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There was something on Bruce’s hand.
If pressed, Bruce couldn’t pinpoint when, exactly, he became aware of it. Eyes lingering on his body was nothing new; if it wasn’t for the specific set of eyes doing it, Bruce might’ve filtered it out entirely. Even then, it wasn’t usually his hands that people were staring at. And they weren’t looking with that expression, either: soft and slightly wistful, eyes drifting of their own accord, a habit rather than a conscious choice.
Likewise, Bruce wouldn’t be able to pinpoint when this habit of Clark’s started. The more time they spent together, the more they trusted each other, the more they became partners…the more Clark looked, or maybe the looking was just more obvious to Bruce. Regardless, there was something so innocently casual about the whole thing that even Bruce, uncharacteristically, struggled to raise his hackles at the idea of some alien thing being secured to his hand.
Though, it wasn’t Bruce’s whole hand; that realization came slowly from months of watching Clark watching him. No, it was tied to his left ring finger. To Bruce’s knowledge, it was intangible, undetectable, invisible to everyone except Clark. It wasn’t dangerous; it couldn’t be, because Clark would tell Bruce if he’d been marked for death by some alien curse. More interestingly, though, it seemed to be expected—there were some days where Clark looked relieved to see its continued presence on Bruce’s skin.
It was completely intangible, until it wasn’t. One day, he could feel it: the Batplane had exploded out of the sky, and Bruce ground out Clark’s name against the cold, heavy currents of the wind, and there was a tug on his hand, on his left ring finger, and then Clark scooped him out of the sky, grinning brightly. Bruce might’ve been able to dismiss the whole thing if it hadn’t happened again, two months later: Clark was searching for him in the rubble of the collapsed building they’d been fighting in, and once again, there was a tugging sensation on his hand, faint enough to be almost comforting instead of painful.
It felt, Bruce would muse in the following days, an awful lot like Clark had tied a string around him and was using it to guide Bruce back to him. Bruce still didn’t know what it was, if it was a literal string of some sort, if it was alien or magical or both. But Clark never brought it up, so Bruce didn’t either. He just let it go.
That was, of course, the lie Bruce was planning on telling Clark when he woke up and asked what had happened.
The sun lamp in the Watchtower’s medbay wasn’t working as quickly as Bruce would’ve liked, judging by the pallor of Clark’s skin. He’d already stripped Clark out of his suit, too worried about any lingering traces of that green gas on Clark’s skin to get any proper samples.
Maybe Clark would let him swab the suit after he woke up. His thumb absent-mindedly rubbed against the skin of his left ring finger, and Bruce forced himself to stop. It wouldn’t do, to get into little habits like that.
The first sign Clark was awake was the faint grunt of pain. Bruce snapped to attention immediately, hovering over his bedside, watching diligently as Clark’s eyes opened.
“What happened?” The bruises might’ve faded from Clark’s throat, but his voice was still a little hoarse.
Bruce swallowed. He could feel Clark’s eyes on him, cataloguing the new injuries, the obvious dent on the chestplate. He should’ve changed—it was selfish, frankly, to stay here by Clark instead.
“What did I do?”
“No one got hurt.”
“Bruce.”
“No civilians got hurt,” Bruce amended. He watched the relief sink into Clark’s shoulders, slumped back against the clean white pillows. “You knocked over a building.”
“You stopped me?”
Bruce hadn’t needed the lie after all. Clark had never mentioned it before, and it certainly wasn’t going to take precedence over innocent lives.
“You don’t remember?”
“Bits and pieces,” Clark said. Another reason why he wasn’t bringing it up. His eyes kept drifting down to Bruce’s chestplate rather than the string stretched between them. Clark coughed and tried for a smile. “Guess your contingency plans were good for something, huh?”
If Clark wasn’t going to bring it up, Bruce wasn’t, either. Bruce shot him a smirk that said I told you so instead of I’m sorry.
Superman fighting anyone usually ended up on the front page of any given Metropolis newspaper. Superman fighting Batman ended up on every Metropolis newspaper, every Gotham newspaper, and every social media feed. Despite Flash’s best attempts to keep civilians out of the line of fire, Bruce saw seven different shaky clips of the fight before noon, splattered across the internet.
Bruce watched them. Of course he did. And he thought about Clark over in Metropolis, unable to escape it. Hopefully not being tasked with writing about it. Hopefully not seeing the one video where you could hear the sharp crack of something important when Superman slammed Batman into the side of the warehouse.
They had a League meeting, two days after the rogue Superman incident. They covered it briefly. Clark’s fingers drummed silently on the table, his eyes trained solely on Bruce’s hand.
(Bruce still hadn’t seen it, but he’d…he’d touched it, at least. The minute the plan erupted in his mind, the minute he knew he needed to, the string had materialized in his grasp. It had felt a little bit like a thick yarn, and it had dissolved back into air as soon as Bruce let go.)
(Bruce glanced at Clark’s hand on the table. Could he summon it now, without the heat of the moment, on sheer will and desire alone. He wondered if Clark would be able to feel it if he tried.)
(He wondered if Clark could see the string in the video footage. If he had watched Bruce’s hand curl around the material before he used it to yank Clark off-balance. Bending the string to his will as easily as Clark had snapdped his grappling hook in half.)
(Clark had been able to feel it when he was under the control of the gas, surely. Did he know what it was? Did some small part of him recognize what Bruce was to him? Would it have changed anything, if he did?)
Clark made another teasing sort of joke about Bruce’s contingency plans.
“I told you it wasn’t about trust,” Bruce replied dryly. He turned to Flash. “Good work on the evacuation, but everyone on the League could stand to improve their response times when the emergency alert goes off. And Clark?”
Clark straightened immediately.
Bruce opened his mouth. Technically, Clark had done just fine. He would’ve done better if he’d been able to think straight. He’d do even better if he’d ever once developed contingency plans against Bruce—but he wouldn’t.
“Don’t walk into obvious traps,” Bruce said curtly.
Clark smiled sheepishly.
The meeting continued as normal. When it ended, though, Bruce could tell from Clark’s body language that he wasn’t going to let Bruce leave without talking to him. As tactical discussion dissolved into small talk and the screech of moving chairs, Clark caught Bruce’s eyes from across the round table, his expression a little too meaningful for Bruce to feign ignorance.
Not that Bruce was scared of having this conversation, of course. It was going to happen eventually. He’d—he’d put it off for as long as he could, for Clark’s benefit as much as his own, but Clark deserved the truth. He deserved a chance to move on. Anything else would just be selfish.
“How’s your chest?” Clark asked, after the rest of the League had filtered out.
It had been a long time since they’d been this tense with each other. “I've had worse, Clark,” Bruce assured him. He could breathe without wincing.
Clark shot him a look that said, not from me.
The words sat heavy on Bruce’s tongue, the forgiveness, but he didn’t think that it would do Clark much good. It had been a long time since he’d genuinely believed Clark would ever hurt him, and they both knew that. Bruce had been proven right to have a plan, and their relationship—that unbreakable string—wasn’t fragile enough to be broken by some Kryptonite-laced mind-controlling gas.
They both knew that. Clark had to know that. It didn’t need to be said.
“I didn’t know you could see it,” Clark said, the words coming out as a gush, breaking the silence.
“I can’t,” Bruce admitted quietly, and watched the disappointment flicker across Clark’s face.
“I should’ve told you.”
“Clark—”
“No, I…I should’ve been honest.” There was a flush creeping up the side of Clark’s neck. “I thought if you couldn’t see it, then it wouldn’t affect you. I could keep it.”
The words hit just as hard as one of Superman’s punches. It might’ve connected them, but it wasn’t Bruce’s as much as it was Clark’s. His to see, to experience. To tether him to the planet and the people he was forced to leave behind. Bruce tainted it; the only reason he hasn’t said as much was because he really was selfish.
It was quickly becoming clear to Bruce now, though, that Clark very much did remember what Bruce did to him. Maybe he’d known it all along, or maybe the sensation had only climbed its way out of the haze after Clark had watched the footage.
“You didn’t know what it was. Of course you assumed it was alien, dangerous—” Clark continued, and Bruce couldn’t bear it.
“Clark—”
“No, Bruce, let me explain. Please?” Clark’s eyes were on him, cornflower blue and clouded with emotion. Bruce wondered if he’d spent the last two days rehearsing this, the way Bruce had rehearsed his lie.
You didn’t bring it up, so I let it go. I let you keep it.
“There’s an old legend in Kryptonian culture, about you and—your other half. The person you lo—the person you trust the most. And—”
“Clark, please,” Bruce said quietly. He didn’t think he could let Clark say the word. “I know.”
“You…” Clark binked at him. “No,” he said finally, but the confidence wasn't there. “No, you can’t have figured that out.”
“Do you remember when I asked you for some samples of your language?”
There was something on Bruce’s hand that only Clark could see; of course he goddamn didn’t let it go. It wasn’t a question of Clark’s honesty; if Bruce asked, Clark would’ve answered. But the fact that Clark hadn’t brought it up meant that it was a conversation that Clark didn’t want to have. Because he wasn’t sure how Bruce would react. Because the risk to their relationship wasn’t worth it.
So Bruce asked, instead, if Clark would send over some files about Kryptonian language and culture. It would be useful, Bruce pitched, if at least one other person in the League was familiar with it. Clark was all too eager, and he sent over more data than Bruc was expecting, including an English-to-Kryptonian dictionary that it seemed Clark himself had helped create.
Nothing Clark sent over explained the string; Bruce didn’t expect to. But language itself had its own way of communicating. It was hard to ignore how much the Kryptonian word for romantic love looked like it had been derived from the word for string—though, really, tether was the better translation. How soulmate was listed under the same words for spouse, lover, partner. How the childrens’ fairytales centered around following the tugs of your heart.
Clark, in front of him, looked vaguely heartbroken. “You’ve known since then? Why didn’t you say anything?”
Because soulmate wasn’t a thing that Bruce could promise, to anyone. Least of all Clark, who deserved so much better. “What could I say? I can’t, Clark.”
Clark swallowed. “I don’t expect anything from you, if that’s what you think. It doesn’t have to be romantic, if you don’t want—”
Bruce almost laughed. “It’s not my wants that are the problem. I know you felt it, what I did. I knew exactly what that string meant, and when you backed me into a corner, I only saw it as a weapon, one you wouldn’t be able to break. I used it against you. Christ, I held it against your throat until you passed out. That’s who I am.”
And then he was planning on lying about it, just so Clark wouldn’t look at him the way he was doing now. Except…Bruce swallowed. Clark didn’t look nearly disgusted enough.
“You thought I couldn’t break it?” Clark asked. He looked…stunned, and from the tone of his voice, Bruce got the feeling that he’d just definitely lost the argument. He replayed his own words in his head.
“You aren’t invulnerable to magic, Clark,” Bruce said slowly. Assuming it was magic—it didn’t seem like technology, but he couldn’t be fully sure how advanced the Kryptonians were. And you didn’t, Bruce didn’t add, thinking of how Clark had strained animalistically in his hold.
Clark opened his mouth to reply, a goddamn smile pulling on his lips, and Bruce bit back the scowl. Why didn’t he get it? Bruce would be a terrible soulmate; Clark shouldn’t want him at all. If anything, the events of two days ago should’ve made this conversation easier for Bruce, not harder.
“It’s not about deserving, you know,” Clark said softly. “And I don’t get to pick another soulmate. You’re it for me, Bruce.”
“I’m sorry.” It was genuine.
“Goodnight, Bruce.” With the round table still separating them, Clark strode out of the room. But he paused before he crossed the threshold, turning back over his shoulder. “Ours is red, by the way. A little darker than my cape. In case you were wondering.”
Strangely enough, Bruce was.
In the week after, Clark wasn’t quite avoiding Bruce. He got more of the impression that Clark was answering an implied request for space.
The drama of the Superman and Batman fight had almost entirely faded. People grew bored of speculating what, exactly, Bruce had been using, apparently satisfied with the theories about him grabbing the wire from the grappling hook during one moment where he’d ducked into some camera blind spot. Hal still cracked the occasional joke, and Clark responded good-naturedly while Bruce just scowled from over his shoulder.
Bruce was starting to get suspicious when Clark didn’t corner him after the next JLA meeting. When Clark pinged his communicator, asking him to come to the Fortress at his earliest convenience…Bruce knew it was a trap. But if this was Clark cashing in his apology, how could Bruce refuse? He suited up and left.
He shouldn’t have even bothered with the Batsuit.
The Fortress, once Clark giddily pushed the giant door open for him, had clearly been decorated. A red and white checkered blanket was laid out on the ground beneath a string of little fairy lights, a popcorn bowl placed in the middle. A projector had been set up, facing a large blank wall, and the uncomfortable feeling of being trapped intensified.
“Clark—”
“Just sit down.”
Bruce sat. He could hear Clark swishing around behind him, turning down the lights and turning on the projector. He took a seat on the blanket, letting their bodies be separated by the bowl of popcorn.
“It took me a few days to get the subtitles right,” Clark explained, glancing over at Bruce. “But I had to show you.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
The movie started—a Kryptonian film, then. The opening credits, a series of names in Kryptonian glyphs over rosy-colored shots of a young woman going about her day, were suspiciously close to something from a human romantic comedy.
Clark was watching Bruce. Bruce kept his eyes locked on the movie. The intentions became obvious enough when a shot lingered on the woman’s hand, where a gold gossamer thread lay, wrapped tight around her finger like a wedding ring.
The movie itself was fine. Clark had done a good job on the subtitles, and there was a small part of Bruce that was pleased he could understand occasional phrases from the original audio. The two main characters were soulmates, but everything kept getting in their way. He was wondering what, exactly, Clark was hoping he’d get out of this when it happened.
The tether broke.
It was raining, in the movie. The female lead had just found out that the male lead was cheating on her, and they were arguing, voices raised and tears mingling with raindrops. The male lead reached for her. She jerked away. The thin golden string, pulled taut between them, snapped in two with a fierce crack.
Bruce flinched in time with the female lead. That couldn’t—no, that shouldn’t be possible. When Bruce glanced over, Clark was watching him again.
“They can’t break,” Bruce said.
“It’s part of the story, just as much as everything else,” Clark said, holding Bruce’s gaze the way one would hold a toddler’s hand before crossing the street.
“Story. Not fact.”
Bruce could use anything as a weapon. It was a skill that had saved his life many times. He knew how to scan over something and determine in a matter of seconds how much impact it could take, what kind of damage it would do, if it could bear his weight or if it would buckle.
He knew—he thought—that not even Clark could break the string. That was what he’d seen when Clark had him backed into a corner with no gadgets left.
Clark’s smile was wry. “That’s awfully optimistic of you, Batman.”
“It’s not optimism, it’s—”
What? Practicality? The logic that the universe couldn’t possibly go back on its promises? Facts? He didn’t have any; he’d never even read any original accounts of what soulmates were like.
Faith, a tiny part of his brain supplied. Trust. Goddamnit. No wonder Clark had decided he wasn’t going to let Bruce go.
Clark chuckled watching him, like he could hear the gears clicking into motion in Bruce’s mind. “You don’t know how scared I was, those first few times we fought, really fought. That you’d be right about me, that I’d turn into your worst fears and I’d wake up without the tether, just a little trail of string to remind me. But I never did.”
Not even when…Bruce swallowed.
Clark took a deep breath, his voice so fond that it hurt. "But the most paranoid guy I know doesn't even consider it a possibility."
“I’m going to disappoint you.”
“Are you really that bad of a kisser?” Clark teased. Bruce rolled his eyes, and Clark added, “It’s not like you’ve never done it before. You’re still stuck with me.”
“Okay,” Bruce found himself saying.
“Okay?” Clark echoed, looking hopeful.
Bruce shoved the popcorn bowl aside and leaned in. Clark met him halfway, eager and tasting like butter.
Just this once, Bruce told himself. They could have this once. Maybe twice. Maybe—oh, who was Bruce kidding? Certainly not Clark. His soulmate.
(And wasn’t that such a nice word to hear?)
Clark could, in fact, feel when Bruce pulled on the string. He was truly delighted that Bruce had felt it before; apparently, Kryptonians couldn’t see the tethers—another side effect of the yellow sun, then, Bruce assumed—but they’d always been able to feel them, in moments of high panic and worry for their soulmate, when they desperate to find them and keep them safe.
(But it didn’t have to be. It was his string, too, and Bruce would be damned if he couldn’t feel it anytime he wanted, the way Clark could always see it.)
Clark had a standing invitation to dinner at the Manor. Clark had a standing invitation to the Cave, too, when Bruce was working, for no other reason than Clark enjoyed being in Bruce’s space and Alfred enjoyed having someone watch over Bruce who was even more nagging about Bruce’s eating and sleeping habits than Alfred was.
And Bruce was enjoying it far more than he deserved to. It was almost dangerous, really; he rubbed absent-mindedly at the subtle weight of the tether on his left ring finger.
More often, when Clark stayed for dinner, he stayed for the whole night. He’d kiss Bruce goodbye before Bruce left for patrol, and he’d be back when Bruce returned, gently pulling him into bed. Clark was even more tactile than Bruce was expecting; he’d press his chest against Bruce’s back, pepper soft kisses onto his shoulders, intertwine their hands until the tether between them had been reduced to two matching rings.
“You never did finish your speech,” Bruce said quietly.
“Mm?”
“Your speech about the tethers.” He’d only picked up so much, little scraps of culture here and there. He wanted more. “Tell me everything.”
Bruce’s bravery was rewarded with another kiss to his shoulder. “Okay,” Clark said. “I will.”