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Superman was absolutely the fastest man on Earth. He refused to believe that either Wally or Barry could beat him, regardless of what they liked to say. They’d run test s to prove this theory and the tests had been… inconclusive. Clark wondered on occasion if it was less an issue of the tech’s inability to determine the truth and more the tech’s creator (Batman) humoring him enough not to make Clark admit that someone was faster.
The point remained- other than the Flashes, Clark was indisputably the fastest man on Earth. But sometimes when a building was coming down, like now, he had to stay still, stay patient, stay motionless. The longer he could hold this column up, the longer the people behind him had to escape.
It wasn’t as if the complex was lined with Kryptonite or anything. He would punch through a few walls, dust himself off, and fly back out to regroup with the team. Batman would make one of his jokes-that-didn’t-sound-like-a-joke that Clark loved so much about how bull-headed the Kryptonian was, and they would go on to have a good day. Maybe Clark would get to have dinner at the Cave. Maybe the kids would join at some point in the evening and they’d all-
Clark heard Bruce’s voice as the building fell and he turned, opening his mouth to call that he was fine and to head off his teammate’s worry, but rubble came down before he could do more than find him. Clark was left to keep his position, blocking the rubble from falling into the stairs where he could still hear the steps of civilians thundering up the staircase. There was a faint, ominous groan from above him, a telltale shiver rattling down to his arms, and the column he was holding shattered. Clark held still as he was buried in rock and cement, metal and debris clanging around his head.
He sighed and waited until everything settled, holding his breath. With as sunny as it had been lately, he could hold his breath significantly longer than it would take the dust to settle and him to get out of there. It was a good thing- it didn’t hurt him to breathe in by any means, but it was still unpleasant, to say the least. It may even be more uncomfortable for him to breathe in than for a human in a lot of situations like this, considering he could taste every single chemical and alteration in the dust.
Clark threw out his hearing, checking on the people around him. People were screaming and yelling, but most of them were fine, just frightened and/or horrified by the chaos of the building collapsing in on itself. The media was going wild out on the curb. Police were trying to keep everyone calm in the street. People were terrified for each other, for their things, for–
Batman and Superman are buried! A child cried, and Clark froze, then listened for the perfect melody of sounds that he had memorized long ago. Bruce? Bruce was here, beneath the rubble? How had that happened? Why had it happened?
There .
A low, familiar thudding, a soft groan of leather gloves against stone, a hushed exhale through a throat hoarsened from growling orders all day.
He was still alive, but beneath the rubble, Clark determined quickly, putting these pieces together. His hands almost shook as he ripped away debris, following the sound of Bruce’s heart, and after a genuine eternity his hands found the familiar and beautiful mix of leather and Kevlar. He tried to pull him through the hole he had created and into the tiny space he’d made for himself, but something on the other side was caught on Bruce’s belt. Clark reached out with his other hand and snapped the clasp. It released, Bruce sliding into his arms- where he belonged, something finished in the back of his mind- but he didn’t pay attention to that any more today than he did any other day.
When the rocks around them finished shifting and the dust settled, they had just enough space to lean against each other, almost sitting up. Clark did a quick check, concern beating a tattoo black under the skin of his chest. Bruce was badly bloodied and barely conscious, head dropping briefly back against his shoulder, and Clark allowed himself the privilege of a quick scan to examine beneath the armor and cape. He had a few fractures, two broken fingers, and a slightly crushed knee joint. It could be worse, Clark rationalized. He had seen it worse. Bruce had things in the Cave to help him heal more quickly than most, salves and treatments to seal broken bones and allow him to keep moving through nearly anything when combined with his own impossible self-discipline. It could have been so much worse. It could be-
His self-soothing thoughts ground to an abrupt halt when his fingers went to support Bruce’s ribcage and slid across armor, slick and too-warm.
Blood. So much blood.
Clark looked down, pressing a hand to the wound on Bruce’s lower chest. There was a deep gash there, blood flowing across the hard planes of the Batman armor. It was deep, deep enough that the cut had sliced through to two of his ribs beneath the armor, and… dangerous. He was losing far too much blood. Panic set in again.
“Clark.” This tone wasn’t his Batman voice or his Brucie voice. It was neither of his performances but simply Bruce himself, Bruce Wayne as he was when he was with Clark or with the kids. Just completely himself.
Clark loved the real sound of Bruce’s voice. It was like the breeze through a cornfield, the fall of snow up outside the Fortress, or the familiar rustle of firefly wings. It sounded, naturally and impossibly, like home.
“Hey.” Clark pressed a hand to Bruce’s face, aware that the other man couldn’t see him in this kind of dark. “You’re fine, I’m going to get us out of here. Just hold on to me and we’ll get you help.” Clark carefully put pressure on the wound, forcing himself to focus enough to make sure the touch stayed human. Most of the time, that took no effort. When he was panicking, every moment was forced into a conscious decision.
Be human, or be more than.
Bruce let out a little laugh, shaking his head slightly. His cowl was cracked and Clark gently pulled it off with his free hand for now, letting him breathe. He let himself stare as much as he wanted for once, since Bruce couldn’t see him; Bruce Wayne was a pleasure to stare at. Dark blue eyes, thick black hair that fell perfectly no matter what he had been doing, his face all angles and stubble… he was absolutely gorgeous. It was no wonder he was constantly on those ‘Sexiest Man’ lists.
Bruce shook his head again with a sharp breath. “If you push through this, everything will crumble down,” he deduced, and Clark grimaced, glancing up at the cement and rock piled above them. He was probably right. “And if you blast through while holding me, the force will snap a few things I’d probably like to keep. But then again, if we wait, I bleed out.” He hummed, closing his eyes as he considered this. “Not great choices.”
“Superman.” Tim Drake’s voice in Clark’s ear, their shared commlink activating as it did during situations like this. “Damage report. Do you have eyes on Batman?”
“I do,” Clark assured him, and gained a small huff of breath from Tim in response. Clark felt a small smile cross his face despite himself- regardless of the fact that Bruce hadn’t taken Timothy Drake in until he’d been fourteen, the boy was shockingly just like his adopted father. That little huff was completely Bruce’s sound, usually indicating relief that they were trying to hide in a move to remain professional or detached until after the mission. “Trace our positions and try to get a team to uncover us, but do so carefully. Everything is balanced dangerously and Batman is hurt.”
“How badly?” Dick Grayson’s voice. It was surprising that he was here already- Clark hadn’t known that he was in the area at all today. How long had they been under? How long had Bruce been bleeding? “How-”
“Stop interrogating him,” Bruce growled into his own comm, pressing a finger to his ear. “I am fine, just get us out. Superman can’t make a move without the whole thing collapsing and crushing us.”
“Sounds like a job for some super-men,” Kon’s voice grinned into his ear, and Jon’s laughter rang out. Clark’s stomach swooped, as it always did, at the sound of his son’s laughter. Jon and Kon were getting along so well. They were good for each other- and though he was ashamed to say that had initially been a surprise, it was indisputably a good one.
“Father can get out without any of you assisting,” Damian informed them all, and Clark let out a chuckle and looked down at Bruce, whose lips were curved into a small smile.
“Our children,” he said, voice softer than Clark had heard it in a long time. Clark nodded a little, carefully increasing pressure on Bruce’s wound. He tried not to focus on the warmth of his blood, the way his heart was clearly straining, the way his breaths were beginning to labor a little. This was bad. He was bleeding so much more than was safe.
“Our children,” Clark repeated. It was funny that their kids had somewhat paired up- Tim and Kon had been dating for over three months now, and he had a suspicion that Damian and Jon would become something at some point, though the boys were too young to really understand yet why their hearts beat double-time when they saw each other.
Not unlike Clark’s when he saw Bruce… or when Bruce saw Clark.
He couldn’t blame any of them. The Wayne family bled for Gotham and the world without a second’s hesitation, were more than willing to lay down their bodies, health, and lives if necessary. It was a heady thing, unbelievably attractive.
Bruce made a small noise and Clark cursed himself for being distracted, carefully shifting Bruce against him to be more comfortable. “Do you have any medi-kits?” Clark asked, all business now.
“In my belt.” Bruce paused, then let out a snort. “Which got torn off when you pulled me in here. So no.”
Clark looked at the rocks clogging up where the hole had been, dismayed. He hadn’t even thought about it, he had simply wanted Bruce with him and safe. He had been panicking, hearing his heart struggling and knowing that Bruce had to be injured and not having him close. “Bruce, I-”
“You’re going to have to use your heat vision,” Bruce continued as if Clark hadn’t spoken, his tone calm and almost absently thoughtful. “To cauterize the wound. I’m going to bleed out before they get down here if you don’t, and I can take the pain.”
Clark stared down at him, horror so strong he almost experienced how he’d always heard humans describe nausea. “I- absolutely not, Bruce, there is no way I can do that.”
“That’s a terrible idea, B,” Dick agreed swiftly. “He could-”
“Comms off for now,” Bruce informed him, and tapped his ear twice. Damian and Jon’s loud protestations disappeared, leaving just the two of them as Bruce looked seriously up at Clark, unseeing in the dark but obviously knowing Clark could still see him and get the effect. “Kal, we have three options. You push us out of here and hope it doesn’t crush us both. You blast us out of here and hope the combined whiplash and damage from what we hit doesn’t do something un-fixable. Or you can use your heat vision to stop the bleeding so I don’t bleed out before the kids can get to us.”
Clark could hear, far above them, the kids moving rubble, and took a deep breath. They were still so far away, not moving fast because they were trying to avoid causing a cave-in. “Bruce, I can’t just cauterize your wound with heat vision, it’s not that precise. You have no idea how badly this could go.”
Bruce rested his head back against Clark’s shoulder, letting out a deep sigh. Clark prayed that his friend was in too much pain to focus on just how hard Clark’s heart was pounding at the intimate gesture. “I do,” he disagreed, voice soft and unyielding at the same time. “I know exactly how badly this could go. I could be bisected. You could set me on fire. You could cover me entirely with burns.” He didn’t seem nearly as concerned about these possibilities as he should be. “Or you could simply cauterize it. You’re more capable than you think you are.”
Clark pressed down a little more firmly on Bruce’s wound, mind racing.
Trust was something precious, coming from Batman. It was eked out year by year, ounce by ounce. It was complicated and very much a one-step-forward-two-steps-back situation, most of the time. The smallest indiscretion could move you back to zero in his eyes and you could stay there for months. It had taken years and years for Clark to get to any level of friendliness with the Bat, and years longer still for them to share so much of their lives with each other, as they had now. Holidays together, birthdays, celebrating everything with their children, having each other’s back in every situation, no matter what it was that was going on.
Clark wasn’t stupid- he also understood that it was the nature of the beast that every hero took stupid risks. If you were a cautious person, you wouldn’t pick up a cape. But Batman took his responsibilities every bit as seriously as Clark did, if not more so. This wasn’t Bruce being reckless. No, this was trust. Trust that Clark knew what he was doing, trust that Clark could help him and wouldn’t hurt him.
It was trust that Clark didn’t have in himself.
Not to mention, if Clark did hurt him? He had to live with that reality for the rest of his life, knowing that he had killed the best man he had ever known? Knowing that he had taken away one of the brightest spots of the world, the father to so many, the man who worked as the knife that cut between the bullshit of so many and shaped the world into a better one wherever he went, both in and out of the cowl?
He was expected to gamble with the life of someone like that?
With the life of the man he loved, even if that man didn’t know it?
Clark shook his head. “No,” he said aloud after a moment, remembering that Bruce couldn’t see him. “I’m not going to risk killing you, Bruce. The kids are coming, they’re making good progress. I can hear them.” But not fast enough. “Just stay awake for me until they get here.” He would figure out something.
“Kal.” Bruce’s fingers closed around Clark’s and the Kryptonian froze, not breathing again. They’d never held hands like this, other than helping the other up. This was completely new. That in addition to his real name again, the name that was so rarely used but slayed him every time, sent Clark’s mind reeling. “You won’t kill me. You have more control than you think you do.”
“You don’t know that,” Clark argued, panic clawing in his chest like there was some kind of animal burrowing in there. “Heat vision isn’t something I’ve ever done precision with, I don-”
“Hey.” Bruce’s other hand rested on Clark’s arm and Clark was silenced immediately, his heart pounding with anxiety. Bruce gave another small smile, eyes slightly unfocused now, and the animal tried to shred Clark’s heart into pieces. “I need to make it out of here, and I need you to help me make it out of here.”
He took in a slow breath, watching his friend, the man he loved, incredibly aware of their hands linked together, the blood beneath his fingers. “Bruce, I can’t hurt you. You’re asking me to do a surface burn when I’ve never controlled that at all. I have no idea if I even could. You’re asking me to risk killing you and I don’t think I can do that.”
Bruce’s hand that had been resting on Clark’s arm turned, tracing slowly, clumsily, along Clark’s bicep up to his shoulder. It was blood loss, Clark registered- blood loss created dazedness, confusion, and difficulty in focusing. That’s what this was… right? He couldn’t help but memorize the way Bruce’s callouses felt against his skin, the tiny scars even on his fingers as unique and perfect as a fingerprint.
“You can do it,” Bruce said after a moment or two, clearly struggling to string his words together correctly but making the effort. “I need you to. You’ve never failed me before, are you going to now?”
Clark gave a helpless laugh, feeling sick again. “That’s not fair.”
“I never said I played fair.” Bruce’s hand traced up along Clark’s neck, following the line of his suit and then dropping back to his own stomach. “But I’m right, anyway. You can do it and I need you to.”
Clark took in an unsteady breath and reached out, allowing himself to do what he had never been able to do but had always ached to do, brushing some of the hair out of Bruce’s face. It was heavy silk, warmth and softness, and everything he had always imagined that touching Bruce’s hair would feel like. Bruce closed his eyes as Clark’s fingers brushed his face, and Clark watched him, listening to the small catch in Bruce’s breath and his heart speed up just a little.
A physical reaction meant nothing- Clark had met more than enough people who were in denial about their own desires. Too many rejected so much of themselves and refused to accept who and what they wanted. He could see all too easily Bruce not wanting to admit to himself that he wanted or needed someone. The man rarely admitted that he wanted anything at all, so it wasn’t difficult to imagine that he would push back against the vulnerability that a relationship inherently created.
Bruce was bisexual. That much was part of his Brucie persona and Clark was fairly certain that it wasn’t merely an act. He was, genuinely, attracted to men and pursued them. Clark had read the interviews of men and women who had spent the night with Bruce.
For investigative purposes. Clark had only read up on it out of journalistic curiosity. Peer-reviewing work was his responsibility as a reporter.
But being willing to take a stranger to bed was different than accepting that you had feelings for a teammate, a best friend, someone whose life wound through yours so tightly that to extricate them now would unravel and shred everything. To chance their friendship and partnership, to shift it to a romantic version that could end over a fight, a misunderstanding, an incompatibility somewhere, was… a lot. It was one of the reasons that Clark had never tried anything.
Clark shook himself. None of that mattered right now. All that mattered was stopping the bleeding, making sure that Bruce could get out of here and continue to be his gruff, angry, kind, sarcastic, indomitable self.
Gently, Clark laid Bruce down on the rubble beneath them and shifted himself down a little so he was looking at the wound. Looking at it woke the anxieties anew. It was still flowing so much, still so much blood. How much could a human lose? How much did Bruce have left? What would happen if he-
Bruce’s fingers slowly stroked through Clark’s hair, and Clark looked up in shock to see his partner giving the ceiling a slightly-sloppy smile. “You can do it,” he said, words uneven. “You can.”
Bruce had never touched him like this before, stroking soft paths through his curls like his hands belonged there, as if he’d always wanted to touch him like this. Clark closed his eyes, focusing and shoving away the fact that he’d always wanted to be touched like this by his friend, that he’d dreamed about Bruce’s hands in his hair.
Today wasn’t Batman’s last day. Today wasn’t the day that Superman killed him. Today was the day that Clark saved Bruce and they went home and had dinner with their children. That was what today was.
Clark tried to focus, tried to imagine burning just a little. Just a tiny bit. No fury, no rage powering it, no boiling sensation from his stomach to his eyes. No, this needed to be minor, precise. It needed to be hot enough to burn skin together, to seal it, but not punch through to the bones. It needed to be exactly right.
“Bruce-” Clark started, doubt gnawing at him as his eyes tingled with power, and Bruce’s fingers continued stroking through Clark’s hair.
“You are Superman,” he told him. “And I have yet to see you fail at anything you try when your friends and family are involved. You can do this.”
Clark rested his head against Bruce’s hip, memorizing the way it felt to lay like this, together and safe and warm, Bruce’s hand in his hair, then opened his eyes and let the heat flow, tinting the entire world with fire.
Bruce’s body bowed, head tilting back as he let out a sharp breath and his hand fisted in Clark’s hair where he had been stroking. His fingers would have been painful to anyone else, but he didn’t cry out as Clark expected, and after a horrifying few seconds, Clark sat up as much as he could and stared down at the shiny new blistering burn that had replaced the wound. Bruce’s fingers released, drooping to rest loosely around the back of Clark’s neck instead as he sagged down to the rock beneath, and Clark took in a shaking breath.
He had done it. He had managed.
He let out a shocked laugh and Bruce rested his head back against the rocks. “See?” he said in the calm, self-satisfied way he had sometimes, an edge of pain making his voice rasp slightly enough to almost sound like his Batman persona. “I told you it would be fine.” He was silent a beat, then, “I pulled your hair.”
Clark blinked, then shook his head with a smile and carefully lifted his friend, resting him back against him. It was as near-apology as Bruce usually got. “You didn’t hurt me,” he assured him as he carefully maneuvered so Bruce’s head rested back against his shoulder. “This is more comfortable than laying on rocks,” he offered as an explanation.
“That’s true.” Bruce closed his eyes, forehead pressing against Clark’s neck. Clark tried not to react to Bruce’s breath fluttering across his collarbones, to the sensation of having Bruce laying back against his chest, in his lap, to his soft hair falling against his cheek. “Although you are muscled enough that it is not that much more comfortable. Maybe you should think about that. Let yourself go a little. Let Wally beat you in a few races.”
Clark felt a snort escape, shaking his head, and they fell quiet for a few moments, Bruce into his thoughts and Clark listening to the children up above calling to each other and coordinating with some kind of machinery. They were doing a good job. There wouldn’t be much more time before they got down to them.
“I haven’t seen you hesitate to use your powers since we first met.” Bruce’s voice was a bit of a surprise, as much as the words themselves. Clark blinked down at him. “Why were you so worried?”
Clark frowned. “Because I didn’t want to kill you, Bruce.”
“True. You rarely do. But you’re always confident in yourself. Why weren’t you now?”
Clark looked down at him, startled. Where was he going with this? “I- I didn’t want to hurt or kill you. I’ve never used my heat vision that way and I didn’t know if I even could. Doing it wrong could have left you dead.”
“You’ve sealed doors with it.” Bruce shifted very slightly in Clark’s lap, and the Kryptonian tried to think of anything other than exactly how intimate all of this felt, Bruce laying on him, head resting against his neck, Clark’s arms around him. “You’ve cut trees and aircraft down with it. Surely sealing an injury isn’t so different.”
“Only burning the first few layers of skin versus melting a steel door?” Clark stared down at him. “There is a huge difference bet-”
“It made me think,” Bruce continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “Of the time you had to rebreak Conner’s bones.”
Well that successfully killed the chance of his body betraying him with Bruce sitting in his lap. The memory of Kon, the boy who was somewhere between his brother and his son, gasping in pain as his bones healed at all wrong angles after being injured during a brush with Kryptonite, and then screaming as Bruce and Clark broke each mis-healed bone to set it correctly for him to heal in the right positions… yes, that worked better than a bucket of cold water for any lascivious thoughts he may have had about the man in his lap. Clark still had nightmares about the way Kon’s bones had shattered beneath his fingers, the horrified way Tim had stared at them all, the way Lois had needed to drive Jon all the way to the Kent farm to try to distract him from his not-brother’s screaming.
Bruce rested his hands on Clark’s arms, shaking his head. “I remember,” he continued quietly, his fingers smoothing up Clark’s biceps soothingly and banishing the memory of the teenager’s agony, “How you didn’t even want to touch him afterward. You were frightened that you would do something irreparable. But he is a Kryptonian. He comes from you.” There was a long pause where Clark tried to think of something to say and Bruce seemed to consider his next words, then, “There is no possibility that you could truly destroy someone you love, Clark.”
Clark wouldn’t have been more shocked if the renowned gun-hater Batman had pulled out a Ruger and shot him. He gaped down at Bruce, who gave the small smile that meant he was trying to cover up something he was thinking. “You- you know?” Clark managed to sputter. “How I… how I feel about you?”
The half-smile turned to a real smile with a little huff of laughter, Bruce’s eyes softening in the dark. They were only inches away, Bruce’s head resting on Clark’s shoulder still. “I know,” he told him, and very slowly reached up to trace a line along Clark’s jaw. It was a good thing that Clark didn’t need to breathe, because he couldn’t. “I’ve known for a while. You are a terrible actor, you know. It’s a wonder everyone in Metropolis doesn’t know who you are. But yes, I’ve known for a while, I just wasn’t certain if I… could. You know what my life looks like. What both sides of it look like. What kind of partner would I be?”
“A great one,” Clark responded immediately, shaking his head but careful not to dislodge Bruce’s hand. He curled his fingers around the other man’s wrist, letting his cheek slowly sink into Bruce’s palm. Something occurred to him then, and he gave a laugh. “You would be a great partner- you already are. We spend our free time together. We work together. We’re raising children together, Bruce. We spend every holiday with each other, host birthday parties, and give each other gifts. The only thing we don’t do is kiss or- anything else.” He felt heat rise into his face at that.
Bruce’s smile shifted then, into an almost hungry expression that Clark had only seen photos of, and his hand slid around the back of Clark’s head. “Let us remedy that last piece, then,” he murmured, and pulled Clark down to kiss him, a low sound escaping them both as Clark hugged him closer and they lost themselves in each other for the first time.
When the Robins and Kryptonians pulled the last stone away, it was to see Superman and Batman nearly curled up into each other in a tiny opening of rock. Superman blinked into the light and Batman scowled behind his cowl. The Kryptonians could see him squinting into the sun, even through his lenses. They were covered in blood, but it didn’t seem like there were any serious injuries, Tim decided as he stepped back to let Superman fly Batman out.
Well- there was a wicked burn on Bruce’s midsection, but that was it. Probably a few broken bones. Nothing they couldn’t handle at home. He’d be out for a day or two at most.
Red Hood stood beside Tim, eyeing the two heroes as Superman lifted their patriarch and flew him into the circle of Bats. “They fucked,” Jason proclaimed loudly, and Clark stared at him, scandalized.
“Your father has a second-degree burn and broken ribs,” he corrected sharply. “Watch your language.”
Damian eyed the two men as Dick helped support their father, then sighed deeply. “They did something,” he complained to Jon. “Look at the way they’re touching each other.”
“What?” Jon, all wide-eyed innocence, looked between his father and his brother, and Kon ruffled the younger boy’s hair.
“Don’t worry about it, kiddo. Just means we’ll be over at B’s more often, so you can see Damian and Batcow all the time.” Jon looked mollified at this development and Kon winked at Tim. You owe me money , he mouthed, and Jason immediately stepped into the fray, arguing loudly that it was he who had bet on this situation, and when Dick and Damian got involved with their own claims of winnings, Clark and a very tired Bruce spent the next ten minutes breaking it up.
Still, when that evening the kids found Bruce and Clark curled up together asleep on the couch in Wayne Manor, quite a bit of money changed hands.
Alfred made the most and bought himself a new rose bush as a celebration.