Chapter Text
“I left Lois for you.” He had confessed it openly, on a perfectly ordinary day after a mission, about eight months after his final divorce. “I don’t want you to think you did anything, nothing you could have done would have made me change my mind about this. But I think I needed to tell you.” His smile was devastating, at least for Bruce, because Clark looked far too pleased with himself. “I love Lois, Bruce. But the love I feel for her will never be as great as the love I feel for you. I like you. And I love you. And I needed to say it. You didn’t interfere, you didn’t hurt, you didn’t manipulate anyone. Lois is my friend. It just… happened this way. I’m not demanding, not pressuring. I’m not expecting an answer.”
Bruce could barely breathe. He watched Clark nervously rub the back of his neck, and he knew it was true.
Flushed cheeks, wide pupils, awkward body language even after all these years. He was excited saying it. Genuinely excited. And somehow he looked lighter, despite the heavy layer of muscle that defined Superman.
Bruce’s mind shuffled through a million possibilities: mind control, poison, blackmail. But nothing—neither then nor now—fit any profile he could build. It simply felt like they were parting ways, as they had countless times before, after a mission, returning to their safe places. Was something impulsive and spontaneous, without planning or speech. Clark had probably rehearsed it, but Bruce could bet he hadn’t meant to say it now.
“I don’t want my confession or my choices to make you feel like you have to reciprocate or pity me. It would hurt if you changed how you treat me, but I’d understand. I didn’t do this expecting anything to happen. It was simply the right thing.” And finally, he finished: “And forgive me if I made you uncomfortable.”
Part of him wanted to sink. Another part, also very present, just wanted to pretend this hadn’t happened. And another part, deeper, rooted in his own inner darkness, felt… emotion. He wasn’t going to play dumb about the situation, that was never his style. Clark, the man he probably admired most, the most human, kind, and attractive alien on the planet, was telling him that he liked him. That he loved him. That he had left his wife, with whom he had a son, just because of how he felt about him.
He—Bruce, the billionaire playboy, with a dark, suffocating life weighed down by too many mistakes, who turned his anger into justice, his darkness into his nocturnal alter ego. He, the same one who allowed himself to desire Clark only from his safe point in the shadows. The same who, just a moment ago, still hated fantasizing that Clark might one day say the words that had just left his mouth.
“You don’t have to answer, Bruce… I just…” Clark said, lowering his gaze to the floor.
Bruce was disarmed. A million contingency plans, for every kind of hero. A million scenarios where control was his best weapon. And it was ironic that this—this—was the one thing he could never defend against. His kryptonite—because he didn’t allow himself to feel. To trust, to love, to want meant exposure, a distraction he couldn’t afford.
But Clark, here, in his Superman suit, with his radiant smile, had dismantled any artifice Bruce could use against him. Bruce was a grid a millimeter thick miles away, and Clark had simply shot an arrow with supernatural precision and hit the mark.
It was too much. His head, Clark, the confession, his own questions: Since when? How did you realize? How did I never notice?
Bruce decided this wasn’t the time to show any kind of interest. Not just because the moment left him disgustingly exposed and vulnerable, but because he knew that despite Clark’s declarations, he deserved a proper answer—and Bruce couldn’t form one right now.
“Clark.” He closed his eyes and lifted a hand to remove his mask for a second—right now (in the League’s meeting room) there was no danger of anyone actually discovering him. He thought he must look terrible with the makeup smudged around his eyes, but it didn’t matter. He wanted to look more like Bruce and less like Batman. “I appreciate your honesty, I really do.” And that wasn’t a lie. “But I have nothing to tell you.” And that was a lie, but he looked at him anyway and their eyes connected, and for a second he thought about telling him the truth. But then Clark let out a soft, calm smile that fit perfectly with his whole being.
His pulse must’ve been around a hundred beats per minute, which was high but not suspiciously high for Bruce. It couldn’t rise beyond that, or Clark would know instantly that something was wrong.
Those bright blue eyes studied him for a second, with concern, but then turned into genuine understanding, the kind only the Kents were capable of.
“That’s okay,” he said simply. “Just… Thank you for listening.”
After that, Bruce couldn’t find the strength to say anything more. That day they parted like any other, and somehow managed to go on without issue.
A few days passed, and what had started as an uncomfortable echo became a constant. Bruce felt it in every interaction—their conversation vibrated every time they were together, every time Clark looked at him across the League table when Hal or Diana said something particularly boring.
Clark never did anything out of place, he was exactly what he had promised: the same confident smile, the same steady voice, the same unshakable partner.
And precisely because of that, it was unbearable.
Because Clark had dropped the truth and then gone back to being Clark. As if that confession had been just a natural offshoot of his essence, like breathing or flying. And Bruce, instead, was left carrying it as if it were a bomb about to explode in his chest.
He could barely sleep since then. He had never slept well since the incident with his parents. Now, however, sleep was directly nonexistent.
It grew more unfair as the weeks passed, because he couldn’t forget. Nor could he bring himself to confront the thought head-on. And he realized that repressing it only made that unbreakable mask he tried to hold up—even around his family—begin to crack.
Bruce felt the change in the air and blocked the attack before it connected with his shoulder. He grabbed Dick’s wrist, pulled him in, lifted a leg into the air, and spun—his body, to throw him to the ground with a little less brutality, and his hand, to twist the wrist painfully.
"Bruce!" Dick yelled.
He released him immediately. Cursing his mind, cursing his focus. He wasn’t fully present, and he knew it. The spontaneous training sessions were never his idea, but Dick didn’t deserve this.
“Sorry.” he said, harsher than he intended. While Dick writhed on the floor, he tried an excuse. “I thought you’d handle it faster.”
“Dick was wrong, but keeping him on the ground for more than ten seconds was totally unnecessary.” Tim said, leaning against the railing of the ring where they were training. Beside him, Jason nodded in agreement.
“More aggressive than usual,” Jason added, arms crossed. “Doesn’t seem like a good day for anyone.”
Bruce ignored them both, wiping sweat from his forehead and then helping Dick to his feet. Dick looked at him as if he were seeing someone completely different holding him up right now.
When Dick steadied, his face lit up with realization.
“Something’s bothering you, B’,” he deduced simply. Damn the day he had taught them to read the obvious and not-so-obvious emotional and physical signals to pull information. Dick massaged his wrist and frowned, though his voice didn’t sound angry, just worried. “It’s not the training, is it?”
Bruce clenched his jaw. Great. He could tolerate and dodge one of them. But not all at the same time.
He glanced back. Tim watched him with a slight frown, Jason with his arms crossed and that half-smile that rarely hid the hardness in his eyes. They were all reading him. They were all waiting for an answer.
He forced himself to speak. “I’ve got things on my mind.”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Jason snorted. “The question is what.”
Bruce averted his gaze. He couldn’t. Not now, not with them. Probably never.
“If it were your business, I’d tell you.” He hoped that would be enough.
It wasn’t.
“Everything of yours ends up being our business sooner or later.” Damian moved in front of them, approaching the ring, his wooden sword slung over his shoulder. It was the third one they’d used that day, and only now did Bruce realize just how absolutely out of control he really was, because he was the one who had destroyed the other two.
He suppressed a wince at the realization. And then, silence. Bruce looked at the four of them. Jason had bruises along his arms, Tim had two scratches on his cheek, Dick’s wrist was red, and Damian (beneath all his bravado and sternness) didn’t even seem to want to come closer.
Bruce pulled off his combat gloves and let them drop to the ground with a dull thud. His hands trembled slightly, just enough for him to notice and silently hate.
“This ends here.” His voice was firm, sharp. He wanted to sound like Batman, but he sounded like Bruce Wayne: tired, overwhelmed.
None of them moved—except him.
“B’, if you keep this up, someone’s really going to get hurt. We can handle it, but I’m not talking about us.” Dick said. Bruce ignored him, walking past.
Jason exhaled sharply. “It’s not that complicated. Just say it: what the hell’s going on? Clark? The League? Or is this another one of those impossible crusades you invent to punish yourself?”
Bruce froze, and that was all the confirmation they needed.
He didn’t see it, but he knew. He felt when Tim tilted his head, analyzing every microexpression.
“It’s Clark.” Tim concluded. His tone carried no judgment, only certainty.
The most deafening and unbearable part was that, in truth, no one contradicted him. Not even Jason, who normally would have been delighted to break the silence with sarcasm.
“If your state puts training, patrols, and the mission at risk, you should step back until you resolve it.” Bruce looked at Damian as he leveled the wooden sword at him accusingly.
He felt the terrible urge to roll his eyes, but his armor was already cracked enough to let something else slip through. And it would only be a matter of time, considering that they—the ones he considered sons—would eventually realize what was really happening to him. He could only postpone it indefinitely, evade it, repress it, because he still hadn’t allowed himself to think about it.
“I don’t need a break.” he growled, though the voice lacked its usual strength.
“Then talk to him.” Dick replied behind him.
Awsome. What was wrong with the world and its sudden need to expose him sentimentally? It was ridiculous. He turned to look at Dick.
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is with you.”
Bruce wanted to reply, wanted to shout that they couldn’t understand, that Clark wasn’t just a distraction, that he was the weak point he couldn’t afford. But the sudden lump in his throat strangled him in a way that didn’t let him say anything else.
The silence was heavy, and for the first time in a long time, he felt it as something he couldn’t control. That made him even more angry. He had always known how to use it to his advantage—as a weapon, as strategy, as a wall—but now it turned against him. Four pairs of eyes on him and he was about to break.
“Bruce.” Dick’s voice was low, but Bruce didn’t let him finish.
“This isn’t your business.” And he wondered how much of that could be a lie as he walked out of the ring.
“Want me to say it so you’ll stop pretending?” Jason shot.
Bruce straightened, forged what steel mask he still had left, and spoke with the tone he’d used his entire life to shut down conversations.
“Training’s over.”
And he left without looking back.
An undetermined number of hours slipped by before Bruce found himself back in the cave, seated before the glowing monitors after giving precise instructions for the others to take their posts.
Dick had headed back to Blüdhaven, Jason had disappeared from the manor before dawn, Damian was out east with Jon, and Tim was patrolling the south with Kon. He also had Steph, Cass, and Duke’s positions logged—though they were preoccupied with something entirely different, some sort of investigative support. Barbara kept them all linked as Oracle, and nothing about the night seemed particularly challenging.
Nothing except his own thoughts.
He leaned his elbows on the desk and pressed his palms against his eyes. How naïve had he been to think they wouldn’t notice? His issue with Clark didn’t begin now. It wasn’t new. Maybe he’d overestimated his ability to repress it, but it had clearly slipped far past his control. They knew him—of course they’d eventually push him to talk. Bruce just hadn’t expected it to be this soon.
Or was it really too soon? Or was the lack of rest finally unraveling his mind? He wasn’t even sure he fully understood what he felt himself. He’d be lying if he claimed he didn’t love Clark—of course he did. Who didn’t love Clark?
But did he love him that way? He’d admired him in silence for years, desired him longer than he cared to admit—imagined his body against his own, the weight of him pressed into his bed. He had let himself wonder how gentle Clark could be, how he might hold him, kiss him, touch him. But that was before. When Bruce was younger, and when he still carried the fragile hope that Clark might someday see him as more than a partner. For his own safety, even unconsciously, he had buried those feelings deep in the back of his mind.
No one could survive loving Clark—interacting with him, and not having him.
“Master Bruce.” Alfred’s voice cut through his daily dose of self-pity. “I know this is redundant, but it’s quite clear something has been tormenting you these past days. Is there anything I might do to help?”
Bruce didn’t lift his head. He slid his hands just enough to glance at the data on the monitors—though he wasn’t truly looking. Alfred didn’t need direct answers. He never had. He read Bruce better than anyone ever could.
“I’m fine.” he replied in that deep, automatic voice—more habit than truth now—and finally looked at him.
Alfred raised a brow with the patience of a man who’d spent decades dealing with Wayne stubbornness. He walked over and set a steaming cup of tea beside the console, unasked.
“If you were fine,” Alfred said, his British accent precise, his manners as sharp as a blade, “you would have slept at least two hours this week. Or perhaps finished training the boys without leaving visible marks on every single one of them. And of course, you would not be staring at blank monitors as though you were waiting for them to swallow you whole.”
That old line about “working alone” he once clung to—maybe he should’ve held onto it longer. But now he had a family. A family who actually cared for him. And he was being a fool about it. No matter how meticulously he tried to prepare, they would always be his greatest weakness. And sometimes, he needed that.
Bruce sighed quietly, unwilling to refute the logic. He didn’t like arguing with Alfred—perhaps the only person on Earth who could actually make him speak.
Silence had always been his best defense against accusations, against interrogation. If you said nothing, they could never use your words against you.
Alfred leaned down slightly, softening his tone without losing firmness.
“So it is about Mr. Kent, then?”
Bruce closed his eyes, caught, with no chance of sidestepping this conversation.
“Alfred.” he warned, but Alfred paid him no mind.
“With all due respect, anything that troubles, irritates, or distracts you is my concern.” Alfred straightened, that unique blend of authority and affection only he could conjure. “And, if I may be frank, Superman is not poison, nor weapon, nor hidden enemy. What haunts you is something far simpler: the need to speak of it, to let yourself feel something.”
“It’s not that simple.” Bruce rushed to say, falling into the spiral of their dynamic without noticing.
“Of course not. Nothing in your life ever has been,” Alfred conceded. “But perhaps for that very reason… you should consider that, in this rare instance, complicating things will only condemn you to stay exactly where you are.”
Bruce knew Alfred would understand if he explained it all—the confession Clark had made to him in the League’s meeting room, everything that had cracked open since then. Alfred wouldn’t judge what he felt. But Alfred would force him to face something worse than judgment: exposure. And Bruce wanted to avoid that at all costs.
The silence between them grew heavy, but different now—not oppressive. It was the kind of silence that lingered because there was nothing left to say. Alfred would not push further, but neither would he retract his words.
The soft hum of the computer filled the cave. Bruce’s hand curled around the teacup, as if needing to remember there was still something warm, steady, and controlled in the middle of all this.
“It’s late, Master Bruce.” Alfred said calmly as he walked away, his voice echoing in the cavern, “Do not make the mistake of believing that an honest conversation with someone like Clark Kent is a curse. You already bear enough of those.”
Bruce remained still long after Alfred was gone. Only the blinking of the monitors accompanied the almost imperceptible tremor in his hands.
He knew he would have to face it eventually. Face Clark. Face himself. And face the undeniable fact that Clark’s confession had shattered every wall he had built for protection. The tea still steamed at his side, but he didn’t drink. He rubbed his face as if that could erase the exhaustion eating at him for weeks.
He knew he wouldn’t sleep. He knew pretending to ignore the problem was already failing.
The hum of the monitors kept him company until, without thinking, his hands moved. He typed in a sequence burned into his memory. A private line. One he never used unless absolutely necessary.
Regret struck the moment Clark’s voice filled his ear.
“Bruce?” Clark’s tone was firm, but laced with concern. It would’ve been easier if Clark had spoken to Batman, not Bruce. “What’s wrong? Do you need help?” he rushed to ask.
Bruce didn’t answer right away. His pulse was a wild drumbeat in his ears, but he didn’t bother controlling it this time. No training, no mantra could save him now. Only the decision: speak, or keep rotting in silence. And yet his finger hovered over the disconnect button. He could let it all spill out—the weight, the truth, the emotion.
But he didn’t.
“I need the Metropolis reports on metahuman activity,” he said, voice dry, professional. As if that was the only reason for the call. As if it hadn’t been impulse. As if dialing Clark’s private line meant nothing at all.
He heard Clark’s quiet sigh of relief on the other end.
“Of course. I’ll send them in a few minutes,” Clark said, without questioning, without prying—probably knowing it was strange but deciding not to mention it, because that’s who he was. “If it’s urgent, I can—”
“No.” Bruce cut him off sharply, before Clark could offer more. Before Bruce could risk hearing something he couldn’t refuse. “There’s no need to come here.”
“Copy that.” Then, after a pause, a trace of concern slipping through again: “Bruce…”
But Bruce pressed the button, ending the call. Despite his failed attempt, he could still pretend to ignore it. Pretend the confession never happened.
And that was the logical choice. The one that kept everything under control. But another part of him—the one Dick had noticed, Jason had pointed out, Tim had unmasked, and Damian had judged—was screaming the opposite.
This call had been unnecessary.
The screen went dark, and Bruce’s reflection stared back at him from the black glass: weary, tense, black paint smudged around his eyes, jaw locked. His hands stayed still over the console for a moment, then clenched into fists.
He’d had the chance. He’d dialed the number. He’d taken the step. And still, he had pulled back, retreating into the only thing he knew: routine, duty, the mask.
He stood, brushed past the tea without drinking, and disappeared into the deeper shadows of the cave. If asked, he would swear the call had been strictly business.
Nothing more.
Until it wasn’t.
It happened on a mission.
Now they were Batman and Superman.
The fifteenth-floor balcony was narrow enough for only two men—if they knew how to move silently. Batman landed first, cape rippling in the dark. Superman followed, but before he could step further, he tilted his head.
“Someone inside.” he whispered, barely audible.
They needed to get into the apartment tonight. It was supposed to be the one night their target wouldn’t be home. Bruce frowned—he hadn’t seen any movement. He leaned toward, but Clark was already in motion. With a swift, precise gesture, he pushed Bruce against the balcony wall, both of them vanishing into the narrow sliver of shadow. Bruce almost protested, but the click of the balcony lock silenced him.
The door opened—it was wood, old building, swinging like any ordinary door. Someone must’ve heard something. A beam of light stretched across the balcony floor, but Bruce barely saw it.
They were forced to compress into the dead angle created by the open door against the wall. Bruce was trapped between cold stone and the solid heat of Clark’s body. The space wasn’t made for two men their size. Clark had to press closer than necessary to keep them out of sight. His arm braced against the wall beside Bruce’s head, closing the distance further.
Bruce shut his eyes, jaw tight. Any small movement could give them away. And yet, what consumed him wasn’t the risk of being discovered by their enemy—it was the risk of being discovered by Clark. How could he not? The vibration of Clark’s chest against his own, the heat radiating through his suit, the shared adrenaline, the restrained breaths. Clark’s entire body was against him, even their legs pressed together. Bruce was painfully aware of what part of his own body was now resting against Clark’s thigh.
It felt like forever before the man inside muttered something and finally decided there was no one out on the balcony. Bruce, meanwhile, was endlessly grateful for the difference in height between him and Clark—because he would never have been strong enough to endure Superman’s face being level with his for that long. Clark’s breath ghosting across his mask wasn’t ideal either, but it was a million times better.
Bruce forced himself to think of anything else. Numbers. Plans. Possibilities. None of it kept the closeness and heat from coloring his face. He wasn’t stupid, and he’d never dare claim this was unpleasant—because it wasn’t. That was the problem. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want Superman’s body pressed around theirs at least once? Even the most reserved would falter with him this close. It was unbearable—his scent, his nose almost buried in Clark’s shoulder. Earth, grass, sweat—and somehow it was the most exquisite thing Bruce had ever breathed.
Finally, the door clicked shut, and they waited another full minute just to be sure. Clark didn’t move right away. He listened for the footsteps to fade before pulling his arm back and giving space. His blue eyes dropped to Bruce’s, silently asking if he was all right.
“I heard it before we went in.” he explained quietly, natural as if nothing had been out of place.
Bruce shot him a glare, straightening. Not furious—but right on the edge of it. And he didn’t even know why.
He turned it over in his head. Then the answer came: what bothered him was being so shaken by this while Clark was just… Clark. Respectful, straightforward, utterly unaffected—even though he was the same man who had told him weeks ago that he loved him. And it bothered him even more that he had no grounds to complain, because they hadn’t spoken about it since. That made him feel worse. His whole body burned.
Well. This was why he hated dealing with sentiment—it was a damn mess.
Clark only tried to justify himself. “But they didn’t see us, right?” he said, raising his hands in surrender. He knew he’d ticked Bruce off. A small smile tugged at his mouth.
Bruce could still feel the heat in his face when he turned away, answering only: “Let’s check the rest.”
But as he moved forward, he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable certainty that Clark had heard everything. Not just the footsteps inside the apartment.
His heartbeat too.