Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Before Clark woke up that morning, he would never have expected his life to take such a strange turn. Insanely surreal things had happened to him as Superman, but Clark Kent was another matter. Clark Kent’s life was supposed to be simple. Not exactly average, but at least more manageable.

Clark always woke up with the sun, at roughly the same hour—except for the stressful days when Perry was overloading him with work. That morning, he could feel neither the usual early warm rays of light brushing his skin, nor the gentle breeze of the spring wind.

In his groggy state, he wondered if there had been some bad weather when he went to bed. That would explain why he might have chosen to close the windows, though he usually didn’t mind and left it open, come rain or shine.

He noticed that he was wearing a t-shirt and what felt like boxer briefs instead of his usual trunks. His right arm and leg weren’t falling half out of the bed—he actually couldn’t feel the edges of the mattress—and…

He was in a weird position, curled in on himself with his arms around his knees.

Clark never slept like that.

He always sprawled on top of the covers half-naked after his evening shower.

Weird.

He opened his eyes and stretched. The room was pitch black. Why would he have closed the curtains?

Also… he didn't have curtains.

And the bed was definitely too big.

What the hell had happened? While fumbling for the light, Clark tried to remember what he had done yesterday night to find himself in this place. He was certain now he hadn’t fallen asleep in his apartment in Metropolis.

He had no clue. No damn clue.

That’s worrying.

Clark straightened up to sit and knocked his head on something (probably the wall). He repressed a surprised shout at the unusual pain, and finally found the switch.

Even the lamp didn’t light up that much, only enough to allow his eyes to make out the form of a wooden door and the corners of the room. Its owner, whomever he was, seemed keen on not seeing anything.

Not quite awake yet, Clark attempted to get up without entangling his feet in the never-ending sheets. He succeeded and took a first step towards freedom. Only to feel his ankle protest and nearly give out beneath him a second later. He hissed in agony. Had he been exposed to a lot of kryptonite yesterday?

That could explain the memory loss and why his body was aching all over.

What the hell is wrong with my legs? Or my back?

He gritted his teeth and hopped cautiously to where he assumed were the windows.

How did I end up in some weirdo vampire’s house anyway?

Clark pulled the curtains on the side in a sharp, annoyed move.

Ouch.

He squinted in the sudden light. Staring straight at the sun had never hurt him before, that was weird.

He caught a glimpse of the hand still closed around the drape, and thought now would be the right time to panic.

It couldn’t be his hand, or his arm. The skin was too pale. The hairs were too scarce, and—

Where do all these scars come from?

He looked at his other arm. Same thing. With the addition of an awful yellowish bruise near the elbow. He didn’t dare glance at his legs.

Clark refused to panic.

No. There had to be some kind of explanation as to why he was currently in an unknown room, with his body being in this most painful (and scarred) state, and no memory of the previous night.

Yes. There must be an explanation. Somewhere.

Still limping, Clark began to look around for clues. Now that the room was lit, he spotted a small door near a huge wardrobe.

Please, mighty door, be a bathroom. Please.

By the time he reached the handle, his treacherous brain had already come up with a handful of the worst scenarios, but nothing could have prepared him for this sight.

No.

Not even his overflowing imagination could have prepared him for the face staring back at him in the mirror.

Grey eyes, black hair.

Infamous cheekbones.

“What the h—”

The face of freaking Bruce Wayne.

“Jesus.” He stumbled against the sink and accidentally sent a glass crashing into the floor.

Too many thoughts started rushing through his head at once.

Firstly: How was this even possible? And why Bruce Wayne of all people?

Secondly: Did that mean there was a billionaire playboy occupying his own body at this instant? His own very superhuman body?

Thirdly: How was Wayne going to react? He was a clueless civilian. A dumb one on top of that. He was probably panicking and wreaking havoc in Clark’s apartment, scaring the cat and—

He looked in despair at the shadows under Wayne’s eyes, the bruises on his strong jaw, on his right temple… then there was this two days old cut on his chin, which seemed too deep to be due to a clumsy shave…

What the hell was this guy doing in his spare time? Weren’t billionaires supposed to work safely in an office and watch stupid reality shows to spend the time when they weren’t golfing, or being invited to galas and other fancy events?

Why didn't Bruce Wayne have the comfortable body of a lazy sedentary rich recluse?

Clark jumped at the knock on the door, already pondering the next course of action depending on whether whoever was behind this door would leave if Clark didn’t say “come in” and pretended to be dead or if—

He could only stand aghast as the handle lowered despite his silence.

Then a man in his sixties, dressed way too formally for his taste (like a butler, Clark thought), started berating him—Wayne, not him— with a strong British accent and a stern, disapproving look. The kind of look that even Pa didn’t use on Clark anymore, not since the day Clark had accidentally set the neighbour’s children’s playhouse on fire when they had refused to let him play with them.

“Master Bruce. How come you’re already up and hopping about? I recall we agreed on you taking some rest this morning subsequent to the diagnosis of your injury. I shall not stand idly by while you—”

“Hang on, hang on!” Clark cut him off. How was he going to be able to explain the absurdity of the situation? “It’s not my fault. I… I am not Bruce Wayne. I didn’t know.”

Damn, it came out super lame…

The man’s face was blank—probably under the reasonable assumption that ‘Master Bruce’ was trying to bullshit his way out of the situation, but his eyes were focused on Clark’s.

“Are you sure you’re feeling quite all right, sir? I was but fairly sure the head hadn't been impacted.”

“No… no, please. Listen. I’m in his body, but I’m not him. I can prove it.” Ill at ease, Clark rubbed at the back of his head, not stopping to think about the weird sensation of feeling not his own curls, but somebody else’s hair.

The man continued to stare at him with piercing and scolding eyes. “I believe you.” He nodded. “Mister Wayne doesn’t say please this early in the morning.”

Clark was way too relieved to point out how absurdly unaffected the man sounded and looked. Nothing more nuts than that could have happened to Wayne though, right? Surely the people around him ought to be more freaked out, and act more dramatically, than simply nodding before making deadpan jokes?

“Where would you reckon that Mister Wayne is?” the man asked, the slightest hint of worry in his otherwise bland voice.

So he does feel concerned. How reassuring.

“In my body, probably? I hope?”

He wasn’t sure he hoped Wayne was in his body, but wishing he were stuck inhabiting some random guy on the other side of the ocean didn’t sound too nice, even in the privacy of his own head.

“And you are?”

Clark understood the implied question: where is your body?

“Clark Kent. I live in Metropolis.”

“Alfred Pennyworth,” the man introduced himself with a formal bow. “I suggest we—” A phone vibrating from one of his pockets cut him off.

“Forgive me.” He nodded at Clark before picking up.

“...”

“Master Bruce.” 

Had Clark been swallowing something, he would have choked. Was Wayne really calling?

“...”

“Yes. The man said so himself.”

Mr. Pennyworth was calm as he answered, not sounding the slightest bit fazed at hearing Wayne speaking with the voice of a complete stranger after having been body swapped with said stranger... or whatever the blazes had happened to them.

“...”

Clark wished more than anything he still had his super hearing to know what Wayne was saying.

“Clark Kent, yes.”

“...”

“Indeed. Do you wish to speak to him?” Pennyworth asked.

He handed over the phone to Clark, who was too shocked to do anything but stare stupidly at the dreadful object for a few long seconds, before his brain caught up and allowed his hand to move.

Clark was sure this phone call was the moment when his life reached the pinnacle of absurdity.

Chapter Text

“Alfred. Emergency 45A. It’s me, Bruce, listen—”

“Master Bruce.” 

“...Then you already know someone else is…?”

“Yes. The man said so himself.”

“A certain Clark, from what I gathered.”

“Clark Kent, yes.”

“At least he came clean. The situation might not be as catastrophic as I first thought.”

“Indeed. Do you wish to speak to him?”

“Yes. He’s a journalist, we have to be careful. I’ll call you back later, give him one of my spare phones.”

Clark raised the handset to his ear. He was met by ragged breathing, and feared the worst. A hysterically panicked Bruce Wayne would be too much to handle right now.

Plus, Wayne didn’t seem set on speaking…

“Um... Hello? Mr. Wayne?” Clark tried for a polite, cautious approach. 

“Who are you?” Wayne sounded accusatory and frantic. “What’s happened to me? What did you do?” 

We’re off to a good start.

Nice to meet you too, I’m Clark Kent, aka Superman, I used to be a reporter with a decent, functional body. Now I feel like a walking corpse.

“Clark Kent speaking, I am as lost as you are, Mr. Wayne. I haven’t done anything and believe me,” he gritted his teeth, “if I could get my own not-limping-limbs back, I would.”

“What do you mean, ‘limping’?”

Clark felt offended that Wayne was able to produce this kind of obnoxiously scandalised tone using his vocal cords.

“Well, it certainly wasn’t me who broke your ankle and flagellated your face.”

There was a long pause on Wayne’s end.

“I… actually, maybe it was when... I only remember going to this huge party, there was this Grand Slam tennis champion there, brunette, hell of a forehand stroke, if you know what I'm saying, and we'd already had a few before we made out fiercely on the—”

“Okay, okay, I don’t want to know.” Ugh. Breathe in, Clark... “I was actually hoping you could enlighten me as to what had happened.”

Guess I should have known better.

“So what you’re saying, Mr. Kent, is that you didn’t intend to steal my life from me with some sort of sorcery ritual?” 

“Steal your—” The cheek of this guy. “For God’s sake, I already told you. Why would I want your stupid life? And why the hell are you accusing me, when I should be the one complaining right now—”

Clark cut himself off, remembering that his parents had raised him better than to swear at a helpless stranger, no matter how much of an unbearable twerp said stranger was.

He just wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand to hear his own voice speak with Bruce Wayne’s stupid mannerisms.

“I believe you, Mr. Kent.”

Clark was about to snap in reply, then realised Wayne had backed down; his tone was so differently serious—lacking the stupid diva-ish intonation—that he sounded like another person.

“Oh. Do you, now?” Clark grunted.

“I apologise,” Wayne said, “I just needed to be certain.”

This change of heart was so sudden it made Clark wonder if Wayne was screwing with him on purpose or…

“Certain?” he asked.

Wayne just brushed off the question. “Alfred will give you a phone. I’ll call you back in an hour.” He might as well have been discussing the weather.

“Hey! Not so fast. I—”

But Wayne had already hung up on him.

Had Clark still had his super strength, he might have accidentally crushed the phone. Instead, he handed it back, intact but clammy, to Pennyworth, who had been watching him with this same unnerving, bland look of his ever since Wayne had called.

Clark propped himself up against the sink, refusing to hold Pennyworth’s stare. Catching a glance of his bruised face in the mirror proved to be worse though, and he swallowed another curse.

At last, Pennyworth turned away. “Follow me, please, Mr. Kent.”

Not feeling like he had a choice, and intent on leaving this goddamn bathroom anyhow, Clark complied.

Loudly.

“Ouch. Holy shit—”

“Worry not. It shall be your last stroll of the day.”

A few painful minutes later, Clark found himself sitting in a not-so-uncomfortable chair, in a guest room on the opposite wing of the manor (no doubt to prevent him from snooping around), with a hearty breakfast in arm’s reach.

The only current perk of being Wayne, he thought bitterly while chunking at a piece of toast.

Now that he was alone (Alfred having left after mentioning finding him some clothes), Clark had nothing else to do but wallow in futile ruminations. Pondering the consequences of this mess, and what it entailed in the short term, professionally speaking.

Both as Clark Kent, and as Superman.

Of course, the Superman part was going to be a huge issue. For numerous, obvious reasons…

But Clark had to focus on the most solvable problem first: not losing his job at the Daily Planet. Luckily, it was Saturday, which meant Perry wouldn’t quite eviscerate him for being absent this morning, and if his life didn’t get back to normal magically during the night, he and Wayne would still have the rest of the day, plus Sunday, to implement a contingency plan, before starting a full week of work…

He’d probably have to tell Lois.

And Ma and Pa. But not yet.

Then, there was the League. He was supposed to help Hawkgirl fix the eastern wing of the tower before their weekly Wednesday meeting. (She’d forgive his absence, hopefully.)

As for the meeting itself, Batman would assume—not unreasonably—that Superman was skipping his extremely engaging powerpoint lecture on purpose. When truth be told, Clark was now wishing more than ever that he could be certain to attend (a thought which he had never imagined could one day cross his mind…)

Also, telling them all he had been body swapped with Bruce Wayne would not be the brightest of ideas. In any case, Clark had no way of contacting them now apart from calling—which he wouldn’t try with Wayne’s distinctive voice—as he had never bothered learning his half-page of online access codes for the League (issued by Batman during his first powerpoint session)

It didn’t mean Clark had been careless enough to think he would never need it, since he had them carefully written down—somewhere—in the same hidden storage compartment where he kept his suit.

Said storage being… in his apartment. 

Of course, Clark didn’t need to remind himself that he was in no shape to access said apartment.

(He frankly wouldn’t put it past Wayne and his sinister butler to keep him imprisoned in their gilded mansion anyway.)

Conclusion being that perhaps Clark might have been a tiny bit stupid for not memorising those codes like Batman had strongly advised.

Darn.

More like, severely stupid.

Wayne-level stupid.

Chapter Text

Mr. Pennyworth came back ten minutes before Wayne called Clark back, which had left him enough time to change into the most casual outfit a billionaire like Wayne owned. Despite the ordeal of slipping his ankle through the tracksuit, Clark had been grateful to feel more dressed, and finally stop bumming around in boxer-briefs.

He had tried his best to not pay any attention to Wayne’s body when changing. It was already disturbing enough picturing himself—even if it wasn’t really him—with the bruises and scars he had seen, thus he didn’t need to know what other oddities Wayne might be hiding under his clothes.

That was respecting the guy’s privacy, right? Even if right now he only felt strong animosity towards Wayne, Clark still had some principles. (He hoped Wayne had some too and was not snooping around.)

When his newly appointed phone rang out (and what was this atrocious pop ringtone?) Clark did not bother to look at the screen and picked up.

He felt the urge to snap but quelled it down. It wasn’t like him to act like a douche and he was starting to wonder if this body swap situation had not somehow affected his mind. Because, of course, Clark was annoyed, worried, and confused. (Who wouldn’t be after being stuck in a body this painful, whose host was nationally known as a negligent, blithe playboy?)

But all this gloom, bitterness, and even… anger, it just didn’t belong to him.

“Mr. Kent?” Wayne jolted him out of his thoughts.

What is he going to accuse me of this time?

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark replied curtly. He decided it might be best to let Wayne do the talking until he calmed down.

“I apologise for my reaction earlier. I panicked and needed some time for myself…”

Clark raised an eyebrow, taken aback by the unexpected apology. Still, he wouldn’t let Wayne have his way with him if he behaved like he did earlier—like a prick, no matter if he kept on apologising afterwards. This “technique” only worked with Lois, and with Batman (the limited times Batman actually seemed apologetic over something).

But... Wayne was currently suffering the same predicament as Clark, and this whole situation wasn’t his fault (except for the ankle), so surely Clark ought to be more tolerant.

Thinking constantly about how Wayne could bang his life up in a snap would only maintain this tension on Clark’s part, which would help neither of them.

“Uh… Yes. I understand,” Clark assured him a little too late (and without gritting his teeth this time.) “It’s been a real shock this morning.”

“It has,” Wayne sighed. “I’m still holding out hope that we might wake up from this nightmare tomorrow.”

“You don’t say,” Clark agreed, dejected. He wasn’t deluding himself anymore. Every single body part was aching more than ever, and he didn’t need to pinch himself to be certain that it was indeed, not the worst dream of his life, but a new hellish reality.

Why Bruce Wayne, though? There had to be an explanation…

“Nevertheless,” Wayne continued, not privy to Clark’s inner turmoil, “until things get back to normal, I believe, now that I feel less… distraught by this terrible situation, that we should establish some ground rules.”

“I was about to propose that too. In addition to the ‘more urgent business’ we need to address,” Clark told him, having had more than enough time to think about it until his head hurt during the last hour. “Like, um, work for example. I have work this morning.”

“Anything important you had to do?”

Clark wanted to reply that: “Of course. I can’t afford to skip work in any case, as the bills won’t pay themselves” but thought better of it. Wayne seemed to be in an obliging, diplomatic mood, and Clark should follow his example, so they could hang up quicker and Clark could go back to sleep.

Yes. Sleep. Best idea he’d had so far. It would prevent him from moping around, and this time he would know better than to freaking wake up and open the curtains.

It was all the curtains’ fault.

“Not really.” Clark stifled a yawn. “But I need to at least warn—”

“It’s done,” Wayne interrupted him. “I called ten minutes ago.”

“What?” Clark dropped the silver spoon he’d been fidgeting with. It landed with a loud clunk on the parquet. “You did? How?”

“Easy. Using a phone and dialling the right number.”

“You… Okay.” He bent down to pick up the spoon. Was Wayne razzing him? “Never mind. What was the excuse you gave?”

“I said you were sick and might have to work from home next week.”

“Well, that’s really... thoughtful,” Clark conceded, a wave of gratefulness crashing against his Wayne-proof walls. “Thank you…”

Not that Clark would ever admit it to Wayne, but he was extremely relieved—and astonished—that the billionaire was not as Brucie-ish as usual. He was actually trying to handle the situation, for the both of them, showing clear initiative and self-control.

This must be another dimension.

“Mh,” Wayne hesitated. “Anything else?”

“Yes, please. This will certainly be awkward for you, to say the least, but... If you could make another phone call. To my parents.” Clark cleared his throat and added, “Unless you want to risk joining them for lunch tomorrow, at the family farm, which I don’t think you do, as it would be more, mh… embarrassing, than just calling...”

(He didn’t deem it necessary to specify that his parents lived in Kansas, meaning it would be impossible for Wayne to get to Smallville on time for lunch anyway, at least not without a private jet or super speed. Clark had better scare Wayne off with the prospect of a family reunion, because he really needed him to call Ma and Pa.)

There was a long pause on Wayne’s end before he sighed. “I don’t suppose they use cell phones, or devices which receive texts.”

“They don’t, and they might answer.” Clark winced, apologetic.

“Even if I call in the middle of the night?”

“Even so. But please don’t do that, they work early and need to sleep.” 

Mentioning ‘needing to sleep’ made Clark realise how exhausted he felt.

Might explain the bad mood.

“All right,” Wayne agreed with another sigh. “What should I tell them?”

Phew.

That was really nice of Wayne to accept, and if he didn’t screw this up, Clark might feel obligated to review his opinion of him. 

“Just inform them calmly that you have to cancel lunch and may be out of touch for a while because of work. Really do it as serenely as possible, otherwise they’re going to think something is wrong and the call is going to take far longer because they will ask questions. A lot of questions. I'm telling you this for your sake, since I explicitly forbid you to hang up on my parents, like you did me.”

Wayne mumbled, “Yes, all right, calmly, I get it.”

Clark ignored him and continued, “Insist that everything is fine, that you’ll come see them as soon as you can, and tell them to call Lois on Monday if they haven’t heard from you by then.”

“Will do.”

“If you could, also apologise profusely and tell them to take care.”

(Maybe that was pushing it, but Wayne had to play the part.)

“ ‘Profusely?’ Well, I’ll try to be convincing.”

“Thank you,” Clark told him, meaning it.

His parents usually didn’t mention “Superman” out of the blue. If Wayne did as Clark had asked him, his identity should be fine. For now.

Can’t believe I might have to trust Wayne with this if the shit hits the fan…

“About those rules...” Wayne said.

“Yes?”

“Alfred must have provided you with a suite in the north wing. Don’t leave it. Your– my ankle needs to rest. It’s just a low-grade sprain which should be healed by next week, if you stay put.”

“Really? Just a low-grade sprain? It feels much worse than that… I would have sworn it was broken.” Clark shot a nasty, dubious look at the swollen ankle. “How can you be certain?”

“I’m not. Alfred is. But still, I’m at least positive it doesn’t need amputation.”

“Hum. Good to know, then…” Clark mumbled, trying to convince himself that Bruce freaking Wayne wasn’t currently having a good laugh at his expense. 

But Wayne’s tone remained neutral when he stated, “Given the pristine state of your body, it seems like you’ve never gotten injured, Mr. Kent.” 

Shit. Clark inwardly cursed. It’s not like he could even accuse Wayne of ogling him, remarks such as this one were bound to be made, at some point…

“I must have broken a few bones when I was young. Never been the daredevil type, and now that I’m a journalist… well, I just read and write, you know? Keeping it pretty casual.”

“Mh,” Wayne said. (And it was impossible to tell whether he was unconvinced or completely disinterested.) “About that…Do you really need those glasses?”

Here we go…

“Yes, yes, I do. For work,” Clark tried to specify. “I, um, get... migraines, sometimes.”

“Okay.”

“Is there…anything else, Mr. Wayne?”

“No. All I’m asking is that you don’t fuck up my ankle more than I already did.”

“I’ll be careful,” Clark promised.

“Hm. Thank you. Let’s see if there’s any change tomorrow, if not, I’ll let you call me back so that we can plan long-term arrangements.”

“Sure. In the meantime... are there any books I could borrow, to while away the hours?”

“Yes. Alfred can fetch some for you. Don't hesitate to ask him if you need anything. He’ll be around.”

“Thank you.”

“Mh.” The billionaire cleared his throat. “I’m… hanging up now. Goodbye.” Wayne’s tone sounded awkward and strained, as if he weren’t used to not hanging up on people.

“Goodbye, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said with a slight smile, pleased—God knows why—to be able to reply before the beep, this once.

The conversation had gone surprisingly smoothly. Clark wouldn’t go as far as to say it had been agreeable, but Wayne had been completely different from an hour ago. Clark couldn’t exactly pinpoint what had changed. It must have been because Wayne had used a normal, decent tone, not desecrating Clark’s voice by sputtering inanities, but… there was something else.

Clark Kent was quite the special case, Bruce had noticed.

First, there was this demonic cat, who had been hiding in the freaking bathtub, and had almost managed to scare Bruce more than the sight of his new face in the mirror this morning; by hanging itself to the shower curtain while meowing.

But a lot of people owned crazy animals, it didn’t mean anything.

What was peculiar, was the way some things in the apartment weren’t exactly right, without being exactly wrong either.

Bruce had made a mental list:

– The nonexistent razor in the bathroom. (How did Kent keep his face smooth? The guy was certainly not hairless…)

– No kettle. (Which was not an odd thing in itself, but given Kent’s giant collection of foreign teas and coffees, it made more sense to have one than to use a saucepan to heat the water up, right?)

– No curtains at all. (Plus, the bed had been placed so as to have the sunlight constantly lighting it. For a guy who claimed to have headaches, it wasn’t practical.)

– The ceiling-mounted bookshelves in the living room, hovering above the furniture loaded with books and knick-knacks. (Practical when one doesn’t have a lot of space, but a bit tricky to reach. And a safety hazard in case of earthquake or giant robot incident, Bruce thought.)

– The food which was set way too high in the cupboards. (Who in his right mind would use a stool every single morning to reach the cereal?) 

– The full garbage bag laying in the middle of the living room, right under the skylight. (The apartment was overall clean and orderly, why had it been put on purpose there ?)

Apartment aside, there was Kent… and his useless glasses. The same cheap kind Bruce used when going undercover, not as Matches, but when scouting a public area by day.

Really, if Kent liked wearing glasses that much, he could have just said so. No need to make up some lie about having headaches. Come on, Bruce could have bought it, if it weren’t for the optical lens being nothing more than plain cheap glass.

Maybe Kent did need them to complete this atrocious, nerdy reporter look of his. (Which was a shame, as he was actually quite good looking.)

There were other details which didn’t make sense. Bruce didn’t exactly mean to pry into Kent’s life, but if he ended up getting stuck in his immaculate body for an indeterminate amount of time, he would need all the clues he could get to find out how to fix the situation.

The first step to do so was understanding what could have linked him to Kent, whom he only “knew” as one of those nosy reporters from the Daily Planet paper—which Bruce didn’t remember if he owned or not. Brucie had been interviewed in the past by Kent and his vicious associate, Lane; he should dig into that angle.

Batman had learnt the hard way that there were no coincidences. He just needed to find out what was so special about Clark Kent.

A few hours later, as Bruce was busy poring over the visible parts of Kent’s apartment, stalling because he didn’t feel like calling Kent’s parents just yet, the phone rang. He gave it a few seconds to appreciate the rock tune—this choice of ringtone indicated that Kent’s taste in music was at least better than his fashion sense—and picked up, recognising the number of his spare phone. 

“Mr. Wayne? It’s me again.”

The rare times Bruce got to listen to himself speak were when he overheard stupid talk-shows Brucie had attended. It was strange to hear how Kent managed to make him sound serious, but not overly so.

“Is there a problem?” Bruce asked.

“I forgot to tell you my parents’ number.”

“No need. They’re on your contact list,” he replied, distracted by the third row of Kent’s library.

“That’s what I thought… How did you hack into my phone?”

Bruce almost rolled his eyes. For once, he couldn’t even be accused of unethical, but called for, breaches of privacy. The situation had made hacking Kent’s phone unnecessary.

He put on his best Brucie tone—which he hadn’t used enough earlier because Kent had sounded way too high-strung, and Bruce was not a complete bastard. “Hack? Why would I put Trojan horses into your phone? That’s what hacking is, right?”

“No... I mean… hm. So… You didn’t deliberately access the data on my phone despite the password? Bypassing security using…hm...” Kent paused, seemingly looking for the right words. “Using Electromagnetic Waveforms or… Juice jacking? For example?”

Bruce snorted. “And, how exactly, Mr. Kent, would I have done that? Even if I knew what you were talking about—this electrojuice caveform or whatever—I’m not sure your thirty square foot bedroom contains the necessary hardware to accomplish such a task.”

“Oh… All right…”

Kent sounded so confused that Bruce took pity on him.

“I just unlocked it with your fingerprint,” he explained.

And though Bruce hadn’t anticipated such a situation, he was comforted in his choice to have kept a passphrase along with his other biometric authentications and fingerprint based measures, to protect his phone.

“I feel like an idiot now,” Kent mumbled.

That made Bruce smile. “People rarely say that to me.”

“I know. I apologise. I might have misjudged you, Mr. Wayne.”

“By thinking I’d have the skills to hack into your phone? Yes, you have, Mr. Kent. I sign cheques and attend parties for a living, couldn’t do anything else to save my life.” He forced a chuckle.

“Right. Well. Sorry again. I don’t feel like myself, not just.. physically speaking. I’m not usually this... paranoid, irritated or… on edge. I can’t explain… I believe it must be due to some side effects due to the swapping. Have you felt anything different?”

“Now that you mention it. I hadn’t given it much thought, but I may be feeling more cheerful than usual, which makes no sense given the situation.”

From what little Bruce knew of body swapping, it involved electricity and magic. Perhaps some residue of the former host remained within the body; because “paranoid”, “irritated” and “on edge” fitted the latest state of mind of Batman. Especially since this case… a case whose evolution he couldn’t remember.

Another worrying issue to ponder over later.

He heard Kent snort bitterly. “Cheerful sounds more like my usual self…”

“We’ll fix it, Mr. Kent.”

“I hope so.”

Kent remained silent for a while and Bruce stared harder at the row of books, as if their cover held the answer, or could at least give him inspiration for a thing to say to Kent. Bruce was just that bad at cheering people up...

“Mr. Wayne? One last thing...”

“Yes?”

“You may have noticed, but I have a cat,” Kent said.

“Oh,” Bruce groaned. “I did notice.”

“If you could feed her… Her food is stored in the cupboards above the sink.”

The unreachable cupboards. How practical.

“I won’t let her starve,” Bruce promised. “Now, last but not least, I have an important question.”

“Yes?”

“How do you address your parents?”

Chapter Text

Bruce glanced at the clock.

7:30pm.

Now or never.

He scrolled down Kent’s contact list, and glared at the screen.

Bruce didn’t like to call people. It always required unnecessary niceties, including small talk and long greetings.

He didn’t have much experience when it came to family calls, but he reckoned that having one with Kent’s parents would not be a particularly pleasant ordeal.

There were only two persons he didn’t mind calling as Bruce Wayne; Lucius and Alfred. They knew him. They went straight to the point, asked the right questions, and when they inquired after Bruce’s wellbeing, it wasn’t out of some sense of required politeness (unlike the sycophantic members of the board, or his fawning business partners).

When he wore the mask and commed the League, or Jim Gordon, it was similar to calling Lucius and Alfred: no pretense.

He was Batman. He was gruff. He was grim. He lived for the mission. He had no time for idle chatter, and neither did they.

But Gotham wasn’t always burning, and it wasn’t always the end of the world, so sometimes, Batman would indulge himself and partake in Jim’s enthusiastic questions about the Batsuit, or listen to Superman’s silly cat-rescuing stories. 

The latter might have made Bruce appreciate using his com a bit more.

He wondered if the League had anything to do with the quagmire he was in…

Bruce sighed and at last, he hit the call button. Fifteen seconds later, someone picked up. He could hear a rumpling noise in the background before a feminine voice spoke; the mouth of the owner was probably a bit too close to the speakers, because damn, that sounded loud.

“Hello, Clark?”

“Good evening, Ma, how are you?” Bruce forced the words out of his mouth while distancing his ear from the receiver.

He wasn’t Bruce Wayne anymore, he was Clark Kent, and it was all about getting into character, like he did with Matches. Though this time, he wasn’t an opportunistic bootlicking gangster, but a “perky” countryside-ish boy scout (and surely unnecessary niceties and long greetings were part of the package.)

He could do it.

He just had to adjust his language register according to Ms. Kent’s answers and behaviour. Besides, she had no reason to suspect anything was amiss. Even a trained eye or ear could let the most flagrant thing slip unnoticed when not actively looking for it.

“All good! I’m always glad to have you on the phone! Your father is locking up the barn, he’ll be here in a few. What’s up, dear?”

Straight to the point, good. Now, the script.

Bruce realised with bemusement that he could hear just fine from afar, and lay the phone on the end table.

He cleared his throat. “I’m calling to apologise, I won’t be able to make it for tomorrow’s lunch. Got some issues at the Planet I need to handle.”

“Oh no, that’s a shame… Is everything all right, honey?”

“Yes, nothing to worry about, just a—”

“Are you sure? Because if it’s another world threatening situation with your flying f—”

“Martha, the kid just said it was fine. Listen to him, he’s a big boy now! Hello son, what’s up?”

Flying what? Bruce deplored Mr. Kent’s intervention, but now that the moment had passed, it was too late to ask what Martha had meant.

“Hello, Pa.”

“Jonathan, you know I have reasons to worry!” Ms. Kent sighed. “Clark always downplays everything, even though he knows we see what he’s really up to on the television! Do you remember that giant robot? When it crashed and its legs were... oh dear. I always fear that one day you won’t get up, Clark. It was so close...”

So Kent was also a field reporter… Did all of them get “so close” during invasions that they got caught on TV crawling next to robotic legs?

Bruce jotted it down in a corner of his head. It was an exceedingly dangerous and reckless behaviour, and the League couldn’t afford to risk civilians’ safety to save bold journalists looking for exclusive pictures.

“I do, Martha, I do…” Mr. Kent’s voice sounded equally upset, but he quickly got back to the matter at hand. “Clark, would you still be able to come by for a few minutes? I could use your help moving the tractor, it died in the middle of the field.”

“Yes, honey, you should pop by even if you can’t stay long. I have some pie left for you, and I made preserves of the latest batch of tomato sauce!”

‘For a few minutes?’ Where did the Kents even live?

Bruce hadn’t thought to check beforehand, deeming the information irrelevant compared to all the more important matters he’d had yet to investigate, but he would.

“I can’t, I’m really sorry, there’s this deadline... I can’t screw it up. I’ll come see you both as soon as I can. Promise.”

Yes, Kent sounded like the type to promise things and apologise endlessly.

“All right, honey. I’ll still keep some slices of pie for you.”

Ms. Kent sounded so disappointed, that it left Bruce disturbingly saddened for a moment.

“Thanks, Ma. Sorry for the tractor, Pa,” Bruce apologised again—with the most sheepish tone he could muster, before delivering the final line of his list. “If you don’t hear from me by Monday, call Lois.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes. I would tell you if I weren’t.”

They really are fretting.

Bruce distinctly heard Ms. Kent whispering to her husband, “As if…” and thought he definitely had to check out the speakers on Kent’s phone.

“All right, son. Until next time then.”

“Yes. You two take care.”

In a coward impulse, Bruce hung up to cut short any additional goodbyes.

He didn’t know what to make of this curious phone call yet, but he did know that a lot of information could be gained from it. He typed out the entirety of the conversation on a phone note from memory, and sent it to one of his email addresses to analyse later.

Bruce did not eat that day. He served some food in the cat’s bowl—who was busy lurking in the hidden corners of the apartment, and went to bed feeling slightly off. 

Kent’s mother’s name is Martha, Bruce contemplated while willing his sleepless eyes to stay closed.

A lot of women were named Martha. It wasn’t that big of a deal…

Pretending to be the son of a Martha who wasn’t Bruce’s though... had been.

A little.

But there was no point dwelling on it. Once Bruce had the situation under control, he wouldn’t have to worry about homemade tomato sauce or bogged down tractors.

In his dreams that night, he was sat alone in a pitchy field, eating a pie. The sky darkened and he started choking. The sky poured down rain as he coughed up blood-stained white pearls.

When he woke up, he could only remember the sensation of his soaked clothes clinging to his skin, and the bittersweet taste of cranberries.

“Mister Kent. I shall endeavour to make the situation as bearable as can be. Is there anything you need?” Mr. Pennyworth asked Clark after being met by his blatantly sour wake-up face as he brought him breakfast.

Clark had been lying down, wallowing in despair, not ready to acknowledge that Lady Fate had apparently preferred laughing at his distress while giving him the finger instead of having mercy on him.

(And Mr. Pennyworth had known somehow the exact time Clark’s existential crisis was coming down.)

Clark thanked him and pondered over his question for a few seconds.

“Yes, actually. May I…” Clark hesitated, “May I cook for myself?”

Mr. Pennyworth raised an eyebrow. “Are the dishes not to your taste?”

“No, no. That’s not what I mean. It’s good. Your cooking is really good. But this is not… me, and if I am to remain here for an unspecified period of time… I’d like to try to live normally, and I don’t want to get used to any kind of fancy lifestyle.” Clark resolutely kept his eyes on Pennyworth’s unflinching ones. “I… need to feel I still have some sort of control over my life, and even preparing an omelette for breakfast would help, or washing my plate myself... hell, even vacuuming the hallway… I’m gonna end up crazy in this room if I can’t do anything. Do you understand?”

The butler finally lowered his eyebrow, and his tone sounded almost empathetic when he replied, “I do, Mister Kent. I shall lend you a wheelchair and show you to the nearest kitchen before lunch. However, I am sure you may be able to find an occupation less perilous and more refined than... ‘vacuuming’. You’re a guest, it would be undignified. Plus, Mister Wayne would not appreciate having you hopping about, Hoover in hand.”

Mr. Pennyworth shot a very pointed look at the ankle, and Clark let out a dejected sigh, because it looked as swollen as yesterday. 

Clark didn’t wait to be alone to start drowning his frustration with coffee. He was going to need quite a lot of it to get going this morning.

It was the fault of Wayne’s body. Not only was it leaving some stains of Waynish moodiness on Clark’s soul, but there also seemed to be some kind of cellular memory at work. Despite never having had any trouble going to bed early in his life, yesterday, Clark hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep until 3am. Given Wayne’s notorious debauched lifestyle, it wouldn’t be surprising if this theory turned out to be correct.

Anyway. The result being that Clark was definitely not a morning person when inhabiting Wayne, after having slept for barely five hours.

“Have you already read the books I brought you, Mr. Kent?” Mr. Pennyworth asked from the other side of the room, where he was busy putting some laundry away.

Clark glanced at the four volumes laying on the bedside table and didn’t know whether to smile or wince. 

“Well, I already knew the two novels…”

“Oh, did you?” Mr. Pennyworth seemed surprised.

Clark was certain that this almost dumbfounded look had to be a rare sight, and felt the need to precise: “Yes. I’m a huge fan of Heyer, I must have read all of her books twice and Cotillion is even a favourite of mine. Same for Le Carré, I actually started reading spy stories with The Night Manager.”

“Oh.” The corners of the butler’s mouth lifted briefly. (Or had Clark imagined it?) “I take it you still have the other two left.”

“I… hm… couldn’t finish them.” Clark rubbed at the back of his head awkwardly. “The Complete Biography of Elton John and the Official Illustrated History of Buckingham Palace haven’t been exactly… thrilling to read.”

“On that, we can agree.”

“What do you mean?” Clark asked, confused as to why Pennyworth would even own such books in the first place, let alone lend them to guests if he also thought them uninteresting.

“These two were gifted to me by Master Wayne. I had been waiting for an opportunity to get another opinion on these appalling books; now I know it’s not just me becoming overly dainty in my old age.”

“Oh, no. They are terribly cliché... Why would he even offer you these?” He shot a dubious look at the black and white face of Elton John on the cover. ‘Cliché’ is the understatement of the year. 

“An attempt at humour, probably,” Pennyworth said matter-of-factly, before muttering as he came to retrieve the coffee pot: “At least, he’s trying...”

“I see.” Clark refrained from smiling at the thought of Wayne bothering to order touristy stuff for his butler for the sole purpose of annoying him.

“I must apologise, Mr. Kent. I didn’t expect you to be so knowledgeable about British literature that you’d have to resort to reading these two. I shall bring you some books from Mister Wayne’s personal collection.”

Clark didn’t dare think about what “Mister Wayne’s personal collection” ought to look like, but he still thanked Mr. Pennyworth, who nodded and took his leave.

Don’t try to reach me on comms for the next couple weeks. Will only be able to communicate in writing. Forward me with everything you know about technological and magical swapping. Need more data before sharing anything else.

-B.

Having already done everything he could think of, Bruce erased all traces of his correspondence with the League, and paced the living room, distractedly noticing after another glance at the clock that he should have felt some hunger by now.

He had managed to come up with what he deemed to be a suitable arrangement for Kent and himself. He had also sent an encrypted email to Lucius regarding how WE was to be handled publicly until his return, and another, anonymous, to alert Jim that Batman wouldn’t be able to roam Gotham’s streets for a while.

All of this had given Bruce something to focus on for the past couple hours, and now he only had to wait for Kent’s call, so that he could get him to agree to his plans, which would allow Bruce to set them in motion and start doing something more productive with his time.

Bruce despised waiting.

Bruce despised waiting, but he picked a random book, slouched on the sofa, tried to focus on the tiny black letters, and waited. Patiently. For two hours.

The ringtone was a deliverance.

“Mr. Kent!” Bruce greeted him with forced energy. “I usually say ‘good morning’ but it’s not such a good morning.”

“Mr. Wayne. You’re goddamn right, it’s not.”

The jaded, grumbling voice Kent used made Bruce realise that if that was what Alfred had to put up with on a daily basis (every morning) then Bruce probably didn’t deserve Alfred.

“It didn’t cost anything to hope but… come on,” Kent sighed. “You— we don’t know anything about magic, it could be months, or years before we find a solution.”

Not the time to play dumb or pessimistic. Though Bruce may not think much of journalists, he wasn’t one to make it worse just for the sake of it. (Plus, Kent didn’t deserve it, he seemed to be one of the good guys. A weird, suspicious good guy, but a good guy nonetheless.)

“Nothing is permanent, and we are going to fix this,” he told Kent. “You know, I know a lot of people, who also know people, who know other people, who will be able to help us. We might be able to get even Superman to lend a hand.” 

For whatever reason, bringing up the idol of Metropolis didn’t seem to comfort Kent, quite the contrary…

“If your best hope is Superman, then we’re doomed,” Kent scoffed.

But meeting Superman could only do Kent some good. Kal was the freaking embodiment of sunshine, though his naive optimism was sometimes irritating... Still, Bruce could have used it right now. Fuck. He knew he was going to miss it soon.

“Anyways,” Bruce sighed. “In the meantime, we have to find a way to make it work.”

”You sound so composed.”

“Panicking won’t help us, and believe me, I’m determined to do whatever it takes to get my rightful self back.”

“Are you used to stuff like this, or is it just me being…” Kent paused and cleared his throat, “...particularly helpless?”

“Oh, it’s probably neither.” Bruce smiled, and pretending to be happy to know something, said in his most stupid, enthusiastic tone, “I’m just putting into practice some advice I’ve read regarding managing under pressure; second chapter of my ‘how to be businessman of the year’ bedside reading.”

“Sounds… interesting.”

“It really wasn’t. But I’ll let Alfred know you can borrow it.”

It managed to pull a small laugh out of Kent, which Bruce counted as a victory.

“So…” he continued, “I’ve arranged for Bruce Wayne to be unable to attend any meetings or whatnot. Which means that until you can at least walk, you won’t have to worry about impersonating me.”

“That’s good news,” Kent said. “You should inform Perry that ‘Clark Kent’ definitely won’t be in for a few days as well.”

“I will. But being sick for more than a week might raise unwarranted questions, you might have to let me go in at some point.”

Bruce wasn’t looking forward to it, but being straightforward with Kent was part of the plan.

“If you don’t act like ‘me’ enough it’s going to be worse…” Kent hesitated. “But, yes, I can’t afford to lose my job.”

Though knowing the answer, Bruce proposed, “I could always buy the Planet and hire you back.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne, but I’d rather if we could avoid having to do that…”

“Yes, certainly, and we’ll have a few days to prepare for this, Mr. Kent.”

Bruce heard him sigh.

“What a mess…”

“My intent is not to screw your life up, we both have a lot to lose if the other fails to do his part.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Kent agreed. “I’m just… a bit anxious. Apprehensive. Wired.”

Above all, Clark was befuddled and bothered that Wayne, a civilian, (and Wayne of all people) was taking this situation so well, whereas Clark—aka Superman during eighty percent of his spare time, aka someone who should be prepared to handle this— felt downright incompetent.

“Is there anything you need, to work from the manor?” Wayne asked him.

“My laptop, and the external drive on the desk.”

He couldn’t exactly ask Wayne to find his Justice League access codes for him, especially since Clark had stupidly written in bold, huge, red, capital letters across the top of the page “THANKS, BATMAN” out of frustration. He’d have to wait one or two weeks to retrieve them himself.

“I need to fetch some things of mine at the manor. I'll bring them, along with the cat.”

“What? You want to take the cat? Good luck with that…”

“Believe me,” Wayne said, “you don’t want me taking care of your pet for an extended period of time.”

“All right,” Clark sighed, ready to believe that Wayne was that inexperienced with animals. “But if you intend to come in person, please also bring me the books on the top shelf.”

“I thought I had asked Alfred to bring you some.”

“He did,” Clark confirmed. “The ones you offered him.”

“You mean... the very British ones?” Wayne asked.

“Those very ones.”

“I take it you didn’t enjoy reading them either.”

“It’s fine. Mr. Pennyworth said he’d lend me some of yours, but I’m not sure what to expect,” Clark said, dubious. He didn’t feel too inclined to read a book in the vein of “how to be businessman of the year” or something soulless which had to do with money and investments…

“You’d be surprised, Mr. Kent.”

Clark repressed a scoff and replied with a jaded tone, “I doubt anything else could surprise me now.”

“That’s what you probably told yourself before yesterday happened.” Wayne sounded disapproving. “You should always keep alert and expect to be surprised.”

“Well then, Mr. Wayne, I... hope you can surprise me.”

“Believe me, I could,” Wayne purred in the phone mic—and Clark found it terribly off-putting to hear his own voice hitting on him.

“When will you co— mh, arrive,” Clark sputtered. “When will you arrive? Get there?”

Fuck.

“Tomorrow evening. Now that the work matter is settled, is that all?” Wayne’s voice was completely dispassionate, as if he hadn’t been making innuendos at Clark mere seconds ago.

“How did the phone call to my parents go?” Clark remembered to ask.

“It went well.”

“Could you be more specific?”

Clark felt like a whole long agonising minute went by before Wayne reluctantly replied, “They were disappointed, and worried.”

“And how—”

“They didn’t sound suspicious, as far as I know,” Wayne cut him off.

Thank god.

“Did they say anything in particular I should know of?”

“Your mother set aside some pie and tomato sauce for you.”

“Okay.”

“Your father asked if you could come for a few minutes to help him move the tractor.”

“Oh, did he…” Clark decided not to comment on that, so as to not give an easy opening for Wayne to ask questions (Batman would be proud, he thought with a tinge of melancholy.) “Thank you, Mr. Wayne. I appreciate that you made the effort to call them. I have some business to attend to, as well, so I won’t take up any more of your time. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes. See you tomorrow, Mr. Kent.”

Chapter Text

It had been an uneventful evening, so far.

Except for Alfred’s call that afternoon, nothing had happened.

“Which books should I lend him?” Alfred had asked, mindful of not intruding on Bruce’s privacy by giving a stranger something too personal.

“Avoid those which are political or controversial, and those that would make me appear intelligent. So, no book which isn’t in English, as Clark Kent doesn’t need to know that Bruce Wayne is not monolingual.”

Bruce could hear the raised eyebrow from Alfred’s tone. “You mean, ninety-nine percent of your collection, Master Bruce?”

“Don’t you have more books to give him?” Bruce had sighed.

“I’m afraid he has already read most of mine.”

Alfred had then innocently muttered something about perhaps getting the “mind-numbing television” back into the living room, which had managed to convince Bruce—because he wasn’t so heartless as to let Kent rot in the manor with crap TV for sole company.

“Just… Pick the first one of the third row, first column, he only has to wait a few hours until he gets his laptop back. If he’s not happy, I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Alfred had then enquired about the time Bruce wished to come home before they had hung up.

Bruce wasn’t exactly excited to leave for the manor, excited was too strong a word.

He was almost looking forward to it. He just had nothing remotely more interesting to do, having already done everything he could with the ressources at his disposal.

Ressources being: his phone, Kent’s laptop, the Internet, and books.

Bruce felt like his whole life was now reduced to books, talking about them, being surrounded by them…

He realised while putting down “Andrew Zimmern's Field Guide to Exceptionally Weird, Wild, and Wonderful Foods: An Intrepid Eater's Digest” back on Kent’s shelves, that he hadn’t spent that much time at once without being in the Batcave in months.

What a strange choice of cookbook…

He flopped down on the sofa and took an umpteenth look around.

Excluding the nerdy reporter-related books, Kent’s library mostly consisted of recipes, (sappy) romance novels and huge illustrated books (of animals, insects and volcanos).

Bruce had had plenty of time to skim through some of them…

It hadn’t even been three days, and he was already going crazy for not having anything substantial to do.

He missed the Batcave. His computers, his tech.

He missed fixing the Batmobile all day long, and having Alfred berate him for not “taking the air” or for “dirtying” the manor with oil afterwards. He even missed having to help Jim analyse samples at 5am. 

Bruce let out a frustrated sigh and grabbed another book. He still had one hour to kill before Alfred would pick him up, and he definitely wasn’t used to having to while away the hours.

One glance at the cover was enough for him to put the book back in place. How to Tell If Your Cat Is Plotting to Kill You.

“Who needs a book to know that?” Bruce grumbled while getting up.

He headed for the bathroom and shot a wondering look at Kent’s face in the mirror, wondering why he had actually put those useless glasses on like Kent had asked.

He scratched at his chin, decided Kent was definitely at his most handsome when not sporting a stubble, and then proceeded to spend the next ten minutes hunting for a shaving kit, just in case there was one hidden somewhere.

He found a blade, quite old, laying abandoned at the bottom of an unused drawer—along with an equally old shaving cream.

He tried the blade on the cardboard packaging and deeming it still sharp enough, he applied the cream on his face and then added some pressure to—

CLINK

Of course… the cheap blade snapped.

So did Bruce, who apparently couldn’t seem able to do anything today.

Bruce, who went striding annoyed to the kitchen bin and managed to break the freaking door handle on his way. How? I barely touched it.

The cat chose this exact time to manifest itself and give him a curious, yet condescending, look.

Insufferable.

“ Are all apartments in Metropolis this crap, or is it just your master’s?”

The cat merely blinked in response, its huge yellow eyes fixed upon Bruce.

“What did I expect…”

Bruce put the blade in the trash and proceeded to wipe the shaving cream off his face.

No shaving tonight then.

He turned to face the creature, who unexpectedly hadn’t budged.

“All right. Don’t move, cat. You’ll be coming with me tonight.”

It was only ten long minutes later, after Bruce had managed to get hold of the cat (who had, of course, taken off, and was now back to behaving like an inmate under fear toxin) after said cat had finished scratching him all over, and after Bruce finally noticed that there were absolutely no marks where the ruthless feline had attacked him, that Bruce finally started putting two and two together.

The useless glasses, not feeling the need to eat (or at least not as much), the strange comments.

“I must have broken a few bones.”

The fact that Kent’s body was devoid of a single scrape. (Not that Bruce had actually looked.)

“Would you still be able to come by for a few minutes?”

The other oddities…

Maybe it’s—

Bruce glanced down at his spotless forearms, in which the cat was still furiously trying to stick its claws.

—gotta check on something.

He dropped the cat (who hissed furiously) into its carrier, and rushed back into the bathroom. He removed the glasses, arranged his hair to confirm his theory, though it probably wouldn’t confirm anything, as it was improbable and silly to think that—

No… But, yes.

Either he was a copycat of Superman (powers apparently included), or he was Superman, which was ridiculous because Kal—

Kal was—

Yes.

Yes but, no. Because Bruce couldn’t afford to jump to conclusions. Bruce knew better than that.

It would all make sense. It could.

(Bruce even remembered how Kal had explained once that he shaved with his eyes only…)

But…

It could all be a ploy crafted by some maniac to deceive him, so that he would lower his guard, and come running into the awaiting arms of a doppelganger Superman instead of being cautious.

It got Bruce’s mind back on working, and damn, he was already feeling better…

First, he needed to get to the Batcave to call the Watchtower, to check on Superman— if Superman was reachable.

And since he had no recollection of the day preceding the bodyswap in any case, it was safe to assume that Clark Kent might not be who he pretended to be, or not to be.

If Clark Kent pretended not to be Superman despite physical evidence proving overwise—so far, it still didn’t mean he was Superman in hiding.

Someone might have researched Bruce Wayne or Batman, connected the two and arranged for this situation in order to get to him, his tech, his influence, of his money…

And what better way to do so than to use Kal against him.

Bruce would not be fooled. He wouldn’t throw caution into the wind until he got word from the League, and neither would he try his luck by attempting to pet the cat or fly in the apartment —not yet anyway.

New course of action:

The cat. Alfred. Kent. Batcave. Watchtower. Kent.

In that order.

“Alfred.”

Seeing him again made Bruce feel like his life was back to normal. For a second.

Only for a second, because as soon as he noticed Bruce walking down the stairs, Alfred started scrutinising him while holding the door of the Lexus. “Master Bruce. How strange to see ‘you’ looking so healthy and well-rested,” Alfred commented.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I always do.” He hopped in the passenger seat, putting down the cat’s carrier at his feet, and Kent’s other belongings in the back.

“Of course you do, Master Bruce.”

“So, how are you, Alfred?” Bruce asked once Alfred had started the engine, “I hope Clark Kent acts with decorum.”

The butler raised an eyebrow, as if it weren’t a usual occurrence for Bruce to retaliate, or enquire after his well-being. 

“I am well, thank you. Mr. Kent is keeping me entertained.”

Bruce ignored the cat who let out an angry meow after a particularly sharp swerve.

“How is he? What is he doing?”

“Resting, I assume,” Alfred replied, eyes fixed on the road. “Unlike you, he does not turn a deaf ear, and has contributed to the lessening of the bags under your eyes by giving heed to my sound suggestions.”

Bruce scoffed. “He’s just bored.” Not like he’s got the choice not to rest anyway.

“He won’t be for long with you there.”

“About that. I have to enter the Batcave to contact the Watchtower as soon as we arrive. I’ll need you to keep a close eye on ‘me’, it would be a catastrophe if Clark Kent—or whoever he is, or pretends to be, happens to jump back in his body while I am still inside.”

“It shall prove problematic indeed,” Alfred agreed while shifting gears as they reached the suburb. “As for the pretending, if I may… you only need to take a good look at him, Master Bruce, If the lad is acting, then I am Queen Elizabeth.”

“Careful, Alfred, I might have to call you ‘Your Majesty’ before you know it.”

It wasn’t that Bruce believed Kent was acting. The guy managed to sound so honestly raw with Bruce’s voice, that it was hard even for Bruce to consider the possibility of Kent being anything but genuine. Still, Bruce was certain that there was more to this situation than just “Batman and a seemingly metahuman got body swapped for a random reason” or “Batman and Superman got body swapped during a mission and can’t remember why because they hit their heads.”

Nothing was ever that simple, or hackneyed, anymore. 

“What is it that you require of me?” Alfred asked.

“Bring Kryptonite, plus the special dart weapon with you, try to keep yourself hidden from me, and do whatever’s necessary to contain me if I don’t say the usual password after entering the Batcave. Then, if I don’t reiterate the second password every one minute and fifteen seconds.”

“Very well… But, Kryptonite, Master Bruce?” Alfred hesitated. “Does this mean Clark Kent could be…?”

“It’s a possibility, yes.” Bruce paused and glanced at the cat at his feet, who was now on its best behaviour—against all odds. “But, he might not be him, and even if he is, he could still be under magical possession. Have you left him unsupervised?”

Alfred shook his head. “Lucius’ daughter is remotely keeping an eye on the manor with her newest drone prototype. She needed to ‘try out a few things’ in a ‘safe area’, it was as good an opportunity as any.”

“I trust Tiffany to be discreet, and not to fly the drone in… my face.”

“So do I.”

The cat hissed softly and Bruce went to staring back through the window , not quite daring to think about what that would mean for him if Kal was Clark Kent.

Clark noticed a few things when he met Wayne that evening.

Wayne was wearing the glasses, he had brought everything Clark had asked, and the cat wasn’t dead.

Then, Wayne was acting like his weird self. All suave. He greeted Clark like he did the reporters he didn’t exactly want to talk to but couldn’t avoid, with a fake smile, a limp handshake and dodging eyes.

“Mr. Kent.”

Clark knew, because he also greeted some people like this, and Wayne’s attitude was rendered all the more flagrant because he was doing it in Clark’s body, and Clark knew his own expressions and body language.

“Mr. Wayne.”

Wayne glanced down at the wheelchair. “I see you have now regained some freedom of movement. That’s good.”

Then Wayne had shot him an odd wary look, before leaving (it had only been three minutes), but “I’ll be right back, Mr. Kent, don’t leave the manor and try not to miss me!” he had said with a wink. 

Clark only wished the jackass would fall down the stairs or something, and that the fall would somewhat return his body to Clark, so he could wink back, blow Wayne a kiss and tell him, “Farewell, Mr. Wayne, try not to miss me,” while flying out the window.

But of course, that didn’t happen, and Clark was just back to square one, bored and stuck alone—if one didn’t count the cat—in the living room of a home that wasn’t his.

He focused his fleeting attention on the latest book Mr. Pennyworth had given him an hour ago from Wayne’s library, and which he hadn’t dared look at until now.

The butler had seemed apologetic while handing it over, and Clark hadn’t needed to read the title first to assume Wayne had had something to do with the pick.

Naked Came the Stranger, by Penelope Ashe. He avoided the suggestive front cover, and read the synopsis on the back. “When Gillian finds out that her husband is having an affair, she decides to cheat on him with a variety of men from their Long Island neighborhood.”

What the hell is this thing?

Clark felt almost disappointed for not being surprised, because of course that would be the kind of book Wayne would stash in his “personal collection”.

What did Clark expect?

Bruce typed in his own personal codes and waited for someone at the watchtower to answer.

“Batman?” A feminine voice asked after exactly thirty-five seconds.

“No, actually, it’s Kal speaking.”

Chapter Text

Bruce typed in his own personal codes and waited for someone at the watchtower to answer, his fingers tapping restlessly against the back of the chair he was leaning on.

Alfred kept watch from the entrance of the elevator, ready to pull the trigger of the kryptonite gun if needed.

It did reassure Bruce a little. He trusted in Alfred enough to know that with him here, if something bad happened with Supermen and meta humans in general, the threat still had a chance of being neutralised.

At last the voice of Wonder Woman came through amid a flood of indistinct chatter. “Batman?” she asked, sounding concerned.

He figured she was with at least Green Lantern and Martian Manhunter, given the voices.

With some luck, perhaps Superman was up there with them, which would quickly enough confirm or disprove Bruce’s theory.

“No, actually, it’s Kal speaking,” Bruce said.

And no better way to check if the League was enforcing the security protocol Bruce had implemented.

The line went silent for a few seconds, before Green Lantern spoke. “Naa. We know it’s not Kal-El. You used Batman’s codes.”

“And Supes’ never calls. Takes him less effort to fly up there...,” Flash commented.

“Plus, only Batman knows Batman’s codes,” Green Lantern added.

“Please guys.” Wonder Woman sighed. “Batman? We know it’s you. How are things on your end?”

Bruce was about to ask “how the hell can you know that, and why do you all sound so unsurprised” but before the words had finished taking a polite shape on his tongue, he was interrupted by Lantern.

“Wait a minute. Shouldn’t we have J’onn at least check if he’s really Batman with Supes’ voice?”

“He’s right,” Flash butted in.

“J’onn, please,” Wonder Woman said.

As much as it pained him, Bruce made a mental note to perhaps congratulate Green Lantern for respecting the security protocol.

“Yes. I can feel that it is Batman.” J’onn specified after a few seconds, “In a slightly blurred, mingled way. I also feel the remnants of Kal-El’s presence.”

“All right, good.” Lantern clapped his hands. “Now that we’re sure that you’re not a random dude, B. Let’s cut the bullshit, what’s up?”

It’s him. Kent. It’s really him.

Bruce indicated to Alfred that things were okay but didn’t dismiss him yet. He shook his head and tried to focus.

“Given your lack of overreaction, you obviously know that I've been body swapped with Kal-El. Would you mind explaining what happened? And why you didn’t bother to let us know?”

Flash was the first to break the silence with a stupid “What?” uttered in an incredulous voice.

Followed by Lantern…

“You mean you don’t remember?”

Flash again…

“Oh sh—”

It had barely been three minutes and Bruce already wanted to hang up.

“I don’t,” he snapped. “Did you receive my message?”

“We did. Nothing implied you didn’t know what was going on,” Wonder Woman replied.

“...Right.” Bruce acknowledged while remembering the content. “What happened?”

“Short version?” Lantern asked.

“Just tell me.”

“So. Last Friday, we ran into Bat-Mite—”

“More like, he ran into us,” Flash chimed in.

Bat-Mite. Of course.

“... Anyway. We had a plan. That you made, B. But—”  Lantern continued.

Flash cut him off again, “But Supe acted all weird. Bat-Mite seemed to annoy him and instead of staying put and listening to us—”

“He wasn’t discreet at all, and Bat-Mite spotted us, which kinda sabotaged the big plan.”

Why am I not surprised? Bruce thought while rolling his eyes.

“Look. It happened really fast, I’m not sure what caused what, but at some point you ended up sprawled on the floor,” Wonder Woman added.

Great.

“It’s the window Mite was waiting for, he just appeared next to you and started waving his hand around. Kal-El rushed towards Mite to stop him. Then a spell hit Supe and you both.” Lantern explained.

“Thing is, it didn’t ‘do’ anything, really,” Flash said. “There was a white blinding light, and when we came to check on you, you both looked and sounded normal. We all thought the spell had failed.”

“Bat-Mite had fled the scene. We all tried to chase him while, mh…” J’onn paused, seemingly at a loss for words.

“While what?” Bruce asked, trying to remain calm.

Flash sounded only too happy to spell it out for them. “While you and Supe were taking it out on each other.”

“By that, you’re saying that I was too busy arguing with Superman,” Bruce clarified—because let’s not exaggerate—“to chase Bat-Mite and see the mission through?”

He had some trouble believing it.

But then—

“Don’t forget that you were in no state to grapple around,” Wonder Woman reminded him.

Yeah. The ankle Kent has been whining about. It made sense now.

“We will send you the recording that we recovered from the nearby CCTV,” she continued. “It could provide you with additional details that we might have overlooked. We haven’t exactly watched it.”

“Yeah, it felt too personal.”

“And we’re so done with your domestic squabbles.” Flash’s last words were muffled by what was probably Wonder Woman’s hand and Bruce had to strain his ear to hear them.

“But rest assured, Batman, that we haven’t been staying idle,” J’onn said. “We caught Bat-Mite yesterday, and made him talk.”

“Can he swap us back?” Bruce asked. 

Because the whole point of this talk, the reason why he hadn’t hung up as of now, was to obtain answers to these types of questions.

“He said the effects should wear off on their own in a month, and that his intention was not ‘to harm you’.”

“Because he’s such a huge fan.”

He ignored Lantern and focused back on J’onn’s words. “You mean, nothing can be done and we just have to wait for a whole month?”

“But B, try to see the positive side…” Lantern was snickering, and Bruce hated him for it. “It was supposed to swap yours and Bat-Mite’s body, not Supe’s.”

A second was enough to picture what could have been, and maybe his current predicament was not so bad.

“When you put it like that.”

“You should probably thank Supe for taking the hit.”

“Not so fast,” Bruce groaned, annoyed. “From what you said, he was the one who jeopardised the plan... Now, did Bat-Mite say the name of the spell? Or anything else relevant?”

“If I remember,” Wonder Woman said, “he called it the Grand Conflating Conjuration. But don’t worry,” she quickly added, “we’re already looking into it. Plus, Bat-Mite seems willing to make amends. It could be a matter of only a couple of weeks if he helps out. We’ll keep you updated.”

Only a couple of weeks…

Bruce thanked them, and hung up.

“I’ll join you upstairs in a moment Alfred. Thank you.”

“Of course, Master Bruce.”

Bruce slouched on the chair and rubbed at his temples.

It was unanticipated, yet not that startling.

Clark Kent was Superman.

Kal’s name was Clark.

That’s what his parents called him—his adoptive parents, here on earth, in Kansas of all places.

Superman’s mom made him pie, and sometimes, between catching crazy supervillains and rescuing civilians from collateral war damage, he popped by for five minutes to help his father move the freaking tractor.

Superman had a job, he was a reporter, who, from what Bruce had gathered from reading his articles earlier, still had ethics, and wasn’t afraid to dabble into all sorts of shady or politically incorrect topics.

And he seemed to have a slightly bad temper when he wasn’t trying so hard to be perfect, to fit the Superman persona that his admirers must have helped create. The Superman myth.

Yes. Clark Kent was something else.

And he was probably sulking in Bruce’s living room, giving Bruce the perfect opportunity to get to know him without them being Batman and Superman, but just, Clark Kent, surly reporter from Kansas, and Bruce Wayne. Stupid Bruce Wayne, whom Clark wouldn’t be afraid to rub the wrong way, with whom Clark seemed not to be afraid to be at his worst.

Because Bruce knew Superman always tried too hard around Batman—and probably everyone that wasn’t Bruce Wayne.

Bruce opened the mail containing the CCTV recording Wonder Woman had sent him. He sat upright and hit play.

He and Superman were standing on the rooftop of a middle height building. Bruce saw himself kneading the sides of his cowl before he started shouting.

“Ugh, my head… KAL. For fuck’s sake. What is it that you can’t understand in stick to the fucking plan?”

“I thought I had an opening, if it hadn’t been for the noise of the crate that I had to push to get out because you stuck me in the back, I could have caught freaking Bat-Mite and none of this would have happened,” Kal shouted back.

“You might have. And it shouldn’t matter that you were ‘stuck in the back’ as you say, because you weren’t supposed to do what you did anyway, since you had a job to execute—”

“It’s because you don’t trust me.”

“Don’t start.”

“See?” Kal was pointing an accusing finger at him. “You don’t trust me and—”

“That’s bullshit. And you’re giving me good reasons not to trust you if you can’t even stick to the plan. What were you even thinking?”

“I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal out of this. In the end, we’re both fine—”

“We don’t know that yet. We don’t know what that spell was. We don’t know that it was just a headache spell, and let’s be realistic, it probably wasn’t. You could have just let me reason with Bat-Mite just as—”

“There’s no reasoning with him! He would have tried to cast the freaking spell as soon as you appeared, just like he did when you were half knocked-out! I couldn’t take that chance, his obsession with you makes him too unstable!”

“Well, he did cast it! Did you even listen when we devised the plan? We had counted on him trying to target me, that’s why Lantern was here and—”

“Okay. Fine. I fucked up, I’m sorry. In the end what I tried didn’t work, you got injured and we were both hit by God-knows what. I’m sorry. What more can I say? I was just trying to—”

Yes. Superman tried too hard, and probably too much. Bruce thought with a sigh as he watched himself starting to head for the edge with a slight limp.

“Kal I— You know what, it’s neither the time nor the place for this conversation. Let’s call it a day.”

The recording stopped when Kal took off a few seconds after having stared at his retreating back, fists clenched. 

Goddamn it. 

Bruce leant back in the armchair.

Kal could be such a freaking pain in the neck, always coming up with a good excuse to brush off the plans Batman worked so hard on putting together.

That’s when Batman would just lash out at Kal, for being reckless, and putting the team, and his own self in danger. And in these moments, Kal would stop being able to maintain the perfect poster boy act. In these moments, and when they would pick on one another, just for the sake of it.

Because it had always been the only way for Bruce to break that goddamn annoying facade, and start eliciting a reaction out of him, other than the stupid toothy smile and the big shining eyes. (Not that these things left Bruce indifferent... it was also who Kal was.)

Now that Bruce was taking the time to reflect on it, he realised Superman and Batman had been teammates for years. Really good teammates (if Bruce was being perfectly honest) but there had always been too much of a divide between them to hope to build a relationship that wasn’t work related.

Perhaps now was the perfect opportunity to see if Clark Kent could ever come to appreciate Bruce Wayne as much as he did Batman.

Plus… Clark Kent expected to be surprised, didn’t he?

And that was Kal’s fault, even if he had meant well, so Bruce didn't feel bad for what he planned to do. Or not to do.

Chapter Text

After Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth left, Clark had spent a few minutes pondering his options: turning his laptop on to start going through one of Perry’s tedious assignments, or reading Wayne’s evidently terrible book.

In the end, he deemed the book to be a slightly less boring option. Only slightly so.

(Which said a lot about the fluff pieces Perry kept in stock for his convalescent employees.)

He read two chapters, put down the book, drank an umpteenth cup of tea and then tried unsuccessfully to play hide and seek with the cat. (Which also probably wasn’t the best of ideas when one had to use a wheelchair, but at least it was entertaining.)

Clark was still awkwardly bent down to try to reach the cat holed up under the couch when he heard the whoosh of the door opening.

He glanced up, expecting to be greeted with the stony unimpressed face of Mr. Pennyworth, but it was Wayne, now standing near the sofa with his hands buried in the pockets of Clark’s old sweatpants.

Wait, there’s…

Clark gave up on his quest to grab the cat and straightened in the wheelchair, now focused on Wayne’s appearance.

Clark didn’t know whether it was the look in his eyes or the sort of smug smirk that flashed on his face for a second combined with the nonchalant pose he was adopting, but something about Wayne was different.

And also, Clark didn’t like that his facial features could apparently look like that.

He really didn’t.

“Please. Stop that,” Clark said, without thinking.

Plus, besides Clark’s familiar sweatpants, Wayne was also wearing the Christmas sweater Lois had offered him. He managed to look too much like Clark, and not enough like him at the same time, because the little side smile Wayne was doing with Clark’s face felt too foreign. 

And Clark couldn’t, for the life of him, understand why it was bothering him so much. Perhaps he wanted to see these expressions on Wayne’s own face, it might look better on him than it did on Clark. Also, he was getting tired of seeing himself and hearing his own voice whenever he was talking to Wayne. (Wayne being one of the only two people Clark had been able to interact with for the past few days, with Mr. Pennyworth.)

“Something the matter, Mr. Kent?” Wayne stared at him from behind the glasses that Clark knew to be useless.

“That move you’re doing with my eyebrows. And the—the mouth thing. It’s—” Clark shook his head. “I’m trying to assess if I’d rather you looked exactly or not-at-all like me for this situation to be more bearable. I’m not sure what would be less disconcerting.”

Wayne remained silent for a few seconds.

“I also wonder, Mr. Kent,” he said. “I didn’t know my face could look so dejected. Tell you what…” He slouched on the couch nearest to the sofa Clark was sat on—and under which the cat was hiding. “I might be so inclined as to stop doing that ‘eyebrow move’ if you’d just stop with the puppy eyes.”

Puppy eyes? Really?

“That sounds... reasonable,” Clark agreed carefully, with what he hoped was a serious expression, because he didn’t have the slightest clue what Wayne’s face was looking like right now.

“So. How is Gillian doing?” Wayne asked, resting his crossed legs nonchalantly on the corner of the coffee table, hands still in his pockets.

Huh?

Clark blinked. “Sorry, what? Who?”

“The protagonist.” Wayne nodded at the book which lay forgotten opposite his feet, bookmark standing out between the white pages. 

“...It’s… she… what the hell is this book?”

“Ha.” The corners of Wayne’s mouth lifted. “You don’t know the story behind it.”

“Am I supposed to?” Clark asked.

As if there were something to know…

“You could have. You’re a reporter, reading books and tedious papers is what you lot do in your spare time, right?” Wayne wasn’t doing the eyebrow move anymore, but somehow, whatever it was now, it looked worse.

Clark rolled his eyes. “That’s so cliché.”

“You don’t like reading, Mr. Kent?”

“That’s not what I said. But I could also not read and—and that’s not the point. What story is there to know anyway? This is just another poorly written sex novel. Can’t say this really surprised me coming from you,” Clark said, insisting on the last sentence, because he too, could be as annoying as Wayne if he so wished.

“It wasn’t meant to.” Wayne shook his head. “You might be interested to know that Penelope Ashe doesn’t exist, though.”

“Okay. Who wrote this then?”

Clark had some trouble understanding what Wayne was getting at, but Wayne was peculiar, so Clark didn’t think too much of it.

“A group of twenty-four journalists.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Hence your thinking I should know about it.”

“It’s a hoax. Deliberately poorly written, to poke fun at the literary culture of its time.” Wayne bent to pick up the book. He ran his fingers on the edges and said while looking at it: “What’s interesting about this book, apart from its history, is that even before the deception was revealed, it sold quite well. The columnist that led the project had proven his point.”

“His point?”

Wayne glanced at him and stilled his hands. “That any book could succeed if enough sex was thrown in.”

“So you didn’t buy it for the content?” Clark probably failed to hide the surprise in his voice, for Wayne merely stared at him with a knowing, complacent look.

“In a way, I did.” He smirked and put the book down. “I have somewhat used it as a baseline. How much can one push the joke and get away with it?” He was staring at Clark intently now, and pinned under his own blue eyes, Clark thought that he must be missing something. But before he could pinpoint what it was and make sense of what the hell it made him feel, the staring stopped. Wayne slouched back against the sofa and the familiar casual attitude was back. (Not that Clark had been able to see much of that side in person, but that was the Waynish attitude from the tabloids that he was most acquainted with.)

“It’s also got some good pick-up lines, and looks inconspicuous in my library,” Wayne added, his voice as smug as his smile.

They remained silent for a few minutes, and Clark had to admit that it wasn’t terribly uncomfortable.

The cat had moved from her hiding place and stood out of arm’s reach, licking at her paws with wary eyes.

“So…” Clark cleared his throat. “Are you going to stay there?”

“Well. There’s no point residing in your apartment from the time being.” Wayne shrugged. “I’d rather work here.”

“Yeah… Work.” Clark sighed, reality crashing down on him once more. “Don’t tell me about it…”

It had just reminded him that he better start working on whatever assignment Perry must have sent him.

He made a move to grab his laptop which lay atop the cat’s travel carrier, but Wayne beat him to it when he silently but swiftly stood to pick it up.

“I...Thank you,” Clark said, pleasantly surprised when the laptop was handed over to him.

Wayne gave him a little smile. “Anytime.”

Then he left the room without saying another word.

Clark took advantage of his being alone to check his phone (more like, the one Mr. Pennyworth had given him) which he had used to contact Lois earlier.

He sent her a quick message.

[7:03pm] Lois? Knock knock.

[7:03pm] Clark?

[7:04pm] Is that still you?

[7:04] Yes. Roses are red, Perry isn’t blue, it is indeed me, you are speaking to.

[7:06] That was terrible. Even for your standards.

[7:06] Just so you have no doubt it’s me.

[7:07] Ha. Ha. Your parents called me an hour ago, I was about to text you.

[7:08] Can I please know what’s really going on now?? I passed on your message but they still had questions. And so do I.

Well, it was relieving to know that at least Ma and Pa wouldn’t worry as much. Lois really was the best (and Clark was impressed that she had even managed to refrain from asking questions until now…)

Clark thought about his answer for a few seconds then typed.

[7:10] Remember when you dragged me into that shady underground party last month? There was this “no questions asked” policy of yours, as a “service for a good friend”. It’s time for my payback.

[7:10]...Clark. That’s low.

[7:11] Perhaps. But you know you’re the best.

[7:11] Obviously. But you know that one way or another, I will know. Knowing is my job.

[7:12] Obviously.

[7:12] Can’t hide anything from the greatest journalist of the Daily Planet, is that it?

[7:13] You got it.

[7:13] Gotta go boy scout. Enjoy whatever secretive thing you’re doing.

Clark smiled and pocketed the phone. Lois was quite the individual.

He turned his laptop on, and after checking that Wayne hadn’t deleted anything important just in case—plus adding an actual password—he started the draft of the fluff piece that was meant to be in the last page, and that no one would read.

Still, Clark tried not to botch it too much. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice at first when Wayne came back, with two cups of tea and the latest edition of The Wall Street Journal stuck under his arm.

“Don’t mind me,” Wayne said while sitting back on the couch. (Which caused Clark to startle, because he wasn’t used to having his senses so dimmed.) “Dinner is in an hour,” he announced as he motioned for Clark to help himself and started reading his newspaper. “Hope you like bangers and mash.”

Clark eyed the cup of tea. “Oh. That’s rea— Thank you.”

(That’s really sweet of you, Clark had almost said.)

“And yes,” he added a little too late, after clearing his throat, “bangers and mash. Perfect.”

One hour later, Clark’s fluff piece was decent enough to be sent to Perry. Wayne had remained quiet by his side, the only noise in the room being the dull typing on the keyboard and the soft whoosh of pages being turned.

Clark didn’t have time to ponder whether Wayne actually meant to keep him company or whether he just felt like spending time in this specific living room—since it was his home—because as soon as he shut his laptop down, he was led by Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth to the adjacent room, to have dinner with the two of them. (Which wasn’t how Clark had envisioned dinner, he had figured that he would perhaps eat here alone like he had earlier.)

Mr. Pennyworth had removed a dining chair to make room for Clark’s wheeled one, which made Clark feel both grateful and embarrassed (though he knew it was certainly not his fault, and that there was nothing to be ashamed of.)

“Master Wayne usually refuses to use the wheelchair when his mobility is impaired, he is stubborn like that,” Mr. Pennyworth explained, a bit out of the blue. “But I reckon you’ll recover faster than he does.”

Wayne rolled his eyes. “I more often than not don’t need it, Alfred.”

“Yes. Of course, Sir.”

Clark couldn’t help but be impressed at the way Mr. Pennyworth’s unflappable eyes went to meet Wayne’s gaze as they were bickering, as if the situation were perfectly normal.

The butler looked as unfazed as usual. Talking to Wayne when he wasn’t even looking like Wayne didn’t seem to be a problem.

Clark wondered if there was something in his own gait or attitude that was so strikingly unlike Bruce Wayne that Mr. Pennyworth didn’t even have to look twice at him to just know his protégé was not inhabiting his usual body. Or perhaps Wayne managed to behave so much like himself in Clark’s body that there was no questioning for Mr. Pennyworth that it was indeed him.

Him and not Clark.

Clark, who was politely listening to their conversation now as they began eating, still not used to the mere idea of having Wayne and his butler as table companions…

But he was far from adverse to the company nonetheless—as it was a thousand times better than eating alone in the living room.

Until Wayne started to ask him questions, that is…

“So, tell us, Mr. Kent,” he said while sending Clark an interested look. “What do you do during your spare time?”

“As you pointed out to me less than an hour ago, Mr. Wayne…” Clark took his time chewing, “I read books.”

“Well, I was obviously right then.” Wayne poured himself another glass of water. “Okay, books. But apart from that? Come on, be less boring.”

Clark would have choked on his mouthful had he still been in the middle of one. He wiped his mouth with a napkin to give himself some countenance. (Don’t take any sass from anybody, Ma had always told him.)

“Why won’t you tell me first what it is that you do during yours.” Clark motioned pointedly at him with his fork. “And come on, be more credible.”

Too focused on Wayne’s satisfied smile (why the hell would he look satisfied at this instant?), Clark missed the appreciative glance Mr. Pennyworth sent him.

“Because, I don’t know what the hell it is that you do to yourself…” Clark continued, “whether it’s weird tennis player-related practices, extreme sports or—” He shut his mouth before he could say BDSM club, at dinner, when Mr. Pennyworth was here, “—nevermind. Just, if I am to attend parties as you, don’t expect me to do the same, even for the sake of pretence.”

“You need not be worried, I’ve already cancelled my polo sessions for the foreseeable future.”

“Polo? Really?”

“Yes. Surprised, Mr. Kent?”

Huh. Nice try.

“No, still unconvinced. Perry assigned me to the sport column once, I spent a whole week attending live games. From what I observed, Polo doesn’t leave scratching marks on the forearms.”

“Doesn’t it? Well… There’s something else, a secret hobby of mine, you mustn't tell anyone.” Wayne put down his fork. “I do some spelunking.”

Mr. Pennyworth scoffed. “That is certainly one way to put it.”

Wayne sent him a wary look.

“Master Wayne likes to spend time in caves,” Mr. Pennyworth explained, not at all impressed by the sheer glare he was now subjected to.

But it happened really fast, so Clark thought that maybe he must have imagined the weirdest parts of it all, because this conversation wasn’t making any sense anyway.

Wayne must have thought the same, since he deftly changed the subject (something more boring to do with contracts and stock markets) and they finished eating amicably, distracting Clark from pondering over Wayne’s decidedly strange hobbies.

To Clark’s surprise, the days following this faithful evening had passed quickly, with Wayne being his… Wayne-ish self. (Showing Clark around almost enthusiastically, before turning back into an annoying flirt for no reason other than to rile him up—that was the only plausible explanation. There were also the times when Wayne would become cryptic all of a sudden, as if there was something he himself knew, and that Clark ought to have known, but didn’t.)

Wayne would often join him in the living room, where Clark was pretending to work, instead of watching stupid videos on the Internet (he was still avoiding the news at all costs, given how helpless he was at the moment, there was no point knowing how many catastrophes and disasters he couldn’t help save people from).

Sometimes they would just sit in silence, but more often than not, they would talk. (They even played Chess once, Wayne had won—really quickly—but Clark sucked at Chess so it wasn’t that hard to win.)

From the second day, on Wednesday afternoon, Clark found himself engaging in conversation without really realising he was doing so.

“Do you think our body retains our habits even when we’re not inhabiting it?” he asked.

Wayne barely looked up from the chemistry book he was skimming through. “Is there something my body does that unsettles you?”

“Well, it’s not just the physical habits, you see. I’ve had this theory that perhaps it retained the usual mood of the ‘owner’. When I look at my— well your face in the mirror. There’s this… mh... weary gloominess. This morning, for example, I felt sad for no reason. Do you think it might be due to secondary effects or could my theory be… correct, somehow?”

“Is that your way of asking if I’m gloomy and sad?” Wayne smirked.

“When you put it like that, it sounds odd…” Clark rubbed at the back of his head, embarrassed. “I’m just trying to understand. If you are, it would explain why I feel so off.”

“In order to perhaps make you feel less off, I ought to admit that I am probably not the most cheerful person there is.” Wayne shrugged. “But the situation itself might just be taking its toll on you.”

Clark thought of the way he had woken up curled up this morning despite having fallen asleep completely spread on the bed, but decided that perhaps it wasn’t worth pointing it out. 

“Perhaps.” He sighed. “I wish I could get used to it.”

Wayne scoffed. “There’s no getting used to it. You’ve been you, in your body, your whole life. Don’t expect to get used to something else after barely a week.”

“I know. There are some people I didn’t get to say goodbye to. Things I should have said, and now I’m not sure I’ll ever get the chance to.”

“You could always send an email, or a text.”

How could Wayne not feel the same? Not feel this distress, the anguish of not knowing if the situation would ever go back to normal…

“I could, if only I had their email addresses, or their numbers…”

Then Wayne gave him the look, the look which said “I know things”, but he remained silent.

It hadn’t been the only time Clark had been given the look. These other times had been particularly annoying… The worst part being that Wayne seemed to derive great pleasure from Clark’s poorly hidden befuddlement, barely concealing what a great time he was having in his acting all mysterious, even though there could rationally be absolutely nothing mysterious about him—because he was Bruce Wayne, not freaking Batman.

These were not even the moments Clark thought Wayne behaved the most strangely.

Wayne was at his strangest when he was teasing him. Clark had tried to find another word that could depict better what it was exactly that Wayne was doing with his light smirks, his all-knowing remarks, and this gleam in his eyes that should be reserved for people that mattered to him—not to Clark, whom he had met about a week ago—but there was no better way to put it. 

And Clark would know this gleam, since Wayne was still wearing his face, whose micro expressions Clark was—to say the least—familiar with. He had practised switching from Clark to Superman before the mirror when he had moved to Metropolis. And he knew, from old pictures of himself, that this gleam was the one plastered on his face when he smiled at his parents, and at long-time friends.

The strangeness, the gleam… it all re-occurred the following evening as they were both sitting on the couch with the cat.

Clark had just told a terrible joke (which for some reason had made Wayne laugh), then after asking him “is everything all right, Mr. Wayne?” (because the joke had been that bad), Wayne had said: “Please, no more ‘Mr. Wayne’... after all, one is usually well past first name basis when they’ve seen the other naked.”

Which had made Clark turn bright red. “I haven’t—that’s not—” he spluttered helplessly.

“You showered, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.” Of course he had. “But I didn’t exactly look.”

“How noble of you.” Wayne smirked. “Some people would have taken advantage of this opportunity to take compromising pictures for future blackmail.”

“It didn’t even cross my mind…” Clark honestly said.

“I know it didn’t.” Then there was the gleam, kind and caring as Wayne added: “Because you’re a good man, Mr. Kent.”

Clark must have pulled a weird face, or remained silent for too long, because then Wayne ruined the moment.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for getting an eyeful,” he told Clark with a salacious wink. (And it was so weird to see his face do that, that Clark just wanted to hide somewhere.)

“Mr. Wayne, I—”

He didn’t even know where he was going with this sentence.

“I’m kidding,” Wayne said. “I didn’t ogle you either. It didn’t feel appropriate.”

He then managed to make the kind of grin that makes wrinkles appear on one’s skin if one does it too often. The kind that wouldn’t leave a mark on Clark’s superhuman face, but still managed to reach his eyes to make them light up like the sun.

Clark remembered wishing at that instant that he could see what this smile looked like on Wayne’s own face.

“I… I could try not to call you Mr. Wayne anymore, though it might prove difficult. It’s all I’ve ever known you as. But... you can call me Clark, I don’t mind.”

“All right. Clark.”

Wayne had pronounced his name like he’d been waiting forever to be able to utter the word. Like it was somewhat sacred.

And it was all so confusing. Clark didn’t know what to think anymore. Because at times, when he hadn’t been annoying and all flirty, Wayne had proven to be strangely endearing (not that Clark would ever admit it to him.)

Clark also probably ought to call him Bruce at some point now—at least in his head. But he already had to focus so as to not appear interested in any way, and giving in to Wayne’s request that they be on a first name basis wouldn’t help Clark keep his distance.

No matter if Wayne’s sudden friendliness with Clark seemed genuine, it was probably nothing but. And taking a liking to Bruce Wayne was a terrible idea.

Clark was and would remain immune to his charms and whatever little game he was playing.

He already knew an endearing weirdo.

One was enough.

The following day, as they were both having dinner with Mr. Pennyworth, Wayne asked Clark about his ankle, and Clark knew shit was about to hit the fan. 

“It’s all right. I can walk,” he said, cautious.

“Good. Now you need to attend a gala.” Wayne sounded almost apologetic when he added, with a small wince, “I can’t get you out of this one.”

Mr. Pennyworth was merely observing the scene in silence.

“How am I supposed to act at this gala?” Clark frowned. “Do I make a scandal or…?”

“Here’s what you’ll do. Arrive thirty minutes late. Grab something to drink and try to meddle with groups of people. It’s easier to handle than one on one. Don’t answer any questions regarding Wayne Enterprises. If you’re cornered by reporters, flirt your way out of it. Then, leave via the backdoor two hours early,” Wayne explained as if it were perfectly simple and Clark would remember everything.

“But what if they talk to me?” Clark asked, not at all panicking. “These people I’m supposed to know, but don’t…”

Wayne waved dismissively. “I’m preparing an exhaustive list of every guest, each one including a picture, with the following information; name, age, job, social status, level of influence with regards to WE, overall hazardousness, known psychosises, predictable questions, how to greet, how to avoid, flirt or not... Everything you need to know along with a detailed approach regarding handling parties with socialites. I’ll also print you a pdf guide on social roles, in case you need to apprehend every set of behaviours you might be expected to encounter.”

“...Wow.” Clark’s fork had somehow landed in the middle of his plate during Wayne’s allocution.

“Is this not enough? I’ll send you the guide via email in case you lose the printed copy, and If need be, Alfred can arrange for you to—”

Clark rubbed at his eyes and gratefully accepted the napkin Mr. Pennyworth offered him. “No, no, no. Slow down. It should be more than enough.”

“I don’t want you to feel like I threw you to the wolves unprepared,” Wayne explained with a shrug.

Oh, Clark was going to read everything Wayne would send him. Painstakingly.

“By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail,” Mr. Pennyworth quoted, wisely.

Ugh. So many things to take into account. Clark didn’t want to screw it up…

But then, he thought, the best way to act and remain in character for the duration of the evening was much easier.

Yes. Clark was just going to get drunk. Because why not? That’s what everyone did, including Wayne, right? And what better opportunity than to be in Wayne’s body to experience his first hangover?

Chapter Text

Clark was sure the reason why Wayne hadn’t specified that Clark needed to drink at the gala was because he would never have expected Clark to agree to it. But Wayne would be impressed that Clark was thoughtful and dedicated enough to take this initiative so as to be in character.

“This event has been planned for quite some time now, as the poster boy of the organising foundation, Bruce Wayne’s presence is required. For obvious reasons, I can’t accompany you. But I’ll be around,” Wayne had explained as they finished the main course, Mr. Pennyworth still eyeing them both in silence.

“Around how? And you haven’t said why there needs to be this event.”

“Have I not? It’s a fundraiser.”

“Okay, but what for?”

“For charity, of course.”

“All right,” Clark yielded, while refraining from rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me, I’ll find out anyway.”

Wayne chuckled. “It’s to help out the city with its usual issues. There are repairs to do, social housings to build, orphans to feed. The prisons are overflowing, the asylum’s personnel are undertrained, the GCPD’s gear is obsolete…”

“Oh.” Clark had genuinely not thought of that. It’s quite a lot. “I shouldn’t have asked, now I feel the future of Gotham weighing on my shoulders.”

“Just don’t insult the contributors...”

“Great. My inherent politeness will save Gotham.”

“That’s the spirit.” Wayne smiled. “Don’t be too farmboy-like, and you’ll be fine.”

“That’s… some great helping advice you’re giving me there,” Clark grumbled. “Thank you.”

He hadn’t even started, but he was so done.

“Clark. Do you feel ready?” Bruce Wayne asked two days later, on Saturday afternoon, a hand reaching to clasp Clark’s shoulder.

Clark gave him a nervous smile. “Do I look like I feel ready?”

“Of course you do.” Wayne winked. “You know the map of the building, you know your lines, you know the guests. Just… stick to the plan, it should be fine. Plus, you still have until tomorrow night to practise.”

Stick to the plan… Clark ignored the impression of deja-vu and nodded. He would stick to the plan, and when putting up with Gotham’s socialites would get too much to handle, he would drink on the side and let the alcohol work its magic. 

While still sticking to the plan.

[Sunday evening, 8:25pm]

Bruce stared warily as Clark stepped out of the limousine and leisurely strolled through the crowd, not limping anymore, and looking confident enough. He accepted the glass of champagne someone handed to him with a charming smile and a wink, and Bruce relaxed his clenching teeth.

Arrival: OK.

Bruce would have prefered to be there in person to supervise everything, but Clark Kent was still supposed to be sick until tomorrow, and Bruce could find no reason other than Clark doing his job as a journalist to justify his presence at such an event.

Since bugging Clark had been out of the question—lest the bug be found by anyone if Clark did something unforeseeable—Bruce had known he would have to make do with the goold old CCTV, Alfred’s eyes, and trusting Clark to stick to the plan.

“He’s doing well,” Alfred commented in the earcom between two sips of tea.

Bruce was down the Batcave, only because he missed it (as Alfred had pointed out, he could have watched the event from the couch, as that would have been more “ commodious ”) while Alfred was at the gala, having had to drive Clark (as Bruce couldn’t trust anyone else to do it.)

“Mh. So far,” Bruce agreed a bit late, busy observing as Clark avoided Vicky Vale by pretending to enthusiastically greet a surly-looking old man surrounded by five models.

The man grunted at Clark, who kept smiling unaffectedly, continuing their one sided conversation long enough for Vicky Vale to move along, in search of something more interesting to listen to.

“You could definitely learn from Mr. Kent, Master Bruce,” Alfred commented. “After all, he’s managed to avoid Miss Vale.”

“So far.”

“You should give him a little credit.”

“I’ll admit that since I’m not sure who is worse between Vale and…” Bruce squinted, “...judge Faden, I might have chosen another corner. Though given my usual luck,” he mumbled, “I’d probably have bumped into Jack Ryder.”

“Was he invited?” Alfred asked.

Bruce made a mental note to keep an eye on Faden and replied: “No. Vale wasn’t either.”

He usually just allowed them in since they made good publicity. Of course they didn’t know it was a deliberate choice on his part (he recalled reading an article where one of them tackled his “bad security”).

“That’s what I thought.”

Bruce shot a glance at the digital clock on the screen. “The mayor will be delivering his speech in sixteen minutes.”

“Have you planned for Mr. Kent to say something?”

“I made him rehearse a few lines.”

Then he will just have to stall for a few hours before Alfred can bring him back home.

Clark, of course, was perfectly capable—he’d memorised everything Bruce had sent him, but the less he had to manage, the lower the odds of anything going south.

[8:56pm]

Clark had only drunk a glass of champagne yet, but since Wayne ought to hold his alcohol very well, he was only getting started. The usual warm sensation was spreading in his guts, the difference being that Clark could feel somehow that it would soon become a bit distracting if he kept drinking at this pace.

He was going to hide in this restroom for ten minutes, then he’d listen to Gotham’s Mayor, then he’d thank everyone for coming (Wayne had made it very clear that Clark couldn’t screw this part up) and at last, he’d disappear somewhere else with a borrowed fancy bottle of Armand de Brignac.

Clark had been perfectly serious when he had said to Br–to Wayne that he would save Gotham. He almost felt excited at the prospect of helping getting all these upper-crust white shoes to donate to the city, though he had promised Wayne that he wouldn’t do it too flawlessly. (Because Wayne had downright refused when Clark had proposed to write a long and sophisticated speech to replace the few unconvincing lines Wayne had sent him, for whatever reason.)

“The bathroom technique.” Bruce scoffed. “You’re right Alfred, I could learn from him.”

Contingency techniques: OK.

[9:28pm]

When the mayor went for the rostrum, Clark braced himself and downed his second glass of champagne, for courage.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am Anthony Garcia, mayor of this town.” Garcia stepped aside to wave over a man with square glasses and a thick mustache, whom Clark knew as one of Batman’s most trusted allies. “And this is Jim Gordon, our esteemed Commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department. We’re gathered here tonight for the annual Gotham fundraiser party. I’d like to thank everyone here on behalf of Gotham, and most particularly, I’d like to thank Bruce Wayne, who’s been hosting this event for years now. Mr. Wayne, if you please.”

Clark joined them a bit apprehensively, though he knew his being invited to speak was a formality, since the man who apparently ought to do all the talking was Jim Gordon—who didn’t seem particularly thrilled to be here either, now that Clark was close enough to see the nervous twitch of his mouth and his fidgeting with the sheets of paper.

“Good evening everyone.” Clark cleared his throat and pictured himself back in the living room, with Wayne nodding appreciatively at Clark’s good imitation of him. “I hope you’ll enjoy this little party of mine. May all this delicious and free alcohol imported straight from France encourage you to sign a few cheques for our beloved city. I trust the Mayor and the Commissioner to spend every cent well. With your financial support tonight and that of the Wayne’s foundation, we’ll make Gotham a better place. Thank you, thank you all for coming.”

The room applauded politely and the Mayor took back the mic Clark handed him. “Thank you Mr. Wayne. The commissioner will now present to you all the budget’s—”

Clark wasn’t hearing him anymore. His part was done and he was right on the edge of tipsy and drunk, that place where he was still coherent while loose about everything.

Now that he had succeeded in reciting his little speech, he was free as the wind for tonight.

That Bru— that Wayne had made him recite such vacuous lines (when he could have accepted Clark’s proposition to write something else or do better himself, without a doubt) was beyond Clark. But, though it was confusing, he couldn’t bring himself to care yet.

[9:42pm]

Clark was rejoining the guests and exchanging a few pleasantries and Bruce finally allowed himself to relax. “It went well.” Bruce averted his eyes from the screen for the first time tonight. “He didn’t even try to alter the speech. But I’m not surprised.”

“Mr. Kent is too virtuous of a person to do that,” Alfred responded.

“He is. But you better not say that to him, I believe he finds the term pejorative.”

Kal always thinks that I’m mocking him when I call him that, though it’s one of the qualities that makes him so admirable to me…

“I don’t see how it is pejorative,” Alfred said.

Bruce shook his head. “Me neither. Some people here may want to talk to Bruce Wayne. We’ll wait for another two hours before you can pick Clark up.”

“Two hours will leave him with plenty of time to get intoxicated, a state that he seems intent on reaching,” Alfred sounded dubious. 

Bruce repressed a wince. “We’ll see how the situation evolves.”

[10:45pm]

Clark stopped to think about it… The speech, Wayne… everything.

Because it was confusing, a lot of things were, and now, unlike forty minutes ago, was the time to care—because he was almost completely smashed, and his brain had decided that there was nothing else to do but try to crack the Wayne case and everything about him that did not make sense when Clark was sober…

So now that Clark stopped to really think about it…

It was not that Wayne was an idiot, because Clark had gotten to see it with his own eyes—he had not, not really…

Wayne was an idiot because everyone knew he was, a fact as saliently self-evident as knowing fire burns and water wets. A fact which had its place in one of the numerous paradigms which had developed Clark professionally, and as a full individual.

Yes, Bruce Wayne being something other than an idiot would probably shatter some foundation of Clark’s career identity. 

But it seemed like a lot of Clark’s beliefs so far needed to be rejudged.

Damn, how stupid he’d been, having fallen for the popular opinion regarding Bruce Wayne instead of making his own, and it was a strange sensation, to feel completely numb in the head while knowing somehow that he was more lucid than ever.

As Clark walked further away from the crowd, an umpteenth glass of champagne in hand, he realised. He knew.

Bruce was not an idiot, no…

Bruce was clever, that was the only explanation. Bruce was pretty much a genius. He was deceptive. He had wanted— no… planned for people to think him stupid. Putting so much effort into his public persona, and wasting so much money in the process, that unless someone randomly entertained the possibility that Bruce Wayne was a sham, an act, there was no reason to question his brainless attitude. No one expected him to be anything else than what he was letting on…

Because who would do what Bruce Wayne did? An infamous orphaned billionaire, not interested in anything beside partying and fucking around, his future already financially secured by his inheritance and the competent people working for him.

It could make sense. No, it did make sense. That’s how Clark had bought it, right?

But who would pretend to do what Bruce did?

Someone astutely brilliant with reasons to do so.

And Bruce decided when to let people know otherwise. Their situation might be forcing his hand, but still, Bruce must have chosen at some point to let Clark in, gradually.

But why was he doing this? What were the reasons behind this staggering charade?

Thinking about Bruce Wayne was giving Clark headaches and rare were the people who managed to give him headaches without even being there.

He picked another glass from a passing waiter and headed for the nearest double doors.

I need some air.

[11:10pm]

Bruce watched as Clark went into the backyard. There were a few people chatting here, a cigarette in hand, funny how the mosquitos kept most of the guests inside, but the smokers.

“He’s had quite a few glasses, has he not?” Alfred remarked.

“Fourth one. Three too many. It’s getting dark, he’s at a blind spot, on the corner,” Bruce said, words stumbling past his lips more quickly than normal. “I just hope he’s not going to do anything stupid. Please keep an eye on him, I know it’s still a bit early but I…”

“Of course. I am on my way, Master Bruce.”

[11:20pm]

Clark knew he was rambling, his head was a mess, probably no words flowing out of his mouth were coherent but it still mattered, he had to say it. He didn’t want to know, but he did. And why can’t life ever be simple? It was with Ma and Pa, with Lois and Jimmy at work, when Perry was not on his back, and with the League sometimes. Except when with Batman, who always made things difficult. Still, being near him was one of Clark’s favourite uses of his time, and damn how he was missing Batman. There was a reason Clark had not allowed himself to think about him, and even before he got swapped with Bruce.

Bruce… at least there was Bruce now, it could be worse, right?

Since when is Bruce Wayne becoming the epitome of good company in my head?

Fuck. I might like him too.

I can’t. I already—

But why does it not feel wrong, who—

Mr. Pennyworth was pulling at his forearm, his mouth moving like he was telling Clark something, but Clark couldn’t decipher the sounds, and his vision was too blurry to try to read his lips.

Clark knew he was on the verge of cracking it, of discovering something important. Something that would explain why Clark liked Bruce, because it still made sense, even when Clark was already in love with—

If only they could leave him alone, he was so done with this bullshit, his head hurt and—

—and Clark was about to uncover this important missing piece that would, at last, explain why Bruce had scratches and scars on his body, why said body was so athletic and why Bruce “liked spending time in caves”—and whatever Clark was recalling and finally perhaps making sense of this bizarre phrase of Mr. Pennyworth right now was another matter.

He had the answer swirling through the darkest edges of his brain, ready to be unleashed on the tip of his furred tongue… he just had to focus a little more and—

—but he was now being dragged into the backseat of the limousine, his head felt like jelly spinning in the washer, the cushions were comfortable and nothing made sense anymore.

[Monday, 7:45am]

Wayne’s Foundation fundraiser a raging success despite, or thanks to, Bruce Wayne’s antics?

Bruce Wayne, completely wasted at his own gala, drunkenly declares that he “misses Batman” and “can’t deal with this sh*t anymore”—among other incoherent statements such as “f*ck I like Bruce Wayne too”. Is Gotham’s philanthropic billionaire condoning vigilantism? Or is there more to their relationship than meets the eye?

Bruce sighed and set the newspapers of the morning next to his coffee. “We brought him home two hours too late.”

“Well, the donations were more substantial than last year,” Alfred pointed out.

“Indeed. I can’t say it was a disaster.”

Bruce didn’t know what to think. He had planned on Clark drinking—Superman had complained enough times about not knowing what it felt like to be drunk for Bruce to be naive enough to believe Clark wouldn’t try to take advantage of this opportunity—but he had not planned on Clark being such an outspoken drunk, nor had he planned on the spontaneity of his declarations. Declarations whose content was unexpected…

Clark said he missed Batman. That was one of the first things he’d said. Then he’d said he “liked Bruce Wayne too”.

Clark said he liked me. He did…

Chapter Text

The first thoughts Clark verbalised after waking up consisted of a messy grumbled jumble of half-muttered curses and semi-coherent phrases along the lines of:

‘Ugh, my head. Ouch. Why?’ When he managed to drag his upper body in a vertical position on the soft surface he’d been laid on. A bed probably?

Followed by:

‘Oh. Oh. Shit. Not good.’ When he realised after a good five minutes (the time it took to snap out of his daze) that the place he was now was not the place he remembered being last.

Then:

‘How is it that Bruce Wayne’s body, of all the bodies, of all people, can’t hold alcohol? I barely drank. I’m sure!’ When he was about done staggering and was holding on safely to the door handle.

Fragments of memories from yesterday were piling up in random order in Clark’s brain. He tried not to think about his dried throat and the disagreeable sensation of his limp tongue sticking to his palate, and focused as best he could to recollect.

Clark remembered he had learnt a piece of information, which was to lead him to some sort of revelation. Right now, he knew neither, but something of significance had happened. Of that he was sure of.

What that something was, though…

He shook his head, hoping to clear the fog slowing down his thinking, then winced immediately because, ouch, it was a stupid idea.

(Another thing Clark couldn’t remember was why he had thought getting a hangover was worth experimenting in the first place.)

He took a look at the bed and realised that Bruce had been sweet enough to not let him decay on the floor yesterday. Or, at least, Mr. Pennyworth had asked Bruce to get Clark to bed and Bruce had complied.

Clark would rather think it was the former, because he liked Bruce—and the idea of Bruce tucking him in.

Which was a problem.

Clark thought so.

Clark knew so.

Though yesterday it had felt like it was not a problem. But he still couldn’t remember why, and surely this was all linked to the important piece of information which kept eluding him.

Clark’s cat liked him.

Bruce had tried to shoo away the little furry ball, but it had won the battle in succeeding to settle on Bruce’s lap, despite his best efforts. (Best efforts being some vocal warnings in his best batvoice: “Cat, go away. I’m not who you think I am.” “Cat, if you don’t mind, I’m busy, you see?”)

Bruce was indeed busy working on a quick fluff piece to send to Clark’s boss—buying the Daily Planet to ensure Clark’s employment would have taken less effort, had said-Clark agreed—and having to scratch the cat’s chin with one hand was rendering him not as efficient as he would have liked to be.

(But the purring he was granted when doing so was much more agreeable to the ear than the disgruntled peevy miaowings coming out of the creature’s mouth when Bruce dared stop.)

He was typing the second paragraph when Alfred entered the room, his shadow ominously blocking the light from the floor lamp when he came to stand before Bruce’s desk.

“Master Bruce. If I may, you should tell him.”

For a while, Bruce pretended not to hear. He had tried his best not to think of what Clark had revealed yesterday, he wasn’t ready to face what had to be done, or what should be said. Now was definitely not the time, there were other matters to attend to.

He willed his eyes to stay fixed on the laptop and his hand to continue his ministrations between the cat’s ears, then he raised his head and gave his butler an easy smile.

“Oh. Alfred, you’re here.”

Alfred kept silent. Then, he didn’t lose countenance per se, but he rolled his eyes at Bruce. A reaction not that unusual, but sufficient for Bruce to feel chastised enough to lower his gaze, and stop acting like what he was typing on the keyboard with his free hand actually made sense. There was just no fooling Alfred.

“...I don’t know how,” Bruce finally admitted in defeat after seven long seconds of deliberation.

He was expecting Alfred to either raise an unimpressed eyebrow, or sigh and look at him with commiserative eyes—both of which were really irritating. Alfred chose the former, coupled with another eyeroll.

“Surely you’re inventive enough to think of something,” he said before leaving, taking with him the still half-full teapot—which Bruce wasn’t done with—to punctuate his dissent.

Then Bruce was alone, barring the cat, whose presence he didn’t mind that much now.

Clark felt like his head was vibrating from the inside, the sensation reminded him of the awful drum of that old washing machine, the one Pa had tried to repair once too many times before dumping it.

The entirety of his cranium was begging him to do something, drink some water, lay down… but when he saw the light escaping from the living room, he couldn’t help but knock softly before pushing the door ajar.

He spotted Bruce on the couch, he was holding himself like someone who’d have had huge bags under his eyes, were he not inhabiting Clark’s body at the moment. 

The cat was sleeping on his lap and it was too adorable a scene for Clark to be a killjoy and ask why Bruce was using Clark’s laptop again when there was one of his on the coffee table—at hand’s reach should he bother to stretch his arm.

“Mh. Hello?” Clark greeted while trying to make himself as small as possible, knowing that the reaction he’d be subjected to will be indicative of how bad he had screwed up yesterday.

“Clark.” Bruce’s smile was taut and he looked uneasy, but Clark had been bracing himself for worse—a stern ‘Mr. Kent’ or else…

“Am I bothering you?” Clark asked while taking a hesitant step in the room.

“You’re not. Come in.” Bruce seemed lost in thought, looking at Clark with pensive eyes.

Clarl sat on the couch opposite him. “What are you doing?”

“Some research. I’m saving your job,” Bruce said, his gaze fixed back on the screen.

“Shit.” Clark groaned. He hadn’t planned this far ahead… “It’s Monday isn’t it?”

At least Bruce wasn’t physically at the Planet wreaking havoc in Clark’s carefully constructed social circle.

Bruce nodded. “I postponed your going back to work for a few more days, but Perry White still needs a reason to pay you. I already sent him a few of the articles I’ve written.”

“Can I see?” The mere thought of writing made his head ache. So even if Bruce had produced complete nonsense, Clark would still feel grateful.

Without a word, Bruce turned the laptop Clark’s way.

All right, a fluff piece, a heroic story about the rescue of a man by his dog, who had barked loud enough for the nearby police to intervene as his master was having a stroke.

It could pass as something a reporter under the weather would write, Lois would ask questions, but she would still go over what Bruce had written to fix the sentences and word choices, which were more fitting of a bill of health than that of the fluff piece it was meant to be.

“I called a friend of mine at the GCPD,” Bruce explained. “I was expecting to be told another piece of bad news. Good things can happen in Gotham, so it would seem.”

It’s not that bad, Clark had to admit to himself.

Next, an up-to-date analysis based on the price-to-earnings ratio of the stock market

Clark skimmed it, financial trading was not his field of expertise per se, but he could still appreciate that it was definitely Bruce’s. He had even made aditionals diagrams with a short legend to describe each of the curves.

Yeah, it’s good. Next…

The last one was still unfinished, it consisted of ten lines about the Metropolis’ baseball team and their latest match, and it wasn’t as good as the first two articles, more exactly, the beginning was, but the rest, even in its draft state, wasn’t. Jimmy would fix this one, Clark knew he liked baseball.

Still, that Bruce had managed to write two articles like that, for Clark…

He tried to prevent his admiration (along with the suspicion he also felt) from showing through when he asked, “And you did all that… this morning?” 

“Along with the four others I already sent Mr. White. The baseball one though, he absolutely wanted you to do the sports columns, but I wasn’t too inspired…”

That’s it. Bruce Wayne is clever, that’s the piece of information… the conclusion I came to yesterday. But there’s something else…

“Okay… hm. Firstly, thank you, that’s impressive....” Clark paused, unsure how to continue. He had to say something, the situation was driving him round the bend, but verbalising the matter was… complicated.

Especially with a headache. And he really needed to drink. Water. Not alcohol. Never again.

“Just, mh, Bruce. Even though my thinking skills aren’t at their best right now, I can tell you’re hiding something and…”

And it makes me so goddamn frustrated because I know I’ve known what it is that you’ve been hiding.

“Am I?” Bruce gave him a nonchalant smile, but Clark noticed the now sharp gleam in his eyes, and the way he slightly straightened up. “Do we not all hide something from someone, to an extent?”

“You’re just not at all who you pretend to be.” 

“I’m not Clark Kent, indeed. Shall I make it into an article?”

Bruce was carrying on with his charade, doing his best to look the part of this simple-minded persona of his (despite the irony in his voice), and Clark wanted to shake him, because there was more to him than this stupid smile and the goofy maneurisms.

He’s so infuriating. Why is everyone I like so infuriating?

“Don’t play dumb, you know what I mean.”

And it’s too late to pretend, you just proved you are competent.

Bruce stared at Clark for a few long seconds, jaw tight and eyes focused, as if deliberating, then, he shrugged. “Sorry. Reflex.”

“Reflex…” Clark scoffed, jaded. “See? You’re not dense. You can’t even hold alcohol. I’m sure you even pretend to drink. It’s all such a sham, and holy crap my head hurts…”

“A man has as many different social selves as there are distinct groups of persons about whose opinion he cares.”

Is he admitting I’m right?

“What are you saying?”

Bruce weirdly lifted the corner of his mouth, an expression which was definitely too unfamiliar on Clark’s face for it to look like something, really. “William James said that.”

“Are you trying to disprove my point, by quoting philosophers practically no one knows about anymore?” If it weren’t for the sake of his head, Clark would have rolled his eyes. Hard.

“He also said that whenever two people meet, there are really six people present…” Bruce began to recite, as if that were self-explanatory enough for him not to bother replying to Clark (whom he wasn’t even looking at.) “There is each man as he sees himself, each man as the other person sees him, and each man as he really is.”

This was getting ridiculous. Bruce would probably be good friends with Batman, they were exactly the same kind of irritating bastards sometimes.

“Shame Mister James didn’t get to meet you,” Clark told Bruce, wishing he would stop avoiding his eyes. “Or he would have added some phrase about the man who wants others to see himself as the man whom he clearly isn’t while pretending that this man is how he sees himself.”

Bruce snorted, almost chuckling.

“Tell me, you haven’t read today’s edition of the Gotham Gossip Gazette, have you, Clark?” he asked while carefully lifting the cat from his lap to lay it on the couch.

“Why would I read a Gotham tabloid?”

“Read it.” Bruce got up. “It might trigger some memories.”

“Why would it?”

“The Gazette is on the kitchen table.” Bruce avoided the question, yet again.

“None of this makes any sense…”

“Go,” Bruce clasped Clark’s shoulder and led him towards the door, “you know the way. Now drink some water with an aspirin, and come back when you’ve read it.”

“But—”

“And Clark… just so you know… I miss you too,” he added as he was opening the door, still not looking at Clark.

“Huh? What? What’s that supposed to mean?” But Clark’s only answer consisted of silence, and a closed door.

When Alfred went back from the library, in which he had spent some time reading  (more like ‘simmering down’), he was met with the sight of Mister Kent, adrift in the main corridor. His haggard appearance would have had Alfed confound him with Master Bruce, if it weren’t for the way his eyes weren’t quite as focused—Master Bruce was always focused on something, especially when he should be resting his head.

“Oh, hum. Good morning.” 

Lost indeed. Poor lad.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kent,” Alfred tried not to stress too much on the second word, as he returned the greeting.

“I didn’t realise it was this late...”

“You had a rough evening. Is everything all right?” Alfred enquired.

“I’m good thank you, just a bit confused over—” Mister Kent hesitated, but decided against it. “Anyway. I’ll just… head for the kitchen.”

Thus, Alfred knew Master Bruce must have acted in some discourteously odd fashion with Mister Kent, probably by not being as straightforward as he should have, given the situation. Probably dropping Mister Kent another hint and waiting for him to figure everything out on his own.

Master Bruce too often forgot that not everyone had the innate propensity to live life as if it were an infinite puzzle rigged of enigmas and traps, always on the lookout for clues meant to solve problems which may not yet exist. But that was how he got by, and Alfred knew better than to try to change him.

Alfred could only ensure that things ran as smoothly as they could on his end, starting by being more agreeable to Mister Kent than Master Bruce was.

“There is some medicine on the counter, and lunch is still on the table. I’ll be in the garden should you need to... talk.”

Mister Kent stared at him as if Alfred’s offer was unexpected. Perhaps it was.

“Holy crap. Jesus. Shit.”

Clark couldn’t tear his eyes off the page of the Gazette. The page where it was written in bold, size twenty, font Times New Roman, “f*ck I like Bruce Wayne too”.

It must have been what Bruce was talking about, right? But he did say “I miss you too” (at least that’s what Clark had heard when the door was slammed a few millimetres away from his nose) not “I like you too” which made no sense since the Gazette (which seemed to be Bruce’s absolute reference) did not report Clark having said “I miss Bruce Wayne” but—

Clark stopped. His eyes went up. Two lines up, four words to the left. “[...] drunkenly declares that he misses Batman.”

Misses Batman. Batman.

Batman.

“That... bastard.”

Chapter Text

Batman.

Bruce Wayne equals Batman, equals bastard.

That explained quite a lot, actually.

But not enough.

Clark needed more explaining, and he would fucking get it.

It went without saying that his being Superman was not a secret anymore, since Batman would never have told random Clark Kent who he was (and that he ‘missed him’ too). And Batman not being called the world’s greatest detective for nothing, he would have of course realised early enough that he was wearing Superman’s body.

That bastard.

Batman had known he was in this jam with a teammate, a friend even (though that might be a little too presumptuous on Clark’s end to assume Batman would consider Superman a friend, especially with the trick he just pulled), and still, he had decided to play it solo.

Clark downed his glass of water, then he strode towards the living room, bursting in, the tabloid still clutched in his hand.

“You!” he half-shouted upon entering. 

Bru— Batman was standing next to the earth, the furthest spot from the door—which was probably a conscious, strategic decision on his part—and he looked every bit guilty.

“Surprised, Mr. Kent?” He asked, a reference to that moment last week, when Clark had told him that he hoped Bruce Wayne could surprise him. Reminding Clark of that was probably another taunt, because for sure, Batman must have known the whole time, having his fun at the expense of Clark’s ignorant distress, and now he was rubbing it in, like the smug bastard that he was.

“I guess I shouldn’t be.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that you could do this to me. 

Then Clark realised that answering meant playing Batman’s little game, and he was done with this bullshit.

“Oh, and don’t you Mr. Kent me!” he added while slamming the door shut behind him. “Only you could be such a prick. How long have you known?”

Bruce lowered his head, and even though it was beyond obvious now given the way he’d acted the whole time, Clark still had trouble thinking of him as Batman, especially when said Batman was still wearing Clark’s face.

“Answer me,” Clark demanded.

Bruce sighed, then finally met his eyes. “Last week. Monday evening, I had my doubts in the afternoon. Then I called the League and I knew.”

“You— you called the League and didn’t tell me.” Un-fucking-believable. “And you’ve known since—”

All right, deep breath… Clark amazed himself for remaining this calm. For now.

“What happened, what caused it?” he asked.

“Bat-Mite. We should swap back soon.”

“I can’t believe you’re only ‘telling’ me now…”

In the most roundabout way ever, I didn’t know it was even possible to be this—

“All this time, B.” Clark was on the verge of blowing up. “You absolute bastard.”

“I needed to see something,” Bruce said, as if that were actually a valid excuse. (Clark noted that at least, Bruce hadn’t shrugged. If he had, Clark would have for sure broken something.)

I’m dreaming. That must be it.

“See what? Was that just an experiment for you?” He was hitting the roof now, and there was no landing back.

“I was working myself up, like a madman, thinking I had been swapped randomly with freaking moron Brucie Wayne, because fate had decided to screw with me. When in fact, Bruce Wayne is this freaking genius…” Clark was pacing, staring hard at the floor because making eye contact with said-Bruce Wayne now would be too much to bear. “...who also happens to be one of the people I trust most in this world, and who is also the worst of bastards for doing this to me, and I was here, like an idiot, stressing out for nothing, while you were—” While you were all chilled out, completely uncaring of my feelings, as usual.

“God.” Clark gritted his teeth. “That must have been hilarious for you, to see me like that, while knowing…”

Clark wanted to tear his hair out and throw it in Bruce’s face. He paused, raising his head, realising. “That's what all those smug grins were for, weren’t they? You utter fu—” He shut his mouth. “Nah, I won’t say it.” Clark had always prided himself on being relatively calm and PG- 13 when it came to swearing—at least before this whole mess—and it was time he slowed down on the nasty insults, for Ma’s sake.

Clark thought then that he had managed to soothe his nerves, partially that is, but he made the mistake of looking at Bruce, and the sight of his half-contrite face had the whole week starting on loop in his head again. All those moments, when Clark had felt really down, when the only one keeping afloat had been Bruce, because they were both in the same boat, except that not and—

“Can I punch you? I need to punch you so bad. Who knew the sight of my own face would give me the urge to punch it? I need to go, I need to cool down before I actually punch you.”

Clark turned to leave, spotting the cat on the couch, and god he could use some decent company right now. He picked up the cat, and left.

And he slammed the fucking door. Again.

Shit. Bruce thought as he allowed himself to slouch on his chair in the batcave.

Of course Clark would be angry. Bruce had not exactly gotten the opportunity to explain himself. It didn’t feel like the right time. And sometimes, contrary to what Alfred always insinuated, Bruce knew when to shut up.

Sometimes.

Clearly, Clark had not taken it well when Bruce had replied to him that he “needed to see something”, an assessment which had warranted him nothing but resentment, despite its truthfulness.

That must be what Alfred was talking about, when he said that Bruce’s way of not going through with his “bizarre train of thought” was worse than his fumbling to completely explain it, or that he might as well leave some questions completely unanswered, since anything was better than “nonsensical shady half answers”. None of this had ever made any sense to Bruce, because in such instances, either move was not the right one.

Bruce was used to deliberately ignoring people (because if Batman wasted time dutifully replying to every solicitation he was subjected to, Gotham would have long been doomed.)

But how was he supposed to completely ignore Clark, when Clark was pissed off and asking him something? And what was Bruce supposed to say, when Clark was not ready to hear the answer to his question? (Question whose answer Bruce wasn’t ready to fully acknowledge himself either.)

Bruce wasn’t too keen on ignoring Clark (even if Batman did snub him most of the time) because it vexed him, and made him all prickly, but neither was he too keen on formulating a reply which wouldn’t be satisfying by Clark’s high standards. (Though it would seem that no one was ever satisfied when Bruce did them the courtesy of replying.)

These were the situations where Bruce was at a loss, with no contingency plan, no plan at all. These were the most distressing situations, and distress being one of the most uncomfortable emotions, if that was how Bruce had made Clark feel all week, then Bruce understood his outburst. He did.

But he would not panic, and he would certainly not ask Alfred for advice.

He had no plan, yes, but he would make one. Clark being pissed was his mess to clean, and he was going to fix things. 

Firstly, Clark hated that he had been kept out of the loop, and he would want to be brought up to speed. To know as much about the situation as Bruce did. So Bruce was going to send him the recording that explained it all. The one where they were on the rooftop.

Watching it, Clark would also realise that it was certainly not Bruce’s fault to begin with, even if Bruce wasn’t using this as a justification for his silence. It had probably been inconsiderate not to tell Clark, but Bruce’s reasons for doing so had nothing to do with Clark being a self-sacrificing idiot who couldn’t stick to a plan—

Or—

No.

At least, not anymore. It may have been at first. But this reason was but one out of many others, and also the only one at the time which had made enough sense to Bruce, because apportioning blame on Clark (whether that was earned or not) to then justify and rationalise his concealing of his identity was much easier than admitting to himself that this was the opportunity he’d been unknowingly waiting for to—

No.

—and he might have been handling it the wrong way.

But he hadn’t meant to upset Clark. That, he knew.

So. Sending the recording. Along with the transcript of his conversation with the League. Bruce would make it up to Clark. He was going to be transparent.

Then, Clark, after knowing what had happened, would want a solution, fast

Bruce had to call the League. He had to make sure Clark got whatever he needed, that Bruce could provide. A deadline for a cure, some reassurances from J’onn J’onzz, an interview with Bat-Mite, new access codes to get in touch with Wonder Woman… Whatever.

Bruce would get it for him.

So. The video. His hands hovered over the keyboard a long time before he made up his mind, and typed a message to go along with the included file.

He hit send quickly, not waiting for his treacherous brain to will him to back pedal.

The quicker Clark saw it, the quicker the plan would unfold, and the quicker Clark would stop giving Bruce the cold shoulder.

His eyes swept over the screen, he spotted two unread messages from the League, one of them from last night, and wondered briefly how come he hadn’t checked sooner, before remembering the events at the gala, and wincing.

Trying not to get his hopes up, Bruce opened the oldest email first. It consisted of pictures of pages from ancient books, along with a translation—made of mostly magico-scientific jargon, with a sum up of the League’s deductions regarding his and Kal’s condition. (Bruce appreciated that it wasn’t full of typos, that it was actually readable this time, meaning that Manhunter or Wonder Woman had written it.)

The second email had been sent at 3:00am today.

We’ve got something to set you two morons right. Contact us ASAP.

Bruce didn’t lose any time being outraged over the insult (which screamed Green Lantern ) and picked up his discarded com on one of the monitors.

“How long is this gonna take?” Bruce asked fretfully as soon as the communication was established.

“Hm, hello to you too, Batman.” Flash’s voice answered, sounding a bit too cheerful for Bruce’s taste. They clearly weren't living the same shitty day. (But at least it wasn’t Green Lantern.)

“Good afternoon, Flash.” Bruce complied with gritted teeth. (Sometimes concessions had to be made.) “Is Bat-Mite on board, still?”

“Yeah, yeah, he is,” Flash replied with a chuckle. “Little dude doesn’t have a choice, really.”

Bruce couldn’t find it in himself to care as to how the League had handled Bat-Mite. These questions could wait, only one mattered.

“What’s your solution?”

“With Bat-Mite’s help, Green Lantern and J’onn made some sort of antidote, Supes and you will need to drink it.”

“How do I know it’s not poison?” Bruce asked, needing more data before he could allow himself to cheer at the promising news.

“J’onn made sure of that,” Flash said, tit for tat and clearly expecting Bruce’s reply. “Now, where can we forward it?”

Bruce was always wary of blindly taking someone else’s word for it, especially when it involved unpredictable variables such as Bat-Mite, but he trusted in Martian Manhunter’s judgement.

He paused a brief instant to think of a location, then typed the address. “I’m sending you the coordinates.”

“Just, the antidote,” Flash began, “since I know you and I’m sure you’re itching to know more…”

And Bruce was grateful for Flash’s prattling if it meant, indeed, knowing more about the unknown substance he and Clark were meant to ingest.

“It’s some sort of herb infused with berry juice, and Bat-Mite added some magic into it. It doesn’t cancel the spell per se, but it accelerates its initial duration or whatever,” Flash explained, “I don’t know how this shit works, but you’re supposed to drink it at the same time.”

“Also,” Flash added, speaking even quicker than usual, “you’ve got to touch and close your eyes just in case, they said it was important.”

“To touch?”

Bruce supposed it made sense, but these explanations were still too vague for his taste.

“Yeah, hold hands or something,” Flash replied with a dismissive tone. (A tone which said Bruce ought to know better than to ask when it was so obvious.)

“Or something?” Bruce insisted. He hated it when details were kept from him.

“No need to tie yourself in knots, B. It’ll work,” Flash sighed.

Bruce was on the verge of snapping that Flash’s casualness definitely wasn’t inspiring confidence, but got cut off before he could say so.

“Okay. Got the address. You can pick it up in five minutes, premium delivery.”

And Bruce, despite still feeling cagey and sceptical about all this, also felt a wave of gratefulness submerge him. 

“Flash?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. All of you.”

“I’ll pass on your thanks. You’re welcome, B. That’s what teammates are for.”

Then Bruce heard the sizzling of static before the line disconnected.

“Alfred.” A tall figure moved next to his armchair, his shadow blocking the light cast by the floor lamp of the library.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred replied curtly, expecting that whatever it was that Master Bruce needed of him, it wouldn’t bode well.

“Would you mind bringing our guest his laptop?” Master Bruce demanded. “He needs to see what I sent him.”

Alfred closed his book but he remained seated. “May I ask why you’re not showing it to him, in person?”

A rhetorical question, as it was obvious that Master Bruce was avoiding an additional, and ineluctable confrontation, with Mister Kent. Which meant Mister Kent knew.

“He doesn’t want to see me right now.”

“How unfortunate,” Alfred commented. And how surprising. But he refrained from sighing, as it was improper. “Shall I try to talk him into discussing with you?”

“Don’t,” came the brisk answer, “no need to bother him.”

“Avoidance. I had dared hope you might have been past that with our guest,” Alfred pushed.

Those who bothered to challenge Master Bruce on his inanities were too few, and Alfred intended to keep on doing so, along with Mister Kent. (From what Alfred had seen from him so far.)

Mister Kent was a good influence on his ward, Alfred liked the young lad and he ought to make sure that he stay around, for Master Bruce’s sake.

“Could you please stop?” Bruce sighed. “He doesn’t like how I’ve handled things and he could use a moment alone to reflect on the situation. To think.”

Alfred knew Bruce by heart. He knew how Bruce operated. Just as he knew when to remain silent and when to offer his input, and when it came to interpersonal relationships, Bruce could use some help—some unrequited help.

“Are you still talking about him?” Alfred remarked. “Or yourself?

Not replying, Master Bruce turned and freed the light, which came back to brighten the cover of Alfred’s book, as he walked back to the door.

“In any case,” Bruce said, “I need to fetch a potion, I won’t be there for this mediation of yours.”

Nonetheless, Alfred considered he had won the argument. “A potion?”

“An antidote, so I’ve been told.”

“I’m glad,” Alfred said truthfully. But still feeling the need to point out that he was displeased with Master Bruce’s avoiding behaviour, he added, “that makes one problem out of all the others, that you will have solved, Sir.”

He waited pointedly until Master Bruce was gone before he got up to fetch Mister Kent’s laptop.

“At least he does try to communicate with his friend,” Alfred mumbled.

It should have rained. There should have been a storm raging outside, anything but this . This sunny warm light and this gentle breeze of spring, both of which were not appropriate today. But life wasn’t like a Jane Austen’s novel, or one of these dramatic movies that Lois sometimes insisted Clark watch with her.

Rain wasn’t about to pour, thunder wasn’t about to crash, lightning wasn’t about to strike, just for the weather to befit Clark’s mood.

From his seated place on the ground in the manor’s huge backyard, he plucked at a patch of grass, tossing the blades aside as he sighed.

“He drives me crazy, you know?”

The cat, recipient of Clark’s existential observation, obviously didn’t reply and continued to nibble on a sprig.

“I don’t know what he did, for you to betray me. You’re aware you let yourself get petted by someone who wasn’t me?”

Clark threw some plucked grass at the treacherous animal, who rocked it out from its soft fur in one swift move, still ignoring him.

“All right, all right.”

The sight of Mr. Pennyworth approaching, stopped him from continuing this humiliating one sided-conversation.

Clark sent the butler a resigned look. “You knew that he knew,” he said, when they were three feet apart, his tone devoid of reproach.

“My apologies,” Mr. Pennyworth told Clark as he bent to offer him a cup of tea—which Clark accepted with a grateful nod despite the weirdness of drinking such a posh beverage while being slouched cross-legged on the turf.

“Master Bruce has never prided himself on being up to par when it comes to genuine relationships,” Mr. Pennyworth added while Clark got up precariously (steaming cup in one hand) to be on his interlocutor’s level, because Ma and Pa had raised him better than that.

“Please,” Clark scoffed, “do not apologise on his behalf.”

Mr. Pennyworth stared at him, a bit too long for Clark not to feel uncomfortable, then he fixed a nondescript point on the grass, and shook his head.

“I’m not,” he assured, before adding, “if you please, your laptop is still on the coffee table. Master Wayne would be most thankful if you’d be so lenient as to look over what he sent you.”

Master Wayne had some nerve to not even bother to tell Clark about whatever it was that he had sent, himself. But given the look on Mr. Pennyworth’s face, the man must have thought the same, so Clark dismissed the thought for later.

“He didn’t say that,” Clark chuckled bitterly.

“Obviously not on those terms.” Mr. Pennyworth gave him a taut smile. “I’m merely translating.”

“What does he want?” Clark sighed.

Couldn’t Bruce leave him alone to at least cool the hell down?

“Forgiveness.”

“He definitely didn’t say that either.”

At least the headache is gone…

“So, Bruce’s email. Shall I even open it, mh?”

A bit bored of hand-mowing the garden, Clark had come back inside, and for lack of anything better to do, had turned on his laptop to check whatever it was that Bruce had wanted him to see, in case it was actually important.

“Rare are the ones who can get under my skin like he does...”

Mumbling the words, Clark realised with lassitude that he didn’t feel as murderous as he did one hour ago. (Who knew that maiming grass could be so soothing?)

“You think I should give him a chance?”

A video. Interesting.

The cat nuzzled at his shin, which probably meant yes.

“You’re right. Let’s watch this video of his.”

More than the video in itself, it was the accompanying message, which had Clark consider hearing Bruce out.

Please, let me explain. Then you can punch me.

“Where can I find him?” Clark was asking Mr. Pennyworth, five minutes later.

Bruce was such a disaster.

Antidote secured in the front pocket of his waterproof jacket, Bruce made his way through the waterstream, back in the Batcave. He hopped off the bike, removed the helmet which had kept his hair dry, and almost startled.

Clark was here.

In the Batcave.

How in—

Alfred…

Of course.

Bruce sighed, he hung the helmet on the handlebar and walked up the few steps leading to the main area to meet Clark, who was leaning against a pillar. At least he didn’t look as angry as he did earlier.

“How long have you been here?”

“Not long. Don’t worry, I haven’t touched anything,” Clark replied calmly, answering Bruce’s unvoiced concerns.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Clark, but no one apart from Alfred had ever been welcomed in the cave (no one who was conscious at the time, that is) and Bruce couldn’t help but feel a bit awkward about having him here.

“Would you…” Bruce began, thinking of a good way to introduce the League’s antidote. “Would you like to punch me before we swap back?”

“Swap back?” Clark tensed and his voice took on an accusatory tone, “You mean you have a solution of sorts?”

Failed introduction.

Now Clark thought Bruce had been keeping the antidote from him.

“No, no, I— It’s Flash,” Bruce rushed before Clark could get any more wrong ideas, “less than one hour ago. I just picked up the League’s antidote.”

“Mh.” Clark looked at him warily for a few long seconds, then decided that Bruce must be telling the truth, as the lines between his brows disappeared and his shoulders relaxed. (Bruce noted with misplaced satisfaction that even without the cowl, he could still look scary.)

“To answer your previous question,” Clark pretended to think, “why would I want to punch my own face? I’d rather wait a few minutes. A few hours, even.”

“You’re still angry at me.” Of course you are.

“Your way of communicating is not making this any easier.”

Bruce could see that Clark was still expecting him to say something, to explain himself, but the words just wouldn’t come, and Bruce wasn’t one to discuss important matters without rehearsing every version of the different directions the conversation could take in his head.

Right now he couldn’t even synthesise the gist of it.

“I’m trying,” Bruce said, grabbing his and Alfred’s usual mugs from a shelf.

“I know.”

“I assume you’d rather swap now,” Bruce ventured as he poured the content of the small vial in the mugs.

Clark raised an eyebrow at the sight, but Bruce cut him off before he could say something. “You’ll forgive me for not storing wine glasses in the batcave.”

Clark chuckled, and for a brief instant, it was as if Bruce hadn’t fucked everything up by being emotionally inept.

“Here you go,” he handed Clark his mug, “we’ll do a countdown. We need to drink it at the same time.”

“Is that all?” Clark sounded surprised.

Bruce’s throat constricted. “No. We need to touch. Take my hand. And close your eyes.”

“All right. It better work.”

Bruce reached out to take Clark’s offered hand, and would have been stricken with how different it was to how he’d imagined it, if it weren’t for his knowledge that it wasn’t really Clark’s hand, but his own, clammy and scars-ridden, and so unlike Clark’s, which was smooth and unblemished. And Bruce would know, because he must have spent days staring at those hands from afar, and hours observing them up close, stealing touches with Clark’s borrowed body, wishing he could feel them on his own skin someday.

But Bruce shook the thought from his head and prepared to start counting. He didn’t want to break the silence surrounding them, it felt solemnly ritualistic, and even if Bruce wasn’t one to care for ritual etiquettes, when he spoke, his voice came out low, and almost raspy.

“Are you ready?” Bruce asked.

“More than ever,” Clark closed his eyes.

“When I say ‘three’. One, two…” he raised the mug to his lips, “three.”

His eyes remaining dutifully closed, Bruce heard when Clark swallowed at the same time he did. The liquid was too sweet. But he didn’t say anything, merely putting down the mug on the nearest surface. Then he braced himself for whatever was about to happen.

“Just so we’re clear…” 

Bruce wasn’t entirely prepared for Clark talking, he started and despite himself, his fingers clenched around Clark’s.

“You read the newspaper,” Clark continued, “saw that I had declared that I liked the ‘Bruce Wayne’-you, and decided now was as good a time as any to ‘say’ something?”

“Sometimes I wanted to tell you. But then…” Bruce couldn’t find the words that would make Clark understand, so he picked those that were closest from the truth. “I liked how things were.”

Then he winced. Because this bit of sentence might have come out not quite as he intended it and Clark’s heated response confirmed Bruce’s assessment, that those were not the right words.

“You… you liked how things were? You mean, having your way with me?” Clark hissed. “Are you for real?” He was almost crushing Bruce’s hand. “Can’t you just say ‘sorry’? Nooo, of course not, the Mighty Batman always has a good excuse. You’re not even sorry...”

Shit.

“No. That’s not what I—”

Expressing himself with his eyes shut while holding Clark’s hand and waiting for a magic potion to take effect, while trying to analyse the effects of said potion was not exactly simple. Bruce hadn’t trained for these kinds of situations.

“I meant that I liked the simplicity of the situation. You, just being yourself with me. And of course I intended to let you know, that’s what I’ve done, right?”

“Being myself with—” he knew Clark was shaking his head. “That’s a bit rich coming from you, Bruce.”

Is it?

“...Perhaps,” Bruce said, unsure as to how to answer. Was he not being himself around Clark?

“No, not ‘perhaps’. You’re always so secretive, busy being Batman, the night, vengeance etcetera.”

Bruce scoffed at that. He’d never hear the end of it.

Clark ignored him, continuing while squeezing his hand, “you don’t let anyone in, and now it’s about me not being myself with you?”

Bruce was strongly disliking the turn this conversation was taking. He couldn’t even care to focus on the tiggles crawling up the arm holding Clark’s hand. He knew he had screwed up, he knew he ought to apologise to Clark, and he intended to, but now was not the right time. Clark was still too angry and wouldn’t hear that Bruce was genuinely sorry. Clark wanted to understand why Bruce had done this—then get his apology—which was even worse since Bruce would rather not explain.

But he supposed he owed it to Clark, whom he also had to prove wrong, by being as transparent as his useless glasses.

“I was afraid,” Bruce whispered, clenching his teeth.

“What?”

“I was afraid,” he repeated, louder this time.

“I may not have super hearing right now, but I’m pretty sure this body does not suffer from hearing impairment. Now, afraid of what?” Clark pressed.

“I…” He is definitely not making this any easier. “That you wouldn’t like me. Bruce Wayne.”

It sounded pathetic. Bruce hated that it came out so pathetic. He hated that he’d had to say it, and that it came out so….pathetic. God, he needed a new word for it. 

He was doing this for transparency, for Clark.

Bruce felt Clark’s hand tense.

“But you must have been aware for years, now, of my feelings for you,” Clark said as if stating the obvious.

Not exactly. No. I wasn’t.

Why were people so persuaded that he was omniscient? He had strongly suspected that there was something, yes. But Clark didn’t understand how necessary it had been for Bruce to know.

To be sure that it wasn’t just—

Bruce lowered his head. “Not for me, for Batman,” he mumbled, matter-of-factly, concealing his bitterness as he remembered how it felt like knowing that if Clark liked him, he only liked the symbol of Batman. The embodiment of justice that Bruce strived to become, but wasn’t, and could never be.

“Batman is you,” Clark squeezed his hand harder. “It’s not all of you, but it’s still you.”

“I…”

I know.

Bruce had long thought Batman was all he was, and he still doubted it was any different sometimes, even now. Alfred had been perhaps the only one who had ever told him that Bruce also had something to offer, that there was more to life than entire nights of abnegation for a city which Batman had already given so much to.

“Were you really afraid I wouldn’t love all of it?” Clark asked, voice soft.

I was terrified. Bruce thought.

And it bothered him, that this sentiment even took shape in his mind, as much as he was bothered that it was true.

“You didn’t know ‘all of it’,” he replied instead. He could never be that transparent. Translucent perhaps. “You always said Bruce Wayne was a pompous asshole whom you couldn’t stand.”

Clark scoffed. “Don’t act like what you’re showing to the public is meant to be likable, you’re glad it’s working.”

“I am,” Bruce sighed. “Ninety-nine percent of the time. But I also didn’t tell you right away, because I wanted to see if you could like me, as Bruce, and… not merely… the idea of Batman.”

Was he making any sense?

The sentence didn’t sound intelligible.

Hopefully Clark would understand how significant that precision was to him.

There was Bruce Wayne, there was Batman, and there was Bruce. The first one was meant to be shallowly liked, the second was a tool, not meant to even be considered in such ways… And the third, the third— he wasn’t sure yet. Without the third there would be no second, and perhaps Alfred was right, and it was also because Bruce desperately wanted Alfred to be right, that he’d had to know and—

And Clark laughed. Loud and clear, and he almost sounded like himself, the same laugh he let out when joking around with Wonder Woman and Flash. Bruce couldn’t exactly appreciate it though, because it was directed at him.

“You really think it’s the ‘idea of Batman’ that I’m infatuated with? You’re all brains but sometimes I wonder what goes on in your head.” 

Clark stopped to take a breath, and his tone was earnest when he continued, “All right, listen, since you’re so intent on compartmentalising yourself. There’s no ‘Batman myth’. Batman is flawed, he’s an insufferable pain sometimes and I must be the dumbest being on earth for not even being put off by all the shit he makes me go through…” Clark said the last sentence with a bitter, self-deprecating chuckle. 

“Let’s do a syllogism,” Clark continued, “I know it’s more your thing. I can put up with Batman. Batman is more insufferable than Bruce Wayne, therefore, I can put up with Bruce Wayne.”

Of course Clark would find fault with his reasoning. Of course Bruce should have known better than to speak when he wasn’t even certain himself of what he meant to say.

Of course Clark would surprise him by neither thinking nor reacting like Bruce expected him to, at all.

By genuinely liking him, despite… everything.

Bruce still didn’t get that bit, and he was too dumbstruck to speak, at first.

“I…I get it, I—” I’m stupid. “But still, you’re different when you’re Clark, and I wanted to get to know you, too.”

“You genuinely felt like you didn’t know me?”

“With Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent has no filters. Just like Batman with Superman, and this swap was the perfect opportunity to discover this other part of you, the one you wouldn’t care to let Bruce Wayne see.”

Because no one cares about Bruce Wayne, or what he may think.

His arm was seriously beginning to feel weird, like it was dragging him from the bone, towards where his hand met Clark’s.

“So?”

“So what?” Bruce asked, distracted by the now new sensation of his tissues heating up. Sensation which wasn’t there two seconds ago.

“Has Bruce Wayne been privy to this ‘other’ secret-like part of me? The part that’s ruder, unsmiling and unpleasant...”

His ears were buzzing and he had to focus on Clark’s voice to understand the words.

“You were authentic,” he told Clark.

For better and for worse…

That’s when Bruce realised several things at once: that he had really been focusing on Clark’s voice, not the voice which he knew to be his own, that the brightness of the lights caressing his eyelids had increased, and that unlike earlier, Clark’s hand now felt warm in his.

The buzzing had stopped, and the familiar aches in his body that he had forgotten about these past two weeks, were back. Which could only mean—

Bruce opened his eyes…

...to be met with the wrong side of the room. And Clark’s very own beaming blue eyes, shamelessly fixed on him. 

God, he had missed those eyes.

Bruce wanted to extend his other arm and touch him, but he remained frozen on the spot.

It worked. It did.

And now Clark, Kal, was standing before him, and it was different from earlier, because it was the whole of him, flesh and mind rejoined, and now Bruce couldn’t keep on lying to himself. Nor did he have any excuse left to keep on doing so.

Clark felt lighter. Lighter than he’d been in weeks. He got his body back. This nightmare of incertitude was over.

Bruce’s hand still in his kept him on earth when he started floating from ecstasy.

“It’s so obvious now that I know.” Clark reached out and traced Bruce’s cheek with the tip of his fingers. “You. Your jawline, your mouth…”

It was so much easier to picture Batman and Bruce as the same person, when said person was standing in front of him.

And Bruce, he—

Bruce hadn’t said a single word for a whole minute now, and he was staring at him like he was seeing Clark for the first time—and in a sense, he was—with soft unblinking eyes, a slight furrow to his brow, and parted lips.

The entire scene looked surreal.

“Don’t think for one second that we’re all good,” Clark whispered as he brushed his thumb over Bruce’s upper lip.

“Should I brace myself for a hit?” Bruce asked, voice low and raspy.

No one had ever looked at Clark like that. He wasn’t sure what “that” was exactly, but he had only ever been subjected to such stares as Superman (and Batman definitely hadn’t been the one doing the staring.)

“As if I could actually punch you... I still want to, a bit, because you’re a bastard,” Clark said, meaning every word. (Though it was probably not convincing, as his palm was still cupping Bruce’s cheek and the fingers of his other hand were intertwined with Bruce’s.) “But I couldn't do it.”

And Clark wondered how he could have ever described Bruce’s voice as stupid, when all he wanted now was to lay with him and hear each inflection and sound this voice could produce.

Bruce gave him a lopsided smile. “This pacifism sounds like you.”

“Was I not pacifistic before?” Clark joked, remembering his (warranted) outburst from earlier.

“Depends…” Bruce’s fingers tightened over his.

“See? I knew there was something about occupying your body that made me more prone to use swear words and behave unpacifistically.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows.

“Remember my theory… I was right. Bruce. When I was ‘you’, I still slept on my back, like always, but I never woke up on my back, or even on my side. I was all balled-up each morning, which never happens.”

Clark felt talkative. He had missed chatting with Bruce. Bruce being… completely Bruce, not Bruce wearing Clark’s own face, because even though Bruce had still been the same person inside, nothing compared to having him right here... with his soulful eyes, his nervous smile and all these facial expressions which Clark had never gotten to see on Batman, and which had just looked weird when Bruce had done them with Clark’s face.

“Mh. So there could be a part of us left in our corporal entity, either residual emotions or personality traits, I’m not sure which, acting like muscle memory. I should have run some brain scans.”

Clark shook his head at that and pinched Bruce’s cheek.

Had Bruce told him, they could have run some tests, mused about theories, and thought of ways to fix this… together.

As if reading his mind, Bruce caught Clark’s hand (the one he had let Clark rest on his cheek all this time) and squeezed it. “I’m sorry, Clark. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Clark knew Bruce wasn’t expressing regret to please him. He even suspected that Bruce had purposefully delayed his apology so Clark wouldn’t perceive it as an ‘all right I’m sorry shut up now’ excuse.

And Clark believed Bruce was sincere.

He hadn’t been sure how he would react if he obtained an apology from Bruce, if it would rekindle his former anger and disappointment... But, as he felt none of those, Clark realised he had already forgiven him, prior to that.

It didn’t mean his ego didn’t appreciate Bruce apologising (as Batman had almost never apologised to Superman), still, having Bruce looking at him with big worried eyes, the stiffness of his body screaming insecurity and discomfort, Clark just wanted to hold him tight and leave this whole spat behind them.

“I’m probably stupid for saying so, but I forgive you. Now, it’s my turn,” Clark said while finally disentangling his fingers from Bruce’s.

Bruce frowned, tensing even more in the face of uncertainty and Clark’s enigmatic phrase. “Your turn?”

“I’m gonna do something which might require forgiveness on your part,” Clark told him with what he hoped was a very straight face, trying not to smile at Bruce’s puzzled expression, because come on, for a few exceptional seconds, he got to be the one holding the reins.

Clark took a step closer, and cupped Bruce’s face with both hands, in a gentle yet determined move.

“Clark, what are you...”

Then he bent and laid a reverent kiss on the corner of Bruce’s mouth.

“...doing.”

“Indulging in an immemorial craving of mine,” Clark breathed against Bruce’s open lips, before capturing them and pouring all the yearning he’d ever felt for him in this soft, perfect mouth of his, letting go of his face to wrap his arms around Bruce’s waist, pulling him close.

Bruce let out a low muffled moan, and his body relaxed as he tentatively kissed him back, burying his fingers in Clark’s curls.

And Clark finally allowed the huge, beaming grin he had been containing to take over, because he was kissing Batman, Bruce, whatever—both were the same infuriatingly extraordinary man—and Clark had been daydreaming about this moment for years, and now against all odds, it was happening. Stone-faced Batman was melting in his arms and Clark felt so blessed he was going to burst and—

“Okay. It’s…” Bruce babbled, slightly gasping as he edged away to rest his forehead against Clark’s. “It’s forgiven… There’s nothing to forgive. You can continue now, anything... Just, not in the air?”

That’s when Clark realised that, lost in his rapture, he had started floating, lifting Bruce up with him.

“And not in the Batcave. Gotta separate the personal and the professional.”

“Sure.” Clark nodded and brought them down, nuzzling at Bruce’s neck in the process.

“Follow me,” Bruce ordered, letting go of Clark’s hair to messily drag him by the sleeve or whatever part of garments he could grab.

And Clark was only too glad to comply.

Bruce at first, had taken Clark to bed the only way he knew how, with rough, hurried gestures, and touches coldly accurate, serving only the purpose of removing as fast as possible whatever was getting in the way.

“Bruce. You got a train to catch or something?” Clark asked him after five minutes, his hands roaming slowly over Bruce’s clad torso.

Then Bruce froze. Clark was right. He wasn’t doing this as Brucie to keep up the pretence, quick-and-dirty with someone he barely knew. It was Clark, and if it weren’t for him, they would have kept going with the lights off and half of Bruce’s clothes still on, because it was so ingrained in him he hadn’t even thought of doing it any differently.

But he didn’t have to do it this way.

“No. I didn’t mean… I forgot,” Bruce stammered, inwardly deciding it was best to let Clark set the pace this once.

But Clark seemed to understand, because he shushed him with a wet warm kiss, which had his heart hammering in his chest, and this brief moment of awkwardness was forgotten.

Still, some twisted part inside of Bruce tried to tell him that after everything, he probably didn’t deserve Clark, with his perfect hands stroking his hair, caressing his face and kissing his lips like he was the most precious thing in the world. 

He willed this part of him to shut up.

Clark tugged at his shirt. “May I?”

“Yes,” Bruce whispered back. Because Clark could see it all, and he already had.

“I did wonder about those,” Clark said while taking in the sight of his bare chest. “Can’t believe you told me it was due to polo or spelunking…” he added with a chuckle before proceeding to lay a fluttering kiss on each scar.

Bruce caught his breath as Clark’s fingers teased at the edge of his pants. “And I can’t believe you didn’t figure it out.”

“Honestly?” Clark moved up to lick his neck. “I thought you were into weird BDSM…”

“Well, I guess…” Bruce groaned. “That must have looked more plausible. Now please.” Bruce pushed Clark off on his side and nipped at his shoulder. “Stop being a talkative tease.”

“You deserve it.” Clark laughed, taking advantage of their new position to give Bruce’s backside a playful slap.

But he did stop. Eventually.

“Brief but intense,” Clark commented.

The right words would have been “so damn good and I want to do it with you for the rest of my life if you’ll have me”, but Bruce would not take a post-coital declaration seriously, because even if Clark knew what he was doing, he doubted Bruce had had time to process yet.

Bruce stifled a yawn. “That’s one way to put it,” he mumbled.

And when he didn’t pull away and wrapped one arm around Clark instead, trying not to doze off, Clark dropped a loving kiss on his head.

Surely they could make it work.

Later that afternoon, they went back downstairs, with reluctance, but they decidedly couldn’t risk sleeping the day away when there were still important matters to wrap up.

Bruce quickly texted Alfred to update him on the situation—not his newly romantic situation obviously, just his recently ‘fixed’ physical one—and led Clark to the living room.

“Wow. I’m in need of a shave,” Clark remarked with a wince while rubbing at his fifteen days-old stubble, which Bruce hadn’t been able to get rid of ever since he first attempted to at Clark’s apartment.

“I couldn’t,” Bruce told him.

Clark put away his discarded laptop and settled on the couch. “What do you mean?”

Bruce sat next to him. “The blade broke.”

“Oh.”

And it was as good an opportunity as any to tell Clark a bit more of what had happened.

“It was last Monday, if I recall. The day Alfred brought me back here. That’s when I knew. Not just because of that, there were several other oddities… Your cat was doing its best to stick its paws in my— your forearm, yet, there wasn’t a single scratch left to tell the tale,” Bruce explained, before adding with a scoff, “the little monster is fond of me now though.”

Clark shook his head. “She gave me away huh…”

Oh right. A lady cat. Obviously.

“She was the cat-alyst.”

“Really, Bruce?” Clark groaned.

“Sorry.” He shrugged. It was due to Alfred’s bad influence. “So. You really shave with your eyes, how does it work, exactly?”

“Eyes on laser mode, reflected in the mirror, takes ten seconds.”

Well, that was unfair. It was Bruce’s turn to groan. “Don’t boast.”

Clark let out a small chuckle. Then the cat jumped down a shelf, next to the coffee table before him, and his expression turned serious.

“You traitor,” he complained while glancing at the passing cat, who couldn’t look more blasé. “Never trust cats, especially the lady ones. Speaking from experience.”

“I don’t doubt it…”

“What’s her name?” Bruce nodded in the direction of the creature, who was now sitting quietly in the cardboard box Bruce had given her. Her green eyes were half-closed but Bruce knew she was deceptively attentive.

Clark shot a fond look at her—drastically different from the one he’d sent thirty seconds ago—but Bruce wasn’t surprised that Clark would be such a cat person (as that explained Superman’s propensity to always fly away from Justice League’s meetings to save them from trees.)

Clark didn’t answer Bruce’s question, seemingly more keen on explaining with enthusiasm his shared history with his cat.

“See, when I first found her, she was not well disposed, and I couldn’t get close without her destroying my sweaters. But she was just reluctant to let me see her soft side because we weren’t acquainted yet. Now that we’re best friends, she’s adorable. Right Kitty?”

‘Kitty’ turned on herself and presented her white back to them.

Clark looked half-disappointed, half-amused. He shrugged. “Well, she’s still a cat, can’t really tame that kind of beast…”

Bruce listened silently, not believing for a second that Clark would have called his precious cat ‘Kitty.’ This unoriginality would probably pass as an insult to any cat…

“I actually haven’t chosen a name for her, nothing seemed to fit.”

“Seemed?”

“Yes, until now,” Clark shifted to face Bruce. “What do you think of Batty?”

“...Clark.”

“Don’t give me the glare. I know better now.” Clark rubbed at his forearm, staring at him with eyes as soft as the palm of his hand against Bruce’s skin. “She’s a bit like you, don’t you think?”

Bruce groaned. Again. Even if it was ridiculous, Clark’s grin was infectious and Bruce couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth from lifting.

“And what’s with the ‘tty’ endings?”

Clark laughed. Bruce didn’t think it should be authorised to have a laugh that charming, or a touch that tender. But still, Bruce leaned into it, without a word, hiding his smile in the crook of Clark’s neck as he allowed himself to be pulled into an enthusiastic embrace.

“Don’t think you’ll tame me either, Kent,” Bruce felt the need to point out.

Even if he knew that he wasn’t kidding anyone at this point, because yes, he liked Clark’s attention, Clark’s touch, and Clark having his hands on him—and only him, he craved all of this (and it felt so goddamn scary), but come on, Clark could never know that.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Wayne.”

“Mh. Good.”

“Would you prefer I call her Brutty?”

Ugh.

At least, not everything had changed between them, Bruce noticed with something akin to relief.

Clark could still be annoying. 

“Shut up.”

Clark smirked. “Make me.”

“I can’t believe you’re using this line on me, of all people.”

“Is it working?”

“It might.”

Clark chuckled and kissed Bruce’s temple.

And Bruce melted inside.

“When you were ‘me’, what did it feel like?” Clark asked Bruce five minutes later, at last—since that’s something he had been wondering about for the better part of the afternoon.

Bruce glanced at him curiously. “In terms of physical sensations?”

“For example, yes.”

Bruce thought about it for a few seconds then answered, “It felt strange, but comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” Clark wasn’t expecting that. “Mh. Okay.” 

“Fluid, I’d say.” 

And that, even less. He’d have to ask again for clarifications when Bruce will be more prone to expand.

“What about you?” Bruce asked.

How do I put it…

“There was this freaking ankle… This stiffness in every muscle of yours. I hurt all over. I couldn’t fly… it was—” Clark stopped himself, not sure which word to pick.

“Not a pleasant experience, I gather,” Bruce’s tone was unreadable.

“A human experience. It makes me admire what you’re doing even more, putting up with all these inconveniences…”

“The ankle was an exceptional inconvenience.”

“Yes… About that, you were right,” Clark admitted as the CCTV recording and the ankle incident came back to his mind.

“Mh?”

“On the rooftop, last time. I couldn’t ‘stick to the plan’. Because I was worried and I let my concern for you get in the way. Bat-Mite is insane and I couldn’t risk— I didn’t want him to do something to you.”

Clark couldn’t say he regretted it though, because stupid self sacrificing must be written in his DNA, and it was thanks to that, that Bruce and he stood where they were now. (Even if the journey was not ‘comfortable’ for the both of them.)

Bruce remained silent for a while. He squeezed Clark’s shoulder and murmured, “Clark—”

“Don’t. I… I know you hate it when I act like that.”

Bruce didn’t deny it.

“Just… Promise me you’ll try to trust in what I’m— what we’re all doing, next time, so I don’t end up being swapped with Wonder Woman or J’onn J’onzz.” He seemed to wince at the thought, and it made Clark smile. “I assure you, my plans do work,” Bruce insisted.

“Of course they do. Because you’re incredible. I just want you to stay incredible and alive.”

“You’re so sappy, you weren’t as sappy in my body,” Bruce said, and to Clark, it felt like it was Batman speaking.

“But you were in mine,” he retorted.

Bruce’s cheeks slightly reddened. “It’s not my fault you’re so dense that I had to be to make myself understood.”

“It’s your fault your people skills are lacking.”

They weren’t exactly arguing, but the conversation had taken an abrupt turn, which meant they were back to normal, and back to normal meant they still had some shit to deal with. 

Clark still wasn’t worried. They were grown men, and if he meant as much to Bruce as Bruce meant to him, even if Bruce was emotionally pent-up, and Clark had problems sticking to plans, they would both do what it takes to transform this blossoming relationship into a lasting, healthy one.

Bruce proved Clark’s point, when two long minutes of silence later, he said in a low voice: “Maybe I just want you to stay alive, too.”

Clark turned to look at him. Bruce met his eyes and laid a tentative hand on his thigh, which had Clark sneaking an arm around him and bending to kiss him.

They stayed on the couch for a while, until ignoring the seconds ticking on the wall clock was no longer an option.

“What will you do now?” Bruce asked Clark.

“Mh. I really need to call my parents, to explain to them why I missed our Sunday lunch twice. Tomorrow I’ll pop by at the Planet and check on my workmates, and Perry… to show him I’m not dead yet. But today…” Clark glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly 6:00pm. I’m gonna fly to the tower to thank the League in person.”

“I’ll see you there. I need to lay the groundwork for the Wednesday meeting.”

“Oh… you mean the weekly powerpoint lecture. I definitely haven’t missed those.”

If Bruce’s glares could kill, Clark would have died on the spot.

“They are important. But no need for you to skip it this time, as I won’t be doing one this week. I’ll have you know I haven’t exactly been partaking in the League’s activities.” Bruce scowled while trying to extricate himself from Clark’s arms, who was having a lot of fun making the task harder for him.

“I don’t ‘skip’ your powerpoint lectures.”

“Yeah. Right…” Bruce growled.

Clark, just to be annoying, and because Bruce wasn’t exactly resisting, tipped him over and gave him a wet kiss on the cheek. Then he let him go (as he wasn’t suicidal and Bruce’s patience wasn’t infinite) and stood up.

Bruce wasn’t moving, and there was a light tinge to his cheeks.

“What?” Clark shrugged. “Now that I’m allowed...”

“Will I…” Bruce hesitated. “See you later?”

It was unclear whether he meant “today for a late dinner” or “tomorrow” or “this week”.

Clark played along by being as obtusely vague. “Probably, since Alfred said he would let me borrow this other book of his, part of a great series, maybe you know ab—”

“Oh, no,” Bruce cut him off, getting to his feet at last. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on this date of yours with Alfred.”

“Our book club is tolerant, you’d be welcome.”

“That’s so kind…”

Clark inwardly rolled his eyes. “Bruce. If you want me to come over, I will.”

“I do.”

“Then of course yes.”

Bruce grinned. 

Clark shot him another fond look before speeding from the room. Yes, everything would work out. He was certain of it.