bruclark week day 1, identity porn! big sucker for "clark has a crush on batman and batman has a crush on clark so whenever they meet, they just awkwardly stare at each other while trying not to give away too much about their alter egos"
the reason why i love this trope btw is bc clark kent daily planet and batman are kinda the men behind the mask, like it's the alter ego that's actually closest to their real selves. And that's why they've fallen in love with each other like this btw, bc batman knows superman is an act, while clark is pretty sure bruce wayne is an act. but as clark kent and batman? not as much, or at least, clark-as-superman gets to see the "real" batman while they're doing cape stuff
Day 1 - Identity Porn // Day 2 - Bruce Buys the Planet
A redraw from Superman Returns as a superbat moment! Who doesn't have the impulsive thought to reveal their superhero identity to their hot new boss? 🥰
Warnings: mild descriptions of violence/injury, mention of scars, swearing
Description: where soulmates feel each other’s pain
Clark always knew he had a human soulmate. The bruising and somewhat frequent paper cuts he felt throughout his adolescence were enough confirmation of that; he was immune to receiving such ailments himself, and they didn’t show on his skin the way a human’s might, but they meant all the more to him for that. It was the regular twinges until his twenties, and Clark was grateful to his soulmate for making him feel just that little bit more normal, that little bit more connected to his family and his Earth. There was the occasional strikes of grief that ripped through his chest, the same he felt when he looked up into the vast expanse of space for too long, but Clark only rarely needed his Ma’s comforting embrace to get him through them. It was all a perfectly regular soulmate experience; his Ma and Pa said so, the internet said so, all the books and friends and teachers said so. And Clark was content with it. Happy to wait in quiet excitement for the day when he would find his soulmate. Sometimes - especially in the first couple months of moving to Metropolis, when everything was shiny and unfamiliar - the small twangs of pain would be a guilty comfort, a reminder that he was never truly alone.
Until the night, when Clark felt beyond feeling, a pain so raw and intense and encompassing that he truly thought his soulmate had died and was dragging him with them. Clark was terrified. Beneath the horror, his brain fought to hold onto consciousness as every nerve he had underneath his bulletproof skin stung like it had been branded with a white-hot poker, before being submerged in artic water until even his eyes were numb, only to be hoisted out and branded again. He clawed at his cheap duvet as the cycle continued to drag him through and under. His mind felt like paper being unfolded, and he could only half register the pain subsiding before he passed out on top of the bedsheets, ripped in two.
It was with panic in his voice and lungs that Clark recounted the events to his mother the following day. And it was with wide eyes that she went to him while he was running words from his mouth like water from a tap, and reached up to touch his neck. He instinctively crouched down, even while he descended into incoherent sobs, and Ma pushed back his untamed curls from the space behind his ear.
She sagged in relief. “It’s still there, darling.” She whispered softly, and Clark, for all his super-hearing, could barely comprehend it. “Your soulmark’s still there.”
Clark was dizzy. He rested his head on his Ma’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of flour on her apron and hay in her hair. He collapsed into her embrace without any weight.
-
In the years since, there had been a steady stream of agony from his soulmate. Less grief perhaps, or maybe now it was just inseparable from the other hurts. Clark struggled to sleep for the first however many times of feeling his soulmate in so much pain, and he flew back to Kansas just to break down in front of Ma more times than he’d care to admit, even to himself. But his soulmark was always there; an unbroken circle raised like a scar, hidden behind his left ear and ink-black curls. For a long time, his hand would wander to the mark, the tips of his fingers tracing it round and round, ensuring it was still there, that his soulmate was still alive. He reassured himself in this way so much that his colleagues at the Planet began joking about how it was a wonder he could get so much work done when his hand was apparently glued to his neck.
It became something of a distraction, the worry. And beyond the anxiety that came with feeling so much injury coming from someone you knew you’d one day love so much - already did love, intensely, in Clark’s case - the consistency of the instances and the fact that pains kept coming meant his soulmate was alive, and apparently pretty strong if they could take such thorough beatings. Clark reasoned that maybe they were a boxer or a martial artist or something like that. The regularity checked out, and a lot of the wounds felt like punches and kicks as far as Clark could tell.
It was only when more superheroes started cropping up - on the streets, in the news - that the idea occurred to Clark that his soulmate might be more suited to him than he could’ve hoped.
…
Bruce Wayne didn’t have a soulmate. He had a soulmark, of course, but it was long since interjected by all the other markings and scars that criss-crossed his chest, hidden like a needle in a haystack. It was a fluke. A cosmic mistake. Not once in his life had Bruce ever felt even a flicker of pain from his supposed soulmate; not a scrape, not a headache, not even a paper cut. He’d been through his share of semi-frantic research sessions on people who’s soulmates have paralysis or other forms of numbness, other reasons for loss of sensation, lack of feeling, but they could still feel pains that were inflicted on their soulmate, whether their soulmate felt them or not - there had been some very extensive but utterly inhumane studies done by an English scientist in the eighties. Bruce, however, had never felt any hurt that wasn’t his own.
So he didn’t have a soulmate. And that was suitable. Brucie Wayne got to be a ditzy, debonair playboy without worrying about getting caught up in accidental attachments. Batman got to go out every night and protect his city without having to worry that someone else was feeling every attack on his body. And Bruce, he had Alfred, since always and through everything. And then he had Dick too, who was bright and quick and brought smiles in bundles. After him, there was Jason, who was so full of life and intensity. And then Jason was gone, and he took a bit of Bruce with him to the grave. And Tim was observant and put what was left back together as best he could. And then Jason was back, and he was changed, and he was pissed, but he was back, his boy was back, and Batman had a problem with his methods but Bruce had his son alive again, so he could do the fighting and the rage and the disappointment because his son wasn’t in a coffin anymore.
And it was enough. He’d made himself a family: a proper family. One that fell apart every once in a while, like it ought to; but mended itself in clumsy seams, like it ought to. When the grief hit him out of the blue, mourning for his parents - and sometimes someone he’d never known, while the stars smirked down at him, like they were playing a joke, like they knew something he didn’t - he could deal with it. Not just shove it aside and throw himself fist-first into a fight. Not just pull on a fancy tux and devil-may-care smile and wreck a bed that didn’t belong to him. No, he could deal with it in a vaguely normal way. He could wander down to the living room with the biggest tv and find at least one of his children there, and they could watch a movie together and not talk as much as they should; which was apparently the average way to engage with family, so that was reassuring. And then, undoubtedly, more of the flock would gather, and interrupt, and leave more things unsaid that really ought to be said, but it wasn’t the right time, and it would never be - and it was perfect.
Brucie didn’t want a soulmate. Batman couldn’t have a soulmate. And Bruce didn’t need a soulmate.
-
It was a Thursday night and a Friday morning, and the fog had rolled in from Gotham’s docks. Some gang had made a spot of the chain of alleys that ran down to the southern port. They’d dragged a handful of bankers out of their cars and had them kneeling in the wet cracks of tarmac, trying to intimidate them into some heist by pointing guns at their heads. Crouched on a warehouse roof, Batman readied his grapple. Beside him, Robin did the same.
“There’s more of them than I was expecting.” The boy muttered as he shifted his position on the wet, corrugated steel. His eyes squinted behind his domino mask. “Seems like multiple gangs from the area have collaborated for this. They’re being led by someone.”
Batman grunted his agreement before taking off towards the ground, landing between the guns and the victims. Disarm. Kick. Disarm. Punch. Kick. Swipe. Disarm. Robin’s getting the hostages out. Kick. Kick. Kick. Knife coming from the left. Dodge. Punch. Duck. Punch. Elbow. Swipe. Kick. Two thirds of them incapacitated. Punch. Robin’s back. Kick. Kick. Swipe. Tired. Punch. Not tired, weak. And sore. Kick. Missed. Fuck. Dodge. Dodge. Fuck. Sprained wrist. Swipe. Duck. Dizzy. “Batman?” Aching. Last man hits the ground. “Batman, can you hear me?” Tim. Stars.
-
Bruce woke up fully coherent. “Gleurgh beurgle.”
“Mm, indeed.” Dr. Thompkins’ face peered down at him, white hair reluctantly confined in a tight bun. Her eyes were gently assessing as she sat by his bed. In his room. Bruce’s room. He sat up. Why wasn’t he in the cave’s medical bay?
Leslie read the furrow of his brow. “Alfred insisted, I’m afraid. After I told him the only physical harm was a sprain, and that your bloods came out fine, he was adamant on you resting in your own bed.”
Bruce closed his eyes in mild frustration before fixing Leslie with a questioning look. “My bloods were normal last night?” He could hardly believe it; the pure exhaustion he had felt, the draining of all his strength, it was like he had been drugged, drunk in the worst possible way.
“Mhm.” Leslie regarded him attentively, but with more interest than concern. She had a hypothesis. Bruce sighed as he flexed his wrist. The pain flared up his arm, shooting through odd corners in his bones. That wasn’t the worrying part. What scared him was how he’d got into such a state to let a mistake like that happen at all. And Leslie was looking at him like she could see through him. If she was going to suggest he was overworked-
“I reckon last night must’ve been rough for your soulmate.”
Bruce’s eyes widened minutely, expression unguarded as it could only be in his own home. He flicked his gaze to the doctor, but she was lost in thought at a point just below his collarbone, pursing her lips at his soulmark.
He stared resolutely out the window behind her. The fog was only just dissipating, and the light still had a grey quality. His voice was empty. “You know I don’t have one.”
Leslie hummed like she didn’t know anything of the sort.
…
Batman and Diana were stood talking at the farthest end of the steel table when Superman entered the Watchtower. Well, Diana was talking; Batman was sort of just making assenting grunts. Clark half-smiled and shook his head in familiarity - for a second, the stresses of the past week became minuscule. Diana turned to face him fully in greeting, whereas Batman only flicked his eyes over Clark. Rao, his eyes were so pretty, the lashes so delicate even smudged with that black industrial strength face paint. Clark suppressed a shiver.
“Superman.” Diana’s voice was always strong, and it carried to every corner of the wide room. Her smile was strong and carrying too. “Are you well?”
Clark was about to ramble off the same Midwestern script response that he always gave to that question, force of habit as opposed to any desire for privacy, when Batman cut him off.
“No. He’s not.”
Clark turned to face him in question. He didn’t know exactly why he gave the dark figure a puzzled look. Even all the impenetrabilities of his body couldn’t hide a hair out of place from the cowled man, it was no wonder he’d noticed whatever he had; maybe a tightness of expression, or a heaviness in feet. They stared at each other. Clark could see Diana looking him over discerningly and trying to pick out any injuries with a worried crease between her brow. Batman’s eyes were hard and boring and still so pretty. Clark folded.
“Kryptonite.” He sighed, rejecting his sight to a far corner. Continuing, ignoring the slowly pulsing pain in his wrist. “A few days ago. I’ve had a good few shots of sunlight since, so I’m A-OK now.” He turned back to his comrades with a winning smile, before it turned mildly teasing. “I was going to tell you myself but-“
“That’s not all.” Batman finished his sentence completely in the opposite direction Clark was intending. His wrist twinged and his heart skipped a beat. If Batman knew - no, the trio had never talked about their soulmates, not even Diana, who was the most open of them by a mile; the only one to have shared her identity so far. It was entirely possible that Batman knew about Clark’s; he’d made no indication thus far, but Clark wouldn’t be surprised. But he trusted Batman implicitly. Except, right now, Clark felt so vulnerable to the man contained in Kevlar; if he could he would’ve willed the lead lining of the suit to cease existing, just so he could finally see him beyond his eyes, and so he could have any chance to protect himself and his soulmate if it came to that.
In the first time of Clark’s knowing him, the Batman broke eye contact first. Maybe he saw the terror in Clark.
“I know what you look like when your soulmate’s hurt.” It was startlingly honest and entirely too revealing to have been said by Batman. And yet it was. Clark stood in jittery awe; he would’ve looked the pinnacle of strength to anyone other than those currently in the room. Or his Ma. As it was, his colleagues knew him too well, and Diana, after an unwavering glance between the two of them, put an unarguable end to the conversation.
“The other members of the League attending today will be here shortly. I have an upcoming - mercifully short - period of unavailability that I’d like to discuss. Superman, debrief as far as you believe is needed on the circumstances surrounding your recent encounter with the Kryptonite. As far as the other members…”
Clark kept half his hearing on Diana, and half tuned in - as it always was - to the rest of the world. But neither had his focus nor attention. As he took his seat at the table next to Wonder Woman, his thoughts were consumed by the man on her other side. His eyes avoided Clark’s throughout the meeting, and even given the situation Clark was saddened by the deprivation of such a sight. Batman’s mouth stayed the hard line it always was; he’d forever look more unbreakable than Superman. A solid stone gargoyle. Clark’s thoughts had calmed slightly; Batman knew his soulmate was hurt - apparently knew every time his soulmate had been hurt - but he didn’t have any desire to use that information vindictively. Of course he didn’t, Clark reminded himself. He’s a good man.
It was when Batman was using the table’s projector to highlight a network of jaded supervillains that Clark noticed something. Batman was holding the clicker in his right hand. Nothing unusual there, that was his preferred hand - though Clark was fairly sure he was ambidextrous - and straying from such an innocuous preference might arouse suspicion in a room full of people as observant as them. Might alert them to an injury, give away a momentary weakness. So Batman used the same hand he always used, and kept the same blank expression he always kept, so that none of them could know of the sprain he harboured. But Clark did, and it made something flip in his chest. Because every time Batman pressed the clicker, a tiny flicker of pain settled in Clark’s right wrist.
At last, the prompts are ready! Thank you all so much for the incredible response we’ve gotten thus far; this is going to be a great one. We cannot wait to see the content that you all create!
* BRUCLARK WEEK 2022 PROMPTS (OCT. 16 - 22):
DAY ONE: Identity Porn || Watchtower/Hall of Justice || Dark & Light
DAY TWO: Wayne Enterprises’ Acquisition of the Daily Planet || Only One Bed || Undercover
DAY THREE: Bruce at the Kent Farm || Working Together || Soulmate AU
DAY FOUR: Clark Interviewing Bruce || Everyone Can See It But Them || Jealousy
DAY FIVE: Touch-starved || Supernatural AU || Marriage
DAY SIX: Wounds || Batman in Metropolis/Superman in Gotham || Gala
DAY SEVEN: Alternate Earth || Love Spell || Free Space
