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Martha and Jonathon Kent were soulmates.

Clark grew up hearing the story of how they met. He’d sit on Pa’s lap, listening to the affection in his father’s voice as he undid the top button of his shirt, exposing the stark black letters against his pale skin, the name resting right above his heart. 

As a kid, Clark couldn’t wait to get his own soulmark, the name on his chest that would show who he was destined to love for the rest of his life. He hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before his sixteenth birthday, too busy dreaming up what his perfect person would be like. When the clock finally ticked over to the day itself, Clark couldn’t get his shirt off fast enough, grinning wide at his reflection.

His smile fell when he realized his chest was still blank. Then he got a glimpse of the inside of his left wrist, and the mass of black that was slowly staining his skin, a drawing in slow-motion.

Kryptonians, as Clark would learn, were just like humans, except when they weren’t. Under a yellow sun, Kryptonians could fly, could breathe ice and see through walls and go days without sleeping. And Kryptonians didn’t get names on chests, meant to be covered up by thick plaid shirts, only shown to adoring soulmates or curious children; Kryptonians got symbols on their wrists, meant to represent rather than merely name, meant to be proudly displayed.

And Clark’s symbol was, well…it looked an awful lot like a bat. A stylized bat, with rounded wings to give it an overall oval shape. The symbol was encased in a dark ring, though Clark couldn’t tell if that was part of the design or if all Kryptonian soulmarks had the same border. It was rather large, large enough to be conspicuous, and had a meticulous but hand-drawn quality to it; in the same way that Pa’s soulmark had slightly different As, reflecting Ma’s neat handwriting, one of the wings was just a little broader than the other, one of the ears just a little shorter. 

He started wearing long sleeves out in public. Most kids would question a mark so strange on a kid like Clark. But, well, he’d been able to see through sleeves for a while, and he caught himself staring at it through the fabric of his shirts now and again, speculating what it could mean. 

Pa gave him a watch for his next birthday, a bulky thing with wide leather straps. It fit tight over Clark’s wrist, hiding any trace of the black bat sigil from view. He hid the mark at school, at college, at the Daily Planet. He was lucky that soulmarks were a private, taboo thing to ask about on Earth, because he wasn’t sure what he’d tell someone if they ever asked what name was on his chest.

Lois Lane, of course, was one of the few people Clark could think of who would ask him. She hadn’t, but he wondered, sometimes, if it was because she already knew; she’d caught him staring at his watch a few times with a “lovesick smile” (her words) on his face. 

She was actually there the day Clark realized what his soulmark meant, even if he still hadn’t told her what it actually meant.

“Perry wants me to do a piece on that new vigilante in Gotham,” Lois said. They were sitting on the floor of Clark’s tiny apartment, eating Chinese takeout and watching sitcom reruns. Metropolis was quiet, for once. “Guess all those Superman stories finally paid off.”

“Vigilante?” Clark hadn’t heard of any of those in Gotham yet. It was something he should probably keep an ear out for.

“It’s mostly just rumors right now,” Lois said with a shrug, fishing out another bite of low mein. “People are saying he dresses in all black, only comes out at night. There’s one witness who swears he’s some kind of man-bat hybrid.”

The skin beneath Clark’s watch tingled. He’d only been to Gotham once before, as a fresh journalist covering the society pages; the low point of his visit had been the complete lack of sun, followed closely by the memories of the awkward way he’d tried to dodge a very suggestive, pretending-to-be-drunk Bruce Wayne. 

But maybe, if Clark’s soulmate was there, Gotham couldn’t be too bad, could it?

“Does this vigilante have a bat logo on its chest?” Clark asked, trying to play it cool. He grabbed a napkin and a pen, scribbling down the mark on his wrist and presenting it to Lois. It was easier to explain a drawing than a tattoo on his wrist. “Something that looks like this?”

“I don’t know. There haven’t been any pictures of him.” Lois studied the image thoughtfully. “Where did you see this? I can ask Superman about it–”

“No, no, that’s not necessary.” At least she warned him about it; Clark had no idea how Superman would’ve reacted if Lois stuck a sketch of his soulmark under his nose and asked him what it meant. “I just saw it last time I was in Gotham, that’s all. It was a piece of graffiti someone did.”

Two weeks later, Lois silently slid Clark a five-dollar bill as they watched the grainy security footage of a man with a bat symbol on his chest fighting a goon dressed as a clown in an abandoned Gotham  warehouse. 

Clark barely noticed.

Oh, there you are, Clark’s soul seemed to sing, as the Gotham Bat gracefully dodged a punch. His eyes were locked onto that black logo on his chest; his fingers fidgeted with the strap of his watch. 

This man was his soulmate. There was no doubt about that. Clark just needed to meet him. 

He called his ma first and foremost, and then he started his research. Batman was a vigilante who prowled the streets of Gotham almost every night, stopping muggings, kidnappings, complicated bomb threats. He never killed, but he did scare the shit out of most criminals who saw him, and he was sometimes seen with a young child who aided him. 

He wouldn’t actually get the chance to meet Batman for another month, when Clark was investigating a lead on Lex Luthor’s latest plan. It hadn’t been a romantic meeting, certainly not by his parents’ standards; Batman had a nice, deep voice as he gruffly scolded unarmed, untrained journalist Clark Kent for loitering around Gotham harbor at night.

Clark didn’t blame Batman for not bringing up the fact that they were soulmates. Even if Batman had ‘Clark Kent’ and not ‘Kal-El’, Batman would be expecting Clark to have Batman’s real name on his chest. He wouldn’t understand how Clark had connected the dots between his civilian and vigilante identities, and he might walk away more suspicious of Clark than he already was. 

But, well, Clark had met his soulmate . And a few weeks later, when a faulty plane threatened to crash into Gotham, Superman would get the chance to meet his soulmate, too. 

Batman didn’t seem to fully trust Superman, but Clark was certain he could win him over eventually.

Superman was invited to Gotham for the first time a few months after their first meeting. Bruce Wayne and his young charge, Dick Grayson, had been taken hostage during a gala, and Batman had called out for Clark’s help. How could he refuse?

Really, Clark was just grateful that Bruce Wayne wasn’t flirting with Superman like he did with Clark Kent. Dick Grayson had been oddly unfazed by the whole situation, certainly less fazed than any pre-teen had any right being, but Clark chalked it up to his general eagerness to meet Superman. 

“Thank you for your help, Superman,” Batman said, meeting him on a darkened Gotham rooftop a few hours after Wayne and Dick had been safely returned to Wayne Manor.

“Any time,” Clark replied, feeling warm and foolish, like a middle schooler at their first dance. “Just say the word, and I’ll hear you.”

He didn’t tell Batman that he could hear Batman’s heartbeat, that he knew it well enough to know when it spiked, even if they’d only met up a handful of times.

“I appreciate that.” The stay out of Gotham otherwise went unsaid. 

“Right.” 

Clark’s eyes slid downwards from Batman’s face to the broad chestplate he wore, the black bat logo shining in the silvery moonlight. If Clark looked through that chestplate, what would he see? Clark Kent or Kal-El?

“Would you like to get dinner with me?” Clark blurted out. Batman stared at him, whited-out eyes boring into Clark’s blue ones, and Clark quickly added, “As fellow heroes. Friends.”

“I don’t do dinner,” Batman said, bluntly, but not as harshly as he could’ve.

Clark swallowed. Soulmates didn’t have to instantly fall in love like his parents had; it was a slow kind of magic sometimes, trust and affection built up over several years, and Clark could wait that long, couldn’t he? For Batman, he could. 

“I’ll see you around.” Batman turned to leave. 

“Kal-El,” Clark said. Batman turned back around, his expression questioning, and he clarified, “That’s my name.”

If Batman recognized the name– if he’d spent as many hours as Clark had, just staring at the mark, committing every curve to perfect memory– he didn’t show it.

“Goodnight, Superman.”

And just like that, with a whirr of his grappling gun, Batman was gone. Clark sighed, burying his face in his hands; some fairytale this was shaping up to be.

The day Batman invited Superman out to dinner a month later, Clark knew something was wrong. They met at a small chain restaurant near the border of Gotham; Batman assured him that the staff would be discreet about them showing up in uniform; as soon as he said the words, Clark felt a little jolt of disappointment at the idea that Batman wouldn’t be trusting him with his secret identity anytime soon. 

Clark ordered a chocolate milkshake and a batburger from the exhausted-looking teenager working the cash register. Batman was sitting at one of the green vinyl booths, staring forlornly out the rain-splattered window, looking just a little ridiculous in his full dark costume under the bright artificial lighting. He looked up when Clark sat down, greeting him with a grunt of acknowledgement. 

He didn’t look panicked or scared. His heartbeat was as slow and steady as it usually was. Clark tried to calm his own heartbeat, taking a sip of his milkshake. 

“So…what did you need me for?” Clark said finally, when it seemed like Batman wasn’t going to break the tension.

There it was, a tiny uptick in Batman’s heartbeat. So he was nervous after all. 

“I’ve been thinking about our…relationship recently.”

Oh. 

Clark froze, his mouth still poised over the plastic straw. He certainly hadn’t been expecting this talk. If he was being honest, he was starting to believe that Batman was never going to acknowledge the soulmate bond between them; so what changed? Had Batman discovered his civilian identity, and realized it matched the name scrawled on his chest?

“Our relationship,” Clark repeated. Did Batman know Clark knew? Should he play dumb, or be honest? “Like…”

Batman nodded. “Yes. I’d like to make it official– expand it.”

Official ? Was this a date? Lois was going to have a field day with this. Clark could already imagine Batman walking him home to his small Metropolitan apartment, his lips gently brushing Clark’s cheek on the doorstep. 

Time seemed to slow down. 

Superman didn’t have a thick, gaudy watch to wear; instead, the suit had an asymmetrical sleeve design, with a piece of fabric coming down to cover his left palm, attached to his finger with a simple metal loop to keep the fabric from rolling down and exposing any part of his wrist.

He was tugging at that little metal loop now, ready to take it off his finger, ready to show Batman the sigil that had been stained on his skin since–

“A justice league, of sorts,” Batman continued.

The fabric snapped back into place against Clark’s skin. “A what?”

“A justice league. Different heroes from different cities, each with their own strengths and abilities, agreeing to unite in times of need.”

“Oh.” Clark swallowed. That relationship. So Batman hadn’t connected the dots yet.

Did Clark dare speak it out loud? 

Batman was the world’s greatest detective. If he’d figured it out, then he had a good reason for not bringing it up. And if he hadn’t, well…maybe Clark was better off letting Batman take the lead. He didn’t trust easily, and Clark didn’t want to rush whatever this was, ruin it by moving too quickly.

(Or maybe he was just a coward.)

“What do you think?” Batman asked. 

“It sounds like a good idea,” Clark said, plastering on a smile. “I assume you already have a list of names?”

The Justice League, like most of Batman’s ideas, was well-thought-out, meticulously planned, and somehow even more useful than Clark could’ve predicted. Batman’s candidates were all uniquely qualified, because of course they were, ranging from an archer in Star City to a speedster in Central to a demigoddess warrior from a magical island. Clark wasn’t entirely sure how Batman had found all of these people, but he would be lying if he said that he wasn’t just a little disappointed that he wasn’t the only superhero outside of Gotham that Batman trusted. 

Apparently, Batman and Diana of Themyscira were close. Clark was at least Batman’s second favorite, though. 

They were gathered in the Hall of Justice, waiting for Batman to arrive to officially start the meeting. Barry was eating his way through the surprisingly well-stocked kitchen when the topic of soulmates inevitably came up. 

“And one of the other Lanterns told me there’s a species out there with these sick neck tats– can you imagine Iris walking around with ‘The Flash’ on the side of her neck?” Hal– Green Lantern– was saying. “I’m just saying, as a species, I think we lucked out. What about you, Supes?”

Clark looked up, dropping his wrist back into his lap. Hal and Barry both were looking at him expectantly.

“What do Kryptonians have?” Hal prompted. 

Kryptonians weren’t as private about their soulmarks as humans were, according to the files in the Fortress; maybe it was the placement, but they were happy to show off their soulmarks, especially when their soulmate was around. Maybe that was why Clark suddenly felt the preening urge to unhook his sleeve and show off the mark on his forearm. He quickly smothered that urge.

“Wrist tattoos,” Clark said. “Not full names, but symbols that represent the person.”

He didn’t miss the look Barry shot Green Arrow at that, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what the expression meant. 

“That’s cool,” Barry said, turning back to Clark. “So you don’t immediately know who it is when you meet them? You have to get to know them first? That’s romantic.”

Clark smiled sheepishly, thinking of the way he’d felt the first time he’d seen Batman on that grainy security footage. The way he’d felt when he first met him in person. “Not exactly. Sometimes you just know.”

Diana took a seat beside the head of the table. “I’ve never understood the obsession with soulmarks. It’s just a name.”

Green Arrow looked offended. “It’s not just a name. It’s the person you’re meant to love.”

“None of my sisters have soulmarks, but many of us still have successful relationships–”

“I’m not saying you can’t , but there’s something special about–”

“Enough.”

Clark wasn’t the only one who startled at the sound of Batman’s voice, unaware the man had entered the room. Green Arrow and Diana both fell silent, Batman took a seat at the head of the table. As the meeting began, Clark found himself replaying the conversation in his head, glancing at the shiny metal of Batman’s chestplate.

He was still thinking about it when the meeting ended, and Green Arrow half-chased him down a hallway. 

“Kal, wait, there’s something we need to talk about,” Green Arrow said. He looked around before motioning towards the now-empty kitchen. “Alone.”

“What’s wrong?” Clark asked, following Green Arrow inside. They hadn’t had very many one-on-one conversations yet; as much as Clark respected his teammates, he and Green Arrow just weren’t that close. But if he needed something, well, Clark would be happy to help out.

Judging by Green Arrow’s pinched expression, he wasn’t about to ask Clark to help him move his furniture into a new place.

Green Arrow sighed. “You’ve got the bat-sign on your wrist, don’t you?”

Clark winced. “Is it that obvious?”

“Not to him.” There was a beat. “Look, I've seen Batman's soulmark, and it's not your name.”

Clark blinked. That was…oh. That made a lot of sense, didn't it? Why Clark had been waiting for so long for Batman to acknowledge the bond between them?

Batman wasn't…he was the soulmate of someone else, and Clark wasn't in the picture at all. He would be lucky to be considered the photographer.

“I'm sorry,” Green Arrow continued, his voice surprisingly gentle. He must’ve met his soulmate recently– still in the honeymoon phase, still unable to comprehend how anyone could live without theirs now that he’d found his. Clark had seen it before. 

“No, it's– it's not your fault.” It wasn't anyone's fault. Certainly not Batman's. “Did you, uh…” Clark wasn't even sure what he was trying to ask. Green Arrow wouldn't tell him the name for the same reason that Clark had never looked under Batman's chestplate; it was a private, vulnerable thing, to know the writing on someone's chest. And now, Clark knew it wasn't his to look at at all. “Does he know?”

“Not about you,” Green Arrow replied. “Not my secret to tell.” He awkwardly reached out, patting Superman's shoulder. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“No, you’ve done enough. Thank you for telling me. I…” Clark cleared his throat, cocking his head to the side in a feeble attempt at pretending to hear something. “It sounds like there's another earthquake in Metropolis. I should go.”

He took off, flying straight for the Fortress of Solitude, a foreign emptiness churning in his gut. But he should be used to not belonging, shouldn't he?

He was going to have to call Ma, he thought, lifting the key. She was--she'd been so excited the day Clark called her to tell her that he'd finally met his soulmate, and she'd been pestering him to find out Batman's favorite pie flavor. She'd wanted to meet him for so long, but maybe it was a good thing Clark had never invited Batman over to dinner like he was supposed to, after all.

Clark pulled up the Fortress’s files on soulmarks, scanning through them as if he hadn’t memorized them a long time ago. He stared at the logged images of his own biological parents’ soulmarks.

Most people assumed soulmarks signified the person you were meant to be with– but loving someone didn’t always mean you would end up with them. Sometimes soulmates died. Sometimes soulmate couples still got divorced. Sometimes the person you loved wasn’t meant to love you back. It always sounded like such a rare situation. No one knew anyone with an unrequited bond, or maybe they just didn’t talk about it in polite company.

Clark never thought he’d be one of them. 

Soulmarks– the human and Kryptonian ones, anyway– were an inherently romantic thing; more often than not, somebody without a soulmark turned out to not have romantic feelings for anyone at all. From the minute the mark appeared on Clark’s arm, he was destined to love Batman for the rest of his life, and– well. There were worse things in the world.

He couldn’t let it change anything. He couldn’t stay here mourning a relationship that wasn’t his. The world needed Superman, and people needed Clark Kent, too. 

And just like that, his Justice League communicator dinged. 

Batman.

Clark took a deep breath and answered the call. “Hey, B. What do you need?”

“I meant to speak with you after the meeting today, but you flew off.”

If Clark concentrated, he could pick up Batman’s heartbeat all the way over in Gotham, racing just a little.

“Well, I’m at the Fortress now, but I can be in Gotham in–”

“I know, I know, you’re faster than a speeding bullet,” Batman said dryly. “It’s nothing urgent. I was just calling to check in.”

Had Batman seen him flying off after talking to Green Arrow? He wasn’t the type to dwell on emotions, and for once, Clark was grateful. The less he had to say about their mismatched soulmarks, the better. 

“I’m doing fine.”

“That’s good.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing else you need?” Surely, if Gotham was burning down, Batman wouldn’t be wasting so much time. 

Batman hesitated. Clark braced himself for the worst. “Yes, I–”

Batman’s voice was cut off, replaced by the sounds of a scuffle. Clark straightened, ready to take off for Gotham, when another voice came through. 

“Robin, don’t –”

“He’s supposed to invite you over for dinner,” Robin exclaimed into the communicator. 

There was another little scuffle, followed by a slight cackle from Robin, as Batman retrieved the communicator again. 

“ What ? You weren’t going to do it!” Clark heard faintly through the other side of the communicator. 

“You’re inviting me over for dinner?” Clark asked, unable to keep himself from grinning. “I thought you didn't do dinner.” Clark knew they were already on a team together, but it was nice to have confirmation that Batman trusted him enough for a social call. 

“I’m inviting Clark Kent to dinner.”

World’s greatest detective. Clark never really stood a chance, did he? He was a little relieved Batman couldn’t see his smile. “Should I even ask how you knew?”

“Did you really think a pair of glasses would stop me from recognizing my– friend?”

“It’s worked before,” Clark said sheepishly. In his experience, most people just assumed he had no secret identity. Clark Kent was a bumbling farm boy; people didn’t associate him with Superman, with or without the glasses. Lois certainly hadn’t.

But he didn’t miss the way Batman called them friends . Even if Clark couldn’t have him as a soulmate, he could still have that, couldn’t he? That would be enough, wouldn’t it?

“Not with me,” Batman said. “Do you have plans tonight?”

“I’m all yours.”

“Wayne Manor, seven o'clock.”

Wayne…Bruce Wayne. Batman was Bruce Wayne.

Which meant Robin was Dick Grayson, his ward, whose parents were acrobats and who was far too unfazed when kidnapped. It made a surprising amount of sense, and he felt a little silly that he’d never made the connection before.

He’d seen countless photos of Bruce Wayne, both in the newspapers and in places around Gotham. He imagined the sharp curve of Bruce’s jawline and the curve of his lips, now framed by the cowl. There was no mistaking it. 

“I take it you never looked under the cowl, then,” Batman– Bruce– said. There was a hint of humor in his voice. Clark had never heard a voice modulator coming from him before, but it was clear Bruce’s voice was pitched higher than Batman’s, with a little bit of an accent to mask his true voice.

“I figured you would’ve had it lined with lead after our first meeting.” Truthfully, Batman’s face had never been as tempting as his soulmark, not that Clark would admit it. “And seven o’clock tonight works for me.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Clark put away the communicator. He needed to get back to Metropolis. He needed to call Lois– what the hell was he supposed to wear to dinner with Bruce Wayne?

“Not a suit,” Lois told him firmly, rummaging through his closet. 

“But–”

“All your suits are big and baggy. Trust me, a guy like Wayne is going to notice right away. Wear this instead.”

Clark frowned at the plaid Lois had put in his hands. He was fairly certain it was a size too small for him, now. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Lois replied dryly. “Just put it on. And, Clark?”

“Yeah?”

She shot him a grin. “Your soulmate is Bruce Wayne, huh?”

Clark blushed a deep red and retreated to the bathroom to switch out his shirts. 

The plaid ended up being the right choice, if only for the fact that Clark felt far more comfortable in it as he walked up the long driveway to the entrance of Wayne Manor. As he approached the front door, he was equal parts relieved and disappointed that there wasn’t an actual natural disaster in Metropolis that would pull him away from this.

He took a deep breath and knocked; the door swung open to reveal Alfred Pennyworth, the Wayne family butler and the one who’d taken care of Bruce when his parents died.

Should Clark have brought a housewarming gift? Did Bruce even drink wine?

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kent,” Alfred said.

“Hello!” Alfred had taken Bruce in the same way the Kents had. Clark stuck his hand out to shake Alfred's. “It's nice to finally meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, sir,” Alfred replied with a smile. “Master Bruce is waiting for you in the dining room.”

Even without using his super-hearing, Clark heard Bruce Wayne before he saw him.

“Dick, get down from there, we have– oh, hello, Clark.”

“Hello, Bruce.” He glanced up at the ornate chandelier glistening above the dining room table, where Dick Grayson was hanging. “Does he need help getting down from there?”

“He can do it himself,” Bruce said wearily. 

“Hi, Clark!” Dick exclaimed, eyes shining. “You're staying for dessert, right? Alfred said he was making cookies!”

Clark was going to stay for as long as Bruce would let him. He glanced at Bruce, who gave a short, encouraging nod, and turned back to Dick. “In that case, I can't wait to try them.”

Clark had fretted, for longer than he'd cared to admit, that eating dinner with Bruce Wayne would be awkward. But as he quickly realized, as Alfred served them fine steaks with hearty helpings of side dishes, he wasn't really eating dinner with that Bruce Wayne, the one who hosted elaborate dinner parties and had more money than he knew what to do with. This was still Batman– just a more relaxed version of him, one that didn't need contingency plans, because it was him at home with his son and his friend, and he trusted them to not do anything wrong. 

And Clark knew that Bruce Wayne like the back of his hand. He felt like he'd known him for years, ever since that symbol first appeared on his arm.

As Dick talked about the gymnastics team he'd joined at school and the totally epic fight he'd helped with the night before, and as Clark talked about his current articles and how the farm was doing, and as Bruce talked about what Wayne Industries was getting up to and how well the latest charity fundraiser had gone….well, sometimes, when Clark looked over at the right minute, he caught Bruce smiling. 

It was the kind of sight that made Clark's chest glow. It was the kind of night, as a whole, that made it easy to forget that they weren't requited soulmates– that Bruce wasn't Clark's.

Alfred's cookies were indeed delicious. After Dick went to bed– because even vigilantes needed a proper night's sleep, especially when they had school tomorrow, a statement that Clark could hardly believe came out of Bruce's mouth– Bruce invited Clark for a nightcap, and a short tour of the Manor and the BatCave beneath it.

There was a painting of the Waynes above the fireplace in the living room. It reminded Clark of his own statue of his parents, stashed away in the Fortress of Solitude.

Bruce had gone silent, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Clark as they looked at it, close enough that Clark could feel his body heat. His drink was untouched in his hand, the undoubtedly pricey alcohol now watered down by the melted ice.

“Were they soulmates?” Clark asked quietly. “Your parents, I mean.”

Bruce nodded. He turned away from the painting, looking at Clark. 

“Speaking of soulmates…you said you have a symbol on your wrist,” Bruce said. There was his Batman voice again. “Not a name.”

Said symbol was hiding behind a layer of red plaid, and then behind a large watch. 

“Yes, that’s how all Kryptonian soulmarks work.”

“And you’ve met them?”

Green Arrow said he hadn’t told Bruce anything about Clark, but Clark wouldn’t put it past Bruce to have figured out the whole thing by now, cracking Clark’s ribs open like a body on an autopsy table.

“Yes, we’ve met,” Clark said. He hesitated, then admitted, “They’re mine, but I’m not– theirs. They have someone else’s name.”

He didn't want Bruce asking about how his soulmate was doing; better to rip off the bandaid now, rather than commit himself to lying to Bruce's face.

Bruce’s eyes softened immediately, the same kind of pity that Green Arrow had given him– no,  Clark thought, more than that. It went deeper than that. Bruce understood.

Something broke, just a little bit more, in Clark’s chest.

Oh, that wasn’t fair.

Clark opened his mouth, but Bruce beat him to it, with another probing question. “Are you sure it’s…them? How specific are the symbols?”

Bruce’s hand twitched, like he wanted to reach out and take Clark’s, undo the straps of the watch and inspect the symbol on his arm. But he didn’t. Clark was safe. 

“It’s pretty specific,” Clark said. “It’s– I can’t imagine it being anyone else.”

Bruce had never been the most expressive person. Clark prided himself on the idea that he could read him just a little bit better than the rest of the League. Now, the look on Bruce’s face was unmistakable. Clark just didn’t want to believe it.

“You’ve already started developing feelings for them,” Bruce said, gentle rather than accusatory. For all his cynicism and practicality, Bruce had never been the type to believe all love was a weakness, despite what Hal might believe. 

Clark nodded; the fountain of emotions bubbling up in his throat left him incapable of doing anything else.

“You don’t have to fix this for me, Bruce,” Clark said finally. “You can’t. It’s not like I regret any of it. I’m lucky to have him as a friend.”

“I know,” Bruce said.

No, don’t say it. 

“Mine isn’t requited, either.” It almost sounded like Bruce believed he deserved it.

No.

Clark knew he was staring. He couldn’t help himself. He could feel the anger building, heat behind his eyes, ready to burn a hole in the universe for what it had done.

Bruce deserved better than that.

If Clark couldn't have him, if he never loved Clark back, then– that would be fine, because Clark would know that there was someone else out there for him. Someone who would hold him and cherish him and kiss his bruises away.

But if Bruce couldn't have his soulmate, then why couldn't it be Clark?

Clark would take care of him. If only the universe had given Bruce to Clark, Clark would treat him so gently, so preciously. He would wrap Bruce in his cape and fly him far away from the cruel cold of Gotham, plying him with Ma Kent's pie and compliments and soft kisses until he believed he deserved it. He would hold him tight and never let him go. He'd do anything, and he knew it, and the thought didn't terrify him as much as it should have.

“Do you think you could ever fall in love with someone who wasn't your soulmate?” A desperate, pleading attempt.

“No.” Bruce wasn't meeting his eyes. “No, I don't think I could.”

Bruce was already in love with his soulmate, too.

“I should get back to Metropolis,” Clark said. He reached out tentatively, patting Bruce's arm in a comforting gesture. Solidarity, he thought. “Thank you for dinner. And please tell Alfred his food was delicious.”

“I will.”

“And, Bruce?” Clark couldn't help himself as he added, “You should go to bed. Vigilantes need their sleep.”

He expected a glare– a roll of the eyes, maybe, if Bruce was feeling particularly playful. Instead, Bruce just nodded, a little defeated, and Clark wished he was Bruce's soulmate, so Bruce would ask him to stay the night, and Clark could cuddle him close and protect him from the nightmares.

But he wasn't. So he flew home, and listened to the sound of Bruce's heartbeat as it softened into sleep from his cold apartment in Metropolis. 

He spent the weekend in Kansas, stuffing himself with Ma's cooking, trying to leave as little room for feelings in his stomach as possible. Ma was more than happy to feed him, kissing the crown of his forehead as she passed him a fresh plate of mash potatoes. He spent the rest of the time helping around the farm. 

Ma sent him home with a pie and a quiet reminder that she would still love to have Batman over for dinner, if you want to invite him over. He can even keep the cowl on.

The image of Bruce standing in his mother's kitchen, wearing one of Clark's plaid shirts and his black cowl, haunted Clark for the next several days.

Lois helped him polish off the rest of the pie, sitting on the floor of his apartment, drinking a cheap bottle of wine.

“It's a shame, you know,” Lois said. “Being Bruce Wayne's soulmate would probably give you the scoop of a lifetime. You'd be rubbing elbows with the Gotham elite every weekend.”

Clark grunted in agreement. The idea had never even crossed his mind.

If anyone in the Justice League had any lingering doubts about whose mark was on Clark's wrist, in the days after the dinner, Clark was fairly certain he'd completely cleared it up. Barry and Green Arrow shot him concerned looks whenever they caught him staring at Bruce just a little too long. Diana, who'd made it very clear on multiple occasions that she thought no one should be chained to a word on their skin, mostly just rolled her eyes and called Clark an idiot under her breath.

And Batman…well, Clark had assumed that the world's greatest detective would've figured out Clark's soulmate within minutes of meeting him. Analyze all the people in Clark's life, deduce what kind of mark they would give, compare their size and shape to the strap of Clark's watch. But if Bruce knew about the bat-shaped torch Clark was carrying for him, why did he keep finding endless excuses to get Clark alone?

The dinners at Wayne Manor were starting to become a regular thing. Apparently, it was at Alfred's insistence that Clark came the first time, but Bruce was the one who kept inviting him back, and that was all that mattered as far as Clark was concerned. 

They even went out to dinner in public as civilians. Bruce offered to send a car to pick Clark up. It was the kind of place that made Clark feel underdressed even in a suit, while Bruce was perfectly charming, as much in his element as he was at the head of the Justice League table. 

They discussed nothing of superheroes or soulmates as they drank expensive wine paired perfectly with their entrees. Dick was doing well in school and had moved onto dangling from the even-higher foyer chandelier. No, it didn't scare the daylights out of Bruce at all. How was Lois doing?

Bruce paid the bill without Clark even seeing the check.

They got ice cream after, and Clark made sure to pay for that. Gotham in the evening was always dangerous, but as they walked along the street towards the park, it felt beautiful in its own way, too.

Somewhere along the way, even the topic of soulmates was no longer off-limits, at dinner. Bruce had invited Clark out to a nice Italian place near the edge of Gotham, and in their secluded corner table, Clark found himself spilling more than he'd really intended.

“I haven't told h– them– yet. It feels an awful lot like lying, but I don't want anything to change, you know?”

Lois and Ma and, hell, even Barry did their best to make Clark feel better about the whole thing. But none of them got it– no one except Bruce.

“I understand.” Bruce took a sip from his fancy water glass. “I haven't told mine, either. It would…complicate things. There's too much at stake.”

Yes, Clark thought. Like the Justice League's overall team dynamics. The whole thing was still so fresh, so fragile even if it was made up of the strongest heroes of their generation. And, well, there was Clark's heart. And his relationship with Bruce. None of which he was willing to risk. 

Clark really should be used to lying by now, shouldn't he?

“You never told me what happened,” Clark said. “How you found out.”

“There's not much to tell.” His stammering heartbeat indicated otherwise, but Clark wasn't going to push. “I…well, I'd always suspected he'd approach me first, given his career. The first time we met, he didn't say anything about it, which made me suspect he didn't have my name on his chest at all. I tried to make my interest clear, but he politely told me that he was waiting for his soulmate.”

Lois's words came flooding back– the scoop of a lifetime. “He's a journalist, isn't he?”

“Something like that.”

Looking back, Clark thought, he might've gotten lucky– a private conversation that he could quickly fly away from, pretending any mistiness was just the wind in his eyes. He wasn't Batman; he wouldn’t’ve been able to disguise his true feelings if Bruce had ever point-blank told him that he was waiting to fall in love with someone else.

Though there wasn't any waiting left; that much was clear, for both of them, even if neither of them had outright said it.

He was running through a mental list of Gotham's reporters before he could stop himself. He couldn't imagine any of them being worthy of being Batman's soulmate– a petty, jealous thought, because if Clark himself was worthy, wouldn't Batman be his?

“I'm not surprised you knew about him before you met,” Clark teased. “Knowing you, you probably bugged his apartment the same day you turned sixteen.”

 “Of course not,” Bruce grumbled. “He would've found them.”

“Of course,” Clark echoed. Because of course Batman's soulmate was a hypercompetent journalist from Gotham who could detect bugs as easily as Batman could place them. Clark never stood a chance.

Clark Kent was invited to dinners, but Superman was invited to the BatCave. 

Clark was well aware that he should probably say no at some point. It was hard to remember that Bruce was gone on someone else– his real soulmate– when Clark was the one with the all-access pass to all the rooms where he finally hung up the mask. But when Bruce asked for his help, how could he refuse?

Clark touched down gracefully near the entrance of the Cave as the Batmobile pulled in. “You said you needed my help?”

Bruce climbed out of the car, heading inside, already stripping off the black gloves of his suit. 

“I've been working on a new iteration of the suit,” he explained, taking off his cowl, his hair mussed and his eyes still lined with dark eyeshadow. Clark had never wanted to kiss him more. 

Resolutely ignoring the impulse– and the itch under the strap of his watch– Clark turned around, staring at the memorabilia and training equipment that was scattered around as opposed to actually looking at Bruce. As Bruce's quiet footsteps receded– probably to change in a more private place– Clark trailed a hand over the desk holding the bat-monitors. Even in the Cave, every piece of Bruce's life seemed meticulously ordered– the giant penny didn't have a speck of dust, and the pile of case files by the keyboard was alphabetized. 

He was about to open one when the world suddenly went dead silent around him.

No, not the whole world– just one sound. Bruce's heartbeat. He couldn't hear Bruce's heartbeat anymore.

“Bruce?” he called out, his own heartbeat increasing. The Cave was supposed to be a safe place for him, he wasn't supposed to be in danger here– “Bruce!”

His eyes scanned the Cave, finally landing on the impenetrable figure of the new Batman suit.

Lead-lined. No way for Clark to see through, no way for Clark to hear his heartbeat.

“What do you think?” Bruce asked, stepping forward. 

Clark didn't realize how much he'd begun to rely on the metronome of Bruce's heart to assure himself that his soulmate was okay. Even though he was staring right at Bruce, part of him, some animalistic region of his brain, was still reeling from the lack of noise, straining his ears to try and pick up on it.

“It’s lined with lead.”

Bruce nodded. “Extra precaution against metas. You can't see through the suit, can you?”

Because Bruce asked, Clark tried. He couldn't. Bruce's heart was still deadly silent. “No, I can't see through it. I can't hear you, either.”

Bruce cocked his head to the side, and Clark flushed, realizing what he'd just let slip.

“Your heartbeat.” Forcefully light, he added, “I thought you were dead for a minute there.”

“Hmm.” A beat. Like Bruce was staring him down, trying to figure him out. “I can see how that would be disconcerting. I'll keep making adjustments.”

“You don't need to do that on my account,” Clark said quickly. “I can get used to it.”

Bruce ignored the sentiment, undoing the straps of his chestplate. The sound of his heartbeat returned, and Clark found himself relaxing. He made a conscious effort to keep his x-ray vision under control, though; he had no desire to see the name of the person who'd been given the most precious gift in the universe and thrown him aside.

(It was normal, expected, for parents, family, friends to meet one's soulmate, as soon as possible. That was one step he and Bruce had both skipped, so far. Clark knew he should be supportive, but he didn't think he would ever deal well with meeting Bruce's real soulmate.)

“How far away can you hear my heartbeat?” Bruce asked, not quite conversationally. Clark could hear the gears turning in his head, and Clark was also fairly certain Bruce was three steps away from figuring everything out. And he'd never invite Clark out to dinner again.

“As far as I need to, as long as I'm listening,” Clark said. “You know, if you need a break, there's a new diner that just opened up in Metropolis. Their burgers are supposed to be pretty good.”

“Clark–”

“Don't tell me you don't do dinner. I know better than that now.”

A smile pulled at Bruce's lips, but he was infuriatingly good at controlling his facial expressions. “Maybe next week.” The half-smile fell away, his tone becoming more serious and calculated. “We should be more careful about how frequently Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent are seen in public together.”

“You're worried someone will connect the dots on our secret identities? Don't you think you're being a little paranoid?”

“It's not paranoia,” Bruce deadpanned. “If the reporters here catch wind that I keep taking someone out to dinner, they're going to assume I've met my soulmate.”

Oh. That made sense. Of course it did. How many times had Clark seen headlines about the “suspected soulmate” of a celebrity like Bruce Wayne?

And Clark wasn't really Bruce Wayne's soulmate. 

“I doubt Clark Kent is prepared for the circus of the Gotham media,” Bruce added.

“I'm a reporter, Bruce, I can handle the media. But you're right. We don't want anyone assuming we're soulmates.”

“Right.”

“A Gotham socialite and a farm boy from Kansas? It wouldn't make sense.”

Bruce's frown was back. “Yes. That's…exactly what I was thinking.”

Clark swallowed; he was just being stupid now, and he knew it. He'd started it. He could hardly blame anyone but himself. But it still stung.

“But…next week?”

At the very least, Bruce was smiling again. “Next week. I can send you a car.”

“I can fly, Bruce. I don't need it.”

Bruce was late.

The diner was right across from the Daily Planet; Clark had been watching the clock more than usual while finishing up his latest article. He’d dropped his work bag back at his apartment, grinning as he did so, before speeding back to the diner. He’d chosen a booth by the window, where Bruce would be able to see the entrance from his seat, and he’d sent a message letting Bruce know he was there and waiting, but no pressure of course. 

They were supposed to meet twenty minutes ago. Clark refreshed his messages; Bruce still hadn’t responded. 

And Clark understood; they were both vigilantes. He’d had to skip out or show up late before with Lois. And it wasn’t like this was a date– Clark was with his soulmate, but Bruce wasn’t, and Bruce had made it clear that he wouldn’t want anyone else, and as much as Clark knew he could make Bruce happy if he only had the chance, he wasn’t going to push–

Somewhere in Gotham, Bruce’s heartbeat dropped.

Clark tensed, senses searching out for his soulmate. He knew the sound of Bruce’s heart, maybe better than he should, and it was far too low now. He refreshed his messages again.

Something had happened. He didn’t know what– his heartbeat was low, not racing from fear, but that didn’t mean Bruce wasn’t in danger.

Alfred picked up on the first ring. “Wayne Manor, this is Alfred speaking.”

“Is Bruce there?”

“No, I believe he’s still at work.”

“I think he might be in trouble,” Clark said. Or maybe he was overreacting. But if something had happened… “Can I–”

“Permission granted, Mr. Kent,” Alfred said.

Clark was out the door before Alfred could finish speaking. The Gotham sky was cloudy and grey when he flew in, scanning the skyline for any signs of disturbance. He saw the crowd first, gathered near the edge of Gotham Harbor, cameras flashing and people shouting. 

He saw the helicopter second, flying haphazardly above the dark grey waters, tilting and swaying. 

He saw Bruce falling out of the helicopter third, his heartbeat finally picking back up.

“Plane first,” Bruce muttered, loud enough for Clark to pick up on, even over the panicked yelps coming from the cockpit of the helicopter. 

Clark went for the helicopter. He grabbed the tail, stopping it in midair, and froze the rotors as Bruce hit the water.

“Is everyone alright?” he asked, looking in through the open door at the small group of panicked passengers. 

Down below him, Clark caught a flash of black hair and pale skin; Bruce had resurfaced, and he was swimming back towards the harbor. 

In the helicopter, one man with a black ski mask swore under his breath.

“See?” He muttered to the pilot. “We should’ve just kidnapped Lex Luthor.”

Clark gently set the helicopter down on the other side of the police tape from the crowd. The kidnappers were taken in easily by the police, not willing to start a fight in front of Superman. Bruce must’ve made sure there weren’t any other hostages before the helicopter took off.

He ignored the press shouting his name, flying back to the shoreline to look for Bruce.

He'd reached the shore, sitting on the edge of the dock, wringing his soaked suit jacket. His heartbeat was already returning to normal. Clark swooped down beside him, relief and a lecture worthy of Batman building up in his chest.

He was soaking wet, black hair plastered to his forehead, and Clark didn’t need super-hearing to hear his teeth chattering. He was shivering and trying to hide it, and Clark– well, Clark stripped his own cape off and wrapped it around Bruce's shoulders.

“Thank you,” Bruce said curtly. 

He looked over at the press and grimaced; they were far enough back that they wouldn't be able to see Clark or Bruce, but Clark knew Bruce was already preparing himself for the performance he was going to give them.

Some of the fierce anger burned off. Clark just wanted to take him home and shackle him to a fireplace.

“What the hell happened?” Clark asked. 

“I was on my way to meet you when I got kidnapped.”

Clark hated how normal he made it sound. He also hated the hint of apology in Bruce's voice, as if he didn't think a kidnapping was a good enough excuse to skip dinner.

“You could've called.”

Bruce's smirk twitched; he'd thought about that, of course he had. “Shouting your name would've made them panic.”

So he came up with something else.

“Your heartbeat. You knew I'd be listening because I was waiting for you. You– how?”

“Breathing technique,” Bruce said. “Slows down my heart rate.”

“They didn't hurt you, did they?” At least he'd stopped shivering.

“They were amateurs. I'm fine.” Bruce waved him off, but Clark rolled his eyes, using his x-ray vision to look him over. Bruce was right; save for a few healed injuries, and a couple of scrapes on his chest–

Oh. Oh , that was– on Bruce's chest, that was–

“That's me,” Clark said, staring at Bruce's chest. “That's my name, I–”

“I don't want to talk about this here,” Bruce interrupted, sounding resigned.

Clark Kent. It was his handwriting. 

He blinked, his brain slowly registering that Bruce had spoken at all. 

“Yes. We should– I still owe you dinner, don't I? Let's go.”

He picked Bruce up, cradling his head against his chest. He didn't realize Bruce probably would've wanted to change into dry clothes until they'd already reached the roof of Clark's apartment building, but that was okay, because Clark had plenty of things in his closet that his soulmate could wear.

“Kal,” Bruce said, voice carefully measured, because even in the Hall of Justice, he would never call Superman Clark , even if that was the name written on his chest. “You can put me down now. I’m fine.”

Clark gently lowered him onto the rooftop, and Bruce stumbled back from him as soon as Clark let him go. He shrugged off the cape, handing it back to Clark. 

“I have clothes you can borrow–”

“I’m fine ,” Bruce snapped. “I don’t need you to coddle me. I’ve made my peace with it already.”

Bruce wouldn't meet his eyes. He still thought his soulmark was unrequited.

Clark couldn’t get his sleeve rolled up fast enough; he had a half a mind to sear off the fabric completely. He heard Bruce's breath hitch as the bat-signal on Clark's wrist was exposed, shiny against his skin in the moonlight.

Bruce reached out, like he couldn't stop himself, his fingertips tracing the bold pattern. The sensation made Clark shiver.

"Let's go inside,” Clark said. “We have a lot to talk about.”

 Martha and Thomas Wayne were soulmates. 

They didn't live long enough to see the name appear on Bruce's chest, much less meet him. But Alfred did; he straightened Bruce's tie and assured him that this Clark Kent must be a very lucky man indeed.

Bruce kept an eye on Clark Kent from the moment the name appeared. The farm boy from Smallville, son of Martha and Jonathon Kent. Bruce kept what few articles he found about Clark's childhood in Smallville; and when Clark Kent joined the Daily Planet and started writing his own, Bruce collected those, too. 

At the same time, he was keeping an eye on other people, too. People like him.

Metropolis's Superman was one of those. Bruce wished he could say he recognized him right away; truthfully, it had taken a few weeks, and an in-person meeting, to be absolutely certain. After all, a simple pair of glasses couldn't stop him from recognizing his soulmate. 

Arranging said meeting was easy enough. Bruce had wondered why Clark hadn't reached out before, but then again, he supposed that the big blue boy scout wouldn't cash in his soulmark for just a career boost.

It had been easy enough for Bruce to pull some strings and get the Planet's usual reporter an exclusive interview on the same day as the Wayne Gala. The invitation had instead fallen into Clark Kent's lap, and he accepted.

Bruce watched him from afar, pretending to sip flute after flute of expensive champagne, for most of the gala– it was the logical thing to do, of course. He'd been doing it for years. No, Alfred, he wasn't scared and intimidated by the prospect of love.

And when they finally met, well, it was only natural that Brucie Wayne would flirt with his soulmate, as attractive as he was. 

And then…

“I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said, unable to hide the slight flush on his cheeks as Bruce leaned closer, “but I'm afraid I'm waiting on my soulmate.”

If Bruce wasn't already sober, that would have done it.

It was a normal thing to say, of course. He could hardly blame Clark for wanting that destined romance over a flighty, mildly pathetic billionaire playboy. 

And it made a lot of sense, didn't it? Bruce had a lot of priorities, outside of something as frivolous as a soulmate. He had Gotham to protect, and then Dick. He could never give himself to anyone as fully as a soulmate would deserve. 

Alfred agreed to all of this in his dryest tone of voice, then insisted that Bruce invite Clark– or Superman– over for dinner, anyway, because Alfred still wanted to meet him. 

Bruce had always been good at hiding his feelings; he had to be, and not just because of Batman. Still, it wasn't surprising that Alfred and Dick both saw right through him.

Fate was a hard thing to resist, as was the optimistic, Midwestern charm that emanated from every inch of Clark's tanned skin. As much as he might've tried, Bruce never really had a chance.

He had many priorities that came before any personal relationship. But he couldn't stop himself from wanting to prove he could still be a good soulmate, even if he wasn't really Clark's.

He'd been assuming the whole time, of course, that being Bruce's soulmate meant that Clark would've had Bruce's full name on his chest. That he would've known who Bruce was when they met at the gala. He didn't realize that base assumption was wrong until Clark himself corrected it– Kryptonians had interpretative symbols, not full names.

Instantly, Bruce was reminded of the large, gaudy watch that Clark Kent was never seen without. He imagined how the emblem on his chest would look under that leather watch. It felt like the right size. 

But Bruce couldn't remember ever seeing anything under it, on the few occasions that he had met Clark in person. He needed to be sure. There was too much at stake.

Alfred finally got his wish, when Dick did what Bruce was still psyching himself up to do, after that illuminating League meeting. But Bruce was wrong, again– Clark couldn't be his soulmate, because Clark knew for a fact that his soulmate had someone else's name.

Clark smiled sheepishly, clearing his throat. “Green Arrow told me you didn't have my name on your chest.”

Bruce had traded the Superman cape for one of Clark's shirts, his own clothes still drying. He was leaning against the counter of Clark's kitchen, halfway through the slice of pie that Clark had offered him.

He also looked like he was seriously considering breaking his own biggest rule. “Green Arrow thinks your name is Kal-El and that you live in the Fortress of Solitude full-time.”

Oh. That was obvious in hindsight; he'd never told any of the League, besides Bruce, that his name was Clark or that he was raised in Smallville. At the time, he’d been too wrapped up to even think about it.

“So this whole time…”

Bruce nodded. “Yes. Alfred was right. I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

“I think you’ll manage,” Clark said. All that time they’d wasted, all those dinners that could’ve been dates– “Wait. Were you trying to woo me away from my soulmate?”

“It was just dinner,” Bruce replied, a little too smugly. “It was hardly wooing .” Clark gaped at him, and he added, “I was…testing the waters.”

Testing the waters– of course he was. Why was Clark surprised? Clark wasn't the one who said he was so caught up on his soulmate that he couldn't imagine loving somebody else. Bruce hadn’t even bothered to ask Clark, already too busy planning out how to best prove that Bruce would be way better than Clark’s real soulmate.

Clark wanted to roll his eyes, make a teasing comment about how he was surprised Bruce never bugged his apartment, about how he couldn't believe Batman never realized how gone on him Clark was, how he would've saved them both a lot of trouble if he had. But then he caught sight of his name on Bruce’s chest, and suddenly, the only thing worth saying was, “You’re incredible, you know that? The universe must like me after all.”

“You’re giving the universe too much credit,” Bruce replied. 

Clark stepped forward, taking Bruce’s hands in his and taking him in. “So what do we do now?”

“I still have to call Commissioner Gordon and give my statement about the people who kidnapped me and dropped me in the Harbor,” Bruce reminded him. He turned Clark’s wrist so the bat-signal was exposed, bringing it up and brushing his lips against the skin.

“That can wait, can’t it?” Clark hadn’t even technically seen his soulmark yet, not without the shirt in the way. Commissioner Gordon would understand.

Bruce glanced at him, then unbuttoned the shirt Clark had given him, exposing the words. 

Clark Kent. 

Clark wasn’t sure how he got so lucky. His fingers traced the letters, memorized by the way they looked. A little giddily, he was already wondering what it might’ve looked like if Bruce had a Kryptonian soulmark, too.

(Clark knew what Bruce would say to that– it would be horribly conspicuous and dangerous, if Bruce Wayne started walking around with Superman’s crest on his wrist. But, well, a guy could dream.)

Kissing Bruce’s chest, the way Bruce had kissed his wrist, felt a little too much– even if their honeymoon phase was years in the making– so Clark settled for kissing the corner of Bruce’s mouth, listening to his heart skip a beat.

“Yes,” Bruce said. “Yes, Gordon can wait.”

Good. Clark wasn’t ready to let him go yet. This time, Clark kissed him properly, holding Bruce against the counter and cradling his jaw with his palm. 

“It’s crooked,” Bruce said, hours later, still holding onto Clark’s wrist like he owned it (and, well, it did have his logo on it, so maybe he did).

“Don’t blame me,” Clark replied. “It’s your handwriting.”

Bruce dropped Clark’s hand, reaching for a scrap piece of paper and a pen. Clark heard the sounds of the pen scratching against paper, and then a pause.

“Huh.”

Sure enough, it was a perfect match; Clark couldn’t help but laugh.

Bruce told Alfred while Clark told his mom. She insisted, smug over the phone, that she knew it, and that if Clark didn’t finally invite Bruce over, she was going to march down to Gotham and Metropolis and drag them back to Smallville herself. Clark had no doubt she could.

Bruce was perfectly charming when meeting Ma Kent, bringing her sunflowers and going for thirds at dinner. Clark fell in love a little more every second.

They told the Justice League next. 

Well, technically, they figured it out themselves. Clark announced to them after a meeting that his real, human name was Clark Kent. Green Arrow’s– well, Oliver Queen’s– jaw dropped, eyes flitting back and forth between Clark and Bruce, and Clark had to admit that it was just a little satisfying to watch. By the end of the day, Barry and Oliver had stopped giving Clark pitying looks whenever he stared at Batman a bit too long, Diana had stopped calling them idiots, and Hal started making jokes about needing an HR department.

And for the record, Clark did try to tamp down on the staring. He was willing to admit that it was painfully obvious, and he was trying to be more covert, for Bruce’s sake. Meanwhile, his beloved soulmate had taken up holding Clark’s hand whenever they were alone in a room.

It took two dinner dates of Bruce holding Clark’s hand for the media to start declaring that they’d found Bruce Wayne’s soulmate. When asked, Bruce neither confirmed nor denied the rumors with a gleam in his eye. Lois barged into Clark’s apartment the minute she saw the clip, demanding to know why Clark had told her it was unrequited when it obviously wasn’t, and Clark fidgeted with the straps of watch and said he’d tell her the full story over dinner that night. 

Clark Kent had a free pass to stay at Wayne Manor whenever he wanted. After the third time, Alfred stopped any pretense of making up a guest bedroom. Clark spent half his nights cuddled around Bruce in bed, his arm wrapped around Bruce’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart as he slept and warding off nightmares with soft pecks on the forehead.

Superman still had to be invited before he was allowed to enter Gotham. He’d jokingly asked, once, if he could adopt Gotham once they got married. Bruce just glared at him, then said he actually needed more input on the new version of the suit he’d been tinkering with, if Clark wouldn’t mind.

Really, Clark should’ve realized he was stepping into a trap.

“That can’t be your new suit.”

From the outside, the new version of the lead-lined Batman suit didn’t look any different. When Clark tried his x-ray vision, though, he realized why he could still hear Bruce’s heartbeat: a small sliver of the lead lining had been removed right above Bruce’s heart. His own name was the only part of Bruce he could see, his eyes drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

And Bruce planned it that way. Clark wanted to kiss the stupid smirk off his face. “Really? I thought it would be quite effective.”

Resisting the urge to slam him against a wall, Clark took Bruce’s hand, looking at the blank canvas of his gloved wrist. “Do you trust me?”

“Well, you are my soulmate, aren’t you?” Bruce asked dryly.

Over the years, Clark had perfected his control over his heat vision. He used that control now, cutting a tiny symbol into the plating covering Bruce’s wrist, small enough that you wouldn’t see it unless you were looking for it. 

Clark stepped back, admiring his handiwork. Now Batman had Clark’s house crest on his wrist, just like Clark had Bruce’s.

“There,” Clark said. “It’s perfect.”

It was Bruce’s turn to stare, finally, at the space above Clark’s heart. Clark could see the gears turning in his mind, wondering what kinds of tattoo needles could even be used on Kryptonian skin, and Clark found himself not minding the idea; if Clark was allowed to be sappy and pathetically romantic with anyone, it would be his soulmate. 

Bruce took Clark’s hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of Clark’s wrist, then to Clark’s lips. Clark found himself smiling into the kiss.

(The more Clark thought about it, the less he hated the new suit. He just didn’t want Bruce wearing it out on patrol. It was bad enough, when the entire Justice League knew how bad Superman had it for Batman; he didn’t need the whole world knowing that, too.)

(It would be nice, though. Kryptonian soulmarks were meant to be shown off, after all.)