Archive of Our Own

“Hands in the fucking air!”

Dammit.

Stupid Gotham with its stupid weather and stupid gargoyles and stupid criminals. He hadn't even been walking around for more than 20 minutes this time.

He raised his hands and turned around slowly.

The kid in front of him couldn’t have been more than 20. Her eyes darted around, squinting into the shadowed corners of the empty street before snapping her glare back to his face. Her hands trembled as they gripped the handle of the gun, even as she tried desperately to pretend otherwise.

“Wallet. Now. Don't try anything funny.”

He reached down to his pocket, keeping his movements slow and predictable. She needed the money more than he did.

A heartbeat. Too fast to be Batman’s. Robin, then. He didn't look up to check. Didn't let her know that her hunt might be over even before it truly began.

She noticed soon enough, anyway, the trembling in her hands getting more pronounced as she glanced up towards the roof of the building behind him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She chanted under her breath, faltering where she stood, clearly trying to come to terms with her abrupt shift from predator to prey. The gun fell out of her hands as she swung around and darted away.

Robin gave chase, his footsteps pounding against the stone rooftop, loud enough for her to hear.

The man picked up the gun from where it lay on the ground, placing the barrel against his thigh before crushing it with his hand. The flat chunk of metal cut through the silence with a clang as it fell on the ground.

Robin wouldn't hurt her, he knew. He might not even catch her. It would be enough to make her realize that this was Gotham.

And someone was always watching.

~•~•~

Bruce Wayne inhaled sharply as he watched Clark Kent flatten a pistol against his leg like it was made of paper.

That- that shouldn't be possible.

Well, of course it could be possible, Bruce worked with metas every day. He knew what they were capable of. This was run-of-the-mill for him.

But Clark Kent?

He'd been watching Clark Kent closely for months. And he’d never once flagged him as a potential meta. Bruce had a list of potential metas, and he monitored the activity in their areas like a hawk so that he would be ready to mention them to Kal and Diana should they become strong or capable enough to be invited to the League (or dangerous enough to contain).

Clark Kent was not part of that list.

Clark Kent was, on paper, the most annoyingly boring person to ever exist.

He’d moved to a big city in search of work after a childhood spent on a farm, just like all the other rural-urban migrants in this country. He paid rent on a shitty, run-down apartment in downtown Metropolis, sent money back to his mother in Kansas and paid off his student loans in reasonable increments. He had practically no social life apart from weekly Thursday dinners with a coworker. He went to work every weekday and was rarely late, although he did disappear in the middle of the day a bit too often, something that showed up on his (confidential, unless you were Clark Kent, Perry White or Batman) performance reviews. His articles were good, well written and well researched, but infused with a disgusting sense of hope and optimism.

The fact that he’d even caught Bruce’s eye at all was surprising.

There was nothing abnormal about him.

So how was he a meta?

And how had Bruce never noticed?

~•~•~

See, the thing was, Kent was way too familiar with Batman. Batman has met Clark Kent in person exactly three times. One of those being before Bruce even knew that he was someone to be wary of, and the other two involving the very lethal and very cool Batglare™. Kent should never have had the chance to get familiar with Batman.

And yet, when they met for the first time near an abandoned shopping mall (honestly, when will real estate companies realize that Gotham is not a place that can be modernized with a few brand names?) Kent had smiled at him with too much fondness and wished him a good rest of his patrol without any of the trembling and fear and pissing-of-the-pants that Batman’s appearance usually elicits.

Kent had never met Batman in person before then, and any secondary research into the topic should have made him either more terrified or more starstruck. Certainly not more fond.

Except…

Except Clark Kent knew Bruce Wayne.

They’d spoken many times, both when Kent had covered events that Bruce had gone to and when Bruce had inadvisably offered him an exclusive interview. (It was only inadvisable because Kal had “saved” Bruce from falling off a building the previous day (even though he had not needed saving) and Bruce hadn’t been able to get any sleep because he’d been thinking about those arms around him and was it really his fault that Kent had the same build and the same blinding smile and the same boyish charm? It hadn’t gone anywhere, anyways, because Kent had had a stupid work ethic and “no sleeping with the interviewee” rule.)

Clark Kent knew Bruce Wayne and was inexplicably familiar with Batman.

And really, the only logical conclusion to that was…

Clark Kent knew that Bruce Wayne was Batman.

And thus, months of surveillance and trying to figure out exactly what Kent’s game was began. Hundreds of hours of footage from Kent’s workplace and frequent haunts (whenever he thought about bugging Kent’s apartment, he heard an annoying little voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Kal which disapproved of every one of his actions) later, and here he was, staring at a monitor, trying to figure out how the very tiny and inconsequential detail of Kent being a goddamn meta had somehow escaped his notice until now.

~•~•~

Bruce had been modifying the diffusion mechanism for his knock-out smoke bombs when he heard a series of beeps.

It took him a moment to place the sound. It wasn’t one of his proximity alerts, nor was it someone trying to contact him. His notifications for updates on cases he was working on had a very specific trill that Kal’s hearing latched onto instinctively, often resulting in him pestering Bruce for details the next time they saw each other.

This sound was different. Blessedly rare. Something that had him tensing up before he even registered what the danger was.

Someone was digging into Bruce Wayne’s cover.

“Shit.” He shot out of his chair, crossing the distance between his workstation and his desk in a few long strides.

People doing cursory searches on him was commonplace, but they usually didn't go too in depth into the careful lies and elaborately embroidered drapery that separated Bruce Wayne from Batman.

Bruce Wayne net worth

Bruce Wayne controversy

Bruce Wayne falls down stairs original

Even journalists didn’t typically dive deep enough to trigger that alert, although their searches revolved more around his business and charity work.

Bruce glared at his screen as it showed him search after search of things that no one should be looking into. About his disappearance. About WE’s annual reports before and after he took over. About his injuries. About his children.

The last spurred him into action. He sat down heavily, hands already reaching towards his keyboard to run a trace on the device. It pinged fairly quickly, giving him an address in Metropolis. He knew that address. He’d become very familiar with it over the past few months.

It wasn’t a sinking feeling he experienced then so much as a feeling of complete, utter, all-encompassing rage. If Kent wanted to play this game, sure. Let it never be said that Batman was one to turn down a challenge. But there was no fucking way on Earth, Heaven, or the nine circles of Hell he was going to let Kent drag his children into this.

He pulled up the security footage from the Daily Planet, navigating to Kent’s floor with the ease of long hours of practice.

There he was. Head propped up on a fist, notepad beside him, scrolling through a webpage.

Bruce ran the same command to mirror his screen that he’d used countless times recently, flicking the camera footage to a different monitor. Kent was looking through the WE annual report for the year after Bruce became CEO. Bruce knew those numbers well. Maybe not the precise figures, but he knew the shape of them. Knew that they were much bigger than they should have been. That there was a period of about two years where he had to learn how to seem financially inept in order to keep his cover. To be the Bruce Wayne who was born into wealth and had never had to think about money in his life, and not the Bruce Wayne who lived off of scraps for months, years, and was well acquainted with the painful ebb and flow of hunger on an empty stomach.

And Kent was here, digging into the version of him who knew too much about the world, and knew too little about how to hide it.

Bruce cut the wifi throughout the building. All he could do was delay the inevitable. If he intercepted each of Kent’s attempts to access a resource he shouldn’t be looking at, Kent would take notice and start digging deeper, spurred on by the hunt.

No, let him look.

Bruce would be ready.

~•~•~

“Clark Kent.”

Kal choked on his water. Bruce glared at him until he stopped coughing.

“W-what?” he said, voice strained.

“You know him.” It wasn’t a question. Kal had known Lois Lane since the beginning of Superman, and Bruce knew they still kept in touch (something that he did not think about too often, despite Kal’s assurances that they were “just friends.”) And Kent was a close coworker of Lane’s (she was, in fact, the one coworker he interacted with outside of work, during the aforementioned Thursday dinners), so it wasn’t too far of a stretch to assume that they had met each other before.

“Uhhhhhh…”

“You know him.” Bruce repeated, trying not to get stuck on his best friend's adorably flustered face under the dim lights of the monitor room. “Is he a threat?”

“What?”

“Are your ears clogged?”

“No! I just- what- I- I don’t- I j- why?”

“He knows too much.”

“How the hell did Clark Kent get on your radar?”

“He knows too much.” He was starting to get concerned about how many times he was having to repeat himself.

“What do you mean?”

“He knows who I am.”

“WHAT?”

If it were anyone else, Bruce would have already ended the conversation and resorted to gathering information from someone who had more than half of a working brain. But, as always, Kal-El was the exception to his every rule. (Well, not every rule, that would be a disaster.) “Kal, honestly, what is wrong with you?”

“B, I guarantee you he does not know who you are.”

“He does. Why aren’t you taking this seriously? This is a security threat, Kal. If he decides to hold this information over me I’ll be screwed. I have to take the upper hand back somehow.”

Kal held up a hand and squeezed his eyes shut. “Okay, okay. Wait. Why do you think he knows who you are?”

“He’s too familiar with Batman. We’ve met three times and he smiled at me, Kal. No one ever smiles at Batman. Batman is not a man you smile at. It’s Batman. Can you imagine how horrible the world would be if people went around smiling at Batman?” He shuddered, partly because that was a terrifying thought and partly because it would make Kal laugh. Except he didn’t. He was staring at the monitor in front of him, face scrunched up in confusion. Bruce was losing his touch.

“And that’s not all.” He continued, once he was sure that he wasn’t going to get a response “He’s been looking into my- my civilian identity.”

Kal whipped his head around to stare at him in shock.

“He’s an investigative journalist, Kal. He’s smart. Even if he looks and acts like an idiot.”

Kal’s face went through a myriad of emotions at that, and Bruce waited patiently for his brain to start functioning again. “He- wait, does he… does he know your civilian identity? Personally?”

“We have met before, yes. Quite a few times.” And honestly, how many times was Kal going to short-circuit like this before the conversation was over?

“I think- I think you’re giving him too much credit. He is not as smart as you think he is.”

“Don’t underestimate him.” Nothing good ever came out of underestimating a potential threat.

“What, uh… okay, what did you mean by ‘take the upper hand back?’”

“I won’t engage in this blackmail game. Not without my own leverage.”

“Uhhhhhhhh…”

Bruce hesitated, unsure if he was willing to reveal Kent’s secret. He’d usually never give away a meta’s identity unless he had their consent, but this was a situation he’d never found himself in before and he needed backup should his position become compromised in any way. Plus, this was Kal. If he couldn’t trust Kal, then he couldn’t trust anyone.

Bruce drew in a breath. “He’s a meta.”

“UHHHHHHH…”

“I’ve been watching him.”

“You’ve been-” Kal slumped forward in his seat, putting his elbows on his knees and shoving his face into his hands.

“I know you’re going to tell me that’s an invasion of privacy, but I’m sure he’s a threat, Kal. I just need to let him know that I know.”

“Okay, wait. Just- just wait.” He breathed into his hands for a few more seconds before straightening up. “First of all, yes, that’s an invasion of privacy and I’m sure that Clark would not appreciate that information. How long have you even been watching him? Why did you start? You don’t have his apartment bugged, do you? God, please don’t tell me you have his apartment bugged. He’s not even-” He took another breath, recentering himself. “Second, why would he be a threat to your identity if he’s a meta and, therefore, also hiding who he is? Surely that would make him want to keep your secret even more, because he’s going through the same thing as you. Third, like you said, he’s an investigative journalist. He does a lot of research into a lot of people at once. Even if he’s been looking into your civilian persona I doubt he’s connected any dots whatsoever. He is not that smart.”

Bruce glared at him. Kal always took him seriously when he was concerned about a security risk. Sure, he’d always try to rationalize Bruce’s paranoia, but he never ever brushed his concerns away. Because he trusted him more than anyone. Because his opinion always came first.

Except-

Except when it came to Clark Kent.

Because…

Oh.

Oh.

Bruce swallowed.

“I didn’t bug his apartment.” He deflected, voice coming out weaker than he intended.

Oh, fuck.

~•~•~

Bruce sat at the Batcomputer, palms pressed into his eyes.

He hadn’t bugged Kent’s apartment, but now he had to. He had to know. If Kent was really-

If Kal was-

He had to know.

~•~•~

Planting the bugs was easy. Kent had a horrifyingly low sense of self-preservation, which often resulted in him stepping foot in Gotham without any way of defending himself and getting immediately accosted and needing Batman to drop whatever he was doing to save yet another stupidly innocent idiot from Metropolis. It also manifested in, as Bruce was currently learning, not latching his windows when he left his apartment, thereby inviting all kinds of people to peruse the tiny collection of books and memorabilia on his singular bookshelf.

…Now that Bruce was looking at it, there really wasn’t much to steal. If he were Kent, he might actually thank any potential robbers for relieving him of his chipped “I ❤️ NY” mug or his fire hazard of a microwave. Bruce opened the fridge out of sheer morbid curiosity and discovered one carton of eggs, half a carton of milk, a few vegetables and a packet of American cheese. And Nutella. In the fridge, for some reason.

God, this was sad.

Bruce shook his head and stepped out of the kitchen. He had five small cameras, but the place was cramped enough that he could probably get away with using two or three. He’d debated taking the cameras with the mics, but the annoying Kal voice in his head kept glaring intensely at him with its nonexistent eyes, so he’d capitulated and only brought along the Batcams.

He put one in the pile of junk on the table near the entrance, and fixed another to the base of the old TV tucked away in the corner, looking over the rest of the apartment. He decided against putting one in the bedroom or the bathroom because he, unlike Kent, did have a sense of self-preservation (however miniscule) and did not want to see what went on in those rooms.

Especially if his theory proved correct and Kal was-

Anyway.

Bruce took one more look around the sad apartment, took a deep breath, and headed back towards the window, hoping beyond hope that he was wrong.

~•~•~

A few hours later, Bruce was sitting at the Batcomputer once more, watching the feed from the cameras like a hawk. Kent should have been back ages ago, and yet the apartment remained dark and still.

Bruce had been losing miserably in his staring contest with the front door on the entrance feed when something finally happened. But instead of the door handle turning, his attention was caught by movement on the other monitor. The living room window slid open and in stepped-

Bruce closed the feed, forcing himself to breathe. It was difficult with the way his throat was closing up. He stood up on legs that felt less steady than they usually did. This was a mistake. He’d get rid of the bugs tomorrow and he’d destroy the footage once his vision stopped blurring.

Stupid stupid stupid.

Of course Kal was taken.

Of course someone had noticed how wonderful he was and snatched him up before-

Of course Kal wasn’t going to wait for Bruce.

Why would he, when Bruce couldn’t even admit to himself that he lo-

Well, there wasn’t any point in dwelling on it now.

Bruce hadn’t even missed his chance because he had never had one to begin with.

His legs gave out from under him and he collapsed back into his chair.

~•~•~

“I thought you said you didn’t bug his apartment.” Kal was glaring at him, his expression hard under the harsh lights of the Watchtower hallway, and if Bruce had felt a little more like himself, he’d have glared back. As it was, he just held his hand out for Kal to drop the cameras into.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. Kal started, his eyebrows shooting up, and Bruce had never been more glad for the cowl. No point in letting any more emotions slip than he already had. Kal didn’t deserve that. “I hope-” I hope he makes you happy. Except he did, didn’t he? Bruce already knew that. Kal had defended him in front of Batman like the most devoted partner, with complete faith in his character. As though nothing else mattered more than keeping Kent safe. Keeping him happy. Keeping him away from Batman.

Bruce nodded tightly and stalked away.

“B, wait.”

And how was he supposed to deny him anything?

“Did you-” Kal paused, taking a deep breath. “How much did you see?”

Fuck you, Kal-El. Fuck you for making him feel like this. Fuck you for making him want. Fuck you for making him need. Fuck you for tempting him with everything he’s ever allowed himself to yearn for and then expecting him to be okay when you rip it out of his grasp.

“Enough.” He didn't trust his voice enough to say anything more.

~•~•~

Bruce didn’t mean to start ignoring Kal’s existence, it was just a byproduct of him vehemently denying that he was a human being with emotions.

Out of sight, out of mind, right?

At least that’s what Bruce kept telling himself every time he walked out of a room that Kal had just stepped into. Not that it happened often. Especially now that he rarely came up to the Watchtower unless it was absolutely necessary.

Out of sight, out of mind.

It was better this way. He didn’t have to see the small smiles Kal shot at his phone or hear the relief in his voice every time he said he was going home (to Kent, no doubt).

This way Bruce could work on relearning what his heart felt like before Kal. Not that that was very successful, with the way he felt like either screaming or breaking something every time he was left alone with his thoughts for too long.

~•~•~

“B, this is getting ridiculous.”

Bruce clenched his jaw and kept walking down the hall towards the zeta-tubes.

“B.” The footsteps sped up behind him and Bruce’s human limitations dictated his inability to outpace them, so Kal caught up to him just as he rounded the last corner.

A hand came down heavy on his shoulder and he twisted out of the grip.

“You’re not getting out of this.”

Says who?

“If you don’t talk to me here I’ll just follow you back to the cave and keep pestering you, I hope you know that.”

Goddamnit. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He growled.

“Right. Sure. Nothing at all to say about why you’re avoiding me?”

Five more steps to the zeta-tubes, then he’d have so many other things to occupy himself with in the cave that weren’t this conversation.

There was a rush of air behind him and suddenly his next step was blocked by an immovable object. He generally considered himself an unstoppable force, but that was now being (rather understandably, if you asked him,) negated by six feet and four inches of extremely pissed off Kryptonian.

“Listen.” Kal began, through gritted teeth. “I didn’t ask you to begin poking around in my life, okay? None of it was any of your business and it’s not my fault that you have no goddamn boundaries. I have no idea why you’re mad at me, but it has to stop. It’s affecting you, it’s affecting me, it’s affecting the team. I will not allow someone to get hurt or, God forbid, killed, because you won’t listen to me on a mission. You have a problem with me, you have a problem with the fact that I have a life outside of Superman, you have a problem with Clark Kent, you take it up with me and me alone. Understood?”

Sometimes, when Kal got like this, all quiet and intense, it hit Bruce that this was why people followed him into battle willingly and enthusiastically. Bruce would too, of course, but that was built on years and years of absolute trust and unshakeable partnership before the League was even a seed of a thought in either of their minds.

This? This was different. Kal inspired people, built them up, gave them a chance to find their purpose in helping others, just as he himself had done decades ago. But he was also unafraid of calling someone out. Confronting them about things that needed to be challenged. He was a leader. The best Bruce had ever known. One of the only people that he would trust implicitly, unquestionably.

But it wasn’t that simple anymore. And Bruce had no intention of telling him anything.

Instead, he tightened his jaw and stared coldly up at him.

“You’re in my way.” He said quietly.

Kal exhaled sharply, his frustration clear. “Jesus Christ, B. You know I was going to ask you why you’re mad at me? Or I was going to tell you to stop being mad at me because you brought this on yourself and I shouldn’t be the one being punished for it. But then I thought I’d have better luck getting juice out of a fucking rock. This was my compromise, if you can believe that. Should’ve guessed that you’re too much of a stubborn asshole to make any sort of concession.”

Bruce just stared at him with that same unfeeling gaze. Kal seemed to accept that he wasn’t going to answer, because he sighed and said, “Just don’t let the team suffer for it.” Then he walked around him and strode away.

Bruce stepped into the zeta-tube, feeling like he’d just made yet another irreparable mistake. He was starting to get used to it.

~•~•~

He could feel Diana’s gaze on him, heavy and unrelenting. She’d taken to doing that recently, and Bruce had taken to ignoring her. She seemed to think that all of this could be solved if he just spoke to Kal. And while she may be right, Bruce was still not going to admit it.

He stood up, grabbing his datapad off the table and marching pointedly out of the room. He’d started coming up here again, settling back into his old routine of splitting his time between the cave and the Watchtower. He still walked out of the room immediately after a meeting ended, that hadn’t changed, but he’d simply walk into another room and set up shop there. That way, anyone who wanted to come to him with questions and problems could do so, and he and Kal could keep ignoring each other’s presence.

It worked.

It wasn’t great, but it worked.

And that was all Bruce could hope for.

~•~•~

The next time Batman saw Clark Kent, the latter was standing on a sidewalk in Gotham, glaring up at the sky.

Bruce had ceased all surveillance of Kent weeks ago, so this appearance was unexpected. He paused in his sprint across the rooftops towards the lit Bat Signal, and must have made some kind of noise because the man on the ground snapped his gaze over to look straight at him. His glare got darker.

He’s a meta. Bruce reminded himself. He might even be another Kryptonian. He didn’t need to hear anything but Batman’s heartbeat to know he was standing there, watching him.

He’s not a threat.

Despite every fiber of his being rallying against that thought, he had to trust Kal. And, by proxy, Kent. No matter how much he hated the very sight of him.

Bruce turned away and continued running towards the light in the sky.

Kent hadn’t just been glaring at the sky, he realized. He’d been glaring at the Bat Signal. Kal must have told him about what Batman had done.

The hate went both ways, then.

Good.

~•~•~

The next time Bruce Wayne saw Clark Kent, it was at a charity event. Kent didn’t usually cover these, but Bruce, up until a few months ago, had looked forward to the rare times he did. He was infinitely better company than the usual throng of ditzy socialites and insatiable reporters. He was smart, he was funny, he was attractive, and Bruce had genuinely considered asking him out on a date a few times, if only to distract himself from a certain Kryptonian.

The idea was laughable now.

Or, it would be, if Bruce could feel anything but bitter, burning jealousy.

If Bruce had been any better at controlling his emotions, he wouldn't have let them manifest in a way that was visible to anyone else. Honestly, stick a knife in his hand and tell him to ignore the pain and he’d say “what pain?” But ask him not to glare daggers at this man who’d come swooping in and stealing hearts with his godawful suits and horrible posture and he wouldn't hear you because he’d be too busy doing exactly that.

Kent dodged out of someone's way as he was hovering awkwardly near the bar. Bruce clenched his jaw and turned away.

Just ignore him.

It’s what he’d been doing for Kal this whole time, and it seemed to be doing wonders for avoiding confrontation.

Bruce plastered a smile back on his face as he approached the nearest group of ditzy socialites.

Ignore him.

He went through boring pleasantries, compliments and jokes falling from his lips in a practiced dance of insipid mundanity.

Ignore him.

The fake titters of everyone else who hated being here as much as he did surrounded him, oozing into his ears and muffling the words of Ms. What’s-Her-Name who owned the company Who-Gives-A-Shit.

Ignore him ignore him ignorehimignorehimignorehi-

“Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce’s fingers tightened against the stem of his champagne flute momentarily, the only indication that he’d been caught off guard at all. He froze the smile on his face in an effort to get it to stay there as he made his apologies to the group and turned to see the one man here who had the power to shatter his brittle composure completely.

“Mr Kent.”

“Could I ask you a few questions?” Kent said, lifting up his notebook with an easy smile.

Bruce took a moment to brace himself. Don't let him get to you. Don't give him the satisfaction. Don't let him know he’s already won.

“Lead the way.”

Kent led them to a secluded corner of the bar. Or as secluded as it could get with thousands of bodies packed into a room. “Sorry about that.” He grinned, turning to look at Bruce. “Didn't mean to take you away from that conversation you were so clearly enjoying.”

Ah, the familiar back-and-forth of a conversation with Clark Kent. This, too, was something that had once attracted him to Kent. How easy it all was. Kent had the uncanny ability to know exactly when Bruce’s smile started to become too difficult to maintain, and he’d whisk him away under the guise of getting a quote. Then they’d spend a few minutes talking and trading barbs and being something dangerously close to friends before they’d have to leave and face the world again. Months ago, these few stolen moments were the one thing Bruce looked forward to during events. Then Bruce had realized that Clark Kent knew a little too much for an ordinary journalist, and the meetings became a careful operation of tact and charm, trying to figure out what the hell Kent wanted from him. At least from Bruce’s point of view. As far as Kent was concerned, nothing had changed. As far as Kent was concerned, Bruce knew nothing. That was, if Bruce could manage to get through this conversation without acting like the very sight of him was causing him the worst pain he'd experienced in years. If only because this was the one form of pain he'd never truly learned how to suppress.

“Bruce?”

He snapped back to reality. Kent was looking at him with a small concerned frown on his face.

Why?

Wasn't this what he wanted? For Bruce to lose control? To know that he had the upper hand? To know that he could do whatever the hell he wanted and Bruce wouldn't have the wherewithal to fight back? He’d already fucking won, so why was he keeping up this charade?

He’s not a threat.

He’s not a threat.

He’s not a threat to anything but your heart.

“Hey. Bruce. C’mon, let’s get you out of here. Can I touch you?”

No. No, please. If you touch him he might just shatter.

He nodded jerkily. He’d already lost one fight, what was a few more?

A hand landed on his shoulder and pushed him gently away from the crowd. It maneuvered him around corners and down hallways until they stopped in a small shadowy alcove. Kent shifted to the side so that he wasn’t blocking his only way out and the panic rising in him eased slightly.

“Bruce? Are you okay?”

Bruce glared at him weakly and Kent huffed in amusement.

“Right. Stupid question. Do you need anything? Can I get you some water?”

Bruce realized belatedly that he was still holding the champagne flute in his hand. He put it down on the ground and shook his head. He would really appreciate it if Kent stopped being considerate, because he was really making it difficult to hate him. Of course Kal would settle down with someone as thoughtful and sweet as he was.

“Okay.” Kent had that concerned frown on his face again and he wanted to scream.

Why couldn’t he have done anything else? Why couldn’t he have left Bruce to his spiral, or used this time to make demands, or argued or yelled or punched or done anything that proved that he wasn’t a good person that Bruce could have shoved in Kal’s face and said “see? This is what he’s really like!” Why did he have to be kind?

Kent’s hand reached out to him, but stopped short, dangling in the air awkwardly. “Bruce, hey. You’re spiraling again. Can I do anything? Do you want to talk about it?”

“Why did it have to be you?” Bruce winced as the words left his mouth. As though he wasn’t pathetic enough at that moment.

“What?”

He cleared his throat, turning his face away so that they would be easier to say. If he didn’t let them out now, they would grow and grow until they filled his airways and threatened to spill out every time he opened his mouth. This way at least he didn’t have to say them to Kal. He wasn’t sure he’d ever have the courage to do that. “Why did it have to be you? Anyone else I can hate, but you?” The words came out in a low rasp and Bruce would be more embarrassed if he could feel anything but muted panic.

Kent blinked. “W-wait. What? Did- what did I do?”

Bruce scoffed and allowed himself to feel a modicum of relief that it didn’t come out as a sob instead. “What didn’t you do?”

“That’s not an-”

“Don’t play dumb. We both know you’re smarter than you look. We both know you know things you shouldn’t, and I’m done with this game.” Bruce snapped. He was finally feeling something other than the pit in his stomach, and he clutched onto the anger with everything he had.

“Wait, I don’t understand.”

He glared up at Kent and growled, “You’re an investigative journalist, aren’t you? Figure it out.” There. He’d laid all his cards out on the table and it was up to Kent to make his move. Let him try to expose Batman’s identity. That was the whole reason he had the Brucie persona. No one would believe him. And if that wasn’t enough to discredit him, he had months and months of footage that would surely do the trick. He was certain there must have been something in there that could destroy Kent’s reputation. It hadn’t exactly been obtained legally, so he might have trouble using it in court, but that was why he employed the best legal team money could buy. If Kent went the other way and told Kal about Bruce’s behaviour, so what? Bruce had already lost him, hadn’t he? He’d lost him before he even had him.

How much more could it hurt?

Kent called after him as he stalked away. “I’m not as smart as you think I-” He cut himself off. He’d finally realized that he could drop the act, then.

Good.

The games were over.

He just wished he could feel anything but rolling, pulsing dread.

~•~•~

Bruce almost turned around and walked out of the monitor room when he saw Kal sitting in his usual chair. He wasn't supposed to be here. Ever since that last shift with Kal when he came to the disastrous realization that nothing was okay anymore, Bruce had changed the monitor duty schedule so that this very scenario wouldn't come to pass until he was ready. Diana was supposed to be sitting there, and he had already prepared himself for another three hours of her quiet judgment.

He wasn't prepared for this. He’d never be prepared for this.

The silence pressed in on him like the claustrophobic embrace of tons and tons of hard-packed soil around him, sealing him into an early grave. He walked to his chair, refusing to acknowledge the change even though he knew Kal had heard him falter in the doorway.

They sat in silence for twenty minutes, none of which passed by any easier than the previous.

Finally, Kal sighed.

“I didn’t know.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. He didn't want to have this conversation.

“I didn’t.” Kal repeated, slightly defensively. “I only realized at the charity event.”

Charity event? Superman hadn't shown up to any Gotham charity event in years, ever since that one and only time Bruce had called in backup.

“I realized when we were… talking. In the alcove. I dunno, I think it was because it was dark and you were angry at me. You’re more of a shadow kinda guy than a glitz and glamour kinda guy. But I didn't know before then and I wasn't looking into your civilian identity because of that and I don't know why you're mad at me.” He said, with that same quiet intensity that drew Bruce in constantly.

This wasn't- no, this was wrong. This was the wrong conversation. The wrong person. Someone had changed the script and Bruce was stuck with the old one. The right one. The one that made sense, not this.

“B, I promise I didn't mean to seem like a threat to you. I didn't even know there was something to threaten. I’m sorry. Can you just talk to me? I don't know what I did wrong.” He fell silent, his jaw tight to keep the words from falling out.

Bruce’s mind was a whirlwind. Thoughts passing by faster than he could grab onto them. None of this was supposed to happen. He was ready, he’d been ready. But not for this.

It was supposed to be him and Kent. The end of the line. The culmination of everything. The crest of the wave before it crashed down and decided whether Bruce sank or swam.

This was wrong.

A loud blare cut through the room, pushing his brittle composure that much closer towards a cliff he might not come back from. His heart beat quicker and his hands tightened into fists. Kal whipped his head towards the monitors, clocking the danger immediately.

“Fuck. Of course this had to happen now. Just- can you just promise me we’ll talk about this later? I’m tired of this. I just want my best friend back.”

This wasn’t right, he should've known, he should've seen-

“B?”

He didn’t understand, nothing made sense, how did he not realize-

“B, please.”

He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t-

“Bruce.”

Bruce’s eyes snapped to his. Deep blue, the kind that you could fall into and forget the world still existed outside. The same ones he’d watched for years, filled with anger, pain, joy, laughter. The same ones that watched him back, dragging over him until he could feel them like a physical weight. The same ones he’d seen obscured by lenses, tuning out the sound of clinking glasses and muffled chatter, stuck in their own little bubble of comfort until the world came by to pop it.

“I promise.”

~•~•~

Blood dripped down his arm, staining the floor of the cave with little droplets of crimson. He’d made a mistake. Feinted right instead of left. Put himself right in the path of an oncoming blow. He was lucky it wasn't worse than it was. The biggest issue would be the shards of his suit embedded in his shoulder. It wasn't bad. He’d be back on patrol tomorrow.

Kal fluttered around him, frantically pulling things out of the first aid kit. Any other day, and Bruce wouldn't have even let him in the cave, electing to either clean the wound himself or wait for Alfred’s much calmer presence to make its way downstairs.

But Bruce made a promise. And no matter how much he wanted to run away and pretend this never happened, he also needed to know where they were heading.

He pulled his gloves off, letting them drop on one of the tables in the medbay. His hands flexed, unsure where to land next. He needed to take off his suit, and while technically he could do that while keeping his cowl on, his fingers itched to pull it off. So that they could have this conversation face to face, without any pretenses, without any masks. Finally.

He reached up to grip it in one hand, pulling it over his head. Terrifyingly, blessedly, exposed.

Kal looked over at it as it fell on the table, then turned to look at him. His eyes raked over his face, and Bruce fought every instinct in him telling him he was too vulnerable, and simply looked back. 

Kal smiled, a small, happy quirk of his mouth, and went back to sorting through the medkit. Slower, now. Calmer. As though the very sight of Bruce was enough to ground him.

The rest of the armor fell away soon after, and Bruce pulled his undershirt over his head and sat on the edge of the cot. Kal stepped in front of him with a packet of antiseptic wipes and tweezers.

They were quiet for the first few minutes, as Kal got into the rhythm of cleaning the wound. “You said that I knew what I’d done.” He began finally, his voice low in the small space between them. “And then I said that I didn't and you told me to figure it out. But I can’t. I mean, we’ve argued before. Hell, some weeks, arguing is probably the one thing we do the most. But I don’t think I’ve ever pissed you off so thoroughly that it looks like it physically hurts you to look at me. At first I thought it was because you’d found out about my civilian identity, but that doesn’t make any sense. You know what it’s like to have multiple identities to keep up, you wouldn’t begrudge me that. And then I thought maybe you were annoyed that I kept it from you, but it’s not like I knew yours. Except you thought I did. You came to me because you were worried Clark Kent was a threat. But that doesn’t make sense either, because then you figured out that I was Clark Kent and you would’ve known that I wasn’t a thr-”

“I didn’t.” Bruce had been content to sit there, listening to Kal’s train of thought chug steadily along its track. But Kal was operating off of a false assumption and Bruce needed to correct him.

“What?”

“I didn't. Know. I didn’t figure that out. I thought-” He cut himself off, willing the flush in his cheeks not to give him away.

“B?”

“You're not allowed to laugh.”

“What?”

“You're not allowed to laugh.”

“Oookay?” Kal drew out, eyes still focused on where his hands were picking shards of metal out of the wound.

Bruce didn't believe him one bit. “I thought- well, I bugged Clark Kent’s apartment and saw Superman come through the window, so you’ll excuse me if I may have jumped to a few conclusions without looking at the whole picture.” He huffed.

To the untrained eye, Kal’s expression stayed perfectly steady. But Bruce had years upon years of experience in reading him and he could see the twitch in his eyebrow and the spark of delight that entered his eye.

“So you thought…”

“I hate you.”

“Uh huh. So you thought…”

Bruce gritted his teeth and looked away. He was regretting every decision that led him here. “I thought… that you and Clark Kent were- were close.”

“You thought that Clark Kent and I were…?”

Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose. There was nothing worse than an insufferably smug Kal-El. “Dating.”

Kal’s face broke out into a grin. “I'm not laughing.”

“I hate you so much.”

The grin stayed in place for a couple more seconds before faltering. “You did say that, didn’t you?” He murmured. Bruce frowned. “When we met at the charity event.”

Did he say-

Oh.

Anyone else I can hate, but you?

He swallowed. “I believe I said that I didn’t hate you.”

“Doesn’t matter. You implied that you wanted to.” His face scrunched up in thought. “But you didn’t know I was Clark Kent then, so you didn’t hate me, you hated- well, no, you did hate me, but the other version of me. But again, that brings me back to the question of why.”

Bruce breathed out, the quiet of the moment pressing in on him once again. But this time, instead of agitating him, it settled over his shoulders like a weighted blanket, grounding him in the moment and lowering his defences without any resistance. He looked over at Kal’s face, still tilted down towards his shoulder, saw the furrow in his brow, the strong line of his jaw, those blue, blue eyes.

He was tired of running. Tired of lying. Tired of denying himself everything he’d ever wanted.

He stepped up close to the edge of the cliff in his mind, breathed in, and fell.

“Because I’m desperately in love with you and it was killing me inside to know you could never be mine.”

Clark’s hands stilled, his breaths slow and deep in the space between them.

And, as always, as he had done for decades and would keep doing until the end of their time, caught him out of freefall and pulled him close.

He cracked a smile. Small but nonetheless pleased. “Kinda rude of you to drop that on me when my hands are covered in your blood.” He murmured.

Bruce huffed. “Well, then, hurry up. Alfred would’ve been done in half the time.” He drawled.

“Well, maybe you should ask Alfred next time then.”

“Oh, I definitely will. This is not your strong suit.”

“Uh huh. Your strong suit was supposed to be being the ‘World’s Greatest Detective’, and yet you couldn’t figure out that me and the guy who looks just like me and who lives in my apartment weren’t dating.” Clark shot back, replacing the tweezers in his hand with a needle and suture.

“I’ll kill you. And then you’ll realize what my strong suit is.”

“What? Wielding K? Didn’t know that was a skill.”

“It is when you have to calculate exactly how much K will make you choke on your words.”

“Oh, there’s other things I can choke on too.” That grin on his face was entirely too smug.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Jesus. Is this what I have to deal with now?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

A soft smile made its way onto his lips, and for once, he didn’t try to disguise it. He’d spent too long pretending already.

They fell into a comfortable silence as Clark finished dressing the wound and went to scrub his hands in the sink.

Then he walked back over to Bruce, stopping a couple feet in front of him. He took a deep breath and crossed his arms. “I hate saying this as much as you hate hearing it.”

“Oh, God.” Bruce groaned, rolling his head back.

“I do. And I especially hate saying it to you, because I know how much you’ll bitch about it. But, unfortunately, I have to. If we’re actually gonna make this, whatever this is, work, then one of us has to be mature about it.”

“Can you just come here before you ruin both our days with those words?”

Clark huffed and shook his head, though the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth was obvious. “You’re insufferable, you know that?” He said, closing the distance between them and gently resting his hands on the cot next to Bruce’s thighs, caging him in. “Close enough for you?”

Bruce waited a beat. Two. Letting the moment settle. Committing it to memory.

He brought his hand up, tracing his fingers over Clark’s features. His nose, his cheekbones, his jawline, his lips. 

“Not quite.” He murmured.

Then he took hold of his chin with fingers that weren’t too accustomed to being gentle, not when it really, truly mattered, and tugged him forward.

The kiss was soft. Slow. Learning an entirely new aspect of each other even after years upon years of history.

Clark’s hands smoothed over his thighs, flexed on his waist, ran up his back. Bruce shifted to get closer and Clark pulled back slightly, resting their foreheads together.

“You need to rest.”

Bruce snorted. “That’s not what you were going to say.”

“And… we need to talk.”

“Not now.”

“Hm. Eventually. Soon.”

“Soon.”

“Promise?”

“Is your plan for our relationship just to make me promise when I don’t want to do something?”

The word landed heavy between them. Not ignored, but silently acknowledged. Too big, too dense, too meaningful to discuss.

Not now. But soon.

“Maybe.” Clark said, grin apparent in his voice. “I guess that’s something we have to talk about.”

Bruce wasn’t ready. He didn’t think he ever would be.

And yet?

He couldn’t wait.