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Metropolis. Gotham. People showing up in both cities, although much more frequent in Gotham, pumped full of drugs and scared half to death. No recollection of previous events.
There had to be a connection. There was no other way.
Closing the last document, Bruce sat back and stretched, sighing. A whoosh and a small, red blip appearing on the edge of his screens made him look over his shoulder.
“Tell me you have them with you.”
The other man snorted as he flew closer. “Really? No 'hello, Clark'? No 'how are you doing today'? No 'thank you for flying over on a Saturday evening when you could be doing other things instead'?” He held the box in his hands a bit higher and shook it lightly. “Of course I have them, but maybe I should take them back home with me until you’ve learned some manners.”
Bruce frowned and did not deign to answer that. Hoping to find new insight that may have been overlooked, he returned to the screens. Scanning the document again, he muttered, “The people dying in the streets will surely thank you.”
Clark gasped at his words, sounding genuinely hurt. Quickly placing the box on the worktop, He spoke, “I hope you know I’d never actually have withheld these from you for more than a minute.”
“Oh? Is that so?”
“Bruce,” Clark chastised him, giving him a playful slap on the shoulder.
He chuckled and grabbed the box, pulling it closer. There were about a dozen notebooks piled in it. He hoped he could actually find some clues on what was going on in their cities within their pages. He suspected it was the Mafia trying to branch out again, but there were eerily few indicators for it. All his searches had ended up with nothing, but he knew there was something happening underground. He just knew it.
Starting to pull out the journals, Bruce raised an eyebrow, grabbing one of the notebooks on the very bottom. “The Lion King?”
“I write in whatever I have lying around.”
“And what you have lying around is a notebook catered to children.”
Clark shrugged. “I like lions.”
Bruce blinked at him and turned back towards his computers. “Thanks. I’ll have these back to you by Monday if that’s all right.”
“Of course, it’s no problem.”
He could hear Clark shuffling on the tips of his toes as he crossed his arms. The sound was so familiar to him now that it had practically burned itself into his eardrums.
“Hey, want to get lunch on Monday, too?”
“Can’t. Full day at Wayne Enterprises.”
“Oh. Okay. Maybe next time then.”
“Sure.”
The sounds of Clark’s fidgeting filled the cave for a moment longer until there was a quiet goodbye followed by another soft whoosh of displaced air.
***
Nothing. There was nothing of importance in the journals. He sighed. An entire night of reading and it hadn’t amounted to the slightest piece of useful information. At least Clark’s writing was legible, although it lacked correct grammar and punctuation. He reached for another, hoping he’d finally find some clue to help them. Just two more books to go through.
what was lex luthor doing at the docks on friday?
connection to morgan edge?
luthor and intergang planning to act again?
Bruce’s interest was piqued. These notes could be promising, but he felt they were more likely to be purely related to Metropolis rather than both cities.
- finish article on rising water levels in ny and nj
Hm. Bruce pondered if that was a problem he should be looking into. He made a mental note to check with Wayne Construction.
bread
eggs
milk
tomatoes
ham
oranges
toothbrush
sponges
A grocery list? Really? That’s new, he thought. He turned the page, hoping he would find something more substantial on the next one.
- call lois
- ask lois for interview tips
- cry at lois about romance being dead
- tell lois about article ideas
Apparently, Clark was dependent on Lane and also a total sap. That was nothing new to him if he was being honest.
- figure out what exactly mr jones meant with "decrease and destruction of Metropolitan ideals"
Bruce groaned, there was nothing more boring to a Gothamite than Metropolitan ideals.
eggs
milk (how do I always run out of milk)
vegetable oil
ice cream
chocolate
chips
chocolate chip ice cream?
yes, I am trying to drown my sorrows in food.
more chocolate
Maybe he should tell Clark to get his shit together.
My love runs deep, deep as the hole you hide yourself in, where I’m neither allowed nor desired.
Right. Sad poetry. He should really talk to Clark about keeping his work and personal life separate, even if it was just in a small, brown notebook. Maybe he could add a conversation about not letting any kind of feelings interfere in one’s work, while he was at it. Bruce hadn’t noticed anything before but he would prefer to prevent this from becoming a problem in the future.
what’s going on with Lex?
Bruce scoffed, it was never anything good with that man, but he’d stake his secret identity on Luthor not being involved in this particular case.
I could strangle him
Bruce was confused, who did Clark want to strangle? Luthor? Neither of them would actually do it but he did have to agree with the sentiment.
- ask perry for leave on mother’s day
- call ma’s work for leave on mother’s day (tell betty you’ll help her with the crops if she allows it)
The detective sighed and rubbed his aching eyes. He was too tired to decide whether to be annoyed at the personal notes in the little book or to roll his eyes at how sickeningly sweet it all was.
When I look at you, I see you avert your gaze.
Look at me.
Look at me more clearly.
Look at me like I’ve performed a miracle for you — like the one time I did and you looked, too.
Bruce shook his head. He should refrain from reading any more, but there was a strange pull in him. There was this desire, this need, the need to read more, to find out more about Clark through these little snippets of life.
perry acting strange today. something wrong at dp/home??
Bruce found it reassuring that people like Clark existed. Too often would people ignore or simply not notice others’ problems or were too occupied with their own to be able to care. Currently, though, Bruce had to get to the bottom of a much bigger problem, so he turned to the next page.
he must be the biggest idiot on earth
Who was an idiot? Perry White? Admittedly, Bruce would never have thought that Clark could ever call his superior an idiot, especially one as experienced and renowned as White. But, well, he supposed everyone got mad at their boss sometimes.
It hurts. It hurts so much to have the one you love turn you away again and again. I think I've already given up on hoping for anything more intimate but it doesn't even seem like we can have a real, normal friendship. He doesn’t seem to like me much, most days...
Bruce’s brows shot up. He? Was Clark in love with another man? There had never been any indication of him being anything other than straight. How could he have missed that? Who was the man who hurt his friend?
- buy flowers for pa’s grave
A pang went through Bruce’s chest. Reading that was difficult, although not for the obvious reasons. It wasn’t because of the deaths. It wasn‘t even because of what happened after — the young boy left behind, sad, lonely and traumatised — no, it was the knowledge that Clark was a good son, a great one, while he was… Bruce shook his head again. He should not be thinking about this.
He did it again today. Turned me away without a single shred of remorse. At first, I was ready to crush him for it. Touch my pinky to his face and completely destroy him. He had made me so angry. I was furious with him. Then, all I wanted was to leave. How can one man make me feel so tired? And then he kept on talking and I just wanted to hold him. Hold him so tight he could never escape. Jesus. He doesn’t deserve any of that crap. No one does, but especially not him. Now, how can I make him see that? I fear it’s impossible. But I won’t lose hope. I just wish he’d talk to me more.
Bruce tapped the pencil he had picked up while reading against the edge of the desk. Who was it? Who could it be? He couldn’t imagine any person in existence who could make Clark Kent go through all of these emotions in such a short span of time.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I wish you were dead
Because I hate you.
Roses that aren’t red,
Violets that aren’t blue,
I am no longer dead,
Only because of you.
Roses in red,
Violets in blue,
No longer dead
But fallen for you.
Bruce was beyond confused. What did any of this mean? As much as Alfred had always accused him of being dramatic and theatrical, he’d never been very good at interpreting poetry. But– but the obvious connection to what had actually happened to Clark made him uncomfortable. Not at all — he didn’t like where this was going at all.
-ask ma how many eggs to use in reggie’s chocolate cake
He huffed. Was that the one Clark had brought him a piece of last month? Had he baked it while angry at his unnamed love? Or while trying to get over his feelings? It had been a good cake, so at least Clark hadn’t decided to do something radical such as poison his loved one with it.
Asshole.
Bruce smirked a knowing grin. Contrary to popular belief, profanity was actually quite common in the Man of Steel’s vocabulary. The only mystery now was who had warranted Clark’s use of it. Who was the person who had driven Clark to the point of needing to use the word? Was it the one he indubitably had romantic feelings for? Who else could it possibly be?
My pa warned me of the pretty girls with nice smiles. Should have warned me of the pretty boys with nice smiles, too.
Another chuckle escaped him. Sometimes Bruce wished he could have gotten the same advice. It would have been useful back at Gotham Academy. He was now smiling himself, but as he turned another page, he suddenly felt his blood run cold — colder than ice, colder than the nights spent sleeping under clear Himalayan skies, colder than the Arctic winds blowing in his face as he had searched for Arthur.
Come on, Bruce, just talk to me.
Bruce broke out into a cold sweat as his heart pounded in his chest. Oh god. Oh god, no. This couldn’t possibly mean what he thought it meant.
I realise I shouldn't be complaining about not talking when I'm not doing it either, but it won’t stop me from being unreasonable.
All’s fair in love and war and this is both.
Christ. His best friend was in love with him. And Clark didn’t even think they really had any kind of a functional relationship at all. Jesus Christ.
I really hate that I love him…
Fuck. He was the one hurting Clark. It was him all along. There was no other person it could possibly be. The one turning him away, annoying him to no end, being a bad friend. The one who had brought him back from the dead. He should have seen that this was where it was going.
[insert doodles of little stick men]
A laugh escaped his closed-up throat. He guessed one could find joy in the worst kinds of situations. The kind of situations that had your best friend question your friendship. The best friend who you’d harboured feelings for — hidden away in the depths of your mind, but they were there nonetheless — for a good while now.
Maybe it’s not him. Maybe he isn’t to blame. Maybe I’m the actual fool in this.
No, he thought. No, Clark, no, it’s me.
memo to myself: burn this book before he can get to it
Bruce read and reread the notebook as often as possible throughout the day. He knew Clark and he knew him well. The man would notice and come back for what he had misplaced.
As predicted, Clark returned to the cave in a rush that Sunday afternoon. He started stammering about having forgotten something until his gaze struck Bruce’s desk. Bruce had just finished folding a paper and was putting it between the pages of the small notebook. He held it up to Clark who took it, fear and apprehension written in the expanse of his eyes. Nevertheless, Clark gently pulled the paper out and opened it. Given the number of times Bruce had rewritten the lines, he didn’t need to see the paper to know what Clark was reading. He knew the words by heart.
Clark,
I have never done this before and I must say that I feel more than just a bit childish doing so now, thrown back to year 2 and my first crush on a girl in my class. Seeing as that is the case, I hope you’ll forgive me any awkward wording or graceless mistakes.
When you came to the cave yesterday, laden with journals full of information that would hopefully help with our case, you must have accidentally slipped a more private one in-between the others. As much as I wish I could say that I didn’t mean to read any more of it as soon as I figured out what it was, I’m sure that we both know that isn’t true. I was curious and, presented with the tool to find out more about you, kept on reading.
What was written in it shocked me. I wasn’t expecting it. But still, I kept on reading. I went through the entire journal and then I read it again, piecing together the little scraps of everyday life, insults and confessions. The second time reading it, all I did was smile.
What I want to say with this letter is as follows: whatever you feel, I think I feel it too.
Yours truly,
Bruce T. Wayne
If Bruce hadn’t been so attuned to Clark, he wouldn’t have noticed the slight trembling of his hands and the way the rise and fall of his chest was quicker than usual.
“You smiled,” Clark finally said and that wasn’t one of the several responses Bruce had expected from him. “Why were you smiling?”
Fear. That is what Bruce felt then. Fear, because the trembling in Clark’s hands didn’t stop and his voice had wavered more than he had expected. It was the fear that he had miscalculated this, that he had messed it all up somehow.
“Because I’m a fool. And you could never be one, but of course you’d think so after the fifth declined invitation to what I now realise were supposed to be dates.” He got up from his seat and took the two steps needed to stand in front of Clark. “Because I’m a fool who hurt you although I never wanted that to happen. Because, even through all the pain I must have caused you, you’re still here with me. And I’m grateful for that.”
Clark was staring at him, the letter now clutched against his chest. “Bruce,” he murmured, “this doesn’t sound like you.”
“It doesn’t sound like you to mope about your best friend in a paperback journal. And yes, that’s what we are. Best friends. We always have been, Clark.” Bruce tipped his head to one side, thinking. “So maybe that’s what makes both of us the fools. Me, not noticing your feelings. You, thinking we aren’t friends when you should know that you are the one person I’ve opened up to the most.”
The fear that had crept up on him mostly evaporated as Clark sent him a small, bashful grin.
“It’s not like this is all I’ve ever thought about you,” Clark said, shaking the notebook in his left hand a little. “Just… when it became too much and I had to let it all out somehow, writing it down was the easiest option. The safest one.”
“I’m glad you did it instead of crushing or strangling me.”
Clark nodded and looked down at his feet.
“Yeah, me too. So please don’t get me wrong, I know that we are friends, best friends even. When I wrote those things, it was mostly out of—” he trailed off, biting his lip.
Anger? No, that wasn’t quite right.
“Fear?” There it was. The thing that currently connected them.
Clark nodded again, still not looking up. It spurned Bruce on to, yet again, jump over the shadows he lived and thrived in. He raised his hand to Clark’s chin, tipped his face up, and said, “Did I ever tell you that I live in constant fear? The fear of death, of not being good enough, of everything being useless?” He stopped. Swallowed. It was difficult for him to voice his thoughts but he knew it was also necessary. “The fear of losing you?”
The other man‘s eyes were as round as saucers again, gazing at him in disbelief. “You haven’t.”
His thumb found the dip between mouth and chin and swiped up to the curve of his bottom lip. Bruce was mesmerised by Clark’s beauty and utterly stumped by the fact that he hadn’t recognised it earlier.
“We’ve been friends for so long, of course I wouldn't be able to bear losing you,” he muttered. “Still, I should have been aware of the difference, should have noticed the change of how you felt about me, how I felt about you.”
The cave was filled with silence for a while as scattered thoughts came together, said words were being processed and Bruce’s thumb was stroking Clark’s lips as if they were made for it.
“Clark. I want to learn to look at you the way you deserve.”
Clark — colour high on his cheeks, hair tousled from the wind, eyes steadily fixed on him, beautiful Clark — dipped his head a little and laid a gentle kiss on the tip of his thumb.
“I think you already do.”
Epilogue
It shouldn’t have surprised him.
They’d been dating for several weeks already and if you asked his partner, he would say it was the best thing that could have happened to them. And Bruce would — slightly reluctantly, but no less meaningfully — have to agree. It had been wonderful thus far.
Bruce thought back to the case that had brought them to where they were now.
In the end, they had teamed up. Batman on the ground, Superman up in the sky. Because they worked better together, they always had. Together, they had found the connection.
Bruce’s intuition had turned out correct. It had been Tobias Whale, head of The 100, trying to expand from Metropolis into Gotham by way of the Southside and whoever he could smuggle from there into the dark, daunting depths of Crime Alley. From there, the drugged men and women sometimes managed to escape — no huge feat, as the ones tasked with their observation were, fortunately, more than just incompetent — and wander about the city. Batman could never have spotted the gang’s machinations without Superman’s vigilant patrolling of the Suicide Slums. They did work perfectly together.
In light of all of that, it really shouldn’t have surprised him that Clark had continued writing about him in the little notebooks he kept around. Clark’s thoughts, ideas and prayers — for his mother, his father, and all the people he had or hadn’t saved — interspersed with snippets of writing that were solely about Bruce, and yet, it surprised him and warmed his heart at the same time.
Upon leaving the bedroom, he had found a journal in Clark’s kitchen, a post-it reading for Bruce stuck onto the cover. The new entries were an indication of how far they had come. Clark was happier, more relaxed. His penmanship had visibly more flow and his vocabulary had exited the sphere of insults — for the most part — and had become quite a bit more flowery. Bruce could say he disliked it, but that would be a lie.
Turning another page, he smiled. Those clearly were his hands drawn in black ink, the lines a mess of short strokes. Clark must have worked on the piece for a while. The time spent on it rather than the skill used was what made it precious.
On the last page he found with letters written on it, inscribed in Clark’s most beautiful cursive, were the words I love you.
Bruce took the pen that was lying next to the book, carefully set the tip down on the paper, and simply replied with I love you too.