Chapter Text
Bruce awoke to the sound of laughter. For a moment, he felt a shadow pass over his head, like this wasn’t supposed to happen, but it passed. He got like this sometimes. When he had a bad dream, he would wake up in a bad mood. It had taken dating Clark to understand that it was okay, but he needed to reset himself for the day so he didn’t piss off everyone else. It still took him a minute, but he really tried.
Speaking of, his bed was unfortunately empty. Clark had made sacrifices when they had started dating, including switching his job to hybrid so he could spend half his time in Gotham. It was starting to wear on him, though. Bruce had begun to look into flats in Gotham that were cheap enough the two of them could split, but upscale enough he would survive the downgrade.
He swung himself out of bed and went to examine the cause of laughter. It was, unsurprisingly, emanating from the room two doors down - his parents’ bedroom. As he padded down the hallway, footsteps muffled by carpet and black slippers, he felt the pang again. The rooms around him seemed emptier than usual, although they rarely held guests. And his slippers were wrong. He seemed to remember a faded, ratty pink. Maybe an old pair he had thrown out. All thoughts of footwear left his mind when he stepped into his parents’ room. They were out on the small balcony with the French doors thrown open. Gotham had her classic gray skies, but the air was warm and not too humid, and the honeysuckle his mother had coaxed to life smelled pleasantly summery. The two of them were sitting at a low table, sipping coffee with the remnants of what might have been croissants lying between them.
“Bruce!” Martha’s face lit up when she saw him. “You’re up early. Bad dreams?”
Bruce shrugged, noncommittal.
“Are you all going to the gala tonight?”
“I’m on call,” Thomas said. “If nothing happens before seven, I’ll be there. If not…”
“I can come back to get you,” Bruce offered to his mother. “Clark's working it so he can be there to oversee any last-minute things."
“That would be wonderful, thank you, Bruce,” his mother smiled. “Pull up the ottoman, sit! Alfred can get you some tea.”
Bruce was about to ask for some coffee before remembering that he didn’t like the bitter taste. He loved the smell, of course, but the first time he had tried it he had spit it out. His mother had laughed and told him he should drink tea instead, following in his butler’s footsteps. He always had had an unhealthy attachment to the man. As if picking up on his nostalgic thoughts, Martha said,
“Remember how we used to have to drag you to galas?”
“Nothing could make you go except the promise of ice cream afterwards,” Thomas laughed. “You would screw up your little face every time we tried to put a bowtie on you.”
Bruce rolled his eyes good-naturedly and prepared for his mother to squeeze his cheeks, which she did.
“You lost all that baby fat,” she said, shaking her head mournfully. “What a waste.’
“I’ll make it up to you somehow,” he responded with half a grin. He could clearly picture the struggle of getting a small child to enjoy a gala. He felt like he could remember his parents’ exasperation better than his own, as though he had been the adult and they the child. He blinked.
“What’s wrong, Bruce?” Thomas asked, expression immediately sobering. “You seem off.”
“Just woke up,” Bruce said. “And I haven’t had my tea yet!”
He played it off with a laugh, but he could feel his father’s eyes heavy upon him. As if on cue, Alfred swept into the bedroom.
“Master Bruce,” he said. He had a small plate with biscuits and Earl Grey tea. Bruce had the fleeting urge to ask for Darjeeling, but it passed. Thomas was still looking oddly at him, so he forced himself to relax, letting a small smile play over his face as though he hadn’t a care in the world. He had plenty of practice pretending to be something he wasn’t, after all.
Why? said a voice in the back of his head. Before he could interrogate it, there was a knock on the bedroom door.
His parents’ room wasn’t a place to socialize, and the only other person to enter it would be Alfred, who wouldn’t knock. Bruce turned, his fake smile turning to genuine joy at the man standing there.
Clark was, as always, stunning. Bruce knew he was handsome, but it shocked him sometimes that someone so effortlessly gorgeous could want him. His carefully curated sleekness was nothing next to the sheer beauty of Clark Kent. His black, thick hair lay curly and unruly all over his head, making Bruce’s fingers twitch with the urge to touch it. His smile was blinding, dimples and all, and his hands, held nervously at his sides now, were all gentle strength.
Superman, it occurred to Bruce. Well, of course. Clark had told him his secret years ago. Odd that it surprised him now. Maybe it was because of the enormity of the transformation. Clark to Superman was more than a pair of glasses and an outfit. It was the way he stood, the careful order versus charming disorganization, the power in his gaze. Now that Bruce knew, he could see Clark hunch over in his baggy suits and understood the effort it took him to hide who he was. Still, he didn’t think that Clark was all a front. Superman hid just as much. It was only in moments alone, or at this family farm, that Clark Kent was Superman and was himself. Those were Bruce’s favorite times.
Now, he went to greet his partner.
“Work?” he asked, kissing Clark’s cheek.
“Perry sent me back early,” Clark said. “Because I’m covering the gala. He didn’t want me to have an excuse to back out.”
“Our gain,” Bruce said. The two of them rejoined his parents on the terrace. The two of them were too big to split the ottoman, so Bruce leaned against the balcony, watching his loved ones. His parents loved Clark, of course. Who wouldn’t? Bruce might have mistrusted him in the beginning, but there wasn’t a moment when his easy kindness and casual power didn’t lodge a ball of want deep in his gut, a sort of yearning that could never be fulfilled but he couldn’t get enough of. Being in Clark’s presence was almost painful.
But now they were together. So it wasn’t painful. Bruce couldn’t remember why he mistrusted him. It wasn’t like he had known him as Superman, and he didn’t have any reason not to like Superman anyway. They had met when Thomas had bought the Daily Planet, for whatever reason. Bruce didn’t bother about the business side of Wayne Enterprises, instead focusing on following in his father’s footsteps as a doctor. The most he concerned himself with was taking a tour of their new acquisition, where he had met a cute reporter. Found out later he was Superman. They had fought about it, but made up pretty quickly. Bruce understood why Clark hadn’t told him at first. He saw white lies in his parents’ relationship all the time. His dad telling his mom that work hadn’t been bad that day, when it clearly had been. His mom saying she enjoyed Thomas’ westerns, even though she preferred murder mysteries. Sometimes, the truth wasn’t always the best way to go about things.
“Earth to Bruce!” Clark said, laughing. Bruce snapped back with a smile.
“Sorry,” he said. “Thinking about how we met.”
Martha got a knowing look in her eye, which wasn’t all that impressive, given that Bruce had come to his parents for advice on how to propose. Their love story was the greatest he’d ever known. They’d weathered thick and thin, from Thomas lying in a hospital after a gunshot wound when Bruce was only eight to Martha’s miscarriage after miscarriage. Bruce couldn’t imagine he’d face that kind of hardship in his life, but he had a feeling that, if he did, he’d want Clark at his side for it.
He was going to propose after the gala. He’d done all the heavy lifting already - talked to Ma and Pa Kent about it, gotten a simple gold band with the Superman crest etched on the inside, picked the date of their first meeting. The fact that his parents' annual Children’s Charity Fun gala fell on that night was a perk. They would both be dressed up. Bruce could take him out to dinner before, propose privately, and then do the public proposal at the gala. Balancing Clark’s public persona had caused more than a few fights at first, but Bruce figured this was the best of both worlds. Nothing was personal for the Waynes, not even their most intimate relationships. And Bruce didn’t want to hide his love for Clark.
Still, after months of planning, something still felt like it was… missing. Not from the actual plans, but Bruce felt like he’d forgotten to include someone important.
There weren’t that many people in either of their lives. Bruce had even gone so far as to ask Lois and Jimmy how they felt about it, which he knew Clark would appreciate. So what was wrong? Was this just normal pre-proposal jitters? Why, when he concentrated, could he hear the echo of a laugh-?
“You remembered!” Clark said, delight written all over his face. Bruce’s brows furrowed.
“Of course I did,” he said.
“Well, this is the day we met, not the day we started dating,” Clark said. “I wouldn’t expect you to have the date memorized.”
“You continue to believe I’m less in love with you than you are with me,” Bruce said. “But it's not possible.”
He didn’t understand why saying something so factual would cause Clark to turn bright red, but from his parents' quickly smothered laughs, he figured it wasn’t a problem.
“I didn’t know how lucky I was,” Clark said. “Just three years ago. Never thought this would’ve been my life.”
Bruce blinked, “We’ve known each other -”
He cut himself off. He was about to say they’d known each other for fifteen years now, but that wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. The timeline wouldn’t work. He really was having an off day.
“Alright, enough of the lovebirding,” Martha said, probably to fill the awkward silence. “Get going, you two. I’ve got to get ready for the day.”
Bruce watched as Clark got up from the ottoman and carried it back into the room, a lazy curl of heat unfurling inside him at the sight of Clark’s effortless movements, his back muscles rippling underneath his shirt. He had gotten so, so lucky. He didn’t know why he was questioning everything. He should focus on the moment.
It was just pre-proposal jitters.
They padded back to their room in silence. Clark shut the door once they had both entered.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked. Bruce didn’t scoff at the nickname because he knew Clark would see it for the deflection it was.
“I’m feeling unreasonably nervous about tonight,” Bruce said, partly truthfully. “You think we could get dinner beforehand? Just the two of us?”
“Of course,” Clark said, smiling again. “It’s gonna be fine, Bruce. You’ll do just as good a job as them.”
Thomas and Martha would, of course, be attending, but technically, tonight was the first time Bruce was hosting this particular gala. It was high stakes because it was so close to his heart. He had a thing about orphans, although he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because both his parents were so loving, but he couldn’t imagine having to grow up without them.
“And you?” Bruce asked. “What are you stressed about?”
Clark didn’t usually come to Bruce’s parents’ room. He wouldn’t have unless he was seeking Bruce out. And he wouldn’t do that unless -
“Apartment building caught on fire,” Clark said, shoulders sagging. Bruce went over to him, cupped his face in his hands. “There was a little girl on the top floor. I almost didn’t save her. It was… Bruce, it was milliseconds. She could’ve died.”
Bruce stroked his thumb down the side of Clark’s neck and let his hands rest on either side of it. He wouldn’t physically force Clark to look at him now, but he pinned him in place with his gaze.
“You did save her,” Bruce said. “Almost doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Clark said, but he didn’t look away.
“It has to,” Bruce said. “Otherwise, you’ll collapse under the weight you put on yourself. Then you won’t be able to help anyone.”
“Easier said than done,” Clark said, huffing out a laugh. A bit of the tension in his hands went away. He put them on Bruce’s waist.
“I know,” Bruce said softly, “Trust me, I know.”
He was a pediatric surgeon, after all. The guilt was unfathomable sometimes. But you couldn’t put down the mantle because you were guilty. Clark let his head fall to the juncture between Bruce’s shoulder and neck, and he rubbed gentle little circles on his boyfriend’s back. God, he’d wanted to be able to do this for so long. To soothe every one of Clark’s hurts, capture his smiles, feel his powerful body soft and yielding against his own. To feel, after a few minutes, the shift when Clark wasn’t so interested in softness.
When Clark met his eyes, there was something deeper there, something more intense. Bruce had imagined it a thousand times, and Clark didn’t disappoint.
“You’re good at this whole comforting thing,” he said, with the smallest hint of a smirk.
“I try,” Bruce allowed, trying not to let a similar grin mark his features. He failed.
“Wanna try harder?” Clark waggled his eyebrows. Bruce couldn’t help it. He started laughing.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said, shoving Clark towards the bed. Clark was already undoing his own tie.
“You love it.”
The two of them were appropriately occupied for most of the day. Bruce had woken up late enough that late afternoon crept up on them quickly, and Bruce finally had the presence of mind to shove Clark off him.
“We could stay in,” Clark suggested.
“Then I’ll never convince myself to go to the gala,” Bruce pointed out. “At least I’m looking forward to dinner.”
Clark groaned, but pulled himself to a sitting position, watching Bruce.
“So beautiful,” he said softly, as though Bruce couldn’t hear him. He felt blood rush to his cheeks. He threw a stray sock at Clark.
“Up,” he said. “Change.”
“Whatever my lord commands,” Clark said magnanimously, jumping off the bed and sweeping himself into an elaborate bow. The view of Clark’s naked back wasn’t bad, but Bruce wouldn’t have minded if he turned around. He shook himself.
“Although,” Clark added, “You seem more inclined to follow my commands, if we’re being hones-”
This time, Bruce whacked him with a pillow. Clark ducked into the bathroom, laughing.
By the time he emerged, Bruce was presentable. He’d slipped into a classic black-tie tuxedo, with elegant lines fitted precisely to his measurements. He preferred wearing black to these events, although more people of his generation were experimenting with color. It felt like armor to him.
Clark was… more than presentable. He was wearing a tuxedo as well, the only one he’d ever allowed Bruce to buy him. It fit him like a glove, accentuating his broad shoulders and thick thighs. The first time Bruce had seen him in it, he’d had to fight away a feeling of envy for a piece of cloth. Nowadays, he and the suit had an understanding. It might cling to Clark for the evening, but Bruce would get him tonight.
His bowtie was a brilliant blue Bruce hadn’t seen before. Nothing made his blue eyes stand out quite like the clear Kansas sky, but this outfit came close. If Bruce wasn’t actively planning to propose to Clark at this dinner, he would have cancelled their plans.
“You approve?” Clark said. He said it as though he was flirting, but Bruce sensed real insecurity underneath. Clark still didn’t feel like he belonged at these events, although Bruce had reassured him countless times he was worth hundreds of them.
“No,” Bruce said. “I disapprove. Vehemently. Take it off. Get back in the bed.”
Clark laughed, his anxiety disappearing. Bruce envied his mellow moods. He was still unsure about tonight. Clark would say yes; he knew he would. So what was he missing?
“Should I get Alfred to bring the car around?” Clark asked.
“No,” Bruce said. “Tonight, I’m driving.”
Bruce knew no one liked his driving. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he drove like a bat out of hell. It had been acceptable as a wealthy socialite in his twenties, but now that he was well into his thirties and a respectable doctor, he didn’t understand why he drove the way he did. It wasn’t about being a daredevil. He just felt a sense of urgency every time he was in a car, and the (incorrect) feeling that his car would keep him safe.
Clark had gotten used to it. The fact that he was invulnerable didn’t hurt. Bruce didn’t drive around often as a concession to his faults, but tonight he wanted it to be just the two of them. And he wanted to take the Maz.
A journey that should’ve taken an hour took half that time.
“Bruce,” Clark said, when they finally arrived. “If you end up murdering someone in this car, I’m not covering for you.”
“You would save them,” Bruce said. I wouldn’t murder someone. He blinked. “Let’s go in.”
The restaurant was one they had gone to many times. It was a small Thai place that wasn’t hideously expensive, but the food was incredible, and the ambience was intimate. The seats were cushioned, and the tables were a beautiful cherry wood. Bruce felt like the dim, warm yellow lighting threw Clark’s face into a plane of shadow and glowing golden skin. Unfortunately, it made him want to lick the shadows away, but he managed to control himself for the frankly absurdly good basil chicken.
Clark carried the conversation through dinner. Bruce was the first to admit that he wasn’t the world’s best conversationalist, but today was harder than usual. The feeling of strangeness suffused everything, although it had morphed from missing something to a more familiar ache. Bruce didn’t deserve this. He wasn’t sure why, but he was fundamentally broken. For starters, he was ruining a perfectly good evening - what was supposed to be the best evening - with his sour mood.
Clark had always been the best at snapping him out of his moods. Well, honestly, Dick had been the best at it, but Clark tried.
Bruce blinked twice. Who?
“Bruce?” Clark questioned. He had tried valiantly to pull Bruce into his orbit, but, failing that, he nudged his way into Bruce’s. Bruce sighed.
“I’m sorry for being terrible company,” he said. “I’ve…got something on my mind.”
“I thought so,” Clark said. “What is it, lovely? Is it about tonight?”
“Yes,” Bruce said. “But not the gala. Clark,” he took a deep breath.
“We’ve known each other for years," decades - no, “and you’re one of the most important people in my life. I know I’m not an easy man to love, but you make it seem like you want to be here every day anyway. Aside from my parents, who are biologically related to me and so don’t count, you’re the only one who’s stuck around after seeing the real me. And I’m so glad you have. Getting to see you, be near you, it’s worth every second. I love your laugh, your smile, your commitment to your journalism, your inherent heroism. Separate from your… ah, costumed escapades.”
“Bruce,” Clark said quietly. His eyes were shining with tears. Yet another thing Bruce loved about him. He wasn’t afraid to cry.
“Just wait,” Bruce said, and for the first time all day, he was laser-focused on Clark. “Clark. I love all this and more about you. I know it sounds like a cheesy line, but I finally get why people say it, and I do want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will-”
The explosion rocked the night air. Loud alarms immediately went off inside the restaurant.
“It’s next door,” was the only explanation Clark offered before he was speeding off into the night, his black suit exchanged for an armor of primary colors. Bruce evacuated with the other customers. They stood in a huddle on the pavement outside, the October air crisp but not unbearable. It might have been a short circuit, but whatever the cause, the building next door was on fire. It was a little cafe, something along the lines of the restaurant they had been in, but above were - Christ, they were apartments. Families living inside. Bruce saw Superman swoop in from above, and something in his stomach settled. In the distance, sirens blared.
And then he heard it. A scream. One of the walls of the building had been blown out - a gas explosion, then, not an electricity issue? - and a little girl was clinging to the edge of the building, fingers slipping. Bruce looked for Superman, but he was nowhere in sight, somewhere in the depths of the burning building.
Bruce thought of Clark’s words from earlier. I almost didn’t save her. Bruce knew, instantly, that he had to save this girl for Clark. If she died, he wouldn’t forgive himself, not so soon after the other.
And it's your job to protect the people of Gotham. Not Superman’s.
But he didn’t know how. He was a surgeon, not a damn acrobat. How was he supposed to-?
Before his mind had caught up, he was running to the building. He jumped and grabbed onto the lowest rung of the fire escape. He clambered up, exerting an amount of strength not even he knew he possessed. He pulled himself up until he was level with her, albeit some feet to the right. She was holding on with one hand, and in the other… oh god.
She was holding onto a baby. She must have been trying to save the kid and overestimated the distance to the fire escape. The fact that she had held onto the ledge and the baby for so long was nothing short of breathtaking. But Bruce had seen firsthand the lengths a kid would go for their siblings.
When?
He didn’t stop to ponder.
He reached over the edge, spreading his legs to create a lower center of mass and leaning towards them. The girl was just inches from him, but they were inches he desperately needed.
“Can you toss him to me?” he asked. She didn’t even nod, just got a look of grim determination on her face. Bruce had moments to prepare before she kicked off with her left foot and swung her body, creating just enough momentum to launch the baby the last few inches. Bruce stretched with his whole body and felt his arms close, victorious, over the baby.
It had been too much for the girl. Her fingers lost grip, and she fell from the ledge, screaming. Bruce lunged for her hand, but it was too late.
“Robin!” he bellowed. The word should mean nothing to him; he shouldn’t understand why he shouted it. He wasn't sure, even now, whether he was calling her Robin or calling for Robin to save her. But he saw beloved smiles and a shifting costume, heard manical laughs and irritated sighs, could practically feel unruly black hair. His kids. He was missing his kids. And he could not let this girl die.
He lunged off the fire escape after her. As he fell, he reached for her. His hand just managed to close around her before he hit the pavement hard, and everything went black.