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The first time Batman kissed Superman, Gotham was burning beneath them.
Not metaphorically.
There was an actual fire three blocks east of Robinson Park, orange light chewing its way through the upper floors of an abandoned textile factory while fire engines screamed through streets that glittered wet beneath a recent rain. Superman had already checked the building twice. Batman had checked it once, because Superman had checked it twice, and Batman trusted exactly three things in the world with absolute certainty:
Gravity.
His own paranoia.
And Superman, when he said there was no one left inside.
The third had been a relatively recent development.
They stood on the roof of a neighboring building, both filthy with soot and blood that belonged mostly to other people. Superman's cape was torn along one edge. Batman had a split lip behind the cowl and a knife wound beneath his armor that was shallow enough to ignore for another twenty-three minutes.
Superman was talking.
Batman was not listening.
This was unusual.
Superman talked often. Constantly, according to Green Lantern, who had once privately suggested that the Kryptonian might literally photosynthesize conversation.
Batman tolerated it.
Then, somewhere between Superman saying, “—and I know you said the structural integrity was compromised, but technically—”
Batman kissed him.
It was not planned.
This, too, was unusual.
Superman stopped talking.
For seven full seconds.
Batman counted.
Then Superman's hand settled—carefully, impossibly carefully—against the side of his jaw.
Batman had expected surprise.
He had expected rejection.
He had accounted for both.
He had not accounted for Superman smiling against his mouth.
That had been the beginning.
The ending came four months later.
The Justice League was new enough that no one quite knew what to call it yet.
Justice League sounded, according to Green Lantern, “like something printed on the side of a cereal box.”
Flash liked it.
Wonder Woman did not care what they called themselves so long as they stopped arguing long enough to accomplish something.
Aquaman attended approximately half the meetings and looked insulted by the concept of folding chairs.
J'onn watched all of them with the patient expression of a man observing several particularly destructive housecats.
Superman tried to make peace.
Batman made contingency plans.
Nobody knew anybody else's identity.
Officially.
Bruce knew all of theirs.
Barry Allen.
Hal Jordan.
Diana of Themyscira.
Arthur Curry.
J'onn J'onzz, which was technically not an alias so much as an approximation.
And Clark Joseph Kent of Smallville, Kansas, currently living in Metropolis, employed by the Daily Planet, allergic to artificial cherry flavoring despite being functionally invulnerable to most terrestrial weapons, owner of three plaid shirts that should probably have constituted a crime against humanity, who called his mother every Sunday at seven.
Bruce had not meant to learn all of that.
Some of it, anyway.
The important details had been necessary.
Superman's identity was a security risk until Batman knew whether it posed a threat.
Clark Kent had not posed a threat.
That should have been the end of it.
It was not.
Bruce learned that Clark donated blood even though hospitals could not use it because he had once been turned away at eighteen and still felt vaguely guilty about it.
He learned Clark wrote obituaries with more care than most journalists gave front-page stories.
He learned Clark always bought coffee from the same cart outside the Planet because the owner had a daughter at Metropolis University and Clark thought loyalty mattered.
He learned that Clark's desk contained seven pens, three notebooks, a photograph of his parents, a chipped mug that said WORLD'S OKAYEST REPORTER, and an emergency sewing kit Lois Lane had apparently mocked him for keeping until she tore her blouse before interviewing the mayor.
That information was not security relevant.
Bruce stopped looking.
Mostly.
He never told Superman he knew.
There was a line.
Bruce had crossed worse ones.
He had decided not to cross that.
Superman deserved the choice.
Besides, what they had was not—
It was not something requiring names.
At first.
It was rooftops.
It was lingering after League meetings when everyone else had gone.
It was Superman hovering backward through the air while Batman pretended not to find it irritating.
It was an argument over jurisdiction in Gotham becoming Superman carrying Batman three miles above the city because, apparently, “You can't brood properly if you're busy yelling at me.”
It was Superman—Clark—laughing when Batman threatened to deploy kryptonite over the offense.
It was hands beneath capes.
Mouths behind gargoyles.
Superman learning precisely how much pressure Batman's armor could take before it cracked.
Batman learning Superman liked having someone touch him without being afraid he might break them.
No names.
No daylight.
Nothing that belonged to the people beneath the symbols.
For a while, Bruce told himself that was enough.
Then Superman began waiting for him.
Not for Batman.
For him.
After missions, Superman started drifting toward whatever dark corner Batman had selected for himself. He would arrive carrying coffee, despite Batman never admitting he drank coffee, and sit on the ledge beside him.
Sometimes he talked.
Sometimes he didn't.
Sometimes, when the rest of the League had gone, Superman would let the artificial posture fall away.
The shoulders would loosen.
The perfect smile would disappear.
He would become something quieter.
Something almost ordinary.
He'd say things like, “Do you ever wonder what we'd be doing if we weren't doing this?”
Batman once answered, “Sleeping.”
Superman had laughed.
“No, seriously.”
“I am serious.”
“You're impossible.”
“So I've been told.”
Superman had looked at him for a long time.
Then, very softly:
“I think I'd still find you.”
Bruce had gone completely still.
Superman did not seem to notice.
“Whatever you were doing,” he'd continued. “Whatever I was doing. I think we'd still end up arguing somewhere.”
Batman had said nothing.
Superman nudged their shoulders together.
“You'd probably hate me.”
“Statistically likely.”
“See?”
He laughed.
Bruce remembered that laugh later.
At the wedding.
He remembered everything later.
Haly's Circus announced its Gotham residency on a Thursday.
Bruce saw the advertisement at breakfast.
It was buried on page nine of the Gotham Gazette, between an article concerning proposed renovation of the Trigate Bridge and another about corruption allegations Bruce had already sent to Gordon anonymously three days earlier.
HALY'S CIRCUS RETURNS TO GOTHAM NEXT WEEK
Twenty one nights only.
The Flying Graysons.
World-renowned aerialists.
Opening night Friday.
Bruce stared at the advertisement for forty-six seconds.
Alfred, refilling his tea, noticed.
Alfred noticed everything.
“Fond memories, sir?”
Bruce folded the paper.
“No.”
“Ah.”
That should have ended it.
It did not.
At eleven thirty-seven, Bruce called Haly's Circus personally.
At eleven forty-two, the owner of Haly's Circus stopped hyperventilating long enough to confirm that, yes, Mr. Wayne, there were still private box seats available for opening night.
At eleven forty-eight, Bruce purchased two.
He did not know why he purchased two.
This was a lie.
Bruce Wayne lied very well.
He had been lying since he was eight years old.
He simply did not usually bother lying to himself.
Two tickets.
Opening night.
A circus.
Civilian clothes.
No masks.
No League.
No emergency unless the world was actually ending, and even then Bruce could probably arrange satellite monitoring.
The idea was absurd.
It was reckless.
It was dangerously close to hope.
Bruce left both tickets inside the top drawer of his desk.
He looked at them six times before patrol.
He intended to ask Superman afterward.
He had worked out several approaches.
The first was direct.
I know who you are.
Bad.
The second was worse.
Clark.
Catastrophic.
The third involved handing Superman one ticket and saying, Friday. Seven. Gotham. Come alone.
That sounded like a threat.
Bruce revised it.
There's something I want to show you.
Worse.
Do you like circuses?
Humiliating.
At nine fifteen, Alfred entered the study and found Bruce staring at the tickets like they were a live explosive.
“Would you like me to prepare your blue suit for Friday, sir?”
Bruce glared at him.
Alfred smiled faintly.
“The charcoal, then.”
“Get out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bruce picked up one ticket.
He imagined Superman taking it.
He imagined Clark arriving.
He imagined walking toward him without a cowl.
He imagined Superman's face when Bruce said his name.
Clark.
Not Superman.
Not Kal-El.
Clark.
Then:
I'm Bruce.
As though Clark Kent did not know Bruce Wayne.
As though anyone in America did not know Bruce Wayne.
But Clark did not know him.
Nobody did.
That was the point.
Bruce sat alone in his father's study and let himself imagine, just once, what it might feel like to be known.
He put the ticket in a compartment of his utility belt.
Then he went to meet Superman.
Superman was already waiting when Batman arrived.
They had a place.
Not officially.
Neither of them had acknowledged it.
A water tower atop an apartment building just outside Gotham's financial district, tall enough that Superman could watch the skyline and secluded enough that Batman could pretend he had not intentionally altered three patrol routes to pass nearby.
Superman stood at the edge.
He did not turn when Batman landed behind him.
Bruce knew immediately.
There were hundreds of tiny things that constituted a person.
Breathing.
Weight distribution.
The angle of the neck.
The placement of the hands.
Superman was too still.
Batman approached.
“You're late,” Superman said.
“Forty-two seconds.”
“I know.”
Normally Bruce would have said something cutting.
He did not.
Superman finally looked at him.
Bruce had seen Clark Kent smile in photographs.
He had seen Superman smile at frightened children while lifting collapsed buildings off their parents.
He had seen Kal-El grin while flying backward over the Atlantic after Batman called his heat vision imprecise.
He had never seen this expression.
Bruce's hand brushed unconsciously against the compartment containing the ticket.
Superman swallowed.
“We have to stop.”
Two tickets.
Friday night.
Seven o'clock.
The Flying Graysons.
Bruce's hand fell.
The city continued beneath them.
A horn sounded somewhere on Finger Avenue.
Three blocks south, someone dropped a glass bottle.
Nine floors below them, a baby began crying.
Bruce catalogued all of it because the alternative was understanding what Superman had just said.
“Define stop.”
Superman's face tightened.
“Don't.”
“You're being unclear.”
“You know what I mean.”
Bruce did.
Of course he did.
“Understood.”
Superman stared at him.
That was not the answer he had expected.
Bruce could see it.
He hated that he could see it.
“Batman—”
“No explanation necessary.”
“There is.”
“Then explain.”
Superman's mouth opened.
Closed.
Bruce waited.
It was almost cruel.
He knew that.
He watched Clark calculate.
Whatever war occurred behind that impossible face ended with Superman looking away.
“I can't.”
Of course.
Bruce had known that would be the answer before asking.
Knowing did not make it hurt less.
He folded his hands behind his back.
A defensive posture disguised as neutrality.
Superman did not know him well enough to recognize it.
Or perhaps he did.
That possibility was worse.
“Then there is nothing further to discuss.”
“That's not—” Superman dragged a hand through his hair. “Jesus, you make everything sound like a board meeting.”
“Would you prefer emotional theatrics?”
“I'd prefer you to act like this matters.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Batman went still.
Superman's expression changed immediately.
“That's not what I meant.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then choose your words more carefully.”
“Can you just—” Superman stopped himself. His eyes closed briefly. “Can you make this difficult?”
Bruce almost laughed.
He did not.
Superman wanted difficult.
He wanted pleading.
Questions.
Anger.
He wanted Batman to demand a reason he had already said he could not give.
Bruce understood suddenly, with perfect clarity, that Superman wanted proof.
That this mattered.
Bruce had bought two tickets to the circus.
The thought was so pathetic he almost felt embarrassed.
“I don't see how that would improve the situation.”
Superman stared at him.
Bruce could imagine his beating heart.
Fast.
Faster.
Then slowing deliberately as Clark controlled it.
“Right,” Superman whispered.
Something inside Bruce fractured quietly.
He had always assumed breaking would be louder.
Superman looked back toward Gotham.
“I didn't mean for this to happen.”
Neither had Bruce.
“I know.”
“I wasn't looking for—”
“I know.”
“And I—”
Superman stopped.
Bruce waited.
For one insane moment, he thought Clark might say it.
Whatever it was.
Something large enough to justify four months of rooftops and conversations and Superman's thumb resting over the pulse in Bruce's throat.
Something large enough for two circus tickets.
Instead Superman said, “I'm sorry.”
Batman nodded once.
“I'll alter League patrol assignments.”
Superman's head snapped around.
“What?”
“To minimize unnecessary overlap.”
“That's not necessary.”
“It is more efficient.”
“For fuck's sake.”
Clark almost never swore.
Bruce stored the information automatically, hating himself for it.
Superman stepped closer.
“Can you not do that?”
“Do what?”
“This.” He gestured helplessly at him. “Turn into a machine because someone got too close.”
Bruce's lungs forgot their function.
Only for a second.
No one noticed things like that.
Superman noticed.
His face softened.
That was unbearable.
Bruce took one step backward.
Superman froze.
There.
The wound.
Visible now.
Bruce had shown him too much.
He corrected it immediately.
“The League requires clear professional boundaries.”
Superman's face closed.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“Sure.”
Bruce could have reached for the ticket.
He could have said Clark.
He could have destroyed every rule he'd built and given Superman the choice Bruce had promised him.
He could have asked one question.
Is there someone else?
Instead he said, “Anything further?”
Superman looked at him for a long time.
Then he smiled.
It was the Superman smile.
The one for cameras.
“No.”
Bruce hated it.
“Good night.”
He fired the grapnel.
“Batman.”
Bruce stopped at the edge.
Superman did not say anything.
Bruce waited three seconds.
Four.
Five.
Finally:
“Good night.”
Batman stepped off the roof.
He did not look back.
The circus ticket remained in his belt throughout patrol.
At four sixteen that morning, Bruce placed it back in the desk beside its twin.
He closed the drawer.
He did not open it again.
The announcement appeared a few days later.
Bruce learned about it through Alfred.
This irritated him.
Bruce Wayne was among the most connected people in the eastern United States.
He owned media companies.
He sat on sixteen boards.
He received society gossip before most of Gotham's society knew it had happened.
Alfred still beat him to it.
“The Daily Planet appears to be celebrating this morning,” Alfred said.
Bruce did not look up from the Wayne Enterprises quarterly report.
“How fortunate for them.”
“Mr. Kent is getting married.”
The pen stopped.
Bruce's hand did not.
Just the pen.
A minute distinction.
Alfred noticed anyway.
“Clark Kent?” Bruce asked.
His voice sounded normal.
He was proud of that.
“Yes, sir.”
“To Lois Lane.”
“Yes.”
Bruce looked down.
The same line of financial projections remained beneath his eyes.
He had forgotten how to read them.
Clark Kent.
Lois Lane.
The pieces rearranged themselves with horrifying ease.
Of course.
Of course there had been someone else.
Lois Lane was brilliant.
Fearless.
Infuriating, according to half the politicians in Metropolis.
She had won two Kerth Awards before thirty.
She had once smuggled herself into Qurac inside a livestock transport because the government had denied her a visa.
Bruce had read her work.
He respected her.
More importantly, Clark loved her.
Obviously.
Perhaps Bruce had been the only person stupid enough not to see it. Too caught up in wanting something he knew he could never have.
Superman ending things.
Clark announcing an engagement.
Ten days.
Bruce almost admired the efficiency.
“Sir?”
Bruce forced himself to continue signing the document.
“Send something.”
Alfred was silent.
“A wedding gift,” Bruce clarified.
“I understood.”
“Then why are you still standing there?”
Another silence.
Because Alfred loved him.
Because love, Bruce had learned very young, made people cruel in ways they never intended.
“I'll see to it,” Alfred said.
Bruce nodded.
At the door, Alfred paused.
“The circus is this Friday.”
Bruce's pen tore through the paper.
Alfred left without comment.
Clark invited Bruce personally.
That was the worst part.
Not Superman.
Clark Kent.
They knew each other socially in the vague orbit produced when billionaires funded newspapers and reporters covered billionaires.
Bruce had met Clark twelve times.
Four charity galas.
Two press conferences.
Three Wayne Foundation events.
One hostage situation.
One interview.
One truly unfortunate Christmas party at which Perry White had become intoxicated enough to explain, loudly, why Bruce Wayne was “the human embodiment of tax-deductible sin.”
Clark had always seemed faintly awkward around him.
Bruce now knew it was deliberate.
The slouch.
The glasses.
The mild stutter that disappeared whenever Clark became angry.
The careful way he made himself smaller.
Batman knew Superman.
Bruce Wayne barely knew Clark Kent.
The irony had teeth.
Clark caught him after a Wayne Foundation press conference.
“Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce turned with the smile that had sold magazines since he was seventeen.
“Clark. Please. If you call me Mr. Wayne, I start looking for my father.”
Clark's expression flickered.
Bruce hated himself immediately.
He had forgotten Clark knew.
Everyone knew.
The alley.
The pearls.
The bodies.
Bruce Wayne's tragedy belonged to the public.
“Sorry,” Clark said.
“No harm done.”
A lie.
Clark adjusted his glasses.
Bruce watched the movement and remembered those same fingers sliding beneath Batman's cowl without ever lifting it.
His stomach turned.
“I actually wanted to ask you something.”
“Interview?”
“No. God, no.” Clark smiled nervously. “Although Lois might kill me for wasting access.”
There.
Her name.
Easy in his mouth.
Bruce smiled wider.
“Well, we can't have that. She's terrifying.”
Clark laughed.
It hurt.
“Yeah. She is.”
A beat.
“We're getting married.”
Bruce had known for six days.
Hearing it from him was different.
He became Brucie Wayne so completely there was almost relief in it.
“Congratulations!”
Too loud.
Clark blinked.
Bruce clasped his shoulder.
Physical contact was a mistake.
Clark was warm.
Superman had always been warm.
“I heard,” Bruce continued. “Half of Metropolis is devastated, you know. Eligible reporter removed from the market.”
Clark looked strange.
“I don't think anyone's devastated.”
Bruce nearly said, Funny. I can think of one.
Instead:
“You'd be surprised.”
Clark's eyes searched his face.
For one catastrophic second Bruce wondered whether he could see through him.
Not the identity.
The rest.
The rot.
The wanting.
Bruce shifted his smile into something teasing.
“So. Am I being asked for a quote? Because I should warn you, mine are expensive.”
“Actually, I was wondering if you'd come.”
Bruce stopped.
Clark produced an envelope.
Cream paper.
Simple.
Clark Kent and Lois Lane.
Together.
Printed in dark lettering.
“It'll be small,” Clark said. “Family, friends, some people from work. Lois invited half the city government, apparently, but I'm hoping most of them assume it's a trap.”
“It usually is with Lois.”
Clark smiled.
Bruce stared at the envelope.
He could say no.
He should say no.
Batman would say no.
Bruce Wayne did not refuse weddings.
Brucie Wayne loved weddings.
Brucie Wayne loved champagne and bridesmaids and expensive suits and being photographed dancing with somebody's grandmother.
Brucie Wayne was uncomplicated.
Brucie Wayne did not know what Superman's mouth tasted like.
“I'd be honored.”
Clark looked relieved.
Bruce wondered why.
He took the invitation.
Their fingers brushed.
Clark inhaled.
Bruce smiled.
“See you there, Kent.”
Haly's Circus still opened Friday Night.
Bruce did not go.
The following week, Clark Kent married Lois Lane.
The wedding was beautiful.
Of course it was.
Not extravagant.
Clark wouldn't have wanted extravagant.
Bruce knew that.
The thought arrived uninvited and he crushed it beneath three glasses of champagne.
The ceremony was held outside Metropolis at a restored farmhouse venue overlooking acres of summer-green fields. White flowers. Wooden chairs. Strings of lights suspended between old trees.
Small.
Warm.
Human.
Everything Wayne Manor had not been since Bruce was eight.
Everything Batman could never have.
Everything Clark Kent was.
Bruce arrived seventeen minutes late because arriving exactly on time suggested emotional investment and arriving more than twenty minutes late was rude.
He wore charcoal.
Alfred had laid out the blue suit first.
Neither of them commented on it.
Bruce knew several guests.
Perry White.
Jimmy Olsen.
Cat Grant.
A senator Bruce disliked.
Two Metropolis council members he disliked more.
Three people from the Planet's investigative desk.
Martha and Jonathan Kent.
Bruce had never met them.
Not properly.
He knew their names.
Their medical histories.
Their tax records.
Their farm's mortgage status.
Their son's extraterrestrial origin.
He suddenly felt sick with himself.
Martha Kent hugged him.
Bruce had extended a hand.
She ignored it.
“Oh, honey, you're too skinny.”
Bruce Wayne, billionaire, Batman, terror of Gotham's criminal underworld, stared helplessly over Martha Kent's shoulder while she hugged him like she'd known him his entire life.
Jonathan laughed.
“She does that.”
“I've noticed.”
Martha released him, keeping both hands around his arms.
“Clark said you might come.”
Bruce's smile faltered.
“He did?”
“Oh, yes.”
Why?
Why had Clark talked about Bruce Wayne?
Martha's eyes were kind.
Dangerously kind.
“He said you're not half as bad as you pretend to be.”
Bruce could not breathe.
Then Jonathan said, “Martha.”
Something passed between them.
Martha's smile became almost sad.
Bruce stepped backward.
“Well. He's a journalist. They're frequently wrong.”
He made them laugh.
He was good at that.
Brucie Wayne made people laugh.
Batman made people afraid.
Bruce himself did not exist enough to make anyone anything.
The ceremony began.
Bruce sat in the fourth row.
He had no idea why.
There were empty seats farther back.
He could have disappeared.
Instead he sat close enough to see Clark's hands.
Clark stood beneath an arch covered in white flowers.
He looked nervous.
Not Superman nervous.
Clark nervous.
A little pale.
Glasses slipping down his nose.
Fingers flexing at his sides.
Beautiful.
Bruce hated himself for the word.
He hated Clark for being beautiful.
He hated Superman for being kind.
He hated Lois Lane for absolutely nothing, which made him hate himself even more.
Lois appeared at the end of the aisle.
Everyone stood.
Bruce did too.
She wore white.
Of course she did.
Her father escorted her.
She smiled when she saw Clark.
Clark smiled back.
Something inside Bruce died with remarkably little ceremony.
There were no screams.
No blood.
No alley.
No gunshots.
Just Clark Kent looking at Lois Lane as she walked toward him.
Bruce understood.
How foolish.
God.
How unbelievably foolish.
He had thought—
He had actually thought—
A circus.
He almost laughed.
He had bought circus tickets.
He had planned an identity reveal like some adolescent preparing a confession behind the school gym.
He had thought Superman's hands on him meant something permanent.
He had thought those nights mattered.
He had thought when Superman said I think I'd still find you—
Stop.
Bruce folded his hands.
Clark took Lois's.
The officiant began speaking.
Bruce heard almost none of it.
There were exits behind him.
Fourteen steps to the nearest.
He could leave.
Brucie Wayne leaving during a wedding ceremony would attract attention.
Batman could leave.
Batman could vanish between one blink and another.
Bruce was neither of them here.
He was trapped in a chair with sunlight on his face while the man he loved married someone else.
The phrase came uninvited.
Stop the wedding.
Ridiculous.
He nearly smiled.
Yes.
Stand up.
Cause a scene.
Tell Clark to stop.
Tell Clark there had been a misunderstanding.
Tell him Batman was sitting in the fourth row wearing a charcoal suit and a smile that felt carved into his face.
Tell him he had known.
Tell him he'd known since the second League meeting, when Superman had touched down in the Watchtower hangar after supposedly being delayed by “something in Metropolis,” six minutes after Clark Kent had left the Daily Planet roof.
Tell him Bruce had never said anything because Superman deserved to choose.
Tell him Bruce had bought two tickets.
Tell him they could still go.
The circus was in Gotham another week.
The Flying Graysons performed at seven.
They could leave now.
Right now.
Walk out.
Burn the whole thing down.
Let the guests stare.
Let the papers print whatever they wanted.
Stop the wedding.
Please.
Stop the wedding.
Clark looked toward the audience.
Bruce's heart stopped.
Their eyes met.
Clark smiled at him.
Just briefly.
A tiny, nervous smile.
The kind one person gave another when asking silently whether everything was going to be all right.
Bruce smiled back.
Of course he did.
Clark turned to Lois.
The ceremony continued.
Bruce dug his thumbnail into his palm until it hurt.
Not enough.
Never enough.
The officiant asked whether anyone had cause to object.
There was laughter.
Old-fashioned formality.
Nobody expected an answer.
Bruce's lungs refused to move.
Say it.
His body did not move.
Say it.
The silence stretched.
Say it.
But Clark was not his.
Batman was not a part of Clarks life.
Bruce Wayne had never been Clark's.
Superman had ended it.
He owed you nothing.
Say it.
Bruce thought about the alley.
About his father's blood spreading across pavement.
About his mother's pearls rolling through filthy water.
About every foster placement Alfred had quietly rejected before Bruce was old enough to understand he'd been allowed to remain at Wayne Manor because an old man loved him enough to fight an entire legal system.
About Gotham.
About every person he'd failed.
Every scar.
Every broken bone.
Every night he woke with his own scream trapped behind his teeth.
Superman was sunlight.
Bruce was a wound that had learned to walk.
How arrogant had he been to think Clark would choose that?
How selfish to interrupt this?
Lois was standing there smiling at him.
Clark's parents were crying.
Everyone was happy.
Bruce lowered his eyes.
The officiant continued.
He did not stop the wedding.
Bruce Wayne had no right to destroy another man’s happiness.
“I do.”
Lois said it first.
Bruce heard that.
Clark looked at her.
For one strange moment, he hesitated.
Bruce noticed because Bruce noticed everything.
A fraction of a second.
Nothing.
Nerves.
Clark swallowed.
“I do.”
Applause erupted.
Bruce clapped.
The sound was deafening.
Clark kissed Lois.
Bruce looked.
He made himself look.
He did not know why.
Perhaps punishment.
Perhaps evidence.
Perhaps he needed to burn the image permanently into himself so there could be no relapse into hope later.
Clark Kent kissed Lois Lane beneath white flowers while their families applauded.
Bruce Wayne smiled in the fourth row.
Batman did not exist.
The reception was worse.
Bruce excelled at receptions.
He circulated.
He danced once with Martha Kent.
He allowed Perry White to accuse Wayne Enterprises of ruining American journalism.
He flirted harmlessly with Cat Grant.
He donated fifty thousand dollars to a charity Jimmy Olsen mentioned because Jimmy had drunk enough champagne to tell Bruce about it with tears in his eyes.
He smiled for photographs.
He laughed.
He congratulated Lois.
He congratulated Clark.
He never let either of them see his hands shaking.
At some point, one of the guests—a Metropolis developer Bruce vaguely recognized from three galas and one Securities Commission investigation—caught him near the bar.
“Mr. Wayne!”
Bruce turned.
The man was drunk.
Spectacularly so.
He slung an arm around Bruce's shoulder.
“Another wedding, huh?”
“So I've been informed.”
The man laughed like Bruce had said something incredibly funny.
Bruce smiled.
“Don't think I've ever seen you at one of these without a different woman on your arm.”
“I'm broadening my horizons.”
“That's your problem.” The man pointed at him with his champagne glass, spilling some onto Bruce's jacket. “You never stick around long enough!”
Bruce's smile held.
The man laughed again.
Then, delighted with himself:
“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride!”
The people around them laughed.
Bruce did too.
He laughed louder than anyone.
Of course he did.
Brucie Wayne.
Permanent bachelor.
Gotham's favorite disaster.
Everybody's date.
Nobody's husband.
The joke was funny.
Really.
It was.
Across the room, Clark looked toward the sound.
Their eyes met again.
Bruce raised his glass.
Clark's smile faded.
Just slightly.
Bruce turned away first.
“You okay?”
Lois had always been too perceptive.
Bruce disliked that about her.
He also respected it.
This was inconvenient.
“I'm fantastic.”
She narrowed her eyes.
They stood near the edge of the reception area while Clark spoke with his parents.
Lois had changed nothing about herself except the dress, somehow. She still looked like she was about to interrogate somebody.
“You've had four glasses of champagne.”
“Five.”
“That isn't the correction you think it is.”
“I have an excellent liver.”
“Your publicist says otherwise.”
“My publicist is a traitor.”
Lois looked at him for another long moment.
Bruce smiled.
She did not smile back.
“You and Clark know each other?”
His blood froze.
“Professionally.”
“No.”
Bruce tilted his head.
Lois glanced toward Clark.
Something complicated crossed her face.
Bruce waited.
She shook her head.
“Never mind.”
He should ask.
Batman would ask.
Batman would follow the loose thread until the entire fabric unraveled.
Bruce Wayne only smiled.
“Marriage has made you cryptic, Lane. Terrible development.”
Her expression tightened at the word marriage.
Bruce misread it completely.
“Congratulations,” he said, softer this time.
Lois looked at him.
Bruce meant it.
That was perhaps the worst part.
He wanted Clark happy.
More than he wanted Clark.
He had told himself that repeatedly since the announcement.
If Clark wanted Lois, then Bruce would never make Clark feel guilty for it.
He would never punish him for choosing something warm and whole.
Bruce knew what it meant to have happiness ripped away.
He would not do that to another person.
Especially not Clark.
“Take care of him,” Bruce said.
Lois stared at him.
“What?”
Bruce's smile turned careless again.
“Reporters have dangerous habits.”
For some reason, Lois looked devastated.
Before she could respond, someone called her name.
Bruce escaped.
Clark found him twenty minutes later.
Of course he did.
Bruce had moved to the terrace.
The sun was setting.
Fields stretched beyond the venue, gold at the edges.
For one moment, with the distant sound of laughter behind him, Bruce could almost pretend he was alone.
Then:
“Bruce?”
He closed his eyes.
Only briefly.
Then turned.
“Clark.”
Clark had taken off his jacket.
His tie was loosened.
Superman looked like that after League meetings sometimes—cape thrown over one shoulder, collar pulled loose from his throat, the impossible posture slipping just enough to reveal the man underneath.
Bruce wanted to tear his own heart out for making the comparison.
“You disappeared.”
Bruce glanced toward the reception behind him.
Music drifted through the open doors. Someone laughed. Glasses clinked together.
“It’s your wedding,” he said. “You should probably be more concerned that you noticed one guest missing.”
“I noticed.”
Bruce smiled.
Clark did not.
There were hundreds of things Bruce could say.
He said none of them.
“Congratulations.”
“You said that already.”
“I remain consistent.”
That earned him the smallest twitch of Clark’s mouth, but it vanished almost immediately.
Clark came closer.
Bruce resisted the instinct to retreat.
“You okay?”
There it was again.
That unbearable kindness.
Bruce laughed.
“Do I look emotionally overwhelmed by the sanctity of marriage?”
“Yes.”
The answer came so quickly Bruce stopped.
Clark seemed startled by himself.
Then Bruce laughed again, and after half a second Clark joined him.
Bruce’s laughter was false.
Clark’s wasn’t.
For one tiny, vicious moment, the world rearranged itself into something familiar.
A rooftop.
A water tower.
Superman’s shoulder knocking against Batman’s.
Then Clark shifted, and his wedding ring caught the light.
The moment died.
Bruce looked away.
Clark followed his gaze but seemed to misunderstand what had caught Bruce’s attention. He shoved one hand into his pocket, worrying at something inside it.
“Can I ask you something?”
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
“You’re a reporter. I was under the impression asking inappropriate questions without permission was a professional requirement.”
“Not a reporter question.”
That made Bruce look at him.
Clark hesitated.
It was strange, watching Clark Kent hesitate.
Superman rarely did.
Superman made decisions in fractions of seconds because sometimes fractions of seconds were the difference between catching someone and watching them hit pavement.
Clark Kent apparently needed several moments just to arrange a sentence.
“You’re good at this,” he said eventually.
Bruce blinked.
“At weddings?”
“At…” Clark made a vague motion at him. “This.”
Bruce looked down at himself.
Charcoal suit.
Champagne glass.
Smile firmly in place.
“You’ll need to narrow it down.”
“People.”
That was nearly funny.
Bruce waited.
Clark exhaled through his nose.
“You walk into a room and everybody thinks they know you.”
Bruce went very still.
Clark, mercifully, did not notice.
“They know exactly what you want them to know,” he continued. “You’re charming when you want to be. You joke when things get uncomfortable. Nobody ever seems to know when something actually gets to you.”
Ah.
Brucie Wayne.
Of course.
Relief should not have hurt.
Bruce leaned one shoulder against the railing.
“You’ve been reading too many society columns.”
“I’m serious.”
“That’s your first mistake.”
“Bruce.”
Something in Clark’s voice made the joke die before Bruce could reach for another one.
Clark stared down at his hands.
“How do you do it?”
Bruce’s heartbeat stumbled.
“How do I do what?”
“Hide something.”
Bruce said nothing.
Clark rubbed his thumb over the side of his finger.
The ring again.
Bruce forced himself not to look at it.
“Something important,” Clark said. “Something you can’t tell anyone. Maybe because telling them would make everything worse, or put people at risk, or maybe because you promised yourself you wouldn’t until it was safe.”
Bruce’s heart performed a miserable little act of resurrection.
He killed it immediately.
This was about the wedding.
Of course it was.
Second thoughts, perhaps.
Some secret between Clark and Lois that Bruce had no right to dissect simply because part of him desperately wanted it to mean something else.
Clark looked at him.
“And you want to tell someone anyway.”
Bruce swallowed.
“How badly?”
Clark laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“Badly enough that sometimes it feels like I’m lying every time I open my mouth.”
Bruce understood that so profoundly it almost made him angry.
Instead he shrugged.
“Everyone has secrets.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Clark frowned.
Bruce could see the disappointment.
It made something inside him twist.
Apparently Clark Kent had come outside expecting wisdom from Brucie Wayne.
God help him.
Bruce looked back toward the party.
Lois stood inside speaking to Perry, one hand moving animatedly as she argued about something. Martha was laughing nearby.
Warm.
Whole.
Everything exactly where it belonged.
“People think keeping secrets is about lying well,” Bruce said eventually.
Clark listened.
“It isn’t.”
“No?”
“No.” Bruce smiled faintly. “Lies are difficult. You have to remember them. Maintain them. Make sure one doesn’t contradict another.”
“So what do you do?”
Bruce looked at him.
“You give people something else to believe.”
Clark’s expression changed.
Not recognition.
Never recognition.
Just interest.
Bruce gestured toward himself.
“Apparently I’m an excellent case study.”
That finally pulled a real smile from Clark.
“You’re saying Brucie Wayne is a public service?”
“I’ve always considered myself charitable.”
Clark huffed a laugh.
Bruce continued before he could stop himself.
“You find something true enough that nobody thinks to look behind it.”
The smile disappeared from Clark’s face.
Bruce wondered, distantly, whether he was saying too much.
Then again, Clark had asked.
“If people expect you to laugh, you laugh,” Bruce said. “If they expect you to be careless, you’re careless. If they expect nothing serious from you, you make sure they never have reason to reconsider.”
Clark stared at him.
Bruce gave him an easy smile.
See?
Perfect demonstration.
“And if the secret is hurting someone?”
Bruce’s smile almost failed.
Almost.
“Then you decide whether telling them would hurt them more.”
Clark looked down.
“What if you don’t know?”
“Then you make the best decision you can with the information you have.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
Bruce thought of Crime Alley.
Of promises made over graves.
Of Gotham.
Of Superman saying, We have to stop.
“You live with it.”
Clark went very quiet.
Bruce immediately regretted the answer.
It had been too honest.
Too much Batman beneath the silk tie and expensive suit.
So he tilted his glass toward Clark.
“Besides, I’m hardly an authority on healthy emotional communication. Ask literally anyone who’s ever dated me.”
That worked.
Clark laughed.
Small, but real.
“That’s actually why I asked you.”
Bruce stared at him.
Clark’s expression went horrified.
“No—wait. That came out wrong.”
Despite himself, Bruce barked a laugh.
Clark groaned.
“I meant—you always seem…”
“Emotionally unavailable?”
“I was going to say composed.”
“Much kinder.”
“You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, Bruce did.
Clark looked out toward the darkening fields.
“There’s someone I wish I could tell everything to.”
The world narrowed.
Bruce’s fingers tightened around his glass.
Clark did not notice.
Or perhaps he mistook it for something else.
“He doesn’t know about this,” Clark continued softly.
He.
Bruce looked at the wedding ring again.
Something terrible moved inside his chest.
Not Lois.
A man.
Him.
He wanted to this so badly he could taste it.
“And you can’t tell him?”
“Not yet.”
Not yet.
Two words.
Hope was a disgusting thing.
Bruce stamped on it.
Clark was married.
He had stood beneath an arch less than two hours ago and looked Lois Lane in the eyes and said I do.
Whatever unfinished feeling existed elsewhere had no business mattering now.
Bruce looked toward the reception.
Through the open doors, Lois was laughing at something Perry had said. Still in white. Still wearing the ring Clark had put on her finger.
Then he looked back at Clark.
“Forgive me if I’m missing something.”
Clark frowned.
“You got married today.”
Clark went still.
Bruce lifted his glass slightly, indicating the building behind them.
“To Lois.”
“I’m aware.”
“Good. I was beginning to wonder.”
“Bruce—”
“No, seriously.” Bruce gave him an easy smile, because Brucie Wayne could say almost anything if he smiled while doing it. “You’ve just married an extraordinary woman, who, unless I've badly misunderstood the last several hours, you love.”
Clark's expression tightened.
“I do love Lois.”
There.
Bruce's chest gave one vicious twist.
Of course he did.
“Then why,” Bruce asked lightly, “are you standing outside your own wedding asking me how to keep secrets from some other man?”
Clark stared at him.
For once, there was no immediate answer.
Bruce wished that felt satisfying.
It did not.
“It's not like that.”
“Isn't it?”
“No.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
Clark dragged a hand over the back of his neck.
“I know how this sounds.”
“I don't think you do.”
“Bruce.”
“You chose her.”
The words came out before Bruce could soften them.
Clark froze.
So did Bruce.
Too much.
That had not sounded like Brucie.
Bruce corrected immediately, leaning back against the railing as though the sentence had meant nothing.
“You stood up there,” he continued, easier now, “in front of both your families, half the Daily Planet, and at least three elected officials who will absolutely leak photographs before midnight, and you chose Lois.”
Clark's eyes dropped.
“Yes.”
Bruce forced himself to keep smiling.
“So unless your plan for married life is significantly more complicated than the vows suggested, I'm having trouble understanding why this other person matters.”
Clark's jaw tightened.
“He matters.”
Immediate.
Instinctive.
Bruce's smile nearly broke.
Two words.
That was all.
He matters.
It hurt to stand there and listen but he saw it. Brucie Wayne saw them. Batman would have followed them. Bruce Wayne, standing at Clark Kent's wedding with a ring glittering between them, had wanted to.
He hated himself more for it.
“That,” Bruce said after a moment, “is rather my point.”
Clark looked at him.
Bruce could feel the champagne glass pressing into his palm.
“You chose the person you love,” he said. “So why is someone you already walked away from still taking up this much space in your head?”
Clark looked stricken.
Good.
No.
Not good.
Bruce did not want to hurt him.
He simply could not understand.
If Clark loved Lois, if he had chosen her, if this was the life he wanted—
why was he out here?
Why was some absent man important enough to follow him into his wedding night?
Clark looked toward the reception.
“I didn't choose between them.”
Bruce almost laughed.
“Clark.”
“I didn't.”
“You married one of them.”
“I know.”
“That generally implies a choice.”
“You don't understand.”
The frustration in Clark's voice sharpened.
Bruce's did too.
“Then help me.”
Clark opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Bruce waited.
Clark's shoulders dropped.
“I can't.”
Of course.
There it was again.
Always some invisible wall Bruce was expected not to question.
Bruce looked away.
“Then I can only work with what you've told me.”
Clark's face tightened.
“And what does that look like to you?”
Bruce glanced at the ring.
“Like you made a decision.”
He looked back at Clark.
“And someone else may be hurt by it.”
Clark flinched.
Small.
Almost invisible.
Bruce saw it.
He saw everything.
He simply understood none of it.
After a moment, Clark said quietly, “I thought I could make things simpler first.”
Bruce almost smiled.
“Did it work?”
“No.”
Clark's answer was immediate.
He laughed bitterly.
“No. Somehow I made everything significantly worse.”
Bruce knew something about that too.
“What happened?”
Clark hesitated.
Then shook his head.
“I told him we had to stop seeing each other.”
Bruce forgot how to breathe.
For one impossible instant, everything vanished.
Music.
Voices.
The wedding.
The ring.
Only those words remained.
I told him we had to stop seeing each other.
Bruce stared at Clark.
Clark Kent.
Superman.
No.
Superman had ended things with Batman.
Bruce had already made one humiliating mistake by imagining Superman wanted something real with him.
Batman trusted evidence.
And the evidence was standing before him in a wedding ring.
“That seems counterproductive,” Bruce managed.
“Yeah.”
“Did you explain why?”
“I couldn’t.”
Bruce nearly laughed.
Of course.
“Then I imagine he drew his own conclusions.”
Clark winced.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Bruce looked away before Clark could see anything on his face.
Somewhere inside the venue, the band changed songs.
“How did he take it?” Bruce asked, because apparently he enjoyed pain.
Clark's expression twisted.
“That’s the problem.”
Bruce waited.
“He didn’t.”
That forced his attention back.
Clark dragged a hand through his hair.
“He just…” He swallowed. “Accepted it.”
Bruce's pulse thundered in his ears.
“He said he understood. That I didn’t need to explain. Then he walked away.”
Batman had said:
Understood.
No explanation necessary.
Then there is nothing further to discuss.
Bruce remembered Superman staring at him like he had done something wrong.
His champagne glass suddenly felt dangerously fragile.
He loosened his grip.
Clark laughed softly.
Brokenly.
“I wanted him to fight me.”
Bruce could hear the blood pounding through his own ears.
He could see the pulse jumping rapidly in Clark’s throat.
Too fast.
Far too fast.
“I know that sounds awful.”
Bruce found his voice.
“A little.”
Clark gave him a miserable look.
“You told someone you couldn't be with him,” Bruce continued, “and you're upset because he believed you?”
“When you say it like that—”
“How else would you like me to say it?”
Clark looked away.
Bruce hated the edge in his own voice.
But there was something almost cruel about this.
Clark had Lois.
Clark had chosen Lois.
And somewhere there was another man apparently expected to understand that no had secretly meant wait for me.
Perhaps Bruce was angrier on his hearts behalf because Batman had spent ten days doing exactly what Superman had asked of him.
Leaving him alone.
“I needed to do it,” Clark said. “For a little while.”
“A little while.”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell him that?”
Clark was silent.
Bruce nodded once.
“Right.”
“I couldn't.”
“Then how exactly was he supposed to know?”
“I thought if I explained any of it, he’d start asking questions I couldn’t answer yet. And if I stayed—”
Clark stopped.
Bruce stared.
“If you stayed?”
Clark shook his head.
“I can’t explain that part.”
Of course he couldn't.
Something immense was moving just beyond Bruce's comprehension.
He could almost see its shape.
Almost.
Bruce pushed the instinct away.
Batman solved puzzles.
Bruce Wayne was currently talking to a newly married reporter about his romantic problems.
Nothing more.
Clark rubbed both hands over his face.
“I just thought…” He laughed quietly. “God, this is going to sound stupid.”
“Try me.”
“I thought I had time.”
Bruce's chest hurt.
Clark stared out over the field.
“I thought I could finish what I needed to finish. Then go back and explain everything. Who I am. Why I left. All of it.”
Bruce stared at him.
Then, despite every instinct telling him not to:
“And Lois?”
Clark looked at him sharply.
“What about her?”
“You keep talking about going back.”
Bruce gestured toward the reception.
“But you married her.”
Clark's expression did something Bruce couldn't read.
“Bruce—”
“No. I'm genuinely asking.”
He kept his tone light.
Almost teasing.
Brucie Wayne discussing another man's catastrophic love life over champagne.
Easy.
Harmless.
“If this person matters enough that you're already planning how to get him back, then what exactly did you think was going to happen after today?”
Clark looked trapped.
For the first time all evening, Bruce felt almost sorry for him.
Almost.
“It's not what you think.”
“That phrase has never once preceded something uncomplicated.”
“Lois knows.”
Bruce stopped.
That changed things.
Slightly.
Not enough.
“Knows what?”
Clark's mouth opened.
Closed.
“That there are things I can't tell her yet.”
Bruce stared at him.
Not an answer.
Clark knew it too.
“And she's fine with you wanting another man?”
“It isn't—” Clark scrubbed a hand over his face. “I don't want another man.”
Bruce's chest went cold.
Clark seemed to realize how that sounded.
“I mean—”
“You're doing exceptionally well.”
“Could you stop being Brucie Wayne for five minutes?”
The words escaped Clark before he could catch them.
Silence.
Bruce smiled.
Bright.
Careless.
Perfect.
“I assure you, Kent, I've been trying for years.”
Clark stared at him.
Then laughed despite himself.
The tension cracked.
Only slightly.
Bruce let him have the escape.
Clark exhaled.
“I love Lois.”
Bruce looked toward her.
“I believe you.”
“And she loves me.”
“I believe that too.”
“But this isn't…” Clark searched for words. “What happened with him isn't about choosing Lois over him.”
Bruce's heart did that miserable thing again.
Hope.
Stupid.
Uninvited.
He crushed it.
“Then what is it about?”
Clark looked at him.
For a second Bruce thought he might actually answer.
Instead:
“I can't tell you.”
Bruce laughed quietly.
“Then we're back where we started.”
Clark's shoulders sagged.
Bruce should stop.
He knew that.
Instead he heard himself ask:
“Do you love him?”
Clark went absolutely still.
Bruce wished instantly that he could take the question back.
It was too personal.
Too sharp.
Too much of Bruce beneath Brucie.
Clark looked down at his hands.
The answer took too long.
Which was an answer in itself.
Finally, very quietly:
“Yes.”
Bruce's world did not end.
That seemed unfair.
The music continued.
People laughed.
Somewhere behind them, Lois Lane was still surrounded by family and friends at her own wedding.
Bruce's heartbeat continued with mechanical indifference.
“Yes,” Clark repeated. “I do.”
Bruce looked away.
Superman had never told Batman that.
Not once.
Batman had merely been what happened in the dark while Clark Kent figured out how to find someone he truly loved.
Bruce swallowed.
“Then I understand even less.”
Clark looked miserable.
Bruce gestured toward the ring again.
“You love him.”
“Yes.”
“You love Lois.”
“Yes.”
“You married Lois.”
Clark closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
Bruce gave a small, humorless laugh.
“And somehow I'm the person you're asking for relationship advice.”
“I told you. It’s complicated.”
“No. Complicated is dating two people who know about each other. Complicated is accidentally proposing to someone because you're drunk in Monaco.”
Clark blinked.
“That happened?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Not to me.”
Despite everything, Clark snorted.
Bruce smiled reflexively.
Then the smile faded.
“Whatever this is,” Bruce said more quietly, “you made a choice today, Clark.”
Clark started to speak.
Bruce shook his head.
“At least from where I'm standing, you did.”
That stopped him.
Bruce looked toward Lois.
“You can't expect someone you left behind to understand that you secretly meant something else. And you can't expect him to wait indefinitely while you build a life with someone you chose over him.”
“I didn't choose her over him.”
Clark sounded almost desperate now.
Bruce looked at him.
“Then maybe you should have made sure he knew that.”
Clark flinched.
Bruce regretted it.
Not enough to take it back.
Silence stretched between them.
Finally Clark said, “What if it wasn't safe to tell him yet?”
Bruce thought about masks.
About secret identities.
About Superman.
The irony remained completely invisible to both of them.
“Then it wasn't safe.”
Clark waited.
Bruce shrugged faintly.
“But consequences don't disappear just because you had a good reason.”
Clark looked down.
“What if he doesn’t want to hear it by the time I can tell him?”
Bruce should have lied.
Brucie Wayne would have.
Something charming.
Something easy.
Instead Bruce said, “Then you respect that.”
Clark's face fell.
Bruce hated himself instantly.
“You really think that’s it?”
“If someone tells you they don’t want you in their life anymore?”
“No. I mean—” Clark stopped. “If you hurt someone because you thought you were protecting something bigger.”
Bruce looked at him.
The answer came too easily.
“You don't get to decide they owe you forgiveness because your reasons were good.”
Clark absorbed that.
Bruce continued, quieter:
“But you can tell them the truth when you're able. All of it. No half-truths, no excuses, no expecting him to understand what you never gave him the chance to know.”
Clark stared at him.
“And after that?”
“What he does with it belongs to him.”
Clark nodded slowly.
“Right.”
The word sounded hollow.
Bruce hated himself.
He wanted to apologize.
He wanted, impossibly, stupidly, to say Superman and watch Clark's entire world change.
Instead he noticed Clark's tie was crooked.
Naturally.
Bruce reached out before thinking.
Clark went still.
Bruce straightened the knot.
His fingers lingered there for one second.
Two.
Clark looked faintly bewildered.
“Bruce?”
Bruce released him.
“There.”
He summoned Brucie Wayne like armor.
“Can't have the groom looking disreputable while he confesses his catastrophic romantic entanglements to Gotham's least qualified relationship counsellor.”
Clark groaned.
“Please never phrase it like that again.”
“No promises.”
A tired laugh escaped him.
Inside, someone shouted for the couple.
Lois.
Clark looked back.
Bruce followed his gaze.
“Your wife is calling.”
The word hurt.
He made sure it sounded effortless.
Clark's expression tightened again.
“Yeah.”
“Go.”
Clark looked at him.
“Bruce—”
“You chose a life tonight.”
Clark's face fell.
Bruce smiled before the cruelty of the sentence could show on his own.
“Whatever else is waiting for you can wait another five minutes.”
Clark stared at him like he wanted desperately to argue.
He couldn't.
Not without explaining everything.
Finally:
“I should—”
“Yes.”
He didn't move.
Bruce did not either.
The distance between them was less than a meter.
Clark could cross it faster than light.
Bruce could cross it in one step.
Neither did.
Finally, Clark said, “Thanks.”
“For thoroughly criticizing your decision-making?”
“For the advice.”
Bruce almost told him it was terrible advice.
That Bruce Wayne had never once successfully followed it.
Instead:
“Bill's in the mail.”
Clark smiled.
This one looked almost genuine.
“Thank you for coming.”
Bruce thought about two circus tickets in a locked drawer.
“Wouldn't have missed it.”
The lie tasted like blood.
Clark went inside.
Bruce Wayne had always loved with everything he had, but never selfishly enough to tear apart a home someone else had built just to make room for himself inside it.
The guests began leaving shortly after ten.
Bruce stayed until propriety allowed departure.
No earlier.
No later.
He shook Jonathan Kent's hand.
Accepted another hug from Martha.
Promised Perry White an interview he had no intention of giving.
Jimmy took a photograph of Bruce with the bride and groom.
Bruce stood beside Clark.
Lois on Clark's other side.
Clark's shoulder pressed against his.
The photograph would later circulate online beneath captions about Metropolis's wedding of the year and Bruce Wayne's surprise attendance.
In the picture, Bruce would look happy.
He was very good at looking happy.
Perhaps that was why Clark had asked him.
The thought hurt more than it should have.
Clark had looked at Bruce Wayne and seen a man who knew how to keep something painful hidden behind a smile.
And Bruce had looked at Clark Kent and seen a man standing beside the woman he'd chosen while mourning someone else.
Then came the moment when the wider guests were gently ushered out so the Kents and Lanes could have the last hour privately.
Bruce collected his coat.
He had almost reached the car when Clark called his name.
“Bruce!”
He stopped.
For half a second, something stupid inside him expected—
Bruce turned.
Clark stood beneath the strings of lights.
Behind him, Lois was talking to Martha.
Everyone looked warm.
Golden.
Like a photograph from somebody else's life.
Clark shoved his hands into his pockets.
Whatever he had run out intending to say seemed to disappear somewhere between the doorway and Bruce's car.
Bruce waited.
Clark opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
Brucie.
Easy.
Amused.
Unbothered.
Clark gave a small, embarrassed laugh.
“Sorry. I just…”
Bruce's heart misbehaved.
Clark glanced back toward the reception.
Toward Lois.
Then at him.
“If you were the person I was talking about earlier…”
Bruce went completely still.
Clark hurried on, oblivious.
“Hypothetically.”
“Dangerous word.”
“If someone came back eventually and told you everything—gave you the real reason, no excuses—would you hear them out?”
Bruce stared at him.
He thought about Superman.
About the water tower.
About four months compressed into rooftops and stolen kisses.
About We have to stop.
About Clark Kent marrying Lois Lane.
Would Batman hear Superman out someday?
The humiliating answer was immediate.
Yes.
Bruce would hear him out tonight.
He would hear him out ten years from now.
He would hear him out with blood in his mouth and Gotham collapsing around them.
That was precisely the problem.
But this was just Clark Kent—not Superman.
He was, just a man, asking Bruce Wayne for advice about some unknown man he apparently loved despite having married someone else.
Bruce slipped one hand into his coat pocket.
“You really want my answer?”
Clark nodded.
Bruce looked past him.
Lois was visible beneath the lights.
“First, I think you should decide what you're asking this person to come back to.”
Clark's brow furrowed.
Bruce continued before he could interrupt.
“Because if you show up someday, tell him you love him, explain all your reasons, ask him to forgive you…” Bruce glanced meaningfully at the ring. “And you're still standing there wearing that?”
Clark looked down.
“You don't get to be surprised if he thinks you've already chosen.”
Clark's face tightened.
“Bruce—”
“You asked.”
“I know.”
Bruce sighed.
Damn him.
“If he cared about you,” Bruce said, “really cared…”
Clark waited.
Bruce looked away.
“He'll probably listen.”
Clark's expression softened.
Hopeful.
Bruce immediately wished he had said anything else.
“But listening isn't the same as waiting.”
Clark nodded slowly.
“I know.”
“And it isn't the same as forgiving you.”
“I know.”
“And if he tells you it's too late?”
Clark swallowed.
Bruce forced himself to finish.
“Then you believe him.”
Something in Clark's face cracked.
Only slightly.
Bruce almost reached for him.
Almost.
“And if it isn't?”
Bruce's chest hurt.
“Then you're luckier than you deserve.”
A tiny laugh escaped Clark.
“That's bleak.”
“You asked a Gothamite.”
“Fair.”
Another voice called Clark from inside.
Lois again.
Bruce opened the car door.
“Go.”
Clark looked over his shoulder.
Then back.
Bruce smiled faintly.
“Seriously, Kent. Your wife has had to send for you twice now. You're making the rest of us bachelors look good.”
Clark's expression did something complicated.
“Right.”
Bruce ducked into the car.
“Bruce?”
He paused.
Clark smiled.
Nothing Superman in it.
Nothing Batman.
Just Clark Kent thanking Bruce Wayne for listening.
“Drive safe.”
Bruce smiled.
“Always do.”
Another lie.
Clark's mouth twitched.
“Good night, Mr. Wayne.”
“Good night, Mr. Kent.”
Bruce closed the door.
The car pulled away.
He did not look back.
He did not see Clark remain beneath the strings of lights long after the taillights disappeared around the bend.
He did not see Clark touch the knot of the tie Bruce had straightened, fingers lingering there for reasons Clark himself could not have explained.
For several seconds, Clark simply stood there.
Then he lifted one hand and dragged it down his face.
“Wow.”
Lois's voice came from behind him.
Clark didn't turn.
“Don't.”
“I wasn't going to say anything.”
“You were absolutely going to say something.”
“I was going to ask whether getting relationship advice from Bruce Wayne went about as well as anyone with functioning pattern recognition could have predicted.”
Despite himself, Clark let out something halfway between a laugh and a groan.
“That bad?”
“He told me I made a choice.”
Lois went quiet.
Clark looked down.
The ring caught beneath the lights.
For some reason, after everything Bruce had said, it suddenly felt heavier than it had an hour ago.
“He thinks I chose this,” Clark said.
Not you.
Not us.
Just this.
The wedding.
The photographs.
The vows.
The lie Clark had stood beneath white flowers and made convincing enough that even Bruce Wayne had believed it.
Lois stepped up beside him.
“You couldn't exactly tell him otherwise.”
“I know.”
“That was the point.”
“I know.”
Clark curled his fingers until the ring disappeared into his fist.
Somewhere behind them, Martha laughed.
Jonathan answered.
The band had stopped playing, leaving only the low murmur of family and the soft clinking of people clearing tables.
It should have felt like relief.
They had done what they were supposed to do.
Everything had gone exactly according to plan.
Clark felt sick.
“He asked me why someone else was on my mind,” he said.
Lois glanced at him.
Clark laughed once, quietly.
“I didn't have an answer I could actually give him.”
“You have one.”
“Not one Bruce Wayne can know.”
There was nothing accusatory in Lois's silence.
That almost made it worse.
Clark looked toward the road again.
Empty now.
“I told him I loved someone.”
Lois's expression softened.
“And?”
“He told me that if I chose somebody else, I couldn't expect the person I left behind to understand that I secretly meant wait for me.”
That sounded worse repeated aloud.
Clark closed his eyes.
Because Batman had not known.
Batman had heard we have to stop and done exactly what Clark had asked.
He had stepped back.
No questions.
No demands.
No attempt to make Clark explain what Clark could not safely explain.
Clark had wanted him to fight.
Batman had respected him instead.
And now Clark had spent his wedding night asking Bruce Wayne how to undo the consequences of that.
“I think I made it worse,” Clark admitted.
Lois leaned against the railing beside him.
“You think?”
He gave her a look.
“Sorry.”
“No, you're not.”
“No.”
Another silence.
Then Lois bumped her shoulder against his.
“When this is over—”
“I know.”
“You tell him.”
Clark stared down the road.
That had always been the plan.
Finish this.
Close the investigation.
Make sure everyone involved was safe.
Then find Batman.
Tell him everything.
His name.
His home.
Smallville.
His parents.
The stupid glasses.
All of it.
Finally give the man he loved the thing Batman had never once demanded from him.
Trust.
Clark had thought there would be time.
There had to be.
“Yeah,” he said eventually.
His voice came out quieter than he meant it to.
“When this is over.”
The marriage certificate would never be filed, the rings would remain on their fingers for as long as the cover required, and by morning photographs of the Kent-Lane wedding would already be circulating—one more carefully constructed piece of an undercover operation that was not yet safe to end.
By then, Bruce was already halfway back to Gotham.
Still wearing the suit he'd watched Clark marry someone else in.
Still carrying every word Clark had said to him on the terrace.
Still believing that somewhere in the world there was a man Clark loved enough to regret leaving.
Because Clark still had no idea that the man he'd just asked how to win Batman back—
was Batman.
And Bruce had driven away believing Superman had chosen someone else.
Bruce arrived home at eleven forty-three.
Alfred was awake.
Of course he was.
“How was the wedding, sir?”
Bruce removed his cuff links.
“Lovely.”
Alfred waited.
Bruce removed his tie.
“Clark and Lois seem very happy.”
Another silence.
“I'm glad.”
Alfred looked at him.
Bruce could withstand gunfire.
He could withstand broken ribs.
He could withstand fear toxin.
He could not withstand Alfred looking at him like that.
“I have work.”
“Tonight?”
“The Narrows trafficking case.”
“It will remain until morning.”
“People may not.”
Alfred's mouth tightened.
Bruce walked toward the study.
His hand was already reaching for the door when he remembered.
The desk.
The drawer.
Two tickets.
He stopped.
Alfred said nothing.
Bruce opened the door.
Crossed the room.
Sat.
For several minutes, he did nothing.
Then he unlocked the drawer.
The tickets were still there.
HALY'S CIRCUS.
Two seats.
Opening night had passed.
The tickets were expired.
Bruce picked them up.
The paper had not changed.
There should have been something dramatic about them now.
A stain.
A tear.
Some physical evidence that hope had weight and could rot.
There was nothing.
Just paper.
Two seats beside each other.
Bruce imagined it anyway.
Clark in civilian clothes.
Glasses.
A cheap jacket.
Popcorn, probably.
Clark would have liked the aerialists.
He would have worried about the lack of safety nets.
Bruce would have told him the Flying Graysons had performed the act for years.
Clark would have heard every heartbeat in the tent.
Bruce would have revealed his identity.
Maybe Clark would have laughed.
Maybe kissed him.
Maybe they would have fought.
Not because the either had done anything wrong.
Because somewhere out there existed a person Clark Kent wanted to be truly known by.
And for one stupid, hopeful week, Bruce had thought that person might have been him.
Outside the study windows, Gotham waited.
Somewhere across the city, Haly's Circus had begun its late performance.
A family of three aerialists would climb high above a crowd beneath brilliant lights.
Tonight, there were only two unused circus tickets.
Bruce folded them carefully.
Once.
Twice.
He could throw them away.
He did not.
He placed them back in the drawer.
Then he removed his wedding clothes.
Put on the armor.
Covered Bruce Wayne's face.
And went out into Gotham.
One sun had disappeared beyond Gotham’s horizon, but before the night could swallow him whole, a star found its way to him instead.
Three nights later, Superman landed on the Watchtower.
Batman was already there.
The League had a mission.
Nothing catastrophic.
Weapons trafficking.
Intergang.
Superman approached.
Batman looked at the holographic map.
“You're late.”
“Thirty seconds.”
“Forty-three.”
A pause.
Then Superman laughed.
Softly.
Almost reflexively.
Batman did not look up.
The laugh faded.
“Batman.”
“Yes?”
Superman hesitated.
Bruce could see the moment he almost said something.
Perhaps whatever secret Clark Kent had been discussing at the wedding.
Perhaps something entirely unrelated.
Bruce had no intention of asking.
Clark's words returned to him anyway.
There’s someone I wish I could tell everything to.
“We should brief the others,” Batman said.
Superman remained there another second.
“Right.”
He turned away.
Bruce watched him go.
Only for a moment.
Then Flash arrived at superspeed, Green Lantern behind him complaining about air traffic control, and the room filled with noise.
The moment closed.
Batman began the briefing.
No one noticed anything wrong.
Bruce made certain of it.
He had spent his whole life learning how.
Clark Kent had asked him how people hid something so well that no one thought to look underneath.
Bruce had told him:
Give them something else to believe.
So Bruce gave Superman Batman.
Cold.
Professional.
Untouchable.
And Superman believed him.
Because somewhere deep beneath Wayne Manor, inside a locked wooden drawer no criminal would ever find and no detective would ever think to examine, two circus tickets waited for a night that had already passed.
Two seats.
Side by side.
For a man who had been ready, finally, to say his name.
And another who had stood at his own false wedding asking that same man how to survive keeping his name a secret.
But that night, Bruce knew only one thing.
Superman had chosen someone else.
So Batman let him.
Because Bruce Wayne had always been very good at loving people in the one way that hurt him most:
by opening his hands,
and letting them go.