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Dawn breaks, and Bruce feels like it's a passing of the torch. Day and night, always opposed to each other, always reliant on the other, he and Superman sit on a high building's terrace together.
He's talking about something. Bruce hasn't been listening quite closely to his words for a while. The previous night had not been hard, but merely another night to blend amongst the rest of them. Superman had helped in all the ways he could. In all the ways he stubbornly wanted to.
He'd also been unable to keep his mouth shut for the entirety of the evening.
"...so, my Pa said, 'I'll load up the truck, to hell with it," Superman said, dimples rising high on his cheeks. "'If you can carry him high enough in the trunk, I'll drive fast enough he's at least gonna think he can fly!"
The Batman said nothing. Eyes on the horizon, along the jagged edge of the city skyline, he pinched his eyes at the sun making its way above it.
"And- and, I flew!" He continued, almost breathless. Leaning back on the palms of his hands, the smile on his face could power a star or two. "I mean, I didn't fly, really. Took a while until I mastered that. But Ma held me up to high, so far up, it's still what I think of when I... y'know, take off."
The Batman turned to him, then. Not noticeably, just enough to be in the corner of his eye.
As a test, as bait, the Batman asked him, "So what did it? In the end?"
Superman tilted his chin down, smiled again, and said, "Honestly?" he let out a cool breath of air, making a small cloud of cold smoke frame his mouth. "I thought about those maize fields, about how much Ma and Pa thought I could do it, and then-"
That's enough, the Batman thought. "You really shouldn't be telling anyone this."
He rose from his place, suddenly hit by the naivety of the whole situation. He should have been home hours ago, he had a board meeting in the morning, and despite him looking forward to it like you longed for a bullet in the shoulder, he-
"Wait-" Superman said. He was looking up at him, something searching in his eyes. "Hold on- what do you mean?"
The Batman always had a radio signal in his ear, hijacking the last known location of the latest lowly criminal, every last known suspect in Gotham. Over the last godforsaken minutes, he'd been listening intently, any indication of any sign of an organized crime he could be a part of halting its tracks.
He would be the hawk, the bat - if you will - of Gotham. He knew that the second he put on the suit, he was indebted, pledged to his city. If there could be an omen, a scare that would keep your children awake at bedtime stories, he could be that.
But, for now, the city was silent in his ear.
Alfred had gone to bed. Good.
He had put Dick to bed after eleven, also good. If he hadn't, he would have known hours ago.
Unfortunately, this meant he had to face Superman directly.
This was ridiculous, he thought to himself, before speaking.
"You have got to be more careful about keeping your identity safe," he said shortly. "Telling these sorts of details won't keep it."
Out of the corner of his eye, Superman moved, tilting his head rightwards. "Sorry, what?" he stood up, maybe in an attempt to meet him face to face. "Okay, how the hell is that story going to reveal my identity? Really?"
It wasn't really a challenge, Bruce knew that.
He knew that, but still...
"You grew up around maize fields, that's enough to place your upbringing in the southern- to mid western part of the country." He started. "You don't have the dialect to support it, but enough of what I know about your base of operations, you live in Metropolis, that's for sure. Two weeks ago, you called someone on your cellphone - which you really shouldn't be using out of costume - where you talked to someone familial - I'm guessing, but most likely - where your dialect conflated, just a bit. It’s a natural thing when talking to people you grew up with, relatives. Judging by how you spoke, it wouldn’t be hard to place your upbringing more precisely. Missouri, Iowa, Kansas, perhaps."
He really should stop there, he knew. The file labeled after the man before him was thick, something Bruce had unconsciously been filling with every new tidbit of information each night he’d run into the alien. Superman was a good liar, an excellent one, but he had a habit of wearing his heart on his sleeve in the most inopportune moments. He’d tricked enough people to think that Superman didn’t even have a civilian identity, that he simply waited around in Antarctica for the next natural disaster he could set right.
For someone with as many eyes from the public on him, that image had to be important to uphold. Bruce knew that feeling to a blood-curdling degree. Though, where he could protect his closest with the ever-vigilant team of Wayne Enterprises’ lawyers, as well as the vast fortune sitting pretty in bank accounts across the world, Superman could only ever protect the humans around him with himself.
We must look like ants to you, Bruce thought, not for the first time.
Superman was not speaking, and had in response only gone perfectly still. For all of that supernatural hearing of his, Bruce knew in the moment, that all his attention was on the vigilante next to him.
Bruce’s head swam a bit, at that thought.
”So,” he continued instead, not letting himself stay too long on that line of thinking. ”You might have moved to Metropolis for a job, or for school, letting your dialect settle to blend in better. From the information you have gleaned from previous nights, you most likely work somewhere with a high intake of information about the world - political disputes, business relations, gossip, even. You know when and how to check your facts, who to talk to.”
The alien was as still as he could be, his red cape moving gently in the wind being the only thing that wouldn’t separate him from a cast bronze statue.
”You’ve made yourself comfortable in the pockets of quite a few journalists,” Bruce continued, carefully now. ”Lois Lane, Jimmy Olsen, both of whom you’ve personally saved from their demise, on occasion. They both speak highly of you, in everything they’ve published.”
There was one more name in that little list in the Batcomputer’s file. The only one who’d ever gotten personal interviews with the hero. Who had always found himself missing only by minutes when disaster seemed to strike.
Bruce was cutting it close as it was. He didn’t want it to be this night where Superman suddenly lost his cool. The trust between them was still too new, too fragile.
Instead, he struck a pointed finger toward the alien’s face. ”The indents on the sides of your nose bridge are the same as with someone wearing glasses for large parts of their lives. You could be wearing them as a part of your civilian disguise. Or, you could be wearing lenses now, which- I don’t believe you have the need for.”
There was more, of course, there was more. He also didn’t feel the need to toy with the other man for much longer.
”As per my guess, you grew up in the Midwest, moved to Metropolis while young, still have a good enough relationship with your caregivers to take their call during missions, studied something within journalism, made good enough friends at The Daily Planet to be in close contact with. Your daily persona wears glasses - or sunglasses, which, again, I don’t think you require.” He finished, closing his arms in front of him. ”Am I missing something?”
After a second, Superman breathed out heavily, and it wouldn’t be strange to guess he’d been holding it in this entire tirade. His palm came up to card through his curls, loosening up whatever product had been holding them down. ”Okay, uh, wow,” He said in what might have been a laugh, or something just as nervous. ”No, no, that was actually pretty spo-”
”Don’t,” Batman enthused heavily, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.
Thankfully, Superman seemed to get the message, a fair blush of embarrassment colouring his face. ”Oh, I mean-” He showed his palms in an almost adorable scene of rebuttal. ”I will neither confirm nor deny any of those well-placed guesses.”
Lord help him, Bruce had to fight down the faint smile threatening to break out on his lips.
”Good,” he said, before turning to leave, reaching for the grapple gun at his hip.
He came only a few steps before Superman’s next words halted him. ”Listen, I know we haven’t worked together for that long but I mean, if you wanted to know…”
Over his shoulder, Clark Kent stood, looking ready to bare his soul to him.
Those impossibly blue eyes seemed to search for something in Bruce’s cowled face, before his shoulders dropped. ”Who am I kidding, you probably already know.”
Bruce would never admit to that first week after he’d run into Superman the first time, where he’d sat in the cave, the blue light of the monitors burning into his retinas, unable to sleep properly until he’d, without a shadow of a doubt, been able to confirm who this strange alien really was.
An ordinary man. Someone with a dayjob, deadlines, laundry to do, friends, exes, parents he felt bad about forgetting to call - all of it. It had seemed so impossible, in the beginning.
During the third day, Alfred had taken one look at the copy of Clark Kent’s Daily Planet press badge, and told him that if he wanted to meet someone, there were apps for that these days.
”I’m just saying,” Superman continued, hands on his hips and gaze anywhere but on the man in front of him. ”I hope you know by now that you can trust me. I know this- situation better than anyone, and honestly, I just-” he sighed deeply, almost steeling himself. ”I’d like to know more about you. All of you.”
As quietly as he could muster, Bruce swallowed around something hard in his throat.
There was an impulse in the moment, a horrible, bad one, that told him to take the cowl off. Let Clark Kent know who Bruce Wayne was.
He'd read Clark's articles. Knew how little he cared for people in power who did too much of their own gain, or too little with it. After the Lex Luthor debale last summer, he hadn't been quiet about it.
It might matter how much he'd been trying to correct his own mistakes since the floodings. How many new charities he'd funded, how much he'd worked side by side with an uncorrupted mayor to fix Gotham not from the streets, but from above. How he'd on a whim, taken in a child whom he'd seen so much, too much of himself in.
Clark Kent might see that, appreciate it, and still not like who he found beneath the cowl.
Instead of that, instead of saying no, instead of grappling away to avoid the question all together, he surprised himself by saying, ”Not yet.”
The answer would have disappointed even the best of men, even angered them. Instead, Superman just let a small smile curl his lips, something hopeful framing his features. ”Okay,” he said, ruefully. ”Guess I can work with that.”
The sun slowly rising over the roofs brought a bit of warmth beneath the suit. But, loath to admit it, it wasn’t the only source of that feeling in the center of his chest.
The Batman nodded, mostly to himself, before turning once more. ”I’ll call on you sometime in the week. The Maroni family has been-”
”Yeah, got it. I’m here when you need me,” Superman interrupted before he could finish. The soft woosh of air lifting him above ground reached Bruce’s ears, a sound he’d become all too familiar with these days. ”Oh, and tell Robin I said hi! Where was he today?”
With his back turned, Bruce allowed himself a small smile, ticking at the buttons on his arm brace to call the bike to his location. ”School night.” Best not talk about the fit Dick had thrown when Bruce had let it slip he was meeting Superman that night, and about the minor argument they’d had about whether or not vigilante justice was more important than a math quiz.
Despite not seeing his face, he could hear the smile in his voice. ”Ah, of course.”
Sending the grapple hook to curl around the nearest ventilation drum, Bruce took a leap to be able to walk down the side of the building, taking one last look at the man hovering across the roofs. ”I’ll see you later.”
He could have sworn, in the seconds before he reached the ground, that Clark had said, almost to himself, ”Not if I see you first.”