Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Clark wasn’t sure when concern had turned into habit. Maybe it was after the first time he found Bruce bleeding in an alley, refusing to let anyone see him weak. Or maybe it was the countless nights since, when Gotham's shadows seemed heavier than usual, and Clark couldn’t help but wonder if Bruce was still alive somewhere in the chaos.

Tonight was one of those nights. The rain outside was relentless, a steady rhythm against the windows that filled the silence of Clark’s apartment. He sat at his desk, staring at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen, but the half-written article in front of him was the last thing on his mind.

His thoughts kept drifting back to Bruce. They always did on nights like this—when Gotham felt too far away, yet too close all at once.

Clark tapped his pen against the desk, his jaw tight as he replayed their last conversation. It hadn’t even been a conversation, really. Bruce was in his suit, standing in the shadow of a crumbling warehouse, a fresh gash across his cheekbone. He had barely looked at Clark, his attention fixed on something far in the distance, as if the weight of the city wouldn’t let him meet anyone’s gaze.

“I’m fine,” Bruce had said before Clark even had a chance to ask.

But he wasn’t fine. Clark could see it in the slump of his shoulders, the exhaustion in his voice. He wanted to say something—anything—but Bruce’s walls were as thick as his armor.
Now, sitting here, Clark felt the same familiar frustration building in his chest. Why couldn’t Bruce just let someone help him? Why did he insist on carrying everything alone, as if it was some kind of punishment?

The rain grew heavier, the sound a low roar that filled the room. Clark leaned back in his chair, his eyes flicking to the dark skyline outside his window. He wondered where Bruce was right now. Was he out there, fighting someone bigger than him, taking hits he couldn’t afford to take? Or was he back in the mansion, stitching himself up in silence?

Clark hated this feeling—this helplessness. He could stop a speeding train, hear a cry for help from miles away, but he couldn’t save someone who didn’t want to be saved.
He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. It wasn’t his responsibility to look after Bruce.

Bruce was capable, calculated, and maddeningly stubborn. But that didn’t stop the worry from creeping in, the same gnawing fear that always came when days passed without a word.
Clark told himself Bruce was fine.

He told himself he’d hear something if he wasn’t. But deep down, he couldn’t shake the image of the man standing in the rain, his face bruised, his eyes heavy with something darker than exhaustion.
And the worst part? Clark knew he’d be there again soon, standing in Gotham’s shadows, hoping to find Bruce before something—or someone—else did.

Clark sat forward, elbows on the desk, the glow of his laptop dim compared to the storm raging outside. The rain’s steady rhythm blurred into white noise, a backdrop to the unease tightening in his chest. He couldn’t focus, not when every instinct told him something was wrong.

His jaw clenched as he stared out the window, the city lights hazy against the downpour. He’d been here before—worrying about Bruce, telling himself it was unnecessary, only to realize later that it wasn’t.

This time, he couldn’t sit still.

Clark exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. The sound of the rain faded into the background as he let his hearing expand outward, stretching past the hum of the city. He tuned out the passing cars, the murmurs of neighbors, and the distant thrum of a freight train. He sifted through the chaos of Metropolis, pushing his focus farther, searching for a sound he knew all too well: the measured, gravelly cadence of Bruce Wayne’s voice.

But there was nothing.

Clark frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried again. He reached toward Gotham now, toward the sprawling city shrouded in shadows and violence. It wasn’t hard to find—it was always louder, more chaotic than Metropolis, with sirens wailing, engines revving, and voices shouting into the night.

Still, he couldn’t find him.

Bruce wasn’t exactly the loudest man in the world. He spoke in clipped tones, his words calculated, his movements quiet and deliberate. Clark knew that. But even in Gotham’s cacophony, he could usually pick up something: the metallic rasp of the grappling gun, the crunch of boots on wet pavement, or the low growl of the man that was Bruce Wayne.
Tonight, there was nothing.

Clark opened his eyes, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the rain-streaked glass as if it could give him answers. He knew Bruce wasn’t easy to find—especially when he didn’t want to be.

But it wasn’t just Bruce’s habit of disappearing that unsettled him.

It was the silence.
The void.

Gotham was a city that never slept, but right now, Clark felt like he was on the outside of a locked door, unable to see what was happening inside.

He let his hearing drift again, more methodical this time. He focused on places he knew Bruce frequented: the rooftops of the Narrows, the quiet hum of the Batcave, even the echo of Wayne Manor’s cavernous halls.

Still, there was nothing.

Clark’s hands curled into fists on the desk. He told himself not to panic, but the worry was already creeping in, cold and unrelenting. Bruce could handle himself—he’d proven that time and time again. But Clark had seen the toll it was taking on him, the way his body strained under the weight of too many fights and too few nights of rest.

He thought of their last meeting again, the way Bruce had shrugged off his concern, brushing past him like he was nothing more than an obstacle in his path. Clark had wanted to grab him, to stop him, to tell him that he didn’t have to keep doing this alone.

But Bruce wouldn’t have listened.
He never did.

Clark let out a frustrated sigh, pushing himself away from the desk and pacing the room. His hearing wasn’t infallible—he knew that. Gotham’s noise and chaos could easily drown out anything subtle. But that didn’t make the silence any easier to accept.

He glanced at his phone on the desk, his mind racing. He could call Alfred, but what would he even say? That he couldn’t find Bruce, that something felt wrong? Alfred would either reassure him with polite dismissiveness or share the same quiet worry Clark already carried. Neither would bring him the answer he wanted.

Outside, the storm raged on, the wind howling through the cracks of the city. Clark leaned against the window, his forehead pressed to the cool glass. He hated this—hated the waiting, the guessing, the gnawing fear that he might be too late.

Somewhere out there, Bruce was fighting, Clark was sure of it. He could see it in his mind’s eye: his damp clothes pressing onto his shivering bones, the rain streaking down his mascara, his fists clenched and his jaw set as he faced whatever impossible odds Gotham had thrown at him tonight.
Clark just hoped, wherever he was, that Bruce was still standing.

The rain fell in heavy sheets, drenching the streets of Gotham and soaking through Clark’s coat as he walked. His shoes splashed through shallow puddles, the city’s filth clinging to the hems of his pants. He didn’t belong here—he knew that the moment he stepped off the train. Metropolis was bright, hopeful, and alive. Gotham was its opposite: shadowed, haunted, and heavy with despair.
But this was where Bruce was, and that was all that mattered.

Clark adjusted his glasses, scanning the streets for any sign of him. Bruce wasn’t answering his calls—not that he ever did—and it had been days since Alfred’s last cryptic update. He hated calling Alfred, hated making the older man feel like a mediator between them. But desperation had overridden courtesy.

- He’s fine,- Alfred had assured him, his tone calm but tired. - You know how he is, Mr. Kent.
But Clark did know how Bruce was, and that’s exactly why he was here.

The streets of Gotham swallowed him as he turned into another alley, its mouth yawning wide like the city wanted to consume him. The air was thick with the stench of rain-soaked garbage and something metallic—rust, maybe, or blood.
Clark’s stomach tightened.

He shouldn’t have come. Bruce would see this as an intrusion, as if Clark was stepping into some private hell he wasn’t meant to understand. But the thought of sitting in Metropolis, waiting for the inevitable news that Bruce had pushed too far—again—was unbearable.

His super hearing had been no help. Gotham’s chaos was deafening, drowning out any trace of Bruce’s heartbeat or voice. So Clark was left to do this the human way: walking through alley after alley, searching for a man who didn’t want to be found.

Clark paused at a corner, wiping the rain from his glasses. Ahead, he saw a figure slouched against a wall, illuminated briefly by the flicker of a dying streetlight. His heart leapt for a moment—until the figure stumbled forward, muttering incoherently, and disappeared into the shadows.
Not him.

Clark sighed, leaning back against the cold brick of the building behind him. He closed his eyes, letting the rain soak into his hair and skin. Maybe Alfred was right. Maybe Bruce was fine. Maybe this was a mistake.

But deep down, he knew better.

The sound of footsteps brought him back to attention, sharp and deliberate against the wet pavement. He straightened, his breath hitching as he saw the man emerging from the darkness.

Bruce.
He didn’t look fine.

His hair was plastered to his forehead, his face pale and streaked with dirt. The dark circles under his eyes looked deeper than usual, and there was a split in his lip that hadn’t been there the last time they saw each other. His coat was damp and frayed at the edges, and his boots were caked in mud. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Clark stepped forward, relief washing over him. “Bruce—”
Before he could finish, Bruce grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and shoved him back against the wall. The impact wasn’t hard enough to hurt—Bruce knew better than that—but it was firm enough to make a point.

- What the hell are you doing here? - Bruce’s voice was low, rough, and edged with frustration.

Clark blinked, startled by the sudden closeness. Bruce’s hands were still gripping his coat, his knuckles white against the dark fabric.

- I came to find you, - Clark said, his voice steady despite the tension crackling between them.

- You shouldn’t be here, - Bruce snapped, his eyes narrowing. - This isn’t your city, Kent. Go back to Metropolis.
Clark held his ground, meeting Bruce’s glare with quiet determination. -Not until I know you’re okay.

- I’m fine.

The lie was so obvious it almost hurt. Clark frowned, his hands coming up to gently pry Bruce’s fingers from his coat. Bruce didn’t resist, but he didn’t back away, either. - You haven’t answered your phone,- Clark said, his tone softening. - It’s been days, Bruce. Alfred said you were fine, but -

- Then trust him.- Bruce’s voice was cold, but his eyes betrayed him. There was something there—something fragile, teetering on the edge of breaking.

- I can’t, - Clark admitted. - Not when I know you’re not telling the truth.

Bruce’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping for a moment before snapping back up to meet Clark’s. - You don’t belong here, " he said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. - Gotham isn’t your fight.

- I know that, - Clark said. - But you’re my friend. And I’m not going to just stand by while you run yourself into the ground.
For a moment, Bruce didn’t say anything.

The rain dripped from his hair, sliding down the sharp angles of his face. His hands hung loosely at his sides now, the tension in his shoulders softening just slightly.

- I’m fine, - he repeated, but there was no conviction behind the words.

Clark shook his head, his worry etched into every line of his face. - You don’t have to do this alone, Bruce. You don’t have to shut everyone out.

Bruce’s eyes flickered with something—anger, maybe, or guilt. He took a step back, his expression hardening again.

- I can handle it, - he said, turning away.

Clark watched him, the ache in his chest growing. He wanted to argue, to push, to make Bruce see that he didn’t have to carry everything on his own. But he knew it wouldn’t matter. Bruce was a fortress, his walls built too high for anyone to climb.

So Clark stayed silent, his hands clenched at his sides as he watched Bruce disappear into the rain.

The memory faded, but the weight of it lingered, heavy in Clark’s chest. He blinked, staring at the half-empty mug of coffee in front of him. The rain outside his window hadn’t let up, the rhythmic pattern against the glass matching the restless thoughts circling his mind.

He ran a hand through his damp curls, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he sighed. That moment in Gotham felt like a lifetime ago, but the ache it left behind was as fresh as ever.
Bruce had been so close, his voice sharp, his hands gripping Clark’s coat like a lifeline he refused to admit he needed. But even then, even with Clark standing right there, Bruce had shut him out.
And now? Now there was only silence.

Clark leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. His apartment felt smaller tonight, the walls pressing in around him as the storm outside raged on. The rain reminded him too much of Gotham—of narrow alleys and cold bricks, of shadows that swallowed everything whole.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head, focusing, straining to hear through the layers of sound that separated them. Somewhere out there, Bruce’s heartbeat was pounding—a steady rhythm that Clark had memorized long ago. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find it.

Not tonight.

Clark’s hands curled into fists over and over again as his heart was beating inside his chest, frustration simmering just beneath his calm exterior.
He was Superman, for God’s sake. He could hear a whisper from miles away, could pinpoint a single voice in a sea of thousands. But when it came to Bruce, the man was always an enigma, slipping through the cracks like smoke.

- Where are you? - Clark muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

The rain continued to fall, indifferent to his plea.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. His restless energy wouldn’t let him sit still any longer. Pacing the small apartment, he ran a hand over the back of his neck, trying to think, trying to piece together where Bruce might be.

The man rarely disappeared without a trace. Even when Bruce pushed people away, there was usually some hint, some breadcrumb trail to follow. But this time, there was nothing.

The glow of Metropolis’s skyline was muted by the storm, the lights blurred and softened by the rain. It was beautiful in its own way, but it didn’t comfort him. Not tonight.

His hand hovered over his phone, the urge to call Alfred again nearly overwhelming. But what could he say that he hadn’t already? The older man would only repeat what he always did: “He’s fine, Mr. Kent. He always is.”

But he wasn’t fine. Clark knew that. He had seen it in the way Bruce’s hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, in the hollow cast of his eyes when he let his guard down just enough for Clark to glimpse the man beneath the mask.

And now, that man was out there somewhere, hurt, broken, and alone.

The thought twisted in Clark’s gut, making it impossible to stay still. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, slipping it on as he headed for the door.
If Bruce wouldn’t let him in, then fine. But that didn’t mean Clark would stop looking. He owed Bruce that much.
He owed him everything.

Clark touched down in Gotham softly, his boots splashing into a puddle as the rain came down in relentless sheets. The city greeted him with its usual symphony of despair—distant sirens wailing, hurried footsteps echoing in alleyways, and muted cries carried through the storm.

The air here was different from Metropolis—thicker, heavier, like the city itself carried the weight of its corruption. Even as Superman, Clark always felt Gotham pressing down on him, a constant reminder that this wasn’t his territory.

It was Bruce’s.

But tonight, Bruce wasn’t here to patrol it.

Clark adjusted his glasses, his coat already drenched from the downpour. He wasn’t in his cape—not tonight. Bruce hated it when he showed up in the suit, saying it was too “bright, too hopeful” for Gotham’s shadows. Clark had learned to respect that boundary, even if it made him feel exposed walking these streets as just himself.

He turned down an alley, the rain slicking the bricks on either side of him. His super hearing stretched out instinctively, sifting through the chaos for any sign of Bruce. But instead of finding the familiar steady rhythm of his heartbeat, Clark was overwhelmed by everything else.

The soundscape of Gotham was brutal.
A robbery three blocks over. Gunfire in the East End. A car crash on the highway. A mother screaming for her child in the Narrows.

Clark’s hands curled into fists as he forced himself to tune it out, to focus on the one thing that mattered right now. He couldn’t help everyone tonight. He had to find Bruce.
But it wasn’t easy.

The storm seemed to amplify every noise, the city’s anguish pressing in on him like a tidal wave. For a moment, he paused under the awning of a crumbling building, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply.

He wasn’t used to feeling overwhelmed. As Superman, he prided himself on his ability to juggle everything, to be everywhere at once. But Gotham was different. It always has been.
And so was Bruce.

Clark exhaled slowly, the rain drumming against the awning above him. He couldn’t stop thinking about the man—the way his sharp edges had softened ever so slightly in their months of tenuous friendship, the way he spoke in clipped sentences but still managed to say so much.

Somewhere along the way, Clark had started to care about Bruce. Really care.
It wasn’t just worry anymore—it was something deeper, something that had grown quietly between them like ivy climbing a wall. Clark didn’t know when it had happened, but he couldn’t deny it now. He felt it in the way his chest tightened at the thought of Bruce hurt, or worse.

The rain picked up, and Clark shook himself from his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to lose focus now.

Pushing forward, he moved deeper into the city, his super hearing tuned to every alley and abandoned building he passed.
Hours seemed to stretch on, the search growing more and more desperate as the storm raged on.

And then he heard it—a faint, irregular thump that sent a chill down his spine.

A heartbeat.

Clark froze, his head tilting as he honed in on the sound. It was faint, weaker than it should have been, but he recognized it immediately.
“Bruce…”

He took off, weaving through Gotham’s labyrinthine streets until he found himself in another alley, this one even darker than the rest. There, slumped against a pile of crates, was Bruce.
His drifter uniform was soaked through, the hoodie clinging to his battered frame. Blood seeped from a gash on his side, pooling beneath him and mixing with the rain. His face was pale, his breaths shallow.

Clark was at his side in an instant, dropping to his knees and gently shaking him.

“Bruce,” he said urgently, his voice breaking. “Bruce, wake up. It’s me.”
Bruce’s eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t respond.

Clark’s hands hovered over him, unsure where to start. He couldn’t risk moving him too much, not without knowing the extent of his injuries. But leaving him here wasn’t an option, either.
“Damn it, Bruce,” Clark muttered, his voice thick with emotion. “Why do you always have to do this to yourself?”

He slipped an arm under Bruce’s knees and another behind his back, lifting him as carefully as he could. Bruce barely stirred, his head lolling against Clark’s shoulder.
Without another word, Clark took to the skies, the rain whipping against his face as he soared through the storm. He held Bruce close, his heart hammering in his chest as they left Gotham behind and headed for Metropolis.

Bruce’s weight in his arms felt heavier than it should have, like he was carrying more than just the man—he was carrying the burden of everything Bruce refused to let go of.

And as Clark flew, he couldn’t help but think of all the things he wished he could say, all the ways he wanted to help. But for now, he focused on getting Bruce home.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.