Chapter Text
Clark.
—
Clark doesn't see the beam coming.
It was always like this when it came to magic—Clark's super senses, if not an outright hindrance, were a lot more useless than helpful. Had he been looking towards Batman, he might have been able to knock the spell caster out of her spot, hidden in the shadows. Had he caught sight of the spell forming, he might have been able to swoop in and carry Batman to safety.
Had he noticed the beam in time, he might have been able to take on the spell himself.
Although—Clark has to quell a private smile. Batman would’ve certainly lectured him to the moon and back if he'd done that.
As it is, Clark and Diana are perfectly fine, Hal is a little banged up, Barry is starving and Batman is unconscious in Clark's arms.
They take him up to the League medbay where Leslie is quick to make a space for Clark to lay Batman down. It's unlikely Leslie could offer anything for the effects of a magic spell, but for now, she was their best hope.
He is almost hesitant to let go—the stillness of an unconscious Batman makes a terrible unease trickle through Clark. A little part of Clark’s mind is telling him that he needs to be as close as possible—that the safest place for Batman to be was less than an arm’s reach away.
But that was hardly rational. Batman was safe here, all the way up in the medical rooms of the Watchtower, reinforced with a security system that was likely unparalleled by anything on Earth. So Clark lets go and steps back.
“I need to remove his cowl,” Leslie tells them.
“Of course,” Diana replies graciously. She places a hand on Clark's forearm. “Come, Kal.”
She exits quickly, but Clark lingers, eyes on Batman until Leslie turns to him. Clark takes in the determined set of her mouth and the no-nonsense look to her—a doctor clearly used to dealing with visitors who were unwilling to leave. But when Clark can only stare at her in muted fear, her expression softens into something akin to what he’s seen on Ma before.
“I will do everything I can,” Leslie promises him with a quiet seriousness and Clark's heart settles a little at that.
Batman lies there, unmoving and slack, and Clark leaves the room.
They find out later that Batman had woken up soon after Leslie started her tests. He had sat up and completed a physical, stating all throughout it that he felt perfectly fine.
The others throw out speculation as to the true nature of the spell, but it’s difficult to build up a theory based on anything substantial, seeing as no one was near when the spell was cast. Batman keeps reassuring them he was fine anyway, so the worry dies down.
“Maybe the spell was just to knock you out for a while?” Barry offers.
Batman's silence is easily taken as confirmation.
“Zatanna has been informed of the situation,” Diana informs them, standing at the head of the table. “She will be here within the week.”
“Is there no one we can get sooner?” Clark asks, trying not to seem too distraught. Diana considers this, seeming like she might put forth some other options, but Batman cuts in first.
“That won't be necessary—the situation isn't urgent. Thank you, Diana,” Batman says, and just like that, the meeting concludes. He rises from his spot beside Clark and turns sharply on his heel, making his way down to the zeta tubes. The others take his word for it, dispersing to their own responsibilities, but Clark’s eyes are on Batman's retreating cape.
There’s something Batman isn't telling them.
Batman has disappeared through the zeta beam when Clark gets there, but Clark knows where he's gone. He doesn't receive a glare when he zips through to the Cave, so he has to believe that Batman is plenty aware that Clark would follow him. It makes him less hesitant to stride up to Batman where he's sitting at his computer, undoubtedly typing away at the post mission report instead of resting.
“B.”
The sound of the keyboard clacking doesn't pause. Clark steps closer.
“What really happened?”
Batman doesn't so much as twitch in acknowledgement, fingers flying over keys. Clark huffs, eyes straying to the screen where he skims what's been typed up so far.
‘—Batman subjected to close range attack from magic user.
Spell type: Unknown.
Effects: Batman knocked unconscious for three hours, no other noticeable effects—’
This was the watered down report for the League’s records then. It was likely why Batman had even allowed Clark to be here—he wasn't going to share the truth easily. Annoyed, Clark grabs the back of Batman's chair and pulls him away from the desk. The scowl he gets would usually make him grin in return, but now, he just wants answers.
“Batman,” Clark says. “What happened?”
Batman crosses his arms, staring Clark down. “It's on a need-to-know basis.”
Clark wants to roll his eyes. “Let's not play games this time, B. Just tell me.”
Batman releases an irritated breath, looking away. “You already know the gist of it, Kal. I got hit by a magical spell and now we must wait for Zatanna in order to resolve the effects.”
“You wrote that there are no effects.”
“—any effects that may or may not arise later down the line.”
Clark tilts his head after watching Batman for a moment. “There's more to this.”
“Superman—” Batman growls, but Clark's got his argument ready.
“It's going to take her—what, a week to get here? Even if there aren't effects now, if they do appear later—”
“—it isn't something you need to concern yourself with—”
“—we don't know how fast the effects will progress,” Clark continues, raising his voice.
“Which, once again, is my concern—”
“—So our best bet is to brainstorm ways to resolve the issue as fast as possible. The more brains to brainstorm, the faster it'll get done.”
Clark can see Batman open his mouth, ready to contradict him again, but Clark's just about to lay down his trump card. “And—who’s to say? Maybe the effects will keep you from being Batman.”
Batman's silent for a long while and Clark's smugness builds, knowing he's gotten through to him. Batman grinds his teeth but seems to agree with the sentiment, finally releasing a long breath.
“So what is it?” Clark asks in the silence. “What do you know?”
Batman glares at him before standing from his chair, heading over to the medical equipment on a side table. There's a thin plastic slide he pulls out from under one of the microscopes, already smeared with what Clark quickly determines to be a sample of Batman's blood. It must have been from one of the tests performed by Leslie.
He hands the slide to Clark, a silent invitation for Clark to take a look.
The blood looks perfectly normal, from what Clark's vision can tell—there’s nothing amiss from any other perfectly healthy blood sample. Even when he peers deeper, into the cells to see the organelles, there is nothing wrong. Clark looks back up at Batman.
“You can't see anything in that, can you?” Batman asks, but it doesn't feel like a question to confirm a theory. He'd known, of course, that Clark wouldn't see a thing—they were dealing with something invisible.
That’s how it always was with magic—a fickle, intangible mess that had no rhyme or reason to it. Clark was certain that even if he looked into Batman's bloodstream, peered directly into his bones, he wouldn't be able to find even a single indication of the spell coursing through Batman.
Goddamn magic.
Batman rubs his forehead over his cowl, seeming weary. “The spell cannot be resolved, Kal. Not in the way you are thinking it could be.”
Clark frowns, setting the microscope slide back down. “How could you know that? What…do you know what the spell is?”
“I…” Batman starts. “I am aware of the nature of the spell.”
“How?” There obviously wasn't physical evidence of it.
“When the beam hit me, I heard the witch's words in my head. She spoke of…” Batman doesn't meet his eyes and Clark holds his breath. “—love.”
“Love,” Clark repeats softly, unsteadily.
Batman sets his jaw. “The spell requires…she seemed fond of the story of sleeping beauty, with a particular fixation on how the princess was revived.”
And Clark has spent enough time around Batman to be able to parse through the deliberate indirectness of his words, so he can understand that the spell on Batman required—
“...true love's kiss,” Clark breathes.
It would be completely silent if it weren't for the various background sounds of the Cave. But—Clark blinks. That was a particularly bizarre spell to cast, but Batman has an answer for that as well, reading the confusion off Clark's face.
“I got the sense she was…amused.”
Clark thinks he understands it in a way, the idea of the stoic, unapproachable Batman in love—
(—even if for Clark, that line of thought wasn't amusing at all, it was—)
“Then we do have a lead!” Clark says hurriedly. “A—a kiss! From your um, true love.” Clark feels an utter fool at how his heart flutters.
“There's no such thing as true love, Kal,” Batman growls. He stalks back to the computer. “Surely even boy scouts like you wouldn't be so naive.”
Clark doesn't rise to the bait. “Could it—well, perhaps if it was to be interpreted as a kiss from someone who truly loves you, then—One of the boys? Batgirl?”
At that, Batman actually let out an audible snort. “Even if that were a viable solution—absolutely not. As it is, the intention of the spell had been that of a romantic nature.”
Clark swallows hard, feeling so terribly horribly guilty for how his ears perk up. “But if you were unable—if you didn't feel romantic attraction…”
Batman stares. “Then I'd be cursed forever,” he says drily, but then turns away. “As it is…that is not the case.”
“Oh?” Clark says, as if this wasn't utterly earth-shattering information. It was a line of thought he should not touch with a ten foot pole, but his mind helpfully rewound and rewound that in his head, prying the implication in it apart. If—if Batman was capable of feeling attraction, could Clark—
But Batman looks away and rubs his chin, a hesitant move that is so uncharacteristic Clark's thoughts grind to a halt.
“There is…someone,” Batman mutters and Clark hears the next words with crystalline clarity. “—that I am seeing.”
“Oh,” Clark replies, but it's more of a sound that's punched out of him. “Then—then it couldn't hurt to try.”
“Hn.” Batman hardly glances at him, turning back to his report.
But maybe it's for the better, because Clark isn't all that sure he's doing a good job at managing the emotions on his face by the time he says his goodbyes and flees.
—
Bruce Wayne is standing outside his apartment when Clark returns.
It's well into the evening, Clark had made a few trips around the Earth to clear his head and then touched down to stop by the grocery store before heading home.
“Bruce!” Clark says, feigning startlement. He had hoped he wouldn't have to face Bruce so soon after that devastating development with Batman, but there he stands in a dark turtleneck and pressed pants with that softness to him that only appears in private settings. It has Clark’s guilt returning in full force.
“Have you been waiting long? Is—did I miss something for today?” Clark asks, even though he’s perfectly aware he hadn't. Bruce dropping by unexpectedly was entirely new, but Clark was flexible. He adjusts the paper bag in his arms. “Did you want to eat first? I didn't expect to see you today, so I'm not exactly prepared—”
Bruce's eyebrows draw together. “Hey—no, it's fine Clark,” he says quickly, as if just realising how the situation looked. “I didn't come here expecting that you would just…heed my beck and call.”
It's a little too blunt the way Clark says it, but he's just a little too lost. “So, then…why are you here?”
Bruce looks unsure at the question, crossing his arms in an almost protective gesture. “Ah, it was just…” He trails off, looking down at his shoes. “No, nevermind, it’s nothing—” Bruce makes to leave, but Clark grabs his forearm.
“What is it?” He asks gently. “It’s alright, you can tell me anything.”
Bruce was always so sure of himself—this whole thing was shaping up to be entirely new territory for Clark. But if Bruce was in danger or needed help of some kind, Clark was a pretty good person to tell, even if Bruce wouldn't know why.
But Bruce just peers up at him, eyes darting between Clark's own, like he's trying to figure something out. Clark lets him look—he’s plenty patient. Whatever it is, Clark can try and get it resolved so that he can return to his apartment and be perfectly normal about Batman's lover. Partner. Person he was seeing. If Batman could compartmentalize all his tricky emotions, so could Clark.
And then Bruce Wayne throws him entirely for a loop by leaning forward, hands on Clark's jaw, and kissing him.
There are a few things that Clark has come to expect from this…thing he has struck up with Bruce. One is a sporadic meet up schedule with how busy they both are. Another is acquiring expensive gifts that Clark has tried to politely refuse (which Bruce pretends he doesn't hear.) The most notable one comes in the form of a rather fantastic sex life.
They don't, however, kiss like this, at least not without the purpose of having it lead towards something more physical. They certainly don't kiss chastely, like a pair of lovers on their doorstep.
Clark's certain he's gaping when Bruce pulls back. Bruce stares at him almost expectantly, fingers still holding his face. But as the silence drags, something Clark's tempted to define as devastation slides across Bruce’s face before it closes and he looks away. Clark has no idea what to do, and so he reverts to the position of gracious host.
“Oh, how—how thoughtless of me—I didn't even invite you in,” he fumbles, keys jingling. That's the spare key to Lois’ apartment, that's his mailbox key—“Here, let me get you something to drink—”
“No, it's fine, Clark,” Bruce says firmly, a hand against the door. “I…it's entirely my fault for showing up unannounced.”
Clark blinks at him, unable to formulate any questions to have Bruce explain himself. Bruce spins on his heel and takes several rapid steps before turning back to Clark standing uselessly at his door.
“…thank you, Clark,” he says to some spot over Clark's shoulder. “I’ll…I will see you later.”
—
Clark met Bruce Wayne months ago at one of the very many galas hosted by the rich and powerful.
It had been the usual affair—the hosts had put together an event to throw money at and invited reporters to show off their good deeds to the world. Well, that's what Lois might have described it as—Clark liked to believe that there were some who were there out of a genuine goodness.
Clark had already established himself as an investigative reporter, so while Perry wasn't specifically sending him to these socialite parties anymore, the back and forth of favors within the bullpen meant that Clark was there that night, trying his best to glean anything of substance from drunk party-goers.
Bruce Wayne wasn't one of the main names at the event this time around, which was likely why they'd been able to strike up a conversation for as long as they did. Clark had never put much thought towards the billionaire, so he was certainly surprised to find out he had formed unconscious assumptions about the man, only once Bruce had gone and broken just about all of them.
So when Bruce had begun to lean harder into his flirtations…Clark wasn't quick to shut him down.
“I have to confess something though, Clark,” Bruce had said during a lull in their conversation. They're outside on a balcony and Clark's fascinated by the way the chill of the night paints Bruce’s nose pink. “It…it would be unfair of me not to let you know that I've approached you due to a deal I made with my eldest son. He's…worried, you see, that I’m spending too much of my time in solitude.”
Clark tips his head back in a laugh. Even Clark was aware of how Bruce’s playboy persona had shifted since becoming a father.
“That's sweet of you, Bruce,” Clark says. He's leaning in, mirroring Bruce. “I’m quite flattered to know you only approached me because your son forced you to.”
Bruce quirks a grin, seeming relieved that Clark had taken the admission into stride. “Aw, come on, Kansas, the deal was that I had to approach someone.” He peeks at Clark from under his eyelashes. It's a move that, while perhaps more commonly used by women, worked wonders through Bruce.
“The someone I chose—” Bruce continues in velvet baritone. “—that was all up to me.”
Clark has to break eye contact at that, feeling warm at the insinuation. Of all the gorgeous people attending the event, Bruce Wayne had gone after frumpy, ill-postured Clark Kent. It was terribly flattering, and Clark wasn't so sure he was immune to it. He wasn't so sure he even wanted to be immune to it.
But—
“I have something I have to confess too, Bruce,” Clark admits quietly. He wants to take the words back immediately, because this was just an invitation for something casual. But Bruce is watching him with a seriousness Clark hasn't seen before, so he feels compelled to tell the truth.
“There's someone I…can't forget. It's the kind of thing where they'll always be at the back of my mind.”
Clark is certain the truth will drive Bruce away—who’d want to deal with someone who had that kind of hang up? But Bruce hardly blinks.
“Oh sure,” he replies easily. “I've got a sort of someone like that too,” he adds, with a charming half smile that meant it had an equal possibility of being entirely the truth or a complete lie.
Clark must make a face that shows he doesn't quite believe his luck because Bruce places a hand on his forearm.
“Really,” Bruce whispers conspiratorially, and they're back in each other's space, closer than before. “I have got to get my eldest off my back. He's worried I’ll end up all alone once the rest of my kids have flown the nest. Think of this as easing the worries a son has for his father.”
Bruce’s eyes are on Clark’s mouth, at odds with his next words. “I'm sure we could get away with doing whatever we choose, so long as we're vaguely in the same location.”
Clark has to crack a smile at that. “You're really selling this, Bruce.”
Bruce had smiled back, something that looked more real, less polished for the cameras. “So what do you think about going on a few non-dates then, Mr. Kent?”
Which, well, Clark had to admit that he'd been lonely, so seeing as a beautiful man was offering to ease that for him seemed like a perfectly wonderful opportunity.
“I think I'd like that, Mr. Wayne,” Clark had replied.
And so, Clark began not-dating Gotham’s very own billionaire Bruce Wayne, all while pretending like there was no one else on his mind.