Funniest switch up on tiktok recently is the “Reddit aita stories read by a robot voice to Minecraft parkour” posts being slowly replaced with superbat tumblr fics instead, and people in the comments being like “I’ve never thought about Batman and Superman kissing until now but now I’m invested”
I fucking love a Clark Kent that's carved from sunshine and refuses to forfeit his hope and faith in humanity, but ONE OF THESE FUCKING DAYS MAN, one of these fucking days I hope to see him with that wolfish grin smile, bared wide and voice shaking, " I'm gonna laser the next person I fucking see I swear to GOD"
And for Battinson to calmly tap his shoulder. "Hello."
Then it's back to Kansas apple pie boy, " Oh my god! Bruce, hi!"
SuperBat/ClarkBruce (Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne or Superman/Batman)
Warnings: none!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He knows strange. He’s a superpowered alien who’s friends with more superpowered aliens, and give or take a couple of regular guys. He saves the world as frequently as the average human brushes their teeth; at least twice a day if they’re good ones.
Humans, that is. Good humans. Yes. He knows strange. He knows how to live with it, to adapt and to condition. He prides himself on this - on his abilities, his connections, his identity; his Kryptonian and Smallville roots alike. He knows strange. He gets over strange.
But this? This is different.
This is the first time anything even remotely close to intimacy (along with permanence) has weasled its way into poor old Clark Kent’s lousy little life. But then again, this isn’t Clark Kent.
Clark Kent is not bundled up in a thousand-dollar duvet, nor is he bombarded with the scent of expensive shower gel and the slight hint of blood. It is not Clark Kent who carefully opens his eyes to gaze upon his morning companion, just as it is not the billionaire playboy on last week’s front pages of both The Planet and The Gazette’s papers who shifts in his sleep, perceptive even when essentially unconscious.
No, it is not Clark Kent. It is not Superman. It is not Brucie and it is not The Bat.
It’s just Kal, who isn’t from around here. And Bruce, who decided to change that.
Kal (he prefers Clark, although he can’t help but recall the jolt of energy which coursed through him that night when Bruce had referred to him by his traditional, given name) knows strange, yes. And this? This should be strange. And really, it is, technically. It is strange that the man with the great big ‘S’ on his chest has slept in, and has awoken to find himself in the grip of not an enemy, but of his teammate and good friend - very good friend.
His mind drifts to the headline, and he feels himself smile softly into the filtering sunlight. Who knew the Dark Knight left his blinds open in a show of admittance toward the morning sun? Perhaps it was for him? For Clark Kent? The thought would have melted him, had the sun not been rejuvenating him.
‘BRUCE WAYNE: THE BISEXUAL(!?) BILLIONAIRE IS NOW IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH AN OUT-OF-TOWN REPORTER - CLARK KENT?’
He won’t tell the man beside him - the same one who he has yet to become accustomed to the hardcore cuddling skills of because, really - Batman? A cuddler? - that he has The Planet’s article stowed away somewhere in the depths of his apartment, but he’s sure he already knows.
Jason has it framed in his rarely inhabited room in the manor, where the Superman just so happens to be; the place where he engages in procedures such as sparring with Batman and talking over important data and JLA operatives and beating him in Mahjong and watching him brood before offering to take him to that fancy Mexican place that makes the country boy feel impoverished and very, very white, all before fighting over the love life of his third adopted son and subsequently tiring each other out by entirely unrelated means down in the master bedroom - you know, the usual teammate stuff.
And it’s strange that the pair of them should be able to engage in such behavior. It really is, but it isn’t bad. It means that the world is changing and, however daunting change may be, this change is for the best. Earth is reforming at long last, and the World’s Finest are a very, very large part of this executed eventuality. And so they find solace in this, in the sum of the fortune which they have waited years upon years to be repayed.
That article was published three years ago on a Monday morning. This day exactly, Clark thinks. It was strange then. So new and so fragile. And it is fragile still. However, he has now come to the realization that it is not strange to sink into the arms of your lover in the shining light of the early morning.
Superhero or not, Kal who is long since from around here has that right, and he is perfectly aware of it. It is not strange for Bruce Wayne to be faithful, to be happy and to be healthy; for Batman to finally find the right notes in the harmony, to work with his team - with his beloved.
It is not strange when Clark buries his nose into soft, dark hair so very similar to his own and yet completely, devastatingly unique. It is not strange when he allows his eyes to flutter shut and to focus on the stuttering heartbeat of Bruce Wayne as he awakes, groggily grasping his partner’s forearm and leading it to lay atop his muscular abdomen. No, it really isn’t strange.
“I love you,” Clark says, slightly still hampered. Even without any super capabilities, he can see Bruce smile. Who knew Batman smiled? Kal.
Kal did.
“Mmh,” is his reply. Bruce leans into the tender kiss which is planted on his temple as his Superman holds him close, like Clark is afraid his Bat will fly too close to the big ball of light right before their window. Clark loves him. He hates to quote his cousin, but Great Rao does he love him.
Batman falls deeper into his silk pillows and almost nuzzles his way somewhat under Superman’s head, his hot breath on the shell of the man’s ear.
“Kal,” he whispers.
“Mmh,” said man grins, opening his eyes. He is met by eyes the color of the sky after … a hurricane. And that- that is okay. He loves him.
Bruce brings a large hand up to his face - cradles him, the near invulnerable Man of Steel - and brings their lips together in a sweet, lingering kiss. It’s more effective than any dosage of morning coffee. “Kal." His eyes flutter closed while he breathes against Clark, lashes brushing his bruised cheekbones.
“Clark,” he inhales. “Clark, I believe- I believe I have to marry you.”
A beat. A few more, with the appearance of some particularly chatty birds down below in the courtyard outside. Clark grins widely, pointedly gazing into the dark circles of his fiance’s shut eyes.
“Have to?
The man sighs, running a hand down the entirety of his bone structure - which is very good, even Superman says so - before meeting Clark's eyes once more. Bruce grumbles, but Clark knows him, knows the raw sincerity in his rasp and the emotion in his clear eyes. “I want to, Clark. I want to marry you.”
No, he tells himself, knows himself. It isn’t strange at all.
“Then I guess I’ll have to make a trip to the thrift shop for a new suit,” Clark kisses his future husband, “Something vintage, maybe ‘73?”
Bruce scoffs. “I retract my offer.”
“Well, I retract your retraction!”
“You can’t-”
“I’m calling Dick.”
“Clark-”
“I’m calling Jason. I'm getting up to do it right now."
Little Superbat fic I wrote tonight because they're soft and Bruce deserves to be a secret sap
“That’s stupid.”
Clark resisted the urge to roll his eyes, settling instead for sending his boyfriend a wry, exasperated look. Bruce didn’t even glance at him, eyes glued to the movie he’d spent the last hour and a half ruthlessly critiquing.
And sure, it was an old cheesy romcom, not exactly something that required a whole lot of concentration and certainly not something he and Bruce would usually turn on, but after the week he’d had Clark just wanted something mindless to fill the silence while he let himself unwind.
Bruce had been busy with a case, and Clark had expected him to be too caught up in his own head to even notice there was something playing.
Evidently not. He’d spent nearly the entire time pointing out every little flaw, every plot hole, every contradiction of this poor movie that had probably come out before he was even a teenager.
It was, Clark reluctantly admitted to himself, a little endearing and worlds more entertaining than the movie itself.
“It’s not stupid,” Clark argued, only half paying attention to the predictably sappy scene on the screen. “It’s romantic.”
“Running through the airport for someone is not romantic,” Bruce said. “It’s obsessive and creepy.”
“I don’t think you and your contingency plans are in any place to talk about obsessive and creepy.”
Bruce scowled, but his focus stayed firmly fixated on the movie. “It’s a ridiculous trope.”
“It’s a grand romantic gesture.”
“It’s unrealistic,” Bruce insisted. “The airport. You can’t get past security without a boarding pass. You’d have to buy a ticket just to get to any of the terminals.”
Clark glanced at him. “Have you ever even flown commercially?”
“A few times,” Bruce admitted, his voice clipped, not bothering to hide his displeasure at the fact. “I prefer to fly myself. I don’t like airports.”
“I know, B.”
“The Batwing is faster than any commercial airline.”
“Uh huh.”
“I wouldn’t run through the airport,” Bruce continued, like his distaste of this romantic trope was a hill he needed to die on. “I wouldn’t go to an airport at all. It’s a stupid idea. I wouldn’t even be able to find their flight.”
This time Clark gave into the urge and rolled his eyes, turning back to the movie. “You could ask.”
“That ruins the point of showing up unannounced,” Bruce said. “I’d have to get through the gates, I’d have to know what time their flight was, what terminal- it’s insane.”
“It’s just a movie, Bruce,” Clark said, doing his best to hide the amused smile he couldn’t quite suppress. “Believe it or not, some people actually like this kind of stuff.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Bruce muttered again, crossing his arms. “I’d do it for you, obviously. But still.”
“You—” It took Clark a moment to register the words, the meaning, but when he did he felt that familiar pleasant tug at his heart, doing nothing to stop the grin spreading across his face, that light giddy feeling Bruce managed to pull from him at the most unexpected times spreading across his chest. All he could manage was a soft, “Oh,”
Bruce finally turned to him, eyebrow raised, scanning his face almost skeptically. “What?”
“No, it’s just…” he trailed off, smile softening as he reached forward to take Bruce’s hand in his own, squeezing gently. “That’s very sweet, B.”
Bruce just grunted, eyes dropping to his lap, but there was color dancing along his cheeks now. “I’d end the world for you. I can handle getting past airport security.”
Clark just laughed, soft and easy, letting their hands rest where they were, warm and intertwined. “You’re adorable.”
“Hn.” He turned his attention back to the movie, the next few moments passing in comfortable silence before he spoke again. “I still think it’s stupid when they do it in the movies.”
“It is a little.”
“They might let me through security without a boarding pass,” Bruce mused, ignoring Clark’s chuckling. “Especially the Gotham Airport.”
Clark gave up on watching the rest of the movie, turning his full attention to his boyfriend. “They might.”
“Well,” Bruce said, leaning back against the couch cushions. “We’ll just have to see if you ever decide to run away and catch an impromptu flight across the country.”
“I can fly, Bruce,” Clark reminded him, raising their joined hands to place a chaste kiss to Bruce’s knuckles. He smiled, catching blue eyes before softly adding, “And I’m not going anywhere without you.”
Does anyone have any pre-identity superbat fics where Clark meets Bruce and some how sees Bruce with his x ray vision and just sees him riddled with scars and broken bones and bullet wounds and is just like…???
Summary: Somniphobia: The irrational fear of falling asleep
Bruce has to protect them. It doesn't matter how long he's been awake, it doesn't matter how exhausted he is. He's never safe when he shuts his eyes. No one is. Why can't they understand that?
Notes: Superbat, Justice League as a family, tw for panic attacks, nightmares, and Bruce having lots of issues
also this got deleted but it's back now!
If Bruce was in a better mood, he might have teased Clark over his choice of car. Really, it would have been less ridiculous if they’d all just taken separate vehicles.
As it was, Batman driving a minivan full of exhausted superheroes through the desolate countryside wasn’t something anyone was finding a way to make light of right now. It was a testament to how grim their situation was that Barry hadn’t even cracked a joke when Bruce had kicked Superman out of the driver’s seat, and Clark had slid over to the passenger side without a word.
Flash had, however, complained for the first fifteen minutes of the drive, fidgety and restless where he was sat in between Green Lantern and Aquaman, insisting that it would be safer if Bruce gave him the address so he could scope the place out before the rest of the league arrived.
“Absolutely not,” Clark had said, clearly run ragged with the weight on his shoulders, voice tighter than he usually would have allowed. “Like Diana said, we need to limit using our powers as much as we can. We have no idea how they’ve been tracking us, we can’t risk it.”
“But we can't just–”
Batman had met his eyes in the rearview mirror, leveling Flash with a steely glare, and Barry had immediately shut his mouth without further complaint.
Really, as if Bruce would ever bring them somewhere that could be compromised.
He’d lost track of how long they’d been driving for, the world outside of the road in front of him blurring dangerously, but he knew the way to all of his safehouses like the back of his hand. It had to be pushing six hours or so by now, the sky darkening to a sea of orange and gray as the sun sank behind the endless scenery of dark forest.
Bruce hadn’t been this exhausted in a long time. He was used to going days without sleep, night after night spent patrolling Gotham’s streets, but the last week had taken a toll on all of them.
The Justice League had been kept on their toes, running from battle to battle for four days straight, their enemy always two steps ahead, never giving them a chance to rest. The Watchtower had been compromised and the founding members of the League had been sent running, left on the defensive without a solid plan of attack.
They needed to lay low as long as they could, gather their bearings and come up with a plan before someone got killed. Nobody was thrilled about it, sitting back and waiting when a hostile force could change tactics and start targeting innocents at any moment, but there wasn’t much of a choice until they figured out what it was they were up against.
Hence the minivan with tinted windows, and Bruce driving them to one of his remote safehouses. He’d done everything in his power to ensure they weren’t being tracked or followed, and the roads were desolate, but he hadn’t let himself drop his guard for a second.
Clark and Diana had both offered to drive several times, worry lacing into their tones as they tried to coax him into pulling over, but he’d barely offered them a word of response, shrugging off their concern and keeping his eyes fixated on the road, stubbornly ignoring the way the right one had begun to twitch.
Most of the others managed to doze off a bit during the car ride, Bruce able to breathe just a bit easier each time he saw one of them sleeping soundly, even if it was only for a few minutes. Even Clark managed to rest his eyes when it became clear Batman had no intention of willingly giving up the wheel.
Bruce was used to running himself this thin. He’d been burning the candle at both ends his entire life, he could handle a few more days. He’d rest when the Justice League was safely back in the Watchtower where they belonged.
“We’re here,” Bruce said, turning the van onto the dirt road. He ignored the spike of guilt in his chest when Hal jolted awake at his words. “Get in as quickly as you can, then check and make sure every door and window is locked.”
They all went without argument, Clark and Arthur moving around to the trunk to bring in what little supplies they’d managed to grab. Bruce slowly made his rounds along the outside of the cabin, scanning the walls and the ground, double and triple checking for any signs of life.
There shouldn’t be anyone around for miles, the cabin one of his more secluded safehouses, and everything seemed to be just as untouched as it was when he’d left it last. They hadn’t been followed, he’d been doing this long enough to know when he was being tailed, and they had a decent vantage point in case anyone did try to ambush them. Still, it never hurt to be wary.
The rest of the team was already inside by the time he slipped through the front door and locked it behind him, (Three locks. All of his safehouses had three sets of locks.) all of them doing exactly what he’d said and checking every window latch and every back door. Bruce could feel Superman’s eyes on him, scanning his movements for any sign of fatigue, but he refused to waver under Clark’s gaze.
He was fine. He’d been hiding his entire life, disappearing in order to survive, weaving lies and shadows to everyone who laid eyes on him. A situation like this wasn’t something that was entirely unfamiliar.
He just wasn’t used to having other people to worry about.
He should feel better this time. There were people here he trusted with his life, people who had proven time and time again that they had his back as much as he had theirs, capable heroes who could hold their own no matter what the world threw at him.
Instead, it was only sending his thoughts spiraling farther downward than they would have if he’d been alone. Too many things could go wrong. Too many people could get hurt. One wrong move could mean he loses a teammate. One bad decision could get his friends killed.
This was exactly why he worked alone.
“We should be safe here for a couple days at least,” Bruce said . Should be. They had to be. “I’ll keep an eye on things and make sure we don’t have any company. The sooner we come up with a plan the better.”
“Nice place,” Hal commented, plopping onto the flimsy armchair in the corner of the main room. Bruce didn’t think that thing had ever been sat on before now. “If it wasn’t for the impending doom, this might actually be a nice getaway.”
“It is a nice view,” Wonder Woman agreed. Bruce rubbed his temples, barely registering their words through the mush his brain was quickly melting into. “Right now all we can do is wait for J’onn to get back to us with more information. Until then, we all need to get some rest. We’ll be useless in battle run ragged like this.”
“She’s right.”
Bruce did his best to tune back in as Superman voiced his agreement, a shudder of relief falling over the rest of the team, but his mind was stuck elsewhere.
This was one of the largest safehouses he had access to, but there was still the question of having enough room for everyone. The manor would have easily been able to house all of them, but putting Alfred or the kids at unnecessary risk was out of the question.
It would be a bit cramped here, but it was far better than wearing themselves thin staying on the run, or dead on the battlefield. Though he’d never willingly admit it, he was beyond grateful to be out of that damn car, his stiff legs still protesting every little movement.
They’d need to take shifts throughout the night. Bruce had no plans to leave his post or drop his guard anytime soon, but he could admit to himself that he wasn’t running at full capacity. He could use a second pair of eyes tonight. Not to mention he still needed to take stock of what supplies they had left, and gauge whether or not it was safe enough to make the drive into town to pick up more food or water or tools.
Bruce knew how to remain unseen, blend into a crowd and slip in and out unnoticed, but the idea of leaving the cabin for even a few minutes sent a rush of alarm shooting down his spine.
Then again, sending someone else would mean one of them would be alone and defenseless, and Bruce wouldn’t be able to have eyes on a member of his team. They could be followed or hurt or captured, and Bruce would have no idea.
He could send Barry, he’d be in and out in the blink of an eye and nobody would even notice, but that would mean using his powers, running the risk of being tracked down, and they couldn’t take that chance either.
Which meant they’d need to hold off on making the trip for now, and hope they had enough supplies for all of them. Bruce always kept his safehouses stocked, always prepared for the worst, but he only ever planned on one person using them at a time. Two at most, if he and Dick managed to get caught up in something together.
There were countless other things to worry about, whirling around his scattered mind like a torn up checklist. He should make another round of the house, double and triple check his security, maybe even scan the surrounding woods again just to make sure they weren’t being watched. After that, he still needed to–
“Batman?”
Bruce blinked, careful not to make it too obvious that he’d completely lost track of the conversation. They were all staring at him, expectant and a little concerned, and Bruce ignored the frustration threatening to rise up in his chest. He’d usually never let himself zone out like this, and he felt a spark of panic flicker to life in his chest. He couldn’t afford to be off his game, not when the situation was so dire. Not when he had so many people relying on him.
“There’s two beds,” he explained, taking a wild guess as to what they were asking him. He had the odd sensation that he was floating, his voice far away to his own ears. God, he was so tired. “One in the bedroom down the hall, one in the loft upstairs. You can all work out who’s getting the couch. I’ll keep watch for the first few hours, but after that I need you to start taking shifts so I can handle some work around the house. I’ll need at least one of you to help me go over–”
“Batman,” Clark said again, more forceful this time, and he almost looked surprised when Bruce snapped his mouth shut. He didn’t have the energy to try to talk over Superman right now. “You’re sleeping first. We can handle the rest.”
Bruce hoped the way his panic skyrocketed wasn’t as obvious as it felt, silently grateful he still hadn’t removed his cowl. Not that it would do anything to deter the alien who could hear his heartbeat from across an ocean. “No.”
“You need to sleep,” Diana said, the princess leaned far too casually against the kitchen counter, like she didn’t expect this to turn into much of a debate. “We can handle whatever it is that needs to be done, go on and get some rest.”
“You all need to sleep more than I do,” Bruce argued. He was the one who was used to pulling all-nighters, running himself into the ground, being pushed forward by nothing but fear and spite. “I have work to do.”
“What work?” Clark asked. His voice was soft, treading carefully, and Bruce was quickly becoming sick of being treated like a cornered animal. His skin was crawling, but snapping and creating an unnecessary argument was the last thing any of them needed. “Checking inventory and keeping watch? Any of us can handle that, it doesn’t have to be you.”
“It’s my safehouse.”
“This isn’t our first rodeo, Bats.” Hal was smirking at him from across the room, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes, shoulders held far too tense for his nonchalance to be genuine. “Seriously, man. We got this, go lay down. You look like shit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine,” Diana said, voice tilting towards something that teetered dangerously between affectionate and authoritative. “All of us managed to sleep in the car, and I know you. You didn’t get a chance to sleep before any of this started, did you?”
And Bruce… didn’t have an argument for that. Because she was right. Just before the League had called him in to deal with what turned into an endless week of dodging extraterrestrial attack after extraterrestrial attack, he’d been trapped in a game of cat and mouse with Joker, keeping him on his toes for two nights in a row before he finally sent the clown back to his Arkham cell.
He’d managed to snag maybe an hour and a half after that, dumping himself unceremoniously on the couch in the early afternoon sun before Alfred shook him awake to inform him of Superman's distress call.
But that was his job. He was supposed to be able to handle this.
And he could, he was fine. They’d stay here a day or so, two or three at the most, and Bruce would keep himself occupied watching the treeline and working on a way to understand their new enemies and locate a weakness.
It would be over soon enough, and then he could go home and… and maybe try to find time for a nap. Maybe. He was sure he could spare a couple of hours at most before his next patrol.
“I’m fine,” he said again, but it sounded weak, his strength fading. The exhaustion was finally catching up to him now that attention was being called to his less than ideal sleep schedule, weighing him down, every little movement making his chest ache. The pressure behind his eyes was building, his throat tight, and Bruce quickly bit back the helpless frustration.
He was supposed to be able to handle this. How was he supposed to keep his team safe if he couldn’t even handle a little fatigue?
But they were all still looking at him, unrelenting, and Bruce knew he wasn’t going to get off that easy. He took a steadying breath, blinking a few times to clear his tilting vision. “I can’t… I can’t risk it. You’re not used to this like I am, you all need to sleep. We don’t have time to argue like this.”
“Nobody here is sleeping until you do,” Flash said, and Bruce’s heart sank. “If you’re staying up so are we.”
“That’s not fair.”
“And it’s not fair for you to stay up and do all the work,” Diana said. “You already drove us here, we wouldn’t have a safe place to go if it was not for you. You’ve done enough today. Please. Before you collapse.”
Bruce wanted to argue, wanted to point out every little danger, everything that could possibly go wrong, everything that he needed to stay awake to prevent. He wanted to throw every worst case scenario in Wonder Woman’s face, the probability of them being attacked while Batman was asleep and unable to help, until she relented and let him get back to work.
He wanted to fight, because the idea of letting himself be defenseless in a house full of people with danger looming in every corner, the next attack inevitable, made his vision hazy with a new wave of uncontrollable fear.
But he was so tired. He couldn’t find it in himself to even open his mouth again, his entire body lethargic and slow.
There was a hand on his shoulder, gently gripping the heavy material of his suit. Bruce flinched before he could stop himself, shoulders hunching under the other’s stares, blinking as he registered Superman now standing at his side, refusing to pull his hand away. Bruce found himself silently grateful for the steadying warmth.
“Hey,” he said, achingly soft as he gestured to the door at the end of the hall. “Come into the bedroom with me for a second, okay?”
Bruce averted his gaze, staring stubbornly at the wall. “You can’t order me to sleep.”
“I’m not ordering you to do anything.” Clark’s grounding touch was somehow making Bruce feel more weightless, but he couldn’t bring himself to shove him away. “I’m asking you to come sit down with me.”
He’d like to think that if he was more awake, if his head was clearer, he would have refused, twisted out of Superman’s hold and stalked out the door until everyone gave up and just left him alone.
But he’d never been able to deny Clark Kent anything, had he?
He grumbled a barely audible “Fine,” adamantly not looking at any of them as he pushed his way past Superman, making his way down the hall and into the small bedroom as quickly as he could.
Clark was right behind him, gently shutting the bedroom door as Bruce hovered in the middle of the room, glowering at the double bed up against the wall like it had personally offended him, like it was laced with traps or poison.
Which was stupid. It was his bed.
Clark didn’t say anything for the moment, carefully crossing the room to put a gentle hand on the small of Bruce’s back, never forceful or unwanted, guiding Batman towards the edge of the bed like he was trying to coax a wild animal into a crate.
“Clark,” Bruce tried, hating the way his voice broke. “I can’t—
“Just for a minute,” Superman said, and Bruce didn’t fight when he was eased down onto the mattress. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”
“I’m fine,” he insisted, even as his vision tunneled the second he made contact with the bed, the longing to lay down and close his eyes forever nearly overwhelming. “I can’t… Clark, I have to keep watch. We don’t know if we’re safe here.”
“We’re as safe as we can be for now,” Clark said. “And the rest of us can handle it. We’re a team, B. It doesn’t always have to be you.”
“Something could happen.” Bruce’s heart was racing, breathing coming too fast as every possible outcome flooded his mind, every bloodstain and cry of pain and gunshot he’d be too slow to save them from. He knew Clark could hear it, the wild racing in his chest, knew he was honed onto Batman’s rising panic, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. “While I’m asleep they… something could–”
“Then we’ll wake you up,” Superman said, steady as ever. Bruce never would have let himself fall apart like this in front of anyone else. “I think we’ll be alright for the night, Bruce. But if we’re not, you can’t help us if you’re dead on your feet. We need you sharp.”
Bruce closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath, feeling almost childish, small and vulnerable. “I know.”
“Then you need to rest,” Clark said. “Let me help you, Bruce. Please.”
Bruce didn’t agree, not out loud anyway, but he didn’t stop Clark’s hands from slowly removing Batman’s cape, gloves, and boots, carefully undoing the belt and chest piece, his movements gentle and steady like he was handling a delicate piece of glass. Bruce’s face burned, shame and frustration waging war in his sluggish mind, but he just clenched his jaw and refused to look up from the floor, well aware his own hands were far too shaky to undo his suit right now.
It was only when Clark moved to pull off the cowl that Bruce jerked back, gripping Clark’s wrist before he even registered he was moving.
“No,” he growled, tugging protectively at his mask, his hold trembling and weak. “No, I… someone- someone could–”
“I understand,” Superman said, and Bruce dropped his hand. It was terrifying sometimes, just how much he trusted Clark. “You can keep it on, that’s alright. Just lay down for me, okay?”
He didn’t have the energy to protest anymore, even as that frantic voice in the back of his head screamed at him to get up, get up, don’t you dare drop your guard for a second. You’ll get them all killed. You’ll lose someone again.
“There you go,” Clark said, and Bruce definitely would have had something to say about his coddling if he had the strength. “I’ll keep an eye on things, I promise. Nothing’s going to happen, you can rest.”
Bruce hummed, lips pressed into a tight line as he was eased back against the blessedly soft pillows, a thin blanket draped over the remaining armor on his chest. “Ten minutes. Then wake me up.”
He felt more than saw Clark hesitate, his vision more than a little hazy now. “Bruce, you need at least a few hours.”
“Ten minutes.”
“Give yourself three hours,” Clark said. “I promise you'll feel better if you do.”
“I can’t be gone that long,” Bruce argued. Then, because Superman clearly wasn’t going to budge, “Twenty minutes.”
“Batman–”
“I’ve survived off less.”
“But you shouldn’t have to.” Clark sighed, visibly composing himself, and Bruce fought to keep his eyes open. “You have a team of people watching your back now, and we can look after ourselves. Nothing bad is going to happen, Bruce. We’ve got you.”
Clark didn’t get it. He didn’t understand that Bruce couldn’t. He couldn’t let go like everyone else, couldn’t drop his guard for a second, couldn’t be stupid enough to let himself rest when so much was at stake.
One wrong move would get someone killed. Just a second of hesitation could rip his world apart. Letting himself rest could mean he loses everything all over again. Someone could sneak in, get past their defenses, and incapacitate the rest of the League while Bruce was helpless- useless. Someone could hurt him in his sleep again-
“Bruce,” Clark said, in that horribly soft, understanding tone that Bruce always selfishly wanted to bask in, as if someone like him deserved that kind of comfort. “Just a few hours, okay?”
“Clark, I can't.” But he was so tired. Maybe… maybe it would be okay. Just this once. “I… half an hour.”
“Two hours.”
“Clark–”
“Two hours,” Superman repeated, but it sounded more like a plea than an order. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Two hours. So much could happen in two hours. “One hour.”
“Bruce–”
“One hour,” he snapped, surprised that he still had the strength, even as the force of his own words made him dizzy with exhaustion. “Please.”
He couldn’t handle more than that. He couldn’t–
“Alright,” Clark agreed, still sounding painfully hesitant, but Bruce let out a trembling breath of relief. “One hour. But you have to close your eyes and relax.”
“I know how sleeping works.” It would have been more effective if his words didn’t come out heavy and slurred, eyes already drooping shut despite his best efforts to level Clark with a glare.
Clark rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes I’m not sure you do.”
He didn’t give Bruce the chance to respond, not that he could have formed a coherent sentence if he tried. He heard Clark stand, Superman keeping his movements intentionally loud so Bruce would be able to track them, and he adamantly ignored the flutter in his chest at the patience he was being shown. Most people wouldn’t have bothered. Clark turned off the small lamp in the corner, shrouding the room in darkness as the moon rose outside, and slipped into the hallway, quietly shutting the door behind him.
-
Bruce could count the number of times he’d woken up slowly on one hand. He was sure there were more when he was younger, simpler times when he was safe and unafraid that he could hardly remember anymore.
But ever since that gunshot in the alleyway, waking up was something that came suddenly, bringing a wave of panic and adrenaline when he gasped awake, distant screams from whatever nightmare that had been plaguing him following him into the conscious world before everything swam back into focus, plunging him right back into a familiar state of racing paranoia and uneasiness.
Today was no different.
He’d dreamt of the League, of a losing battle, of the stench of blood and the faces of dying friends. He’d dreamt of being useless, weak, trapped on the sidelines, forced to watch his team fall. He’d dreamt of his safehouse soaked in blood, trashed and demolished from the attack they hadn’t been ready for.
It was a dream he’d had countless times before, just another nightmare he’d added to the list after the Justice League had become something important to him.
The only difference this time was that Bruce didn’t wake up in his own bed. Or anywhere in the manor, for that matter.
He jolted upright, tangled in unfamiliar blankets, heart beating so hard in his chest it was painful, gasping for air as he fought to piece reality back together, the nightmare still seared into his mind, lingering screams drowning out his own ragged breathing.
He was in his safehouse. He recognized it, gradually, the dark wood floors, the bare walls, the tan comforter strewn across the bed, the flimsy curtains parted just enough to let the first rays of the dawn’s light seep into the room.
Bruce froze, breath catching in his throat.
It was dawn. The sun had just barely set when he’d closed his eyes. They hadn’t woken him up. Nobody had woken him up.
What if there was no one left to wake him?
He was out of bed in the blink of an eye, the room spinning dangerously the second he was on his feet, body still fighting to adjust to the waking world. He’d slept through the night. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been allowed to do that.
The house was empty. The house was covered in blood. He’d slept through the battle. There was no one left to scream for him.
He grabbed for what the armor he’d allowed to be removed, suiting up in record time despite his shaky hands and tunneling vision, foregoing the gauntlets and utility belt as he yanked on his gloves and fastened the weighted cape over his shoulders, already running for the door in a panic.
There wasn’t time. There wasn’t time, everyone was dead and he needed to… he needed to assess the damage, save who he could, and find a way to protect himself. He’d have to run. He’d have to be on the run alone again, lost in guilt and grief with nothing to pull him out again, and he couldn’t–
Batman practically crashed into the adjacent wall as he flung the door open and burst into the hallway, shaking so badly he almost couldn’t get a proper grip on the door handle. His legs were unsteady, nearly sending him tripping over his own boots as he stumbled into the main room, eyes watering at the overwhelming stench of blood–
All eyes turned to him when he screeched to a halt in the doorway.
There was no blood, no broken dying faces, no sign of a struggle. The team was staring at him, all of them awake and alert, albeit a little confused. Clark and Diana were at the dining room table, Barry and Arthur were on the couch, and Hal was slumped across the armchair in the corner, clearly having been woken up from his doze by Batman’s uncoordinated entrance.
Bruce froze in his tracks, reality fighting to make itself known, his panicked mind still clutching to the images of the nightmare, his blood like ice in his veins.
“B?” Superman called, brow furrowed in concern, exchanging a worried glance with Wonder Woman. “Are you okay?”
Bruce blinked, scanning each of their faces in frozen silence, fighting to convince himself that this was real, that they were alive, that he hadn’t been too late to save anyone.
But there was sunlight shining through the kitchen window, it was morning, and he was supposed to be back hours ago–
“What happened?” he demanded, voice rough and far too quiet, turning back to Clark almost frantically. “What… what’s going on?”
They were all still staring at him, unmoving, like their lives weren’t in danger, like Bruce hadn’t been too late to protect them. Clark just blinked at him, shifting slightly under Batman’s stare. “Wh-? Nothing happened, Bruce. What’s wrong?”
“You didn’t wake me up.” It was the only thing he could manage for a moment, throat unbearably tight. “You said you’d wake me up in an hour.”
Clark blinked, but something in his eyes softened. “Bruce–”
“You said you’d wake me up,” Bruce repeated, swallowing thickly when his voice shook. He couldn’t lose his composure like this, couldn’t showcase his fear so plainly. Not in front of the team. “You… you didn’t wake me up, I thought- I thought something happened.”
“Everything’s alright,” Diana spoke up, her expression unbearably soft as she watched him from the table. “Everyone’s safe- we’re all safe. We only thought it would be good for you to sleep through the night.”
Sleep through the night. He’d been asleep all night.
“You said one hour,” Bruce practically snarled, his eyes only for Superman. “You said one hour.”
Clark’s face shifted into something that perfectly resembled a kicked puppy, and if Bruce wasn’t spiraling so violently he might have felt guilty for snapping. “B–”
“One hour wasn’t gonna do shit,” Hal piped up, clearly still groggy from being startled awake so suddenly. “You were barely standing, and we would like to have you lucid enough to get us out of this mess. And god knows you’re too stubborn to sleep normally on your own. So yeah, we let you sleep through the night. You’re welcome.”
Bruce only heard about half of what Hal was saying, breath catching in his throat when he turned to Green Lantern, ice cold dread flooding his lungs.
All he could see was blood. The living room was coated in it, splattered across the walls, the floors, bodies strewn across the cabin. All he could see were Hal’s lifeless eyes, the wound in his chest, the battle he’d slept through–
“Spooky? You with us?”
He couldn’t latch onto Hal’s voice, reality slipping through his fingers, the world coming apart by the seams only to be replaced with the nightmare he couldn’t shake, not when the panic was fueling his worst fears, the putrid stench of blood making his eyes water behind the cowl.
He backed into the hallway before he retched, a hand clamped over his mouth, stumbling to the bathroom before slamming the door shut behind him and dropping to his knees in front of the toilet.
He hadn’t eaten in days, Bruce recalled suddenly, and there was nothing in his stomach to throw up. It didn’t make the dry heaving stop, didn’t make his throat burn any less as he hunched over the toilet bowl, gripping the porcelain with trembling hands, gasping for breath around the sickening panic.
It felt like an eternity before he stopped, slumping in an exhausted, breathless heap, chest still unbearably tight, head fuzzy with confusion and fear. He was dimly aware of the commotion outside, the knocking on the door, diligently ignoring it as it faded to a background hum, drowned out by his own heartbeat and labored breathing.
Bruce scooted backwards, legs far too unsteady to support his weight, and found himself pressed into the bathroom corner, his back against the wall and his knees pulled up to his chest. His hands found the ears of the cowl, yanking the mask off so hard a few hairs were pulled along with it.
Everyone was dying, everyone was dead, and he hadn’t been able to save them because he’d fallen asleep.
He’d been asleep for hours, alone and vulnerable and defenseless all night, where anyone could have walked in, someone could have–
“Bruce, hey. Breathe, just breathe. Deep breaths, you’re alright.”
He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t catch his breath, shaking and gasping in a pathetic pile on the bathroom floor, choking on the smell of blood. Hands flew to his hair, dark strands a tangled mess after being under the cowl for so long, yanking hard enough to make his eyes water.
“Hey, careful.” There were hands on his wrists, gentle but firm, coaxing his fingers away from his hair. “None of that. You need to breathe, B. Come on, look at me. Copy my breathing, Bruce.”
Bruce blinked in the direction of the voice, pressing himself further back against the wall. Superman was crouched in front of him (In a puddle of blood, his chest caved in with Kryptonite. Unmoving. Dead) his hands warm against Bruce’s skin, eyes brimming with concern and confusion.
“Clark,” he choked out, the sound nearly lost to his own hyperventilating. “I was- I was too slow, I was too slow to help, I–”
“Nothing happened, B,” Clark said, dangerously close to feeling real. “You fell asleep, and the rest of us took shifts throughout the night. Everything was quiet. We would have woken you up if it wasn’t.”
“You were supposed to wake me up,” Bruce snapped in between gasps, but there was no room for anger anymore, his voice nothing more than desperate wheezes. “Everyone- everyone died because I wasn’t there. You’re dead and I couldn’t help, I- I slept through it–”
“Bruce–”
“I don’t know what they did. I don’t… I don’t know what they did to me I don’t know who… I... I was asleep, I don’t–”
“Bruce.” Clark's hands were torn away from his wrists, only for the warmth to be replaced a second later on his face, that indestructible steel grip now carefully cradling his face finally free from the confines of the cowl. “I’m alive, I’m okay. Everyone’s safe, Bruce. They’re all just in the other room, they have been all night. J’onn is meeting us as soon as it’s safe. I think… I think you just had a nightmare, B. I think you’re confused.”
Bruce squeezed his eyes shut against the phantom screams lingering in his ears, the stench of blood he knew wasn’t there, the image of his teammate’s lifeless eyes, of the grief he couldn’t bare to live through again.
“You didn’t wake me up,” Bruce said again, for what felt like the hundredth time. “I thought… I thought it was real. I thought you were gone and there wasn’t… there wasn’t anyone left to wake me up.”
“I’m so sorry,” Clark said, barely a whisper, and he sounded like he meant it. “We just… I just thought you needed more rest. We were keeping watch and one hour didn’t seem like enough to–”
“It’s not,” Bruce said, focusing on his shaky breathing, forcing himself to copy the Kryptonian’s steady breaths. “I know it's not. I’m not stubborn just for the hell of it, Clark. I can’t sleep.”
This was real. Superman was alive- the team was alive. There was no blood, no death, no lost battle. He’d slept through the night for the first time in years, undisturbed, and everyone had made it to tomorrow.
“The world isn’t going to end if you let yourself rest,” Superman said. “You can’t be expected to watch everything all the time, especially when you have people who want to help. That’s not fair to you.”
“I can’t risk it.” The fading panic had apparently loosened his tongue, the words leaving his mouth before he could think about them. “Something always happens when I close my eyes. Someone… someone always needs me.”
Clark was silent for a moment, two superheroes still crouched in a heap on the tiny bathroom floor, practically on top of each other, and Bruce belatedly realized Superman's hands had never left their position cradling Batman's face. He didn’t make a move to pull away.
“I know how you feel,” he said softly, and Bruce didn’t doubt that. “I promise, I do. But you can rest, B. Nothing happened last night. No one was hurt, no one was in danger. We just needed you to sleep.”
Bruce hesitated, one hand wrapped around himself, the other fiddling absently with the material of Clark’s suit. “I know. I do, it just... I always have nightmares when I sleep. I always think they’re real.”
“We’ll work on something to help with that,” Clark said, eyes softening when Bruce scoffed. “There’s always something, and I promise I’ll help you find it. You deserve a proper night’s sleep.”
It was a hopeless idea, as nice as it was to imagine, even just for a moment. Bruce hadn’t slept properly since he was eight, since he’d had everything ripped away from him in that alleyway. Even before that, he’d always had a hard time falling asleep, always restless, always plagued by an overactive imagination.
“And for the record,” Clark added before Bruce could voice his doubts, one hand moving to gently tilt Batman’s chin up. “Nothing will ever happen to you in your sleep. Not ever. I swear on my life, I won’t let anyone even get close.”
Bruce blinked, chest heavy, struggling to comprehend the meaning behind the words, the weight that promise held.
Because he knew Clark meant it. Superman had his heartbeat memorized, a secret he’d sheepishly admitted months ago, Batman’s life a noise he could pick out from a crowd thousands of miles away.
If Bruce’s breath so much as hitched, if there was an intruder or an unwelcome guest, Clark would know. Nobody was going to get to him, as long as Bruce allowed him to listen. As long as he trusted him enough to believe he would.
“Thank you,” Bruce forced himself to say instead of the million other things he couldn’t find the words for. “I’ll… work on it.”
“I know you’re scared,” Clark said, and Bruce quickly pushed down the defiant protests already rising up in his throat. “I’m not asking you to change overnight, B. But you don’t have to be dead on your feet all the time. You can trust us to look after you.”
Bruce just nodded, dropping his hand to pull the discarded cowl closer to him, not yet making a move to put it back on. “I still have work to do. And I want to keep watch this afternoon.”
Clark watched him closely for a moment, almost like he was studying him, picking apart the look in his eyes. He must not have minded what he found, because he smiled softly as his shoulders relaxed, just a little, slowly pulling his hands away from Bruce’s face.
“Breakfast first,” he declared, not quite an order, but not something that left room for argument either. “The kitchen's stocked, we've got enough food for a while. I was planning on pancakes, if you want to help.”
Bruce moved to stand, still unsteady on his feet, face still stinging with dried tears, his body violently protesting the sudden movement. He didn’t shove Clark’s hand away when he quickly moved to help, steadying him without a word. “Alfred’s had me banned from the kitchen since I was sixteen.”
Clark barked a laugh, warm and grounding. Real and alive. “How about you just brew a fresh pot of coffee, then?”
His hands hadn’t quite stopped shaking, the anxiety still settled deep in his gut, but it was manageable now. He knew it would fade by the time they all sat down to eat together, when he could really see for himself that they were all alive and well for the time being.
“Alright,” he agreed, letting Clark lead him back to the main room. “Coffee first."
Summary: Bruce knows this is how things will always go. No matter what he does, no matter how good he tries to be, no matter how safe he might feel for a few precious weeks, it will always come back to this. It's his fault, anyway. He should have known better than to make Superman so angry.
Notes: Superbat fic, tw for past abuse, brief misunderstandings, and panic attacks. Also I'm gonna tag @superbattrash because their writing is phenomenal and reading it inspired me to start posting here <3
“You’re angry.”
Batman knew it was the wrong thing to say the second Superman's shoulders tensed, the skin around his eyes tightening, turning on Bruce with his face twisted in indigent fury, an expression so few ever got to see on Clark, on the calm and collected symbol of hope.
It was a painfully human reaction. Bruce felt his heart drop.
“Thank you, world’s greatest detective,” Clark snapped, southern drawl leaking into steely words. “Yes, I’m angry, Bruce. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that we needed to neutralize the threat,” Bruce said, keeping his voice even, holding onto his authority by a thread. Keeping himself blank. “So I neutralized it.”
“We had a plan!”
“Sometimes plans need to change,” Batman said, grateful beyond words for the cowl hiding his face, keeping his fear safely hidden away. “So I changed it.”
“It was your plan.”
“And it wasn’t working.” Bruce snapped his mouth shut, carefully schooling his features back into something unreadable.
This wasn’t a debate, and it wasn’t an argument with the team in the Watchtower’s meeting room. This was Bruce and Clark, alone in Batman’s quarters, Bruce sitting on the edge of the bed still wrapped in his cape as he watched Superman pace.
‘Get a room,’ Green Lantern had quipped when their shouting match had gotten out of hand upon the League’s return, oblivious to the way Bruce had gone stiff. ‘The mission was successful, let the rest of us celebrate while you two lovebirds dish it out.’
Bruce hadn’t said another word, heart hammering away in his chest as Clark had bid his teammates a terse goodbye and stalked down the hallway, clearly expecting Batman to follow.
A month ago, Bruce might have refused. He would have scowled and planted his feet or gone off in the other direction, refusing to indulge Superman’s anger over something so pointless.
But things were different now. They’d been different since they’d both put their stubbornness aside and finally talked, since Bruce had let go of his past for the first time and trusted someone to catch him when he fell, since Clark had held his face like something fragile. Bruce still wasn’t sure which one of them had gathered the courage to close the distance between them first. It hardly mattered, in his opinion.
Things were good, better than they’d been in a long time. He’d already done enough to ruin that tonight.
So Bruce didn’t argue, following Clark through the Watchtower halls without a sound, his cape trailing behind him like a shadow.
He hadn’t gone to remove any of his armor when they made it to his quarters, a futile attempt to protect himself as much as he could, sitting numbly on his bed, too exhausted to stay on his feet, carefully watching Superman’s every move.
He knew how this worked- he may not be the charismatic flirt he played up in front of the cameras, but Clark was far from his first. None of them had been Clark, none of them as gentle or patient or kind, none of them knowing both sides of his life, but Bruce had enough experience to know a partner’s anger was always the same.
He knew what to expect, as sick and helpless as it made him feel.
But Clark had to understand that he couldn’t do that, didn’t he? Bruce could and would (and had, countless times) have taken it from another man his size, from a woman smaller than him, from the furious daughter to the demon head herself. He’d had worse every night under the cowl, he knew to hold still and let them do what they wanted when they were angry. It was only fair.
But this was Superman. And as much as Bruce hated to admit it, loathed letting anyone see for a second that he was anything less than infallible, he couldn’t take that kind of strength. Not from a raging Kryptonian who could break all of his bones with one hand.
Clark could kill him in his outrage, and they both knew Bruce wouldn’t fight back even if he could.
Clark couldn't do this. He couldn’t. He wasn’t Vicki, he wouldn’t just slap and hit and leave bruises and cuts to be covered up with long sleeves and concealer and a smile for the camera. He wasn’t Talia, so close to Bruce’s equal in strength, always angry, always in control.
There was a part of him that knew the pain of Superman’s touch wasn’t even what he was most afraid of. He couldn’t handle that kind of treatment this time no matter how much he deserved it, all because it would come from Clark Kent.
Clark, who had been nothing but kind and gentle and sweet when Bruce deserved anything but. Who held Bruce like he was precious, not broken beyond repair, fit to shatter at the wrong words.
It was a kindness he’d never had, not like this, and everything they’d built was coming undone, crumbling right before his eyes because Bruce couldn’t help but break everything he touched. This was how it always went.
“The plan wasn’t working,” Bruce said again, careful to keep the tremble out of his voice. “So I tried something else. And it worked.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“There wasn’t time,” Bruce argued, well aware of how dangerous a move it was. “People were dying, Clark.”
“You could have died!”
“I was fine.” He took a steadying breath, white knuckle grip on the comforter beneath him, back kept ramrod straight. He wondered if Clark was listening to his heartbeat, slamming against his ribs like it was trying to break free, the only give away to his terror threatening to spill over. “I’m always fine.”
“And one day you won’t be,” Clark said, arms crossed over his chest. Bruce felt like he was going to throw up. “You’re the one who always says we have to work as a team, Bruce. You could have gotten someone seriously hurt today.”
He set aside every defiant outburst, every snide comment, every argument or challenge he usually would have hurled at Superman in a desperate attempt to keep the higher ground.
“I know,” he said instead, staring straight ahead, jaw clenched tight. He sounded robotic. “I’m sorry.”
There was a beat of silence, and Bruce could imagine the surprise on Clark’s face, Superman fighting to keep his anger in check. When he spoke again, his tone had only become colder, icy words like knives to Batman’s chest. “Are you? Or are you just saying that so I’ll drop it?”
Bruce didn’t grace him with a response, raising his head silently in a last show of defiance, staring straight ahead at the hero in front of him without a word.
Clark’s eyes darkened, a dangerous crease between his eyebrows, and Bruce’s heart skipped a beat when he started forward, shoulders stiff.
The dam broke and all of Bruce’s defenses came rushing back like a flood, the Bat jerking back with an almost animalistic snarl. “Don't.”
Clark rolled his eyes, brow furrowing in annoyed confusion as he took a step towards the bed anyway, unfurling his arms from the symbol on his chest. “Bruce, I’m just-”
“If you hit me I’m leaving,” Bruce spat, holding himself so rigid he thought something might break before Clark even got his hands on him, breaths coming too quick, too frantic. “I swear to god, Clark. Don’t.”
Clark’s movements stopped in the blink of an eye, Bruce’s gaze dropping to Clark’s boots, breathless as he held perfectly still, bracing himself.
“What?”
Clark’s voice sounded like a whisper, like he’d lost all the strength to project his anger, far away and small even in the limited space of Bruce’s quarters.
“I mean it,” Bruce said, but his voice was shaking. He couldn’t breathe. “I’ll go. I’ll walk out right now. You… I’ll go back to the manor and the League will never see me again.” Like Clark wasn’t blocking the door. Like his partner wasn’t an immovable wall. “I- you can’t. They need me.”
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let someone see him like this, unraveling like a ball of yarn, helpless to the fear he was supposed to have mastered years ago.
Alfred a handful of times, Bruce clutching him like a lifeline, shaking and sobbing and holding on like the word was going to rip him away too.
Dick once, when a fight had gotten out of hand, when he hadn’t been able to convince his son to leave before his father fell apart in front of him.
And now Clark, standing just a few feet away, watching Bruce spew panicked lies and bargains in a last ditch effort to protect himself. Because they were lies, they both knew that. Bruce wouldn’t go anywhere, no matter how much it hurt.
“Bruce-”
“Please,” came spilling out before he could stop it, chest unbearably tight. He hated this- hated his masks and walls falling away so easily, hated that he couldn’t just sit here and take it. “Kal, please.”
It was pointless. He knew it was pointless- Bruce couldn’t do a damn thing to change this. He wouldn’t fight or argue once it started, reduced down to nothing, silenced by fear and pain. Because he deserved it. He knew this was how things went. This was how things would always go.
No matter what he did, no matter how good he tried to be, no matter how safe he might feel for a few precious weeks, it would always come back to this. This was the way things were for him.
He’d done this to himself.
Bruce couldn’t lift his gaze, completely frozen in his pathetic hunched over position, but he saw Clark move towards the bed, crossing the room with silent strides.
“No.” Bruce curled in on himself, holding out a trembling gloved hand like it would make a difference, squeezing his eyes shut as Superman approached. “Clark-”
He cut himself off with a choked gasp when something touched the side of his mask, warm knuckles brushing the bare skin of Bruce’s jaw just under the cowl, and Batman flinched, waiting for the pain, for the snapping of bone, for more anger, more yelling.
“Bruce.” It never came. Bruce couldn’t breathe. “Can you look at me? Come on, B. Please.”
He couldn’t stop shaking, chest squeezing in panic at Clark’s voice (He didn’t sound angry anymore. Bruce didn’t understand the point of tricking him like this.) but he nodded nonetheless, the motion jerky and uncoordinated, and carefully lifted his head, vision hazy and unfocused, waiting for the first hit.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Clark said, unbearably soft, his hand still harmlessly cupping Bruce’s cheek. “Deep breaths, you’re alright. It’s alright.”
Bruce shook his head, ears ringing. “Just get it over with.”
“Bruce.” Clark sounded pained, like he was the one who’s been struck and Bruce went perfectly still. “I’m not going to hurt you, I… I wasn’t going to hit you.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m frustrated right now,” Clark said carefully, too slowly, deflating a bit at the doubtful glance Bruce sent his way. “I can be angry at you and still control myself, B. I’d never… hey, look at me. I’d never do that to you. I… Jesus, Bruce I could kill you. I wouldn’t do that to anyone, you know that.”
Bruce nodded, still in that pathetic hunched over position, shaking hands clutching at his cape like someone was going to rip it away from him. He nodded, once, struggling to bring himself back down to earth. “I know.” Clark still had a hand on his face, his thumb gently tracing the seams of the cowl, and Bruce took a shaky breath. “I know. I just thought… because it’s me-”
“What do you mean, because it’s you?” Clark was crouching down beside the bed, suddenly eye level with Bruce, eyes brimming with enough concern to wash away the anger completely. “Why would that make a difference?”
Bruce glared, wondering if Clark was just playing dumb to confuse him more, suddenly desperate to regain what little control he could have in this situation. “Stop asking stupid questions.”
“It’s not a stupid question,” Clark said, carefully moving Bruce’s face back when he tried to turn away with a scowl. “Hey-”
“I’m Batman, Clark,” Bruce snapped, yanking his face away and immediately missing the warmth of Clark’s hand. “I can take a hit. No matter what happens to me, I’ve had worse. If I deserve it, it’s fine. Really.”
Clark blinked, momentarily reminding Bruce of a kicked puppy. Bruce wished he’d just slap him. “B, that’s not-”
“It’s not fair to you,” Bruce said, the words spilling out before he could think better of interrupting. “It isn’t fair that you can’t hurt me when I’m…you know. Like this. If you can’t hurt me I should at least be easier to deal with.”
“Bruce-”
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said. “I mean it this time. I’m sorry. You’re angry, you’re allowed to be I just… I’ve never dated anyone stronger than me. You… it’s my fault that I can’t take it. I’m not strong enough, I- I didn’t know how bad it was going to hurt and I just… I panicked. I’m not supposed to do that.” He was talking too much, making excuses and spiraling downward, still cornered on the bed, and suddenly his chest felt unbearably heavy. “This isn’t fair to you. This isn’t… you were mad, and I can’t-”
“Bruce, you need to breathe,” Clark was saying, frantic, and Bruce flinched when Superman’s hands were suddenly on his shoulders. “I’m not going to hurt you, it’s just me. It’s just me, sweetheart. Breathe with me, okay? Come on, B. You need to breathe.”
Bruce hadn’t realized he’d stopped, but the weight on his chest was growing heavier and heavier, an ice cold vice wrapping around his throat. There was an awful sounding wheeze in his ear, the noise rapid and panicked, and it took him a moment to understand it was his own breathing in his ears.
He was panicking, losing himself to the grip of another anxiety attack and he hadn’t even realized it. Clark shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be forced to take care of Bruce when he’d done nothing but piss him off all day.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped, the sound nothing but a choked off gasp. “Clark-”
“Don’t be sorry,” Clark said. He lifted one hand from Bruce’s shoulder, slowly, looking a bit like he wanted to bolt when Bruce flinched again. “Hey, it’s okay. Just copy my breathing, okay? Just like this, B. I’m right here with you.”
Bruce’s hand was being moved, handled like he was being made of glass. His palm found Clark’s chest, felt the steady rise and fall of his deliberately slow breathing and his heartbeat under unbreakable skin.
“Breathe with me,” Clark instructed, but his voice was gentle. “Just like that, there you go. Focus on me. You’re safe, you’re okay.”
Bruce nodded, desperate to do something right, clutching the material of the Superman suit and fighting to follow the steady pattern. His frantic breathing was getting caught in his throat, vision blurring as his eyes grew hot, choking on his own gasps and wheezes as he struggled to pull himself back together.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and a distant part of him was almost amused at the idea of the rest of the league balking at the idea that he even knew how to say those words. “I can’t-”
“You’re okay,” Clark said, voice unbearably soft. “Hey, can I take this off?”
It took Bruce a moment to understand what Clark was asking, his free hand hovering just inches from the cowl, and another before he worked up the courage to give a jerky nod, hunching his shoulders as the mask was carefully removed.
“Oh, honey.”
There was no way to hide anymore, no way to deny his red rimmed eyes and soaking wet cheeks. His breath caught on another hiccupping gasp, dropping his gaze as he broke off into a wrenching sob.
Clark was pulling him forward, slow and gentle, and as soon as Bruce found himself resting against his boyfriend, strong arms wrapped around his back, everything came flooding out all at once.
He held onto Clark like someone was going to tear them apart while he cried, heaving sobs escaping against his will, his own pathetic cries echoing against the steel walls, thrown right back in his face over and over again. He curled forward, Superman’s cape in his grasp, melting into the embrace, crying until his throat was sore and there was nothing left.
“You’re okay,” Clark said, over and over again, holding him tight. “You’re safe. You’re safe, sweetheart. I’m here, you’re okay.”
Superman didn’t loosen his hold until Bruce leaned back, shaky and weak and completely drained. Clark dropped his arms and Bruce dropped his eyes to his lap, shame coloring his cheeks, breaths slower now but still uneven and short.
Clark carefully laced their fingers together, gently squeezing Bruce’s hand. “Can you look at me?”
There was a part of Bruce that still expected to be hit, heart still leaping into his throat at the simple request. But the paranoia was dissipating after the cry, the past fading back to nothing more than the past, and he was too tired to risk another argument, carefully lifting his head until he was looking back at Clark.
“Listen to me,” Clark said, with all the steady confidence of Superman, unwavering and grounded. “I will never hit you, Bruce. Not out of anger, not out of frustration or annoyance or boredom, not for anything. I will never want to hit you.”
Bruce had never been one for eye contact, not without the cowl, but he found he couldn’t look away. “You could probably control your strength well enough. I've- we know I have a high pain tolerance, anyway. If you-”
“I don’t want to hit you, Bruce,” Clark said, and Bruce snapped his mouth shut. “That’s not how relationships work. The fact that someone did that to you is…” He trailed off, dropping his steely gaze for just a moment, before swallowing and lifting his head again. “You should never be hit by your partner. Whether they were stronger than you or not, whether you were Batman or Bruce Wayne. That… that’s awful, B. That was abuse.”
Bruce’s chest felt tight again, the cape on his shoulders suddenly too big, too heavy, and he took careful breaths around the rising panic. “I deserved it.”
“No, you didn’t.” Some of the anger was back in Clark’s voice, but it didn’t seem to be directed at him this time. “Nobody deserves that, especially from their partner. Especially not you.”
Bruce scoffed, the sound quiet and tired. He tried to look away, only to be met with the gentle touch of a hand on his cheek again, Clark’s thumb wiping idly at stray tears. Somehow, Bruce managed not to flinch this time.
“I need you to understand something,” Superman started, almost frantic beneath the forced calm. “This isn’t about my powers. If we were in a room full of Kryptonite, I wouldn’t hit you. If you had my powers and couldn’t feel a damn thing I tried to do, I still wouldn’t raise a hand against you. It isn’t about that, B. I won’t hit you, no matter how angry I might be, because I love you. I love you, and I’ll never hurt you. That’s a promise.”
Bruce’s mouth felt dry, his tongue heavy, but the panic rising in his chest felt different this time. It didn’t feel suffocating.
They’d never said those words. Not out loud. Not yet. It made Bruce want to run, lock himself away, shut down, deny any display of emotion or affection, desperate to protect himself.
Because love like this only meant something bad in the end. Love like this was going to crash and burn and leave Bruce all alone again. Love like this wasn't something Bruce was supposed to have. He didn’t deserve it.
But Clark was looking at him so earnestly, something terrifyingly vulnerable in his eyes, the ray of sunlight Bruce had been shutting out his entire life. It was a look none of the others had ever bothered to give him, patience he’d never been granted before.
Maybe this time, just this one…
“I love you too,” Bruce said, the words foreign and strange on his tongue. “I love you.”
It was a leap of faith, offering something like this, his trust nothing but a battered and broken thing, broken and unwanted. But the look in Clark’s eyes when he smiled, the sunlight shining through Bruce’s dark cloud, made it all worth the risk.
Okay so I am am avid fanfic reader. Cool so are most of us. Rn I'm on a superbat binge. I keep seeing either bats is this cool hardened controller and supes is basically innocent or supes is big strong alien and bats is babygirl.
What I want to see is Clark Kent, retired kansas pretty boy turned metropolis nice guy go head to head with Brucie Wayne active pretty boy, in a battle of rizz.
Basically Clark sees Bruce showing off how much he can pull and Clark is like "you think I can't get laid too????"
Headcanon that, every year on their birthday, Kryptonians get new superpowers.
Clark doesn’t really keep track; That’s Bruce’s job, for the most part. This year? Mediumship.
me·di·um·ship
/the capacity, function, or profession of a spiritualistic medium/
“Communication with spirits,” Bruce has this habit of nicking his thumb with his teeth, pretty, hazel eyes glossy with thought. Clark doesn’t need supervision to see how beautiful he is when his mind’s at work. “Fascinating.”
“Yep,”
Clark watches Thomas Wayne’s ghost give him the glare of the century behind his son’s back.
The skin of his jawline is entirely ripped off, peeled by Joe Chill’s gun, like the news article said. Sincerely, the Wayne glare scares Clark more.
hey guys um. It’s been a while. I don’t even like sanders sides anymore 😭 if anyone sees this, I have no clue what I’m going to do with all these blogs. I’m fixated on DC and Hannibal atm but either way I don’t see myself ever returning to sanders sides except for nostalgic reasons. We’ve lost another soldier 🫡
