark nods as Bruce puts his hand on the doorknob. “Twenty-eight minutes,” he agrees, and then Bruce steps out of the apartment.
The door has barely shut behind him before he’s sliding down it to sit heavily on the floor, and Bruce keeps it together long enough to set a timer on his watch — and then his thoughts are spinning out in all directions.
Clark is Superman.
Clark is Superman.
And Bruce didn’t know.
Bruce Wayne, CEO, billionaire, Batman, World’s Greatest Detective, didn’t know that his own boyfriend was Superman, and Superman doesn’t even wear a mask. It all begins to too quickly slot into place — how every time Bruce had to call off an event for League business, Clark barely even blinked. How he’s never seen Clark with a bruise or a scar or even a papercut. How he’s able to make it from Metropolis in record time. How he’s the same build, and height, and can pick up Bruce (who is not a small man) without breaking a sweat, and how he looks the exact fucking same. Now, looking back, it’s so goddamned obvious that it seems impossible that Bruce missed it.
But he did miss it. And he’d missed it because he hadn’t wanted to confront what was right in front of him. Because there’s no way Bruce misses things like this. He missed it because he wanted to miss it.
He’s emotionally compromised.
The words flit across Bruce’s mind and immediately he feels the urge to run — to get far, far away, to cut off all emotional ties, to brute-force shove Clark out of his life just as easily as Clark had seemed to slip his way into it (though it won’t be easy, he knows it won’t, Clark is already too embedded, too deep, too close—), because he cannot be emotionally compromised. Too much depends on him — the safety of the Justice League depends on him, the safety of Gotham depends on him, and most importantly, the safety of his children depends on him. The fact that someone slipped beneath Batman’s emotional barriers like this means that someone could do it again, and Bruce cannot allow that mistake. He can’t. He refuses to. The stakes are too high. He can never risk it again.
Being aware of the what’s going on in his body is a skill Bruce has honed for years, and it’s this little analytical continuously running part of his brain that, when his breath starts to speed up and his chest feels tight and he feels like he can’t get enough air, pipes up and says, oh! I know! We’re having a panic attack!
Which is completely unhelpful, in that it does absolutely nothing to stop him from actually panicking, but is also supremely helpful in that the realization kicks in some instinct, and with shaking hands Bruce pulls his phone from his pocket and dials Alfred.
The butler picks up immediately. “Master Bruce? I thought you were at Master Clark’s place.”
Bruce opens his mouth to say something and nothing comes out.
“Master Bruce? Are you alright?”
“Clark is Superman,” Bruce manages, and then his thoughts spiral out before him once again.
He’ll need to completely disengage from Clark. Not abruptly — ideally, he’ll wait a few days, then he’ll quietly break it off, tell Clark he doesn’t know he can go on with the whole superhero business and loathe himself for his hypocrisy in secret. It’ll hurt Clark, and fuck, he doesn’t want to hurt Clark, but he should have never allowed this to happen, and it needs to end, now. He’s a good actor, so work at the Justice League won’t even be awkward, since no one knows who he is and now no one ever will, and everything will proceed smoothly. He’ll have to come up with something for the press — the pressures of fame, or something like that, cover all his bases, lie low for a little while before returning to the galas and the drinking and the one night stands, even though he doesn’t particularly want to, he doesn’t like them, has never liked them, and now, after the movie nights and cooking together in the kitchen and the nights where they didn’t do anything except talk about anything and everything — after Clark — he hates the idea even more. He has to break up with Clark. He doesn’t want to break up with Clark. Clark is fucking Superman—
“Breathe with me, Master Bruce, in for four… now hold it for four…” Alfred’s calm voice reaches through Bruce’s racing thoughts and calculations. Slowly, Bruce finds himself matching the pace of Alfred’s steady counting, feels his chest begin to loosen.
One thought surfaces, out of the mess. He doesn’t want to break up with Clark. He really, really doesn’t want to break up with Clark.
Bruce doesn’t love easily. Or— that’s not true at all, he knows. He loves easily, too easily, even and especially those few short relationships he had that weren’t just about the sex and the fame and the money. The amount of children that weren’t his to begin with but now live under his roof is a testament to the fact that he loves easily and quickly, in the seconds between a child stealing his tires and threatening him with a tire iron. Hell, he loves all of Gotham, day and night. But he doesn’t trust easily. And this? This easy, quiet love, this easy, quiet trust he has with Clark? It feels too precious to name. He’s not honest with most people — to be honest, he spends most of his waking hours lying to people — but it’s so easy to tell the truth when Clark looks over at him with those big blue eyes. He’s told Clark things he’s— never told anyone else. About his parents. About growing up lonely. About the pain he carried for so long, heavy in his chest. And Clark is honest right back. He’s so— free, with inviting Bruce into his life, has shared about his childhood, and figuring out he was bisexual in college, and how he was so stunned the first time Bruce flirted with him at a Wayne Enterprises event he couldn’t recall the rest of the gala, and went back to the office with no quotes except for the terrible line Bruce had used on him — 'I’ll do an exclusive with you any day.' Which was truly one of Bruce’s worst lines ever, not only terrible but completely unoriginal, and somehow it managed to catch the attention of Clark, who is kind and funny and smart and loyal and makes incredible lasagna and likes to watch nature documentaries and on the days when the pain Bruce is still carrying comes back even heavier, just sits with him and holds him and makes him feel like he doesn’t have to pick up all the pieces of his shattered heart all by himself.
So Bruce is emotionally compromised. So he’s completely and utterly head over heels for this man who deserves every good thing in the entire universe, and every other universe as well.
So he’s emotionally compromised.
He just needs to think this through. He just needs to look at all the facts.
“Master Bruce?”
“Alfred,” Bruce says, and it’s not even difficult now. “I’m alright now.”
“I’m glad to hear that, sir. Would you like me to stay on the line?”
Bruce glances at his watch. Fourteen minutes left. “… No, thank you, Alfred. I’ll be fine.”
There’s a pause. “Do you know how many places I should set at the table for dinner tonight?” Alfred asks tentatively. Bruce knows he’s trying to get a sense of what Bruce is thinking, which is funny, because Bruce doesn’t know what Bruce is thinking.
“I’ll let you know,” Bruce replies.
“Of course, Master Bruce.”
The line goes dead, and Bruce takes a breath before forcing his brain back to the problem at hand. Right now, there are three key facts he returns to: Clark is Superman, Bruce is compromised, and he doesn’t want to break up with Clark.
The idea that he’s compromised is… terrifying. It’s terrifying that he let it happen. It’s terrifying that he didn’t even realize it until just now. It’s terrifying, and he’s never going to let it happen again. Bruce Wayne may make a lot of them, but he learns from his mistakes.
But now, with the panic pushed back to the dark corners of his mind, Bruce thinks that, really, he’s just immensely grateful it wasn’t worse. Yes, he was compromised. But it wasn’t by anyone with any nefarious purposes. It wasn’t an agent of one of Gotham’s Rogues, it wasn’t some nosy reporter who’d do anything for a scoop — okay, it was a nosy reporter, but Clark is a good man, he has integrity. He’s Superman. And as much as Bruce trusts Clark, Batman trusts Superman more.
They’ve seen each other through so much, through victories, and terrible, terrible moments. They’ve fought back-to-back, they’ve patched each other up, they’ve seen each other at their worst and they’ve forgiven each other for it as well. One of the only people, besides Alfred, his children, and Clark, that Bruce actually, truly trusts is Superman— is Clark. Clark would never take advantage of the fact that Bruce is emotionally compromised, and he can rest easy knowing that even though Bruce fucked up, his family and Gotham are safe.
Obviously, he’ll never let it happen again— but, Bruce suddenly realizes, the only reason it happened was because he wanted a serious relationship with Clark.
The pieces start to slot together. Now he has a serious relationship with Clark, if Clark sharing this secret is any indicator. So, thinking through this logically, all he needs to do is... not get in a serious relationship with anyone else, and it should be safe. And it follows, of course, that he won’t get in a serious relationship with anyone else... if he’s still in a serious relationship with Clark.
The puzzle clicks together. The math checks out. Really, staying with Clark is actually the safest and most practical decision he can make.
He doesn’t have to break up with Clark.
Bruce breaks into a slightly giddy smile as he lets his head fall back against the door. He doesn’t have to break up with Clark. His brain ticks back up to speed. If they’re going to stay in a relationship, Bruce realizes, they’ll have to fill out that Justice League paperwork they made Green Arrow and Black Canary fill out, the relationship ones. It shouldn’t be a problem — he and Superman are equal status as the team leaders, so there’s not even complicated workplace power dynamics to contend with. But even if they don’t tell the rest of the Justice League — he’s not sure if Clark would want to tell everyone or not, and he’s not sure if he wants to tell anyone — they should probably still fill it out, so just in case something happens, it’s on record. Though he doubts anyone will stop him from seeing Clark should Superman get injured, mostly because one, he’s usually right there and already providing medical care on the rare occasions Clark does get injured, and two, he’s Batman.
Bruce’s train of thought screams to a stop. He’s been planning like Clark already knows. He’s been planning like he assumes he’s going to tell Clark he’s Batman. Suddenly, every bone in Bruce’s body is back in fight or flight mode. Keeping the fact that he’s Batman a secret is as ingrained into his person as his own name. He has a secret identity for a reason. He can’t tell anyone, he can’t.
His breathing picks up again, but Bruce is more prepared for it this time, and he breaths in for four, holds for four, and lets it all out before his panic can get away with him. Then, he returns to face the truth head on.
If he wants to keep dating Clark, Bruce has to tell him he’s Batman.
If Bruce felt startled and betrayed when Clark told him he was Superman, it will be even worse for Clark when he finds out that Bruce was hiding Batman from him. Because he will find out — Clark’s smart, he’s clever, and if their lives are going to continue to wrap this closely around each other, he’ll figure it out eventually, and that will hurt him more than if Bruce tells him right now. Right now, just after Clark told him.
And the other thing is, Clark deserves the truth. As previously stated, Bruce is pretty sure that Clark is the most perfect human being— the most perfect man on Earth, and also he deserves literally everything. And as if he couldn’t get any more amazing, he just trusted Bruce enough — Bruce, who as far as he knows is just some guy — to share his secret identity with him, because he didn’t want to lie to Bruce, and now that Bruce knows, he has to tell Clark as well.
He’s going to tell Clark he’s Batman.
Bruce picks up his phone again and dials Alfred for the second time in twenty minutes.
“Master Bruce?”
“Alfred, set an extra place for dinner tonight, would you?”
He can practically hear Alfred’s warm, proud smile. “Of course, Master Bruce.”
“And— ” He hesitates. “And please ask whoever’s there, if it’s not urgent, to leave the Cave. We’ll need the space.”
He hears Alfred let out a breath. “Of course, Master Bruce,” he repeats, and the call ends.
Just in time, Bruce’s watch goes off. Twenty-eight minutes.
Bruce stands and turns back to the apartment door. Slowly, he takes a breath, and then pushes it open.
Clark’s sitting on the couch, forearms resting on his knees. When Bruce opens the door, his head snaps up with a deer-in-the-headlights look, like he was startled. Which means that he wasn’t using his superpowers to listen while Bruce had his panic attack in the hallway, only reasserting Bruce’s knowledge that Clark Kent is the most perfect man alive. “Bruce?” he asks, quietly, like he’s scared Bruce is going to kick him out of his own apartment or something.
“We need to go to the Manor,” Bruce says, matter-of-factly, almost like he’s in the cowl and leading a JL meeting.
Clark’s brow furrows. “The Manor?” he asks.
“Yes,” Bruce replies. “The Manor. I need to show you something.”
“Okay,” Clark agrees, and though he still seems confused, he just follows Bruce out of the apartment and down to the parking garage.
Clark stays quiet as Bruce puts the car in drive and turns them towards Gotham. Bruce uses the familiar feel of the wheel to ground him, and he takes a few deep breaths. As they approach the bridge, though, he glances over at Clark. He’s just staring out the window, but Bruce can tell from the set of his shoulders that he’s still unsure and nervous. Impulsively, Bruce reaches across to rest his hand on Clark’s thigh. Not impulsively in that he’s not sure Clark’s okay with it — it’s not an uncommon thing, for them — but in that he didn’t think about it before he did it. Now, though, the guilt floods in. He’s about to tell Clark a life-changing secret, something he kept from his boyfriend. And once he knows, Clark’ll have every right to be angry that Bruce hadn’t told him. Bruce shouldn’t take advantage of Clark not knowing, shouldn’t pretend everything’s normal, shouldn’t do anything until Clark has all the facts—
And then Clark puts his hand overtop Bruce’s and threads their fingers together. He squeezes gratefully, and— suddenly, Bruce’s guilt is much weaker than the warm feeling spreading through his chest at being able to provide comfort to the man he loves.
They keep driving.
The gates to Wayne Manor open silently when they reach them, matching the quiet of the ride itself. Bruce eases the car up the drive, then leads the way up the front steps.
Alfred opens the door, constant as always. “Master Clark,” he greets, which is a testament to just how much Clark has been accepted into not only Bruce’s home, but his family (Clark and Alfred had finally reached the uneasy truce of ‘Master Clark’ after weeks of ‘Master Kent,’ ‘no, please, call me Clark,’ ‘no, I insist.’ It had been more endearing than Bruce expected). “Master Bruce. Come in, please. May I take your coat?”
“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce replies.
Alfred lays a hand on his arm as Bruce shrugs out of his coat. “The area is clear, as you requested, sir,” the older gentleman says lowly. “Though I daresay the rest of the house is not clear of prying eyes.” The butler subtly turns a baleful eye towards the top of the stairs, and Bruce catches a glimpse of someone — or two someones — quickly darting out of view.
“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce says again, quieter and sincere in a way he hopes conveys the scale of his gratitude, for more than just this.
He gets the sense that Alfred knows. The man’s eyes soften, and Alfred, British to his very core and not known for his physical affection, squeezes Bruce’s arm gently. “Of course, Master Bruce.”
Clark glances back from where he’s standing in the hall and tilts his head towards the living room, where they usually spend time when they’re at the Manor.
Bruce shakes his head, and starts towards the stairs. “My study,” he says, by way of explanation.
This time, there is the sound of feet on hall carpets as Dick and Jason scatter. Bruce feels a wave of fond annoyance. As stealthy as his children are in the field, they are incredibly unsubtle when it comes to spying on Bruce. He pauses just long enough in front of one of the hallways to raise a pointed eyebrow at the kid vigilantes he knows are hiding there.
His only response is a thumbs up slowly extended from behind one of the suits of armor.
Clark is right behind him, though, so Bruce keeps moving and leads his boyfriend into the study. Clark looks around, but it’s not anything new. What is new, though, is the fact that Bruce doesn’t lead them towards the couch, or the desk, or the armchairs by the fire. Instead, he steps into the center of the room and stops.
Bruce takes a deep breath to steady himself. As he does so, he realizes— underneath all the anxiety, there’s an excitement, almost a giddiness, at the thought of— of showing Clark this other side of him.
“Bruce?” Clark asks hesitantly. “You said you needed to show me something?”
Bruce takes another breath. No turning back.
He turns to face his boyfriend. “Yes. It’s… It will be easier than trying to explain.”
Clark smiles, but there’s an undercurrent of worry. “What, don’t tell me you’re some Gotham supervillain or something,” he jokes.
Bruce’s lips twitch into a wry smile. “Hn.”
“Bruce? Tell me you’re not a Gotham supervillain or something.”
“No,” Bruce says, amusement warm in his throat. “I’m not a Gotham supervillain.” With that, he steps over to the grandfather clock in the corner and rotates the hands to 10:47.
The clock swings open silently. Bruce pretends not to hear Clark’s sharp intake of breath from behind him as it reveals the dark doorway. Instead, he starts down the stairs, anticipating, correctly, that Clark will follow him. The man’s heavy footsteps ring on the tightly spiralling metal stairs, Bruce’s own a quieter, practiced counterpoint.
They descend into the darkness. There’s no light in the stairwell as it plunges through the reinforced walls of the house and into the rock below, except for small red emergency guides. They reflect off of Bruce’s polished shoes.
“Bruce?” Clark says, and there’s no mistaking the anxiousness in his voice. “This really isn’t doing a good job of convincing me you’re not a Gotham supervillain.”
Bruce doesn’t reply, and then rock falls away, and they’re looking over the BatCave.
It’s still dark — Bruce decided against automatic lights — but he steps out of the way so that Clark can step out onto the small landing at the bottom of the stairs, and flips the switch along the wall. In the depths of the BatCave, lights begin to flick on, fluorescent and sparse. They reveal the true immensity of the space, the rough shape of the rock and the contrast of the polished cement floor. One clicks on over the BatComputer, the worktables with the scattered pieces of grappling hooks and upgrades for the Batmobile, the mats of the gym and climbing wall.
Clark stops, eyes widening, and then nearly stumbles over to the railing to look down over the giant space. For a moment, Bruce imagines what it must look like to Clark — the vast space, the cold metal and technology. The shadows and darkness.
“Clark,” Bruce says, and the man turns to look at him. His blue eyes are wide and startled. Bruce pulls the domino mask out of his pocket — the cowl is still down by the Batcomputer, but this will have to do — and presses it over his eyes. “Clark,” he says, and lets his voice drop to the familiar growl, “I’m Batman.”
Clark just stares. Bruce can’t read him; he has no idea what Clark is thinking. It’s terrifying, and he suddenly realizes this must be how Clark felt an hour ago — terrified and hopeful all at once, and anxiously awaiting a response, any response. He clears his throat, awkwardly. “I’m sorry,” he says, quietly. It echoes in the space, even though he’s not sure what he’s apologizing for — for not telling Clark, for being Batman in the first place.
And Clark starts to laugh.
It starts as a shocked chuckle, barely more than a puff of air. Then Clark’s shoulders start shaking as the chuckle turns into a rolling laugh in his chest, and suddenly Clark is guffawing, big belly laughs shaking all six plus feet of his frame, and he’s got a hand braced on the railing to hold himself upright as he doubles over with laughter. Clark’s laughter is infectious, and it pulls a chuckle out of Bruce himself, mostly of relief. “I— Bruce,” Clark manages, struggling for breath, and then he’s laughing again.
Through the laughter, Clark steps towards Bruce, and Bruce finds himself migrating towards the man like a comet caught in orbit of the sun. “Bruce,” Clark says again, and his smile truly is the sun.
“Clark,” Bruce replies, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“Bruce,” Clark repeats, gazing around the Cave in awe before looking back at Bruce. It shocks the breath from Bruce’s lungs, the way that look of wonder doesn’t change or fade. It’s meant for him.
“If you intend to become a better conversationalist, you might want to learn a word other than my name,” Bruce jokes, dryly.
Clark raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t seem to have any problem with it the other night,” he grins. Then he steps closer to Bruce. “Plus,” he says, cheekily, relishing it, “you’re Batman. Can’t you read my mind?”
“Ha ha,” Bruce replies. “You of all people know that Batman is just a man.” His voice goes softer than he intends it.
Clark smiles softly. “A good man. A beautiful man,” he says, and Bruce has to look away. Clark has said things like that before, but— here, in the BatCave, surrounded by the evidence of every part of his life, he still says it with the same sincerity as when Bruce was just Bruce, and not also a masked vigilante raining down furious violence on Gotham criminals. “Batman,” Clark repeats, shaking his head in amusement.
Clark catches Bruce’s hands, drawing Bruce’s gaze back to him. He seems about to say something, and then the man breaks down into giggles again. He tips forward, forehead landing on Bruce’s shoulder. Clark’s shoulders shake as he laughs, and Bruce wraps his arms around the man to feel the motion. He lets out a chuckle himself. “How crazy is this, huh?” Clark says. “What are the chances, that we ended up dating each other without knowing who the other was?”
Bruce snorts. “Do you really want to know?”
“No,” Clark replies, not unkindly. He straightens, and Bruce’s hands slip down from Clark’s shoulders to his waist. Clark grins at him, rests his own arms on Bruce’s shoulders. “This is wild. Who would’ve guessed that my work crush and my boyfriend would end up being the same guy?”
“Your work crush?” Bruce repeats, in sheer delight. So Superman has a crush on Batman, huh? He’s going to have a field day with this. Clark groans, and tucks his face back into Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce just laughs. He traces the red flush on the back of Clark’s neck. “If it makes you feel better, you’re not the only one who had a work crush,” Bruce admits, after a moment, because it seems only fair, and also everything feels warm and fuzzy and safe.
Clark’s head shoots up, superhumanly fast. “Really?”
“Yes,” Bruce replies. “Green Lantern.”
“You asshole,” Clark says, but it’s fond. Bruce is so gone on this man it’s not even funny.
Bruce quiets, searching Clark’s face softly. “...It’s okay, then?” he asks.
Clark tilts his head at him, then smiles. “Of course it’s okay, Bruce,” Clark replies. “It’s better than okay.” Clark leans closer, and Bruce crosses the few inches to meet him—
“Eww, gross! Jason, cover your eyes!”
“Abort the mission, abort the mission, they’re kissing!”
Bruce whips around to pin his children with a glare. Said children have not aborted the mission. Instead, they’re standing on the steps down into the BatCave, fake-retching.
“Boys,” Bruce says. “What are you doing here? Didn’t Alfred tell you to avoid the Cave for the evening?”
Dick and Jason have the decency to look sheepish at the invoking of Alfred’s name, but other than that they just exchange an unconcerned look. “Too late,” Jason shrugs.
“But now you guys can come up to dinner!” Dick adds, cheerful as always.
Bruce sighs, repressing the urge to rub at the bridge of his nose, despite the warmth he feels at his two boys getting along. “Go tell Alfred we’re on our way.”
Jason whoops, and races up the stairs, but Dick lingers. He glances at Bruce for a moment. Then he darts forward. Bruce lets out an “oof” as Dick crashes into him, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s middle and tucking his head beneath his chin. He’s almost too tall, now— in a few years, Bruce won’t be able to do this. So he takes the opportunity and pulls Dick close.
“I’m glad you finally told him,” Dick says, muffled where his face is pressed into Bruce’s shirt. He pulls away just slightly to shoot a glare at Clark. “And now I can tell you that if you ever hurt him, I know where Bruce keeps the explosives. And Jason will help.”
“I wouldn’t expect any less from— Robin?” Clark guesses, shooting an amused glance at Bruce. Bruce nods in confirmation, then shrugs. It wasn’t as if he could leave explosives out of their training.
He gives Dick a fond shake. “I’m glad I told him too,” he says, locking eyes with Clark. “Though I have to admit I didn’t go first.”
Dick pulls back with a sharp look. “What?”
“ALFRED SAYS DINNER’S READY!” Jason hollers down the stairs. “ARE YOU COMING OR WHAT?”
“It seems we’re required in the dining room,” Bruce says dryly.
Clark laughs. “Here, Dick. Want to fly up?”
Dick glances between the two of them furiously. “Is that a turn of phrase? Bruce, can we go back to, ‘I didn’t go first’?”
Bruce locks eyes with Clark, trying to communicate as much "only if you’re okay with telling them" as possible. Clark winks at him.
Then, he lifts off the ground.
Dick’s eyes widen. “Holy shit, Batman,” he says. “Holy Supes, Batman! There’s— You’re— There’s no fucking way.”
“Language, Dick.”
“Yes fucking way,” Clark laughs. “I’m Superman.”
“Language, Clark!” Bruce growls. “Apparently, you’re all about setting a good example for kids, until it’s my kids.”
Clark grins at him, and it’s cheese all the way through. “They’ve already got someone setting a pretty good example, I think.” Bruce rolls his eyes, but there’s a warmth rising to his cheekbones he can’t deny.
“Ew, gross!” Dick groans. “World’s mightiest heroes— more like world’s sappiest heroes.” Then he pauses. “Wait— If you had to tell each other— Does that mean neither of you knew who the other was? Oh my God, it does!” he whoops, seeing their faces. “The world’s greatest detective didn’t figure out that Superman was his own boyfriend. The guy with superpowers didn’t realize that he’s dating the Batman!”
“Dick,” Bruce says, warning.
“This is too good,” Dick says breathlessly, fighting back tears of laughter. “Oh my God, this is too good. Wait until I tell Jason!” He turns to rush up the stairs, then whips back around and points a finger at the pair of heroes. “And when you come up for dinner, you better not be doing any mushy crap, okay? I do not want to see that in front of Alfred’s mashed potatoes. And Clark— welcome to the Batfamily.” He flashes one last grin, all Robin, and then he’s gone.
“The Batfamily, huh?” Clark touches down and sidles closer, sticking his hands in his pockets.
“I didn’t come up with it,” Bruce replies.
“Says the guy who came up with the BatCave, and the Batmobile, and—”
“Alright, smartass.” Bruce interrupts.
“Language, Bruce!”
Bruce shoots him his patented Batglare, but unfortunately, Clark’s been inoculated against it, in both identities. He just tosses his head back and laughs, superhuman and beautiful. Bruce can’t stop himself— he reaches out, tangling their fingers together, and Clark takes the opportunity to tug them closer together, and then suddenly they’re kissing, and kissing, and Bruce’s happiness is like basking in the light of a yellow sun.
He pulls away, breathless, before pressing one final kiss to the corner of Clark’s mouth. “C’mon, Boy Scout,” Bruce says, pulling him along by their still-joined hands. “The boys will be getting impatient. We should go join them… for Batdinner.”
“Bruce,” Clark says seriously, his eyes full of awe and warmth. “I love you.”
Bruce smiles back, small and safe. “I love you too.”
There’re no skylights in the Cave, but Clark’s grin lights it up like sunlight anyway. And then their teeth are clacking together as they kiss because neither of them can stop smiling wide enough, but Bruce doesn't care.
Maybe Bruce is emotionally compromised, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“CLARK IS WHO?”