5 Times Bruce Accidentally Insults Clark and 1 Time He Didn’t

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/44334079.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandoms: Superman - All Media Types, Batman - All Media Types, Justice League
- All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Relationship: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Diana (Wonder Woman), J'onn J'onzz, Barry
Allen, Hal Jordan (Green Lantern)
Additional Tags: your basic you-make-fun-of-your-crush-instead-of-complimenting-them
fic, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Feelings, Fluff, Angst with a Happy
Ending, Accidental insults because compliments are too hard sometimes,
POV Bruce, Clark is a cinnamon roll, Author’s guilty pleasure, 5+1
Things, Misunderstandings, Insecurity, Jealousy, Hurt/Comfort,
Momentary alternating pov, Character Study
Language: English
Collections: forgiveness ( can you imagine? )
Stats: Published: 2023-01-16 Updated: 2024-02-20 Words: 34,853 Chapters:
5/6
 5 Times Bruce Accidentally Insults Clark and 1 Time He Didn’t
by aesthetic_pleasure

Summary

Sometimes feelings are difficult to properly convey, especially in high-stress situations,

which is quite the norm for superheroes. And Bruce is no exception. Why can't he tell Clark
what he really means...really feels? Why is it that every time he opens his mouth, the only
words that leave it are harsh and hurtful?

Notes

Prompt 1 - 1st Time of Bruce accidentally insulting Clark: "You did well."

A close call that results in everyone getting saved by Superman should’ve been met with a
‘well done’ by Batman. But, naturally, that’s not what leaves his mouth.
 “You did well”

A close call, that’s what it was. In hindsight, perhaps Clark had made the best call there was
at the time, swooping in, grabbing hold of the bomb, and flying towards the sky until its
inevitable explosion. The damage had been minimal according to every news report. Every
civilians’ lives saved albeit a few sporting bruises and any mental trauma that came with
being tied near a ticking bomb that would’ve levelled the entire building and then some. A
few buildings needing immediate repair due to the usual preliminary fighting—nothing that a
few anonymous donations couldn’t fix. Overall, and to the general public, a perceived win,
especially in terms of the Justice League’s reputation, which had taken a hit a few week’s
prior due to the immense property damage and lives that had been lost.

They all had felt that particular loss—Clark more than others as he had been the closest to the
resulting catastrophe. It had been a decision on his part: he had to choose. Something that no
hero likes to talk about or to relive in mandatory evaluatory meetings. With two missiles set
off in two separate directions, Superman’s sonic boom could be heard as soon as the words
left the disturbed man’s lips. He had stopped the missile before its detonation into one of the
world’s most densely populated cities, Dhaka, Bangladesh. He probably saved millions, no
doubt. But Clark hadn’t seen it that way. Despite his immense powers, he had once again
been too slow . During the meeting, Clark had looked haunted, and Bruce had hated himself
even more so in these moments. The prying questions had been expected as they are in every
meeting held for review; however, sometimes Bruce hated being the one having to ask for the
details so as to not repeat them in the future. He had seen the explosion; it had been right in
front of his eyes, Clark had said with downcast eyes, and every person present flinched. The
smell of smoke was still on him, his cape singed on the ends—a vivid reminder of his failure.
But worse, Clark had heard them.

“Every fearful cry,” Clark spoke softly, “every pained one, too. I—” “We understand, Kal,”
Diana tenderly interrupted, sadness and guilt written in her eyes as she most likely thought
about how she should’ve been there, too. She had been called back home, and in her eyes, if
she hadn’t left, she would have spared Kal this pain. It was in each of the member’s eyes
despite its unreasonableness pertaining to this inevitability. J’onn’s was for his supposed
complacency and misjudgement while giving directions in the Watchtower, but Hal’s was
even more ridiculous. He had been completely off-world, and yet the guilt was fully present.
It was in each and every single member’s eyes as they sat there. Each member didn’t have to
have super hearing to know what it felt like to fail. There was always guilt and sadness for
the tragedy itself and for the tragedy of indirectly taking part in the pain towards a fellow
member.
“They called for me, and I wasn’t there.” A persistent statement that shattered any word on
the tip of their tongues because how do you respond to that chilling realization of
uncomfortable familiarity?

But this time, Clark had been there. The fight was on the edge of Metropolis, and this time
more than one member was present. Wonder Woman fighting off against the robotic
monstrosity and all its lackeys with Superman’s assistance. The Martian Manhunter finding
the civilians and directing Flash accordingly, Green Lantern on damage control, and finally,
Batman growling weak points and orders across the comms while taking out the hired
gunmen perched on top of the surrounding buildings. Everything had been going smoothly,
until it wasn’t. There was a timed bomb—because, of course there was—Flash had reported
as he had rushed into the farthest building thereby triggering the countdown sequence.

Bruce’s mind considered the appropriate course of action as the members listened to Flash’s
quick report. Wonder Woman was literally stuck between a rock and a hard place; the same
went for Superman. No, better to let them finish the task and only call on him as a last resort.
There was no need to call on the calvary for a simple bomb. Green Lantern could do it, but
that would mean further destruction to the city and perhaps unnecessary casualties. Flash was
getting the civilians out, and from the description of the bomb, there wasn’t time for him to
do both. Martian Manhunter, maybe? No, he wouldn’t clear the area fast enough to prevent
falling debris hitting the city. That left Batman since he was only a building away. If you
couldn’t clear it, then you’d have to disengage it. And he could do it, especially with this kind
of bomb. When has he encountered a riddle he couldn’t crack? A bomb he couldn’t
deactivate? With the matter resolved, Batman raced towards the location of the bomb, “I’m
heading towards the bomb; Flash, continue to get the civilians to safety. I’ll disarm it.”

“Roger that!” came Flash’s quick reply.

“Batman, I—” Superman’s voice broke in.

“Stay. Where. You. Are,” Batman interrupted, “I can handle this.” With that said, Bruce shot
his grappling hook and swung across the building’s expanse. But as he landed atop the
building where the bomb was located, a streak of blue and red shot up into the sky beside
him. Damn him.

“Superman!” Batman shouted across the comms. No response. From his view, Bruce could
see him now. Clark had the bomb held above his head as he flew towards the stratosphere.
Time was ticking by. “I’m not going to make it far enough,” Clark’s voice finally pierced
through the tension. He was referring to the certain falling debris and the now increasing
possibility of devastating casualties to more than just their present location. Once more, not
thinking of himself as one of them, Batman thought with irritation. Flash’s voice answered,
“Uh… Supes, you might wanna—” “Throw it, Superman, and incinerate whatever nears the
surface!” Batman barked over Flash’s worried concerns. “There’s no time; I can do this!”
“Superman, clear the area! That’s an order.”

“Bruce, I can handle—”

“Clark—”

The explosion could be heard; a deep rumble that shook the building where Bruce stood. It
could be seen, too. The bright, warm colors sparkled in the atmosphere—the extent so large it
nearly covered the entire sky. Batman held his hand up to block out the bright light as he
frantically searched for blue.

“J’onn!” Batman shouted. A pause. “I’m searching, Batman,” came the answer, but that
wasn’t good enough. Batman ran to the edge of the building, pulling out his binoculars. There
he was. The primary blue and red emerged from the flames flying downwards. No, not flying
— “Batman, he’s unresponsive. I cannot—” J’onn’s voice broke his train of thought— falling
. Before Batman could order Hal to the scene, Clark crashed into the ground. Bruce’s breath
choked as he heard the heavy thud that produced rippling layered ringlets of dust. “Flash—”
“I’m on it, Bats!”

“Is he alright?” Wonder Woman’s voice was slightly out of breath as if she had raced towards
the location of the bomb herself. They all had arrived on the edge of the crater within one of
Metropolis’s parks. In the deep center Flash was kneeling at Clark’s side. “He’s alright,”
J’onn said to no one in particular but a hand found its way onto Bruce’s shoulder. A few
excruciating seconds passed before movement could be seen at the center. Clark was standing
up, brushing some of the dirt off his legs. “We’re good!” came Flash’s shout with a large
smile and a thumbs up. Clark stood there sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his head.

*In the Watchtower*

So, that was the “best” outcome. In fact, as some would argue it was the best outcome that
could’ve taken place. “Best” outcome, my ass, Batman thought as he later sat at the meeting
table in the Watchtower listening to Flash and Lantern banter back and forth. The meeting
was nearing a close as they finally began discussing Clark’s heroic (idiotic, more like)
actions.

“Supes, you really had us going there for a minute!” Flash once again interrupted Batman’s
breakdown of the events. Bruce’s eye twitched underneath his mask’s lens. Clark just
shrugged because honestly there was “no need to worry” since he was “invulnerable.”
Another twitch. And even if it did “hurt”, all it would take would be a “few moments basking
in the sun.” Another twitch. “Yeah,” Lantern’s annoying voice entered into the mix, “you had
Spooky all up in arms!” His characteristic smirk followed, kicking his feet back with his arms
crossed behind his head. The attention was finally on Bruce, just not the attention he wanted.

Clark looked at him softly, “Bruce, you didn’t need to worry…” his voice trailed off as Bruce
uncharacteristically spaced out. “Worry” as if it hadn’t absolutely gutted him to see the
familiar red and blue take off into the sky. Not knowing if he was killed or mere particles,
invulnerability be damned.

“...it didn’t even hurt…” as if using himself as a sacrificial lamb every time was the only
alternative to dire situations. Because he could “handle” it. Bruce couldn’t help but snarl
inwardly at the thought. Who gave you the right to decide things for yourself without
consulting others—to put yourself in harm’s way when there were other options that you so
blatantly ignored?

At Clark’s startled look, Bruce realized that he had done that—said that—aloud. “Whoa, hold
on,” Lantern’s voice surfaced again much to Bruce’s displeasure, “if we are going to be
raising issues about not consulting others about decisions being made, then you, Spooky, are
in no place to be pointing fingers!” At Batman’s searing glare, Hal returned it. “Whoa, okay,
hold on, guys,” Flash spoke in his usual placating tone, “it’s not that big of a deal. No one got
hurt—”

“Not a big deal?!” Batman whipped his head around. “Bruce,” Diana began. “Well, he
didn’t,” Hal shrugged, but Bruce’s blood was boiling.

“He rushed in after I explicitly stated to stay where you were. You mentioned I make
decisions without consulting the others” he looked at Hal, “but my calls have always
included each and every one of you. My job here is as a tactician and as the League’s
benefactor. Not once have I prevented or even excluded your opinions or your solutions. We
discuss and come up with the best option—always. But in the middle of battle, my call
trumps yours. It’s always been that way, whether you choose to listen or not is your
prerogative, but that doesn’t dismiss the consequences that are to follow. This confrontation
is one of them. The bomb would’ve taken me half a minute or less to disarm it, which is why
I said I could handle it. You each have your abilities and strengths, I have mine. There needs
to be mutual trust on this team. But there’s a recurring theme of ignorance and foolish antics
that continually create this increasing disparity, and it needs to be immediately rectified if we
are to move forward. But no,” looking at Clark, “you decided you knew better and foolishly
rushed in to ‘save the day.’”

“Bruce, please. Can we not?” Diana spoke up once more, “What’s done is done. We cannot
go back to change what has happened.” J’onn’s gaze looked down, and Bruce knew he wasn’t
the only one with an issue with today’s outcome despite its many victories.
“But we can prevent it from happening in the future,” Bruce replied, with all intent to finish
his tirade, “Did you consider the possibility of kryptonite lining or encasing under the bomb
that just so happened to be made of a lead casing?” Bruce’s question was directed at Clark,
who looked thoroughly scolded, “No,” he answered regretfully. “No,” Bruce said, “so why
did you think it was a good idea to engage with the bomb?”

“I didn’t think—”

“You’re right. You didn’t think, you just did. And in doing so, you completely obliterated a
park, caused each of your members to break their focus, and—” thoroughly scared me half to
death. Why don’t you trust me? Let me protect you…

But none of those words left his lips as he took in Clark’s demeanor. His shoulders were bent
inward and his face was entirely ashamed, “I’m sorry.” Clark said this with such emotion that
it wrenched Bruce’s heart. “Batman’s right. I-I didn’t consider any other options before
rushing in. For all I knew, I could’ve made the situation worse, and for that, I’m sorry. I only
wanted to help.”

Thus, the meeting was adjourned at Wonder Woman’s request as she had important matters to
attend to in Paris. J’onn collected the meeting notes with the promise of a future documented
report, Flash raced off with an awkward “so, um I have to go—do uh, some stuff!, and Hal
muttered to himself as he took the transporter home. This left Batman and Superman. Bruce
was turning off all the equipment with the intention of staying behind for the first scheduled
watch. Superman was still sitting in his chair. The silence, which normally was something
sacred to Bruce, felt stifling now. After turning off the projector, he turned to face Clark.

“Look, Clark, I didn’t mean—” Bruce began somewhat gruffly.

A self-deprecating chuckle left Clark’s lips, “Yes, you did, Bruce.”

Bruce closed his mouth, properly reprimanded, because he did mean it… just not so harshly.

“Yes, well, I didn’t get to say—”

A sigh and a slump of the shoulders was the response he got before Clark stood up, “I think
I’ve taken all the scolding I can take today.” He said this with a rueful smile, “I’ll see you in a
couple of hours?” And with that he left in a blur of red and blue.

…You did well .

 "You look nice"
Chapter Summary

Prompt 2 - 2nd Time of Bruce accidentally insulting Clark: “You look nice”

Clark is handsome. Everyone knows it, especially Bruce. So, why can’t he just say
that?! Date night with Lois Lane.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Clark looked good . Not the usual crisp, clean cut lines of Gotham’s finest, nor the rugged
chic of country models across calendars and on billboards leading into the city. Clark’s
attractiveness stemmed from two—not necessarily mutually exclusive—aspects: his sweet
demeanor and his innate ability to not see how he far surpassed the extent of conventional
beauty. It was remarkable and downright adorable .

Especially considering his usual go-to wardrobe choices, it was bewildering to think he could
still be deemed attractive. He wore denim when he wasn’t wearing loose slacks, but it wasn’t
that nice solid dark denim. Clark wore the distressed, beat up denim, and it wasn’t the stylish,
trendy one either. It was the hey-i-used-to-work-on-a-farm denim. Additionally, when he
wasn’t wearing a dress shirt, he was wearing that god-awful plaid. He had them in basically
only two colors: red and blue. If his secret wasn’t going to be outed through strict scrutiny to
his daily schedule, then it would most definitely be outed by his tendency to associate himself
in increasing frequency with the colors red and blue. And he tucked it in too—all the way
around… like an absolute dork. If it wasn’t so Clark, it would be utterly ridiculous and an
extreme turn-off. When he wasn’t Superman with his smooth, jet black hair and its signature
s-curl, he obviously didn’t do much with his locks, leaving them an untamed, curly mess atop
his head.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Clark didn’t care at all about his appearance. And
perhaps that was intentional? But with the shy smiles and the pink ears, you’d once again be
back at square one.
Clark was tall and dark-haired, which usually draws most people’s eye in the first place.
Except he was generally shy, not wanting people to look too close or come too close—no
doubt an ingrained caution instilled in him as he grew up. But it was also because Clark, as
Bruce is coming to realize, wasn’t used to compliments about his looks, and as a result, he
wasn’t sure how to act when he did receive them.

“Clark, that’s a nice color on you!” would be met with “Aw, gee thanks…er my Ma got it for
me” and a shrug. Or “Wow, I never noticed how good looking you are, Clark. How do you
not have a girl yet?” would be met with a stammering “Um thanks, probably because I’d have
no idea what to do if I had one…” Definitely not the kind of thing you say on a date or to
anyone in the city workplace if you want to be taken seriously.

But now he’s got a girl, and her name’s Lois Lane. Star reporter of the Daily Planet . Two
time Pulitzer prize winner with the upcoming year pending. Witty, sharp, courageous, and
beautiful—what’s not to love?

So, that’s where Bruce is now, being the one who drew the short end of the stick: at Clark’s
apartment helping being a good wingman for his date with Lois tonight. The activity being
picking out a suitable outfit for his date tonight.

“So, how’s this?” A quick glance up and Bruce saw Clark come out of his bathroom in a
striped dress shirt with navy colored slacks and a red tie. Red and blue, ugh. But also
disturbingly endearing. But they aren’t for you. They’re for her , Bruce thought to himself
bitterly as his eyes found his phone once more so as to not let Clark think the disdain was
directed at him. With a grimace, Bruce continued tapping away at his phone with rising
irritation. “Uh, Bruce?” Clark’s voice interrupted Bruce’s darkening thoughts.

The dress shirt for once was fitted, extenuating his broad shoulders and trim waist. The
stripes lengthened his already tall appearance, further adding to this well curated handsome
aura he was effortlessly exuding. The matching navy gave depth to the look and made his ass
look irresistible. It also allowed his bright blue eyes to pop against the contrast despite the
surrounding black frames of his dorky glasses. And the glasses seemed more elegant than
before despite the nervous ticks coming from the wearer. The dress shoes added a nice touch
to the look, forcing your eyes to continue to roam across this well dressed masterpiece.
Lastly, the red tie. It was definitely an “office” touch, but it gave life to the subtle tones of
blue. It reminded Bruce of flying heroic capes and broad smiles like the sun. The look overall
wasn’t bad; it just wasn’t really Clark.
“...it’s just that Lois picked this outfit out for me, and I wasn’t sure if…”

Ah, Lois. Of course she picked it out for him. She’d know what looks good on him, she’d
know how to make his best features stand out—how to bring out the best in him. All the eyes
in the restaurant would be on him—devouring him, lusting after him. Did she want that? Did
Clark want that? Did Bruce want that? Who cares what you want, Bruce thought bitterly, this
is about Lois and Clark. She wouldn’t hurt him with silence, with stilted words, or with poorly
disguised—it doesn’t matter. None of this does because he’s not doing this for you, it’s for her.
And yet… you’re Bruce Wayne, Bruce thought to himself as a means of self-preservation, well
renowned for effortless style and fashion. If anyone should be picking out what looks best on
him…er, someone, then it’s you. First things first, find something that’ll draw the attention to
his face. Clark hates when people ogle his body; he’d rather them see him.

“No,” Bruce said with an abrupt shake of his head, “This won’t do. What you wear,
especially on a first date, reveals a lot about a person. This look is saying it’s another day at
the office, which can be rather a bore, don’t you think? Let’s try something different than
your usual color palette, hm? This outfit’s giving work vibes, and for a date, you really don’t
want that” Clark nervously pulled at his sleeves, “Well, I don’t have anything besides blue
and red, and well, I like those colors…Lois—”

“Is Lois here or me, Clark?” Bruce huffed at the immediate dismissal, standing up to walk
towards the closet. Clark’s eyes shifted to the closet and with quiet resignation, he started
taking off his red tie. “Let’s see,” Bruce began with high hopes, thinking about Clark wearing
something he picked out, especially something that would make Clark more comfortable—
something he could blend in with yet still maintain an attractive presence—“ah, here we go!
How about this?” Bruce held out a tailored suit in onyx with a charcoal dress shirt. It was the
perfect fit for a first date: the dark color radiated confidence and unity while the subtle green
and blues within the black gave off personality and the perfect level of playfulness that Clark
is so well known for.

“Um…” Clark began, biting his lip. Bruce’s eye twitched in annoyance at Clark’s hesitancy,
“What’s wrong with it?” he finally sighed. “It’s just…well…” Bruce arched an eyebrow in
response. “Dark,” Clark finally answered, “it’s just really dark is all, not really me, you
know? I’m not a big fan of dark, if you get what I mean?”

Not a big fan of dark. Dark colors. Darkness.

Ridiculous.

He’s not yours.

Why would he know better than Clark’s girl?

He’s not interested in you.

With a sharp smile, Bruce responded, “Completely,” and went to put the suit away.

“Aw, wait, B, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be troublesome. Here, let me try it on?” Clark made
to grab the suit, but Bruce pulled it away.

“No, it’s fine,” Bruce locked those feelings away in himself and threw away the key, and with
another more practiced soft smile, he added, “really, I was just trying to offer my opinion.
But it’s not Bruce Wayne going on the date, it’s Clark Kent.” Clark frowned at Bruce’s
response. “Look,” Bruce began with a breath through his nose, trying to salvage the moment,
so Clark isn’t left feeling at fault for something as stupid as a suit, “wear it or don’t, I don’t
care. Or wear the blue and red. You know what you like and what Lois likes, and that’s
what’s important.”

“What you like is important to me too, Bruce,” Clark said softly. Bruce said nothing in reply
as he sat back down, gesturing for Clark to continue picking out an outfit. A few moments
pass before Clark speaks again, “Oh, shoot! It’s already 7:00! She’s probably waiting for
me!” In a flash, of white and blue, he’s in the first outfit he tried on—the one with the stripes
and red tie. But before he races out, he stops in the mirror to readjust his red tie. He runs his
hands through his unruly curls…

Such soft curls, Bruce thinks, laying across your pillowcase —

“I guess he’s right. I don’t look any different than when I go to work,” Clark’s gaze hadn’t
left the mirror. He hadn’t seemed to notice he’d said that out loud either. A frown rested
 across his face, creating wrinkles in between his brows. Bruce stood from the chair and
opened his mouth to give an encouraging word — something to keep Clark from frowning
over something he said off-hand. But before he could say anything, Clark had pulled away
from the mirror and looked directly at Bruce.

“Thanks for stopping by. I’m sure you had more important things to do. Sorry I decided to go
with the more boring option…I’m just not all fancy and put together like you are, B,” Clark
shrugged his shoulders like it was an unattainable reality.

“Clark,” Bruce began, seeing Clark fiddling with his glasses as he straightened his tie for the
fifth time.

“It’s alright, Bruce. I’ll see you around. Wish me luck!” And with that, he was rushing out the
door.

Bruce simply stood there in the middle of Clark’s room for who knows how long before a
message dinged on his phone. He looked down. A message from Alfred: he was needed back
at the manor.

He had just wanted to make Clark feel good, but maybe he didn’t even need it?

“You looked good, Clark. You looked nice.”

He shut the door and walked to his car. The roar of the engine kept his mind occupied as he
drove home.

Chapter End Notes

Hello, everyone~ I've never written for this fandom before or really have much practice
publicly writing, so please bear with me as I endeavor to entertain you! This one is a tad
shorter than the last, but I hope it is still enjoyable for you :) I'm currently working on
the next chapter, but I'm trying to figure out what direction I want to go with it. If you
have the inclination, please let me know what you think in the comments below! Kudos
are always appreciated too! Anyways, happy reading!

~Aminah

[UPCOMING] 3rd Time of Bruce accidentally insulting Clark: “I like spending time
with you”

Spending time with Clark has always been enjoyable even if he doesn’t show it. When
Clark makes other plans during ‘their’ time (which was never outwardly spoken), Bruce
says everything BUT what he feels.
 “I like spending time with you”
Chapter Summary

Prompt 3: 3rd Time of Bruce accidentally insulting Clark: “I like spending time with
you”

Spending time with Clark has always been enjoyable even if he doesn’t show it. When
Clark makes other plans during ‘their’ time (which was never outwardly spoken), Bruce
says everything BUT what he feels.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

It was their time. Every Tuesday at 5pm was their time, at least until Bruce left for what
Clark had fondly dubbed “Bat duty” or a scheduled stakeout. It wasn’t outwardly spoken, but
after a couple of years of this routine, did they even need to? Clark would swing by Wayne
Manor every week and despite Bruce’s adamant objections, Clark would still knock on the
door, awaiting Alfred’s arrival with the usual exchange: “Good evening, Master Kent” and
the smiling response “It is a good evening, isn’t it, Alfred?” “Indeed.”

Bruce guessed it had more to do with Clark’s upbringing than the fact that he may still feel
like a guest. They wouldn’t talk much, if at all. It was a comfortable, warming silence. And
Bruce was inwardly grateful. He’d never say it aloud, but small talk didn’t come as easy to
him as it came to Clark, which was painfully apparent after League meetings or anything
outside barking orders or relaying pertinent information concerning missions or analytics.
Bruce didn’t see the purpose of small talk, especially its tendency to only fill the empty air. It
had its uses particularly as Brucie Wayne, but Bruce liked to think Clark and him were above
simple pleasantries now. Thus “empty air small talk” did not extend to them. So despite
Clark’s boisterous personality and openness to small talk as a generality (people tended to
expect that of Superman—that despite his world-sized responsibility, he was there for you
and you alone), he would accompany Bruce in the silence. Privately, Bruce liked to think it
was for his consideration. Superman was like that; Clark was like that. Bruce was reluctant to
admit it, but he looked forward to these moments alone with Clark. He didn’t have to wait his
“turn” to talk with Clark like when Barry had an inexplicable desire to painstakingly detail
every single heroic feat he accomplished that very day. Throughout the rushed, somewhat
disjointed monologue, Clark would nod his head intently, smiling, like he was listening to
every single word Barry was spewing, and unironically, he probably was. He didn’t have to
vie for Clark’s attention when he wanted to ask something of him like after League meetings
where everyone suddenly needed Superman’s input. Here in the Cave or at Wayne Manor,
Clark’s attention and time was on Bruce—for Bruce.

Which is why Bruce wished he could entertain Clark better, make their precious time
together more…worthwhile: ask his interests pretending he already didn’t know them, take
him somewhere special to see his small shy smile that did more than Superman’s big
plastered grin ever could, or…give him something he—He wished he could do more, more
than filling out daily reports or conducting preliminary reconnaissance within the grime and
slums of the Narrows. The paperwork, the business side of things, the good ole’ fashioned
police work. Things the other Leaguers rarely had to do, being able to rely independently on
their own superhuman abilities or others working alongside them. Things sometimes they
took for granted because Batman and J’onn had worked hard to produce a seamless system of
communication, adaptation, and information extraction. Things the Lantern so obnoxiously
termed “boring-as-hell-not-real-hero’s hero work.” But regardless of Bruce’s consistency and
determined silence, which most would deem boring, intimidating, or stilting, Clark always
showed up—a smile on his face—taking a seat close to him without a word.

It was unspoken.

It was perfect.

Needless to say, Clark was the only one within the League that really got to know Bruce, or
at least the only one Bruce let get to know him. It was during these times: time at Wayne
Manor reading together, watching surveillance tapes in the Batcave over a box of chow mein,
or simply being in each other’s company. Batman could never think to look forward to those.
But Bruce could. And he did.

But he should’ve known better.

He should’ve known that it wouldn’t last.

What had he done to deserve this happiness? This ploy of normality?

For this time, Clark didn’t show up.

It was the first time Clark didn’t show up—no word, no reason why—he just wasn’t there.
Bruce almost didn’t realize (he did, immediately) he wasn’t present. Bruce tapped the keys on
the computer in front of him as time ticked by, eyes hyper-focused on the words on the
screen, knee bouncing. Robbery. Last Thursday. Inside job. Where is he? $1.3 million in
cash. Should I cover his food? A Crane appearance. He hadn’t said anything about having
other plans. Toxins used on—Wouldn’t he have told me? Bruce clicked out of the report,
finger distractedly tapping on anything but the arrow keys. Calm down, Bruce’s jaw
clenched, it’s not a big deal. Stop making such a big issue out of something so small. A sigh
escaped his lips as he tilted his head side to side to stretch the muscles in his neck. It’s the
first time this has happened.

It’s not a big deal .

Isn’t it?

Bruce doesn’t make a big deal out of it because why should he? Clark was probably busy.
There was probably an emergency. He is Superman after all. So, busy…not like Bruce wasn’t
as well—no big deal.

No need to look into it. No need to overthink it.

Let. It. Go.

Besides , Bruce thinks to himself, it’s not like they do anything of necessary importance that
should warrant a joint mandatory attendance…

In the deeper, more confined, private facets of his mind, he knows it also wouldn’t do for him
to seem desperate or pathetic…

Like he looks forward to this alone time with Clark.

Like he doesn’t sometimes (always) clear his entire schedule for these few hours of
undisturbed peace with him.

Because he could be doing better things (not), could be holding another shareholder’s
meeting about Wayne Enterprises next big project (there’s always another one scheduled the
following day), could be prowling the streets of Gotham (it’s usually quiet at this time of
night).

But he decides to spend his time here. It’s not even a big deal. But a call would’ve been nice.

So, Bruce doesn’t say anything—why would he? He’ll just put the boxed takeout away—the
boys are probably hungry anyway. And with his mind made up, Bruce continues typing at a
more consistent rate, mind sharpened and determined to stop thinking about that . Besides, it
was the first time this has happened.

***

The second time it happens is the following week, but this time Clark does say something
before their designated time.

“Hey, B, can’t make it tonight. Gotta meet this deadline or Perry will have my head! Perhaps
we can–”

“It’s not a big deal. I was busy anyway.”

“Oh… Uh, ok, well, I guess I’ll see you–”

“Yes, goodnight, Clark.”

Click . And Bruce headed down to the Cave. He’s been needing to reorganize the
Watchtower’s surveillance reports from last week.
***

The next week it’s Bruce that cancels. There were disturbing rumors swimming in Gotham’s
polluted air. Word on the street was there were negotiations surrounding a possible early
release for the Joker. Over his dead body, Bruce thought darkly as he intercepted the police
alert, swinging to the adjacent building. And then there were rumors of a deal being struck
between federal headquarters and Arkham Asylum’s facility. Something akin to you scratch
my back, I’ll scratch yours. Information in exchange for a lessened sentence. Why did they
need Joker when Batman could extract the information himself from various other sources? It
was perilous and unnecessary, but Bruce doubted Waller would see it that way. She was
particularly tight-lipped whenever she found herself concerned with dealings in Gotham,
which Bruce simultaneously respected and loathed. Currently, and if his sources were to be
trusted, Joker was being interrogated in Arkham Asylum, Lot C, Room C37802. So, Batman
would make an appearance. Nothing happened in Gotham without Batman knowing about it.
Anyway, he was needed to corroborate Joker’s story since they couldn’t possibly take that
clown at his word. Haven’t they learned anything since his last arrest? Batman shot his
grappling hook and swung to the top of the police building, stalking towards the roof’s
entrance.

According to Gordon, Batman’s presence for this interrogation wasn’t necessary and could
wait. He would cause unwanted distractions for their witness—sidetracking him from their
intended purpose. In fact, Bruce believed Gordon’s exact words were “Don’t come”, but
direct commands were basically suggestions and invitations at this point. And Bruce wasn’t
one to take any chances. Opening the door that led off the roof, Batman silently made his way
down the spiraling steps. He ignored then silenced the multiple texts pinging on his private
phone. Clark could wait.

***

The beginning of the next week (or was it the couple weeks after?), Bruce thought they both
finally were on the same page. They had talked after a League meeting albeit briefly, and
Bruce thought it had been pretty clear. Clark hadn’t asked or really said anything, but
everything seemed amiable. Clark was smiling and engaging with everyone, and there were
no interruptions or awkward tensions. Bruce had assumed , and he supposed, in hindsight,
that had been the issue… assuming. Something he had lectured and growled at his kids for
doing—the Titans, the League—yet here he was doing the same. And you know what they
say about “assuming”, it makes an “ass” out of “u” and “me.”

Bruce finished his patrol early as he did every Tuesday, arriving in the Batcave at 5pm on the
dot.

30 minutes.

An hour.

Two.

Now nearing three.

Bruce was patient, not stupid. He knew when he had been forgotten, or at least set to the side
for something (or someone ) else. Clark wasn’t coming. Bruce went over all the scenarios in
his head, analyzing what he could’ve done to rub Clark the wrong way. They hadn’t been
fighting. Had they? Had he said something to Clark lately, something hurtful or insensitive?
He seemed fine at the meeting earlier that day. Bruce frowned as he tapped away on the
batcomputer, filing away tonight’s report. Maybe he’s grown tired— No. He wasn’t going
down that route. He didn’t need this ridiculous self-pity or dependence; he was a full grown
man for goodness sake. He could handle a few missed meetings.

Except it wasn’t just a few, was it?

A distancing relationship because people tended to grow apart as time passed on. Except
Clark isn’t like that… So, then, the problem must be YOU .

Alfred’s soft footsteps woke him from his spiraling thoughts. “Ah, sir, has Master Kent not
contacted you yet? I’ve the food just upstairs.”

“He won’t be coming tonight, Alfred.”

“Has he told you this himself, sir?”

Bruce turned to face the man who practically raised him, someone he couldn’t hide anything
from, “Hardly seems necessary.” Both of their eyes shifted to the clock’s time.

“Still, sir,” Alfred’s voice echoed in the Cave, purposefully neutral, which made Bruce’s eye
twitch in annoyance, “there must be a reason. Perhaps a phone call is in order?”

And with that, he set the tea tray on a side table and walked back up to the Manor. He wasn’t
a child needing to be coddled or a heartbroken teenager begging for reasons as to why. He
was Batman—body hardened and molded for a life of saving Gotham, mind prepared for any
contingency, heart—so why is it so difficult to pick up this damn phone? Just for good
measure and for tactful reasons, of course, Bruce waited a solid 30 minutes before calling.
The phone didn’t ring for long before a confused voice spoke, “Uh, hello?” Oh, right, Bruce
was calling from his private secured server; Clark wouldn’t have this number.

“Clark, it’s Bruce.” A hesitant pause before an ecstatic, “Bruce! Hey–uh, er what’s up? You
need something?” Does Bruce need something, which meant he had no clue why Bruce was
calling because he had forgotten. Bruce forgot how much it hurt to be forgotten. Whether it
was in bright, flashing lights, or the fearful voices on the streets, Bruce had forgotten what it
felt like to be forgotten , and he hated what it did to him.

“Uh, Bruce?” Bruce hadn’t answered Clark’s question, “Are you okay, B? Do I need to come
over–?” “Where are you?” Bruce’s voice was cold, if Clark was going to treat him like an
afterthought, Bruce wasn’t going to give him the liberty of seeing how it affected him. “What
do you mean?” Clark’s voice seeped genuine confusion, but Bruce ignored that because how
could he have so easily forgotten? He didn’t understand– “Tonight. 5.” Bruce didn’t offer
much of an explanation because he didn’t think he needed to. They had been doing this for a
couple of years now.

Had it not meant as much to Clark as it did to Bruce?

Bruce wasn’t sure he wanted an answer to that question. He thought his well constructed,
heavily evaluated list of fears, of which he had accumulated all these years, had shrunk in the
last decade. His training of diligence, resilience, and strength had seen to that, or at least he
thought it had. Looks like another self-assessment was in order , Bruce thought grimly. He
had grown complacent; he had grown vulnerable.

“Tonight…” Clark’s soft voice faded out as if he was attempting to recollect some vast
memory, which only served to tick off Bruce more. “The Cave. Manor,” Bruce supplied, not
wanting the baited silence to gut him any longer, his grip growing tighter around the cellular
device as he worked to slow his heart rate down. “Oh, ah,” Clark began as if looking for a
nice way to let Bruce down gently, which only served to irk Bruce more. Bruce moved to
hang up, not seeing the point of this conversation anymore as it was only serving to infuriate
him but before he could, Clark continued his earlier statement, “Well, I didn’t think you
wanted me visiting there anymore…”

What?

“And why would you think that?” Why would I ever want that? Don’t you know me? Know
us? Bruce could tell that instead of the slightly curious and gentle way he meant it, it came
off as terse and irritated if Clark’s slow response was anything to go by. Bruce could
practically see Clark’s slouched form and furrowed brows. “It’s nothing, B, I’ll just—”

“No,” Bruce cut off, his own brows drawn in confused irritation. He wasn’t going to sit and
wonder anymore—wonder in self-inflicting agony of the what-ifs and the what-ares. He was
going to get some answers, if not for the sake of the previously sacred shared monotony, then
for his own peace of mind. “B, it’s not—”

“Answer me.” A hissed direct command. And said with such hateful venom, too. There was
no way of mistaking it. There was no B; there was no Bruce. There was only Batman.

A silence overtook the conversation, which usually would’ve meant contemplation or the
breath before a change of subject—the common flow between close friends. Now, it was out
of stupefaction. Bruce had never talked to Clark this way; he’d never talked to anyone he
cared about this way. It was as if time had reverted, and they were strangers once more.

What are you doing?!

Bruce didn’t offer an explanation, an apology, or a change of subject. He wouldn’t—
couldn’t… but… His brain hurt. He didn’t mean it. Leastways, not to the degree Clark was
most definitely interpreting it. Why had he called again?

“Are you upset with me? Did I do something wrong? Tell me, Bruce, so I can fix it.” Ever the
helpful hero. Always looking for a peaceful solution. Have to make sure everyone’s safe, that
no one gets their feelings hurt, that everyone has a friend, that you are that friend, that the
antisocial, vulnerable loner is visited frequently so he’s not lonely…

Scratch that and damn it all, he meant it.

“You’re deflecting. For once, stop trying to be the cowardly, groveling pacifist and answer
the fucking question!” Unnecessary riling, but if there was anything that would get Clark’s
lips flapping, it would be attacking his character. What made Superman—no, Clark—who he
was, what he stood for. Bruce was sure his teeth were grinding.

“I wasn’t deflecting,” Good, Clark was irritated, too. Seems only fair. “I wanted to know
what was bothering you before I answered, you know, that common courtesy thing. The thing
people ask those they care about when something doesn’t feel right.” It was reasonable albeit
snippy and very Clark, which were two things Bruce didn’t want to hear or think about right
now. It was rare and unlikely for Batman to find himself on the emotional side of an
argument. That was usually Superman’s forte, not Batman’s. But you aren’t really being
Batman right now, are you? Despite the harsh words and the cold approach, he was still the
ever needy, weak fool ironically flaunted to the public. The walls between masks were
growing thinner. This pitying realization is what prompted the next words to leave his mouth,
“Ah, yes, ever the paragon of virtue.”

“Bruce, what’s your problem? You’re being a real pain in the ass right now, you know that?”
It really is your problem, not his. Clark’s voice sounded hurt despite its sharp edge. “I know
you’re goading me, and you only do that when you’re upset.” You don’t know me . “Yes, I do,
Bruce. We’re friends.” There it was: friends. A label Clark treasured so viciously, and one
Bruce threw at the wind. What was a friend but a lingering liability? A cover, an empty
promise. Were they friends ? “It’s natural to care about those closest to you.” “Are we close,
Clark?” Clark hesitated for a moment, and Bruce gripped the phone tighter.

“Of course we are,” Clark answered seamlessly with such sincerity that Bruce’s grip
slackened, “I’m sorry for not answering, or the way you wanted me to.” Did I want him to
answer a certain way? “But I won’t apologize for asking after your well-being, Bruce.” If he
cares so much, why did he wait until now to bring it up? Where was this care before? “—It’s
just the decent thing to do; it’s what all decent human beings do.”

So, it wasn’t about Bruce after all. At least not entirely because why would Clark look much
into these few hours of utter silence and Bruce’s dogged persistence to display his worth? To
Gotham, to the League, to Clark. It was about decency, keeping up communal relations.
Doing what was right. Something everyone should do, strive to do. Bruce didn’t know what
moved first: his mind or his heart. But as his mouth opened to speak, he realized the answer
should’ve always been obvious when it came to him—to Batman, to Bruce Wayne. The
patterns didn’t lie; repetitive history was inevitable. And it was logically sound; a plethora of
data backing it: he could live without a heart.

“And you’d know all about being human, wouldn’t you, Kal?”

A noise could be heard on the other end. The rest of the moment was silence. By the time
Bruce comprehended the weight and calculated vileness of those words that had left his
tongue, Clark finally got around to answering his question. He had impeccable timing as
always. “And you wondered why I thought you didn’t want me around,” a small sigh that
shouldn’t have sounded as tired and hurt as it did, “Just,” A breath, “Let’s call it a night,
yeah? You’re tired, I’m tired, and if we keep on talking, we are going to say stuff we’ll
regret…” Hopeful. Begging.

We.

As if Clark had been the one throwing the verbal punches.

Bruce couldn’t even ascertain whether he had meant those words or even meant for them to
come out. But they had been there in his mind before they had left his mouth. Bruce couldn’t
bring himself to respond. He always had a way with words.

“I just wanted to ask after you and apologize for, well, being a coward,” Clark spoke softly as
if the words themselves carried the weight of the world. Bruce could imagine the questions
conjuring themselves anew. How can someone as powerful as Superman afford to be
cowardly? Is it brave to fight knowing you cannot be harmed? If it’s not bravery, then must it
be cowardice? “I should’ve called and talked with you, but I was,” Afraid, as I am now ,
“...unsure.” It was spoken as if it was the wrong word, but Bruce understood. They know
each other like that—knew each other like that… because Bruce wasn’t sure if they’d ever
have what they had before. He was unsure too, he supposed.

“Clark,” A listening silence, I like spending time with you that’s why — , “I’m well. Been
busy these last couple weeks. A couple heists and robberies.”

“Sounds invigorating,” Clark answered with that sliver of dry sarcasm Bruce had been
hoping to hear again, weaseling its way out of his mouth.

Bruce hmphed in response, thinking over his next question seriously before causing more
rifts, “The offer still stands,” if you still want to be around me.

Please say “Yes!”, please say “No!” — Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. No —

“It’s a little late,” Oh, “maybe next week?” A lot can happen in seven days.

“I’ll bring the takeout. It’s my turn anyways.”

“Sounds good.” It doesn’t. I’m sorry. Please, just… Listen. Clark.

“Goodnight, Bruce.” Clark hung up before Bruce even had a chance to answer to keep Clark
talking, but he supposed they had forsaken awkward pleasantries long ago. “Goodnight,
Clark,” his voice followed the descent of his arm as he set his phone onto the counter space
in front of him.

“I see Master Clark will not be joining us this evening once more.” Alfred’s voice carried
exceedingly well across the Cave. Bruce doesn’t even try to hide his flinch, “No. No, he’s…
tired.” “Indeed,” Alfred replied, looking down, which Bruce refused to cower from.

“Will that be all, Master Bruce?”

 “He said he will be here next week. He’s bringing the takeout this time”

“Quite. The boys will be glad to see him.”

“Yes.”

“A word of advice, Master Bruce.” Bruce finally fully turned his gaze towards his butler—
the years of running the Wayne household clear upon his face and hair than he’d ever noticed
before. “Know your limits.” At Bruce’s confused expression, Alfred continued, “Not
everyone is tied by blood and contract.”

A bitter smile warped Bruce’s face as he asked, “And which one are you, Alfred?”

“I’m the family butler, Master Bruce,” Alfred said with a soft look in his eyes.

“Goodnight, Alfred.”

“Goodnight, Master Bruce.”

Chapter End Notes

Hello~ Sorry this update took like a million years... but that's honestly what it felt like in
order for it to become publish-worthy—leastways to me. Whenever I complete a
chapter, I usually read it several times, continually make nit-picky changes, and then
leave it untouched for a handful of days before revisiting it again. It's my way of
ensuring the closest product of perfection I could ever hope to achieve. And since I'm
writing and editing it on my own, it takes even longer. Many apologies! So, I hope this
update is worth it for all of you!

Feel free to leave kudos or a comment—I always like hearing what you have to say!

Also, how do you all feel about me just randomly inserting other Leaguers into the
narrative... like Shayera? Aquaman? Green Arrow? Should I pretend they've always
been there or...? Because I'll be honest, I completely forgot about them when I
constructed the first chapter. I really just wanted more interactions/mentions with J'onn
because of my Mars-sized crush on him...which resulted in less of the others and more
of him. Sorry? Anyway, the changes might not make a lick of sense time-wise or
adaptation-wise, but that's the beauty of fanfiction, I suppose. Let me know your
thoughts!

~Aminah

[UPCOMING] 4th Time Bruce accidentally insults Clark: “You are so thoughtful” Clark
is unashamedly a people person. He loves people—perhaps TOO much in Bruce’s
opinion. Bruce attempts to explain to Clark why he doesn’t need to stretch himself so
thin, so why are words like “selfish” and “ridiculous” spilling out of his mouth?
 “You are so thoughtful”
Chapter Summary

Prompt 4 - 4th Time of Bruce accidentally insulting Clark: “You are so thoughtful”

Clark is unashamedly a people person. He loves people—perhaps TOO much in Bruce’s

opinion. Bruce attempts to explain to Clark why he doesn’t need to stretch himself so
thin, so why are words like “selfish” and “ridiculous” spilling out of his mouth?

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Bruce understood the terrible need to be busy. The constant strain of overworking throughout
the years left a bitter yet familiar feeling in the back of his mind and the aching points of his
joints. Life as a hero—self-proclaimed or bestowed upon—required that level of tenacity and
resolve. He also understood what it felt like to need to prove your worth. The physical and
emotional toll accelerated by the ever-present reminders of mortality and personal
inadequacies. Despite the taunting commentary from Hal or the barbed remarks from
Gotham’s public, Bruce did know what it felt like to feel . It wasn’t a mental state he relished
partaking in nor had the luxury to afford. But he was human after all—as he was so
constantly and vividly reminded time and time again. It wasn’t always through acrimonious
means, or even malicious actions. But that almost made it worse. At least with spite and
cruelty, he had Batman, but with care and (misplaced) pity, he had nothing.

Because how could they ever fully understand?

His need.

This terrible, parasitic need.

“You’re only human, Bruce.” As if it was an incurable disease or an immovable limitation.
Sometimes it took everything in Bruce to not outwardly explode at the unintentional
accusation—as if he should be grateful for this flaunting of his banal existence… his badge
of supposedly coveted commonality. They could take it if it was so wholly sought after.
Because even the “normal” wasn’t “normal” here—either through imbued rings of power or
accidentally bestowed elemental powers—they weren’t “normal”, not Batman normal. Not
Bruce normal, not human normal. Not in the way it counted in the stratosphere of hero antics
and superhuman abilities. Because when push came to shove, Bruce never felt more alone
than around people. As Bruce Wayne, he was alone in a vast palace of corruption, deceit, and
apathy. As Batman, he was alone in the infested slums of death, brutality, and sickness. Even
among those who knew his duplicit lifestyle, he was alone, whether it was because of the lack
of emotional connection, the growing chasm of societal circles, or the vulnerable absence of
uniquely superhuman physical abilities.

He didn’t belong.

He was alone.

So, he had grown accustomed to not only being alone but feeling alone.

Which is what made Clark’s actions stand out to him so distinctly.

Here was someone who bridged the emotional gap between warrior and god, who associated
with all societal circles regardless of the individual’s background, and whose abilities far
exceeded any human expectation. Here was someone who could shoulder the physical
capacity required of a busy lifestyle. Physical and mental drawbacks weren’t overtly apparent
in a being that could be almost anywhere and everywhere within mere seconds—whose only
source of human fragility was the necessary consumption of solar energy. Hardly an
incapacitation.

It had been a long time since Bruce felt a kindred spirit; but above all, it’s unprecedented to
find someone who had the possibility of succeeding.

Had.
Bruce has been wrong before. Because that’s all it ever really was—a possibility—a pipe
dream for them both.

And that’s what it remained.

Clark, despite all his strength, his speed, his energy, could not always be there (for it seems
even god-like beings had their limits).

But hell, did he try.

For a being that can’t “tire” in the way that a normal human can, Clark was doing a
remarkable job at re-enacting humanity.

Time and time again, he tried—despite the faint discoloration beneath his eyes or the flickers
of weariness that seemed to rest within his shoulders. With a too-large grin, Clark would
answer every question, every request, every task as if only he could fulfill said request.

“I’ll be there” “You can count on me!” “Sure thing!” “Of course I can make time for you!”
And the list went on.

Why? Because Clark was unashamedly a people person, which more often than not—
according to Bruce—tended to overlap with people pleaser, but Clark insisted that they didn’t
have to be one in the same. Weren’t they though? Perhaps it was his love for people—for
Earth, in general, that clouded his judgment? He liked doing things for people; he lived to do
things with people. His very being and therefore worth was intertwined with humanity.
Needless to say, he coveted the mundane and everyday living, existing…being. So, what part
of all that wasn’t being a people pleaser? Bruce had yet to find out, but he knew he’d wind up
disagreeing. Speaking of which…

All original members were currently in the Watchtower, reviewing future applicants to their
cause. So at one of the scheduled Justice League meetings, Bruce couldn’t help but let his
eyes drift to said person on the side. He had been occupying his mind as of late.
There had been more additions to the Justice League roster recently as more and more
members were being considered then included in the path to enact, preserve, and personify
justice. Bruce slowly let his mind drift back into the present—the induction of the League’s
newest members. He and J’onn had undergone a full investigation and analysis of each
candidate. Both of them had provided an in-depth presentation discussing the potential
members with the current League members. Each nominee had received scrutiny, their
achievements measured, and their potential hero material examined. Well, Batman initiated
and suggested most of the restrictions and criteria with Diana and J’onn putting forth
additional propositions that Batman readily agreed upon.

Teamwork capability. Availability.

Some of Batman’s motions and recommendations were promptly dismissed like personality
compatibility. The refutation being “Everyone deserves a chance to prove themselves, B. We
shouldn’t discount someone just because of the possibility that there might be personality
clashes.” Unsurprisingly, Clark had said that, but Bruce expected nothing else from
Metropolis’s bright hero; however, Bruce didn’t expect J’onn and Diana to agree so willingly.
Batman seemed to be the only one in favor of further testing centered on personality.
Personality links with your character, your morals, your priorities, patterned behavior
particularly when it concerns authority…

And when he went to voice the necessity of personality compatibility working hand-in-hand
with teamwork capability—a suggestion that was unanimously accepted—Lantern just had to
open his trap, “Spooky, you out of everyone should know that this argument is pointless.” A
shared glare. “I mean just look at yourself! No one gets along with you, so if we implemented
the personality thing, then you’d automatically be excluded from the League!” The following
comments fell from Barry and Clark’s mouths, “Hal, that was so uncalled for!” “Many of us
get along just fine with Batman.” Bruce’s feelings were hardly hurt. Besides, he’d grown
accustomed to Hal’s banter and his barbed remarks. Him and Green Lantern bumped heads—
constantly—and personally, Hal’s personality clashed just as much as his own. However, he
did not completely discount the truth in Jordan’s statement, which really only seemed to
prove his request for personality compatibility. Figuring out who worked well with who, and
who showed patterns of stubborn behavior…. Hmm…okay, maybe he has a point , Bruce had
thought bitterly.

The next week he had suggested a motion corresponding with their wellbeing, which would
further enhance their personal health database. Recommendations like full body scans and
DNA analysis—the basis of the rejection was “invasion of privacy.” Bruce accepted the
rejection only to ease their unease. For, It’s not like it’s out of the realm of possibilities
regardless of their disapproval.
After all, Bruce did not need their permission nor their blessing. His suggestion was out of
curiosity and to place a seed of awareness—mostly. They should be well prepared for
possible developments not just within the League but outside it too, especially with new
“supers”, as Hal had termed it, popping up around the globe. It was best to be ready for these
possibilities, even if others were less inclined to do so. But it was very much like them all—
to deal with it as it came . And they could, being the beings they are.

The potential candidates turned inducted nominees were far and few between. Bruce mentally
filed away their key components, as each was listed aloud by J’onn.

Dinah Drake—hero alias: Black Canary. Special abilities include a canary cry that delivers
ultrasonic vibrations. Arthur Curry—hero alias: the Aquaman, King of Atlantis. Special
abilities include super strength, aquatic life control, and aquatic respiration. Shayera Hol—
hero alias: Hawkgirl. Special abilities include flight, immortality, enhanced strength and
durability. Victor Stone—hero alias: Cyborg. Special abilities include cybernetic
enhancements and remarkable data processing intellect.

Batman’s mind went through the perceived strengths and necessary weaknesses of each
potential and current member of the League, measuring each member as he did any potential
threat or problem. J’onn’s eyes had shifted to Bruce briefly, cutting off his train of thought
immediately. Then, J’onn began reading off this week’s agenda, member roll-call finished:
Watchtower duty time slots, as per his responsibility. The Martian was dictating last week’s
reports, and the priority concern that would need to be continually supervised until further
notice. He could see some members zoning out and others whose minds were definitely
anywhere but here. The Batman in him growled in irritation at the inattention and further
proof of why he was only a part-timer.

But in the lonely depths of his mind—the part he ashamedly and now fervently and actively
worked towards concealing—bitterly thought about how they had the luxury to afford this
inattention.

After hearing the pairings for the week, Lantern was once more groaning at the possibility of
being paired with Bruce. Honestly, it was pathetically predictable at this point, and like any
overused, old joke, it had well run its course. He hardly wanted to be with Jordan either, but
did you hear him whining and bitching about it?
“Please, anyone but Spooky! I don’t want to sit in silence for two hours. Or worse, have to
listen to lecture after lecture about improvement and responsibility. I think I’ll go insane!”
Bruce inwardly rolled his eyes at the dramatic. Here we go again… He couldn’t help it if he
thought and worked best in utter silence. And there was nothing wrong with improving
oneself and holding themselves accountable. Bruce would be concerned if the Justice League
didn’t personally see to implementing this essential daily evaluation process.

And really, he actually had no problem with noise and chatter—you could tell a lot from a
person by how they spoke and what they decided to bring up. As long as they didn’t expect
the same from Bruce, he was more than happy to let them prattle on. Well, “happy” was an
overstatement, but Bruce was agreeable to the idea.

Bruce was about to open his mouth to rip into Hal before a voice shattered the continual
building tense atmosphere. “I’ll be with Batman,” Clark piped up as J’onn also went to
answer Hal’s complaints. All eyes shifted to their bright leader. Diana smiled, and J’onn’s
line of sight moved to Batman as if looking for any inclination of refusal.

A few moments passed and J’onn’s voice was answering Hal, “Then, you’ll be delighted to
find that your partner for the next couple of days is the Flash.” Hal whooped and Barry
smiled. J’onn’s voice spoke up once more, “Then, that settles the arrangement: Green Lantern
and Flash, Wonder Woman and Hawkgirl, Canary and I. Aquaman, when you’re available
you’ll be partnered with Cyborg, who can monitor solo, if need be. And finally, Superman
and Batman. Any objections?” When no response was given besides Barry’s thumbs up and
Dinah’s shrug, J’onn adjourned the meeting.

“Kal,” Diana spoke, disrupting the slowly dissipating sounds of clapping and cheering from
Hal and Barry, “Are you free after this meeting?” Clark stopped gazing at the cheering
display before him in favor of the warrior princess’s eyes. “If you are, I wish to spar with
you. I found our last sparring session exceedingly beneficial as I hope you did.” Clark was a
little slower to respond than usual, “Sure, Di! I always enjoy sparring with you.” It was said
with his usual bright grin, but Bruce could see the half twitch in his left eye and the tremble
of his fingers as they loosely grasped the edge of the table. But Diana didn’t notice; none of
them did. Because if Superman said he was fine and was grinning ear-to-ear, then he was fine
and untroubled.

Bruce couldn’t blame them because he’d been blind to it too. He had just started noticing the
tells: the flickering eyes, the trembling fingers, the longer sighs, and the more consistent
slumping of the shoulders. They weren’t entirely noticeable—not by a long shot. But for
someone used to covering up their tiredness in the face of gods and extraterrestrials alike,
Bruce knew a thing or two about this compulsory impulse.

Be that as it may, Bruce said nothing as this exchange happened before his eyes. Bruce let his
white lenses focus on the paper files before him as his eyes beneath them shifted to the
Kryptonian who once again was making a second set of plans. Or was it a third? Fourth? This
time it was with Barry and Hal—something about a pizza party?

“You should totally come, Big Blue!” Hal was rocking back and forth in his chair, which was
making Bruce’s own eye twitch, “Barry’s place is super chill and the delivery service is there
in a flash !” He said it with a wink as Bruce rolled his eyes, Clark chuckled good naturedly,
and Barry blushed. “Hal, please,” Barry said quietly, softly swatting at Hal’s upper arm, but
Hal shrugged and gave Barry a dramatic wounded look. “Sure, I’ll be there,” Clark said with
a contemplative look despite the tiredness behind his eyes, “when would be a good time?” As
Clark’s question was brought up, Bruce decided now was as good a time as any to lay some
boundaries since Clark wasn’t going to do it, “Aren’t you working late at the Planet?”

The question charged the air as Hal mumbled something about being a spoil-sport or anti-fun
Bat, then Barry voiced his concern, “Oh, Clark, I didn’t know,” and Bruce was inwardly
commending a job well done, “it’s not mandatory or anything! You need your rest, too.
Please don’t feel forced to come.” Exactly, thank you, Barry.

“Barry, I don’t feel forced to come,” Clark let a quick glare escape his eyes, completely and
unreasonably directed at Bruce, “I want to come.”

“Are you sure?” Barry said, most likely catching the glare Clark had sent Bruce’s way, but
Hal—as per usual—decided to commandeer the situation, “Bare, if he says he’s cool, then
he’s cool. Besides, haven’t you been wanting the League over at your place for like a year
now?” Barry blushed at the mention of his used-to-be-secret-confession, “see, and Supes is
coming, which means that everyone else will slowly come to the realization that your place is
the place to be!” Hal’s encouraging smile thrown Barry’s way seemed to be all the
convincing Barry needed because he was looking at Clark expectedly. Bruce rolled his eyes
and bit his annoyed sigh down as Clark accepted with a good natured, humored-smile, “Well,
now I can’t turn it down!” Barry and Hal high-fived as Barry started to list all the things they
were going to do and all the things that were at his place. Clark stood there listening to
Barry’s excited ramble as Hal interjected with random, “significant” details, and Bruce could
see it.
The weariness. Not at Barry, but at… everything.

Clark’s fingers twitched between his folded arms and his eyes shifted every once and awhile.
Then, Diana reentered the room.

“Kal?”

Clark’s attention snapped to the Amazonian as Barry immediately stopped speaking, his
attention mirroring Clark’s, “Oh, Di, yes, I’m coming! Sorry, I was just discussing some
plans with Barry.” Barry looked properly embarrassed at holding up Clark’s previous plans
and he said as such,” Gee, sorry, Clark. I didn’t realize you had somewhere else to be. Sorry
for all the rambling…” Clark waved away Barry’s concerns, “It was my fault, Barry, so
you’ve no reason to apologize. And it wasn’t just ramblings” It was, but okay , “it was
important to you, so it’s important to me.” It was said with a soft smile—a tired one, but no
one saw that but Bruce. He knew all Clark’s smiles.

Barry looked relieved if his ducking head was anything to go by, Hal looked appreciative
with his nod of approval, Diana looked impatient with her crossed arms—-she no doubt had
places to be—and Bruce just looked annoyed, not that anyone was paying him any attention.
He stood there to the back, finishing up sorting the files in chronological order and some
alphabetically.

Then, the first Watchtower shift was set in motion: Flash and Green Lantern. Clark and Diana
walked towards the practice room simulators while Bruce stayed behind to ensure a smooth
transition between operations and records; if they were going to be efficient, then they needed
to work seamlessly—there was minimal room for error. Bruce was hooking up some of the
equipment when Barry and Hal walked in still chatting away. Being usually quiet with
perceived apathy, people tended to willingly ignore his presence, which in this case, worked
in his favor as he was gathering a hell of a picture with Hal’s prattling on and Barry’s careful
remarks.

“I hope I didn’t pressure Clark into coming…you know how he is, Hal,” Barry made a quick
show of ringing his hands before he realized he was doing it then abruptly stopped, “he’ll just
do things without any regard for himself—just so we, you know, feel included and stuff.”
“I mean, he seemed fine, so it’s probably not even a big deal, Bare. Don’t worry about it! He
said he’ll come, so he’ll come. He’s a big boy; he can take care of himself,” Hal flopped onto
one of the monitoring chairs, “ugh, the least they could’ve done is make these seats
somewhat comfortable! It’s not like we will be sitting here for hours or anything!”

That’s about more than enough.

“Monitoring is not a luxury; it’s a duty that requires your utmost focus.” Hal partially fell out
of his chair with a what the living hell before scowling at the Dark Knight. “Installing
comfortable chairs better suited for lounging completely devoids it of its original purpose.
We can’t have you falling asleep on the job,” Bruce finished, making his appearance better
known by stepping further into the light from behind the monitoring panel, “you are meant to
be leaving this chair, not lodging.” Barry was biting his lip to keep from laughing at the
thorough scolding Hal was receiving right in front of him, but even he could see what Hal
was getting at: we are going to spend a lot of time here… might as well make it worth our
while…

“Well, not all of us live to live depressing, forcibly stilted lives, Spooky,” Hal said, crossing
his arms and legs—the very appearance of confidence and comfortability. He was going to
make this chair comfortable goddamn it… if not for his own sake than at least for the sake of
ticking off the uptight Bat, “and make some noise before speaking—Jesus Christ.” Hal had
been squirming in his seat as a show of making himself comfortable just as Barry directed his
focus towards Bruce, “Please don’t tell, Clark.”

“Tell him what?” Regardless of his irritation with Hal and his Hal-ness , Bruce wasn’t about
to take it out on one of their youngest members. Barry’s relationship with most of the League
tended to reflect a younger sibling status, so naturally, Bruce had grown rather fond of the red
speedster. Just as he did with every addition to the Bat family, it seemed almost natural to
also extend his dark wing over the blonde hero as an act of guidance and protection—and
privately, in the more hidden facets of his soul, a lulling comfort. The transition was smooth
and easily facilitated by Barry’s even-temperament, teachability, diligence, natural brilliance,
and his innate desire to do good. It also helped that he wasn’t of the personality to grate on
his nerves.

“That we were talking about him,” Barry said, also sitting down, just making less of a show
of it, “I don’t want him to think badly of himself or that we think badly of him… it’s just that,
well,” Barry’s hesitancy spoke volumes. So, someone else has noticed, huh.
Barry continued, “He’s been so busy lately, and sometimes he just seems so tired, you know?
Not that it’s been affecting anything with team dynamics and all!” Barry was quick to
reassure what he presumed Bruce would latch onto. It was a natural, sensible response,
especially with the definitive reputation and verifiable behavioral patterns of the Batman—
but the idea that Bruce would care for team dynamics within the League rather than Clark’s
personal well being just for the sake of caring… it stung a little. Then, he supposed they
didn’t necessarily have to be mutually exclusive. The thought brought him little solace,
however.

“I understand, Flash,” Bruce said, and Barry barely flinched at the obvious dismissal of a
continued conversation; he never did get quite used to Bruce’s usual manner of speaking,
“and you, don’t goof off,” Bruce shifted his eyes on the green light before him now playing
with a paddle ball, “I’ll be back for the next shift.”

“Yeah, whatever, Spooky.” “Sure thing, Bats! We’ll hold down the fort!” One was said in a
nonchalant, you-are-bothering-me kind of tone, and the other was spoken in reassurance and
a confident thumbs up. Thank god J’onn had the forethought to pair Lantern with someone
who was still bent on making a good impression. It felt only a little wrong to take advantage
of the feeling, but Bruce decided that at least for today the ends justified the means. They
were just now starting out a new system of patrol that would alleviate much of the stress and
caseload off of Bruce and J’onn’s shoulders as well as Clark’s attention span. Each of them
could only peruse and sift through so many disasters, cases, and threats before it started to
really take its toll.

Bruce exited the room with an easy flow of his cape barely making out the conversation,
“...so, now that Sourpuss is gone, wanna go grab us some donuts?” “Hal, we literally just
started our shift.” “Yeah, but—” “Hal, we should stay here; make a good impression, you
know?” “Bare.” “Hal.” “Ugh, fine.” Bruce’s lip quirked, What was it Barry was talking about
a couple months ago? An UV-VIS Spectrometer?

***
Bruce returned as promised, nearing the end of Barry and Hal’s shift. As he drew close to the
room’s entrance, he could hear snippets of a conversation:

“...Supes, you don’t look too good, man,” that was Hal’s voice. “I’m sure Batman could take
primary, Clark, so you could get some rest,” that was Barry’s voice.

“Guys, I’m fine,” that was Clark’s voice, sounding purposely hard and annoyed, no doubt a
tactic he used to cover up his weariness and embarrassment at being exposed so pointedly
like this, “besides it’s…I really only need a few more hours out in the sun.” Bruce walked in
as soon as Clark finished defending himself.

“Spooky, before you say anything, we were stellar students—stayed in our seats and
everything.” Barry elbowed Hal straight in the gut, which Bruce decided was enough
punishment, for now . Besides, Hal’s implication was accurate: no reports of catastrophic
events or super villains. They had dealt with the minor crimes and issues that were
specifically designated for the Justice League to handle; they didn’t want to replace any
country’s government or local law enforcement. They were there to help with those that
needed help or with the situations that called for a little extra muscle or superpowered
abilities. “What Hal means is,” Barry began with his signature smile, “nothing of importance
to report. All was pretty much quiet. We’ll be leaving now!” Barry pulled at Hal’s arm, and
they were on their way—”So…donuts?” “Donuts sound good.” “I knew there was a reason
we were best buds.”

Clark had taken his seat in front of the large computer and monitor, already writing down
both his and Bruce’s hero aliases and the starting time of their shift. Waiting until he heard
the automatic double doors click signifying the previous room occupants’ departure, Bruce
made his way to the swiveling chair next to Clark’s. There was silence between them as
Clark clicked away at the computer monitor screen. Using his super speed, Clark was quickly
skimming through hundreds of report results coming in. His eyes ticked right and left as the
colors on the screen flickered. Bruce was quiet, sitting there—face deliberately avoiding the
Kryptonian’s. The tapping and avoiding went on for another handful of minutes before
coming to an abrupt stop as Clark had reached the limitation of current reports—they were
completely and irrevocably up to date. With nothing else to do, Clark rose from his seat and
walked towards the back of the room, heading towards the suspiciously new coffee machine
installation.

Right now is as good as any other time , Bruce had been piecing together an appropriate
question to target the heart of the issue. It had been burning—festering—in him for weeks.
He’d wrestled, pulled apart, and put it back together again—the observations, the events, the
signs, the questions. One could only imagine the weight of this beast of burden…how had
Clark even carried it without anyone noticing? Had they grown accustomed to the presumed
original load because of a still, practiced hand holding the rest—the bulk of the weight. Like
Atlas, was Clark cursed to bear the world aloft, entirely on his own?

How had he carried it with nothing gone awry?

And for how long had he done so?

“Want a cup, B?” Clark questioned at the precise beat of Bruce’s question, “Why won’t you
acknowledge your weariness?”

Clark’s footsteps had paused, but Bruce refused to look back. Instead of returning to his seat
where they would be face-to-face, Clark’s pace began once more. He had retreated to the
back, still intent on coffee. Bruce knew avoidance when he saw it—he would know, after all
—and Clark was quite thoroughly becoming a master. The questions both lingered in the air
as the sounds and smells of coffee permeated the air. The grind of the machine and the
rushing water being poured through the filter. Then, the slow drip of the dark roast; it tickled
Bruce’s taste buds as long nights in an echoey cave or stakeouts atop Gotham roofs seeped
into his skin. As the mirage faded, Clark returned with two steaming cups of dark roast
coffee: one dark, untouched; the other now a fair tan with cinnamon and heavy cream
undertones. Clark first sat onto his uncomfortable seat before setting Bruce’s dark coffee in
front of him, bringing the other to his own nose. Inhaling the sweet scent, Clark let out a
small moan of satisfaction, then said, “It almost makes up for how uncomfortable these seats
are… because they are very truly uncomfortable, Bruce—almost unnecessarily so.” It was
said in their usual banter, which Bruce typically extended during their time together.

But not this time.

This time Bruce couldn’t look past the aching eyes, the discoloration, the shaking fingers, the
purposefully bit back sighs, the strained smiles.

He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it.

Clark deserved better than this. Didn’t he know? Didn’t he know how much people cared
about him? For him? How they hate to see him suffer, especially at their own expense…
People had the propensity to think Clark human just as they were, regardless of his
invulnerability and alien makeup—the longer they continued relations with him, the harder it
was to differentiate between Clark Kent and Kal-El. Not that they were so distinctly different,
but one’s treatment towards a mortal, vulnerable reporter should alter severely than to an
invulnerable god-like hero. And Bruce supposed that was what he was doing now—not
differentiating—but he couldn’t fight the raging tide. Clark was human where it counted. And
he was tired. So very, very tired.

“Clark.”

“ Bruce .” Gone was the playful tone. Clark was warning him, but Bruce had never really
been any good at heeding warnings, especially when they interfered with his agendas. So
ignore it he did, “Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”

Clark sighed, obvious and unhinged, “So, I gotta answer an invasive, personal question while
all you gotta do is answer one that’s a conversation starter?” His Midwestern accent was
leaking into his voice. It was a mistake—that much Bruce knew—and unfortunately for
Clark, it was also a mistake he hadn’t realized he had made. And that made it much worse. If
Clark was too tired to notice and amend small mistakes like this, then what else had he been
unknowingly let slip? Perhaps it was because Bruce was his company, but Bruce had been
pretty adamant during League meetings that eyes and ears were always everywhere . So, even
though the comforts of their homes were aboard the Watchtower, they must still remain
vigilant in what personal and treasured information they chose to disclose—even to each
other. And Clark had never used his accent here, and he rarely let it slip with Bruce at all—
Bruce suspected it had to do with Bruce’s affluent upbringing and the Metropolis ambience.

“That’s right,” Bruce’s deep voice came out silk and suave rather than gruff and curt. Clark
turned his gaze to the screen, eyes unblinking; Bruce waited. “Look, it’s just been an off kind
of day, okay? Can we not talk about it?” Clark reluctantly answered, one of his hands raising
to rub at his eye. He didn’t notice, Bruce thought. Clark—with his super hearing; with his
advanced muscular control, which gave him remarkable abilities like perfect tone and pitch—
had not noticed Bruce’s voice change, not even to remark on the oddity or impropriety…the
danger of others possibly knowing that uniquely famous (infamous) voice. Clark’s eyes
hadn’t even twitched, his lips hadn’t quirked in amusement, he hadn’t commented on
anything; there was no change.
“I think we need to,” Bruce finally responded, letting concern color his tone. Bruce didn’t
want any mistakes like the last ones, where he was misunderstood or where he said the wrong
thing. But unfortunately, Clark didn’t get the memo because he wasn’t having any of it, “B, I
let you end conversations all the time without a word in protest or even with your invasions
of privacy—”

“You think I’m invading your privacy?” Bruce was perplexed. Surely Clark knew what
invading his privacy was like? It wasn’t probing questions; it was unconsented DNA tests,
constant stakeouts, hidden cameras, and comprehensive (possibly illegal) background checks.
Clark just rubbed at his face in both rising frustration and slowly revealing fatigue.

“No, I just—okay, yes, you kinda are,” Clark seemed at war with himself, and his continuous,
shaky sips of sugar caffeine were undoubtedly not helping, “first, you interfere in my
business with Barry, saying what I can and cannot do. Second,” Clark seemed to pause,
waving his hand to motion Bruce’s silence when Bruce had opened his mouth to speak,
which made him grind his teeth. He didn’t like to be silenced as a child would nor treated like
a lesser party, and Clark knew that.

“Second,” Clark continued as if he hadn’t completely and utterly set off multiple of Bruce’s
triggers, “you keep trying to spotlight any little twitch or strain I make, like you’re keeping
tabs on me. Oh, let’s see how many times Clark slips up today!” Clark threw his hands up in
the air in irritation and slumped back in his seat, then crossed them.

“I wasn’t keeping tabs on you, Clark.”

“Yes, you were, Bruce,” Clark scoffed and a little shaky breath escaped his mouth, causing
his shoulders to slightly spasm at the catharsis.

“Ok,” Bruce grabbed the edge of the table to face his chair in Clark’s direction, now cold
coffee all but forgotten, “maybe I was keeping tabs…” Clark gestured his hand in see-I-told-
you kind of way that both irked Bruce at its childishness and reminded him once more how
human Clark truly was, “but it wasn’t for what you think.” Clark gave him an unimpressed
look, “I was concerned for your well-being,” Bruce continued. He had practiced this
conversation in his head multiple times leading up to this very moment; now if he could just
get the words in his head to come out in the right order out of his mouth.
“Really?” Clark looked skeptical, “so, examining my every movement and making comments
about how tired I look in front of the League are for my well-being?” Had he made these
comments aloud? Apparently so, if Clark’s hurt expression was anything to go by.

“That’s not—” Bruce began before cutting himself off and rewiring his brain temporarily. If
he was going to get through to Clark, then he needed to be honest and forthright with his
intentions and the consequences of this kind of behavior. Bruce didn’t want Clark to
experience what he experienced:

Thinking you had to shoulder your world, just so it could keep on spinning.

That without every ounce of his blood, sweat, and tears, he wasn’t giving enough .

That he had to give something back—make up for… what? Bruce never truly figured it out,
but he supposed for living. For being connected with the problem, or for being so little of the
solution that he might as well have been an entirely new problem.

Clark deserved better; he could do better. Bruce didn’t want that for him—he didn’t want him
to end up like him…

“I wanted you to see that you were being affected,” Bruce continued, “that you had your
limits.”

“Of course I have limits, Bruce!” Clark’s arms were uncrossed now, choosing to tightly grip
the edge of the arms of his chair, “I’m not some untouchable, power machine; I’m—”
Human. “I’m just… me.” Clark finished somewhat sullenly, loosening his grip, and Bruce’s
heart lurched.

“I know, I know that, Clark,” Bruce had to make him see. Why… how could he not see that
despite ‘knowing’ his limits, Clark sure as hell didn’t act on it. He did act untouchable:
jumping in front of lasers, blasts, or heavy hitters; always ready to hurl himself without a
moment’s hesitation at anything anyone was too reluctant to take on; or dive in after Bruce
knowing there were stockpiles of kryptonite surrounding him… “it’s a lesson I had to learn
too, knowing your limits and—”
“Wait,” Clark interrupted, still sore on his unveiled insecurity just moments before, “you
aren’t seriously comparing my limits to yours?” It was brutal, and a well known sore subject.
Clark knew it, and Bruce knew it too. It was evident that Clark was only freely lashing out
because of how tired and hurt he was—Bruce knew what it felt like to be pricked and
prodded at. But honestly, in the hindmost parts of himself, Bruce felt a little rubbed raw at
how fervently and intentionally Clark worked to appease and to understand others, but when
it came to him, Clark always assumed the worst, like Bruce was somehow out to subdue or
humiliate him. And frankly, that part of him was nearing the forefront at a rapid pace.

“You always remind me about my limits, so I thought I’d do the same,” Bruce gritted out,
which probably made it seem more hostile than it was intended, but Clark was truly starting
to tick him off. Were they always this combative? So aggressively polar opposite? Had it
always been this way?

“So, this is about getting even then?” Clark wasn’t letting it go, which was uncharacteristic of
him—he wasn’t even trying to amend the situation, also uncharacteristic of him. But then
again it was Bruce he was talking to—much to Bruce’s resentment. Clark was leaning over
his seat now, tired eyes flashing red, but the tell tale signs of exhaustion remained present—
trembling, clenched fingertips crushing the chair arms and pale blue-purple stains beneath his
eyes. Bruce wasn’t someone to give in, especially in the face of danger, but he realized he
wasn’t going to get anywhere with Clark if he let his words rile his own insecurities. With a
sigh, Bruce turned away—a rare sign of passivity—to look at the screen beside them,
“Earthquake in Mexico City.” His voice was purposefully neutral, and in his peripheral
vision, Bruce could see Clark’s lip tremble.

Nothing.

And then an abstract blur—brisk movement out of the corner of his eye.

A cold wind caressed his face indicating Clark’s departure and then arrival at the catastrophe.
Bruce’s gaze fell on the slow blinking dot. Clicking on the red point, multiple news reports
and published articles popped up on screen. Houses were flooded and beyond repair, people
were in hysterics—some weeping about loved ones lost, others about how they could never
regain their livelihood—news reporters shielding their eyes from the rainfall gesturing to the
chaos behind them. With all the constant devastation, Bruce could understand how someone
could easily lose hope amidst adversity and tragedies that befell them. But the indisputable
thing about darkness and despair was that it made the light that much clearer because even in
his own despair and darkness, Clark was still a light; he was still hope.

And like a force of nature, the reports were painted red and blue as the darkness was painted
light.

Articles flooded in of Superman rescues: Superman Saved Me and My Family, Hope Isn’t
Lost After All: Superman to the Rescue, Superman: A Hero of Hope, Superman Stops
Further Earthquake Devastation, Mexico City’s Heartfelt Thanks… report after report, news
after news, story after story.

This.

This is what he was here for. This is why they needed him.

This is why Bruce had to tell him, he had to fix this innate stubbornness—this martyr
complex. It was selfish of both Bruce and Clark—not to comment on it and work to fix it.

As Bruce contemplated the best way to engage in such a touchy subject once more, the
entrance door of the monitoring room opened revealing the subject of his thoughts. Clark
walked in with purpose, as he usually did, and Bruce could smell the earthy dampness soaked
into his suit. They said nothing for a few moments as Clark continued to dry himself off with
a towel he had found in the Watchtower supply closet.

“Clark,” Bruce began again, careful to keep any snarkiness or irritation out of his voice—he
even ceased the gruffness.

With a spent sigh, Clark lowered himself onto the adjacent seat, cushions doing little to
comfort his descent. So, maybe Bruce would reconsider other seating arrangements. “Bruce,
can we not? Not right now. I don’t want to think about it right now.”
But he did need to think about it. It did need to happen right now. The longer this
conversation was put off, the more difficult it would be to bring it back up with him again.
There was no putting off the inevitable. He needed to know, and Bruce was aged enough to
realize that sometimes in the pursuit of truth, you had to be alright with being viewed as the
villian, especially if the gains outweighed the losses. Luckily, Bruce was accustomed to the
sentiment.

“Then, when, Clark?” Clark looked up at Bruce through his fallen swoop of a curl, “I’m not
sure how long I–you can take this” Bruce finally looked at Clark—in his eyes, seeing the
naked desperation and fatigue clear as day made him push on, “living like this, or really
existing like this.” Clark looked away, “Bruce, don’t take this away from me,” and in a
quieter voice, “please.”

Bruce clenched and unclenched his jaw, “You’re tired. I can see it and pretty soon others will
too—it’s only a matter of time. I can see it in your eyes,” Clark looked back at Bruce, eyes
now guarded and hard, “your posture,” Clark intentionally didn’t fix his posture, “your voice,
your interactions,” Bruce could go on , but he believed Clark got the picture.

“ So ,” Clark was gritting his teeth now. It seemed like that’s all they had been doing to each
other these last months. “I’m just supposed to stop being Superman because I’m a little
tired?” Bruce glared at Clark’s determined misinterpretation of his observations, “because,
yes, I am tired! You happy?” Clark’s anger seemed to evaporate the dampness clinging to his
suit’s fabric.

“Hardly,” Bruce cut in, “and no one said you had to stop being Superman.” And to think just
a few months ago, Bruce was accused of being dramatic and difficult. “Sure sounded like it,”
Clark snidely remarked back. Looks like he wasn’t going to back down on this one either
because Clark would rather assume Batman was trying to rid themselves of unstable
leadership by benching him than Batman caring for someone he loved.

Because he did . He did love him. Why wasn’t that in the realm of possibilities? Was it
laughable for someone like him to love and care for someone like Clark? How come that was
the first thing Clark discerned from others but with Bruce it was utterly inconceivable?

“Maybe prioritize what’s important?” Batman retorted, “Like superhero duties over trivial
parties?” Bruce wasn’t sure why he brought that up.
“What are you jealous? Jealous that you didn’t get invited? Is that what this is about?”

Does he really think so little of me?

“Honestly, Clark, you’re being ridiculous,” Bruce and Clark shared a glare, “it was just an
example, stop reading so much into it. My point still stands.”

“Of course it does,” Clark countered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bruce hissed. When had this conversation been completely
derailed?

“Oh, please,” Clark created some distance between them, “first the observations, then the
comments about me not prioritizing Superman and League duties. Oh, and then, let’s not
forget how you absolutely love to sneak in those belittling comments on how emotional I’m
being!” Bruce couldn’t wrap his mind on how everything had undergone a complete 180.
“And how you have to win. Every. Single. Damn. Argument.”

What the absolute fuck?!

“What the fuck, Clark?!” Bruce did what Bruce always did when he felt defenseless, and he
always seemed defenseless against Clark, especially lately. He would think Clark would
easily pick up on it because didn’t Clark learn from the best as openly displayed recently? He
put up a front—a cold, emotionless front.

“Can you honestly say your intentions had nothing to do with Superman and League
obligations?”

That’s unfair . And he said as much, “That’s not fair, and you know it, Clark. Everything has
to do with our obligations as heroes—both personally and worldwide—asking to separate the
two is both selfish and ridiculous.”

“See,” Clark’s eyes glistened before a huff, “always gotta be right.”

“That wasn’t even the point of this conversation in the first place!” Bruce was hurt and
frustrated too, “it’s not about me, it’s about you !”

How you don’t have to stretch yourself so thin! How people need you… more than they need
me…

“Yes, because it’s always about me!” Clark stood up now, knocking the chair across the
room, and Bruce refused to flinch, “it’s always what I need to work on! Clark’s tired, so he
should spend less time as Superman—let’s bench him until he better learns his limits! Clark’s
not smiling, so he’s probably bottling up his emotions—can’t have a super-powered alien
combust with anger! Clark’s not paying attention, so he apparently doesn’t care what’s being
said! Clark’s pulling his punches, he probably thinks little of us! Clark’s hitting too hard, look
at all the property damage he caused! Clark forgot a deadline or an event, he must not care
because he can fly at supersonic speeds and he still decided not to show! Clark this, Clark
that! Can’t you see me trying?! Can’t you see I’m constantly working on myself?! Why is
everything I do never good enough for you?! ”

There was stunned silence between the two at Clark’s rare outburst, that is, before a voice
spoke at the entrance doors, “Uhh… I can just come back at a later time,” Cyborg moved to
leave the room, awkwardly shuffling back, holding onto some novel for the in-between
downtime.

“No,” Batman commanded. Looks like their two hours had gone by; he hadn’t noticed
someone enter into the room. And by the looks of it, neither did Clark, but Clark’s eyes
weren’t on the new voice in the room—they were on Bruce. In a different moment, in a
different circumstance, Bruce would’ve wanted those cerulean blue eyes on him, but it wasn’t
a different moment and it wasn’t a different circumstance. Bruce felt scrubbed raw; he felt
trapped by the immense hurt bleeding out of both him and Clark—and the newcomer only
rubbed salt into the wounds. He couldn’t stay here any longer.

His cowl was too tight, his cape too heavy, and Clark’s stare never felt hotter.
He couldn't breathe.

He needed to get out.

“We’re finished here,” Batman tightly ground out, hopefully his lack of breath wasn’t
noticeable. He stood from his seat, inwardly cursing his treacherous heart, but couldn’t thank
the gods enough for his long, dark cape that shrouded his unstable gait. Bruce refused to turn
around and look at Clark. In fact, he refused to look at him at all as he had fled the scene.

Clark didn’t need someone like him around. All he ever did was hurt him. Didn’t Clark
himself say that? He practically laid it out for him. He practically bared it all—what he had
been thinking all those months. Had he always felt this way about Bruce? But despite it all,
everything in Bruce wanted to shout at Cyborg to leave until this conversation was finished.
He wanted to tell Clark…He slowed his steps—all intents and purposes to face Clark and tell
him what he so desperately wanted to… But it turned out, like most things in his life…this
action wasn’t necessary because in just a few short sentences, Bruce didn’t even know why
he thought telling Clark would’ve led to anything but pain:

“Yo, what did I even walk into?” Cyborg attempted to tease but it came out way more careful.

“Nothing worthwhile,” Clark said with his signature plastered on smile, and for once, Bruce
couldn’t tell if he meant it or not.

“You good, Supes?” Cyborg must’ve been gesturing to Bruce’s retreating back because in a
softer voice he added, “I heard he can be kind of a bully—a little scary and rough—but you
shouldn’t let it get to you, okay?” Even among the new recruits, his reputation preceded him,
but even that wasn’t enough—the sentiment wasn’t received in its usual manner. Bruce didn’t
get to hear Clark’s response, and he wasn’t sure he even wanted to. It couldn’t have been
flattering, and Bruce wasn’t sure how much more he could take today. All he had wanted to
do was make Clark realize his value; how by virtue of his thoughtfulness, he deserved a
break, too. But perhaps he wasn’t the right person for the job. He had never been particularly
good with feelings .
He left the room in a hurry, but he hoped it looked like he was in a purposeful rush. The
Batman didn’t flee from confrontation and intergroup complications. But here he was—
fleeing. Without Batman, who was there to be?

“Bats, you okay?” A voice was speaking to him, breaking his destructive vexations, and
Bruce was planning on replying—he was—before Hal’s voice chimed in, “Is Spooky ever
‘okay’?” Jordan was always like this; it was a joke—poorly delivered and distinctly teasing.
But even so, something in Bruce broke as he stood there. His thoughts blurred his vision and
then settled in the forefront of his mind, depicting every instance, every grievance, every sin.
And today, he just couldn’t do it.

Aching and low, he stood there, like everyone’s favorite punching bag, “Please…just, leave
me alone.” And he walked past them both, barely hearing their protests. Everything was a
blur on his way down the lengthy hallways. Everyone made way for him to pass—some even
stepping as far as the large glass windows.

Why am I even here?

What do I even bring to the League that someone else doesn’t?

Perhaps Clark was wrong in his assumption: it wasn’t that Clark wasn’t good enough; it was
that Bruce wasn’t.

It wasn’t them that needed to change. Who was he to make the final judgment, after all.

Team dynamics? Personality clashes? Superhuman abilities? Hero potential?

Bruce walked to the hangar where his plane was held.

Batman , that was J’onn’s voice.

 I’ll be in Gotham, J’onn , Bruce answered and after a few moments, keep an eye on Kal.

Of course, came J’onn’s thoughts before carefully speaking again, We’ll see you in the next
meeting?

Batman was quiet as he flicked the appropriate switches and twisted the ignition.

Batman?

Yes, I’ll be there.

Be safe.

No response was given—the rest filled with the plane’s roaring engine as Batman shot into
space.

Never good enough for me? Perhaps Clark was right in his accusation of Bruce always
having to be right, because Clark has never been more wrong. It was always me who’s never
been good enough for you.

Chapter End Notes

Hey, everyone!

Apologies for the lateness of this update…Life has made it quite difficult to write this
fic in particular. So, I split my focus between writing this chapter and writing "Bruce
Doing Mundane Things." You should totally go check that fic out to ease you out of the
mostly hurt/angst feelings this fic is bringing to the table T T Because wow, this ended
up being way more depressing than I thought it was going to turn out. Don’t worry, the
happy times are coming soon! I hope you still enjoy this chapter, nevertheless. Hang in
there!

As always, happy reading~ Aminah

[UPCOMING] 5th Time Bruce accidentally insults Clark: “You’re my hero” An injured
Superman sets everyone on edge because this time it was completely and irrevocably
unavoidable. He should’ve seen it coming. The world doesn’t deserve a hero like Clark
—he doesn’t deserve a hero like Clark… all he does is make things worse because—are
those tears in Clark’s eyes? Why is it that whenever Clark is at his lowest, Bruce just
makes it so much worse?
 "You're my hero"
Chapter Summary

Prompt 5 - 5th Time of Bruce accidentally insulting Clark: “You're my hero”

An injured Superman sets everyone on edge because this time it was completely and
irrevocably unavoidable. He should’ve seen it coming. The world doesn’t deserve a hero
like Clark—he doesn’t deserve a hero like Clark… all he does is make things worse
because—are those tears in Clark’s eyes? Why is it that whenever Clark is at his lowest,
Bruce just makes it so much worse?

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Time did not heal all wounds, as Bruce had come to realize as he matured and began
experiencing life with all its wounds and unpleasant faces. When he lost his parents in front
of his very eyes, when he watched his beloved city tear itself apart, when he witnessed
Death’s irony as the passing of youth greatly surpassed those aged, when the very marks and
burdens of his body heavily outweighed his years, when he held Jason as he drew his shaking
last breath, when he stood silent as Dick’s back grew smaller and smaller, or when he
seamlessly destroyed every semblance of a romantic tryst before it could ever evolve into
something more …

Time did not heal all wounds—that much was certain and understood.

Time didn’t heal them.

You did.

But Bruce found that even coupling effort with time didn’t take away the sting. Like an
antiseptic to a disease-ridden laceration, the healing process was usually one of excruciating
pain, resulting in scars. And as a vast collector and bearer of scars, Bruce wasn’t sure if there
were any untouched areas left—his mind and body long enveloped in pits and flaws—both
internal and external.

This feeling—the one he was experiencing now—was no exception. They were…had…left

scars, and time was unforgiving.

So, as one does when they meet an inevitable, immovable force, they go around…step to the
side…avoid…

Which was exactly what Bruce was doing.

Avoiding.

Because there was really no other word for the purposeful absence and stilted conversation
with his peers—or truly, anything or anyone outside of Gotham. Bruce, for all intents and
purposes, was unavailable. Busy. Had better things to do. A part-timer. And he was adamant
in his stance.

“Surely, Gotham could spare you a day, Batman,” Diana’s voice was displeased and her
eyebrows furrowed in anticipation of a rebuttal. She wasn’t one to fall without swinging.
Despite being unaware of Batman’s true reasons for his sudden departure and emotional
withdrawal, Diana was certain it had less to do with Gotham and more to do with them .
Something had happened, something was brought to the light, something that had changed
things. And like any creature of shadow, Bruce had burrowed himself in the farthest possible
distance from it—some place he understood, he felt safe, he could control. And who had he
egregiously concealed himself from if not them? Batman was no coward; he was a brilliant
tactician and competent warrior. Diana knew this because she took time to study her
comrades’ strengths, which meant that Batman must have had his reasons. He must’ve
examined his options, measured the costs, and found Gotham to be the answer. And it was
not like he was inattentive during the League’s meetings—far from it. Batman would answer
when questions were asked (if he deemed them worth answering), ask questions when the
answer was evasive, and faithfully attend each meeting. The attendance wasn’t the issue and
neither was his usual criticisms and astute observations. No, the issue was his method of
doing so.
Batman had been physically absent from the Watchtower for close to two months, and Diana
wanted to know why. The reports were submitted through a secure link. The high-speed
connection provided accurate audio and crystal clear visuals. Any investigations or
observations were completed remotely without a difference in quality or deadline. Every
reason to visit was met with a wall—or an overcoming… as if there was no logical reason to
entertain her objections. No reason at all.

“What I choose to do with my time is my prerogative, Wonder Woman,” Diana’s jaw ticked
at the blatant and purposeful use of her hero alias instead of her personal name, “And my
status regarding the League was finalized months ago: I’m a member second and a Gothamite
first.” A pause of breath and a moment for potential rebuttals. There were none, of course.
What was there to refute? “It was made abundantly clear that unless warranted, my presence
in the Watchtower would not be required. Have my outside duties been conflicting with
League obligations?” Diana pursed her lips at the seemingly rhetorical question—one that
boasted an obvious answer. She knew that he knew.

“You know they have not,” Diana remarked, not cruelly but not kindly either.

Barry was awkwardly shifting in his seat during the discussion. Diana had made a point to
confront Batman every other League meeting about his physical absence, and without
missing a beat, Batman would effortlessly provide a rebuttal each and every time. It was like
watching a relentless prosecutor cross-examine an infallible witness—with bated breath and
climbing anxiety.

Gotham’s quiet, so why can’t you attend in-person for this meeting? Time-sensitive matters
within the Cave.

League nomination event—will you be attending? Unfortunately, no. Civilian identity

commitments.

Watchtower duty? Prior engagement.

We’d like to see you… could you make some time to stop by? Hardly seems necessary… I’m
busy, Diana.
And the fact of the matter was that he was busy. Bruce didn’t always intend or plan for prior
engagements or Wayne Enterprises events to fall on the same day or time as League
activities. Did some happen to align perfectly between the start and finish of specific events?
Yes, but that was mere coincidence. It would be Bruce’s word against their own anyways.

Despite Bruce’s initial hostility, he had gradually allowed them a peek underneath the mask.
They all may not have been completely aware of Bruce’s civilian identity, but even before,
they all had known that Batman had to be someone of great power and importance. You
didn’t say the things he said, know the things he did, and do the things he did without these
facets. He was busy from dusk to dawn as Diana was painfully made aware whenever she
was attempting to find times to meet with him personally. She liked to get to know her
members, and Batman being elusive was a grand understatement. He funded every League
project and majority of its facilities. It was evident as he was generally the one to break down
financial matters, discuss recent constructions, and sign the flourishing checks. His
widespread knowledge, his alluded political influence, and his tight grip on Gotham were
simultaneously meritorious and menacing.

And the questioning usually stopped there.

Diana would offer contestations and protestations, but no one else seemed bothered. Or to
Bruce, no one seemed to bother about being bothered. And why should they?

Ultimately, everything they could ever need or want didn’t require Bruce to physically be
there.

Because they didn’t need him, not really.

Bruce could safely see the then-less frequent hesitations and shared glances during League
meetings. Then, he’d raise a concern or make an observation, and he’d watch it unfold from
their eyes, their mouths, their bodies. They would react. Whenever he’d interject or present
the daily reports, they would shift. A subtle flicker, a clenched jaw, or an overtly rigid
posture. A comment about continual developments on League nominees would be met with a
brow raised, a tapping finger, a grinding of teeth, or any other bodily movement that
conveyed anything but.

It used to be only a few members, now Bruce was seeing an alarming increase.
It wasn’t so much the inattention or the potential aggression… it was now the detachment,
the disinterest, the apathy. An experience so unfamiliar in its reflection that he’d long
forgotten the appropriate reaction. How do you confront a feeling you’ve long worn as a
second skin? And how does it bury its way past your defenses?

Bruce had long lived without , but he supposed he must have given in one too many times to
feel the way he was feeling now.

What do you do when you’re no longer of use?

When it takes more to be around you than it does without?

But perhaps Bruce was overthinking…

Perhaps it’s the potential, expected backlash? Or his part-time status?

And yet, it had never stopped them before… before then, before now.

Hell, even Hal’s snide remarks or snickering commentary had become almost null and void.
No whispers of disrespect or anything but League work during their pre-determined
meetings.

Could it be that he has finally matured? Taken to quietly listening and providing thoughtful
forms of exposition and criticism? Or is the more likely culprit the bare reality… that he’s
moved on. Found someone more entertaining to poke and prod at, found someone more
reactionary and of similar character, found someone more… worthwhile. Because perhaps the
truest reality was that they didn’t even notice, didn’t even care. It had no effect on them—
their wellbeing, their function, their day-to-day, their lives.

Did they even need him now? Had they ever needed him?
Bruce saw all the nominees evaluated. He saw their potential, their strengths, their
weaknesses, their stories, their personalities, and their realities. There were so many.
Acceptance after acceptance streamlined in, with rookies and veterans alike. And they were
all so different and fantastical . Wealth, superhuman strength, razor-sharp accuracy, martial
arts, computer intelligence, and the list was endless.

He saw them.

During general League meetings, they were there. Watching, analyzing, listening, judging.

He heard them.

Why doesn’t he come to the Watchtower? What gives him the right to make judgments on us
and place a vote when he hasn’t bothered to meet us? What makes him different or special?

What does a person like him have to offer to the League?

Sure he could produce argument after argument detailing the uses of having multiple heroes
who share similar qualities or strengths; or perhaps remark on the necessity of inclusion and
its boosting morale.

But he didn’t.

Because they were right.

They came rushing in like tidal waves, these now-accepted members and wait-listed
nominees like Star City’s Green Arrow, the Atom, and Atom Smasher. Providing wealth,
camaraderie, insight, skill sets, and exponential intelligence in variety and multitudes. With
each meeting, Bruce felt the distance.
He could feel the increase.

He could feel the unfamiliarity.

He could feel the contempt.

He could hear the complaints and snide remarks.

He could hear the rumors, the whispered discussions, and the stirring irritation concerning his
absence.

He could see their uncertainty and their skepticism, particularly concerning his place in the
League despite his Foundership.

He knew what they were all thinking because he had thought it too: why are you still here?

And honestly, Bruce wasn’t sure why he was still there either.

He could see the metaphorical ticked boxes of matching caliber, yet contained within those of
a more genial disposition, a more available schedule, a more readily shared passion, a more
varied skill set, or a more reliable, honest nature. With all of these evident differences, wasn’t
the choice unmistakably and indistinguishably straightforward?

But he was too seasoned, too aged to feel hurt by a circulating and ever-present notion.
Whether they held water or not—the looks shot at him during League meetings and the
stilted conversation afterward—they came from a decision he had made. And it was the right
decision, backed with reason, data, and unselfish motives. It was a good decision; it was the
only decision.

But…
Every now and again…

As he poured over documents with tense precision or as he raced after criminals with
ferocious indignation, a decaying seed of doubt would make its way through his bloodstream.
He could feel it. The bleed and clot beneath his skin. The blood pumping and his adrenaline
high within the dark, gloomy streets of Gotham—he’d bleed. The clot would block an artery
and send sharp, burning pains throughout his body, resting treacherously in the innermost
parts of his heart. And Bruce had a feeling that despite his countless efforts, time wouldn’t
change this wound.

Because Clark never came back.

Never asked—about or around. Never looked. Never spoke. Never questioned.

Never. Never. Never.

It was like he wasn’t there.

A ridiculous inclination, he was aware, especially with the reality being what it was;
however, the fight between reason and sentiment was a constant one. For a hero whose
greatest strengths relied on deductive reasoning and thorough preparation and investigation,
Bruce could not think of anything more futile when faced with conflicting emotions and all
their spontaneity and unreliability. You couldn’t trust what you felt. He shouldn’t trust what
he felt. Because if time taught him anything else, it was that what he felt rarely coincided
with what was, and what was had little to do with what could be. He never had the luxury to
be a dreamer—his burden thrust upon him early on—nor did he envy it.

But…

Every now and again…

As he split a too-large grin amidst flashing lights or as he shook hands with mass murderers
and leading swindlers, a decaying seed of doubt would make its way through his
bloodstream.

And he could feel it.

The ache and worn beneath his skin. The blood pumping and the air a mere suffocation
within the deafening, baited authenticity of Gotham. He would feel its sting. The gnawing
grip would block an artery and send sharp, burning pains throughout his body. And come to
rest treacherously upon the innermost parts of his heart. And Bruce knew that it must have
been more than a feeling. Because despite his countless efforts, time found new ways to
penetrate his wounds.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

An unsurprising, twisted familiarity yet no longer paired with the parry of red and blue.

No, Bruce was alone.

Again.

He made this decision. And it was a good decision…it was the only decision.

Right?

Bruce looked around the room through his Cave’s screen. No one offered a rebuttal. No one
raised any concerns. The meeting was nearing its end. And Clark never looked at him.

Did he want him to?

“Then, if there’s nothing else?” Batman’s voice was a slick knife piercing through tension—
tension she had put there, mind you—and restlessness. J’onn blinked, Arthur shrugged, Hal
wasn’t even listening, Diana glared, Barry nervously flashed glances between them two, and
Clark was not looking at him. “The meeting is thus adjourned,” J’onn’s voice a soothing
balm over bruised egos and promises of future conflict. “Thank fuck,” Hal mumbled, loud
enough to be heard across every connected distance, and Barry seemed to mirror a similar
attitude if the long drawn-out breath was much to go on. Diana moved to stand, “Until next
time, friends ,” she looked around the table, “ comrades ,” she looked at Bruce.

Well, that was a long time coming. He deserved that, he supposed .

They each inclined their heads in parting. Several threw a peace out, others quietly slinked
away, and Clark never looked back—quietly saying his see-you-laters and following Diana
out of the Hall. There it was again. That treacherous pull, that stinging pain. And it hurt .

“Batman,” that was J’onn’s voice.

“J’onn,” Bruce worked a neutral expression, hoping literal leagues were enough to bar the
Martian’s abilities.

“I wish to discuss future schematics for the League training facilities,” J’onn’s eyes were
prying and piercing, whether because of their red luminescence promising cerulean blue or
their intensity promising righteous pain. Bruce swallowed.

“Of course,” Batman’s voice was lower. He cleared his throat, and J’onn slightly tilted his
head. Bruce continued, “what do you wish to discuss?” J’onn’s head tilt remained as he spoke
next, “If you would, I’d like to discuss it…here.” The pause was telling enough. Batman’s
jaw clicked, “I wouldn’t.” J’onn didn’t sigh or show any different inclination of feeling.
Instead, he continued speaking, “This matter requires a physical approach, which is why I’ll
implore you to reconsider. There’s a necessity for a more ‘hands-on’ approach, as I’ve been
informed.” “Let me examine the issue and decide for myself whether it warrants an
appearance,” Batman’s voice was purposefully gruff so as to end the conversation as he had
done so many times before.

J’onn’s eyes flickered then he returned to his well known neutrality, “As I see it, your current
status of persistent inflexibility is interfering with League obligations.”
That’s a nice way of saying he was being a stubborn, hypocritical pain in the ass.

Bruce gripped his cape bunched by his sides. J’onn was right. If it was a necessity, then he
was obligated to adhere, to check it out, to fix it. With a sigh, Bruce looked intently at the
screen, “What time?”

If the Martian was feeling victorious, he didn’t show it—that much Bruce was thankful for—
instead, he answered succinctly with his usual impartial expression, “This week. I shall be
here throughout the duration, so whenever the time permits according to your schedule.”

Bruce had to work on not glaring, Oh, now it’s ‘according to my schedule’? J’onn was
intelligent enough not to speak anymore, thus settling on an inclined departure and a brief
farewell. Bruce responded in a similar fashion, and the screen went dark. He supposed he
would need to look at this week’s schedule for Watchtower duty.

Who were the people he wanted to see the least?

Scrolling through pages, Bruce’s epiphany did little to comfort as the odds were heavily not
in his favor. And those that did not qualify for his standard were disqualified on their own,
for even if he wanted to see them, they most definitely did not want to see him.

* * * *

It was almost like Fate.

A ridiculous explanation, Bruce was well aware, but the timing and situation couldn’t have
been more overtly predestined. It had been a few days since his conversation with J’onn,
since his arguments with Diana, since Clark’s… since Clark.
It was like every other mundane night in the Batcave—Bruce was typing up his nightly report
and finalizing his League weekly report. As his fingers tapped on the backspace, Bruce heard
a single ding resonate throughout the Cave’s walls. He paused for a brief moment, waiting to
see if Alfred would take care of it. When nothing else was heard, Bruce mentally shrugged
off the fleeting distraction.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Ding!

Tap. Tap. Tap. Ding!

“Alfred,” Bruce spoke loud enough to reach the entire Cave’s expanse. Another ding and
Bruce was standing. It was distracting. It was persistent.

It was urgent.

Bruce felt every second pass like they were etched into his skin as he urgently searched for
that now recognizable sound. It had been so long. He had almost forgotten… the sound of a
distress signal. A distress signal from the League.

Ding! Bruce knocked over a stack of files to the Cave’s floor.

Ding! Bruce rummaged through the drawers.

Ding! Bruce could hear it louder than before.

Di— Bruce curled his fingers around the pinging device, cool to the touch and slightly dusty.
Upon his touch, the screen was activated. A wave of familiarity settled in. It beat in Bruce’s
ears, and he let out a breath. The screen flickered to a few layers of code before settling on
the lockscreen for access. He wiped the screen, allowing for the message to be clearly
viewed:
… For entry, verification is required.

Bruce could hardly settle himself. He pressed on the center key and spoke: “Batman, 0002-
GC-8519.”

… Processing…

The pause signaled a rush of sudden, illogical doubt through him.

…Access— Bruce stopped moving, stopped breathing— Granted —Bruce let out a breath.

All at once, the notifications and messages filled the screen. Bruce scrolled to the main
thread, tapping away to bring the original distress call to the forefront. He hadn’t been
signaled directly; it had been a notification. A distressed notification—something important
to warrant general announcement. Bruce finally accessed the call. Strangely, it had been from
Diana. She characteristically did not use the distress signal—had no apparent need for it, now
or in the foreseeable future. She was well known for pushing through the pain and
conquering whatever was before her. In Diana’s mind, there was nothing to prove, it was just
who she was. So, Bruce unnervingly clicked on her message, knowing this was
unprecedented…this was uncharacteristic.

W.W. on scene. Requesting immediate backup.

Strange, somewhat alarming.

But nothing could’ve prepared Bruce for the alarm that coursed through Bruce’s veins when
he read the next line. And there was nothing strange about this…

S OOC. Transport ASAP.

S…
And there was only one hero, one Leaguer, whose abbreviated code was a singular letter.

Superman.

OOC…Out of commission. Which meant Superman—no, Clark—was hurt, and he was hurt
badly.

“Alfred!” Bruce raced across the Cave, desperation charging his steps, “ALFRED!”

“Sir?” Alfred’s presence was swift and steady. He was wiping his hands on a towel by the
Cave’s exit to the Manor—suit and bowtie immaculate, not a wrinkle in sight.

Bruce looked up at the elderly man, hardly able to obscure his distress. The emotion was
most likely raw on his face if Alfred’s immediate somber look was anything to go by.
Bruce’s words were stuck in his throat, causing his eyes to blur, “I…” The cowl was gripped
tightly in one hand, and the League device loosely held in his other, “I…”

“Master Bruce,” A calming wave amongst the storming gale. Alfred descended the staircase
carefully, staying a few feet away from Bruce.

It was as it’s always been. It was there like it always was: an unspoken plea of ask me.

“I don’t…”

Alfred waited.

“I…what do I do?” Bruce looked at the man before him. How long has it been since he had
spoken such a question? Since he’s looked for someone else to provide guidance? To tell him
what to do?
Alfred’s face was devoid of emotion but in his eyes, which Bruce refused to let his own rest.
Eventually, “The right thing, Master Bruce.” He approached Bruce’s side, slightly touching
Bruce’s wrist. The one with the cowl. “And we both know you already know what that is.”
Bruce’s grip loosened, and Alfred’s tightened. The cowl was in Alfred’s possession. “The
aircraft is stocked and running, sir.”

“Alfred…” Bruce began before Alfred’s voice answered, “Master Bruce.”

A look. One he hadn’t seen directed at him since his early years.

Bruce tightened his hold around the device, “A day.” A day to check, to look over the
training facilities, to make sure he’s alright…that he’s not—

“A week, sir,” Alfred’s voice was steady as he handed over a cleaned, less worn cowl. There
was that look again.

A week?

“It’s the right thing to do, sir,” Alfred spoke as a matter-of-fact.

And Bruce supposed it was.

Grabbing the cowl presented to him and setting the device on the side table, Bruce pulled the
cowl over his head roughly. He affixed the appropriate attachments to his suit in its practiced
time, pulling on his gloves second, then he clipped on his utility belt. He turned his gaze to
the lone device, still open to the daunting message promising pain and chaos. “Don’t wait up
for me, Alfred,” Bruce’s voice was gruff, allowing himself the necessary transformation into
the Dark Knight.
“Naturally, sir,” Alfred’s deadpan response did little to alleviate the weight that had fallen
over the Cave onto Bruce’s shoulders, “until then, Master Bruce.”

“Until then,” Bruce walked towards the exit of the Cave, heading in the direction of his
aircraft.

Hang in there, Clark. I’m on my way…

****

The Watchtower was bustling with business. New recruits were passing in swarms, loud
voices echoing across the hallways, and orders distributed in between. Bruce had forgotten.
He had forgotten how full of life it all was. That, despite circulating the very core of life, they
were still amidst the expansive lifelessness of space, and yet the transport itself offered
something in-between, something still entirely different. There was so much color, so much
energy, so much hope … and it hurt to be reminded so vividly, so intimately.

Bruce carefully guided the darkened spacecraft into place and switched the appropriate
releases to allow the staff on deck to secure his aircraft. He watched as a few heroes stopped
their walk to the main hall or openly gazed in wonder at the sleek, modernistic architecture
before them. She was built for stealth and speed, being twice as fast as her predecessors and
twice as durable. They didn’t know it belonged to the Bat despite its obvious imitations; in
fact, Bruce doubted they even knew it was him manning the vessel. But he knew that even
without that knowledge, the vessel left a lingering effect with its obsidian-like glare basking
in the naked eye. Unbuckling his seatbelt, Bruce prepared to face the music.

He was prepared for the stares that had little to do with the aircraft.

He was prepared for the distrust and the disdain.

He was prepared for the whispers and the shouts.

He was prepared for the disrespect and the attitude.

He was prepared for it all.

It had been so long since his last visit, and so much had changed… but this… this, Bruce
knew would not. It never changed, never left—not in Bruce’s experience—it just found new
ways to approach and leave its mark. The same argument, the same judgment, the same facial
expressions, and the same lessons. It was all the same—predictable and well worn.

So, as he pushed on the button to lower the ramp, he was prepared… because he was here for
one purpose only.

Stepping off the aircraft, donned in black amidst a sea of color, he breathed in. And breathed
out. Then he took the next step. Then the next. Then the next. And he found a rhythm.

And then the expected came upon him. The whispers and the doubt and Bruce was ashamed
to admit that there was a break in rhythm.

And yet, he walked on, through the deck exit, through the main hallway to the satellite
transport main station, and toward the medical bay. A step, a whisper. A step, a doubt.

“Is that the Bat?”

“Wait, he’s still alive? I thought they said he was gone?”

“A mere human believes himself superior—laughable, indeed.”

“What’s he doing here?”

Bruce rounded the corner. Breathe in, breathe out.

“He’s got a lot of nerve—”

FOCUS.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

IN.

OUT.

IN— “Batman, you’re here!” A loud, sweet voice abruptly ended his calming exercise to
maintain his breathing, and with it, went the whispering noises. In a flash of red and yellow
sparks, Barry was in front of the Bat. A smile adorned his face despite the nervous energy
flickering at the ends of his fingers and the sparks shimmering near his feet. There was a hint
of weariness behind the blonde’s blue eyes that was quick to leave as it came, reflecting its
usual mirth and warmth. For once, Barry was without his green counterpart—much to
Bruce’s relief. “It’s been awhile, huh?” Barry continued on like Bruce had answered, “we
haven’t seen you, like really seen you, in a long time. How’ve you been?” An innocence. An
olive branch. A token of goodwill. But his smile was too big, too bright, and too not-Flash.
The familiarity left a taste of copper on Bruce’s tongue and a jagged pain across his chest.

“What do you need, Flash?” At Barry’s frown and obvious fade, Bruce felt the self-reprimand
sharply and swiftly. “I don’t need anything, Batman,” Barry spoke, purposefully not
haughtily but definitely bruised, “I was just asking how you’ve been, honest.”

And like deja vu, “Well, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes! My favorite speedster and my
favorite Gothamite, both together in one place. In the flesh. It’s been ages!” So much for
being here for a short while, or seeing Clark in private then silently removing himself. Bruce
would never get out or through the Watchtower undetected now. Now that Hal Jordan had
practically announced his presence to the main floor and any other listening-in corridors—
because it was widespread knowledge throughout the League that there was only one
Gothamite hero that frequented the Watchtower… or used to anyway.

Damn him.

“I don’t have time for this,” Bruce bit out, attempting to walk past the red speedster who was
grinning brightly and genuinely at the glowing green clad hero behind Bruce, “move.”

Barry frowned once more, a common reaction Bruce tended to bring out of people, he was
realizing with startling frequency, “Hal,” Bruce inwardly tensed at the usage of Jordan’s
civilian name because of course the idiot would broadcast his civilian identity like this with
no regard for his safety and then some, “didn’t mean it like that . He’s–We’re glad to have
you back. We weren’t sure when you’d be back, you know, here,” Barry awkwardly waved
around to gesture at the Watchtower. Hal had now moved to maneuver his way in front of
Bruce, strategically blocking Bruce’s escape and forcing him to acknowledge their presence.

“Exactly,” Hal crossed his arms and tilted his head up, a seemingly pompous gesture but had
become more of an expectedly natural posture for the space hero. They were gathering a
small crowd. Some on the balconies above and others from various points throughout the
room. Bruce felt this grueling need to step backwards, into the shadows, away from the
attention. He thought he had been prepared. He thought this was a good idea. He thought it
was the right thing to do.
“Move,” Batman growled, glaring at the Lantern’s cocky smirk when he moved to walk
around the pompous brat, only for him to sidestep his way into place—a barrier between
Bruce and the exit. “Make me,” Hal did that little thing where he tilted his head to the side,
not even attempting to hide his motives of aggravating the shit out of you, while cocking his
eyebrow and sporting a splitting grin. His blood shouldn’t be rising as quickly as it was nor
should he be losing this verbal parry as rapidly as he was. “As much as I would thoroughly
enjoy wiping the floor with you,” Bruce leaned in close so that the very grind of his teeth
couldn’t be ignored, “I have more pressing concerns,” Bruce moved to step, and as Hal
attempted to bar his way once more, Bruce quickly and effectively maneuvered around,
“surely, you do, too, or have you grown complacent in my absence?” The last statement was
a jab, a sore subject. Had he meant for it to be? It had just slipped out. He hoped it was taken
for what it was—no, what it used to be. An ode to the past.

“Ah, Spooky,” Bruce hated how his shoulders felt a bit lighter, “I missed your little pep talks.
It’s just not the same hearing it through a screen—it’s not as potent.” Hal was grinning, an
awful reminiscent look donning his face, and Barry was smiling softly at the exchange. Bruce
wanted to withdraw.

He didn’t…

He wanted…

“You heard about Big Blue?” The worry was evident in Barry’s voice.

“Yeah, nasty bastard nailed him pretty good,” Hal was shaking his head, “he here yet?”

Right.

Clark.

“Which medical bay?”

The two heroes turned to acknowledge Bruce’s question, but just as Barry had opened his
mouth to speak and Hal had stopped stroking his chin in thought, Diana beamed into
existence, not 20 feet away from them. Diana was bleeding from her temple, her torso, and
her legs. It was difficult to see where one wound started and the other ended. The blood was
trickling, mapping like veins across her exposed limbs. Her face was splotched with dirt,
making her bright blue eyes stand out all the more. Her tiara lacked its glistening shine,
covered in dust and grime as well. Her armor was scruffed and battered, and her hair was
tangled and wild. Despite it all, she stood with authority and victory. Wiping at her lips and
therefore smudging the dirt into a darkened brown rather than its prior tan, her eyes found
Bruce’s, and they widened momentarily.

Even still, he refused to flinch at the slowly hardening gaze.

“Wonder Woman,” A voice was speaking to her above, most likely the hero on transport duty,
“is clean up needed?”

Her eyes broke the suffocating hold and danced from Bruce to the two behind him until
shifting to the voice above, “Yes, downtown Metropolis. A lot of fires and destruction. Green
Arrow and Plastic Man are already on scene. Flash,” Barry straightened his posture, “there’s
a lot of ground to cover. You free?” A true testament of her weariness—shortened statements,
barely constructed sentences.

A bright grin and a mock salute, “Sure am!” A lightning blur in place, “beam me up, Scotty!”
Hal cackled in the background as a bright vertical light transported the Flash to the scene. A
few murmurs as everyone bustled in and out, some transporting out to other locations, others
beaming in. The flow of the Watchtower continued on. And Diana’s eyes found Bruce’s once
more. Bruce stood still.

“What even happened?!” Bruce had forgotten Hal was here.

“A demon,” Diana rolled her right shoulder and slightly winced when it didn’t fully rotate,
“didn’t realize it was impervious to blunt force until it was too late. Quite a setback.”
Obviously.

Wait…
Too late?

Clark…

“Wait, where’s Big Blue?” Hal asked for Bruce. Bruce hadn’t moved from his spot.

“He’s not here yet?” Diana’s face twisted in concern; a small respite from her continuing
glower. As they all were processing all the implications of what that meant, a flickering
signal and an automated voice interrupted everyone’s pace:

Immediate entry. Med Bay 5-01A. Superman. Code: Red. In route: Zatanna. Requesting:
Martian Manhunter. I repeat…

“Code Red?” Hal asked aloud, whipping his head around as he saw everyone suddenly
rushing around and inputting in their data entry cards. The sound and chaos expedited as the
time progressed.

“Magic exposure, which resulted in a contagion,” Batman answered without hesitation,

“everyone’s instructed to clear the area within a 30 meter radius until Zatanna can provide us
with further information,” A frown covered Hal’s face, and Bruce turned back around to look
at him. A frown of his own decorating his face, “this information is given during the
mandatory League meeting at the beginning of each month.”

Bruce should’ve known that this revelation would have no effect on the Green Lantern.

But then Hal made an oh face, and a fleeting expectation that Bruce should’ve known
wouldn’t last appeared… and quickly diminished with Hal’s very next words, “That’s it!” He
snapped his fingers in the air like he’d been bestowed an epiphany, “that’s why I don’t
remember it.” He smirked at the end of his statement like he had announced something
downright clever and noteworthy. Batman yanked his gaze away from the source of his blood
rising. He cursed his earlier lamentations—never again. His eyes wandered across the only
movement left in the room—Diana’s retreating form; she was already moving away from the
two and making her way to the direction of the med bays. Setting aside his earlier hesitancy,
Batman followed, letting Hal’s voice drown out in the background. He had been heading that
direction anyway.

A silence encompassed the corridor as the door slid open for Bruce’s entry following Diana’s.
The only sound being their soft steps across the hard floor. The soft turn of the Watchtower’s
machinery and the careful whispers of the vents accompanied the solemn procession.

Then, as if the silence was too much to bear, “What are you doing here, Batman?” Diana had
stopped her pace completely, shoulders pulled back and body unnaturally tense. This was
what he had been dreading—avoiding. The unanswered questions as to why? How long? For
whom? This was why he had procured the roster, this was why he had carefully and
meticulously timed his arrival… if it hadn’t been for Barry’s earlier arrival, then everything
would’ve gone to plan. Because he hadn’t planned on… he didn’t want…

Did he?

Wasn’t this what he wanted?

What he needed?

What he deserved?

She turned to face the Dark Knight, eyes full of fury and lips pulled back in a snarl. Bruce
prepared himself for the onslaught. For all her battle-tempered serenity and tactic, she was
passionate and hotheaded. The uncanniness ripped him from the inside out. She was strong
where he was not. And she reminded him so much of him that it hurt to stand so close. It hurt
to look; it hurt to listen; and it hurt to feel . Despite the metallic sheen, in red and blue, the
fade between reality and memory was unkind.

“Is this a League duty?” A pause to let the phrase seep, “surely, you have more pressing
concerns…” It was unkind, straightforward, yet fair. She knew that he knew.
Bruce worked his jaw slowly, “This is a pressing concern.” He spoke neutrally, which seemed
to piss her off more.

“So, one of us must be on the edge of death before you consider it a pressing concern.”

Did she truly think that? Bruce refused to give ground because that would prove her point,
and when it came to Diana, her greatest strengths were her loyalty and her pursuit for truth.

“You’re twisting my words, Diana, that’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Oh, so now it’s Diana,” her arms were crossed, for even though she was sporting serious
injuries and her overall appearance was worn and dirty, she struck an intimidating picture.
Her stance was wide, most likely to support the injury on her upper right hip, and her
eyebrows were drawn close together. The righteous posture was something Bruce had grown
used to… admired… grown fond of… looked forward to. And even still, it did little to soothe
the aching parts of his soul. She was still talking, “...you show up and expect everything to be
as it was, but it’s not. He’s—”

Bruce jerked his head to look her in the eyes, and there was a momentary lapse in judgment
swimming in her eyes. A flicker of sadness and betrayal then hesitancy. An inner battle.

“He’s?” Bruce decided to risk it, hoping her latter strength for pursuing the truth would
conquer the former one of loyalty.

They both stood still as her face took on a neutral mask, eyes looking far away, then she
loosened her stance and averted her eyes. Her lips moved and no sound escaped. Then, a
quiet, “Not.”

Not.

He’s not.
He’s not what he once was.

And it was obvious who the he was.

“I need to see him, Diana.”

“I’m not stopping you,” Diana remained in front of Bruce, eyes no longer averted and posture
wide.

But I don’t approve, she seemed to say, and Bruce was struggling to find a problem with her
unsaid words. For what right did he have? When he had chosen to leave… had chosen to stay
away… When he had abandoned them in their hour of need? Abandoned him. Where was his
usual tenacity for order and pursuit for improvement then? What good was it to boast and to
promote these qualities when he wasn’t there to make use of them when they were needed the
most? What had he been doing when the League had taken on more than they could handle—
bitten off more than they could chew?

He had been in Gotham, licking his wounds and hiding away… like a coward.

He had known. Known and did nothing.

So, what right did he have?

But it wasn’t all his fault…A fleeting thought passed in his mind. Where were the tacticians?
Those who analyzed and dispensed the heroes accordingly on missions? It wasn’t all up to
Bruce…

But then again…

The thought was of little comfort to him as Bruce was ashamed to realize that he didn’t know
—wasn’t sure. But he did know one thing and he was sure about another: that it should’ve
been him.

Because if it had been him, they would’ve known their enemy’s weakness before rushing into
battle.

Because if it had been him, they would’ve been sporting fewer injuries.

Because if it had been him, there would’ve been minimal casualties.

If it had been him, Clark would’ve been okay… he wouldn’t have gotten hurt.

Because Bruce would’ve known what to do. Because even if he hadn’t been there, he
should’ve made sure there was someone there who was. He should’ve been here; he could’ve
prevented it…

Should have… could have… would have…

“You should tend to yourself first, Diana,” he said instead and looked her over. Diana let him,
“you’re no good to us half-dead on your feet,” Please. I can’t lose you, too , “I’ll check on
him.” Please, please let me .

Diana didn’t move for a moment—something flashing across her eyes but left too soon to
tell. She then grimaced when she moved her hand to brush away a few locks of hair dangling
across her face, “I suppose you’re right,” then allowed her shoulders a reprieve, “but you
knew that.” She didn’t smile nor did she convey any outward comforting gesture. She just
turned back around and started walking towards the medical bay chambers—the right
hallway, which was where Clark wasn’t .

Bruce felt like he missed something. Something important. Something fleeting.

Batman.

Bruce blinked.

J’onn , Bruce mirrored the Martian’s tone and cadence, a carefully neutral greeting.

A flickering image then the Martian’s form phased in Bruce’s peripheral, through the
Watchtower’s smooth walls. The Martian wore his usual attire and expression, giving away
nothing much to Bruce’s displeasure.

“Greetings,” the alien spoke smoothly as if testing the word upon his tongue, “shall we walk
together?”

To see him was left unsaid—unnecessarily so, Bruce might add.

Bruce made no effort to answer, his gait forward was answer enough. For a short moment,
they walked together, heading down the left hallway. The silence wasn’t stifling, not with
J’onn. J’onn had a way of making silence just silence. As they were approaching the 5-01A
med bay, J’onn spoke, “I’m glad you were able to make it, Batman,” and after a brief
moment’s pause, “he will be, too.”

Will he?

Instead, “How is he, J’onn?”

J’onn’s eyes flickered, “Tired, but the worst has passed.”

Bruce let out a sigh at the revelation. J’onn continued, “Zatanna was able to contain the
contagion, waking him up temporarily for healing. He’s still unconscious and contagious;
however, it’s no longer life threatening.”

“But we can see him.”

“We can see him,” J’onn agreed, then, “you can see him.” And J’onn stopped walking, and
Bruce turned around once he realized the Martian had stopped in the hallway, just a few
meters from the medbay’s doors.

“J’onn?” Don’t. I can’t—

“He asked for you , Bruce.”

When?

“Why?”

Why else?

“He’s in the first room to the right,” J’onn said, motioning towards the direction of the
medbay’s entrance instead of answering, “Zatanna should be just finishing up…” A moment
—a second or two at best—passed as J’onn’s eyes shone a bright red, “Ah, it seems Clark has
fallen asleep.” Bruce let out a sigh he didn’t realize he had been holding. J’onn stood there
silent as they both stood in the hallway.

Bruce now stood before the door.

J’onn hadn’t moved from where he stood. Bruce reached for the keypad on the right. A few
inches and the motion alit the system, raising the glowing keys a couple of inches from its
surface. Bruce could feel the Martian’s gaze as he flexed his fingers. A brief hesitation. And
Bruce inputted the code with practiced familiarity. With a click and a whoosh, the door to the
medbay opened, revealing a warm glow. Bruce spared a glance back.
There was no one around.

J’onn was gone.

Bruce turned back around and watched as the lights surrounding the door panel flickered
momentarily then remained still as if awaiting his entry. But Bruce found he couldn’t move.

What was this feeling?

His feet remained planted on the cool floor. His arms hung loose to his sides, and despite
their posture of relaxation, they were anything but. A heavy weight seemed to settle upon his
shoulders, spawning a deep tiredness to course through his veins. Starting at his core and
rushing through to the end of his fingertips, leaving a prickling, tickling sensation. The door
remained open, and all remained quiet. That curling, gripping sensation continued to roll in
his gut, and then his breath stuttered a release.

He took a step forward then another, and he was across the metal threshold.

The entire room was bright like a greenhouse built entirely out of glass in the morning light.
Bruce could make out the glowing atmospheric sphere of the Earth, the burning stars, and the
swirling colors amidst the dark abyss. The sun lamps, as they had come to call them, were
hanging low from the ceiling. Beneath the dangling heat lay a singular bed with surrounding
monitors and an encasing used to prevent the spread of contagions. And in its very center:
Clark .

Bruce’s eyes didn’t leave the slumbering hero as he approached his left side, the closest to the
door. A small click signaled the closing of the door, but it seemed to echo in the total silence
of the lonely room. He settled himself in the chair beside the bed, facing away from the door
but angled partially away from Clark’s body. Time seemed to pass slowly as he sat there
watching him. Time provided a physical reminder of his mortality. The steady beat leaving
the monitors and the filling heat falling from above seemed to lull Bruce to sleep. His eyelids
fluttered a bit as he sat amidst the silence. Bruce observed Clark silently as he watched the
slow rise and fall of the Kryptonian’s chest. Then, his eyes traveled down, following the
curvatures of his shoulder to his forearm to his hand. A subtle twitch spasmed in Bruce’s
fingertips as he forced his eyes back up to Clark’s face.

He was so calm. As he lay there sleeping—healing—almost like an angel. Clark’s eyebrows

lacked their usual furrow, allowing Bruce the rare chance to see Clark without the scowl he
had grown accustomed to witnessing on the alien’s face whenever he was present. His lips
weren’t downturned or stretched in a too-big smile. They were softly parted—at ease. With
no one to please or no one to observe. His face also lacked the sharp lines of seriousness for
battle (and with Bruce) or the indented curved lines of joviality for his role as Superman (and
with anyone else that was distinctly not Bruce, at least not as of late). Instead only subtle
wrinkles resided; lines of the past, of a mixture of both emotions as well as story—giving
him the appearance of aged youth. Bruce inched closer, breath slowly fogging up the clear
barrier between them. Bruce’s fingers itched. Itched to touch, to feel, to comfort.

As his gaze fell on Clark’s chest once more, he allowed himself to take in the full extent of
the damage. A bruise the size of two large fists covered the sun-kissed skin, leaving splotches
of reds, blues, and purples. Hints of black and yellows colored the edges of the horrifying
wound. There were frayed-like edges around the bruise as if it was a growth, desperately
seeking to cover the host. Bruce could make out the shimmering white flickers that danced
across the Kryptonian’s chest every so often—Zatana’s work, no doubt. It was ugly and
painful. It shouldn’t be there. It felt so wrong. It was wrong. As Clark breathed in and out—
practically wheezing—Bruce found himself losing air.

“I’m so sorry, Clark,” Bruce barely whispered as he clenched the clear curtain separating
them, “I’m so, so sorry… I should’ve been there, I should’ve been there.” He bit back a
mournful cry, refusing to shatter the comforting silence that had accompanied Clark where
Bruce had failed. He wanted to reach for his hand, to hold him… to let him know he wasn’t
alone.

A scratchy laugh burst through his mouth at the very thought. Hadn’t Bruce made Clark feel
just that: alone? Even alongside him, even when he was in the room with him. Clark had
made it distinctly clear.

But…

Even so… Bruce looked over the bruise and the ongoing healing process. Even so.
And as if nothing had changed, as if nothing had been said, “Dick has asked after you,” a
rueful smile barely flickered across Bruce’s face at the memory. The huffs and shouting, the
accusations, and the slamming of doors. He had been none too pleased to hear of the
likelihood of Superman never setting foot in the Batcave again. “Been asking after you,”
Bruce continued, and turned away as if the far wall was of unique interest, then echoed
Dick’s questions as if burned into his memory, “‘When’s Clark coming back? What has he
been up to?’” Bruce paused and then, “‘What did you do, Bruce?’”

Because what didn’t he do.

Clark said nothing.

Bruce now had his hands gripping his knees as he sat in the bedside chair. Clark didn’t need
to hear this; he didn’t need him to feel guilty. Not with a choice Bruce had made—after
careful contemplation. So, instead, Bruce told Clark what he would’ve told him last week—
on what used to be their night… mundane things… nothing, well, worthwhile, he supposed.

And then he told him what he would’ve told him two weeks ago—on what used to be their
night… and so on and so forth.

Time ticked by.

“... it took time to produce an antitoxin with the level of complexity and caliber of Poison
Ivy’s pheromonic toxins,” Bruce continued speaking, gesturing as he spoke quietly to no one
in particular, “the spores usually carry a unique, genetic makeup that allows us to pinpoint its
point of origin, and therefore, its undoing. It’s like,” Bruce paused like he normally did when
he was thinking of a visual example that would allow Clark to follow his train of thought
more easily. Clark always preferred visuals as it helped him better understand the ‘technical
stuff’—as Clark had termed it—Bruce would spew whenever they were chatting. “It’s like
those purple Kryptonian mushrooms you showed me on my first trip to your Fortress,” Bruce
felt a lightness at the treasured memory, “the spores that covered the fungus made up the
inner parts of it. The spores alone were enough to spawn a parasitic growth. But a reversal of
the spores would eat away at the growth rather than build upon.” Bruce slightly winced at
such a grim picture he was painting to a sick, bedridden Clark, “...or something like that,” he
finished lamely, suddenly grateful for the Kryptonian’s deep, healing slumber.
Clark said nothing.

Bruce wasn’t sure how much time had passed now, but he knew it was nighttime. There was
quiet throughout the Watchtower—from either heroes leaving for Earth or heroes entering
into the tower’s sleeping quarters. No sounds of shuffling feet, merry laughter, electrified
energy, or the usual hustle and bustle that filled the Watchtower. It was pleasantly quiet.
Bruce looked over at Clark’s sleeping form, and how he seamlessly matched the tower’s
atmosphere. It didn’t look right. It wasn’t right.

Bruce turned away, his gaze facing space in all its emptiness and mystery. It, too, was quiet.
Right below the edge of the glass wall Bruce could see the face of Earth. Without much
movement, Bruce reclined in the bedside chair, letting out a deep sigh. The day had been
long. Usually he found himself preparing for patrol about this time of night. With that
thought, Bruce realized he hadn’t found someone to cover Batman’s patrol this week.

Uncharacteristically, the thought didn’t fill him with anxiety or irritation. Perhaps he was
more tired than he had been letting on? A glance at Clark and a treacherous pull at his chest.
He abruptly turned away then slouched in his seat, finally allowing today’s exhaustion to
overtake him. No one was here to see him—them. The small beeping noise of the monitors
and the inhale and exhale. Bruce’s eyes blurred as the soft sounds were lulling him to sleep.

“G’night, Clark.”

Clark once again said nothing.

****

Woosh!

Bruce startled awake at the sound and rush of wind.

“Oh, hey, Batman!” a much too chirpy voice announced, “fancy seeing you here! Don’t mind
me, just bringing some breakfast!” The Flash was holding a metal tray of treats, little sparks
dancing around his body. Barry set the tray down on the table beside Clark’s bed, next to
Bruce. Bruce observed the contents of the tray: crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, jellied toast,
and a few protein bars with a large glass of orange juice. “Just the essentials,” Barry
awkwardly chuckled as he scratched at the back of his neck, then he must’ve mistaken
Bruce’s silence for annoyance because it kick started a rapid fire explanation of his presence,
“I come down here in the mornings to check on Clark, and J’onn had mentioned you were
down here… so, I thought you know, it would be considerate to bring you down something.
Just in case, you didn’t have a chance to eat something, like before you got here. Not that you
can’t get it yourself, but you know—”

“Barry,” Bruce began, rubbing at his forehead and pinching the bridge of his nose. He had
such a headache, but the breakfast did smell nice.

Barry’s rapt attention was both unnerving and endearing, but it was much too early in the
morning to deal with his electric energy. Bruce continued, “this was thoughtful,” Barry’s eyes
widened a fraction, “thank you.” A sweet flush suddenly flooded Barry’s cheeks. He took on
an ‘aw-shucks’ stance as the pretty flush seemed to darken considerably at Bruce’s words. It
was… cute…a realization that fully startled Bruce awake.

“You’re welcome,” Barry spoke quietly at Bruce’s sincere and rare compliment. A few
moments passed, and Bruce would be lying if he said they weren’t awkward moments. There
were too many unspoken questions. Questions that Bruce wasn’t ready to answer. Questions
he wasn’t sure if he ever would be ready to answer. Barry seemed to sense that—thankfully
—and didn’t press the issue. Barry had taken a seat on the opposite end of Clark’s bed, body
facing Bruce, but face turned toward the Kryptonian. The posture seemed intentional, which
should’ve sounded off all kinds of alarm bells in Bruce’s head. “How are things in Gotham?”
Barry’s quiet voice tickled the air. Barry wasn’t looking at Bruce, allowing him the privacy to
outwardly react. It was thoughtful; it was enraging. It was suffocating—and he wanted
nothing more than to spill everything.

Nevertheless, Bruce tensed up.

“The usual,” his voice was gruff to hide the unsteady imbalance inside of him. Barry wasn’t
going to notice. No one usually did. Barry frowned at the characteristic bullshit response.
“And what’s ‘the usual’?” Barry pressed, now looking at Bruce. Bruce could tell Barry just
wanted to engage in small talk, like he usually did with everyone else, but Bruce wasn’t
everyone else and he hadn’t engaged in small talk in so long. He wasn’t quite sure how it was
supposed to go anymore.

“Armed robberies, suppressing outbreaks, convicting murderers, eliminating drug trafficking

routes,” Bruce answered plainly, then looked over at Barry, “the usual.” Well now…that
wasn’t quite right, was it—Barry’s reaction? Barry was smiling now, a bright, sweet grin
overtaking most of his youthful face.

Despite the happy expression, something in Bruce’s stomach soured. Bruce’s hackles rose at
the potential punchline; the hidden joke or unwanted surprise, “What?”

Barry’s smile softened a bit regardless of the harshness of Bruce’s reply, “Oh, nothing,” he
turned his gaze to Clark once more, smile never leaving his face, “it’s just what you said is
all.” Like that explained anything at all.

“Meaning?”

“Clark said you’d say that.”

Clark? Clark talked about him?

When?!

“He talked about me? When?” The last question came out a little harsher than Bruce had
intended, his emotions getting the better of him. Barry winced a bit at the unintentional
accusation.
“It wasn’t anything bad,” Barry held his hands up in surrender, “we just got around to talking
about each other’s city, and Gotham just came up.” Gotham never ‘came up’ in anyone’s
conversations, not without good reason… or a negative comparison.

“Just ‘came up’?” How? Bruce’s eyes narrowed.

“Look, it wasn’t anything bad,” Barry kept promising, like if he said it enough times, Bruce
would start believing it too. Regardless Barry was talking a mile a minute, gesturing
nervously like he was unveiling something he shouldn’t have, “there had been a robbery in
Metropolis, and Clark had mentioned how they had been becoming frequent as of late, but
luckily it wasn’t anything too much for the police to handle… but yeah, then Gotham came
up because we were talking about police and detectives and stuff because you’re kind of like
a detective, which then lead to Clark talking about the frequency of criminal activity, you
know? Since Gotham’s got a lot of crime—not that you can’t handle it or anything! We didn’t
talk about anything like that. ‘Cause he can hear all that stuff as it happens, you know? That’s
why we were talking about the criminal activity in Gotham. So, like, we started talking about
what’s considered the ‘usual’ or something like that, not just in your city or anything, but in
the moment we were…” Bruce was attempting to follow Barry’s rapid train of thought, his
frown deepening as the explanation continued, “and Clark started talking about you since
you’re Gotham’s hero, and what ‘the usual’ was for you. And yeah, he answered like you just
did now… when I asked him about Gotham’s usual… so, yeah…” Barry’s voice trailed off at
the end, now biting his lip before softly speaking in a slower tone, “That… probably could’ve
been shorter, huh?” His nervous chuckle at the end and the rubbing at the back of his neck
sheepishly, reminded Bruce of how young some of the League members were.

“Yes,” Bruce answered, not sure how to feel about that explanation now, “it could’ve.”

“Sorry,” Barry’s head was bent in shame—unnecessarily so.

“Why?” Bruce crossed his arms and leaned back.

“You…” Barry began, and Bruce’s fingers dug into the unseen parts of his arms, “seem…” as
if he was searching for the right word to not offend Bruce, which only served to offend him
more, “hurt,” the speedster settled on with a barely concealed wince.
“Bare,” a voice interrupted the climbing atmosphere. A door had been opened behind them,
and a loud gait was making its way into the room. No one would’ve been hard pressed to
identify the person who had just entered the room—he was practically glued to the
speedster’s side. The crispy wisps of wood and wind with hints of jasmine accompanied the
loud gait.

“Lantern,” Batman stated, not moving from his seat as Barry stood, all smiles and relief, at
Hal Jordan’s entrance.

“Spooky,” he answered with most likely a smirk, “Making friends? Playing nice?”

“Hal, leave him alone,” Barry softly spoke as he cast Bruce an apologetic look.

“So, what’s on the menu? Ooh, bacon!” Hal went to snatch up a piece of crispy bacon before
Barry grabbed at his wrist, “Hal!” Barry’s voice was scolding, “that is not for you.”

Bruce sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as the red and green heroes bickered before
him.

And continued to bicker.

They chased each other around—peels of laughter and playful cursing buzzed all around
Bruce.

It was too early for these kind of antics.

“Aw, Bare, but I’m starving, and it’s not like Spooky’s staking a claim!” Hal went to grab the
bacon again, but instead of successfully grabbing it, his grip faltered at Barry’s smack across
his arm, causing the oily piece of bacon to fly across the room, hitting the plastic covering
around Clark and falling pathetically to the floor. The sound resulted in a flopping slap sound
that echoed throughout the small room. There was silence as all three of the heroes stared at
the fallen piece of bacon. Silence until… “I’d like it to go on record that if Barry really
wanted to, he could’ve stopped this from happening, but he didn’t, so…” “Hey! Now wait
just a minute—”

“Both of you. Get. Out!” Batman was now standing, eyebrows pinched and voice barely
containing his irritation. They hadn’t moved, both staring at each other like they were waiting
for the other to make a move, “NOW!” Bruce roared like he would’ve a disobedient Robin.
They both took off, running out of the room; the door was closing behind them and Bruce
could make out Hal’s cackle at Barry’s kicked puppy expression.

At the two rambunctious heroes’ leave, Batman knelt to pick up the greasy meat, pulling out
a cloth napkin to clean the floor. His voice was barely over a whisper as he spoke, “I
apologize for the noise… I know everything is so much louder for you when your powers are
healing or fluctuating. They’re gone now,” Bruce was sitting once more by Clark’s side,
tossing the oily napkin and bacon into a nearby bin, “Just rest now, I’ve got you. I’ll always
have you.”

And the hours seemed to tick by. Or had it been days? Zatanna came in once or twice
throughout the week. She had decided that the need for the plastic barrier was gone and with
a twirl of her finger, the barrier snapped off its hinges and rolled up nicely. Whenever she was
available, she would come in twice, so the days varied. But whenever she did come in, she
always came bearing otherworldly gifts. A calming elixir she had cooked up during her
studies, a healing potion that boosted one’s immune system—she said it had been a gift from
a traveling witch—and finally, books of history she had discovered during her travels. Bruce
was currently flipping through one now. She had obtained three tomes: one for medicinal
purposes for a variety of species; one for food and a culture on an unknown planet; and
finally, one concerning Kryptonian dialect and culture. Bruce had eagerly snatched up the
Kryptonian text, fingers rubbing the tome’s bent spine and weathered pages. “She’s a little
worn, but still readable,” Zatanna had said, the other two tomes tucked underneath her arm as
she gestured to the book sitting in Bruce’s lap, “not really sure where we found her? But I
remembered it when I came across it the other day in our library—”

Bruce let her voice drown out as he carefully lifted the cover, easily recognizing the symbols
as Kryptonian due to his rigorous studies. It was overwhelming how thick this text was, and
how much it could uncover about an extinct species. How much it would unearth about
Clark’s lineage, and his people’s past and culture. What did they think? How did they live?
What did they wear? What did they believe? There were so many questions that Bruce
wanted to get to the center of, so many questions he could answer for Clark… so much they
could talk about… again.
I can’t wait to show this to Clark!

“Thank you, Zatanna,” Bruce said earnestly, “Clark… he’ll be filled with such gratitude
when he awakens.” Zatanna broadly smiled, “It’s no problem! I’m always happy to help the
boy scout! You tell him when he wakes up, he owes me, m’kay?” Absentmindedly nodding,
Bruce turned the first couple of pages.

So, the week was nearing its end, and Bruce had read the tome from cover to cover. He had
taken the opportunity to read to Clark out loud when he found particularly interesting topics
like Kryptonian garb.

“Under our Sun, we did not find the need for restrictive attire, adorning ourselves with
flowing terran fabric spun from the very metal imbued in the lands we walk,” Bruce turned
the next page carefully as he worked to loosely translate as he read, “Each house was etched
into its own, colors spun from materials we had harvested and created under Rao’s careful
gaze. Behold, our Kryptium! Its build is durable, withstanding the harsh weather and might
of ten…” Bruce skipped a couple of unreadable lines, “...of shimmering quality and
malleability of hardened mud…” He skimmed further ahead, “Shimmering constructs
beneath our feet… Its crystallized structure has the ability to absorb and store our findings.”
No doubt those crystals that Clark had in the Fortress of Solitude. He read on, aloud,
“Biological electricity built to withstand the environment’s changing temperatures and the
weight of several Rondors. The biological makeup allows for the unlinking of the molecules
which hold the metallic fabric as one… ah, they must be referring to your suit, Clark, or
something similar,” Bruce allowed his gaze to fall on a primitive sketch off to the side, then a
larger, more detailed garb drawing, depicting a dark-haired humanoid with long arms and
legs and a thick musculature, “Military garb…” Bruce read aloud. He flipped the page,
revealing several drawings of various complexities and colors. The book was well maintained
considering its age and the knowledge of what became of its place of origin.

No drawing held the House of El symbol, which further supported Clark and his Kryptonian
father Jor-El’s assertion of his family being one of the arts and sciences—less militarian and
more inventive. Nevertheless, the depictions were fierce and beautifully complex. They were
practical as they were extraordinary. Several images were sleek and modern, taking on an
appearance of something straight out of an utopian novel. And others were more Bruce’s
taste. The dark designs were ornate, decorating the undersides of their arms and legs—a
lightweight material acting as the armor. A large, flowing cape hung from their shoulders,
rippling at the ends as if it had a mind of its own. Bruce was entranced, gazing at this now
extinct technology. “We have found traces of our lineage within the veins of these elements,”
Bruce read aloud, “Time will reveal what purpose they will serve, but it will be for the good
of Krypton.” Loose sketches of rocks, gems, and other materials from Krypton decorated the
borders of the rugged pages. Some had the appearance of diamonds and others, topaz and
emerald— Kryptonite , Bruce thought with a slight shudder. Most of the information he had
gathered seemed to be things that Jor-El could have easily revealed to Clark already, or
information Clark may have already known; however, something in Bruce wanted to tell him
regardless. To be the one to reveal it to him—to give him something missing… something of
himself, something that was lost now found. Bruce turned his gaze out to the window then
down at his wrist, tapping the side to reveal the time. It was early in the evening. Bruce
blinked slowly and pinched at the bridge of his nose. His head hurt. He reached for the now
lukewarm orange juice that Barry was insistent on bringing every morning and drank several
large gulps, grimacing only slightly at the taste. He took a couple bites of the toast before
standing to stretch his legs. With extreme care, Bruce set the book on Clark’s bedside table.
Without the plastic barrier, Bruce could get a good look at Clark.

Clark’s wounds were fading and his breathing had stopped sounding so tumultuous. The sun
lamps still beamed down, their heat permeating the room, reminding Bruce once more of his
reoccurring, pounding headache. He moved around the room, allowing the aches and sharp
pains in his joints to stretch and settle. The shallow breaths and beeping heart monitor was in
time with Bruce’s pace, and as the two minute walk neared three, Bruce made his way beside
Clark once more. Clark’s arm was on top of the blue sheet covering his body, laying limp and
cold. Bruce moved closer to his side and reached for the exposed limb. He stopped midway,
fingers partially flexed, but still keeping their distance. In what felt like slow motion, Bruce’s
fingers made contact with Clark’s arm. A gentle caress turned into a long held movement. A
brush from his elbow to his wrist, then carefully resting on his knuckles. With a slight
pressure, Bruce laid his hand fully atop Clark’s own. Loosely winding their fingers together,
he held his hand. “Here,” and he let go, carefully grasping Clark’s wrist and forearm with
both of his hands now as he gently laid it to Clark’s side. Then, he reached for the blanket
and lifted it to cover him completely, “There, now you’re all covered up.”

Clark said nothing.

And time ticked by. No one had entered or left the room for an extended period of time,
allowing Bruce the rare opportunity of relaxing—more than simply physically but mentally.
And with the relaxation came a feeling Bruce hadn’t felt in a long while: boredom. He got up
from his chair and paced the room a couple of times, willing the energy to leave his body. He
knew he could leave the room, but then he’d run into other members of the League, which
meant interactions… which meant questions… which meant answers… which he didn’t have.
Not yet anyway. Not that he really had to answer to them, but they would ask regardless, and
even Bruce was growing weary of his non-answers. Unclipping a buckle on his utility belt,
his fingers touched a small sketchpad. He pulled it out despite being folded up to fit nicely
into the small compartment, then he reached a bit further to grasp a small graphite pencil.
Unfolding the contents and smoothing the ends down, Bruce crossed his legs and leaned back
in relaxation. The beat of the heart monitor, the small inhales and exhales leaving the
slumbering hero, and the quiet scratches across paper.
Every straight edge, every contour, and every shadow was etched into his mind as he
sketched the scene before him. The sun lamps gave Clark an otherworldly glow, which was
ironic in of itself. Smirking to himself, Bruce continued to shade Clark’s jawline, curving the
edge to capture the bouncing light. So engrossed in his sketch, he didn’t hear the approaching
set of footsteps.

“Batman.”

Bruce was rarely caught off guard, and when he was, it was never outwardly noticeable…
such as jumping up from one’s chair, clearly startled and overwhelmed. In his haste to stand,
his grip on his sketchbook loosened, causing the small book to fall to the floor, and because
Bruce has never been lucky a day in his life, it fell to the floor… face up.

J’onn’s gaze left Bruce’s for the fallen object.

His sketch he had been currently shading wasn’t exposed to the audience. No, a more
damning, far more revealing sketch—one with careful detail and penwork. A small portrait of
Clark’s crinkled smile—hand perched beneath his jaw, eyes like crescents, and smile bright
and wide as if frozen in laughter. It was saying everything and more. The exposure was
violating despite the nature of it being self-inflicted. With enviable speed, Bruce scooped the
infernal betrayal from the floor and shoved it into the innermost pockets of his looming cape.
“You should knock,” Bruce gruffly stated to the Martian, still standing in front of the
doorway.

“I did,” came the reply.

“Then, you should wait for an answer,” it was a stupid, losing battle. He had seen it. He had
seen everything.

“Apologies,” J’onn said instead, bowing his head slightly, “I’ll remember for next time.”

Next time…
“I came to you for a purpose. May I request your assistance with the matter we previously
discussed?” J’onn asked in earnest, the previous moment either forgotten or purposefully
ignored. Bruce was completely content with either result. “Is now a good time?”

“It’s a good time as any,” Bruce replied, feeling a bit shameful for his child-like display
moments prior, but like hell was he going to bring it up again—apology warranted or not.

They both moved to the exit, Bruce taking a quick glance back. “Wonder Woman will be by
his side while we attend to this matter,” J’onn spoke as if he was thinking aloud, “he will not
be alone.”

It seemed like there was no need for pretenses, “Thank you, J’onn,” Bruce barely whispered.

And they continued their walk down the well-lit hallways toward the training rooms.

****

They arrived at the training facility with little effort and few interruptions—much to Bruce’s
relief. There were a few heroes in the adjacent training rooms to the one they were currently
standing in, and there were several others packing up to leave. “So, what seems to be the
problem?” Bruce asked as he walked towards the electrical panel that controlled the
holographic imagery and overall system of this current training facility. J’onn remained near
the entrance as he looked off to the side, “I’m uncertain. A few training facilities had blown
circuits and glitching software, which you are undoubtedly able to recall, seeing as you were
able to install the replacements. This particular training room though… I’ve been unable to
decipher the problem.” Bruce was flicking switches, testing out the equipment.

Then, he asked, “How did you come to the conclusion that there was something wrong?”
“Well, it was not me that had filed the report,” J’onn was now walking up to his side, his long
gait smooth and sure. Bruce turned his gaze away from the equipment momentarily to look at
J’onn, “Who filed it?”

“Kal-El.”

Because of course.

“Hm,” Bruce turned his gaze away at a normal speed. He unclasped the clasp on his utility
belt that held the compartment for his tools. Grabbing what he needed, he also switched off
the electrical powering for this particular training room. Crouching to the floor, Bruce felt
underneath the panel. He gripped the latch and twisted, allowing the panel door to release.
Bruce then maneuvered his body to get a better view of the panel’s underside, containing all
the wires and the main hard drive. For a moment, Bruce was able to lose himself in the
simple task of repair. Unscrew a few bolts here, tighten a loose wire there, and stabilize the
mainframe. The remedial task allowed Bruce’s mind to temporarily clear—singularly
focusing on the small movements of his hands as they shifted to and fro beneath the edge.

“You are quite the artist,” J’onn spoke aloud as Bruce moved one of the wires out of his line
of sight to what he could deduct was the reason for the issues with this training room. Bruce
let out a hiss as one of the wires sent an electric shock despite there being no power. “What?”
Bruce said more absentmindedly than wanting.

“Your drawings,” J’onn further explained, stated calmly and with reassurance, “they mirror
their subjects well.”

Bruce pulled himself away from the task at hand to gain better ground. J’onn did not continue
speaking, but what was not said revealed more than what he had said. “It’s a hobby,” Bruce
spoke plainly. It was easy to speak honestly with J’onn—to speak bluntly, too. With J’onn, it
was more than just words. It was the unsaid, the feeling, the circumstance, the being. J’onn
had the remarkable ability to see more than what was said; he could see what was meant and
sometimes rather what you hadn’t said. Talking with J’onn was revealing but it was also
healing—it was easy.

“It seems more akin to a talent,” J’onn flicked the electricity back on, and the panel started
back up with no issue. The holographic images were crystal clear and the audio was no
longer muffled. There no longer seemed to be any issues. A suspiciously easy fix.

“You can be talented in a hobby,” Bruce mentally shrugged off the compliment and the
asking for more. J’onn continued, “Are they all of Kal?” Bruce shot the alien a withering
look that would’ve had many of the Leaguers cowering or stumbling over an apology, but for
J’onn, he only stared back… because this dark look wasn’t anger. It was embarrassment and
of pending humiliation.

“I do not mean this maliciously… or with the intention of sharing,” J’onn revealed his hand
without a thought, taking on a curious look—expectant and genuine. Bruce was quiet for a
moment as if the conversation had reached its end, as if he intended to leave J’onn’s
statement without a response. J’onn’s eyes were patient, and he made no signs of leaving.
There were no sounds in the room beside the small breaths leaving their bodies and the
steady gear shifting that had since become the Watchtower’s ambience. It was quiet until with
a voice barely over a whisper, revealed, “Not all of them.”

No sudden rush of feeling. No clawing need to hide or turn away. In fact, the revelation felt
almost like a taunt muscle immediately loosened or a long held breath finally released. It was
painless and brought about its own sense of clarity.

“It really is a hobby… just something to pass the time,” Bruce further explained, not like
J’onn had asked, “Kal’s a frequent subject because of how much time we spend… spent
together,” a pause to fiddle with the edge of his cape, “He’s an easy subject to draw, angles
and all…” Great, now he’s sounding like Barry, “… he’s… well, he’s…”

“Something you admire, or perhaps more accurately, someone you admire,” J’onn finished.

“Yes,” Not exactly , “Someone I admire,” Bruce inclined his head.

“I see,” J’onn took pity on him, and a brief pause followed, “could I commission a piece from
you?” The request was like whiplash to Bruce, who could barely wrap his head around why
the Martian would want an amateur like him to commission something for him instead of the
many talented artists Bruce knew J’onn was well aware of.
“Why me? Surely, there are better suited artists that would be well worth your time,” Bruce
replied.

J’onn’s eyes seemed to flash as Bruce’s mind was filled with a colorful landscape and
bustling green creatures. The domesticity of the scene before his eyes was overwhelming at
best with its sincerity and carefree nature. It was of J’onn’s family—the one he had had on
his home planet. A time long ago, one full of love and innocence. Then, J’onn’s voice came
through, filtering out the colorful images, “It is a task that I can trust with only a few…”
J’onn showed uncharacteristic nervousness, “I want my heart to be shared and captured by
those I can trust… a sentiment, I believe, we both share.”

“You knew about my ability before today,” Bruce spoke without accusation.

“I did.”

“But why wait until now?”

“Because I wanted to make sure of something before requesting.”

“Make sure of what?” Bruce and J’onn had started walking and had stopped momentarily at
the entry point of the training room.

“That you were capable of depicting my love for them, that you could capture them as they
were and how I see them.”

The admission was genuine and condemning all in one. What should’ve felt like a
compliment felt like an accusation. And for once, Bruce did not want to provide an excuse.
He didn’t want to deflect or hide. Instead, he decided to lower his guard and just this once to
accept this moment for what it was.

“When would be a good time?” Bruce’s response was partnered with an open gesture. J’onn’s
eyes softened, “I was hoping now would be as good as any other time.” Bruce made a motion
to gesture for J’onn to lead the way out of the training room, “Lead the way.” And he did.

****

They made it to J’onn’s room on the Watchtower. It was a place Bruce was only familiar with
due to the blueprints when creating and purchasing the materials and decorations meant to
immerse the room into a place comfortable enough for the Martian to live in. It was befitting
of the Martian and his identity without compromising his sanity. The bed and the walls were
uniquely futuristic, a design mimicking the structure Bruce had seen before in J’onn’s
thoughts when he had revealed what life had been like on Mars. The subtle orange hues
highlighted the metal-like structures covered with brightly colored blankets and cushions.
J’onn had mentioned before his love for bright things. He was drawn to the happiness it
brought but also, Bruce was sure, J’onn was reminded of his family and his life on Mars
whenever he encountered bright colors working in cohesion.

Hal had immediately jumped on the newly revealed interest when it was finally revealed to
the League. J’onn didn’t share much about himself, if at all, more inclined to act as a conduit
for others. But to Hal that just wouldn’t do, and Bruce had never been more grateful for Hal’s
big mouth and intrusive personality, “Ah, man, if you love bright colors, then I’ve got so
much to show you on Earth! There’s festivals, music, and Pride month! Hey, you ever been to
the Rainbow Mountain in Peru?” And the list went on and on much to the other members’
amusement, and J’onn’s uncharacteristic shyness. However, Hal’s influence was not in vain
because a swift introduction to the 60s and 70s music and fashion spiraled into J’onn
metaphorically vomiting the eras’ colors onto his decor and walls of his room. That’s what
greeted, or perhaps a better word would be assaulted, Bruce's senses when the Martian
opened the door to his room.

“It’s colorful,” Bruce remarked, unable to think of any other accurate adjective at the moment
that wasn’t downright insulting.

“Thank you,” J’onn smiled fondly, “Green Lan—Hal and I went ‘bartering’” J’onn used air
quotes to emphasize his point, and Bruce couldn’t find it in himself to speak his mind as he
usually would have—commenting on the absolute clash of colors and its overwhelming
effect on anyone entering into the Martian’s room. What was wrong with him? Was he losing
his nerve? His edge?
“Of course he did,” Bruce said instead, and the sarcasm was felt through their connection
because J’onn chuckled softly.

“Yes, he and I were perhaps a little too enthusiastic, but in the end, as it is most commonly
said, I regret nothing.”

They made their way to the edge of his room, where a small box of supplies was atop a desk.
So, J’onn had a feeling Bruce was going to comply with his request. Bruce supposed the
evidence had been there from the start if his willingness to provide for the League in many
circumstances was any admission.

“I bought the supplies myself a while ago. I hope they are to your liking.” Bruce ran his
hands among the supplies, feeling the sturdy graphite pencils and the soft brushes. There was
an easel folded to the side, a stack of palettes, and several bottles of various chemicals and
mixtures. “At the time, I was not aware of where your skill lay in a particular medium.”

“Do you have a preference?” Bruce asked as he uncapped a bottle of white paint. It was good
as new, a thick, spreadable texture yet maintaining its bright, white color.

“I would like color…” J’onn said, and at Bruce’s stare, “if it wasn’t made clear.” A layered
veil of humor passed through their minds. “I can paint,” Bruce stated, holding up a gouache
box container full of vibrant colors. From there, there was silence. Bruce set up the easel
while maneuvering the table to hold all his necessary supplies. There were several cups of
water, napkins, and paint brush holders. After unclasping the container holding the gouache,
Bruce tapped the side of his cowl, allowing the schematics to pop up in front of his eyes and
a humming filled his ears. “Ready when you are, J’onn,” Bruce said, settling himself in the
seat that the Martian had provided for him. Sitting on his bed, J’onn closed his eyes. And
Bruce’s followed shortly afterwards.

A dark abyss now bursting with white was all Bruce could see.

Then, bursts of color tangled together before him, splashes of blues and pinks fading darker
to produce a deeper shade of pink, closer to red, and a black blue. Out of the gloom sparked a
flicker. Shaky lights of yellows in various shades encompassed figures of humanoids. As if
flickers of flames, their movements shrunk and grew in size at rapid paces. A backsplash of
violets and greens then. Now an orange accent. And as the colors slowly began to reveal
themselves beneath and above layers, they began to form a picture Bruce had long grown
familiar with: J’onn standing on a metallic pavilion with his wife and child. They were in
their true Martian forms, tall, green, and lanky. Bright red eyes and claw-like hands and feet.
Their skin was pulled taunt, like a rough hide allowing a few wrinkles, almost like excess
skin. Then, their cone-shaped heads—smooth and angular. Despite their monstrous
appearance, they stood nonthreatening, in each other’s embrace with soft expressions
adorning their features.

It felt like a scene too intimate for Bruce’s eyes.

The pavilion was encased in light and the flora allowed for unique shapes to be made out on
the floor. Round and jagged edges were the shadows produced from the large violet plants
towering over J’onn’s home. They were mushroom-like in nature at first glance with their
spore-like holes and umbrella covering. Other flora had an appearance like palm trees yet
single color hues. Then, the scene gradually changed, rippling out of existence as a new
image was born. They were sitting inside of their home, a soft song was entering into Bruce’s
ears. A sweet lullaby. A Martian, which Bruce now knew to be J’onn’s wife, was holding a
small bundle, swaddled in large leaves. The chirping melody was like a whisper against the
wind. Emotions that were not his own, poured through Bruce as he listened in. He found
himself understanding the sounds and notes with vivid clarity. How he was able to understand
a language he had never even heard of or heard spoken was beyond him? Which meant it
must be J’onn’s consciousness carrying through to his own. The image carried a pink rim,
further signifying J’onn’s emotions in his memories.

Another image rippled in. One of a dark night and yellow stars. A small green creature
running in circles—a Martian’s offspring. Red curious eyes covered the memory, then
everything was raging orange.

The sudden change lacked the subtle and delicate ripples. It was like the scene previously
cherished was torn away.

A deep, cutting pain was searing Bruce’s mind as the flames ate away at the image. Moving
creatures of destruction. A scream. Bruce could only watch in horror as bumps and sores
rapidly appeared on the Martians, young and old. Their bodies were melting, their skin
ripping from its confines at the all-consuming fires before them. There was nothing. Nothing
left but darkness. Flickers of burnt colors filled Bruce’s mind as he felt, for the first time, the
sweaty uncomfortable weight of his cowl and cape. Spots of color became whole, and the
spots became black. They were back in the Watchtower—J’onn’s room to be specific.

“I apologize,” J’onn spoke urgently and out of breath, and as Bruce looked over at him, he
had never seen the Martian look so worn, “I did not realize my emotions would be so vivid in
my memories. If I had known, I would not have—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Bruce’s voice was strong. J’onn looked at Bruce, and
Bruce him.

A moment shared. A moment kept. An understanding.

“Perhaps now, Batman… perhaps now we better understand one another,” J’onn’s eyes did
not leave Bruce’s, in the way one looks when they have finally uncovered the last bit of the
puzzle to unveil the longstanding truth. “Yes,” Bruce began, turning his gaze down to grab a
paintbrush with somewhat shaky hands at the revelation, “yes, I think we do.”

And Bruce laid the first brush strokes onto the blank canvas: a mixture of red and blue.

And it created a luscious purple—the exact shade of the towering plant that created dancing
shapes across the lit pavilion of a loving family.

****

Hours had passed. And several base coats had taken place. Three figures stood off to the right
side in each other’s embrace amongst a forest of color. The colors of the painting lacked its
finishing touches, but the idea was there. A recreation of a feeling, like J’onn wanted. Not a
long held memory, but rather a new image acting as a new memory. In this painting, his
family would live.
Bruce put down the paintbrush and stretched his arms a bit. “Are you finished?” J’onn asked,
eyes still closed as he was now reclined in his bed.

“No, but I’m almost done. A few finishing touches,” Bruce stood to stretch his limbs and get
a better look at his picture. His lens had captured J’onn’s images beautifully, allowing for
Bruce to use them readily as references. As Bruce sat back down, a beep went off on the
device beside J’onn’s bed then a beep in his pocket. Both J’onn and Bruce reached for the
League device and logged in to see the message:

GOOD NEWS!! Big Blue’s up! – Flash, 0004-SC-6719.

🙌– Green Lantern, 0005-CC-7019.

Superman was up. He was awake.

The inbox flooded with messages: proclamations of blessings, well wishes, and platitudes of
gratitude.

At first, Bruce felt nothing.

Perhaps the moment was too surreal? Or perhaps all his memories were rushing in at once,
reminding him of why he had kept his distance? But it didn’t matter, not right now. Because
the apathy was quickly being replaced by much more realistic and unnecessary emotions like
anger, sadness, happiness, and lastly, complete absolute bone-chilling terror.

What should he do?

Would he want to see him?

Do I want to see him?

The answer to that question was the one thing he could answer presently and with one
distinct emotion: Yes. Yes, with fierce determination.

As Bruce had his mini panic attack, he turned his gaze to the other occupant in the room.
J’onn was staring at him intently like he was feeling one’s aura, attempting to understand
without overstepping the respected boundaries. As if he himself was asking Bruce what he
wanted to do, J’onn opened his mouth to speak, “Shall we see him together?”

Whether he was ready or not, Bruce would not be alone.

“I’d… I’d like that,” Bruce stated, laying down his brushes after swirling them in the clean
water, “as I’m sure he will.” J’onn nodded his head and stood, “Then, let us be off. I’m sure
despite being on the mend, he will be as lively as ever.”

****

Entering the medical ward had never felt so stifling and daunting. The small room was
completely full of visitors, to the point where the hallways were crowded. Interested
onlookers, friends, allies, and supporters. All to see their hero on the mend—all wanting to
show their support, whether self-servingly or not. There were many ‘new’ League members
attending this procession, which further cemented Batman’s picture of Superman.

He was well liked—well loved.

He had made an effort to get to know these up-and-coming heroes, or heroes that had long
grown accustomed to being alone. He had made himself a peer, a mentor—a friend.
He had earned their respect in more ways than one… something that Bruce could not say the
same for himself.

It’s what made the room so stifling—the hallways unbearable and daunting. And yet… and
yet he wanted to be among them, but not for them, for him. To see the various shades of blue
in his eyes, to hear his light voice, to feel his warm touch… to be next to him, like he had
been before. Before the injuries, before the insults, before their disconnect. To be as he had
been this past week—to be close to him. He wanted it.

He wanted to see him.

He needed to see him.

He needed to tell him… he had to make things right.

J’onn and Bruce stood outside of the room, several feet away, observing each guest enter then
leave—a brighter, happier look on their face than when they had entered. It was encouraging,
knowing that Clark was well enough to bring others joy. It meant that he was himself again,
helping others and bringing out the best in them. It was encouraging because if they could
leave happier… more at peace… on better terms, then perhaps he could, too? Perhaps Clark
would be happy to see him? Would want to see him? Been wanting to see him…

Maybe Clark had always been waiting for him?

As the line lessened and the guests were leaving, Bruce and J’onn inched closer and closer to
the door. With each inch, Bruce’s fingers twitched and his cape felt a bit heavier. It felt right
to feel this way—to feel anxious, especially after so long. He could just make out Barry and
Hal’s voices inside. They were laughing at something. The energy was invigorating and
inviting. He stepped closer. Now J’onn and Bruce were at the door frame, and the original
members of the League were the last ones present.

“We are glad you are on the mend, Kal,” that was Diana’s voice, strong and sweet.
“You gave us quite a scare,” that was Barry’s voice, “especially when you didn’t wake up…
we all were so worried!” J’onn moved to enter the room first as Barry finished speaking, and
Bruce was quick to follow after him, which he should’ve known was a foolish decision.
Completely tactless. Considerably naive.

He should’ve known.

Perhaps he had?

“Especially Spooky. I mean he wouldn’t leave your side at all,” Hal’s voice was sincere,
which made it so much worse .

Bruce froze.

At the door frame.

Having already entered.

Everyone noticed his entrance.

Everyone except him.

Everyone except Clark.

“Bruce was here?” Clark’s voice was weaker than it should’ve been. His name on Clark’s lips
made him take a step forward. There was a ribbon of hope that coursed through Bruce at the
sound because there was no ill will, no bitterness, no anger. But then, “—Why?”
Why.

As if Bruce needed a reason.

The room was utterly quiet at the question. Eyes moved to land on Bruce—the question being
something only he could answer, or at least that’s what Bruce hoped was the case. And not
the more damning, more cutting reason: that they didn’t know themselves.

“I still am,” Bruce answered instead.

Barry nervously smiled and waved awkwardly at Bruce’s presence. The other League
members seemed to make room for him to walk to Clark’s bedside. Needlessly making a
pathway to Clark like Bruce needed it. The air was thick, and Clark slowly turned his head to
face the doorway, where Bruce was.

Their eyes met, and Bruce could feel a thousand emotions cross his masked face. He could
feel the rapid beat of his heart and knew that Clark could feel it too. Clark blinked at him.

“Batman took care of you while you were out,” Barry jumped in, acting before the rise of
tension. The red speedster looked over at Bruce with an encouraging look, “Made sure you
were comfortable during your comatose state… made sure you weren’t alone.” It was just
like Barry to make sure everyone was getting along and no one was left out, which was both
simultaneously embarrassing as it was heartwarming. Clark looked uncomfortable as Barry
finished speaking; it was made vividly apparent especially when instead of looking relieved,
he looked pained. Bruce could feel the metaphorical bandage, covering his wounds, rapidly
starting to rip off.

Sensing the now rising tide and the drastic change of emotion, Bruce moved to speak, hoping
to filter out the room, so he could make his motives clear—his feelings clear. So, he could
apologize. So, he could make things right. He needed to know. Bruce wanted him to know.

But time had other plans because Hal Jordan beat him to the punch. Hal probably wanted to
back Barry up, especially with how quiet the then-lively room was quickly becoming. And
looking at the honest look in his eyes, he also probably wanted to make up for some ‘wrong’,
which Bruce thought was utterly ridiculous, considering this indiscretion had absolutely
nothing to do with either the Flash or the Green Lantern. So, when Hal opened his mouth, to
clear the air, to mend the ties, Bruce could feel the bandage completely ripping off, taking off
the recent healing scab and stitches with it—leaving him utterly and desperately exposed.

“Didn’t sleep a wink, wouldn’t eat either. Even got Zantana to bring some Kryptonian
literature, so he could read it to you—”

“Would you both shut up?” Batman hissed, and thankfully, Hal clamped his mouth shut—
properly scolded.

An awkward, stilted silence came over the room.

“Perhaps it would be best if we allowed this conversation the privacy it requires?” J’onn
interrupted the now ten-times tense atmosphere. It was more than on the nose, but with
everything that was just revealed, it hardly seemed important. In succession, Diana nodded
her head, and after making brief eye contact with Bruce, left the room. The others were quick
to follow, Barry looking like a kicked puppy as he mouthed Sorry to Batman as he exited the
room. The last words that left their lips was Hal and Barry’s brief conversation cut off by the
sliding door: “I was just trying to help—” “I know, Bare, me too.”

With the chaos gone, so was the illusion of safety—the distraction of distractions.

It was only Batman and Superman—Bruce and Clark.

In the past, it would’ve been something Bruce relished in, strived for, cherished, but now…
after everything that had conspired, Bruce felt like he did those weeks ago on the
Watchtower: vulnerable.

Vulnerable and alone.

“They were only trying to help, Batman,” Clark was the first to speak, attempting to sit up.
Bruce moved to step forward to help, but at Clark’s wave of the hand, he stopped moving.
The dismissal—albeit polite—was cutting. The distance never felt so great. Only once Clark
was partially upright in his bed did Bruce realize that Clark hadn’t used his name. Even
though they were both alone, he had used his hero alias. “I wasn’t expecting so many visitors
when I woke up,” Clark had begun speaking as Bruce tossed and turned in his inner turmoil.
There was a short pause after Clark’s statement that Bruce eagerly held onto like a lifeline,
“I’ll have a word with them about sharing private medical information.”

Clark sighed.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing, just unexpected.” Bruce was close to fidgeting as he tried to
find the balance of conversation—something to say, something to do—anything but stand in
silence like he currently was, “kind of like seeing you,” Clark finished. It was a quiet
admission and his gaze was looking out at the colors of Earth.

“You were hurt.”

A bitter laugh, “I’ve been hurt before. A lot of times in between then and now.” Then. The
then when they couldn’t see eye-to-eye, the then when Clark’s eyes were filled with anger
and pain. The then when instead of staying, Bruce had walked away. That then . The then
Bruce wished he could take back—wished had never existed… because if that then hadn’t
happened, then they wouldn’t be having this conversation now. Right?

Clark continued, now looking at Bruce, “You never came to check in then.” So why now, he
seemed to ask. What makes now any different?

“I checked in,” because he had. Bruce had made sure it was never serious.

“Of course,” Clark tiredly sighed, “My mistake then.”

Wait. That’s not—that’s not what I want. Please—don’t end the conversation. Please don’t
ignore me. Don’t give up. Don’t give up on me.
“Clark,” Bruce began, and when Clark didn’t turn his head or seem to acknowledge his voice,
he continued, “you’re right… I hadn’t physically checked in, but I did check in with J’onn.
To make sure you were alright,” Too revealing, too revealing , “to make sure the others were
alright, too… I’m, I’m sorry.”

There.

But why wasn’t Clark looking at him still, why wasn’t he interested and delighted that Bruce
was extending this metaphorical olive branch? That Bruce was starting the conversation by
apologizing first. Didn’t he see how much Bruce wanted this? Wanted what they had, wanted
something more…

“You’re sorry…” Clark wet his lips, reminding Bruce that Clark was still healing and that
perhaps they should shelf this conversation for a later date. “Clark.”

“Do you even know what you are apologizing for?” Clark was looking less and less
impressed the more Bruce opened his mouth. He ran his hand shakily through his hair, “A
genuine question, because I don’t think you do.” The unspoken and I think you never did was
cruel and deliberate.

Shifting his jaw, “I know how to apologize, Clark.”

“That’s not what I’m asking you. Although at the moment, I’m calling that into question,
too.”

Bruce saw J’onn’s smile as he talked about his loved ones, “I would give anything to see
them look at me with such peace and happiness again. Knowing that I had put that look there.
There’s not a feeling in the world that compares to it, Batman. In all the years I’ve lived—on
Earth and across the universe—nothing comes close,” and while looking at Bruce’s
sketchbook that resided in his locked utility belt, “Remember that.”

Was he really going to make him say it?

One look at Clark’s face told Bruce, yes, he was going to make him say it. “I know how to
apologize.”

Bruce just didn’t find himself apologizing much—as Bruce Wayne or as Batman. Usually he
was right, or they began to see things his way. But when he was wrong, which was rare, he
found other ways to fix the situation, to fix the problem.

But Clark wasn’t a problem.

He was a person. Someone who only seemed to want an apology.

I just don’t have much experience in doing so, Bruce wanted to say, particularly with you.

Usually he could afford the loss of not apologizing… Now, he wasn’t so sure.

A breath, “I’m sorry for what I said in the Watchtower, for humiliating you in front of the
League. It–it was never my intention nor my goal to make a spectacle out of your pain. I
wouldn’t do that to you, Clark.”

He wouldn’t.

“Not that time, you mean,” Clark looked at him with those sad eyes that knew the truth
before he even asked the question, “because if it was asked of you, if you saw no other way,
you’d do it again. Wouldn’t you?”

Bruce opened his mouth to speak. Would he? Would he do it again? Even knowing he would
lose something—someone—in the process?
“I..I’m,” But he couldn’t find the words… to say what Clark wanted him to say—what Clark
needed him to say.

“Just tell me the truth, Bruce,” Clark looked worn.

Finally, “I’m not sure,” Bruce said honestly then quietly afterwards, “I’m sorry.”

A strangled bark of laughter erupted through Clark’s throat, “Why are you apologizing now?!
For being the way you are? Or for not having all the answers? Please tell me what you are
tearing yourself up for now.”

No answer was given because any response would’ve been too revealing and too damning.
Bruce had told himself he would always be honest with Clark—in fact, they had promised
themselves that. That they would be honest with one another, regardless of the weight or
consequence. So, to avoid the declaration and admission of his many insecurities—the aches
of his heart—Bruce remained silent because in his silence, he could still be honest. He could
still claim honesty, and Clark would be none the wiser.

“You know, you can spend years getting to know someone,” Clark seemed to ponder, “and
still barely scratch the surface. To most, it’s an encouragement or a curiosity to learn more
about them… to understand them more deeply because you want there to be something worth
holding onto.” Clark locked eyes with Bruce only briefly before slowly speaking again with
downcast eyes, “But, to some, it’s a barrier used to dissuade them from personal
connections… because they don’t really want to know more, but they can’t…” Clark let out
an uneasy breath, eyes misty, his appearance looking more crestfallen as their conversation
continued, “they just can’t find the words to express their disinterest without catastrophic
consequences.”

Where was this coming from? Bruce was confused at the strange change of events. This was
nothing like Clark’s outburst on the Watchtower those weeks prior. No, that moment was
exhaustion and hurt. This one was of a more dangerous nature: one of resignation.

“What are you saying, Clark?” Bruce scorned the unease resting inside of him.
Another heavy silence took hold of the room.

Bruce was still standing, and Clark’s face was blank now, gazing at the white wall in front of
him.

When he finally answered Bruce, it was peculiar to say the least, which had Bruce thinking
that perhaps the effects of Zantana’s medicinal spells were still influencing Clark and thereby
his judgment.

“What are you doing here, Bruce?” Clark asked to the air, once more being the one to break
the silent veil.

Bruce furrowed his brow in confusion because he had already answered this question, “You
were hurt, Clark.”

“No,” Clark’s own brows lowered and his gaze was a raging hurricane of simmering anger,
confusion, and pain, “I know why Batman is here. Why are you here, Bruce?”

Bruce’s fingers twitched, “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking, Cl–”

“You very damn well know what I’m asking, Bruce!” His eyes were solely covered in red,
water welling up in the corners. A few pained huffs escaped Clark’s mouth as he shifted his
weight on the bed, eyes never leaving Bruce’s.

“Can they not be for the same reasons?” It was helpless to argue with him at this point, but
Bruce was having trouble connecting the reality of this current Clark with the one he had sat
beside and tended to every waking second for a week.

“Are they the same reasons?” All of Clark’s emotions were openly exposed on his face,
making Bruce uncomfortable with the possibility of his own reflecting the same, but Clark
has always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve—damn the consequences. And now, the
look quickly overtaking his anger was an apathetic acceptance of an instilled sadness and
weariness, one that he had worn just briefly moments before. He had said the wrong thing.
Regardless if it was Batman or if it was Bruce, the reasons were not enough.

Are they the same reasons?

No, not really…

Are you prepared for the consequences?

No, not really…

Clark… what else do you want from me?

“Is it not enough… to be here because you’re hurt?” He supposed he should’ve expected this
reaction though, in hindsight. He should’ve known. How could he think that anything would
change from a one-sided effort? From only a week? It was stupidly naive. Clark hadn’t been
there, not really. He hadn’t responded. He hadn’t even given any suggestion that he
remembered anything—the conversations, the books, the time, the care… it had all been in
vain, or leastways, on Clark’s side. Because Clark didn’t remember.

Because to Clark, Bruce wasn’t enough.

He wasn’t enough then, and he wasn’t enough now.

Nothing had changed.

Clark looked down at his lap, gripping the sheets tightly, and with a barely audible, “No. No,
it’s not.” There was a shininess to Clark’s cheeks and a slight shake to his shoulders that
Bruce could tell he was trying to hold in. A deep set disappointment that Bruce just knew he
had put there.
It was with delicate touch—in reverence and care—Clark was lightly touching his own arm,
from elbow to wrist, then firmly gripping his own hand as if by letting go he would lose
something—something precious. There was a yearning to the touch. He looked so
uncharacteristically vulnerable.

Bruce stepped forward, wanting to touch his cheek, comfort him, “Clark, I–”

“I’d like to be alone now,” Clark barely choked out, closing in on himself, body facing away
from Bruce’s view or at least attempting to, “please.”

Wait, I have so much more to say. Please, Clark. Don’t close me out. Don’t leave when you
know I cannot follow.

“Clark, please, I need—”

“Bruce, I’m begging you.” A pause, seeped in desperation, “Please. I’m tired,” So, so tired ,
Clark’s skin was reflecting his mood, that despite the sun lamps above him, he looked like he
hadn’t absorbed the sun in days.

But I–

“Of course,” Bruce turned around to face the door, away from Clark’s view, “I’ll leave you
alone.”

Every step was a pain. And when Clark didn’t speak again—didn’t ask him to stop or beg
him to stay—Bruce could feel the very threads of what they had snap until there was nothing
to tether them together anymore.

And Bruce walked out of the door, feeling like he lost more than an opportunity…
His thoughts swirled as he passed these hallways once more, mind buzzing with regret and
despair. It seemed to be the only thing he was destined to bring. He was confused about the
light of events, and Clark’s immediate hostility and hurt. Surely their fight in the Watchtower
couldn’t have spurred such chilling emotions? Surely Clark would’ve given Bruce another
chance? He had apologized, and Bruce has made bigger mistakes in the past when it came to
their relationship. Why would this be the last straw?

Was this the last straw?

Bruce continued his path down towards his plane because with Clark healed, there was no
longer a reason for him to stay. J’onn came to mind, but the thought instantly vanished. He’ll
understand. He’d finish the painting at a later date. He was hardly in the right headspace to
paint with the emotions J’onn had asked of him… he could hardly do it now… perhaps he
might never have it in him again? And with those thoughts came the ones of hopelessness.

Why was he trying so hard for someone who wanted nothing to do with him—at least not
anymore?

How was this going to affect their relationship with others? With his kids?

Because he wanted Clark.

Because he needed Clark.

Because he loved Clark—loves Clark.

But Clark did not love him.

As he had already come to realize, Time did not heal all wounds… and Bruce suspected that
this time would be no different. That despite the passing of Time, it would not heal this
wound and neither would he.
Chapter End Notes

Hey, everyone!

I apologize for taking so long. Life's been... well, busy! But here it is in all of its angst
and verbosity. It didn't quite go in the direction I originally wanted it to, but I'd love to
know your thoughts regardless. Kudos and comments are always appreciated~

As always, happy reading~ Aminah

Random side note: The moment of Hal and J'onn discussing J'onn's love of colors and
their continually growing friendship was deeply inspired from Yale Stewart’s JL8
webcomic (“Little League”): http://limbero.org/jl8/1. Basically, it’s the Justice League
as children in elementary school in the style of a cartoon newspaper comic. I wanted to
recreate the Hal-J’onn moment on #6-#7 because Hal making J’onn (or anyone not from
Earth) feel accepted is what makes him so amazing. It’s CANON, ok?! Anyway, they’re
so wholesome, and they are still being published/created today. You all need to check his
work out! Here’s the link to view his work: https://jl8comic.tumblr.com/.

[UPCOMING] 1 Time Bruce Did Not Accidentally Insult Clark: “I understand, Bruce.”
Sometimes deciphering what Bruce means instead of what he actually says is worth it.
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!