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Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne did not want to be at this gala.

Scratch that, Bruce Wayne would have rather been interrogated by the Joker with a crow bar and Scarecrow’s fear gas than be at this gala. That should say something.

The Wayne Foundation Annual Autumn Gala was an opulent affair, full of Gotham’s elite preening over their donations and patting each other on the back for caring just enough about the city to attend this once-a-year guilt trip in tuxedos. Yes, it raised money for charity. Yes, it was technically his own event. But did he need to be here?

No. No, he did not.

Bruce stood by a decorative ice sculpture shaped like a weeping angel, fitting, and stared blankly into his whiskey glass full of cola. A string quartet played something he couldn’t quite place. His signature Brucie Wayne smile was a little too tight, his jaw clenched. Every muscle in his body screamed to change into the cowl and take out his frustrations on some alleyway muggers.

The itch to move, to do something, to punch crime in the face was overwhelming. But instead, here he was: stuck in a room full of people who couldn’t care less about actual charity.

His only consolation? The crowd was keeping a small distance from him likely due to the… incident.

Ah yes. That moment from a few weeks ago that had somehow evolved into full-blown urban legend: Bruce Wayne and Batman-dating. To be more specific- they WERE dating, past tense. And Bruce? The tragic, bitter ex left behind in a cloud of heartbreak and angst.

It had started as an offhanded joke. A reporter had asked him if supported Batman’s vigilantism- if he trusted Batman to keep Gotham safe, and Bruce, running on two hours of sleep and four espressos, had said, “Why would I trust a man in a toned down fursuit with anger issues to keep Gotham safe? Believe me, the guy can at least try to be better.” With a smirk. Because he thought he was funny.

But then he was getting asked why he would say that. The reporters swore they could hear a history hidden beneath those words- and then it clicked for them. Bruce Wayne not only knew Batman, they had been lovers. And Bruce must be feeling slighted because he was broken up with.

The next day, the Gotham Gazette ran a cover story titled:

“Wayne’s Wild Past: Did Gotham’s Playboy Date the Bat?”

Complete with a composite drawing of Batman holding Bruce bridal-style.

His children, those traitors, had loved it. Dick had changed his phone background to fanart he had come across. The others mostly laughed at him in their group chat.

But the best part? It was working in his favor. The absurdity of it all had somehow strengthened his secret identity. No one in their right mind thought Bruce Wayne, notorious billionaire himbo, could possibly be Batman if he was busy having messy breakups with the guy.

So tonight, the gala’s guests hovered at a polite distance, whispering sympathetically behind their champagne flutes.

Poor Bruce. Dumped by the Dark Knight. So tragic. So poetic.

He’d almost started to appreciate the space given- until she showed up.

“Mr. Wayne!” a voice snapped, sharp as broken glass.

He turned just in time to see Lois Lane part the crowd like an angry sea. She had her notebook out, a fire in her eyes, and a man trailing behind her looking like a dejected golden retriever. Clark Kent, of course. Looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, like perhaps under a falling building.

“Miss Lane,” Bruce said cautiously, adjusting his cufflinks. “Always a pleasure-”

“Did you,” she cut in, brandishing her pen like a dagger, “have sexual relations with the Batman?”

Silence. The kind of silence that feels like an invisible freight train has screeched to a halt in the middle of a black-tie ballroom.

Bruce’s smile flickered. He could feel the atmosphere in the room shift-the way tension and possibly anticipation filled the air. Every eye in the room was on him. His throat tightened.

Clark Kent, bless him, went pale and tried to interject. “Lois, I really don’t think-”

“No,” she snapped without breaking eye contact. “He started this. I want it on the record.”

Bruce blinked. His mind, usually an impenetrable wall of calm under pressure, chose this moment to take a vacation. Words failed him. Instead, he felt something hot prickling behind his eyes. His chest ached. His brain scrambled for solid footing and found nothing but exhaustion and a kind of brittle sadness that had been sitting quietly under the surface for days now.

It had been a rough week.

Firstly, He hadn’t slept. Not properly. The last attempt was cut short by a nightmare so vivid he’d woken up with the ghost of his parents’ screams still echoing in his ears.

Secondly, None of his kids had come to the gala. Dick had work, Jason was legally deceased, Tim had a Young Justice meeting, Damian said he’d stab the partygoers. Bruce told himself it was fine. He told himself he didn’t care. He lied.

Thirdly, Alfred had made him take painkillers for the injury he got dislocating his shoulder on a rooftop dive. The medication was… mildly disorienting.

Lastly, The Justice League had been treating him like an evil dictator lately- probably because of the “contingency plans” incident. Again.

And now, Lois Lane was asking if he’d slept with himself and it was the most humiliating moment of his week, not that anyone in the room could understand why.

Bruce surprised even himself when he hiccuped.

The room gasped.

Tears were on his face and he hadn’t even noticed them falling. A hollow sob escaped his throat and he immediately covered his face with his hands out of embarrassment-but making it look like his crying was infinitely worse.

“Oh no,” he heard Clark mutter.

Lois looked like she wanted to sink into the floor. “Oh no. Oh my God.”

People were murmuring. Cameras had been flashing. Sympathy and pity bloomed across the ballroom like an invasive weed.

Just as Bruce was about to seriously consider crawling under the refreshment table like he had when he was five, a hand found his elbow. Warm, steady, familiar.

Alfred.

“Come, Master Bruce,” Alfred murmured with the calm of a man who had dealt with billionaire tantrums, Bat-trauma, and far too many Brucie Wayne moments. “Let’s get you out of the spotlight.”

Bruce didn’t resist. He let himself be led away, the voices behind him fading into white noise. He let himself dissociate.

The next thing Bruce knew, he was in the study.

The crackling fireplace bathed the room in warm orange light. His shoes had somehow vanished. A cup of tea steamed gently on the side table next to him. Alfred was seated beside him on the couch, one hand resting comfortingly on Bruce’s head, thumb brushing slow, rhythmic traces through his hair like he was trying to calm a small child instead a six foot hunk of vigilante justice.

Bruce wasn’t crying anymore, which was good. He was, however, extremely embarrassed, which was arguably worse.

“I made it weird,” he muttered.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said gently, “you were already the ex of your own alter ego. I fear the threshold of ‘weird’ was passed quite some time ago.”

Bruce groaned and buried his face in a throw pillow. “She asked if I slept with myself, Alfred. And I just… short-circuited.”

“I believe the phrase you’re looking for is ‘mental breakdown,’ sir.”

“Not helping.”

“I disagree.”

Alfred picked up his book again with a serene expression, as if Bruce having a semi-public gala meltdown was an entirely normal Thursday occurrence.

Bruce lay there, face still mashed into the couch pillow, waiting for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

No such luck.

“…Did I really just cry in front of Clark?” he asked after a long, painful silence.

“You wept in front of many people, but yes. He was among the first.”

Bruce groaned again and flopped onto his back like a fainting Victorian widow. He stared at the ornate ceiling for a while, counting the decorative carvings, trying not to think about his crumbled dignity or the current state of his public persona.

Unfortunately, his brain had other plans.

-

The rumors had taken on a life of their own in the last few weeks. Articles. Tweets. Podcasts. There was an actual fanfiction tag online now labeled “Ex Bruce Wayne/Batman.” He knew because Tim had texted him about it with a screenshot.

Jason had replied in the group chat with, “What’s Batman’s love language? Passive-aggressive rooftop brooding?” and Steph had just posted a string of crying emojis.

He had nearly chucked his phone into the Gotham River.

Still, it wasn’t all bad.

Gotham’s more obsessive conspiracy theorists had pivoted completely. There was a YouTube video, nineteen minutes long, claiming Bruce Wayne couldn’t be Batman because “he’s clearly still heartbroken and Batman has emotionally moved on.” Someone had made a timeline of the relationship up to the breakup.

And weirdly? No one was trying to unmask Batman anymore. They were too busy theorizing about what the Bat saw in Bruce, whether they’d ever get back together, and how the Bat was like when in a relationship. 

So yes. It was humiliating. But it was working.

The irony of being his own ex-lover was not lost on him.

-

He sighed and finally took a sip of the tea. It had just the right amount of honey and lemon. He didn’t deserve Alfred. But then again, no one did.

“Sir?” Alfred said after a long pause.

“Hm?”

“You have guests.”

Bruce blinked. “I do?”

He hadn’t heard the doorbell. He hadn’t even heard footsteps.

“Are you okay, B?” Dick called from the doorway, striding in with all the confidence of someone who hadn’t RSVP’d and was clearly here for moral support and drama. “We saw the footage.”

“We?” Bruce said miserably.

“Yeah,” Jason said, following behind him and flopping into a chair. “But you really committed to the bit. Like, deadass. Tears. Chest-heaving sobs. Dramatic exit. Ten out of ten.”

“I wasn’t exactly… performing.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, already pulling out his phone. “Gotham Weekly called it the most vulnerable Bruce Wayne moment since the fountain incident.”

Damian strode in last, arms crossed. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had simply denied the accusations.”

The room dissolved into mild chaos as they all began bickering, loudly and with increasing volume. Somewhere in the background, Alfred calmly refilled Bruce’s tea and quietly left the room.

And despite the disaster, despite the embarrassment, despite the headlines and the memes sure to come and the emotional whirlwind that was his life, Bruce smiled.

For the first time all night, he felt better.

-

Alfred placed another plate on the table. “If it’s any consolation, sir, you’ve become a queer icon overnight.”

Bruce blinked. “What?”

Alfred calmly passed him a printout of a trending Twitter thread titled:

“10 Reasons Bruce Wayne Is the Bisexual Disaster We Deserve 💔🦇”

“Number six says you cry hot,” Dick offered helpfully, scrolling through his phone.

Bruce reached for his tea again and seriously considered walking into the sea.

Unfortunately, the day only got worse.

-

First, the Justice League called a meeting.

Diana sighed. “The League’s official position is neutrality. But public pressure is mounting, and honestly? You may want to consider… leaning in.”

Bruce lifted his head. “Leaning in?”

“To the narrative,” she said gently. “The story is already out there. Maybe it’s time to control it. Use it. There’s power in vulnerability.”

Bruce stared at her like she had asked him to swallow a live bat. “You want me as Batman to embrace being the ex who spurned Bruce Wayne?”

Hal grinned. “You’d be the most powerful gay disaster in Gotham.”

“I already am!” He paused. “That’s not the point.”

“Wait what-?” Hal tried to ask.

“Maybe not,” Clark said, stepping in. “But… maybe it’s not the worst thing, B. You’ve been alone for a long time. This persona, this heartbreak, oddly makes people see you as more… human.”

Bruce hated how that made his chest ache a little.

He hated it even more when he realized they were probably right.

-

By the time he got back to Gotham, there were murals. Murals.

Under one was a Batman symbol and a broken heart.

Somehow, this had become endearing.

And Bruce… Bruce gave up.

He leaned in.

He released an official statement.

“Mr. Wayne has no comment on past relationships but wishes Batman the best in his future endeavors.”

Gotham lost its mind.

His life was still ridiculous. His image was in shambles. But for the first time in a long time, people weren’t treating him like some otherworldly being, with and without the suit.

They saw Bruce Wayne and Batman as a pair of men going through an emotional breakup. Not the billionaire mask. Not the bat in the shadows. Just human.

It was… oddly freeing.

Even if it meant people thought he’d been dumped by a man in a bat costume.

Chapter Text

The rumors would not die.

They were everywhere- talk shows, villain forums, Gotham’s criminal grapevine:

Bruce Wayne and Batman had broken up.

Broken. Up. Because he managed to fabricate a relationship (a past one at least) with his own alter ego.

Bruce Wayne had cried at a gala. Batman had refused to comment. The city, naturally, assumed the world’s greatest detective had dumped the himbo prince of Gotham.

As stupid as it all sounded, the consequences were anything but.

Because now, to get revenge on Batman- or win him back, depending on which brand of lunatic you asked- villains had started targeting Bruce Wayne.

And his kids could only take over the Batman mantle to save him so many times before they got sick of it.

So tonight, as Watchtower patrol duty began, Bruce sat at the main console, typing with the tension of a man calculating exactly how many crimes would solve his emotional spiral.

The doors hissed open.

“Evening,” Clark said, stepping in with that easy warmth Bruce had no business finding comfort in.

“Superman,” Batman said without turning.

Clark took his usual spot beside him- close, but never too close. Respectful. Careful. God, he was so careful around Batman these days.

Probably because he thought Bruce was heartbroken all because of him.

Batman swallowed that thought and focused on the screen.

He had a task to do. A horrible one. A humiliating one.

“Superman,” he said, voice pitched steady. “I need you to do something.”

Clark perked up, looking at him. “Of course.”

“I need you to-” Bruce paused. He hated every millisecond of this. “Take over… rescuing Bruce Wayne.”

Clark blinked. “What?”

“If a villain targets Bruce Wayne again- which they will- I’d greatly appreciate it if you could take over the rescue. He’s become a repeated kidnapping target due to… rumors.” He forced the next words out. “…personal rumors.”

Clark stared at him, hurt blooming between his brows. “Batman… you’re really going so far as to let a meta in Gotham just so you don’t have to deal with personal matters, prioritizing your comfort over a civilians safety?”

Bruce froze.

Clark’s voice remained soft, but edged with something Bruce had never heard directed at him: disappointment.

“I… would have thought you were above that.”

The words hit Bruce harder than any kryptonite punch.

He could handle anger. Accusation. Condemnation.

But not Clark Kent sounding disappointed in him.

Not over something this stupid.

Bruce’s throat went tight. He stood from the chair, gloves creaking. “I- this isn’t- Kal, this entire situation is out of hand and I- dammit.”

He could not take that look. Not for another second.

The cowl came off before he could reconsider.

Clark’s eyes widened so dramatically Bruce was briefly concerned they’d launch out of his skull.

“…Bruce?” Clark whispered.

“Yeah,” Bruce said flatly. “I’m Bruce Wayne. Batman was never dating Bruce Wayne. Batman is Bruce Wayne. There is no breakup. Or… god forbid… sex with myself.”

Clark’s face went through at least nine separate emotional stages in three seconds: confusion, relief, horror, longing, confusion again, embarrassment, something that looked suspiciously like hope, then back to horrified.

Bruce stared at him, waiting for anything- words, yelling, hell- even a punch.

He got silence.

Painful, absolute silence.

“Okay,” Bruce muttered finally. “Going back to work, then.”

He sat, re-opened the console, and pretended not to feel Clark staring at him like he’d just revealed he was three raccoons in a trench coat.

Bruce told himself he wasn’t sad.

(He was a liar.)

Several minutes passed.

Then a gentle, warm hand touched his shoulder.

It froze Bruce in place.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched like that.

“Bruce,” Clark said softly.

Bruce’s heart did something illegal.

“What?” he managed, half-turning, half-focusing on reconfiguring his firewall so that Red Robin would stop breaking into it to rearrange his desktop icons.

Clark hesitated. Then:

“…why did Lois asking whether you… had sex with yourself make you cry?”

Bruce stood so fast the chair skidded backward.

“Nope,” he said, already walking toward the exit. “Nope. I am not doing this. I’m leaving-”

“Bruce-”

“-To commit innumerous unforgivable crimes or to kill myself,” he announced briskly. “I’ll decide which on the way.”

Before Clark could follow, Alfred’s voice crackled over the comm.

“I’ve just checked your schedule, Master Bruce, and you are thoroughly booked. There’s not even a second to spare for you to die.”

Bruce stopped. Sighed.

“Innumerous unforgivable crimes it is.”

Clark caught him by the cape before Gotham’s most dangerous vigilante could go do god-knows-what to god-knows-who.

“Bruce,” Clark said, and, unfairly, laughed. “Your face.”

Bruce considered elbowing him. Lightly. Maybe.

Instead he glared. “Let go.”

“No,” Clark said, still laughing. “I’m not letting you commit, what was it? Crimes? Plural?”

“Innumerous,” Bruce corrected darkly.

Clark laughed again- warm, bright, stupidly fond.

The Watchtower suddenly felt too small.

When Clark sobered, he stepped closer- close enough that Bruce could feel the warmth radiating off him. “I… should tell you something too. Who I am… my name is-”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You’re Clark Kent. Yes, I know.”

Clark froze.

Then sputtered.

“You-you already-? How did you-?!”

Bruce allowed himself one- just one- smirk.

“Clark. Your ‘cover’ is glasses and an oversized suit.”

He’s probably better off not mentioning how obsessed he is with the man.

Clark’s stunned silence was worth every humiliating minute of the night.

“…okay,” Clark said eventually. “Fair. That’s… fair.”

They stood there, staring at each other, Bruce’s cape still trapped in Clark’s gentle grip.

It felt like something shifting. Something inevitable.

“So,” Clark said, voice dipping low and hopeful, “now that we’re… both being honest… do you want to maybe-?”

“Yes,” Bruce said without hesitation.

“You didn’t even let me ask.”

“I know what you were going to ask,” Bruce said. “Yes.”

Clark’s grin could have powered Metropolis.

“Tomorrow night?” Clark asked.

Bruce nodded. “Tomorrow.”

“Dinner or patrol?”

Bruce hesitated. “…both?”

Clark laughed again and tugged him just a little closer.

“Both,” he agreed.

And for once, Bruce Wayne didn’t feel so stupid about the whole situation he had gotten himself into.

He felt like maybe, just maybe, things were about to get better.

(That is… until the SuperBat and Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne shippers catch wind of their dates- but that doesn’t even compare really- at least those are all founded in truth.)