Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain hadn’t stopped in three days.

It wasn’t a downpour, not the kind that came fast and left the gutters screaming, but a persistent, grey drizzle that clung to the skin like sweat. Gotham’s sky stretched low over the skyline - a blanket of thick, bruised clouds hanging like breath just waiting to collapse. The streets glistened under half-dead streetlights, pools of rainwater turning sidewalks into dull mirrors.

It was barely past five a.m., but Bruce was already moving, lungs burning as he pushed himself into the damp wind cutting through the city’s East End. 

Jogging wasn’t for fitness anymore - it was a ritual. 

It was one of the few routines that kept him tethered, allowing the noise in his head to go quiet. The rest of the world was still sleeping, still pretending that the dark hadn’t seeped into everything.

His hoodie clung to his shoulders, soaked and heavy. Damp hair stuck to his forehead. Each step echoed off the crumbling brick buildings that flanked him, a steady rhythm in the silence.

Except it wasn’t silent.

He felt it - not sound, not something tangible - but a pressure, a tension in the back of his neck that had become familiar over the past few weeks. The kind of thing you feel when someone’s eyes are lingering too long. 

When a room that was supposed to be empty isn’t. It was subtle, at first. 

Easy to dismiss.

Now it was constant.

He didn’t slow down, but his chest tightened as he turned the corner near the old theater - the one long abandoned, boarded up and papered with posters no one bothered to tear down anymore. The windows were black, reflecting only the thin glow of streetlamps and the sheen of wet pavement. But even then, Bruce’s eyes flicked up.

There.

A flash of movement behind glass. Not obvious. Not bold. 

But there .

He stopped, hands on his hips, letting the burn in his legs crawl upward into his spine. Steam curled from his breath. His heartbeat wasn’t from exertion now. It was that sick, dragging pulse that crawled beneath the skin when something wasn’t right.

For a few seconds, he stared at the window. Nothing moved. The city didn’t speak.

He told himself it was nothing. That the last letter had gotten into his head again. That maybe Alfred was right - maybe he was slipping. Getting too careless. Letting paranoia chew at the edges of his judgment. But that didn’t stop the feeling.

The feeling of being followed. Of being watched like a photograph behind glass.

He reached for the small blade strapped to the inside of his waistband - a precaution, one of many. He didn’t draw it. Not yet. But the familiar weight grounded him. Reminded him that even in the stillness, Gotham always watched back.

The rain thickened. It painted his eyelashes, ran down his temples. Across the street, a car passed, tires hissing on wet asphalt. The movement in the window was gone now, if it had ever been there to begin with.

Bruce exhaled. 

Turned. 

Kept running.

He wouldn’t say anything to Alfred. Not yet. 

He didn’t want the lectures, didn’t want another morning of being asked if he’d read the emails from his security team. He didn’t want to talk about the letters - the ones with no fingerprints, no return address, just his name carved into paper like an accusation. He burned the last one in the sink.

But something had changed.

This time, he wasn’t just being watched.

This time, whoever was watching wanted him to know .

By the time Bruce stepped into the manor’s grand foyer, the world outside had collapsed into a pale smear of fog. The rain still hadn’t stopped. 

It clung to the windows like breath, trickled in crooked lines down the stained glass that framed the arched doorway. His shoes left dark prints across the tile floor, each step echoing just a second too long in the vast silence of the house.

Wayne Manor was too large for one man. 

It had always been too large - a sprawling relic of power and prestige, with cold hallways and rooms that hadn’t been touched in years. Even when he was a boy, it had felt cavernous. 

Now, it just felt hollow.

He dropped his soaked hoodie by the front stairwell, its fabric heavy with the city’s filth and rain. 

The shirt underneath stuck to his chest, the seams pulling at his shoulders as he peeled it away. It hit the floor with a quiet slap. 

He didn’t bother with the lights - the gloom suited him, suited the mood that had rooted deep inside his chest the moment he saw the movement in that window.

Upstairs, the bathroom was already fogging by the time he stepped in, warmth blooming from the marble walls, but it was the kind of heat that didn’t touch bone. Bruce moved on autopilot - shedding the last of his clothing, stepping into the rainfall of the shower like someone stepping onto a ledge.

Water struck his skin in a steady downpour, echoing off his shoulders, slicking down the curve of his neck, his spine. 

The jets were scalding, but he didn’t flinch. 

Pain was grounding. 

Pain reminded him he was still here . That the world, however warped, was still solid beneath his feet.

He tilted his head back, let the stream beat against his closed eyes, against the ridges of his cheekbones. His breath came out in slow, deliberate exhales. The kind taught in therapy sessions he never went back to.

You didn’t see anything, he told himself.

It was nothing. A trick of light.  A tired mind.

Paranoia.

He turned slightly and let the water pound into the space between his shoulder blades. There were scars there - some visible, others too deep to trace with fingers. He’d lived in the public eye long enough to know the weight of being watched. 

But this didn’t feel like that.

Paparazzi wanted a photo. Fans wanted a moment. This felt… closer . 

Personal.

There’d been someone there. He was sure of it. A shadow at the edge of the glass. 

A presence. Watching - not carelessly, not from curiosity, but with intention.

And the worst part? They knew he saw them.

Bruce leaned forward, pressing both hands against the cool tile as the water continued to fall around him. His hair hung in dark strands over his face, water tracing the edge of his jaw, slipping past his lips.

He closed his eyes again.

Behind them, flashes of that window returned - the old theater, the broken glass, the hollow sockets of a building long forgotten. And in it, that brief flicker. Not bold. Not reckless. Just calculated . A whisper in motion. The kind of thing you don’t really see, you feel .

He’d felt it before. In alleys. In hotel lobbies. At galas when a stranger’s eyes stayed on him too long. But this was different. This wasn’t someone wanting a selfie. This was someone studying him. And it had been weeks now - the same moments of unease, of glances he couldn’t place. The letters had only made it real.

The first one was vague. 

Just his name. 

No return address. 

No message.

The second had come with a photograph - blurry, black and white, taken from a distance. Him on his balcony. Drinking coffee.

The third was what made Alfred furious.
A note. No threats. Just a single sentence:

“Do you still sleep with the window open?”

Bruce ran both hands down his face and turned under the stream. The water now pooled around his feet, steam clouding the air in thick ribbons. His skin flushed from the heat, the pressure. But none of it melted the weight between his ribs.

Was he imagining it? Losing grip? He hadn’t slept properly in days. 

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw shapes in the dark corners of the room. Movement in reflections. The edges of something watching, waiting.

And yet, he kept telling Alfred not to worry. Told him it would pass. Told him he could handle it.

But even he knew deep in his guts that those words were hollowed promises. Promises to ease the mind, to calm the ticking bomb. He knew better. 

The house was quiet in the way that unnerves rather than soothes. 

The kind of silence that lets your mind wander into the wrong places. Beyond the tall windows, Gotham still hadn’t shrugged off the rain - it pressed against the glass in misty veils, the grey light of dawn diffused through thick clouds that seemed determined never to part. 

Wayne Manor, nestled on the outskirts of the city, was too large to ever feel warm. Cold stone and shadowed corridors stretched in every direction, and the silence inside was more ghost than peace.

Bruce stepped out of the bathroom, steam rising around him like a second skin. 

A towel hung low around his hips, droplets of water tracking down his chest and disappearing into the fabric. His hair was soaked, dark strands plastered to his forehead. 

He looked tired, not in the obvious sense - not from lack of sleep, though that was a constant - but worn down in ways people couldn’t see unless they knew him well enough to catch the signs. 

Shoulders set too tight. Eyes too still. Movements were too careful, like every step he took was premeditated.

Alfred was already in his room.

It wasn’t unusual - Alfred had been entering rooms before Bruce could speak, had raised him in the spaces between grief and routine - but this morning, the tension hung heavier than usual.

Alfred stood near the fireplace, an untouched cup of coffee in one hand, a small stack of envelopes in the other. He was dressed immaculately, as always: white shirt pressed, charcoal vest buttoned with clinical precision, tie a sharp line under his jaw. 

But his face betrayed him - lined with worry, jaw clenched too tight, like he was preparing for another argument he didn’t want to have.

- Morning, - Alfred said, trying for casualness, but the word landed flat between them.

Bruce didn’t answer. He moved toward the dresser, pulling on a black shirt, damp skin making the fabric cling. He didn’t meet Alfred’s eyes.

The older man placed the coffee down on the nightstand and stepped closer, setting the envelopes beside it - the top one already opened, the flap neatly slit with a letter opener.

- I took the liberty, - Alfred said, his voice lower now. - They delivered early again. Second time this week.

Bruce didn’t look at the letter, but his body stilled, a breath caught halfway in his chest.

- You shouldn’t -

- I should , Bruce. - Alfred cut him off gently but firmly, voice hardening around the truth. - Because you won’t.

Bruce finally turned, his expression unreadable, but something flickered behind his eyes. 

Something between anger and weariness. 

He sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, the shirt clinging to the curves of his shoulder blades. He looked down at the envelope, the cream color so out of place against the dark mahogany furniture, the handwriting too childish - like a child trying to hold onto a crayon, scraping down different letters to learn their deep set of meaning.

- You opened it? - Bruce asked.

Alfred didn’t answer right away. 

Instead, he crossed his arms, looking at the envelope like it might explode. - I don’t need to read every word to know it’s the same pattern. Cryptic language. Praise. Obsession. Familiarity that hasn’t been earned.

Bruce’s fingers curled slightly, knuckles pale.

- They’ve been watching, - Alfred continued. - They knew when your morning jog would shift routes. They knew when you stopped taking the car. Whoever this is… they’re not a fan. They’re a threat.

Bruce looked out the rain-streaked window, the city blurred in silver and grey. - There’s no evidence.

- There is . - Alfred’s voice rose - a crack in the calm. - You just don’t want to admit it.

Bruce stood slowly, crossing the room toward the window. 

His reflection stared back at him, faint and distorted, like a version of himself he no longer trusted. In the reflection, he could still see Alfred - rigid with tension, jaw tight.

- Do you even believe that this could be a greater threat to you?” Alfred asked quietly. - You’ve been in the public eye ever since you were a child Bruce. Do you believe this could be something bigger or are you already trying to convince yourself it’s nothing?”

Bruce didn’t answer. The rain tapped harder, the sound sharp like fingernails on glass.

- I’ve seen you shaken before, - Alfred continued. - But never like this.

There was silence for a long moment. Bruce turned, slowly, the tension radiating off him like a storm front.

- What are you suggesting? - he asked.

- I’ve already started making calls, - Alfred admitted, and there was something almost apologetic in his tone. - Discreetly. There’s someone available. MMA trained. Keeps things quiet. Someone who can be near without drawing attention.

- A bodyguard? - Bruce asked, a bitter twist to the word.

- A set of eyes, - Alfred corrected. - One that’s not yours. Because whatever this is, Bruce… It's personal. And if you’re already doubting your instincts, then you need help.

Bruce walked back to the bed and sat down again, slower this time. He picked up the envelope, turning it over in his hands like it might offer answers if he stared long enough. 

He didn’t open it.

- You know what this looks like, - Bruce muttered. - To the press. To the Board. Security detail screams weakness.

- It screams survival , - Alfred snapped, and then softened again, dragging a hand down his face. - And I don’t care what it looks like. I care if you’re safe. You don’t have to be alone in this. Not this time.

For a second, Bruce looked almost young - not the billionaire who hated every second of this, not the stone-faced public figure, but the boy left in a cavernous house full of ghosts. The one who had to learn to stop flinching in silence.

He exhaled slowly and finally spoke.

- Set the meeting.

Alfred nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly.

Outside, Gotham loomed - vast, unforgiving, and unblinking.

But for the first time in weeks, Bruce wasn’t entirely alone in it.

The clang of iron and the echo of fists hitting leather filled the otherwise silent basement gym - a cold, windowless floor deep beneath Apex Private Security’s Metropolis headquarters. 

Concrete bled into steel, sweat into skin. 

The air was sharp with the sterile bite of disinfectant and the low hum of fluorescent lights, casting the space in a sickly blue-gray glow. It was the kind of place designed to strip distractions, to break focus down to the barest essentials. 

No music. No mirrors. Just breath, blood, and the ache of repetition.

Clark Kent stood alone on the mat, shirtless, wrapped hands striking the heavy bag in a rhythm that bordered on obsessive. 

Jab. Jab. 

Right cross. 

Reset. Left hook. 

Breathe. Again.

The sweat poured from his brow, muscles tightening with every movement. His chest rose and fell in quiet bursts, steam curling from his skin in the chill. 

There was no audience, no one to impress. That was the point. This wasn’t for show - this was a ritual. A way to stay sharp. 

Present. Grounded. 

Clark’s fighting style was carved from years of brutal training in underground MMA circuits - the kind of places that didn’t sell tickets, just silence. He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t loud. Every punch he threw was calculated, efficient, and restrained. 

Even in a world of blunt-force men, he carried precision like a weapon.

He wasn’t here to prove anything. He was here to remember who he was underneath the calm, beneath the easy smile that made people underestimate him. The gym was one of the few places he didn’t have to shrink himself down.

A final round. 

He pivoted into a rear-leg kick that made the bag swing wildly on its chain, let it sway, then caught it with a closed fist before stepping back. Breathing deep. 

He rubbed his knuckles with a towel and dropped to a crouch near the wall, sipping from a half-empty bottle of water as the fluorescent lights buzzed again overhead.

Then: a static click. The overhead speaker crackled to life.

“Kent. Lane’s office. Now.”

The words were curt, grainy. No need for pleasantries. Sam Lane didn’t have time for manners - or he just didn’t believe in them. Either way, Clark barely blinked. He pulled his hoodie over his damp shoulders, the fabric clinging slightly to his skin, and stood.

The trek from the basement to the executive floor was a stark transition - from worn-out mats and iron bars to bulletproof glass and polished obsidian tile. Apex wasn’t built like a traditional agency. It was more fortress than office, more vault than workspace. The kind of place where discretion was a selling point, and your past could be rewritten in a single secure file.

Clark didn’t look at the security cameras. He knew where they were. He knew who was watching. He just didn’t care. He walked like a man who belonged.

The elevator doors opened to reveal Lane’s private floor - colder than the rest of the building, somehow, like it had been stripped of warmth on purpose. 

The lobby was empty. His assistant desk was bare. Only a low-pitched radio hum played from somewhere behind a tinted wall.

Sam Lane stood with his back to the window, arms folded, sleeves rolled up over his forearms like he was still in the military and waiting to brief someone on a field operation. The man never changed - gray buzz cut, hard lines around the mouth, eyes that never softened. 

His office was just as stark. 

No family photos, no framed awards. Just black furniture, a world map etched in chrome, and a faint ticking from the analog clock mounted above the reinforced door.

- You’re late, - Sam muttered without turning.

- I’m not, - Clark said, voice even.

Lane snorted and turned, pulling a thick folder from his desk. - You will be if you keep arguing.

Clark stepped forward and took the file, flipping it open casually. The name hit him immediately. A weight behind the ink.

Wayne, Bruce.

Clark’s eyes lingered on the name, on the pages underneath - press clippings, security logs, threat evaluations. Patterns of surveillance. Vague emails escalating to graphic handwritten letters. Photos taken from across the street, some at night. A figure in the distance. A watcher. Always a watcher.

- I thought you didn’t do celebrity protection, - Clark said quietly.

- I don’t, - Lane answered. - Not unless the celebrity in question is on the verge of being hunted.

Clark looked up, brows pulling together slightly. - Stalker?

Lane nodded once. - Possibly worse. Whoever this is, they’re clever. No digital traces. No predictable cycle. Just moments. Appearances. The client - Wayne - claims he’s being followed, watched. Said he saw someone this morning during his usual run. No footage. No face. But it’s not the first time.

Clark set the folder down.

- I don’t think he’s being paranoid, - Lane added. - And I don’t think this is about a ransom or tabloid grab. This feels… personal. Deep-rooted. Like someone’s building something.

Clark stared at the man across from him, studying the way his jaw tightened when he said it. Lane didn’t rattle easily. But he looked on edge now.

- What do you need from me?

Lane leaned forward, elbows on the desk. - A shadow. Quiet. Smart. Someone who can read a room, slip through doors, and disarm threats without drawing heat. Wayne doesn’t want a team. Doesn’t want the headlines. But he finally agreed to one man. Discreet. Skilled.

- And expendable, - Clark muttered.

Lane didn’t disagree.

Clark exhaled slowly, letting his fingers drum once against the file. Bruce Wayne. Public face of Gotham’s elite. Rich. Brooding. The kind of man tabloids tore apart weekly but no one actually knew . He wasn’t Clark’s kind of client. He wasn’t anyone’s, really.

And yet…

There was something behind those still frames - those rare, unsmiling portraits. A stillness. A tension. A quiet kind of exhaustion Clark recognized. Men like Wayne didn’t ask for help until they were two inches from drowning. Until it wasn’t about fear anymore, but survival.

Clark reached for the file again.

- When do I meet him?

Lane smirked slightly. - Soon. First, we get you inside the house.

Clark raised a brow. - You want me living there?

- His call, not mine. He wants you close. But invisible.

Clark didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just studied the files in his hand, like he was waiting for a sign, for something to reach out and tell him this was the right thing to do. He didn’t do this stuff, not anymore. 

Then: Fine.

Lane’s eyes narrowed slightly. - Are you sure about this? 

Clark met his gaze, unblinking. - Do I have a choice?

Lane smirked again. Like the man and Clark himself already knew the answer to that.

Rain streaked the windows in silver veins, blurring the edges of Gotham like a painting left out in the storm. The city passed by in a gray smear - sharp rooftops, waterlogged alleys, silhouettes pressed to neon-lit glass. Every street felt like it had a story no one wanted to tell.

Clark sat in the backseat of the black, unmarked SUV, arms folded across his chest, the seatbelt a loose afterthought. His black shirt tightly clinging to his frame, the faint scent of steel and chalk clinging to him like a second skin. Outside, Gotham loomed -not upward, like Metropolis did, but inward. As if it were curling into itself. 

Protective. Suspicious. Broken.

Sam Lane sat beside him, rifling through a tablet, eyes flicking across intel with practiced speed. The car was quiet, save for the whisper of windshield wipers and the occasional murmur of the driver checking the route. The world felt closed in. Dim.

- Wayne’s an odd one, - Lane said finally, without looking up.

Clark glanced sideways but said nothing. He waited.

- Heir to the Wayne fortune. The Tower. The legacy. Parents murdered when he was eight - robbery gone wrong, but half the city still has conspiracy theories pinned to their walls about it. Grew up under the care of the family butler, of all people. Reclusive even as a teenager. Went off the grid for years - travel, training, no one really knows. Showed back up with a polished face and a dead stare, ready to take over his family’s empire. And he did. Publicly, at least.

Clark’s gaze followed the buildings outside. Their windows were lit in flickering patches, dimly glowing behind bars or security grates. Everything felt drenched in shadow.

- And privately? - Clark asked.

Lane exhaled, leaned back in the seat. - He doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t mingle. Rarely does press, unless it’s prearranged down to the syllable. Keeps his circle microscopic. Few business partners. No visible security detail until now. No partner. No scandals. Just a long string of evasions, contradictions, and silence.

Clark let the words hang there for a moment, then said softly, - I’ve heard about him before.

Lane raised an eyebrow. - Tabloid stuff?

- Some of it, - Clark replied. - But mostly from others in the field. Some security clients. High-end executives who couldn’t get a word out of him. They said he’s either broken or built like stone. Nothing in between.

Lane nodded slightly, as if he’d heard the same.

- He watches people, - he added. - Even in public. Not in a rude way. Just - studies them. Like he’s looking for something underneath the surface and never quite finds it.

Clark hummed. - Or maybe he already knows and just doesn’t like what he sees.

They didn’t speak for a while after that.

Gotham turned more industrial as they moved further west - warehouses, floodgates, rusted train bridges hanging over streets like skeletal remains. The city seemed to get darker the closer they got to the manor, as if light itself was wary of crossing that boundary.

Finally, the SUV turned down a long, winding road flanked by skeletal trees, the stone of the road slick with rain and age. Fog crept low along the ground, hugging the roots, curling around the iron gates ahead. The gates groaned open on command, revealing a long drive carved through a weeping forest. Beyond it: Wayne Manor.

It rose from the hill like a monument to loss. 

Gray stone, arched windows, ivy that had long since claimed sections of the wall. Lights glowed faintly behind shuttered glass, golden in patches, like the house itself was still half-asleep. Rain clung to the roof in sheets, water rolling down gargoyles that looked more like watchmen than decoration.

At the foot of the stone steps stood an older man - straight-backed, suited, with gloved hands and a quiet air of dignity. He didn’t carry an umbrella, though the rain hit him freely, soaking into the wool of his coat. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp.

- That’s Alfred Pennyworth, - Lane murmured. - House manager. Legal guardian. Some would say father figure. He’s the one who called me.

The car slowed to a stop.

Clark glanced up at the towering house once more, then back at Alfred.

- And him? - he asked.

Lane gave the ghost of a smirk. - The only person Bruce ever listens to.

The driver cut the engine.

And the rain kept falling.

Chapter Text

The rain hadn’t let up.

It pattered softly against the tall windows of Wayne Manor, streaking down the glass in long, glistening trails. The house was silent above its usual creaks and groans, the kind that came from old wood and older stone expanding beneath cold and time. The kind that whispered when no one was listening.

Bruce stood barefoot in the dark of the west wing, just beyond the pale sheer curtains. A low-burning lamp sat behind him on a carved oak table, casting only enough light to outline his shoulders in a soft amber glow. 

His damp hair had begun to curl slightly at the ends from his earlier shower, and the black fabric clung loosely to his frame. He hadn’t moved much since he’d come to stand there. 

Maybe ten minutes. Maybe twenty. He wasn't keeping track anymore.

Below, a black SUV was pulling into the circular drive. 

He watched it without expression, his breath shallow, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Rain glistened on the hood like oil. The windows were tinted, but he could see movement behind them - silhouettes shifting, heads turning. The engine gave a low grumble before falling into silence.

Then came Alfred.

Punctual. Predictable. Stalwart as always, standing at the top of the steps like a weathered soldier waiting for orders. He didn’t flinch beneath the rain. He rarely did. His back was straight, gloved hands folded neatly in front of him, every line of his posture calm and controlled. He’d been that way for years - the last piece of order left in Bruce’s crumbling world.

And then the passenger door opened.

Bruce’s gaze sharpened.

The man who stepped out wasn’t what he expected. Tall, broad-shouldered, late twenties maybe. His dark hair was pushed back in damp waves, and his shirt clung to his frame, soaked from the storm. He moved with a particular kind of stillness, one Bruce knew too well - the kind people carried when they were taught to fight, not speak. A duffle bag was pulled from the back of the SUV, slung casually over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

Military? Bruce considered. No - too grounded. 

His posture was straight but not stiff. Like a coiled spring. He watched Alfred approach him with a faint nod, and the man returned it politely, standing still as Lane got out of the car behind him and said something Bruce couldn’t hear.

He narrowed his eyes.

This was the babysitter.

Bruce leaned his temple against the cold glass and closed his eyes for a moment, jaw tightening. Of course Lane would send someone like this. The muscle-for-hire. The watchful shadow. The implied insult: “You need protecting.” 

The very idea of it made Bruce’s stomach twist. He wasn’t some fragile heir, some delicate recluse in a gilded cage. He didn’t need someone to watch him sleep or walk him to the bathroom like a child. The thought filled him with quiet rage - not loud or fiery, but the cold, slow-burning kind that never quite left the bones.

He opened his eyes again. 

The man was still standing beside Alfred, listening intently, not saying much. His eyes moved across the Manor - slowly, deliberately, cataloging details. His gaze lingered on the arched windows, the cracked stone, the crooked gargoyles. And then, just for a second, it lifted upward.

Bruce pulled back from the curtain before their eyes could meet.

Something in his chest tightened, not with fear, but with discomfort. With knowing.

This wasn’t someone who would flinch easily. Or leave.

He didn’t know what was worse - the stalker outside his home, or the stranger coming inside it.

He stood there in silence long after the door closed downstairs, listening to the house breathe.

Still wet. Still cold.

Still his. 

For now.

The rain smelled different in Gotham.

It wasn't clean, like in Kansas - or even sharp like Metropolis. Here, it clung to the streets like oil, metallic and heavy, sinking into every crack in the pavement like it belonged there. The clouds hung low, swollen and slate-colored, and even the daylight couldn't quite pierce them. 

Clark stepped out of the SUV, the soles of his boots hitting the gravel with a muffled crunch. A wind swept through the open space, he tried not to feel the cold through the thin fabric of his shirt, lashing his face with fine, persistent rain.

His eyes lifted almost instinctively.

There - high up in the manor, behind a tall, arched window half-covered by sheer curtains - something moved. A shadow. 

Subtle. Watching.

For a moment, it held still.

Clark couldn’t see much, only the vaguest suggestion of someone stepping back into the shadows. But he didn’t need a clear view to feel it. 

Someone had been watching. Someone still was. 

He squared his shoulders and shifted his duffle bag over one side, pretending not to notice as General Lane stepped out behind him, already mid-sentence.

- Try not to look so stiff, Kent, - Lane muttered low beside him, hand brushing the rain from his coat. - He doesn’t respond well to authority.

Clark only nodded once. He’d heard the rumors. The Gotham prince who turned his grief inward. Reclusive. Temperamental. Untouchable. But he’d seen men like that before - not behind velvet curtains, but in back-alley cages and cracked gym mats. Grief always had a shape. Even when it wore expensive clothes and hid in high towers.

The Manor loomed ahead of him like something carved from a darker century. 

Stone, ivy, tall windows that blinked like hollow eyes. The iron gates had shut behind them, and he could feel the silence that wrapped around this place - not just the quiet of sound, but the quiet of time. Heavy. Still.

Alfred met them at the top of the stairs with the kind of posture that spoke volumes: a man who had seen it all and endured most of it in silence.

- General Lane, - Alfred greeted with a polite nod. - And Mr. Kent, I presume.

- Sir, - Clark returned with quiet respect, shaking the offered hand. Alfred’s grip was firm, but warm.

- If you’ll come inside, - Alfred said, gesturing to them through the heavy double doors, - I’ll explain what I can.

The inside of Wayne Manor was colder than Clark expected. 

Not physically - though the stone still held the chill of a long winter - but emotionally. The walls were tall and crowded with dust-dulled portraits, thick velvet drapes, and antique furnishings that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. It wasn’t a home. It was a mausoleum - beautiful, but echoing with ghosts.

Alfred led them into a large entry hall, where a dying fire crackled in an oversized hearth, casting long shadows across the ornate floor.

- The Master of the house is… as you might expect, - Alfred began, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’d said that line too many times already. - He’s aware of your presence, Mr. Kent, but he is - a brief pause, like he weighed the word - reluctant. Don’t take it personally. He doesn’t warm easily to strangers. Or anyone.

-I’m not here to be liked, - Clark replied simply. - Just to do my job.

- Good, - Alfred said, with something like approval in his voice. - That will make things simpler. Or at least manageable.

Alfred stepped aside then, turning back toward Lane with a practiced, almost seamless pivot.

- If you’ll excuse us for just a moment, - he said, voice still perfectly measured. - General Lane and I have a few matters to discuss privately. I’ll show you to your room shortly.

And just like that, Clark was left standing alone.

The entrance door clicked closed behind them. The ticking of an unseen grandfather clock echoed faintly through the hall. Clark stood still in the center of it all, his duffle bag still slung over one shoulder, the scent of old wood and ash and rain-soaked stone thick in his lungs.

Somewhere above him, he could still feel that presence.

That gaze.

He didn’t look up this time. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he let the silence settle over him, and waited.

The silence had a body.

It moved with Clark as he stepped deeper into the entry hall, soft-footed despite the creak of the ancient wood beneath his boots. The air inside the Manor was cool, damp with history, as if it had been holding its breath for years. Outside, rain whispered against tall windows like secrets no one dared speak aloud. The faint crackle from the hearth in the other room had already faded behind him, replaced by the kind of stillness that makes a man instinctively lower his voice - even when he isn’t speaking.

Clark wasn’t snooping, not really.

He moved like someone walking through a museum - careful, quiet, the kind of presence that didn’t want to disturb anything. There was respect here, even if it wasn’t owed. Even if the man who lived within these walls was rumored to be unreachable.

The corridor branched left, leading toward what looked like a gallery - wide, long, and lined with old frames. The scent of oil paint and varnished wood reached him faintly, mixing with the mildew that clung to the older bricks. Clark stepped through the arched threshold, eyes scanning slowly, thoughtfully.

Portraits lined the walls - some formal, stoic faces in evening wear, others more artistic in composition: a woman at a piano, a young man on horseback, black-and-white photographs frozen behind glass like ghosts caught mid-laugh. The Waynes. Generations of them, all looking proud or poised or pressed into perfection.

But then his eyes caught on a larger frame, central and towering on the far wall.

Clark stilled.

It was a family portrait - Bruce, no older than five, maybe six, seated between his parents.

Thomas Wayne sat tall, shoulders broad, with a tailored black suit and a kind gaze sharpened by intellect. One hand rested gently on his son’s shoulder. Martha Wayne sat beside him in a deep sapphire gown, her smile warm and full, her hair swept back in the style of old Hollywood, regal without trying to be. She held Bruce’s small hand in hers.

But it was the boy in the middle who held Clark's attention.

Bruce looked painfully formal - straight-backed in a little suit, hair neatly parted, expression caught between childhood and the expectation to grow up too fast. There was a subtle tension in the line of his jaw, a restraint in his eyes. Not sadness, exactly. Not fear. But a kind of guarded discomfort, as though even then he knew this moment would be preserved forever… and hated it.

Clark took a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

There was something haunting about it - not the painting itself, but the energy it carried. A family frozen in the moment before everything shattered. A boy sitting between two people who would be gone far too soon, left behind to live in a house too big for grief and silence.

He stepped closer, his boots brushing the edge of the ornate rug beneath the painting. His eyes traced the texture of the canvas, the brushwork in Martha’s smile, the shadow just under Bruce’s gaze, where the light didn’t quite touch.

He wondered if Bruce ever came here. If he ever looked at it.

If he could even stand to.

Clark glanced back down the hallway where he'd come from, half-expecting to hear Alfred’s approaching footsteps - but the Manor held still. Unmoving. Quiet.

He turned back toward the painting, gaze lingering one last time on that boy who had no idea what was coming for him.

And in a rare moment of stillness, Clark felt something unspoken settle in his chest.

This assignment wouldn’t be easy.

Not because of the danger. Not because of the stalker. But because Bruce Wayne had already spent a lifetime fortifying walls around himself - and Clark had just stepped into the center of them.

And the silence?

It had teeth. It had claws.

Clark Kent had learned, early in life, how to adapt. 

It had been one of the first things drilled into him during his training - not the kind of adaptation that required camouflage or deception, but the more subtle kind, the internal one. The ability to occupy a space, no matter how foreign, and make it functional. But Wayne Manor wasn’t a space; it was a presence. 

Every inch of it breathed history, tragedy, and the quiet residue of wealth soaked too long in solitude.

His room was still too large, even after he’d unpacked. His things - mostly black training gear, a few worn books, and the bare essentials - looked almost comically utilitarian against the deep mahogany furniture and the cold elegance of leaded windows. 

He didn’t sit long. 

His body didn’t respond well to stillness when there was tension humming beneath his skin.

It was raining again outside, a fine mist tapping against the glass. Gotham never seemed to stop grieving, even in the weather. It reminded him of places he’d visited overseas - the ones haunted by conflict long after the bullets stopped flying. The ones that never felt clean, because ghosts had long since taken up residence in the air.

Alfred found him not long after his brief workout - just enough to reset his thoughts - and led him downstairs, down a narrower hallway that forked from the grander ones. This one was quieter, less curated.A part of the house that hadn’t been meant for guests, or perhaps had simply been forgotten. 

There was dust on the picture frames here, and something lonely about the way the lights flickered overhead.

The room Alfred brought him to was a study - small, windowed, and dim. It looked like it had been sealed off for years before someone recently decided it needed to be used again. Clark could smell the age in the carpet, the sharpness of old paper and dried ink.

- This is where he keeps them, - Alfred said. - Or rather, where I keep them. I don’t think Mr. Wayne has touched them more than once.

The letters were stacked in a deliberate pile on the heavy wooden desk, each one nearly identical in exterior - same envelope weight, same sharp crease, same neatly printed name: Bruce Wayne .

Clark sat slowly and reached for the topmost letter. He opened it carefully. The scent hit him first - something chemical, like ink and glue. Then the words.

You think you’re hard to find. But I see you, always. I hear how the floorboards shift under your feet at night. You’re not a man, Bruce. You’re still the boy. Still a coward. Still the orphan behind the glass.

Clark’s brow furrowed as he scanned down. The handwriting was deliberate, fastidious. Precise to the point of obsession. Every sentence cut clean, unflinching. 

This wasn’t a fan, or even a fanatic. 

This was someone who had studied Bruce. Watched him not just with eyes, but with purpose. Clark flipped through the rest - a few other letters, all similarly written. Each of them felt like a fingerprint dipped in poison.

- They come every week, - Alfred murmured. - Without fail. No postmark. No prints. Whoever he is, he’s very, very careful. He wants Bruce to feel him, not find him.

- Has he? - Clark asked without looking up.

Alfred hesitated. - Feel him? Yes. Find him? No. Mr. Wayne is many things, but communicative is not one of them. He keeps his paranoia close. Like armor.

Clark placed the final letter back down, neatly aligned. - And the handwriting? Anyone run it through databases?

- We tried. No match. But I’ve seen it before. - Alfred moved to a drawer and pulled out a folder, handing it to Clark without a word.

Inside were stills from a security camera - grainy footage, focused on the outer gate of the property. A figure in a hood, gloved hands, no visible face. One shot showed the hand sliding a letter into the gate’s lower latch. On the wall beside the gate, scrawled in what looked like grease or ink, was a single mark: a green question mark, large and tilted.

Clark didn’t need a full background profile to connect the dots. His time in military contracts had taught him to recognize behavior patterns quickly - and whoever this was, he wasn’t acting on impulse. This was ritualistic. Personal.

Just then, a quiet chime echoed through the manor.

Alfred checked his watch. - Dinner, - he said. - Modest, but on time. Mr. Wayne dislikes formality.

Clark nodded. - So I’ve heard.

They made their way down the winding stairs, into the heart of the house. 

Alfred moved with practiced efficiency, the sort born of years serving men who didn’t know how to ask for what they needed. As they passed through the main foyer, Clark noticed the hallway branching to the east - the darker corridor where he’d seen that family portrait earlier. The child Bruce, frozen in oils, his smile small and eyes too old.

The dining room was ahead now. The lights dimmed intentionally, the walls a deep green that caught no light. A single long table sat in the middle of the room, polished to a black sheen. At the head of it, seated already, was the man himself.

Bruce Wayne.

He wore black. Of course he did. 

Everything about him was taut - the way he sat, the way his fingers tapped lightly against the table’s edge, the way his gaze didn’t meet theirs until the very last moment, like he had to assess the room first. The overhead chandelier cast a pale halo on his dark hair, and his face - hollowed slightly by poor sleep or something deeper, was unreadable.

Clark slowed just slightly at the threshold.

This wasn’t a mission anymore. This was the beginning.

Of what, exactly, he didn’t know yet. But the air in the room shifted the moment Bruce looked at him. Like two storms measuring each other before the thunder.

The dining room was unnervingly quiet, save for the soft clink of silverware being placed, the distant murmur of rain continuing outside, and the faint shuffle of Alfred's shoes against the floor as he approached the end of the long table. The room smelled faintly of rosemary and lemon - a roasted chicken centerpiece accompanied by warm, baked root vegetables and freshly sliced bread. Despite the warmth of the meal, the room remained cold. 

Not in temperature, but in energy.

Bruce didn’t rise from his seat when they entered. He didn’t offer a greeting, not even a nod. 

Instead, his eyes fixed on Clark the moment he stepped through the doorway, sizing him up the way a soldier might read the terrain before a battle. His expression was unreadable - not guarded, not hostile, but impassive, like a man who had long since learned how to let silence do the heavy lifting.

Alfred cleared his throat lightly, not out of nervousness but protocol. - Mr. Wayne, - he began in his polished English cadence, - this is Mr. Kent. Clark Kent. He’s the man General Lane and I spoke of. He’ll be staying here at the manor with us. Effective immediately.

Clark gave a polite nod, stepping forward slightly but keeping his posture relaxed, unthreatening. He didn’t offer a handshake. It felt wrong, too formal, too naive in a room like this.

Bruce leaned back slightly in his chair, his lips curling - not into a smile, but into something sharper. More amused. - So this is the babysitter, - he muttered, eyes not leaving Clark’s.

Clark’s jaw tensed faintly, but his tone remained level. - I’m not here to babysit you, " he said. - I’m here to protect you. There’s a difference.

Bruce tilted his head, eyes narrowing faintly, like he was weighing the response for weaknesses. - From what? Ghosts? Letters? The boogeyman at the gate? - His voice was quiet, but it carried. - You think you can stop someone who’s already inside?

Alfred, who had been pouring water into their glasses with stiff efficiency, cut in with the slight edge of a sigh. - Bruce… -

But Clark held up a hand gently, signaling it was alright. He stepped forward and took the seat across from Bruce without being told, meeting his eyes without posturing. - I don’t know what I’m up against yet. That’s why I’m here - to find out. To stop this before it becomes something worse.

There was silence again. 

The kind that made seconds feel longer than they were. Then Bruce turned his gaze away, looking instead at his plate as if it had offended him. - You’re wasting your time.

- Maybe, - Clark said, with a faint shrug. - But that’s not really for you to decide.

A flicker of something passed over Bruce’s expression - not annoyance, not quite. Something harder to place. Frustration, maybe. Recognition. Either way, he didn’t argue.

Alfred served them quietly, his years of service showing in the smooth way he placed each plate, adjusted silverware, and lit the candles at the center of the table, offering a bit more light to the dim space. The flame flickered against the glassware, casting faint golden halos against Bruce’s sharp features. 

He didn’t touch the food. He rarely did.

Clark, on the other hand, took his time - cutting slowly into the chicken, not out of hunger but because it gave his hands something to do. Something that grounded him.

- Did you grow up in Gotham? - Clark asked lightly after a moment, trying to ease the silence.

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He picked up his glass, swirled the water slowly, then set it down again. - Born here. Left for a while. Came back.

Clark nodded once. - I’ve heard the city’s changed a lot.

- It hasn’t, - Bruce replied, his tone flat. - People just like to pretend it has.

Clark smiled faintly, not in mockery but understanding. - That’s the thing about cities. Doesn’t matter how many buildings you tear down or how many campaigns you fund. Some places are just haunted.

Bruce finally looked up again at that, his eyes briefly sharpening with something that might’ve been interest - or suspicion. - And what do you know about haunted places, Mr. Kent?

Clark leaned back slightly, arms resting casually on the table. - Enough to recognize when someone stops looking for a way out.

The words hung there for a beat too long. Bruce’s gaze didn’t falter, but something in his posture shifted. Subtly. As if the armor had cracked - not shattered, but bent at the edges.

Alfred reentered just then, saving either of them from needing to continue. - Would either of you like some wine?

- No, - Bruce said quickly, voice tight.

- I’m good, thank you, - Clark added, glancing at him.

Alfred gave a nod and stepped back out, the door easing shut behind him.

Bruce leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, eyes on his plate. - You’ll find nothing here, - he said. - No friends. No trust. Just walls. That’s all this place is.

Clark watched him carefully, not with pity, but with patience. - Then maybe that’s where I’ll start.

And for a moment - just a brief one - Bruce didn’t look angry. Or bitter. He just looked… tired.

Then he reached for the fork, as if the conversation had never happened at all.

Chapter Text

The manor was still cloaked in a hush when Bruce stirred awake.

Outside, the sky had yet to fully brighten. Dawn in Gotham never quite came with the brilliance it promised elsewhere - here, it bled in slowly through low-hanging clouds, a cold gray light that seeped through the tall windows like smoke. 

The city below remained buried beneath the remnants of night: fog clinging to the wet pavement, the distant echo of sirens lost in the gloom, the ghosts of yesterday still lingering where the light hadn’t reached.

Bruce sat at the edge of his bed for a moment, unmoving, watching the static shadows shift across the wooden floor. There was a chill in the air. The kind that settled into the bones without asking. 

It was almost Halloween.

Which meant the anniversary was close.

He didn’t mark the date on calendars. Didn’t speak about it, didn’t light candles, didn’t make a spectacle of grief. But it lived in his body, etched there like marrow - the knowledge of that alleyway, of the gunshot that tore through a child’s world and left only silence behind. Every year, the ache came a little earlier. 

And this morning, it arrived like an old friend at the door.

He rose without ceremony, moving through his morning ritual on muscle memory: splashing cold water on his face, pulling on the fitted workout shirt, tightening the laces of his running shoes. The fabric of the shirt clung to his shoulders, soaked quickly by the damp air that filtered through the old walls.

His body moved like a machine, conditioned and honed. His mind, though, stayed elsewhere. Flickering back to dreams that blurred with memory - shadows, hands reaching, pearls falling into the gutter like teeth.

He exhaled, sharp and steady. Then headed out of his room, descending the long corridor toward the central staircase.

And there he was.

Clark Kent stood at the bottom of the stairs, already dressed for the morning run. 

He leaned against the banister with easy posture, arms crossed loosely over his broad chest. His black compression hoodie was zipped halfway, exposing the start of the black T-shirt beneath. A duffle bag sat at his feet, abandoned. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes - impossibly clear even in the morning dim - followed Bruce’s descent without flinching.

Bruce stopped at the second-to-last step. His jaw tightened faintly. - You’re up early.

Clark gave a slight nod. - Didn’t sleep much.

Bruce’s gaze narrowed slightly. - Jet lag?

- Habit, - Clark answered simply. - You’re heading out for your run, right?

There was something almost intrusive about the way he said it - not with rudeness, but with certainty. As though he’d studied Bruce’s rhythms, not just guessed them.

Bruce stepped off the final stair and brushed past him toward the front hall, grabbing the light windbreaker from the coat rack with practiced ease. - You don’t need to shadow me like that.

Clark followed at an even pace. - Not shadowing. Just thought we could run together.

Bruce didn’t stop moving. - This isn’t a buddy system.

- Didn’t say it was, - Clark replied calmly. - But you’re not the only one who needs to stay in shape.

That earned him a sideways glance - not irritation, but something like reluctant curiosity. Bruce paused long enough to tug on a pair of gloves, the leather worn and cracked at the seams. He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he pushed the front door open and let the outside air spill in.

It was colder than expected - a biting autumn chill wrapped in damp. The kind of cold that reminded you how close winter was creeping.

Behind him, Clark stepped out into the gray morning without hesitation. He didn’t shiver. He didn’t fidget. He simply fell into step beside Bruce, like it had been decided from the start.

They began to jog.

The stone path beneath their feet was slick with last night’s rain, leaves scattered across it like forgotten pages. The manor stood behind them like a monument, carved from history and held together by willpower and shadows.

Bruce said nothing as they ran past the rusted gates and out into the woods that bordered the estate, the city skyline still sleeping behind layers of fog. His breathing was controlled, measured, each step precise. But he felt Clark’s presence - constant, steady, like a second heartbeat beside him. 

Not intrusive, but… grounding.

They ran in silence for a long time. Only the sound of gravel underfoot, the sharp inhale and exhale of breath, and the distant murmur of Gotham waking up.

Bruce kept waiting for Clark to falter. To ask questions. To talk. But he didn’t. He just matched Bruce’s pace perfectly, like he’d been doing it his whole life.

Eventually, Bruce broke the silence.

- You know what this week is?

Clark glanced at him, just briefly. - Halloween’s in a few days.

Bruce gave a dry, mirthless laugh. - Yeah. That’s what most people remember.

Clark didn’t press. But there was a shift in his expression - something softer, more aware. He didn’t need the full story to know the weight of it. He’d read between the lines. The murdered philanthropists. 

The child left behind. Gotham’s ghost.

- Sorry, - Clark said, and he meant it.

Bruce didn’t respond. Just kept running.

But something eased, just slightly, in the tightness of his shoulders.

By the time they made the turn back toward the manor, the fog had started to thin. Sunlight hadn’t broken through, but there was a faint silver light in the sky. The path home looked the same as it always did - winding, dark, familiar.

Yet for the first time in a long while, Bruce didn’t feel entirely alone on it.

And that unsettled him more than anything else.

The run took them farther than expected.

What began as a quiet circuit around the manor’s outskirts turned into a winding descent into the edges of the city itself - Bruce didn’t slow or announce the detour, he just turned when the path split, and Clark, without missing a beat, followed him. 

Neither of them spoke. 

Not out of hostility, but because it wasn’t necessary. The rhythm of their feet on cracked pavement spoke enough, their breathing in sync, even if the unspoken walls between them remained.

The deeper they went into Gotham, the louder the city became - not just in sound, but in presence.

Here, Gotham had a pulse. A low, simmering throb beneath the concrete, beating with a strange mix of desperation and defiance. Rust coated the edges of metal fences. Old brick buildings stood like war survivors, patched and broken, leaning into one another for balance. Rainwater pooled in the uneven sidewalk cracks, catching reflections of headlights and red brick and something more subtle - paper. Lots of it.

Clark noticed them as they turned onto a wider street, their pace still steady. Flyers, posters, banners. All with the same face printed in saturated ink - a woman with steady eyes, a sure smile, and bold words stenciled beneath her image in serif font.

BELLA RÉAL
“It’s time for real change.”

Another had been partially torn, the edges flapping in the wind.

“GOTHAM DESERVES BETTER.”

Clark’s eyes lingered on them as they passed.

The posters were everywhere - stapled to lamp posts, plastered over abandoned phone booths, papered across crumbling walls and bus shelters. Some had been defaced, drawn over with thick black markers or cigarette burns. Others had fresh adhesive, still glossy despite the damp.

- She’s got traction, - Clark said aloud, his voice low but cutting through the air between them.

Bruce didn’t glance at him. - She’s got idealism.

Clark let that sit for a beat. - Is that a bad thing?

Bruce finally slowed, just slightly, enough for Clark to sense a shift in tempo rather than see it.

- In Gotham? - Bruce muttered, half under his breath. - It’s dangerous.

Clark didn’t argue - not because he agreed, but because there was something in Bruce’s tone that warned him not to. Not bitterness. Not cynicism. Something closer to weariness. The kind of exhaustion only someone deeply invested in something broken could understand.

- Bella Réal, - Clark said, tasting the name. - I’ve heard her speak. Interviews. Campaign clips.

Bruce didn’t respond, but his silence wasn’t dismissive - it was absorbing.

Clark kept pace beside him, watching a group of workers hang a fresh banner across an old overpass. The wind fought them as they secured it. The words rippled in the breeze like a flag over a battlefield.

“Vote Réal: Because Gotham Can’t Wait Any Longer.”

Clark exhaled through his nose and glanced sideways. - Do you know her?

Bruce’s jaw flexed. - I know the city.

That was answer enough.

They ran in silence again, moving through Gotham’s veins, its alleys and arterial streets. Clark noticed more than just the campaign trail - he noticed the way eyes followed them, too. Bruce’s presence wasn’t subtle, no matter how much he tried to disappear beneath the hood of his jacket. Even drenched in anonymity, there was a tension that followed him. A name that traveled farther than his steps.

And yet, he didn’t flinch under the stares. He didn’t react to the whispers or the sideways glances. He didn’t even seem to register them.

Clark wondered what it was like to live as a myth in your own city.

They turned back eventually. The manor loomed in the distance once more, half-shrouded in morning fog, its pointed towers barely cutting through the pale sky. The run slowed to a jog, then a walk, shoes crunching against gravel.

- I’ll show you the gym downstairs after breakfast, - Bruce said suddenly, voice neutral.

Clark arched a brow. - Didn’t think you cared if I worked out.

Bruce paused by the steps leading up to the door. - I don’t, - he said flatly. - But it’s soundproof. So if you start grunting like a heavyweight, I won’t have to hear it.

Clark chuckled under his breath. - Good to know.

As Bruce pushed open the door, the sound of the city faded behind them.

Inside, the manor waited in silence again - old, cold, and watching.

But outside, Gotham stirred with change. And the face of that change, her image peeling and pasted and relentless, was everywhere.

Bella Réal.

A name that might mean hope. Or chaos. Or both.

And Clark had a feeling they hadn’t heard the last of her.

The light in the hidden office was dim by design. No windows. Just the low, humming overhead fixtures that buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow across the cluttered desk and walls lined with old filing cabinets, dusty books, and outdated surveillance tech. 

The space wasn’t part of the original blueprints - Clark could tell that much. It felt like a bunker stitched into the belly of the manor, built in secret, protected by the hush of stone and shadow. A room created for someone who valued caution more than comfort. A room Bruce never mentioned.

Clark sat alone, elbows resting on the desk, one hand curled loosely around a chipped coffee mug that had long since gone cold. His other hand hovered over the keyboard, navigating between multiple monitors as the grainy footage of the manor’s outer security feeds played in looping silence. Static flickered. Wind caught tree limbs. A squirrel darted into frame, then out again.

But there was nothing - nothing that gave him what he needed.

He leaned back in the chair and exhaled through his nose, his jaw tight. The leather groaned under his weight.

It had been hours. Half a day swallowed in silence and fragments, all in pursuit of a shadow that left no trace.

Except for the letters.

The letters arrived every Thursday. Always at 7:02 AM. Folded neatly in a plain, cream envelope, placed among the stack of expected correspondence like an afterthought. No return address. Just the same looping handwriting on the front. And inside, always a single sheet, lined with words that pressed between the ribs like a cold knife.

Personal.

Obscure.

Biblical, almost. A kind of poetic menace.

Clark ran a hand through his hair and looked to the side where Alfred had laid them out hours before, careful not to touch them more than necessary. Clark had worn gloves. Still, there was something intimate about handling them. Like the letters themselves were watching.

The handwriting matched. Every time. Almost mechanical in its consistency, which made it even more unnerving. Not a slip of ink, not a falter in pressure. It had taken weeks, maybe months, to perfect a hand like that.

He’d checked the camera trained on the gate. He’d rewound it over and over again, waiting for the moment the envelope slipped through. But it wasn’t some ghost cloaked in shadows. It wasn’t someone tossing it and vanishing behind the hedges.

It was the mailman.

The same man every week - uniformed, professional, and completely unbothered. His name was Davis. Clark had already looked him up in the city database. Fifty-six years old. No criminal record. Lived in South Gotham with his wife and two daughters. Been working the Wayne Manor route for twelve years.

That was the part that made Clark uneasy.

This wasn’t someone creeping through the dark with gloves and a mask. This was someone who moved through the city without fear because they didn’t have to hide. Someone who knew Bruce’s habits, his security, his personnel - and knew exactly how to exploit them.

Clark rubbed at the back of his neck and leaned forward again. He brought up Davis’s route. Cross-referenced times. There was no deviation. No backup. No assistant. Just the same man, the same envelope, the same hour, every Thursday morning.

He skimmed through the latest footage again, eyes sharp. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just Davis stepping out of the mail truck, shuffling through the stack in his hands, slipping the envelope in, and continuing down the drive like he’d done a hundred times before.

But the footage couldn’t tell Clark who gave him the envelope. Or if he even noticed it.

The worst kind of danger was the one hiding in plain sight.

The desk creaked slightly as Clark stood, pushing the chair back with a quiet scrape. He crossed to the side wall, where Alfred had tacked up a map of the estate and circled each gate, each camera, each timed delivery. Even Bruce’s own notes were pinned here - scrawled in sharp black ink, messy but intelligent. Calculated.

Clark studied them in silence, the cold draft of the room seeping through his shirt.

The stalker was watching. That much he knew. Watching and waiting. But for what?

His eyes drifted back to the letters.

The last one had ended with a line that refused to leave him alone, even now.

“You stare into the void and expect it not to stare back. But I am not the void. I am what the void left behind.”

Clark swallowed and turned away from the desk.

He checked the time. 7:58 PM.

A knock echoed from upstairs, crisp and echoing faintly through the walls.

- Mr. Kent? - Alfred’s voice carried down from the hall above, warm and composed. - Dinner is being served.

Clark blinked back the tension behind his eyes, trying to ground himself. Right. Dinner.

And Bruce.

Their first official meal together had been strained - if one could even call it a meal. Bruce barely touched his food. Spoke even less. It had been Clark trying to fill the silences, trying to bridge a gap Bruce had no interest in closing. Still, there was something beneath that silence, something brittle and cracking. Bruce wasn't indifferent - he was armored. And whoever was sending those letters was trying to pierce that armor, one word at a time.

Clark turned off the monitors and slipped the gloves back on before gently collecting the latest letter and sealing it into an evidence bag. He tucked it into the side pocket of his jacket.

He didn’t have proof yet.

But he had a pattern.

And patterns always told a story.

As he stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him, the manor swallowed the sound whole, leaving only the fading echo of footsteps - his own, steady and determined, heading toward the dining room, and toward Bruce.

The silence behind him felt like a breath held too long. 

And somewhere in Gotham, someone was waiting for Thursday.

Thursday, October 31st

Rain peeled across the windows like a whisper trying to get in. The wind carried with it the crisp bite of late October, howling through the distant trees and winding its way through the cracks of Wayne Manor’s centuries-old bones. The entire estate seemed to breathe in greyscale, steeped in the melancholic quiet that came only with heavy memories and unsaid names.

Clark stood by the front gates, posture tall but eyes flicking with a subtle tension. 

The downpour was lighter now - a steady drizzle slicking his jacket and darkening his collar - but he remained in place, every minute accounted for. He knew the schedule. At precisely 9:45, the white van would crawl up the driveway. And as always, the man in the navy USPS coat would hand over the bundle of mail with the same small nod.

Today was no different - until it was.

Clark sifted through the stack just beyond the foyer, a line forming between his brows as he thumbed through the envelopes. 

A utility bill. 

A seasonal invite to a gala Bruce would never attend. A letter from a nonprofit bearing Thomas Wayne’s name - one of many still addressed to a ghost. But nothing handwritten. No slanted green ink. No mocking riddles. No games.

He froze. Flipped through it again. And again.

Still nothing.

Alfred was already watching from the edge of the corridor, his hands loosely folded in front of him, like he had been waiting for the verdict without expecting good news. Or maybe… without knowing what kind of news would be worse.

Clark looked up, the silence stretching. - He didn’t send anything.

Alfred’s expression barely shifted, but something in his shoulders loosened. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but not surprised. - No, - he said. - I wondered if he might not.

Clark watched him for a moment. - Why?

- Because today… - Alfred paused, as though the weight of the date pressed just beneath his ribs, - …is a day he rarely survives the same way twice.

Clark’s eyes flicked briefly toward the wide staircase, where the hall above disappeared into velvet shadow.

- He’s not coming down, is he? - he asked.

Alfred didn’t answer right away. 

Instead, he stepped forward, his movements deliberate, his eyes carrying something close to apology. - Bruce has a complicated relationship with grief, Mr. Kent. He doesn’t confront it. He memorizes it. Files it away and wears it like armor. And today… Today marks twenty-two years since his parents were taken from him.

Clark absorbed that quietly. He knew the story - of course he did. Gotham was tattooed with the name Wayne . But hearing it from Alfred, spoken in that solemn, well-worn cadence, felt different. Felt closer .

- The stalker didn’t send a letter today, - Clark said slowly, - but that doesn’t feel like a win.

Alfred gave the smallest of nods. - No. It doesn’t.

For a long beat, the rain outside did all the talking. The sound of it pattering against the stained glass felt strangely intimate - like an old song neither of them had asked to hear again.

- Does he usually do anything on this day? - Clark asked eventually.

- He used to visit the cemetery, - Alfred said, almost wistfully. - When he was younger, he would sit there for hours. Barely spoke a word. Sometimes I think he hoped they’d say something back.

Clark’s jaw tensed. - And now?

Alfred met his eyes. - Now… he disappears into that room upstairs and punishes himself with silence.

Clark exhaled through his nose, the frustration in him low-burning but quiet. - I could check the cameras again.

- You can try, - Alfred replied gently. - But I doubt you’ll find anything. He’s too careful.

Clark paused, then looked at him more closely. - You mean Bruce?

Alfred hesitated, then shook his head. - No. I meant him . The one who’s watching. The one who’s been waiting. He wouldn’t strike today - not with all eyes on the wound.

Clark was silent.

- Is he eating at all? - he asked, glancing toward the empty dining hall. The table sat untouched, still dressed in white linen and heavy silver that hadn’t moved since yesterday.

Alfred gave a thin smile. - If we’re lucky, he’ll come down for a cup of tea and drink only half. If not - well - then we carry on.”

Clark looked again at the envelopes, neatly stacked now on the table beside them. - So we wait.

Alfred gave a quiet nod. - We wait.

Upstairs, behind a locked door and a wall of curated darkness, Bruce Wayne stood barefoot against the hardwood floor of his bedroom, unmoving.

He hadn’t slept.

The letter hadn’t come - but the feeling had. That gut-deep sensation that something should have arrived. That the absence was somehow worse than the threat.

His eyes flicked to the clock. The hands hadn’t moved. Or maybe he had stopped noticing when they did.

Twenty-two years.

He remembered the alley. The pearls. The blood. The cold. But what stuck with him most was the silence afterward - the moment when the world didn’t make a sound, and all that was left was him . 

Alone.

He didn’t need a letter to feel hunted.

He had lived that way ever since.

It began, as most nightmares do, without warning.

One moment, laughter echoed down the ornate, gold-leaf halls of the Monarch Theatre. Bright chandeliers sparkled above velvet-lined seats. The thick scent of perfume and buttery popcorn still clung to Bruce’s sleeves. His mother had leaned down to fix his collar halfway through the film, lips pressed to his temple in a gesture he barely registered then, but one he would spend the rest of his life trying to remember right.

They exited into the Gotham night just after ten. 

The streetlamps hummed above them, blinking in and out with a flicker like they were unsure if they wanted to stay awake. Rain was in the air - heavy, metallic. The city always smelled like smoke after dark. Smoke and something bitter. Something dying.

Thomas Wayne said they’d take the side alley. Cut through Park Row, avoid the press, the stares. The main road was too crowded, too loud. 

Too hungry . 

He tucked Martha close to his side, hand firm against her back, fingers brushing Bruce’s shoulder to guide him along. It was instinct for him. A habit. The gesture of a man who’d protected people all his life and never thought once he wouldn't be able to protect his own.

They stepped into the mouth of the alley, unaware it would become a grave.

Bruce’s fingers dragged along the damp brick wall as they walked. The theater's music was fading behind them, replaced by the distant hum of a saxophone playing in some far-off apartment window. He was seven. He still believed bad things happened in stories. He still thought his parents were untouchable. 

Invincible.

The figure emerged from the shadow like a curse spoken aloud.

He didn’t run. Didn’t shout. 

He simply stepped out . 

A man in a dark coat, his face partially obscured by the tilt of a hood. He could’ve been anyone - another stranger lost in Gotham’s sickness, a symptom more than a person. His shoes were soaked. His hand was shaking slightly as he raised the gun.

- Wallet. Purse.

Three words. Nothing more.

Thomas raised a hand, calming. Always calming. He reached for his wallet, careful, measured- like he’d done this before, like he thought kindness could spare them. - Take it easy, - he said, the same tone he used with hospital staff, with boardrooms, with Bruce when he skinned his knee.

Martha was still holding Bruce’s hand.

Then she screamed. A small, instinctual sound.

And the man pulled the trigger.

The sound didn’t register at first. It was too loud, too surreal, too final . Thomas’s chest burst red like a flower unfolding. He staggered back, lips parted as though to speak, but he never got the chance. His eyes were wide with disbelief, with something protective still burning behind them even as his body crumpled to the alley floor.

The second shot was messier.

Martha had turned, had reached for Bruce, her scream now real, louder. The man grabbed for her pearls - maybe out of panic, maybe reflex. 

They broke. 

Snapped. 

Spilled across the wet concrete like tiny, white teeth. The shot came next. Close. Loud. Brutal.

She dropped beside Thomas like she had been made of paper. A twist of limbs and silk and blood. Her eyes were open. Unblinking.

Bruce was on the ground before he realized he’d fallen.

His knees scraped open. He stared at the gunman. At the shape of him. The way the rain started to fall like ash. The way the blood was already pooling beneath his mother’s hand. Her wedding ring caught the flickering alley light and shone for one final, useless second.

He didn’t scream. Couldn’t. His voice had been taken from him. His childhood with it.

The man fled.

There was no justice. No names. Just footsteps swallowed by Gotham’s dark throat.

And then, silence.

True silence.

Not the absence of sound- but the smothering presence of something deeper. A quiet so complete it swallowed thought. Swallowed time. The sound of something eternal closing in.

He stared at their bodies. His father’s glasses askew. His mother’s blood tracing a slow line toward him like it was reaching out, desperate to keep him warm.

Bruce didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t understand yet that he’d never be the same.

Even when the police arrived- blue and red lights strobing against the alley walls - he stayed still. Rigid. Catatonic. Not out of shock, but out of something colder. Something buried .

The boy they found there wasn’t Bruce Wayne anymore. Not entirely.

Something had crawled into the hollow space left behind, something quieter and darker and vowing never to forget. He wasn’t a victim. He wasn’t even a witness.

He was haunted .

A myth in the making. A scar stitched into the very skin of Gotham.

And October 31st would never again be a day of costumes or candy or laughter.

It was the day the city swallowed the last good thing it had.

And the night it gave back a boy with blood on his shoes and silence where his soul used to be.

The door to Bruce’s bedroom was shut. 

Not locked - but shut in the deliberate way of a man who did not want to be found. The curtains behind it remained drawn, casting a bluish tint to the wood-paneled hall. The kind of dim that felt like dusk, even with the sun climbing higher.

Clark stood before the door with careful hesitation.

He had waited as long as he thought was polite. Longer, maybe. He’d walked the perimeter three times, taken in the sharp Gothic angles of the estate, watched the shadows of tree branches scrape across the stone like claws. Alfred had offered him tea, wordlessly, and returned to whatever quiet corner of grief he visited every year on this date.

But Clark couldn’t sit still.

He couldn’t ignore the way the house itself felt like it was holding its breath.

So, he raised his hand and knocked.

Soft. Just once.

Silence. Then -

A faint rustle inside. Barely audible. A scrape of heel against the wood floor. Then nothing again. No footsteps. No voice. No invitation. But no protest either.

Clark exhaled, his hand still on the door. He pushed gently. The door creaked open.

The room was dark. 

Not unkindly so, but willingly - as if the light had been asked to leave and obliged out of respect. The windows were drawn tight, and the fireplace sat unlit, a cold cavern of ash. The bed, at the far end of the room, looked untouched save for the figure sitting at its edge.

Bruce.

He sat still, hunched slightly forward, elbows on his knees. His hair - longer than the photos Clark had seen - fell messily over his eyes, shielding half his face from view. He didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. Just sat in the gloom like part of the room’s architecture. A statue carved from grief and shadow.

Clark closed the door behind him gently.

- I waited by the gates, - he said softly. His voice tried not to sound like intrusion. - Nothing came today.

Still, no answer.

Clark stepped a little farther into the room. He wasn’t sure if it was welcome or tolerated. But he moved slowly, careful not to mistake silence for permission.

- I know you were expecting something, - he continued. - And I’m sorry. For the waiting. For… the quiet. I kept watch. I’ve gone over everything from last week twice now. I’ll check again, I’ll go back further. But -

A breath. He rubbed the back of his neck. His shoes felt too loud on the hardwood.

- I just thought you should know. You didn’t get anything today. Not from him.

Bruce didn’t look up. His fingers were laced, knuckles pressed against his lips, like he was holding something in. Or trying not to fall apart.

Clark stood in the middle of the room, unsure if he should sit or leave.

- I’ll do better, - he said finally, quieter now. - At protecting you.

That seemed to stir something.

Bruce’s head shifted slightly, his eyes shadowed beneath the sweep of dark hair. He didn’t say anything. But the weight of his silence felt different now - less like stone, more like an answer buried beneath decades of loss. 

He was listening, even if he couldn’t speak.

Clark glanced once at the fireplace, at the empty picture frame on the nightstand beside the bed. It had been turned facedown.

He understood.

Without another word, Clark stepped back toward the door, giving the man space to keep his mourning intact.

But just before he left, he said, - You’re not alone in this house anymore, Bruce. Whether he writes again or not, I’ll be here. Every day. Every night.

He left the door ajar behind him.

And for the first time that morning, Bruce shifted.

Not much.

Just a breath. A blink.

And the barest glance toward the space Clark had filled - and left.

The gym in Wayne Manor wasn’t polished or pristine - no gleaming mirrors or modern chrome. 

It was tucked in an old converted space at the edge of the east wing, repurposed from what might’ve once been a gallery or ballroom. 

The equipment was simple, functional. Worn weights. A heavy bag suspended from a beam. The kind of room that didn’t ask for attention but demanded work.

Clark moved with steady rhythm - shirt clinging to his back, skin shining with sweat. He wasn't pushing himself hard tonight, not like usual. His body went through the motions of training, but his mind drifted far from the repetitions of strength and routine. His fists met the heavy bag again and again, each thud echoing into the empty space like a heartbeat.

Today lingered in his bones.

The silence of the morning. The look on Alfred’s face. The door creaking open into a bedroom sealed by memory. Bruce, unmoving, veiled in shadow like a relic buried alive. This day - it was more than just another job. More than surveillance. Clark had seen grief before, but this… this was calcified. This was something that had become a part of the walls, the air, the man himself.

He paused, dragging his forearm across his brow as he reached for his water bottle.

The television mounted high in the corner flickered with quiet static, cycling through a nightly segment of news and debate. Clark hadn’t paid much attention - some report about the mayoral campaign, more talk about Bella Réal gaining traction in the polls. The city’s unrest was a slow boil. Everyone knew it. Gotham didn’t sleep - it seethed.

But then the tone of the anchor’s voice changed.

Clark’s hand stilled on the cap of his water bottle. He turned.

The screen showed footage of flashing red and blue lights, of crowds gathering behind barricades in the upscale residential district of Gotham Heights. A slow zoom on a brownstone, cordoned off by police tape, where the front door was ajar and figures moved in and out with evidence bags and gloves.

Then - photos.

Distorted. Graphic.

A blurred shot of a body half-slumped over a coffee table. Bare feet. Black gloves over the hands. Duct tape so tightly wound it left creases in the skin beneath. And scrawled, like graffiti over the face:

NO MORE LIES.

The anchor’s voice trembled as she reported it - Don Mitchell, Jr., Gotham’s current mayor, was pronounced dead at the scene. Found in his own home. Mutilated. Bound. With a note attached to his chest. No suspect yet. GCPD was working the scene. No statements had been made.

Clark’s water bottle hit the floor.

He stepped forward slowly, the hum of the television now the only thing he could hear over the quickened pulse in his ears.

Something inside him sank.

This wasn't just a job anymore. This wasn’t about keeping Bruce’s windows locked or watching for shadows near the gates. This was something else. This was something colder, more deliberate, more… performative.

The stalker had made his first move.

And he hadn’t sent a letter today - not because he was finished.

Because he was beginning.

Clark ran a hand through his damp hair, his breath catching in the thick quiet of the gym. He could still see Bruce in his mind - curled in silence on the edge of that bed, hiding from a world that took everything from him. Hiding from a day like this.

He wondered if Bruce had seen the news yet. If he knew.

Or if he’d already sensed it, the way animals feel storms coming before the clouds.

Clark stepped away from the television, but the images followed him. The scrawl on the tape. The phrase that felt pulled straight from a personal vendetta. And worse - familiar. Handwriting that mirrored the envelope from days before. It was no longer a warning. 

It was an execution.

And as Clark walked through the halls of Wayne Manor, past the looming portraits and the ghost-breath silence, he realized:

This city was unraveling.

And whoever this man was - the one who wrote the letters, who haunted Bruce from a distance - he wasn’t just watching anymore.

He was already inside the story.

And if Clark wasn’t careful, if he let his guard down even once, Gotham wouldn’t just take Bruce under.

It would devour him.

Chapter Text

The morning came grey and flat, light seeping through Gotham’s overcast skies like the slow bleed of a bruise. Fog rolled in low across the trees, blurring the edge of the grounds as if the mansion stood at the end of the world. The kind of morning where sound didn’t travel far - where breath steamed cold in the air and everything felt slightly too still.

Bruce was already dressed.

He moved through the house like a shadow - black hoodie pulled over his head, laces knotted tight on his boots. He didn’t bother with breakfast, didn’t answer Alfred’s quiet protest from the hallway. He moved on instinct.

Routine. Repetition.

Outrun the past, the ghosts, the weight in his chest. That’s how the morning was meant to go.

Until he reached the front doors - and found Clark already waiting.

He stood squarely at the entrance, arms crossed, broad shoulders a barricade in a black long-sleeve shirt. There was no aggression in his posture. Just certainty. Authority that didn’t need to raise its voice.

Bruce slowed to a stop.

- I’m going for my run, " he said flatly, not even making eye contact.

Clark didn’t move. - Not today.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. He hated being told what to do. Especially in his own home. Especially by someone who had been here for all of - what - a week? Someone who didn’t know what this day meant, what he had buried beneath every footstep he took down the hill and back.

- Get out of my way.

- No. - Clark’s voice was calm but firm. - You saw the news.

- I don’t care.

- You should. - Clark’s eyes held steady, his tone like stone. - The mayor was murdered in his own home. Tied up. Taped. That wasn’t a random break-in. That was a statement.

- And you think I’ll be next? - Bruce scoffed, low and cold. - That he’ll strike me down on my morning jog?

Clark’s brows furrowed slightly. - You’re not invincible, Bruce.

Bruce finally looked at him. There was something bitter and sharp in his eyes - not anger, exactly, but weariness masquerading as defiance. - You think hiding behind these gates will save me from whatever this is?

- I think walking into a city already bleeding is exactly what he wants you to do.

The air between them grew taut. Bruce’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the kind of tension that came from being caged - not just by another man, but by the sheer weight of fear. Not his fear, but the fear others placed on him. He had been suffocated by it since he was a boy - people trying to protect him after the fact, when nothing had ever saved what mattered.

Clark saw it.

He wasn’t blind to it.

The way Bruce bristled under restraint, the way he weaponized silence instead of surrender. But today wasn’t about control or power. Today was about caution. Calculated risk.

- You don’t understand, - Bruce muttered. - This day… if I stop now, if I hide, he wins.

Clark didn’t flinch. - This day matters. I know it does. That’s why I’m not letting you walk out there alone.

Bruce’s gaze narrowed. - Then what? You’ll leash me? Follow me with your little earpiece and tracker like a dog on patrol?

Clark exhaled, slow. - I’m trying to keep you alive.

- I’m not afraid of dying.

- That’s not the point! - Clark’s voice finally cracked, louder now. - It’s not about you being afraid. It’s about me doing my job. It’s about the fact that someone out there already knew where the mayor lived, how to get in, how to leave a message meant for you.

Bruce didn’t answer.

Clark stepped closer, his expression softening just slightly, though his posture didn’t budge. - I know you think being reckless is the only way to keep from being powerless. But you’re not sixteen sneaking out of this house anymore. You’re a target. Whether you want to be or not.

The silence that followed was thick, almost unbearable.

For a moment, Bruce looked past Clark, as if trying to see through him - to the gates, to the road beyond, to the version of himself who still believed a run could clear the fog from his brain.

But something in him relented.

Not in defeat - but in understanding. That this wasn’t cowardice. It wasn’t a command. It was protection.

And Bruce Wayne didn’t know how to be protected. Not anymore.

He let out a slow breath, the weight settling in his chest. His hands unclenched.

- Fine, - he said, voice low. - But tomorrow… I go.

Clark gave a small nod. - Tomorrow, we go together.

It wasn’t a truce. Not yet.

But it was the closest thing to trust either of them could offer in a house built on shadows.

Bruce didn’t know how long he’d been down there anymore.

Time had stretched and collapsed, folded in on itself like shadows under a setting sun.

The training room was dim now, lit only by a single flickering bulb that buzzed faintly in its metal casing overhead. It cast long, swaying shadows against the walls - his own shape multiplying across the mirrors like a collection of ghosts.

Half-formed. Hollow-eyed. Watching.

The air stank of sweat and rubber and something metallic that clung to the back of his throat. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through with hours of exertion, his chest heaving in uneven breaths as he stood over the heavy bag - hands slack, posture frayed. There was no clarity here. Only noise.

He had thrown everything he had into the silence. Into the void. And it still hadn’t been enough.

The bruises blooming under his wraps were dull and deep now. The ache in his knuckles throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He hadn’t even realized he was shaking until his hands hovered, weightless, in front of him. Pointless.

He should be outside. He should be moving. Hunting. Doing something.

Instead, he was locked inside his own fortress, pacing the edges like a prisoner with golden walls.

Because of him.

Clark Kent.

The name had been easy to mock when Bruce first heard it - too clean, too All-American, too straight-laced for Gotham. The kind of name that belonged on a wholesome news segment, not in a place where the gutters ran red and the skyline never saw the sun.

But the man behind the name… wasn’t so easily dismissed.

There was a steadiness in Clark Bruce didn’t know how to deal with. Something that wasn’t showmanship, or bravado, or the rehearsed empathy he was used to from the press. It was quieter than that. Resilient. That unshakable calm - the kind that held steady even when Bruce lashed out, even when he snapped or recoiled or fell into those silences where no one dared follow.

Clark stayed. Always at a careful distance, always aware. But he stayed.

And now Bruce couldn’t stop thinking about it. About the way Clark had stood in his way this morning, his broad shoulders squared like he was shielding something invisible. The way he had said “I’ll do better.” Not as a defense. Not even as an excuse. Just a vow.

One Bruce didn’t deserve.

A heavy breath caught in his throat. He looked at the bruises blooming across his forearms. The rawness of his skin.

And then -

The soft creak of the door.

Bruce turned his head slowly, arms still at his sides, heart tightening.

Alfred.

He stood in the doorway, suit still immaculate, but his face showed the hour. The weight. The worry. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes - the way they settled on Bruce - carried the ache of a father who had watched his son self-destruct in a hundred different ways, in a hundred different rooms like this.

- You’re going to destroy what’s left of yourself if you keep this up, - Alfred said finally, voice low and even.

Bruce didn’t speak. Just breathed.

Alfred stepped further in. - The world is unraveling outside these walls. I understand that. But locking yourself in here, beating shadows, isn't going to change what’s happening.

- I need the silence, - Bruce rasped. - It’s the only thing I can control.

Alfred’s gaze didn’t waver. - That’s not silence, Master Wayne. That’s noise you’re making with your body because you’re afraid of what your mind will say when it finally catches up.

Bruce flinched like he’d been struck.

Not visibly. But deep.

Somewhere past the bruises and the sweat and the rage. Somewhere where the silence had indeed started talking back.

He closed his eyes.

Images bled through: a smear of red on marble steps. A flicker of movement beyond a curtain. A man watching from the shadows.

No More Lies.

Don Mitchell’s face. Bagged. Duct-taped. Executed. Like a warning.

Bruce’s jaw clenched.

- I can’t stop him, Alfred.

- Not yet. But you will.

Bruce shook his head. - I don’t even know who he is.

There was a pause. A beat.

And then Alfred, very gently, said, - Maybe you’re not meant to find him alone this time.

Bruce opened his eyes. They were bloodshot, ringed in exhaustion. But there was something else there too - a quiet ripple of doubt. Of… reluctance. Because part of him knew what Alfred meant.

Clark.

Bruce had spent years believing solitude was strength. That walls were safety. That detachment was survival.

But now someone had stepped inside. Someone who didn’t recoil. Who didn’t flinch. Who simply stood there, shoulders squared and fists steady, saying, “I’ve got you.”

And it was breaking something in Bruce. Slowly. Quietly.

Maybe even healing it.

He let out a shaky breath, finally peeling the gloves from his hands. They dropped to the floor with a soft, padded thud.

Alfred didn’t say anything else. Just watched him as he moved toward the towel rack, slow and stiff. Bruce wiped his face, the fabric scraping against days of unshaven stubble.

- I’m going to shower, - Bruce said quietly. - Then maybe… food.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough.

Alfred gave a faint nod. - Clark’s in the kitchen.

Of course he was.

Bruce didn’t reply, but something in his chest shifted. Some knot loosened. Some breath finally exhaled.

And as he left the training room behind - leaving sweat and shadows in his wake - he realized the quiet wasn’t so suffocating anymore.

Because somewhere upstairs, someone was still waiting.

And Bruce Wayne, for the first time in a long time, wasn’t entirely alone.

The rain had started without warning.

It beat against the wide windows of the kitchen like a metronome for something grim approaching. The old manor groaned beneath its weight - not from the storm, but from everything it was trying to hold in. Shadows pooled in corners despite the soft golden light, and the television’s glow painted the tiled floor in cold, flickering blues.

Clark stood at the far end of the kitchen, hands braced on the countertop, the dim television screen casting light across his face. The steam from his coffee had long disappeared. He hadn't taken a sip.

His eyes were locked on the screen.

"Tonight, a son lost a father. A wife lost a husband. And I... I lost a friend," came Commissioner Savage’s voice, raspy with restrained emotion. "Mayor Mitchell was a fighter for our city, and I won't rest until this killer is found."

The words hung in the air like cigarette smoke - dense, lingering.

Clark’s jaw flexed.

The familiar knot of unease had returned to his chest, slow-burning and constant. He didn’t blink as the news panned to crime scene photos. The house. The blood. The grotesque display of the body. The tape across the mayor’s face. NO MORE LIES.

He hadn’t slept.

Not really.

And still, there was no letter. No trace. No signal. The silence from the stalker felt louder than any message.

Footsteps creaked against the wooden hall outside - soft, barely audible, but Clark didn’t turn his head. He already knew.

Bruce entered the dining room with that same quiet storm inside him - a presence that pulled the air tight with it. Dressed in all black again, hair damp, jaw clenched. His hands hung stiff at his sides as he moved like a phantom across the threshold, keeping to the shadows where the light from the kitchen didn’t reach him.

Clark didn’t look.

But he felt him.

He could feel the burn of Bruce’s gaze as it settled on him, heavy and unreadable. Like trying to decipher a dream you know will slip through your fingers if you stare too long.

The tension from that morning hadn’t left. It had calcified. Hardened into something solid between them.

They hadn’t spoken since the argument. Since Bruce tried to step outside. Since Clark had stopped him with shielding his entrance, and Bruce had looked at him like he was the last person in the world he wanted protection from.

Now, the silence between them roared.

Bruce’s steps slowed as he passed behind Clark, pausing just long enough for their eyes to meet in the reflection of the dark windowpane.

There was no warmth in that look. No truce.

Only a quiet strain of things unsaid. Frustration. Isolation. The deep, unsettling fear Bruce would never voice out loud - that he was becoming a prisoner in his own home.

And Clark, standing tall in the kitchen, watching the city unravel in real time, couldn’t shake the weight in his chest either.

They didn’t say a word.

Bruce disappeared through the far doorway seconds later, vanishing into the darkened hallway like smoke dissipating in cold air.

And Clark remained - still as stone - listening to the hollow echo of retreating footsteps, the rainfall tapping at the windows, and the soft drone of the news as the press scrambled for answers no one could give.

Somewhere deep inside the manor, another clock ticked down toward whatever came next.

And for the first time since he arrived in Gotham, Clark wasn’t sure if he was protecting Bruce Wayne…

…or watching him unravel.

Chapter Text

The morning was still wrapped in Gotham’s usual curtain of bleak, overcast gray.

The old city groaned quietly beneath the weight of its own history. Rain slicked the windows like sweat on skin - persistent and cold, mirroring the pulse of dread that had infected everything lately.

Clark had been in the gym, finishing the last of his morning routine - heavy repetitions on the bench, his breathing even, muscles burning just the way he liked. Physical motion was the one place he could think clearly, feel grounded. It reminded him of control, of focus, of his job.

But then the television flickered.

The gym’s small wall-mounted screen - left on out of habit - sputtered into a familiar interruption. Static danced across the bottom half of the frame like it had during the last broadcast. Clark immediately froze, towel halfway over his shoulder. A knot formed low in his stomach. He turned toward the screen as the local news anchor’s voice was cut mid-sentence, overtaken by the same grainy, corrupted feed.

And there he was.

Commissioner Pete Savage.

Only this time, he wasn’t restrained to a floor or seated in a chair. He was caged.

A rusted, oversized animal trap - the kind used in pest control, the kind barely legal in Gotham anymore - loomed beneath a swaying lightbulb in a concrete basement. Savage was hunched awkwardly inside, body contorted against the too-small confines of the cage, his skin clammy with sweat. His face was pale, sickly. Foam had dried along the corner of his mouth. His eyes fluttered - not out of fear, but weakness.

He had been poisoned.

Clark stepped closer to the screen, towel forgotten on the floor. He could see the traces now: a half-empty bottle on the floor beside the cage, a label barely visible — rodenticide. The bastard hadn’t just drugged him. He’d poisoned him with rat poison. Slow. Agonizing. Just enough to make him paralyzed. Still aware.

The voice crackled in next. Familiar. Synthetic. Distorted.

"You made a career of crawling in the dirt, Pete. But you never expected to be eaten by it."

The camera shifted. Deliberate. Calculated.

A panel on the side of the room opened — like a steel hatch peeled back — and the rats came spilling in.

Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Starved and skittering, fur slick and teeth flashing under the bulb’s flicker. They poured into the space like water, their shrieks high-pitched and hungry. The cage shook as they collided with it, crawled up the sides, clawed at the bars — and then forced themselves through.

Through the rusted seams. Through gaps. Through his shirt and flesh.

Pete’s body spasmed once, violently. He tried to scream, but his throat convulsed, and bile poured from his lips instead. The rats feasted, clawing up his legs, burrowing into the soft spaces beneath his arms and jaw. One found his eye.

Clark could feel his pulse spike. His chest tightened with a rage that crept in silently, mixing with horror. He could see Savage’s eyes still moving, even as the blood spread. Still awake. Still aware.

And then the video ended.

A white screen. A message.

"NO MORE LIES."

Clark exhaled, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath. His muscles felt like they might split open from how tense he was.

This wasn’t just escalation.

This was a declaration.

Another elite. Another symbol of Gotham’s crumbling illusion of order. Another death soaked in theatrics and meaning. The Riddler — Clark was sure now — was making a point with every kill, carving out a twisted manifesto for the city to read in blood.

Clark grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face, his hands shaking.

Because he knew what this meant.

They weren’t just closer. They were circling in.

And Bruce? Bruce was no longer just a potential target.

He was the finale.

And Clark… Clark had never hated someone more than he hated the man behind the lens.

The rain hadn’t stopped in days.

It tapped against the window panes like a metronome without mercy, a ticking sound that neither soothed nor unsettled - just existed, like everything else in this house.

Static. Familiar.

Bruce sat in the high-backed leather chair near the window of the second floor study, legs loosely crossed, one hand balancing a glass of water he hadn't sipped in over an hour. The ice had long since melted.

The glow from the antique desk lamp didn’t reach far, and Bruce didn’t turn on the overheads. The manor felt better in half-light. Shadows gave the illusion of depth. Of distance. They made it easier to ignore what was crawling just outside the edge of his awareness.

On the television across the room - muted but still flashing - a news anchor’s mouth moved like a goldfish behind the ticker. Gotham reels from second high-profile murder in one week. Where is the GCPD? Where is justice? Who is next?

Bruce’s jaw clenched at the phrasing. Who is next?

He already knew the answer. Everyone else did too. They just didn’t say it aloud.

Wayne.

It always circled back to Wayne.

But the knowledge didn’t make his blood run cold. It didn’t make his pulse spike. If anything, he felt… nothing. Just the same dull ache in the center of his chest he’d learned to live with. The hollow weight that had never quite gone away since he was eight years old, watching blood stain his mother’s pearls in the alley.

Being a target wasn’t new. He had been born into a target. A symbol. A portrait hung too high, too pretty, too perfect - until the frame cracked and the rot behind the paint started leaking through.

They’d always watched him.

The city. The press. The board. Strangers who glanced twice. People who thought they knew him just because they knew his name. The photographers when he was sixteen. The gossip columnists when he was twenty. The activists, the board members, the vultures in suits. All those eyes. Always watching.

And now, the killer. The psychopath.

The one sending riddles like love letters. Scrawled handwriting. Blood-speckled paper. Hand-delivered precision. As if Bruce was part of some game - a key piece on a board he’d never agreed to play on.

But what chilled Bruce most wasn’t the threat. Wasn’t the escalation. It was how similar it felt.

Not to other criminals.

But to everyone else.

This Riddler - whoever he was - looked at Bruce the way they all did. As an idea, not a person. A figure to be obsessed with, hated, envied. Pinned under glass. The only difference was that this one killed people to prove a point.

He wasn't afraid of dying. Hadn’t been in a long time. Not since he learned that death was sometimes kinder than surviving.

What haunted him more was why. Why him? Why now? What did this man see in him that so many others had failed to put into words?

Was it guilt?

Was it inheritance?

Was it just the suit, the name, the fortune - the myth?

He tipped the glass against his bottom lip but didn’t drink. His gaze wandered to the crackling newsfeed again. A reporter now, somewhere near the East End, standing in the drizzle with a microphone clenched too tightly in her hand. The screen behind her showed Commissioner Savage’s face from an old campaign photo - smiling, proud, alive.

Before the rats. Before the cage. Before his name joined the list.

Bruce turned the TV off with the remote. The room fell into a deeper quiet. A silence only broken by the hum of the storm and the sound of his own breathing.

He could hear Clark somewhere below, faint movements - probably in the kitchen, or near the surveillance system. Constant. Focused. Always watching now, as if he could protect him from whatever was coming.

It was admirable.

It was naïve.

Because no one could protect Bruce from this. Not when the stalker wasn’t outside the gates anymore. Not when he was already in - in the cracks, in the legacy, in the rot that festered inside the Wayne name.

This wasn’t about threats.

This was personal.

And Bruce Wayne - Gotham’s broken son - had no intention of running from it. Not now. Not ever.

Each drop of rain etched its path down the glass like time itself wearing through. The light outside had long since slipped into numbness, drowning the city in its usual shade of grey, with only the distant flicker of lightning giving the skyline any kind of shape.

Bruce sat hunched in the farthest corner of the study, his fingers tangled loosely in his hair - damp still from the cold shower he had taken hours ago but never fully dried off from.

He hadn’t turned on the lights. The dim orange flicker of a lone desk lamp barely touched the edges of the room, as if the shadows themselves had grown too thick to part. He liked it that way - the gloom, the stillness. It mirrored something inside him.

He could still hear the rats in his head.

Their screeching, the way they burrowed, tore, feasted.

Pete Savage’s screams from the footage had replayed over and over - the way his limbs spasmed against the cage, the froth at the corners of his mouth, the camera fixed in that horrifying stillness while a city watched a man die live. Gotham devoured its own, always had.

This time, it just had a theme. A signature.

Bruce had long since stopped wondering why. The only question that ever mattered was when.

When would it be him?

When would someone else decide that the sins of his name - the wealth, the legacy, the weight of a city’s attention - were too much to bear?

So he sat. Waiting. Watching. Knowing the answer would come soon enough.

He didn’t flinch when the door creaked open. Didn’t even look. But he heard the soft shuffle of polished shoes on hardwood, the careful, measured steps of someone who’d known him too long not to be cautious.

- I thought I might find you here, - came Alfred’s voice - quiet, deliberate, layered with the fatigue of someone who had long stopped expecting things to be easy and now just hoped for things to be bearable.

Bruce didn’t answer.

- You’ve barely left this room.

Another pause.

- You’ve barely slept.

- I don’t need to sleep, - Bruce muttered, eyes locked on the window. The rain distorted the reflection of the city outside, turning the skyline into a slow-moving smear of shadows and crooked light. - Not when people are dying.

Alfred stepped closer. Not too close.

- This isn’t your burden to carry alone.

Bruce scoffed under his breath - the sound humorless. - It’s always been my burden. I was born with it. They wrote it on the front page before I even understood what grief was.

There was a long silence behind him, broken only by the slow, weighted words Alfred finally spoke.

- This man - this thing - whoever he is, he’s not just sending riddles anymore, Bruce. He’s playing with corpses. He’s escalating. Savage was a warning, not a climax.

Bruce stood slowly, the stiff pull of muscle in his legs betraying how long he’d been sitting. He turned, shadows stretching across his face, casting sharp angles and hollows into the already grim set of his jaw.

- You think I don’t know that? " he said, voice edged. - You think I don’t feel that?

Alfred held his ground. - I think you’re trying very hard not to.

- I’m trying to do what needs to be done.

- No. You’re trying to outwait the inevitable. - Alfred’s voice cracked slightly, just enough to bleed the truth. - And all the while, you’re getting colder. You’re locking yourself into a house you don’t even live in anymore, Bruce. You haunt it.

The words struck harder than Bruce expected. Maybe because they weren’t an accusation.

They were a plea.

Alfred stepped forward, more gently this time. - Just be careful. Keep the windows locked, don’t open the doors alone. Especially not upstairs. We don’t know what this man is capable of -

Bruce’s hands clenched at his sides. - You’re not my father. I don’t need you to protect me.

Alfred stopped.

His face shifted. Not hurt. Just… tired. Years of exhaustion in a single breath. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, and when he spoke, the words were simple and clean:

- I am very well aware.

Silence.

It stretched like piano wire between them, pulled taut, humming with everything neither of them wanted to say. Bruce turned away, the air in the room suddenly too thick, too close, as if even the walls had been listening.

He strode to the door, tugging it open - and stopped cold.

Clark.

The bodyguard. The shadow with a heartbeat.

He stood directly outside, leaning against the wall in a posture that was relaxed only on the surface. One arm crossed, the other bent as he loosely held his phone at his side. But he wasn’t checking it. Wasn’t distracted.

He was listening.

And Bruce knew. He knew.

The man’s eyes - that arctic blue, intense without aggression - lifted to meet his, quiet but sharp.

The hallway light cast him in gold and shadow, his dark hoodie pulled low, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms carved with quiet strength. His jaw was clenched slightly, a tic of tension moving through it, the subtle rasp of stubble making him look older, worn, something closer to the bruised Gotham outside.

Their eyes locked.

Neither spoke.

But the weight in the air between them was undeniable.

For a long moment, Bruce just stared. Not at the intruder. Not at the protector. But at the man - this stranger who now occupied the same halls, who shadowed his every step, who’d heard the most intimate crack of his armor through the study door.

He brushed past him roughly, the shoulder contact brief but heated. Not from friction - but from feeling. Shame. Anger. Something else that stung too close to vulnerability.

Clark didn’t stop him. Didn’t say a word.

But Bruce felt his gaze stay on him, burning into his back like the weight of unspoken things.

And Bruce - for all his training, his silence, his practiced detachment - realized something in that moment he would not voice:

He wasn’t used to being seen.
And Clark Kent saw everything.

The storm had swallowed the city.

Rain battered the manor like fists against a coffin lid, relentless and uneven, bleeding through the silence with the sound of cracked skies and hollow winds. Lightning came in fits - violent bursts flashing across the wide bay windows, cutting jagged silhouettes across Bruce’s room.

The thunder always followed, delayed but thunderous, like the last breath of something ancient.

Bruce couldn’t sleep.

His body lay tangled in soaked sheets, bare skin slick with sweat despite the chill. The air in his room felt damp, heavy, like it was pressing down on him with invisible hands. He’d stopped checking the time after the first hour. Sleep had become something taunting - a thing that belonged to other people, people whose minds weren’t filled with images of rats and duct tape, live-streamed death and riddles penned in red ink.

The mattress groaned softly beneath him as he turned again, back then side then stomach - none of it comfortable. The sheen of sweat on his chest clung the sheet to him, and his muscles ached from the day’s unrest. His breathing came shallow and uneven, eyes half-lidded with frustration, jaw tight.

Then - enough.

He sat up sharply, sheets falling to his waist.

His skin was pale in the stormlight, muscles drawn tight across his frame. Scars caught the glow of the lightning as they crossed his ribs, his back, his collarbone - a map of every fight he never bothered to forget. His hair was damp with sweat and curled around his temples, plastered to the nape of his neck.

The room groaned with the wind through the chimney, and somewhere deep in the house, a door creaked - old wood swelling and breathing like a restless ghost.

Bruce stood.

He didn’t bother with a shirt. Just pulled on the same pair of sweatpants from earlier, loose and slung low on his hips. The elastic had worn out long ago. He padded toward the door barefoot, the wood beneath his feet cool and rough. Every step echoed slightly, the manor’s silence so deep it magnified the tiniest movement.

The hallway greeted him like a tomb - long, dim, and lined with memories he hadn’t unpacked in years.

Shadows of paintings flickered under the lightning, faces long dead and half-forgotten. His footfalls creaked across the floorboards as he descended the stairs, slow and methodical, not bothering to turn on the lights. He didn’t need to. He knew the manor like he knew his own hands.

But still… something about the night felt off.
Not wrong. Just thick.

As if the air had grown too quiet in anticipation of something neither welcome nor explainable.

He moved into the kitchen with that same ghostlike stillness, only the fridge light briefly illuminating the room as he pulled the door open and grabbed a bottle of cold water. The television above the counter was off. For once. The house had become so saturated in news, noise, and murder - the silence was both a relief and a threat.

He leaned against the counter, unscrewed the cap with a pop, and took a long sip. The water was cold enough to sting, and the chill ran down his throat like ice cracking under pressure.

A flash of lightning illuminated the garden outside the windows - white-hot for a moment, revealing the skeletal trees bent beneath the wind. Then gone again.

Darkness.

He pressed the cold bottle to his temple.

His breathing was steady, but only just.

Sleep wouldn't come tonight. Not after everything. Not when someone was still out there - watching.

And not when someone else — someone tall, calm, maddeningly perceptive — was just down the hall, always listening.

Bruce didn't turn around when he heard the faintest floorboard shift down the corridor. He didn’t have to.

He already knew Clark was awake too.

He didn’t turn right away. He didn’t need to. Years of instinct bristled low in his gut, but it wasn't an alarm this time. Just awareness.

- Can’t sleep either? - he murmured, voice low and rough.

Clark’s voice was quieter than usual, almost gentle. - No.

Bruce finally turned his head, and there he was.

Clark stood in the doorway like he belonged there - like he'd been carved out of the same marble that made up the kitchen countertops. His shirt clung just slightly to the topography of his chest, damp at the collar, his dark sweatpants hanging low and loose. His jaw was clenched slightly, a soft five o’clock shadow ghosting over his cheeks and throat, and his blue eyes were sharp even beneath the heavy lids of exhaustion.

But they softened - for the briefest second - as they dropped to Bruce’s bare torso.

Bruce didn’t say a word. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t move. He just watched, observed the flicker of something behind Clark’s gaze - curiosity, maybe. Hunger. Or something quieter.

Clark looked away a moment too late.

Bruce set the bottle of water down with a dull clink and raised an eyebrow just slightly, but let the moment pass. His voice cut through the silence instead.

- Rain keeping you up?

Clark leaned against the opposite counter, arms folded across his chest. - Something like that.

Bruce tilted his head, watching the man’s profile under the flickering light. - You don’t like the rain?

- No. - Clark’s voice was firmer this time. - Never have. Makes me feel like I’m drowning on land. The smell, the sound, the way it wraps around you like it wants to pull you under.

Bruce let out a quiet sound - not quite a laugh, more like a sigh with an edge. - Welcome to Gotham, - he said. - The state of constant rain and clouds. And brooding.

Clark cracked the faintest of smiles, glancing sideways. - Is that on the sign when you cross the bridge?

- No. But it should be. - Bruce took a sip from his bottle, the movement slow and deliberate. His gaze never really left Clark.

They stood in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled - but that throbbed with something unsaid. Every now and then, the storm would flash white and thunder would roll so hard it seemed to shake the foundation of the Manor. It felt like a city on the edge of something - like Gotham always was.

Clark turned his head toward the darkened window, his voice softer now. - It’s different here. The rain. It doesn’t fall - it settles. Like it’s already inside everything, and it’s just reminding you.

Bruce’s brow furrowed slightly. His voice came after a beat. - You always talk like that?

Clark blinked, then chuckled quietly. - Only when I’m tired.

Bruce didn’t return the laugh. But there was a shift. His jaw relaxed slightly. His posture softened, even if just for a breath.

Then Clark asked, - You get used to it?

Bruce raised an eyebrow. - The rain?

Clark shook his head. - The ghosts.

For a long moment, Bruce didn’t answer. He looked down at the bottle in his hands, droplets of condensation trailing over his fingers. His throat worked around a reply he didn’t quite want to speak aloud.

- No, - he said eventually. - You just stop flinching every time they move.

Lightning cracked across the sky outside, illuminating both of them in stark, white relief - Bruce’s bare chest scarred and pale, Clark’s face half-shadowed, those sharp blue eyes watching him in a way that made the room feel even smaller.

There was something haunted in the silence that followed. Not just from the house or the weather - but from both of them.

Two men built to survive storms.

And yet somehow, standing there in the flicker of light and the pull of the dark, they both looked like they might drown.

And neither of them said a word.

The silence split open like a wound.

A sudden, sickening crack from downstairs - the sharp warping of aged wood under unnatural weight. Then came the unmistakable, gut-piercing shatter of glass. It wasn’t the rain. It wasn’t thunder. It was inside the house.

Clark froze.

Bruce did too - mid-step in the kitchen, the dim under-cabinet light glowing against his bare chest, damp from the humid press of the storm. The bottle of water he’d just filled slipped from his fingers and rolled to the tile floor, forgotten.

His head snapped in the direction of the noise - instinct raw and immediate - and without a word, he was already moving toward it.

Clark intercepted him at the threshold to the hallway, stepping in front of Bruce with an outstretched arm. His voice, low and clipped, carried the tension of a man trained to deal with danger before panic.

- Stay behind me.

Bruce’s eyes cut toward him like steel.

- No.

Clark’s jaw flexed. - Bruce, we don’t know what that was. Let me check it first.

- I’m not a fucking civilian, - Bruce hissed, already brushing past him. - And this is my house.

Clark swore under his breath, following him quickly - barefoot, heart thudding, mind calculating.

He didn’t have his gun. No tactical vest. Just a soft cotton shirt, drawstring pants, and about two hundred and thirty pounds of unwanted adrenaline. The storm outside had deepened into a full-throated roar - wind lashing against the old windows, thunder rumbling low and ceaseless like it was circling the Manor itself.

They passed through the corridor together, shadows long and fluid as they moved toward the wide archway that led into the main living room - a cavernous space where every sound echoed, every floorboard betrayed them.

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the grand staircase to their right, the ornate mirror hanging crooked at the wall, and the slight draft curling through the house now that one of the windows had been breached.

Clark saw it first.

The tall bay window on the right wall - one of the old original panes - had been blown inward. Or not blown. Shattered.

The long, sheer curtain twisted violently in the wind, sucked outward like something had forced its way inside. On the floor beneath the broken glass, rain pooled on the Persian rug, glittering in the flickering light.

Clark’s body coiled, tense and alert, sweeping the space with trained eyes. The smell of wet wood, old dust, and fresh rain flooded his senses. Bruce stepped forward again, his eyes narrowed, scanning the shadows - every part of his face carved in tension, his expression unreadable.

- I said stay behind me, - Clark growled again, softer this time but no less serious.

- You’re not armed, - Bruce shot back. - You think I’m going to let you handle it alone?

- I’d rather that than find your corpse on the rug.

A flicker of something passed between them - not quite anger, not quite defiance. But there it was again, that mutual refusal to stand down.

Clark inched forward, arms slightly raised in a defensive stance, gaze sweeping behind the couches, under the wide coffee table, toward the darkened hallway at the opposite end of the room. No sign of entry. No footprints. No shadowy figure waiting to pounce.

The broken window looked like it had been hit from the outside - hard - but there was no object. No thrown brick. No clue.

- What the hell, - Clark muttered.

The rain came harder now, driving sideways into the open window, plastering the curtains to the wall. Clark took a few cautious steps closer, glass crunching beneath his feet.

And then he saw it.

Clark saw it before Bruce did - though only by a second. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he didn’t move.

There, just above the jagged shards of the broken window, smeared across the cream-colored wall in deep, drying crimson, was one word.

WAYNE.

Not painted. Not scratched. Written. With purpose. With deliberation. With blood.

A single, grotesque signature - as if someone had dipped their fingers in it and drawn the name like a brand.

Bruce’s body locked.

He moved toward it slowly, mechanically, his gaze rooted to the message as the lightning pulsed once again behind the cracked glass. The letters looked hastily scrawled, like someone was running out of time — or patience. Still legible. Still unmistakable.

Clark’s jaw tensed. He took a breath and stepped beside him, every instinct he had screaming at him that this wasn’t just a warning.

This was a claim.

Whoever had done this had been inside the Manor - long enough to make a point. And they hadn’t taken anything. Hadn’t hurt anyone. That wasn’t the goal.

This wasn’t a break-in.

It was a message.

A taunt.

A promise.

Bruce stood still, staring at the wall like he could stare a hole through it. Water pooled at his feet, wind still gusting through the opening, rain soaking into the edges of his sweatpants. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t shiver. His mouth was set in a line of bitter, unreadable calm.

Clark finally broke the silence. - They wanted us to see it. Not just know they were here - they wanted you to feel it.

Bruce didn’t answer. His eyes never left the wall. Not once.

And Clark watched him - studied the man beneath the exterior.

The stormlight casting deep shadows down the lines of his jaw, the way his spine stayed rigid even as the cold curled around him. The blank, terrifying stillness in his expression. Not panic. Not even a surprise.

Resignation.

As if he’d expected this.

As if, deep down, some part of him had always known this day would come.

Rain continued to spill in, the room now silent again but for the occasional thunder outside. A beat passed. Then another. Neither of them moved.

Clark’s hand shot out, firm and instinctual, fingers curling around Bruce’s bare hip - the warmth of his touch cutting through the cold draft like a brand.

His palm pressed just above the loose edge of the sweatpants clinging low to Bruce’s skin, grounding him. Stopping him.

Bruce froze, the tension in his spine snapping taut, his pulse spiking not from fear, but the sudden intimacy of the contact - how deliberate it felt, how human. The faint press of Clark’s fingertips against his skin, steady and protective, contrasted violently with the chaos just a few feet away - the shattered glass, the rain, the blood smeared across the wall like a curse.

The sensation lingered, pulling Bruce into the present, even as his stomach twisted in cold, gut-wrenching anxiety. Someone had been inside his home. Someone had written his name like a death sentence.

And yet, in that moment, all he could feel was Clark’s hand - warm, immovable - as if willing him not to fall apart.

Chapter Text

The air that morning was as heavy as wet wool.

Dawn broke with no real light - just a slow shift from black to a diluted gray that made the city feel almost submerged. Wayne Manor stood at the center of it like something forgotten in time, its stonework darker from the night’s rain, ivy clinging to its spine like it could hold the house together.

Bruce stood on the cobbled front steps, motionless, arms folded inside his black hoodie, a steaming mug of untouched coffee cooling in his hand.

He hadn't said a word since he’d descended from the main staircase earlier that morning.

His hair was still damp from a restless shower, his eyes hollowed from the absence of sleep, a bruise-like fatigue settled beneath them.

Down on the gravel drive, the hum of police radios crackled in the background, occasionally punctuated by low voices.

Clark stood with his back to Bruce, posture straight, arms at his sides, every inch of him alert - coiled like a wolf guarding the edge of the pack. The two GCPD officers - Lieutenant James Gordon and a younger patrolman Bruce didn’t recognize - were taking notes with their heads bowed slightly, as if the presence of the manor itself demanded some reverence.

Bruce’s eyes flicked to Clark and stayed there.

He could make out the tension in his shoulders, how Clark's hand kept twitching toward his hip like he missed the weight of a holstered weapon. His clothes were still the same from earlier - dark jeans, a black tactical tee beneath a half-zipped jacket - but his voice was all professionalism now, crisp and low, drifting up the stone steps in pieces, not meant for Bruce but audible all the same.

- ...entry point was the main living room window. No alarm was triggered - probably bypassed the old wiring completely…

A pause. Scribbled notes. A muttered curse.

- ...No physical evidence left behind. Whoever did it knew what they were doing. This wasn’t random.

The detective’s voice followed, muffled under the brim of his hat. - And no one saw anything? Not even the cameras?

Clark’s tone sharpened. - The system’s internal feed was scrambled. Everything’s intact, but the files between 3:07 and 3:19 a.m. are corrupted. Like someone knew exactly when to move - and how to erase their shadow.

Another pause. The younger officer shifted uncomfortably.

- And Mr. Wayne? He okay?

Bruce’s name pulled at something beneath his ribs. He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink. Just stared.

Clark’s response came quieter, but not soft. - He’s fine. Shaken. But fine.

Liar, Bruce thought, watching the way Clark’s jaw clenched after he said it.

He wasn't fine. He hadn’t been fine for twenty years. He hadn’t been fine when he watched his parents bleed out in an alley, and he wasn’t fine now, being hunted like prey in his own home.

The conversation went on in those hushed tones - protocols, patrols, precautionary measures.

But Bruce couldn’t bring himself to listen anymore. His mind wandered - to the broken glass in the hallway, to the name etched in the floorboards like it was meant to bleed, to the blood-slick message from the night before:
WAYNE

His fingers tightened around the mug until the heat finally registered. He set it down beside him on the stone railing with a quiet clink and exhaled.

He glanced down again at Clark - the way his broad shoulders turned slightly as he gestured toward the side entrance, as he spoke with that same low steadiness, as if trying to convince the officers - or maybe himself - that he could keep this under control.

Bruce wasn’t sure why he kept watching. Maybe because this was the first time in years that someone else had taken the lead.

Someone else who stood between him and the storm.

And yet, even with Clark Kent standing like a wall between him and the world, Bruce still felt like the walls of his house were breathing - like something was already inside.

The sky was still the color of old bruises by the time the police packed up and drove away, tires crunching against the gravel like the sound of bones grinding. Gotham’s morning hadn’t improved - wind dragging clouds low across the sky, trees trembling in the distance, the manor looming behind Bruce like the carcass of something ancient and half-alive.

The echo of last night lingered, not in noise but in feeling - like smoke clinging to the fabric of everything.

Bruce stood at the edge of the steps, unmoving, watching the last squad car tail out of the gates. The flashing red and blue lights had faded, but their impression burned behind his eyes.

He hadn’t spoken in hours. Hadn’t needed to.

People came and went around him like he was furniture. Untouchable. Untouched.

Then it hit - the exhaustion.

It wasn’t sudden in the way lightning was sudden. It was slow, heavy.

A collapsing ceiling. A wave building from far out and dragging him under with no warning. His knees gave a little, just enough for his pride to feel it, and he sat down on the stone steps before his body could betray him further.

His jumper folded around him like wings, and for a moment he stared blankly at the damp earth, at the spot where boot prints still marked the dirt - cops, Clark, Alfred. Ghosts of the living.

His hands pressed against the stairs on either side of him, veins tense beneath pale skin. The adrenaline that had kept him upright finally gave way to something more honest: fatigue, fear, helplessness. He didn’t want to feel any of it. But it all came anyway.

A shadow moved in his peripheral vision.

Clark.

He approached with that measured stride of his - deliberate, grounded, like he knew the world might collapse at any moment and was determined to hold it still.

There was something quieter in him now. The tightness in his jaw had eased, just barely, though the tension still lived in his shoulders. Always alert.

Always ready.

He stopped a few feet away from where Bruce sat, hands at his sides. - You okay?

The words weren’t soft, but they weren’t cold either. They were edged with concern, not pity. Not from Clark. He didn’t speak to Bruce like he was fragile porcelain or royalty. He spoke like he saw him - tired, angry, cornered.

Bruce didn’t answer. His gaze stayed on the gravel, on the ghost of those tires, the world still spinning while he sat still.

Clark shifted closer, lowering himself one step down to meet Bruce’s level, knees bent slightly so he wasn’t looming. - Do you need anything?

Bruce’s throat worked around a reply, but nothing came. Not water. Not space. Not reassurance. The question had no easy answer, because there wasn’t one thing that could fix the fracture inside him.

The break was too old. The fear too familiar.

He hadn’t been a boy in decades, but the feeling - of being watched, followed, hunted - returned with surgical precision.

He drew in a breath, finally turning his head toward Clark.

The sunlight cut through the gray just enough to kiss Clark’s temple, glinting against the edge of his stubble. His eyes - blue as winter, lined with worry - didn’t blink when they met Bruce’s.

There it was again. That thing Bruce didn’t know what to do with.

Clark wasn’t just a bodyguard. Wasn’t just security. There was something deeper in the way he stood there now, not asking Bruce to speak but giving him space to be seen. To feel it - the weight, the anger, the powerlessness.

For the first time that day, Bruce let his shoulders sag just a little. He didn’t speak. But the silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was full of something unnamed. Something unspoken.

And Clark stayed exactly where he was. Still. Steady. There.

The hours passed like smoke curling in stale air - slow, suffocating, without shape or end.

The manor sat in eerie stillness, the kind that only followed a night of chaos. Afternoon in Gotham had always been dim, but today it felt heavier, as though the sun was trying to push through the clouds and failing, its light bleeding weakly against the high windows of the west wing. Shadows stretched long across the parquet floors, swallowing corners of the old house whole.

Clark sat in the surveillance room - a tucked-away space down the hall from the library - hunched forward in front of the monitors, jaw tense, lips drawn in a hard line. His eyes, usually sharp and glacier-blue, were red-rimmed from hours of strain.

He barely blinked now.

The room was dim, lit only by the glow of multiple screens and a desk lamp flickering inconsistently, like it, too, was tired.

The footage replayed again - midnight to three a.m. - the timeline surrounding the break-in. Static danced across the screens like a cruel joke, the storm from the night before having rendered nearly everything useless. Lightning struck in one corner of the screen. A flash. A crack of white. Then more static.

He dragged the slider back. Rewatched the same blur again. And again. And again.

Nothing.

No figures. No footsteps. No signs of forced entry.

Just distorted shadows that meant everything and nothing all at once.

The intruder had either been brilliantly lucky, or the storm had done them the favor of wiping the evidence clean. Either way, Clark felt like he was failing. Every second that ticked by without an answer gnawed at him like the sharp edge of guilt.

He slammed his fist lightly against the desk - not hard enough to break anything, but enough to feel it in his bones. His other hand raked through his hair, pushing it back with a frustrated breath.

He had trained for years. He had taken down men three times his size in rings that reeked of sweat and violence. He had defused threats with nothing but instinct and resolve.

But this? This was something else.

This was personal.

He leaned closer, eyes locked on the screen where, for a flicker of a second, a shadow moved near one of the side entryways - but it could’ve been a tree branch, or the camera distorting from the surge. He paused it. Rewound. Played it again. Still nothing.

Dammit.

Clark ran a hand down his face, trying to slow the restless churn inside him. His pulse beat hard in his neck.

Protecting Bruce wasn’t just a job anymore - it hadn’t been for days now.

Something about the man - the weight he carried, the walls he built - made Clark need to shield him, not out of duty but from something deeper. Fiercer.

And now someone had breached the one place Bruce felt safe. His home. His sanctuary.

Clark wouldn't let it happen again.

He looked up at the surveillance footage still playing, the tapes running on loop like a cruel lullaby. Outside, the last golden edges of sun sank behind Gotham’s skeletal skyline, giving way to another cold, rain-soaked night.

But Clark didn’t move. Not yet. Not until he was sure.

Clark sat motionless, elbows on his knees, eyes hollowed by a tired determination. His knuckles were white from how hard he was clenching his fists. The footage played on loop behind him - silent, cruelly unhelpful - and his reflection in the darkened monitor looked like a ghost.

The creak of the door opening broke through the silence like a whisper in a church.

- Mr. Kent, - Alfred said softly, stepping into the room with a slow, practiced grace, a linen handkerchief folded in his hand. - You’ve been in here nearly six hours. It’s time.

Clark didn’t move at first. His jaw twitched.

- I almost caught something, - he muttered, not quite convincing even himself.

- I’m sure you almost did. - Alfred's voice was gentle, calm, like warm tea on a cold morning. - And if anything is there, you’ll find it. But not like this. - He took a few steps closer, hands loosely folded before him. - Even men carved from steel need to rest.

Clark finally looked up. The bags under his eyes were a shade darker. - I can’t rest. He’s in this house. He got into this house.

- Yes. And that frightens me as much as it frightens you. - Alfred tilted his head, sympathy etched into the lines of his face. - But you’re not failing him, Mr. Kent. He’s still breathing because of you. Don’t you see that?

Clark exhaled, long and slow, some tension releasing from his shoulders. - I just… I should’ve been faster. Smarter. I should’ve -

- You’re a bodyguard, not a god, - Alfred interrupted softly, and then, quieter still, - Though I believe Bruce sometimes needs one of those, too.

That earned the faintest curve of a smirk from Clark. He stood, spine popping, a hand pressing against the small of his back. The ache had crept in hours ago. - Thanks, Alfred.

- You’re doing more than enough. - The older man nodded. - And he knows it.

Clark gave one final glance at the monitors - one last loop of nothing - and then stepped into the hallway, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind him. The manor beyond was quiet again, bathed in the soft gloom of early evening. Rain had started up once more, a light patter against the windows, the smell of petrichor seeping in through the old stone.

Clark’s boots barely made a sound as he crossed the hall and approached the grand staircase.

His hand trailed along the carved banister, fingertips brushing over the grooves of decades-old craftsmanship as he ascended. The soft creak of the steps beneath his weight was the only sound.

He hadn’t seen Bruce since the morning - since the police left, and the world resumed its spin.

But something in him pulled him up those stairs. A silent instinct, a knot of worry that hadn’t loosened all day.

He reached the second floor, hallway stretching before him like the spine of a cathedral. Lamps flickered to life with motion sensors, casting long golden pools of light across the floor. Clark paused in front of Bruce’s door - dark, heavy, and closed.

He lifted a hand. Knocked twice. Not too hard.

- Bruce? - His voice was low. - Just checking in.

Silence. Then the faint rustle of movement inside.

Clark waited, heart quietly thudding against his ribs.

He didn’t know what he’d find on the other side, only that he needed to know he was there. Safe. Whole. Still holding on.

The walls of Wayne Manor had always been large, towering, grand - carved of stone meant to withstand centuries. And yet tonight, they felt closer than ever. They pressed in around Bruce like the slow tightening of a vice, suffocating in their silence.

The long hallways had grown darker, colder, and his bedroom - once a sanctuary - had turned into a cage.

He hadn't turned the lights on since the police left.

The rain just started again, the air remained damp, heavy with something unspoken.

The fireplace sat unlit, and the windows were streaked with the ghostly fingerprints of the rain. The scent of old books and ash clung to the velvet drapes, and somewhere in the shadows, the echo of shattered glass still lingered. The memory of the break-in replayed in Bruce’s mind like a splintered record - no matter how much he tried to silence it.

He sat in the darkness, back pressed against the headboard of his bed, legs bent, elbows resting loosely on his knees. The sheets were tangled around his waist. Sweat clung to the small of his back and his collarbones, the result of hours of lying awake and spiraling. His hair hung in a mess over his eyes, unwashed and tousled, hiding most of his expression from the empty room.

He didn’t know what time it was.

He hadn’t cared to look.

He was supposed to feel safe here - if not from the world, then from them.

From the stares. The whispers.

The threats that came in every form: tabloids, expectations, and now handwritten notes and broken windows. But now? Not even the Manor felt untouched. And the worst part?

He wasn’t surprised.

He had always been a target.

Since the day his last name was inked onto birth records. Since the blood pooled on that cold pavement outside the Monarch Theater, soaking into his small, shaking hands. He had been watched his entire life - not just by Gotham’s hungry eyes, but now by someone… meticulous. Someone who knew how to get close. To get in.

A knock broke the quiet.

It was soft. Controlled. Not police. Not Alfred.

- Bruce?

Clark.

Bruce didn’t move at first. The voice floated in from the other side of the door - deep, low, laced with something like concern. And warmth. He hated that he could tell.

- Just checking in.

A pause.

Then Bruce found his voice.

- Come in.

The door opened without a creak, slow and deliberate. And there he was.

Clark stepped into the room with the weight of someone who’d been invited into the inner chamber of a crypt. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dark, scanning the space, always assessing, always alert. But when his gaze landed on Bruce - seated half in shadow, hair falling into his face like he was some ghost trapped between lives - it softened. Just a little.

Bruce didn’t speak. He just looked at him.

And something clenched behind his ribs.

Clark was still dressed in the clothes he wore earlier, though his jacket was gone, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted with fine, dark hair. His shirt clung to the lines of his torso, faintly wrinkled from hours of tension, movement, devotion. His pants hung low on his hips, the fabric slightly stretched across his thighs as he stood, not fully at ease.

There was a calm to him - not empty calm, but disciplined.

Like a sea that could break into waves at any moment but chose, somehow, not to. His jaw was tight, clenched in that way Bruce had come to recognize - a knot of worry kept behind silence. The smooth stubble across Clark’s cheeks caught the dim light, and his hair - always neat in the morning - now curled just slightly at the ends, unruly from long hours and no sleep.

But it was the eyes that held him still.

Blue.

Clear.

Not naive. Not anymore. But present. Focused.

And on him.

Bruce swallowed.

In another life, he might’ve hated the way Clark looked at him - like he was worth protecting. Like he hadn’t already spent a lifetime learning how to live behind walls and bruises. But now? In this moment?

That gaze felt like the only thing holding him together.

- You haven’t slept, - Bruce muttered, voice rough from disuse.

- Neither have you, - Clark replied gently, stepping a bit further in.

Bruce didn’t answer. His hand reached up to push his hair back, finally revealing his eyes. He was sure they looked wrecked. Tired. Wary. But Clark didn’t flinch. He just stood there, still as stone, letting the silence hang between them.

For a moment, Bruce wanted to say something. Anything.

But all that came out was a breath. Quiet. Measured.

And Clark - still watching, still waiting - didn’t press.

Instead, he just stood guard.

The sky outside Wayne Manor had darkened to a bruised gray. Gotham’s sun rarely broke through the clouds anymore - a city too soaked in rot to bask in the light. Inside, the air was still. Even the fire in the library hearth had long since burned down to glowing embers, flickering soft gold against the oak-paneled walls.

Clark stood near the window, arms crossed over his chest, gaze flicking between the distorted reflection in the glass and the silent shadows behind him. His shirt sleeves were once again rolled up, revealing the tension in his forearms, the coil of muscle from another sleepless day.

In the back pocket of his jeans was a notepad - half-filled with notes, scratched ideas, safety layouts of the Manor, patterns of deliveries, names, street camera blind spots, post office delivery routes. Nothing had led to a solid lead on the stalker. Not yet.

But he wasn’t about to give up.

Bruce was sitting across the room on his bed, legs stretched out, his face half-lit by the dying light outside. He hadn’t spoken in a while, only occasionally glancing Clark’s way, that unreadable expression carved into the lines of his jaw and the hollow behind his eyes.

Clark finally turned around, his voice low but firm.

- I’ll start posting outside your door at night. We can rotate Alfred during the day. No gaps in coverage. You’ll be protected every hour, on the hour.

Bruce’s brow furrowed, just slightly.

- You’re not posting outside my door.

Clark’s jaw tensed. - It’s not up for debate.

- Yes, - Bruce said, the word sharp as the blade of a scalpel, - It is. You’re already doing everything you can. I won’t have you turning into a statue outside my room, waiting for something that might not come.

- Might? - Clark stepped forward. - Bruce, we had a man inside this house. Inside. That’s not a coincidence. That’s a message.

- I know what it was, - Bruce said, more quietly now, his gaze slipping down toward the floor. - You don’t have to remind me.

Clark’s features softened, but his stance didn’t. - Then let me do my job.

- You are, - Bruce said, and when he finally met Clark’s gaze, something in his voice had shifted. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t frustration. It was… weary. - You’re doing more than I ever expected anyone to.

A silence passed. Clark stood still, jaw working behind closed lips. The rain was ongoing now - a light drizzle tapping against the windowpane like a ghost trying to get in.

Bruce rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, then leaned back deeper into the headboard. He looked tired. Worn in ways Clark didn’t have the language to soothe.

- There’s something else, - Bruce murmured. - I should’ve mentioned it sooner.

Clark tensed again, alert. - What is it?

- The mayor’s funeral, - Bruce said, voice like gravel. - It’s tomorrow.

Clark blinked. - Tomorrow?

Bruce nodded once, his eyes falling half-lidded. - And as much as I’d rather stay hidden behind these goddamn walls… I have to be there. The press will be circling. Cameras. Spectacle. The whole city will be watching.

Clark didn’t like the sound of that - his jaw clenched as the implications settled in his bones.

- And I take it, - he said quietly, - you want me to come.

Bruce’s eyes lifted again to meet his. - You’re my bodyguard, aren’t you?

There was something under the words. Not sarcasm. Not mockery. Something quiet. Trust, maybe. Reluctant. Buried beneath years of solitude, but there.

Clark nodded. - Then I’ll be by your side the whole time.

A beat passed. The rain cracked softly on the glass.

Bruce exhaled through his nose, voice low, nearly lost to the sound of the rain. - I don’t need you to be outside my bedroom like some kind of sentinel, Clark. But tomorrow… at that place... I’ll need you.

Clark looked at him for a long moment, something tight stirring in his chest. - Then I’ll be there.

No more words were exchanged after that. The silence between them, for once, didn’t feel like a wall. It felt like something waiting to be built - something that neither of them had the tools to name yet.

But it was real.

And it was there.

Chapter Text

The city felt like it hadn’t breathed in days.

The sky above Gotham loomed in a thick slab of gray, dull and heavy, like concrete pressed against the horizon. No rain - not yet - but the clouds threatened it. 

The kind of cold, dry stillness that settled into the bones and made people bristle in their coats. The kind of stillness that always came before something broke.

The black car glided silently through the narrow roads leading toward City Hall, its tinted windows catching the reflection of flickering street lamps and news vans parked crookedly against curbs. 

Inside, Bruce sat in the passenger seat, unmoving. His fingers tightened slightly around the cufflinks Alfred gave to him, though his expression betrayed nothing.

Clark drove with quiet precision - not a word spoken since they’d left the Manor. There was no need for small talk. 

Not today. 

His eyes scanned every alley, every passerby, the tension in his shoulders a mirror to Bruce’s own, just dressed differently. One born from duty, the other from something much older. Wounds that had never scabbed over. Names whispered for too long.

As they approached, the city’s noise began to swell: murmurs, footsteps, the drone of cameras powering up. Then the signs came into view.

Makeshift memorials lined the City Hall steps. Candles burned low in wax puddles, and flowers wilted under the absence of sunlight. But it was the signs that chilled Bruce’s blood.

“SCRAWLED QUESTION MARK IN CROSSHAIRS.”
“OUR DAY OF JUDGEMENT.”
“NO MORE MASKS.”

He felt it in his ribs - that quiet, aching pressure - like being dragged beneath water by something he couldn’t see.

Clark pulled the car up alongside the barricades. A security team glanced toward them before recognizing the vehicle. They gave the nod. The doors unlocked.

Bruce made no move to exit, not at first. His eyes lingered on the sea of mourners and press beyond the glass. Their faces blurred together - anger, grief, curiosity - all of it aimed outward, waiting for something to bite.

Clark opened his door and stepped out first, adjusting the sleeves of his dark suit, a whisper of fabric against the hush of the crowd. His eyes swept the perimeter with methodical precision before circling around to open Bruce’s door.

The moment Bruce’s foot hit the pavement, it began.

“…is that Bruce Wayne…?”

Heads turned the instant Bruce stepped out of the car - like birds catching the scent of blood in the air. 

A ripple passed through the crowd, a swell of motion and murmur as recognition struck like a spark. His name passed from mouth to mouth, hushed at first, then louder, sharper, until it broke into a chorus. 

And then the flashes began - harsh, stuttering bursts of white from camera bulbs igniting like fireworks against the gloom. Paparazzi pushed forward from behind the barricades, jostling for a better shot, voices rising with an urgency that was less about grief and more about spectacle. 

“Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne!”  

The cry followed him, echoing off the cold stone of City Hall’s steps, but Bruce didn’t flinch. 

He kept his gaze ahead, unmoved, his expression locked into that practiced calm - the mask worn long before he ever chose the other one.

He heard the press call again - louder now, more desperate - but his fingers brushed his wallet as he passed through security, eyes dark and unfazed. Like this was just another performance. 

Another mask he’d long since outgrown.

Clark hovered behind him, saying nothing. No hand on his back. No nod of reassurance. Just presence. 

Silent, unwavering.

Inside the vast marble atrium of City Hall, the noise dulled into a low hum, but the weight didn’t lift. Mourners stood in clusters, doused in black, their conversations held in hushed tones. Officers posted at every entryway. Tension, coiled like a spring.

Bruce inhaled deeply - but it didn’t calm him. Not today.

His eyes flicked upward toward the great, arching ceiling. The same place his father once spoke from - back when Gotham still pretended to be something noble. The thought settled bitter in his throat.

- Stay near the wall, - Clark murmured close to his ear. - If anything happens -

- It will, - Bruce answered flatly. - You feel it too.

Clark’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. 

They walked side by side, but Bruce could feel the way Clark’s body leaned just slightly toward him, protective even in subtlety. A shield disguised in civility.

They stood just outside the main gathering - watching, waiting. Bruce let his gaze move over the crowd. Familiar faces. Empty expressions. The same city that had cheered for his family’s death with silence and complacency.

The only thing different now was the color of the coffin.

Bruce glanced again toward the doors.

The signs still haunted the steps outside, and for a moment, he swore he saw someone - one lone figure - standing apart from the crowd. A figure too still.

But then the moment passed.

And Bruce reminded himself: in Gotham, everyone is watching.

Some with grief. Some with envy.

And some with a knife already in their hands.

A voice cut through the murmur of the crowd, slicing past the cameras, the distant cries of protest, and the brittle shuffle of suits and dress shoes on stone.

- Bruce Wayne -

He turned, startled, his long coat catching the wind, and his eyes locked onto a woman cutting through the crowd like she belonged there. She was elegant without pretense, firm without force. 

Bella Reál.

- I’ve been trying to reach you, " she said as she approached, voice crisp and pointed. - Why haven’t you called me back?

Bruce blinked, caught slightly off guard. - I’m… sorry?

- I’m Bella Reál, - she pressed, already moving closer, already folding herself into his space as if to force momentum between them. - I’m running for mayor. And I wouldn’t be bothering you here, but your people keep telling me you’re - what was the word - ‘unavailable.’ - She gave a thin smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. - Will you walk with me?

Before Bruce could offer a reply, she tucked her arm through his - her gesture deft and smooth, without hesitation - and with that, she stole him from the crowd. 

He allowed it, perhaps out of surprise, perhaps because it was easier than resisting. 

As they walked, his eyes briefly caught on the grim expression of a man nearby - a bitter nobody in the shadows, staring daggers into him before turning and melting back into the mass of mourners.

She led him through the thinning crowd to the seated area set up in front of City Hall. 

The stone steps loomed above, adorned in black bunting and flowers. Reporters murmured, their cameras still flashing occasionally like dying fireflies. Bruce ignored them.

- You know, - Bella began again, her voice quieter now, though no less sharp. - You could be doing a lot more for the city.

He said nothing. Her words fell on him like rain that had yet to start - inevitable, heavy, but not yet soaking through.

- Your family has a history of philanthropy, - she continued, her voice carrying with the authority of someone who refused to be ignored. - But as far as I can tell? You’re not doing anything. Nothing that matters. If I’m elected, I’m going to change that.

They neared the front rows as a hush began to fall over the space. On the central steps, a boys’ choir began to sing - the solemn, mournful strains echoing through the cold morning air like a prayer offered to stone and silence.

She looked at him once more, her tone softer now. - Will you wait for me? I want to go pay my respects. My God… what a mess. His poor wife. His son.

Bruce nodded mutely, and Bella slipped away, her silhouette blending into the line of mourners. 

As she leaned forward to offer her condolences to the widow, Bruce's gaze drifted - and then stilled.

The mayor’s son sat a few feet away, tucked beneath the curve of his mother’s side, pale and tight-lipped, dressed in a too-big black suit. He couldn’t have been more than ten. 

And yet his eyes were tired. Far too old. 

They met Bruce’s briefly - a flicker of something between recognition and detachment - and in that moment, Bruce was back there again. 

In the alley. In the dark. His parents' blood soaking into the stones.

He looked away.

From several paces behind, Bruce felt the weight of another gaze - Clark’s. 

He didn’t need to turn to know where he stood. He felt the steady pressure of his presence, the way his eyes followed the shifting tension in Bruce’s shoulders, the way he never let himself be too far from reach. 

Always there. A silent shadow with warmth at its core. 

And while Bruce wouldn’t admit it aloud, the knowing burned low in his chest - an ember that hadn’t been there before.

Even here, surrounded by strangers, by grief and judgment, cameras and smoke - he felt Clark watching.

And for the first time in days, it didn’t feel like being watched.
It felt like being seen.

A quiet voice, low and familiar, threaded through the swell of hymns and whispers.

- ‘Scuse me, Chief? Can I talk to you…?

Bruce glanced over his shoulder. 

A few rows back, standing among the officers, was James Gordon - trench coat creased from too many long nights, jaw set like he already knew the answer to his own question. He leaned in close to the Chief of Police, a heavyset man with thinning hair and permanent sweat stains clinging to the collar of his uniform.

- Gil Colson is missing, - Gordon murmured.

The Chief stiffened. - What?

- He hasn’t been heard from since last night.

Bruce’s brow furrowed subtly. The district attorney - missing?

Before the implications could fully root themselves, one of the younger officers, Martinez, followed Bruce’s gaze and spotted him watching from across the rows. 

The recognition on the man’s face was instant, and a smile flickered there - genuine, surprised.

- Hey, Mr. Wayne…

Gordon went quiet.

That familiar wall slammed back into place - a wedge between the two lives Bruce lived, forcing him to step deeper into one and bury the other. He turned away slowly, expression unreadable, but still listening, his shoulders tightening like a wire drawn taut.

Not again, he thought. Not another one.

- Christ, - the Chief murmured. - You got people looking for him, Jim?

But then - it began.

It started as a low murmur from outside - screams, barely audible, rising in pitch like the hiss of something torn open. An engine groaned, sick and strained, like metal being twisted beyond its limit. Then -

Thud.

A terrible sound - fleshy and final - slammed into the stone silence of the hall.

Bruce’s head jerked up, every muscle in his body snapping to attention.

Gasps erupted across the second-floor landing. People backed away from the tall arched windows, eyes wide in horror. A woman screamed. Another dropped their phone with a crack that echoed.

Bruce’s eyes darted upward, tracking the collective gaze - and there he saw it.

A figure. Unmoving. Silhouetted against the gray light beyond the glass.

Gazing down.

Gazing at him.

Waiting.

His breath caught in his throat.

The front entrance exploded inward in a blizzard of glass and concrete.

The screams became a singular cry of panic as a black vehicle barreled through the cathedral doors, shattering marble and splintering benches. 

Shards of stained glass flew like razors, catching in hair and skin. Petals from funeral wreaths were torn from their stems, clinging to the grille like afterthoughts.

The vehicle roared past the pews - an unstoppable machine of death - launching people through the air. One man collided with a column; another woman’s scream was cut off mid-note as she was tossed over a railing.

Bruce spun instinctively - eyes locking onto a familiar figure.

The mayor’s son.

Standing still.

Frozen in shock as chaos surged around him like a tide.

No one else had noticed him.

But Bruce had.

He launched forward, boots scraping over shattered tile as he hurled himself across the distance. He grabbed the boy and twisted, pulling him down - just as the SUV hurtled through the air above them, seats torn from their bolts flipping overhead like wreckage in a storm.

The crash landed behind them - a thunderous crescendo as the vehicle collided with the staircase, crumpling against the stone like a dying beast. 

The front end buckled. 

Smoke poured from beneath the hood. The engine coughed, growled… then fell still.

Silence followed. Unreal. Heavy.

Then the screams came again.

Tears. Shouting. The panic of hundreds scrambling for the exits. Clergy members pulling people out from under rubble. The choirboys sobbing into their robes.

Bruce lay still for a moment, breath short, arms still curled around the boy. He felt the child’s heartbeat under his palm - rabbit-quick, erratic, very much alive.

He pushed himself up slowly, eyes drawn to the wreck, then upward - to the second-floor landing.

The figure was gone.

A chill passed through him that had nothing to do with the cold.

The boy stood and ran, face streaked with dirt and tears, rushing back into his mother’s arms, her sobs breaking through the noise like something torn wide open.

Bruce remained on his knees, surrounded by broken stone, crushed flowers, and scattered bodies, trying to catch his breath.

A hush fell in the wake of the crash. Not silence - not really. 

It was the stunned aftermath of violence, where noise seemed suspended in shock. The SUV smoldered where it had lodged itself in the staircase, metal groaning faintly, its engine finally dead.

And then - like a match dropped in dry grass - the panic ignited again.

Screams broke loose from every direction. 

People shoved one another to reach the exits, stumbling over broken pews and shards of glass. Security scrambled, hands to their earpieces. Choirboys fled. Reporters dropped their cameras. Mothers clutched children to their chests.

Clark shoved past a scattering of mourners, dodging splinters of shattered columns and debris. His vision tunneled until he saw him.

Bruce.

Crouched on the stone floor, hair disheveled, the hem of his coat streaked with dirt and broken flower petals, arms still curled protectively around the mayor’s son - the boy now scrambling from Bruce’s hold and sprinting toward his weeping mother.

Clark’s stomach lurched at the sight.

His legs carried him faster - a bodyguard’s reflex overriding everything else. 

His bare hand gripped the edge of the collapsed pew as he slid into place beside Bruce, crouching, scanning him, every inch of him - his face, his arms, his ribs - for blood, bruises, wounds.

- Bruce, - he said, breathless, his voice low, strained but sharp.

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He blinked slowly, as though waking from a fog, and turned his head. 

Their eyes met. Clark’s heart kicked into his throat.

There was dust across Bruce’s cheek, a faint scratch near his jaw, the faintest tremor in his fingers. His lips were parted, but no sound came out. He looked dazed. Shaken. 

But not broken.

Clark didn’t touch him - not yet - but his hand hovered close. Ready.

Bruce’s voice finally came, hoarse, buried deep in his throat. - I’m fine.

- You’re not, - Clark said. - Don’t say you are.

Sirens were wailing in the distance now, the unmistakable screech of approaching squad cars, paramedics, chaos mounting again from beyond the cathedral doors.

But Clark didn’t move. He only knelt there - between Bruce and the world.

- I’m here, - he said. - You’re alright. You’re safe.

And for a moment - just a moment - Bruce didn’t pull away.

The words settled like an anchor in the eye of a storm.

Bruce’s gaze snapped to Clark’s - a sharp, instinctual reaction, like something in him had been pulled taut and then cut loose. For a moment, neither of them moved. 

The sounds around them dulled - the frantic screams, the boots slamming across the cathedral floor, the static crackle of police radios. All of it faded beneath the pressure of that look.

Something shifted. Imperceptible. But undeniable.

Bruce’s eyes were wide, unreadable. Not with fear - not exactly. But with something tangled and volatile beneath the surface. He hadn’t realized how hard he was breathing until he caught the calm in Clark’s face - the way those icy-blue eyes were fixed only on him, unflinching, unwavering, as if Bruce was the sole priority in a sea of shattered pews and glass.

Clark moved with purpose now.

- Come on, - he said, with more urgency in his voice this time, the soldier in him rising. 

Without waiting for protest, he reached down and slipped an arm around Bruce’s waist - firm but careful, like Bruce might still collapse at any second. His other hand braced under Bruce’s shoulder, steadying him.

Bruce didn’t resist.

He didn’t flinch at the contact - not even when Clark’s palm found the bare skin just above his belt, where his shirt had ridden up in the fall. He just let himself be pulled to his feet, uncharacteristically pliant, held close against Clark’s chest as the world around them burned in panic.

Flashbulbs erupted again. 

Distant cries echoed across the arched ceiling. 

But Clark kept his head down, shielding Bruce with the width of his body, his arm curling protectively around the man’s side as they wove through the chaos.

The security detail tried to intervene, tried to open paths or call out directions - but Clark barely heard them. All he could hear was the ragged rhythm of Bruce’s breathing beside him and the slam of his own heart, already calculating every blind spot, every open flank, every shadow where someone could still be watching.

The moment they hit the cathedral steps, Clark pulled the car door open himself, one hand guiding Bruce inside with urgent care. Bruce dropped into the leather seat, his jaw tense, eyes still fixed ahead - as if stunned by the whiplash of reality.

Clark shut the door.

And in the silence that followed, he stood at the curb for a second longer - scanning the rooftops, the crowd, the pale sky above - before sliding into the driver’s seat beside him, slamming the lock down.

The car pulled away. 

And neither of them looked back.

Chapter Text

The manor felt unnaturally still. 

As if the chaos that had unfolded only hours ago had ripped a hole in its silence and let something colder in. Something that clung to the walls and floors and skin like frostbite.

Clark stood in the doorway of the medical room, his frame filling it, as if holding back the world outside. He hadn’t spoken since they got home. His hands had trembled once - on the steering wheel - but now they were tight fists at his sides, barely leashed.

Bruce sat quietly on the edge of the padded table, shirtless, the pale light catching the slope of his shoulders, the bruises beginning to bloom on his ribs like distant storm clouds. 

A thin line of blood trailed from his upper bicep where a shard of glass had sliced through him - clean and precise, but shallow.

He hadn’t said much since they arrived. 

He didn’t need to. The silence between them said enough.

Clark stepped forward, finally, and Bruce’s eyes flicked up, tired and unreadable. Still adrenaline-slick. Still wired with something heavy and lingering in his chest.

- Let me see it, - Clark said, voice low, not a question.

Bruce didn’t argue. Just shifted slightly, letting the cut show beneath the dried blood.

Clark knelt beside the small med kit, fingers pulling gauze and alcohol and a single band-aid from inside. He didn’t look up at Bruce again until the wipe was open in his hand and the sharp sting of antiseptic met skin.

Bruce flinched slightly, just at the coldness.

- Should’ve waited for me, - Clark said under his breath, his fingers steady on the skin around the wound, wiping gently.

Bruce let out a breath. - I saw a ten-year-old about to get hit by a car. I’m not wired to wait.

Clark didn’t answer. 

The silence was thick again, filled with all the things he wanted to say but couldn’t. Instead, he dipped his head lower, gently wiping the last of the dried blood away until only clean skin and a fresh pink welt remained.

The band-aid he peeled next was small. Almost ridiculous, given the gravity of the day. A stupid, skin-toned rectangle, as if a piece of paper could patch a bullet hole.

But still - he pressed it gently against Bruce’s bicep, smoothing it down with his fingers.

His hand lingered.

And when he looked up, Bruce was watching him.

Not with coldness. Not even resistance. Just tired eyes, hooded and soft in the low light, and something else - something uncertain - flickering there. Something fragile, and locked behind years of armor.

Clark’s breath caught.

He should’ve pulled back. Should’ve stood up. Said something dry or neutral or safe. But his hand stayed on Bruce’s arm, fingers still warm against cooling skin, and for a second - just one second - he let himself see Bruce.

The muscles taut under trauma. The sharp lines of his collarbone catching the light. The quiet heaviness in his gaze. The flicker of a pulse beneath his jaw.

- Clark, - Bruce said softly, almost like a warning. Or maybe a whisper.

Clark blinked - and pulled his hand away, clearing his throat. The sudden shift of movement made the air feel colder.

- I’ll stay nearby, - he muttered, busying his hands with closing the kit, anything to avoid looking again. - Tonight. Outside your room. Just in case.

- You don’t have to -

- I want to, - Clark said quickly. Too quickly. Then softened, without turning. - You're not alone in this.

Bruce didn’t say anything after that. And Clark didn’t leave.

He just sat down across from him, elbows on his knees, gaze resting somewhere on the floor - somewhere between Bruce’s bare feet and the bandage he’d just pressed over his skin.

And in the hush between words, between breaths, between the distance that still kept them apart - the storm never truly lifted.

But for now, it paused.

The medical kit was shut. The wound was covered. But neither of them moved. 

Bruce sat on the padded bench still shirtless, shoulders curved forward, elbows on his knees. Clark stayed across from him in the low chair, his palms resting flat against his thighs, the air between them thick with unsaid things.

It was Bruce who finally spoke, his voice a low gravel, like something long buried being unearthed piece by piece.

- I saw someone.

Clark looked up slowly.

- At the funeral, - Bruce continued. - When the car came through the doors. Before the screams. Before the crash. - His jaw tightened. - There was a silhouette on the second floor. Just… watching. Looking straight at me.

Clark didn’t interrupt. He leaned forward slightly, gaze locked, silent and listening.

- It wasn’t a flinch. Not someone startled. He didn’t move. - Bruce’s voice had thinned to something haunted. - He stood there like he was waiting for it. Like he wanted me to see.

Clark’s brows furrowed. - Do you think it was him? The one who sent the car?

Bruce gave a sharp breath of a laugh - hollow and humorless. - Isn’t it obvious by now? The Riddler … the killer… whatever he wants to call himself - he’s watching us. Me. He was watching when the D.A. was driven in strapped to that seat. He’s not just behind this. - Bruce’s gaze rose slowly to Clark’s. - He’s orchestrating it.

Clark’s shoulders stiffened. There was no trace of doubt in Bruce’s voice. Only exhaustion. And cold, sobering clarity.

A long silence fell again. Then Bruce leaned back slightly, the bare skin of his back brushing against the chilled wall behind him.

- I thought I knew this city, - he murmured. - I thought I knew the kind of darkness it held. But this… - He shook his head. - This is different. He’s not just killing. He’s performing. Leaving messages. Symbols. And if we don’t understand it - his voice dropped - he’s going to kill again.

Clark’s jaw clenched.

- And you still don’t think you’re the target? " he asked, low.

Bruce gave no answer, only a faint exhale. Then: - I’ve always been a target. Since I was a kid. People don’t look at me - they aim.

That sentence hung heavy in the air between them.

- I used to think I could walk through that, - Bruce continued. - Ignore the stares, the headlines, the conspiracies. But this feels different. He’s not just hunting power. He’s tearing through symbols. The mayor. The commissioner. The D.A… - He trailed off. - He’s carving the city apart. And when he’s done, I think he plans to light it on fire.

Clark’s voice came quiet, yet unwavering. - Then we’ll stop him.

Bruce looked over at him. Slowly. As if the sentence had stunned him.

Clark’s expression didn’t shift. - You’re not doing this alone. I don’t care how long he’s been planning, or how deep his rot goes. I don’t care if he thinks he knows how to hurt you. - His eyes were sharp now, cutting through the air between them. - He’s going to have to go through me first.

A beat. Two.

- I won’t let anything happen to you.

Bruce’s breath caught - just a fraction. Just enough.

The silence that followed wasn’t cold, for once. It was full. 

Charged with something that was growing between them, unseen but deeply felt. Trust that hadn’t existed before. Concern that hadn’t been spoken until now. Something else that neither of them had the words for - but felt anyway, just below the skin.

Bruce looked away for a moment, eyes catching on the edge of the gauze Clark had pressed over his arm. Then up again, meeting Clark’s.

- I’m not good at this, - Bruce said. - Letting people in.

- I know, - Clark replied. - But I’m not going anywhere.

Bruce nodded once, just a slight dip of the head. The faintest shimmer of something more honest than either of them had allowed to show before.

Clark rose from the chair slowly, still watching him, gaze steady. But he didn’t leave. Instead, he moved to sit beside Bruce, close enough that their arms almost brushed.

The room stayed quiet. The manor still chilled.

But between the two of them, a quiet shift. Like something solid had been placed between them for the first time - not duty. Not fear. Something human.

And maybe, just maybe, the beginning of something that neither of them could name.

The rain had returned, as if Gotham itself was in mourning - a steady, drizzling shroud that blurred the city’s edges and washed everything in a sickly, gray haze. It pattered rhythmically against the tall arched windows of Wayne Manor, soft and relentless, a heartbeat against glass.

Clark stood in front of Bruce’s bedroom door, back straight, arms crossed over his chest, the wood at his back cool from the lack of sunlight. 

The corridor was dimly lit, the chandelier overhead casting fractured shadows across the patterned rug, the stone walls breathing with old silence.

In his hand, his phone screen glowed - low brightness, volume barely audible. 

Gotham News buzzed with chaos, anchors barely disguising their panic under professional tones. Clark watched the footage for the fifth time in the last hour. The funeral. The SUV crashing through the cathedral doors. The explosive collar. Gil Colson’s trembling voice. And then - static. Flash. Blood. Silence.

Clark clenched his jaw. 

The image glitched for a second, then resumed on a shaky shot of the aftermath: terrified crowds fleeing, twisted metal and shattered pews left like bones in the wake. They were looping it over and over again, like everyone needed a reminder of just how much Gotham was losing control.

He turned the screen off. The light vanished.

He exhaled through his nose, grounding himself.

The storm that had started at the mayor’s murder was escalating into a full collapse. Colson’s death wasn’t just another message from the Riddler - it was a declaration of war. 

No one was safe. Not the officials, not the powerful, not even those protected by walls and legacy and money.

And yet, here he was - guarding a bedroom door like it might stop the next wave.

But it wasn’t just a door. And it wasn’t just duty.

Clark’s eyes flicked sideways toward the handle - just for a breath of a moment. Behind that door, Bruce was inside. Maybe resting. Maybe pacing again. Maybe haunted by the same images Clark couldn’t shake. The silhouette on the balcony. The boy with wide eyes. The sound of the engine. 

The explosion.

Clark had tackled people. Protected senators. Taken bullets for targets more dangerous than some could imagine. But this felt different. Bigger. Not just because the killer was cruel or smart or organized. Not even because Gotham was unraveling in real time.

But because Bruce was in the center of it.

And whether he’d admit it or not, he was vulnerable.

Not in the way people assumed - not soft. Never soft. But there was something in his silence. 

Something in the way he hadn’t flinched at the funeral, hadn’t screamed, hadn’t collapsed. Clark saw it - not detachment, but an exhaustion that ran marrow-deep. A weight Bruce had clearly been carrying for too long, maybe since childhood. Like this city had been eating at him for years and he had just learned to let it.

And Clark… Clark couldn’t stand it.

His knuckles grazed the edge of the doorframe. The wood was cool under his fingers.

He knew what his job was. Protect the client. Maintain perimeter. Monitor for threat. But none of those words felt big enough for what this had become. What it was turning into. Clark wasn’t sure when it happened - somewhere between the broken window that night and the way Bruce had looked at him in the medical room, eyes raw and stripped of every wall - but something had shifted. Duty had turned into something personal.

He had to keep him safe.

No matter what it took.

He shifted his stance, scanned the hallway again. The manor was quiet, the rain a constant breath outside the tall glass. No movement. No sign of anything off - but that didn’t mean it was over.

Not by a long shot.

Clark glanced once more toward the door, his chest tightening with something caught between fear and a quiet, stubborn need.

- I’m not going to let anything happen to you, - he whispered under his breath, voice just barely audible in the hush of the hallway.

And then, he resumed his watch. Silent. Still. Unflinching.

The storm outside had only just begun.

The walls were closing in again.

Not literally - the room was vast by any standard, ceilings high and shadows deep - but it didn’t matter. The space felt smaller with every breath, like the air had been sucked from it and replaced with memory, with noise. The kind that lived beneath the skin. 

The kind that whispered at the back of his skull.

Bruce sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over, hands locked between his knees, knuckles pale from pressure. The room was dimly lit, a single lamp on the desk casting a warm circle that didn’t quite reach him. The storm was now a blown out roar, the sky beyond the window remained a washed-out grey, heavy and dead-eyed, like the city itself was waiting to explode.

His shirt lay discarded somewhere on the floor. 

A thin line of gauze clung to his upper bicep - Clark’s work, from earlier. The cut didn’t hurt. Barely bled. But it pulsed with a low, constant reminder: you were close.

Too close.

And yet, even now - even after - all he could feel was nothing . Not fear. Not clarity. Just a mounting static.

His foot tapped restlessly against the floorboards, heel ticking out a rhythm he didn’t notice until it became the only sound in the room. He dragged a hand through his hair, then across the back of his neck, fingers trembling slightly. His skin was hot, too hot, but his chest felt hollow. Like he’d been cracked open somewhere no one could see.

He stood. Paced. Sat again. 

Then stood once more, walking to the tall, shuttered window and dragging his palm across the cold glass. Nothing but gray beyond. The hedges. The wet gravel drive. Clark’s blurred silhouette - unmoving - just outside the frame of the door.

Always there, Bruce thought. His throat bobbed. Watching. Waiting.

The tension between them hung heavy since the funeral - since before that, maybe. It was its own kind of storm, one neither of them named.

Bruce turned away from the window.

His gaze landed on the far wall - the empty fireplace, the quiet armchair beside it. And then - his eyes moved to the farthest corner, where a crack in the stone still held the faintest mark of soot, from another time.

And it hit him.

The garage. The car.

He remembered.

Seventeen years old. Just a kid with too much time and no one telling him no . He found it buried under tarps and rust, the old muscle car stripped and forgotten - a beast with bones of fire and chrome, waiting to be touched back to life.

He’d spent that whole summer covered in oil, fingers bleeding, sparks flying. And when it roared to life? God - it was like breathing for the first time. 

He’d race at night, helmetless, engine howling through the city’s veins. No destination. No rules. Just the asphalt and the blur of lights and the silence in his head.

He missed it.

Not the car. Not even the speed.

The freedom .

Now all he had were threats. Expectations. A killer playing god with the city. And a man - just feet away - standing guard like Bruce was some helpless heir locked in a tower.

Trapped. That’s what this was. No suit. No mask. No outlet.

He clenched his jaw, palms pressed against the edge of the windowsill, his spine taut with quiet desperation. The need to move , to feel again - it coiled in his stomach like smoke, bitter and sharp.

The Drifter had given him an outlet. Before the legacy. Before the Riddler. He’d felt alive then, slicing through Gotham’s streets, no cameras, no legacy, no eyes on him.

And now?

Now he was caged in luxury and shadows, the weight of the city on his chest, the cold of marble floors under his feet, and the voice in his head whispering:

You’re not doing enough.

He turned from the window. The lamp flickered once. His gaze drifted to the door.

Clark was out there. He knew it. 

Could feel him - like gravity, like warmth just outside reach. Always there. Always watching. Like he knew Bruce was close to breaking, and was waiting for him to say it.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t .

So he sat down again. The bed creaked beneath his weight.

And the walls kept closing in.

The rain hadn’t stopped.

It pounded against the windows like it was trying to get in - relentless, cruel, rhythmic. 

A symphony of weight and water that had long since become unbearable. It hadn’t let up for hours. Maybe days. Time didn’t matter much anymore. Not in this house. 

Not in his head.

Bruce sat hunched on the edge of the bed in his own bedroom. Every shadow in the manor felt longer tonight. Every inch of stone heavier. The scent of old wood and smoke thick in the air.

He hadn’t spoken in hours.

Hadn’t moved.

But something cracked.

Not loud. Not visible. Something internal. Quiet - like bone grinding just beneath the surface.

His jaw clenched. His chest rose sharply. Then, without warning, he stood.

The sudden motion made the bed creak scrape against the wood, the sound jagged and sharp. He strode toward the door, not even bothering to grab a shirt - the sweatpants hung low on his hips, a faint tremble in the tension of his abdomen as each breath threatened to become something more.

Clark was there, of course - not far. Always close. Always watching. 

A silent sentry, constant in the way the storm was constant. Bruce’s hand hit the frame, fingers curling around the old molding, and with a sheer grunt of frustration, he ripped the damn thing clean off its hinges.

The door cracked open violently.

A beat.

He didn’t turn.

- I’m going, - Bruce said softly - not quite broken, but not whole either. - To the other wing. Need to hit the gym. Blow off steam.

His voice was low, nearly lost to the sound of the rain hammering against the glass.

He didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t need one.

Because he knew - without even looking - that Clark would follow.

And he did.

The hallway stretched long and dim, their footsteps the only sound inside aside from the storm’s relentless percussion. The manor creaked in places, ancient and alive. Water streaked down the outer stone beyond the high, narrow windows. 

Lightning flashed somewhere far off - a pale blue silhouette of fury.

Bruce’s muscles twitched beneath his skin. He hadn’t slept. Had barely eaten. His world had narrowed down to instincts - the desire to move, to hit something, to feel something real before the numbness turned him inside out.

- You sure about this? - Clark asked quietly behind him, his voice deep and weighted with concern.

Bruce didn’t answer. His breath came out sharp, his shoulders coiled tight.

Clark’s boots echoed behind him on the marble floor. Always two steps back. Always just there - like a shadow, like protection shaped into the body of a man.

The gym was buried deep in the west wing - mostly untouched by anyone but Bruce himself.

And tonight, it felt like the only place left in the world where he could bleed without consequence. He pushed through the double doors, the stale scent of rubber, iron, and old sweat wrapping around him like memory.

The storm moaned against the high windows above the weight racks. The lights flickered once.

Bruce headed straight to the punching bag, fists curling, his knuckles already itching for release.

Clark lingered near the entrance, arms folded, back against the wall, silent.

- You don’t have to watch me, - Bruce muttered, rolling his wrists, eyes locked on the bag.

- Not watching, - Clark replied quietly, eyes very much on him. - Guarding.

That made Bruce’s jaw tighten. He delivered the first punch with a sharp exhale, the sound of leather against canvas ringing through the hollow room. Then another. Then another. Rhythm building. Breathing deepening.

Each strike was a cry - muffled, wordless, raw.

The storm outside mimicked him, thunder cracking as his fists collided with the bag. His sweat mixed with the heat rising off his chest, his body alive with tension. But he wasn’t releasing it. Not fully.

Clark stepped closer.

- I know you think carrying it all by yourself makes it easier, - he said, his voice softer now. - But it doesn’t. You don’t have to be alone in this.

Bruce struck the bag again. And again. - I’m not alone .

- No, - Clark agreed. - You’ve got a lunatic targeting you. A city teetering on collapse. And a man - me - who would rather die than let anything happen to you. But that’s not the same thing as letting someone in .

Bruce stopped. Chest heaving. Sweat running down the line of his spine.

He turned.

And for a moment, their eyes locked.

Rain drummed against the glass. Lightning etched the room in silver.

Clark’s expression was unreadable - a mask of calm, but his eyes gave him away. There was heat there. Worry. Something deeper, something aching between his ribs that had no name yet.

- You’re still here, - Bruce said slowly.

- Always, - Clark replied.

And for a brief, suspended moment in time - in the storm, in the silence - Bruce felt the walls stretch just a little farther away from his chest.

Not gone.

But not suffocating him either.

Chapter Text

Hours had passed since Bruce first stormed into the old gym tucked deep within the manor. Clark hadn’t said anything at first - he never had to. Bruce had spoken with his body, not with words. His jaw clenched, eyes burning, movements tight with restraint. The moment he tore the doorframe open, muttering something about needing to blow off some steam, space, movement - Clark had been right behind him.

And now… now they had burned through two hours of silence and sweat, their bodies the only things speaking.

Clark had spent enough time in military boot camps and black-ops MMA gyms to know the difference between someone who fights to win and someone who fights to feel . Bruce wasn’t in the ring for a trophy or a title. He was trying to crack something open. 

Something sealed inside his ribs like a ticking clock.

Clark had kept to the edge for most of the session, watching Bruce cycle through pull-ups, inverted sit-ups, heavy bag drills - pushing his body to a brutal edge. It was only when Bruce finally threw a pair of sparring gloves at him that he stepped in.

- Get in here, - Bruce had said flatly. - You’re the only one in this house who can actually hit me without Alfred screaming about internal bleeding.

Clark had grinned. - You sure about that?

- Shut up and move.

Now, Clark wiped the sweat from his temple, heart still elevated, not from exertion - but from the way Bruce moved . He hadn’t expected to be caught off-guard so often. Not by someone who didn’t have a formal fighting record. 

But Bruce had a particular way of folding himself into motion - like his whole body was trained to anticipate pain and respond before it arrived. He was pure economy of movement. No wasted gestures. No breath lost to bravado.

Clark had size and training on his side. But Bruce fought like something cornered. Quick. Darting. Calculated. 

Like a bat - silent one second, vicious the next. His hands darted like shadows, arms tucked tight, feet gliding with uncanny rhythm. He didn’t punch as much as slice through the air, his fists like controlled detonations. Short, fast, sharp. Every movement was designed to unmake you.

It rattled Clark. 

Not because he couldn’t keep up. But because he didn’t expect it to feel so personal.

Another round began. They moved around each other in a slow, concentric spiral. Clark’s skin prickled under the heat radiating between them. His muscles remembered the hits Bruce had landed earlier - clean and efficient. He’d swept Clark’s legs from under him like it was nothing. Three times. Maybe four. Clark had stopped counting after the first.

- You ever slow down? - Clark muttered, circling.

Bruce’s lip curled slightly. - Only when I’m bored.

- Good to know I’m still interesting.

They clashed again - hands catching wrists, shoulders pressing forward, torsos skimming close. It wasn’t elegant. It was human. It was gritty and hot and alive.

And Clark felt it.

The press of Bruce’s forearm against his chest. The curl of Bruce’s fingers near his hip. The tremor that ran through his own limbs every time their eyes locked for a second too long. And they always locked.

Bruce twisted, broke away, and flipped him again - this time pinning Clark to the mat, knee pressing near his ribs. The thud vibrated through the floor, but Clark didn’t move.

Bruce hovered above him, both of them panting hard. His jaw was set, strands of damp hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving, every scar on display. His skin was flushed from exertion, but his eyes - those eyes were still impossibly focused.

Clark stared up at him, caught between breath and heartbeat. Bruce wasn’t just relentless. He was beautiful in his fury. In his silence. In the way his body folded over his, not violently, but like a secret being kept.

- You done? - Bruce asked, voice low.

Clark’s fingers curled around Bruce’s wrist, not to shove him off - just to hold .

- You fight like you’ve got something to prove, - Clark said softly.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. - Maybe I do.

Clark sat up slowly, pushing Bruce back gently but deliberately. Their legs tangled briefly before Bruce stood, retreating to the far end of the mat, dragging a towel across his neck.

Clark followed him with his gaze, unable to keep himself from tracking every line, every stretch of lean muscle, every ripple of a scar across his back. He didn’t know where the heat in his chest came from anymore - was it adrenaline, or something older? Something quieter and more dangerous?

- You know, - Clark finally said, voice low, - you didn’t have to take me down every round. Could’ve let me win once.

Bruce looked over his shoulder. - That wouldn’t have been honest.

Clark smirked. - So you’re a purist now?

- No, - Bruce muttered, reaching for his water bottle. - I just know what it’s like to be underestimated.

There was something raw in his voice. Not bitterness - just history.

Clark stepped closer, folding his arms loosely across his chest. - I don’t underestimate you.

Bruce met his eyes, gaze sharp and unreadable. - Then why are you still here?

The words hit like a strike. Not cruel - just pointed.

Clark’s heart kicked up a notch. He wasn’t sure what Bruce meant, not fully. Maybe Bruce didn’t know either. Maybe it was just the pressure cooker of their lives right now - manhunts, masked killers, funerals that ended in explosions. But Clark didn’t flinch.

- Because I’m not going anywhere, - he said plainly. - You don’t have to fight all this alone.

It felt like a mantra at this point. Trying to prove himself to the man in front of himself. Trying to tell him that he is not going to run, not going to leave when things will get worse. That he will be ready to take the punches life throws at Bruce.

Bruce stared at him a beat longer. Then, just barely, the tension in his shoulders eased. Not completely - but just enough.

And that was new.

That was something.

Clark exhaled, the heat between them still simmering like sweat on skin. The rain outside was relentless again, but here, in the dim glow of the gym, it was quiet. Just the two of them. Bruised. Breathless. Standing in the middle of a storm they hadn’t chosen.

But maybe, just maybe, neither of them was alone in it anymore.

The gym had quieted down to the sound of the rain hammering gently on the old, reinforced glass above them.. And inside the dim warmth of the manor’s training space, Clark was still pacing the edges of the mat barefoot, toweling the sweat from the back of his neck, though his eyes never quite left Bruce.

Bruce was on the bench now, still shirtless, still a little breathless from their last round. A sheen of sweat traced the hard lines of his chest, rising and falling in slow rhythm. His hair hung in damp tufts over his eyes, and he was pressing a cold compress against a forming bruise along his ribs - one Clark had accidentally landed with a little too much force.

 - Sorry about that, - Clark said quietly, nodding to the bruise. - Didn’t think I actually got you.

Bruce huffed, eyes flicking up to meet his. - You didn’t. My ego’s just bruised.

Clark smirked, then sat down on the edge of the opposite bench, towel hanging loose around his neck. There was a silence between them again - but not an uncomfortable one. It was that strange calm that followed a storm, or something like a confession still hanging in the air, unspoken but known.

Clark watched Bruce shift slightly, grimacing as he adjusted the ice pack. He hesitated a moment, then asked, - Where did you learn all that?

Bruce’s brow furrowed.

- All those moves, - Clark clarified. - You fight like you’ve had training since the cradle.

Bruce didn’t respond right away. He just sat still for a beat, ice pack resting on his side, eyes focused somewhere past the wall. The tension that lived in him - always lived in him - seemed to return in a small way, pulling the air taut around them again.

Then Bruce spoke, voice low.

- I was seventeen, - he said. - Home from boarding school for the summer.

Clark leaned forward a little, quiet, letting Bruce go on.

- I was... angry, - Bruce admitted. - Restless. I didn’t know what to do with myself. The manor felt too big, too quiet. And Alfred - he must’ve known. Saw it in me before I even realized it myself.

Clark listened, the rain tapping steadily in the background like an echo of memory.

- So, - Bruce continued, - he started waking me up early. Every morning. Before sunrise. No questions, no explanations. Just... 'outside, Master Wayne.' - Bruce’s voice dropped an octave, mimicking Alfred’s stern British tone. It made something flicker behind his eyes - something like a ghost of a smile.

- What did he teach you? - Clark asked gently.

Bruce exhaled, rolling his shoulders. - Everything he knew. Karate. Judo. Taekwondo. Discipline. How to use my strength without losing control of it. He said... ‘if anything were to happen to me, if I wasn’t around anymore... I want you to be able to protect yourself.’

That landed heavy in the space between them. 

The weight of what Bruce wasn’t saying was just as clear as what he had. Clark could see it now - seventeen-year-old Bruce, motherless, fatherless, furious at the world, being dragged into the morning frost by a man trying to save what was left of a boy from falling into the abyss.

Clark swallowed. - So Alfred trained you.

Bruce nodded once, gaze focused on the far wall. - He’s not a soldier. Not in the traditional sense. But he knew things. Enough to make sure I could defend myself if things ever got worse. If I ever had to be alone.

Clark watched him carefully, feeling the edges of something sharper underneath Bruce’s words.

- You weren’t supposed to be alone, - Clark said, his voice barely above a murmur.

Bruce’s eyes finally flicked toward him.

- No, - he agreed. - But I was. For a long time.

And then - for just a moment - he looked at Clark like he was realizing something. Not about Clark. 

About himself . 

As if by sharing this piece of his past, this jagged edge of his soul, something had shifted ever so slightly in the structure he’d built around himself.

Clark didn’t move. He just let it sit there. Let Bruce exist in that moment without forcing him to keep it hidden.

Bruce reached for a water bottle on the bench beside him, unscrewed the cap, and took a slow drink. His hands, always steady, trembled just barely.

- You’re not alone anymore, - Clark said softly, meeting his eyes again.

There was no theatricality in the words. No dramatic swell. Just the quiet truth.

Bruce looked down at his hands for a moment. Then back at Clark. And in his gaze was something Clark had only caught glimpses of before - like staring into a half-lit hallway and seeing someone finally step forward.

- Yeah, - Bruce said after a long pause, voice almost too quiet to hear. - I know.

Clark’s breath caught - not because of the words, but because of the way he said them. Like they cost him something. Like they were real.

They sat in silence for a while after that. Just the sound of the rain. Just the sound of two men breathing. And something between them settling - deep, warm, wordless. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled.

Not yet.

The water struck his skin like a second pulse. Heavy, unrelenting. 

Clark stood still beneath the stream, head bowed forward, eyes closed, letting the cascade of heat and pressure work through the knots in his shoulders. Steam clouded the glass, curled at his feet, shrouding the tiled room in a haze that felt separate from the rest of the manor - an isolated cocoon where he could breathe again. Where the storm didn’t exist. Where Bruce didn’t exist.

Except he did .

Clark's hands dragged slowly through his wet hair, slicking it back, muscles flexing through the effort like taut rope. His body, lean and built from years of discipline and training, was still vibrating faintly with adrenaline from the gym earlier. 

From the way Bruce had moved. 

The way he had looked in that dim, flickering light - shirtless, sweat-slicked, bruised and breathing hard.

Clark exhaled, sharp, as the memory ignited like dry leaves in a quiet fire. He could still see the way Bruce’s shoulders rolled forward after each strike, calculated and fluid - predatory . How his spine moved like a taut wire, coiled with barely-leashed intent. He’d said he was trained by Alfred, but Clark knew instinct when he saw it. 

Bruce fought like it was a second skin. Like the darkness in him had been built into his bones. Quiet. Precise. Dangerous.

Clark’s fingers pressed into the back of his neck, jaw tightening. 

The spray of the shower poured over his broad chest, gliding in rivulets down his pecs, over the sculpt of his abs, trailing along the curve of his hips. His body, sculpted and honed for combat, for protection, was usually so easy to rein in. He could compartmentalize. Could control it.

But tonight, the memory of Bruce lingered like something more than just a client. It was the glint in his eyes after a dodge. The smirk when he’d landed a clean hit. The quiet exhaustion in his voice when he’d opened up about Alfred, about those early years. You weren’t supposed to be alone.

And then that look - right at the end. Something like a crack in his armor. A flicker of gratitude, maybe. Or recognition. Whatever it was, it had taken root inside Clark and refused to shake loose.

He groaned under his breath, tilting his head up to the stream, trying to let it drown out the images now circling like hawks in his mind. Bruce, shirtless and breathing heavy. The lines of his ribs. The shadow of the bruise forming on his side. The way he’d said yeah, I know like he almost believed it.

Clark’s hands braced against the tiled wall, water cascading down his back in ribbons. He could feel his body react - coiled tight again, blood shifting. A familiar ache building low in his stomach.

Don’t, he warned himself.

Thinking like this - it was reckless. Stupid. 

He’d been in protection work long enough to know the rules. The golden one: Don’t get attached. Clients were clients. And Bruce - Bruce Wayne was more than that. 

He was a whole life of weight. A whole city of darkness orbiting him like gravity. Clark was here to keep him safe, not to unravel beneath the thought of what his skin tasted like.

But still...

He clenched his jaw as his hand slipped to his abdomen, resting there, as if trying to ground himself. Not moving. Not yet. Just... feeling the tension sit heavy in his hips, his thighs, his chest. The heat of it.

Don’t touch him in your mind like this. Don’t want him like this.

Clark let out a frustrated breath, shoving away from the wall, stepping directly under the stream again. Letting the water punish him. Scald his skin until the thoughts bled out of him slowly, one by one.

This wasn’t just desire. This was need curling into something deeper. Something dangerous.

And he had to bury it before it ever saw light.

The towel hung low on his hips, clinging damply to his skin. Clark ran a hand through his wet hair as he stepped out of the bathroom, steam trailing after him like the ghost of his earlier restraint. 

The air outside the bathroom was cooler - sharp against the warmth of his freshly showered skin. He could feel each drop still running down his back, weaving between the ridges of his muscles before catching on the towel’s cotton edge.

His bare feet padded against the wooden floor as he crossed to the side of the bed, catching the flicker of light on the mounted TV in the corner. The screen buzzed softly, color-shifting in the dim room. Gotham’s colors - gray, muted blues, and washed-out brick. 

Always on the verge of storm even when the skies held back.

On screen, the camera shook slightly as wind swept through the street. Reporters packed like buzzards around the barricade tape in front of City Hall. A woman stood front and center - ginger hair tossed back by the gusts, trench coat cinched tightly at the waist.

Victoria Vale.

Clark recognized her immediately. Local Gotham media legend, sharp-tongued, always first to the crime scenes. Her voice carried over the wind, cutting clean through the static:

“...No one has claimed responsibility yet for the bombing that ended in District Attorney Colson’s death. Officials remain tight-lipped, but sources inside GCPD are calling it a coordinated act, and some even whisper: a message. As Gotham reels from the aftermath of the attack, one question remains - who will be next?”

The footage looped. The SUV crashing through the church doors. Chaos. Screams. Bruce - Bruce - dragging the mayor’s kid to safety. 

And Clark, just a few heartbeats behind.

Clark exhaled slowly, rubbing at the back of his neck. The towel dipped even lower as he shifted his stance, muscles tensing instinctively. He should get dressed. 

Put armor back between him and the world. But the weight of the broadcast - and the tension in his chest - kept him rooted.

He reached over to his nightstand, grabbing his phone. The screen was still damp with condensation from the bathroom, but he tapped through the contacts quickly.

Lois.

Her name blinked back at him like a siren.

Metropolis felt like another life now. A city of glass and daylight, of coffee-fueled arguments and pressroom chaos. Lois Lane had been there for all of it. His partner. His sparring match. His best friend.

And one of the best investigative reporters in the country.

Maybe it was time.

He thumbed the call icon, waited. The dial tone buzzed. Once. Twice. Click.

“If this isn’t breaking news, Clark, I swear to God - ”

Her voice was the same. Sharp. Dry. Comforting in its own way.

He smiled faintly, wiping a drip of water off his collarbone.

 - Hi, Lois.

“Don’t ‘hi Lois’ me - what time is it even in Gotham? Are you - are you calling from a cave? Why does it sound like you’re in a grave?”

Clark glanced down at himself. Bare chest still damp. The towel was one tug from dropping. His hair was a mess. He could still feel the imprint of Bruce’s voice on his mind from earlier.

- It’s... complicated, - he said. - Listen - I need to ask you something.

“This better not be about dating advice again. Because I’m not walking you through your mysterious, brooding employer’s signals if that’s what this is-”

- It’s not that, - Clark said, though his voice dipped a little. - Well. Not exactly.

That silence on the other end was pure Lois: the I-know-you’re-hiding-something silence.

“...You’re calling about Gotham. The bombing.”

He exhaled. - Yeah.

“Jesus, Smallville. Are you okay?”

- I’m fine. - His eyes drifted to the TV again. 

Victoria’s voice still filled the room, now speculating about the anonymous letters being sent to GCPD. - But this thing... whatever this is, Lois - it’s coordinated. We’ve got victims, messages, and now someone’s stalking the rich, the powerful. Including Bruce.

“Wayne?”

- Yeah.

There was another pause. Longer this time.

“Alright. I’ll dig. I’ve got some friends still in the Gotham circuit. If this is bigger than it looks, you’ll hear from me first.”

- Thanks.

“And Clark?”

He waited.

“Put on some damn clothes. You sound naked.”

He laughed under his breath. - I’m wearing a towel.

“That doesn’t count.”

And the line clicked dead.

Clark stared at the phone for a moment, then tossed it gently on the bed. The weight of everything returned quickly - the threat, the blood, the pressure. But beneath it all, a quiet line tethered him back to focus. To protection. To the man two floors away pacing in his own skin.

Clark looked down at the towel, then back at the screen.

Time to get dressed. There was work to do.

The room was quiet again. The TV still flickered in the background, looping images of explosions, interviews, and the smoldering wreckage of Gotham’s latest tragedy. 

Clark stood in front of the tall dresser, a fresh pair of black sweatpants dangling loosely from one hand, not yet pulled on. He was only in his boxer briefs - cut close to his body, hugging every contour of his hips and thighs. 

The kind of fit that didn’t leave much to the imagination.

The room still held the faint heat of his shower, steam ghosting against the cooler air. His hair was still damp, strands curling slightly above his brow. The light from the TV painted his bare torso in shadows and silver-blue flashes, every carved muscle brought out by the soft contrast  - pecs taut, abs hard and defined, his shoulders broad, chest rising with every quiet, focused breath.

He heard the knock a split-second before it came, and his spine stiffened.

Too late to move. Too late to hide.

Then the door creaked open without warning, just enough for a figure to lean in.

Bruce.

He looked... different than usual. Less like the shielded version of himself, and more like the man Clark had glimpsed only in the quietest moments. The man who couldn’t sleep. Who still walked the halls like a ghost in his own home.

- Did you - Bruce started, but his voice stopped halfway, eyes locking fully onto Clark.

And staying there.

The silence stretched long and hot, like the air had been cut between them. Bruce's eyes dropped before he could stop himself - Clark caught it. 

That flicker. That shift. 

A gaze dragging from the swell of Clark’s chest to the tight band of his briefs hugging his hips, and lower still - to the unmistakable outline of his package, full and heavy beneath the soft fabric.

Clark felt a pull low in his stomach.

Bruce’s throat worked silently as he seemed to catch himself and forced his gaze back up - slower than it should’ve been.

- I… - Bruce tried again, but this time his voice had an edge to it, something caught between hesitation and curiosity. - I was going to ask if you saw the news.

- I did. - Clark’s voice came out low, hoarser than he meant. He hadn’t moved an inch - his pants still in his hand, hanging forgotten. - Victoria Vale, right? The DA, the letters. It’s escalating.

- Yeah, - Bruce said, eyes still faintly wide - though his face was doing its best to fold back into blankness. - It is.

But neither of them moved. Not really. Not away.

The only sound in the room was the soft buzz of the television and the slow creak of the door still half-hinged open. The space between them had tightened like a rubber band drawn to its limit - something unspoken pressing in. 

Heat bloomed faintly at the base of Clark’s neck.

Bruce stood just outside the doorway, but his posture was different now - like he’d seen something he wasn’t expecting. Not just Clark’s body, but Clark . All of him. The vulnerability. The want. The restraint.

- Sorry, - Bruce said finally, but his voice was rough now, uneven. - Didn’t know you were... undressed.

Clark couldn’t stop the faint smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

- Yeah. I figured. - His voice softened. - You want to come in?

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t even flirtation, not really. Just the smallest, open door between two men who’d been circling each other for days now. Tension pressing between them like a second skin.

Bruce didn’t move. But he didn’t say no.

He just watched Clark for a second longer, then exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet.

- I should - uh. I just wanted to make sure you saw it. The news.

- I did, - Clark repeated, this time quieter. - Thanks.

Bruce nodded. Still didn’t move.

Clark finally reached for his sweats, pulling them up over his hips in one motion - deliberate, but not rushed. Bruce’s eyes flicked once more before retreating toward the hallway like a shadow.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Clark stood frozen for a moment.

His heart wasn’t racing - but it wasn’t calm either.

The storm outside was still raging.

But something else was brewing between them now too.

And it wasn’t just the city that was about to crack.

Chapter Text

It had been three days since the funeral.

Three days since the SUV exploded through the doors of City Hall, since blood splattered the marble floors, and since Bruce had thrown himself into danger without a second thought to shield a grieving child. The images still haunted Clark, the thundering crash, the gasps, the sobbing, the boy’s wide, terrified eyes - And Bruce, silent in the aftermath, glass in his skin, soot smudging his jaw, and hands trembling so slightly it would’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else.

But Clark had seen it.

And now, the world was seeing something entirely different.

He stood near the vast windows of the manor’s west wing, arms crossed tightly across his chest, gaze trained not on the mist-veiled skyline of Gotham, but on the small television in the corner of the room. A talking head filled the screen, gesturing animatedly as they played the loop again - the footage slowed down and overanalyzed until it no longer resembled truth.

“Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s elusive billionaire and reluctant recluse, is under scrutiny tonight after dramatic footage at the Mayor’s funeral raises more questions than answers...”

Clark’s teeth ground against each other.

His jaw ached from how tightly he held it shut, his fingers clenched around his own biceps with white-knuckled force. His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths - but his fury hummed just under the surface. 

He’d watched media spin stories before, but this… this was sick.

They painted Bruce as a suspect, a co-conspirator, even a manipulator - twisting his actions, questioning his intent, whispering rumors of calculated heroics. As if that boy hadn’t almost died. 

As if Bruce hadn’t dove into the path of a weaponized car with the desperation of someone who had lost too much already.

And Bruce? He said nothing.

Clark had watched him over the last few days - quiet, methodical, his expression a blank wall no one could climb. He wandered the manor like a ghost sometimes, his eyes dark and distant, his movements precise but aimless. There were no outbursts. No reactions to the headlines. No defense. No anger.

It drove Clark insane .

Because he wanted to yell. 

To grab the microphones from the vultures circling Wayne’s name and speak the truth, roar it into every corner of the city until it stuck. Bruce wasn’t the monster. Bruce was the man holding the darkness back by the edge of his fingernails.

But Bruce didn’t flinch. Didn’t protest. Didn’t explain.

Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was a habit. Maybe he just didn’t believe anyone would listen.

And maybe that’s what hurt Clark the most.

Because he did.

He’d never cared about a client like this before. Not like this. Not where the worry lived in his chest like a second heartbeat. Where he didn’t just want to guard his body - but protect what was left of his soul.

Another headline flashed across the screen:

“Wayne Working with the Riddler? Sources Say Unlikely Hero Has Hidden Ties”

Clark turned away from the TV, disgust crawling up his spine. He rubbed a hand down his face, trying to steady himself, trying to cool the rage that came too fast, too sharp when it was about Bruce . This wasn’t about the job anymore. It hadn’t been for days.

The worst part?

He could feel something shifting between them, a low hum beneath every look, every word, every lingering glance across the vast halls. The way Bruce had looked at him at the gym. The quiet tension in the hallway. The fact that Clark couldn’t stop thinking about him even when he tried . And he had. Repeatedly.

But it didn’t matter if his feelings were a breach of professionalism. They were real. They were here . And every damn headline made them stronger.

He ran a hand through his damp curls, still air-drying from the earlier shower. He hadn’t shaved. He hadn’t eaten much. Not when he felt this restless, this tight in his skin.

He glanced down the corridor - toward the heart of the manor, where he knew Bruce would be. Probably alone. Probably pretending not to notice the chaos outside closing in again.

God, he hated this city.

But not the man who stayed in it.

Because the truth was… he’d come to Gotham to protect Bruce Wayne.
And somewhere along the way, he started needing to.

Not because it was his job.
Because it was him .

Because something about Bruce pulled at his core - lonely, guarded, razor-edged and dark-eyed. And Clark wanted to stand between him and the world, even if Bruce never asked him to.
Even if Bruce never said a word.

Because silence had become the way they spoke. And in that silence, Clark was starting to understand the depth of what he’d fallen into.

He let out a long breath, pacing slowly back toward the hallway, fingers twitching at his sides.

No more silence. Not tonight.

Tonight, he was going to find Bruce. Even if all he did was sit with him in the dark.

Because the world could say whatever it wanted. But Clark knew the truth. And he’d hold it between them - Even if it meant burning the rest of the city down to keep it safe.

It started with a whisper.

A headline Bruce hadn’t asked to read, a flicker of breaking news echoing down the corridor from the television in Alfred’s old study. The sound carried - too sharp, too familiar - over the thick hush of the manor. He didn’t go to it. He didn’t have to. The words were already written in his head before the anchor’s voice even reached his ears.

“Sources question whether Bruce Wayne has ties to the Riddler…”

And then the image of his face, plastered across the screen again, his silhouette at the funeral, slowed down until even the light in his eyes was suspect. Frozen frames of him shielding the boy, reframed not as bravery, but choreography. Intent. Complicity.

Bruce sat in the reading room, unmoving, elbows braced against his knees, fingers loosely laced together beneath the dark shadow of his chin. The fire in the hearth was low. More for silence than warmth. Gotham always found a way to set its own cold.

He watched the flames curl up the logs like they might swallow him whole.

He didn’t feel anything at first. Not rage. Not betrayal. Not even surprise.

Just… exhaustion.

It wasn’t the first time Gotham had turned on him. Wouldn’t be the last. 

The people of this city wanted someone to blame for every rot in its bones. And if it wasn’t the mask of the Riddler, it would be the mask of money, of name, of legacy - the Wayne name still standing like a rotted statue in the heart of a city that never stopped bleeding.

He exhaled slowly. Quietly. He didn’t even feel the breath leave him anymore.

But even as the words echoed on the television screen behind thick, antique walls - even as his name was dragged through every corner of every headline - his thoughts weren’t there.

They were with Clark.

God help him, they were with Clark .

He had no idea what the hell to do with that.

Ever since the hallway - ever since that door cracked open and Bruce saw the body behind the shield - long, sun-warm limbs, a sculpted chest catching the light, the way the back briefs  held his hips - he hadn’t been able to look at the man the same.

He didn’t mean to linger. Didn’t want to.

But his eyes had betrayed him. His body had betrayed him. That low hum of something primal slithering down his spine as his gaze landed - just for a second - on the heavy outline between Clark’s thighs. And then up , to the way Clark looked at him. 

Caught. Still. Curious.

Like maybe he wanted him to look.

Bruce had walked away fast that night. Muttered something about the news. The headlines. A half-excuse about the city burning again. And he hadn’t been able to look Clark in the eyes since.

Not because he was ashamed.

But because he didn’t know what the hell to say .

What do you say to the man who’s been watching your door like a sentinel every night? What do you say when you keep catching yourself watching him back?

He hadn't trained for this. He knew how to bleed. He knew how to fight. How to bury pain so deep it couldn’t scream. But he didn’t know how to name what had taken root in the space between silence and stare.

And now, every hallway felt tighter. Every room smaller. Every step closer to Clark felt like walking toward something he couldn’t control.

He hadn’t meant to avoid him.

But he had.

Deliberately.

Dinner left untouched, time spent deeper in the east wing gym or the rooftop alone under the gargoyles - he’d disappeared in his own house like a shadow. And Clark hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t said anything.

But Bruce felt his presence, always. Heard the creak of a step, the shift of weight in the hall, the hum of a low voice on a phone just out of reach. Clark moved like a soldier, but Bruce felt him like a ghost.

And now…

Now the world thought he was a monster. Again.

And yet… all he could think about was Clark’s mouth, parted just slightly when he opened the door that night. The way his abs flexed as he adjusted himself. The water still dripping off his collarbone, disappearing into the V of his hips like a silent invitation Bruce had never allowed himself to answer.

He wasn’t seventeen anymore. This wasn’t reckless desire, or lonely rebellion.

This was something else.
Something real .

And he didn’t know if he had the tools to handle it without breaking something between them. Or breaking himself.

The fire popped in the hearth. Outside, the storm rolled across the sky like a warning. And still, Bruce sat in silence. His name burned across the city. But in here - only one voice lingered in his head.

Clark’s.

That low, steady whisper from the funeral. “You’re safe.”

He hadn’t felt safe in years. Maybe not ever.

But with Clark… He almost believed it.

And maybe that’s why it scared him most of all.

The manor was unnervingly quiet at night.

Even with the storm easing into a restless drizzle, the emptiness of the old house had a voice of its own - the groaning wood of its ancient beams, the sigh of wind through high arched windows, and the steady, almost predatory tick of the grandfather clock at the end of the hallway. 

Time moved differently here. Slower. Thicker. Like the walls remembered too much grief to let anything pass lightly.

Clark had walked these halls for days now. 

Long enough to know which steps creaked, which corridors led nowhere, and which ones Bruce Wayne had made into his preferred escape routes. Not that the man would admit it. Bruce was good at disappearing, at blending into shadow like something born of it. But Clark was better at tracking him. Especially when he was determined.

And tonight, he was more than determined.

The silence between them had become unbearable.

Ever since that night outside his bedroom door - that breathless, too-long stare, the weight of Bruce’s eyes on his near-naked body - something had shifted between them. And Bruce had vanished into that shift like it was a trap door only he knew how to open. 

No glances. No small nods. No conversation longer than “I’m fine” or “Get some rest.”

For someone who rarely spoke to begin with, Bruce had managed to turn quiet into a form of punishment.

And Clark… couldn’t take it anymore.

Not when his thoughts were a battlefield. Not when every headline sliced deeper into his restraint. Not when the man he was supposed to protect was drifting farther out to sea by the minute, and he was stuck standing on shore, watching it happen.

He found Bruce in his bedroom.

Clark raised his hand and knocked once.

A beat.

Then, another.

Nothing.

He opened the door anyway.

The room was dim - lit only by a faint, flickering table lamp on the desk across from the bed. Bruce sat at the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he expected it to collapse beneath him. He didn’t even look up when Clark stepped inside.

- You’ve been avoiding me, - Clark said softly, closing the door behind him.

Bruce didn’t answer. His hands were clasped between his knees, knuckles pale.

Clark crossed the room slowly. - You think I wouldn’t notice? You vanish the second I enter a room. You say the bare minimum. You pretend everything’s fine, but you’ve been unraveling since the funeral, and I’m - he exhaled sharply  - I’m not going to just stand by and let you fall apart.

Still nothing. But Clark didn’t back down.

- I don’t know what I did wrong. Maybe it was that night, maybe it was something else. But I’m not your enemy, Bruce. And I sure as hell didn’t sign up to be your ghost.

Bruce’s fingers tightened slightly.

- Talk to me, - Clark said. - Please.

There was a long stretch of silence - the kind that pulsed like a bruise. Then, finally, Bruce spoke. Quietly.

- It’s not you.

Clark blinked. - Then what?

- I don’t know how to be around people who care.

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Clark felt them settle somewhere deep in his chest.

- I grew up in a house that echoed with silence, - Bruce continued. - Alfred tried. He did more than he should’ve. But I… I spent too many years learning how to live like I didn’t need anyone. And now, every time someone gets too close, I feel like they’re walking straight toward the edge of a cliff.

Clark moved closer. - I’m not going to fall.

- You will, - Bruce said, lifting his eyes now - raw, tired, guarded. - This city… this life… it ruins people.

Clark stood in front of him, then slowly sat down beside him on the edge of the bed. For a moment, he said nothing - just let the silence stretch between them again, not as a wall this time, but as something soft and patient.

Then, he reached out. Carefully.

And placed his hand on Bruce’s thigh.

The contact was warm, grounding. Bruce’s body went still beneath it - not recoiling, not pulling away, just… still. Breathing.

- I’m not going anywhere, - Clark said, voice low, steady. - You don’t have to shut me out. You don’t have to carry this alone.

Bruce didn’t look at him right away. His eyes stayed fixed somewhere on the floor, but his shoulders lowered - just barely - as if the tension was finally starting to uncoil.

- You can trust me, - Clark added. - With anything. Just stop pretending I’m not here.

A long silence followed.

But this time, Bruce didn’t retreat. Didn’t turn his face to the dark.

Instead, he slowly looked at the hand on his leg. Then at Clark. Their eyes met - and something in the air shifted, soft and unspoken.

A quiet agreement.

A small surrender.

And for the first time in days, Bruce whispered back, - Okay.

The storm outside had ebbed into a steady hum - no longer violent, but ever-present, like the city itself couldn’t quite catch its breath.

Inside the bedroom, it was quiet again.

Clark’s hand still rested on Bruce’s thigh, his touch grounding, reassuring. The silence between them had shifted - it no longer felt like a wall, but a bridge, unspoken and trembling. Bruce hadn't moved away. He hadn't pulled back. And that, more than anything, told Clark it was okay to stay.

- You ever think about what life could’ve been, - Clark asked softly, - if things had been different?

Bruce turned to him. His profile was cast in low light, all shadow and hollows. - You mean… if I hadn’t lost everything?

Clark nodded. - If you hadn’t been forced to carry all this weight. If Gotham hadn’t carved its claws into you so young.

A faint breath left Bruce’s lips - not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. - All the time.

Clark leaned in a little, the side of his thigh brushing Bruce’s. - And?

- I don’t know, - Bruce murmured. - I think… maybe I wouldn’t be this broken. But maybe I wouldn’t be anything at all. Maybe the anger is the only thing that kept me breathing.

Clark’s heart ached hearing that. - You’re not broken, Bruce.

- You don’t know me, - Bruce said quietly.

- I know more than you think. - Clark’s voice was steady. - I know you’d rather suffer in silence than let anyone see you bleed. I know you’d throw yourself into fire for someone you love, even if you pretend you don’t feel anything. And I know, whether you say it out loud or not… you’re tired of being alone.

Bruce turned his head slowly, eyes catching Clark’s in the low light.

- You’ve been watching me, - he said - not accusatory, just curious. Something almost vulnerable behind the words.

Clark’s lips quirked, just a little. - Yeah, - he said, a breath of a laugh. - That’s kind of my job.

There was a stretch of quiet. Not heavy. Not awkward.

Bruce let himself look - really look at Clark. The way the lamp light played on his jaw, his neck, the strength of his shoulders. The thin T-shirt that did little to hide the cut of his frame. And those eyes… blue, focused, unwavering.

- You care too much, - Bruce said softly.

- I know, - Clark replied. - But I think someone has to.

Bruce’s breath caught. It felt like standing at the edge of something. Like one more step would change everything.

He didn’t take it.

Clark did.

- I don’t want to push you, - Clark said gently, eyes flicking between Bruce’s. - But I’m not going to lie and say I haven’t thought about this. About you. About what’s between us.

His hand shifted just slightly, fingers brushing up Bruce’s thigh - not in a sexual way, but intimate, grounding, tender.

Bruce didn’t speak.

He leaned forward instead.

Slow.

Measured.

Their foreheads touched first, a soft bump of bone. A breath shared.

And then - their lips met.

It was soft at first. Careful. Like two people testing the weight of a promise.

Bruce’s lips were cooler, a little chapped from the dry heat of the manor, but they moved with a precision that made Clark’s breath stutter. He kissed like he fought - deliberate, focused, intense. But there was something aching underneath it. Like Bruce had been holding it back for so long, the release nearly hurt.

Clark cupped the back of Bruce’s neck, pulling him in deeper. His other hand slipped across Bruce’s jaw, angling him, opening him up. The kiss deepened - slower, warmer. Bruce sighed into him, and that sound lit something in Clark’s chest, a wildfire of want and tenderness and disbelief that this was real.

Their mouths moved in tandem - exploring, tasting, learning. Clark licked into Bruce’s mouth and Bruce groaned - low and rough, like the sound had been torn out of him

And that was all the permission Clark needed.

He kissed Bruce harder.

One hand gripped the side of Bruce’s neck, thumb pressed against his jaw, the other tangling in the fabric of his shirt as he pulled him closer - chest to chest, hip to hip. 

Bruce responded in kind, with a hunger that had clearly been buried too long. His hands clutched at Clark’s waist, dragging him in, grounding himself in the solidity of the man before him.

The air between them grew thick, wet with breath and want. Bruce opened for him with a desperation Clark hadn’t expected - not from someone like him - and it only drove him further. Their kiss turned hot, open-mouthed, teeth grazing, tongues meeting in deep, slow strokes that made Clark’s body thrum with heat.

Bruce kissed like he fought - relentless, strategic - but this wasn’t about winning. This was about feeling . 

About surrender. And Clark gave him everything he had.

It wasn’t just lips anymore - it was hands. 

Touches. Bruce’s fingers skimming beneath the hem of Clark’s shirt, dragging across hot skin. Clark’s palms finding the line of Bruce’s spine, tracing the scars, the shape of him, the truths etched into his body like history carved into stone.

They were fire and pressure - heat and aching need - something dark and blinding unraveling between them.

And then 

BOOM.

The explosion split the world apart.

The windows shuddered . The walls trembled. A flash of fire and sound burst from somewhere deeper in the manor, a deafening roar swallowing their breath.

Bruce tore away from the kiss, chest heaving.

Clark was already moving.

Both of them turned toward the door, instincts kicking in like muscle memory - all heat and adrenaline gone cold in the aftermath.

Whatever it was that had just started between them - it would have to wait.

Because something was coming. And it had found its way inside.

Chapter Text

SIRENS ECHOED THROUGH THE VALLEY.

The grounds of Wayne Manor were awash in red and blue strobing lights as the first firetrucks broke through the wrought iron gates. Smoke coiled thick and angry into the sky, an ominous black plume rising from the western side of the estate where stone had buckled, and fire licked the evening air like some kind of omen. 

The wind carried ash like snow.

Clark stood just beyond the shattered garden entrance, his chest still rising and falling from the sprint down the corridor. His shirt was smeared with soot, bare arms streaked with smoke and sweat. His eyes scanned the wreckage - but his focus, all of it, was on Bruce.

Bruce stood frozen, just short of the west wing’s collapsed entry, posture stiff, his entire body caught in the pull of something primal. His fists clenched at his sides. His mouth slightly open. It was as if time had folded back into itself. Smoke and grief and the taste of fire - he'd been here before. 

Just like this.

Clark saw the shift in him. The way Bruce’s chest hitched. The way his knees buckled slightly, like his body had moved before his mind had.

And then Bruce ran.

- Alfred - !

Clark was after him in a blink. His hand caught Bruce’s arm just before he could fully hurl himself into the burning wreckage.

- Bruce, - wait -

- No! - Bruce snapped, his voice hoarse, almost feral. - Let me go, he’s in there - he’s in there, I have to -

Smoke poured from the windows above. Flames still crackled, the roof of the west study had caved inward, stone and beam collapsed like bones. The blast had torn through the chamber with terrifying precision - a letter had been opened, and Alfred, ever cautious, had felt something was wrong. But it had been too late. 

A fraction too late.

Clark held tight to Bruce’s arm, gripping with both hands now. - They’re going in. Bruce - they’re already going in.

Firemen were storming the broken threshold in heavy suits, hoses snapping behind them like serpents. Shouts rang out. One called something over the radio. Another, nearer to the wreckage, turned back and yelled toward the paramedics at the back of the rig.

Bruce was still trying to push past him, all breath and instinct, hands trembling with fury and fear. - You don’t understand, Clark, he’s all I have - 

Clark stepped in, bracing Bruce’s chest with both hands, forcing the man to meet his eyes.

- I do understand, - he said, firm but low. -  But you need to trust me right now. You need to let them do their job.

Bruce looked back at him, eyes wild, smoke-stung. And something shattered in him. Not rage. Not pride. But desperation.

- Clark… - His voice cracked. - If he’s gone…

Clark’s hands slid up to his shoulders. He pressed his forehead to Bruce’s just briefly, grounding him. - He’s not, - he said. - He can’t be.

Behind them, the fire roared. Glass popped and metal groaned as more of the structure gave way. And then - 

- We have him! " a fireman shouted from the entrance. - We’ve got a live one, he’s breathing!

Bruce froze.

The air around them seemed to stop, everything in suspended animation as a stretcher was wheeled from the smoke, carried by four firemen. Paramedics immediately rushed to intercept as Alfred Pennyworth was pulled free - battered, burned along one arm and his temple, unconscious but alive.

Bruce stumbled forward, and Clark let him go.

He dropped to his knees beside the stretcher as the medics began working, brushing soot and blood from Alfred’s brow, listening for breath, checking vitals.

- Alfred? - Bruce whispered, choking on it.

A medic glanced up, nodding tightly. - He’s got a pulse. We’re intubating now. He’s going to make it.

Bruce exhaled. 

A sound caught between a sob and a laugh. His shoulders slumped, and his hand gripped the edge of the gurney like a lifeline.

Clark stood back for a moment, letting him have this. Letting the weight fall from Bruce’s back, even just for a second.

Then, without thinking, Clark stepped in again - not as a bodyguard, not as someone tasked with protection, but as someone who cared.

He crouched behind Bruce, slid an arm around his shoulders, and pulled him in tight against his chest. Bruce didn’t resist. His fingers dug into Clark’s forearm. His head dropped.

Neither of them said anything. Not as the paramedics rolled the stretcher away. Not as the firemen returned to the wreckage. 

And not as the police began to rope off the ruins of the manor.

Because in that moment, in the choking air and the red haze of smoke and survival, words weren’t needed.

The smoke had thinned, but it still clung to the air like ghosts refusing to leave.

Somewhere in the eastern hall, a fire alarm was still blaring in short, distant shrieks. GCPD had arrived in full force now - crime scene tape twisting in the wind, radios crackling low across the ruined garden. 

Officers combed the charred remains of the west wing, stepping over broken beams and half-melted sconces. Lights flickered weakly inside the manor’s surviving windows, stained amber by the lingering haze.

Bruce stood just outside the perimeter where the explosion had scorched the stone black. His jaw was locked, unmoving, his arms crossed over his chest, sleeves dusted with ash and sweat. He hadn’t spoken since Alfred was loaded into the ambulance. 

Not a word. Not even to Clark.

He could feel Clark hovering a few feet behind him, ever-watchful, his presence steady like a shadow stitched to his back. Not touching. Not speaking. Just there. And somehow, that meant more than anything else in the world right now.

Then -

- Mr. Wayne.

Bruce turned.

A man approached from between two GCPD cruisers, dressed in a rumpled overcoat, badge clipped to his belt, dust smeared across his trousers. His face was drawn - tired in the kind of way that only Gotham could make you. A detective. Middle-aged. Steel grey eyes.

He didn’t bother offering his hand.

Bruce simply stared at him, unspeaking.

The detective reached into a plastic evidence pouch and withdrew a sealed envelope - singed around the edges, but still mostly intact. The paper was thick, off-white. On the front, written in red ink:

TO BRUCE WAYNE

The detective’s eyes were heavy when he looked back at Bruce.

 - The package was intended for you. We found this too.

Bruce didn’t flinch. But his throat constricted. And Clark - Clark stepped in closer behind him.

The detective waited for a second longer, then opened the envelope with gloved fingers. Inside was a small card, warped slightly from the heat, but unmistakable. Its cover was scrawled with two cartoonish eyes - wide and staring, manic and mocking. The detective flipped it open and read the inside aloud, his voice low:

“See you in hell.”

He looked up.

- Any reason you’d be a target?

Bruce’s breath caught in his throat.

Time slowed. The noise of the scene - the officers talking, the crackle of radio chatter, even the distant moan of the ambulance - seemed to fall away. The only thing Bruce could hear now was the dull rush of blood in his ears, pulsing like a war drum.

He reached out. Took the envelope in both hands. Turned it over once. Twice.

Clark shifted closer, finally placing a hand on Bruce’s back.

- Don’t, - he said gently. - You don’t have to - 

But Bruce was already breaking the seal.

Inside was another card. Handwritten. Same spidery scrawl as before. Same crude glee in the loops and slants of the letters.

No jokes this time. No riddles.

Just five words.

You’re exactly where I want you.

Bruce stared at it for a long time.

His jaw clenched. His hands trembled - but only slightly, just at the edges. It wasn’t fear. Not anymore. It was fury. It was guilt. It was all the things he kept buried under the mask, flaring to life just behind his eyes.

Clark saw it. Felt it.

Bruce didn’t speak. He simply turned and walked away from the detective, from the envelope, from the chaos - toward the open night air beyond the wreckage.

Clark followed.

They moved in silence together, through the broken garden path, until Bruce stopped. Shoulders hunched. Breathing hard, but barely letting it show.

- I should’ve seen it, " he said, low. - It was right in front of me.

Clark was quiet.

Bruce’s fingers curled at his sides.

- He doesn’t want to kill me. Not yet. That explosion? It was to break me. Piece by piece. And I -  He swallowed hard. - I let it happen.

- No, - Clark said, stepping in front of him now. - You didn’t let anything happen. This is on him. Not you.

- He’s circling. Watching. Stalking. - Bruce’s voice tightened. - He knew when to strike. He knew Alfred would open that letter. He knew I wouldn’t be there.

Clark’s hand found Bruce’s wrist. Gripped it.

- Then we find him, - he said. - Together.

Bruce looked at him. Really looked at him.

And for a moment - just a second - it grounded him. Just enough to breathe again. Just enough to keep the mask from slipping entirely.

But somewhere deep in his chest, something had cracked. And it wouldn’t be long before it broke wide open.

The hospital lights were a sterile white - too clean, too still, like the world had stopped breathing around them. The hum of machines was the only sound anchoring Bruce in the moment. 

Through the large pane of reinforced glass, he stood unmoving, watching Alfred. 

The older man lay unconscious, swathed in sterile bandages, an oxygen mask fitted tightly over his nose and mouth. A faint, rhythmic beeping kept track of the fragile line tethering him to the world of the living.

A pair of nurses moved quietly around the bed, checking the machines, replacing IV bags with a practiced calm. To Bruce, they looked like ghosts, floating in a dream he couldn’t wake from. 

His reflection in the glass was paler than usual, drawn tight around the edges. Soot still clung to his collarbone. He hadn’t changed. 

Couldn’t bring himself to.

He stared at Alfred’s chest - waiting for the slow rise and fall. Over and over. Making sure it hadn’t stopped.

Behind him, footsteps echoed softly down the hall. A voice followed - low, careful, and grave.

- Mr. Wayne?

Bruce didn’t turn. But the doctor stepped closer, clipboard folded beneath one arm, the corners of her eyes lined with concern earned over too many years in trauma wards. Her coat smelled faintly of antiseptic. Bruce heard the voice again, closer now.

- We’ve sedated him. He’s stable for the moment, but it’s still early. The next twenty-four hours are crucial. We just have to hope he stabilizes.

Bruce’s jaw clenched. 

His eyes never left the man through the glass. He wasn’t hearing the words, not really. His mind was trapped somewhere between the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and the echo of a greeting card that read See you in hell .

- Mr. Wayne, - the doctor said again, gentler this time. - You should go home. Try to get some sleep.

It sounded like a suggestion, but beneath it was something more - something paternal, almost. 

Bruce nodded, just once. But it was a mechanical movement. His eyes remained fixed on Alfred, not even blinking.

The doctor paused, watching him. Then, with a hesitant breath:

- Is there... anyone else you’d like us to notify? Next of kin? Family?

The question hung in the air like ash.

Bruce finally turned, blinking against the overhead lights, like they burned. He looked at the woman - not through her, but past her, into some vast distance that couldn’t be measured in space or time. His voice, when it came, was hoarse. 

Quiet.

- No, - he said. - It’s... just me.

The words didn’t feel real until he heard himself say them.

Just me.

And suddenly it felt colder in the hallway. The doctor nodded in quiet understanding, his expression softening, but he didn’t press. He simply gave Bruce one more look - one of those looks doctors give when they’ve seen grief like this before - and stepped away, back toward the nurses’ station.

Bruce stood alone now.

Completely, achingly alone.

And across the glass, Alfred remained still.

From the end of the hallway, half-hidden in a shadowed alcove of the hospital's dimly lit floor, Clark stood perfectly still.

He wasn’t supposed to be here - not this far down the corridor, not near the burn unit, not past the wall of security that had tried to stop him twice. But he had found a way. He always did when it came to Bruce.

And now, he watched.

Through the glass, Alfred lay in a cocoon of bandages and wires, looking smaller somehow than Clark remembered. 

Fragile, and too still. The kind of stillness that made you hold your breath without realizing it. 

Bruce was on the other side of the glass, standing like a statue carved from shadow - shoulders locked, hands hanging uselessly at his sides, posture taut with something deeper than sorrow.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe, it seemed.

Clark had seen a lot in his life. Too much, in truth. He’d seen cities burning, children pulled from rubble, people weeping in the aftermath of disaster. He’d seen men fall apart under the weight of duty, under the weight of what they’d failed to protect. But there was something different about the way Bruce stood there - this quiet, devastating collapse happening behind his eyes.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t messy.

It was colder than that. More silent.

As the doctor approached and began speaking to him, Clark could hear the exchange faintly from where he stood. He didn’t need to get closer to know the exact shape of the words - he read them on Bruce’s body, on the tightening of his jaw, the subtle shifting of his stance.

We sedated him…

You should go home, Mr. Wayne…

Is there anyone to notify? Next of kin?

Clark’s chest ached at the question.

He didn’t expect Bruce to answer. He didn’t expect him to even acknowledge the doctor, caught in whatever silent war raged in his own mind.

But then, Bruce turned.

The light caught his face just enough for Clark to see the expression he wore: lost, stripped bare, like all the armor had finally fallen away. The suit, the sharp tongue, the distance he so carefully constructed - they were gone now. And what was left was just a man in pain.

Clark saw the exact moment Bruce’s voice cracked, the way his lips barely moved when he said it:

“…No. It’s just me.”

That - just me - hit harder than Clark was prepared for.

He hadn’t meant to feel this much. He hadn’t meant to care this deeply. 

But it had crept in, quietly. 

Through the long nights in the manor. Through whispered conversations in the dark. Through soft glances passed between bruises and coffee mugs. Through the way Bruce had grabbed him without hesitation during the bombing. Through the way he had pressed their foreheads together in the quiet moments before the chaos.

It wasn’t supposed to matter.

Bruce was a client. A mystery to solve. A man tangled in something too dangerous, too poisoned by the weight of Gotham to ever be free of it.

But still - Clark was falling.

And not in a way that felt manageable or neat. It was messy. It was unspoken. It was bleeding into every corner of his thoughts.

Watching Bruce now, backlit by the glow of hospital fluorescence, Clark saw him for everything he was - and everything he was terrified to be. Not a playboy. Not a billionaire. Not even the mask he wore when he slipped into the streets like a ghost in tux and shame.

He was a man carrying the weight of the dead on his shoulders.

A man who might never put that weight down.

Clark knew then - deeply, irreversibly - that this wasn’t something Bruce would ever walk away from. The job wasn’t a job. It was who he was. And maybe… it always had been.

But Clark also knew something else, something steadier and clearer than anything the past few days had thrown at him:

He didn’t want Bruce to carry it alone.

Even if Bruce pushed him away. Even if the world misunderstood him. Even if the city turned its back.

Clark would stay.

And maybe, just maybe… he'd find a way to help him breathe again.

Chapter Text

The silence between them was the kind that didn’t need filling.

Outside the car, the world passed in slow-motion blurs - smeared amber and bruised violet melting across the Gotham skyline as the sun began its descent. 

Shadows stretched long across the streets, spilling over alleys and cracked sidewalks like spilled ink. The city, in its eternal way, was still moving - cars honking in the distance, the murmur of life continuing. But inside the vehicle, there was only stillness.

Clark kept his hands steady on the wheel, his eyes flickering toward Bruce every so often.

Bruce hadn’t spoken since they’d left the hospital. Not a word. 

He just sat there, quiet, looking out the window like the whole city had disappeared and there was nothing left to see.

His jaw was locked, hands clenched on his thighs, one knee bouncing faintly with unspent energy - adrenaline still riding his system, or maybe it was something else. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was guilt.

Clark didn’t push. He just drove.

The tires hummed over the asphalt. The light blinked in a slow, solemn rhythm across Bruce’s face - casting him in gold, then in shadow. Back and forth. Like the city didn’t know whether to forgive him or swallow him whole.

When the car finally pulled through the iron gates of Wayne Manor, the dusk had deepened into a violet haze. The storm had passed, but the ground was still slick with its aftermath, and the last remnants of sun kissed the rooftops of the old estate like a final farewell.

Bruce didn’t move to get out at first. Clark turned the engine off and waited.

Eventually, Bruce opened the door, stepped out, and walked slowly, like the very air was heavier tonight. Clark followed, never far, his footsteps quiet against the stone path. The house loomed tall and cold around them, a monolith of memory and legacy.

They walked the corridor in silence.

When they reached the threshold of Bruce’s bedroom, Clark hesitated. He didn’t mean to follow him all the way, but his feet had carried him forward instinctively, like some part of him couldn’t let Bruce disappear behind another door without being sure he was okay.

Bruce turned slightly, his face a pale silhouette in the darkened doorway.

Clark cleared his throat, voice low. - I’ll be just outside, - he said. - You don’t have to worry. I’ll be guarding the door - with my life, if it comes to it.

He meant it.

Every word.

Bruce stood there, still facing away, like stone carved in a cathedral. His shoulders were hunched slightly - not with weakness, but weariness. He looked like someone who had gone ten rounds with a god and survived, but only barely.

Clark took a step back.

But before he could fully retreat, Bruce finally turned.

His voice came out quiet. Raw. Not broken, but close.

- Clark…

Clark froze.

Bruce’s eyes met his. And for the first time in hours, there was something unguarded in them. Not anger. Not the usual defensiveness. Just… pain. Naked and unhidden.

- I don’t want to be alone, - Bruce said. - Not today. Not now.

Clark blinked. His heart seemed to stumble inside his chest.

- Bruce, - he said softly, taking a step forward again.

- I know it’s stupid, - Bruce added quickly, looking away as if ashamed of the words, - I know I’ve made a whole career out of keeping people out, out of pushing away the few who’ve ever tried to care, but… - he swallowed, jaw twitching. - I can’t do that tonight. I don’t have it in me.

Clark stepped into the room. Quiet. Intentional.

- You don’t have to explain, " he said gently. - You don’t owe me anything. But I’m here. I’ll stay. As long as you need.

Bruce turned back to him slowly, his eyes studying Clark’s face like it was a lifeline. There was no mask now. No false bravado. Just a man - tired, shattered, and desperately holding on.

Clark reached out, lightly touching Bruce’s arm. - Let’s sit.

They did - side by side on the edge of the bed. The silence was still there, but now it had shifted. It no longer weighed heavy. It wasn’t empty. 

It was shared.

Clark didn’t say anything more. He didn’t have to. He let his presence speak for him, and when Bruce leaned ever so slightly into his side, Clark didn’t pull away.

He stayed.

And this time, when Bruce let his eyes close for a moment - when he exhaled like he’d been holding in years of hurt - Clark knew:

He would carry the weight of the world if it meant Bruce wouldn’t have to carry it alone.

The room had grown quiet, the kind of quiet that settles deep in the bones. Outside the manor, the wind whispered faintly through the trees, brushing over the high, rain-slicked windows. Inside, the silence wrapped around them like a second skin.

Clark sat still beside Bruce on the edge of the bed, his presence steady, solid. His knee gently brushed against Bruce’s, and though their bodies barely touched, the heat between them felt palpable. Bruce hadn’t moved in minutes, and yet something in the air had shifted. Something in him.

He sat there, shoulders tense, jaw tight - staring at the floor like he was seeing ghosts. Or maybe trying to hold back one.

Clark turned toward him. - Bruce, - he said quietly. - If you want to lie down, I can -

But the words never finished.

Bruce leaned in and kissed him.

Fast. Desperate. A hard press of lips meant not for tenderness but for survival. The kind of kiss that tasted of everything left unsaid - the fury, the grief, the ache buried too long. It was unspoken pain made flesh. His hand curled into Clark’s shirt, gripping it like a man clinging to the edge of a ledge.

Clark tensed in surprise - only for a second - before his hands found Bruce’s shoulders.

- Bruce, - he whispered between their mouths, voice rough with breath. - Are you sure about this? Right now - after everything?

Bruce’s forehead pressed to his. 

His eyes opened slowly, dark with exhaustion, with fire. He nodded once - tight, almost pained. - I’m not asking for forever. I just - he swallowed. - I need something real. Right now. Just - don’t leave.

Clark didn’t.

He let Bruce pull him in again, and this time, the kiss deepened. Slower now, but no less intense. Bruce’s lips parted beneath his, and Clark exhaled through his nose, hand sliding up Bruce’s chest - fingers skimming over the soft fabric of his shirt until they curled behind his neck.

They shifted.

Bruce lay back against the pillows, his body sinking into the mattress, and Clark followed - moving over him with the kind of careful weight that spoke of reverence. Of restraint. Bruce’s legs shifted to make space, knees brushing Clark’s hips. The heat between them pulsed, unmistakable.

Their mouths found each other again - open, needing. 

Bruce’s hands wandered, slipping under the hem of Clark’s shirt, fingertips tracing the ridges of muscle there, like he needed to feel something solid under his palms. Something real. Clark hissed softly into the kiss, not from pain but from how it made his stomach twist.

His hand drifted down Bruce’s side, careful, reverent, mapping out the curve of his waist, the bruises he couldn’t see but knew were there. His thumb brushed skin, warm and trembling. 

Bruce arched into it just a little, not to seduce - but to anchor himself.

Clark pulled back slightly, breath heaving. His lips hovered over Bruce’s, brushing. - We don’t have to - 

- I want to, - Bruce murmured. - Let me have this. Let me have you.

And in the quiet that followed, there was no more room for second-guessing.

Only hands. Mouths. The weight of grief melting into heat. The ache of loneliness eased, just for now, in the press of two bodies and the promise of something - anything - that wasn’t pain.

Clark kissed him again, softer this time.

And Bruce let him.

They held onto each other like the world might burn again tomorrow. Because in Gotham - it always could.

The light in the room had dimmed, cast in amber and shadow, painting Bruce’s skin in low flickers like firelight had found its way into the manor. Time had folded into itself - there was no past, no Riddler, no explosion, no Alfred behind hospital glass. Just this moment. Just the soft rhythm of breath and the weight of being seen.

Clark hovered over him, his mouth still tingling from their last kiss, his hands braced on either side of Bruce’s ribs, grounding them both.

Bruce’s chest rose slowly, and Clark watched the motion, reverent - his eyes tracing the thin scars that lay over muscle, history carved into him like scripture. There were bruises too - fresh ones. 

The kind grief left behind.

Clark leaned in, pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, just above the steady thump of his heart. It was a small gesture - gentle, quiet - but Bruce’s fingers twitched against the sheets, responding like a live wire had been touched.

Clark didn’t rush. He let his mouth trail down, warm lips brushing across skin, soft at first - then firmer. His tongue flicked briefly at the curve of a rib, the dip between muscles. And Bruce, for all his control, exhaled something ragged.

Clark paused. - You okay?

Bruce opened his eyes, dark lashes brushing against his cheek. - Yeah, - he murmured, voice low. - Don’t stop.

Clothing peeled away slowly - piece by piece, reverently. Clark tugged Bruce’s shirt higher, lips following the hem until it was pulled over his head and discarded. His hands moved with purpose, fingertips dragging lightly down Bruce’s torso, committing every inch to memory.

He kissed lower.

Across the faint dip beneath Bruce’s sternum. Across the curve of his ribs. He heard the way Bruce’s breath caught when his lips brushed along the line of his abdomen, slow and deliberate. 

Bruce’s hands slid into Clark’s hair, not guiding - just holding. Like he needed something to anchor him.

Clark looked up from where he knelt now between Bruce’s legs. - Tell me if you want me to stop.

Bruce shook his head slowly, eyes locked with his. - I won’t.

Clark nodded once. Then leaned forward, lips pressing another kiss just above the waistband of Bruce’s pants.

There was no rush. No need for it.

Only the aching desire to be close, to offer something real in the ruins of everything else.

Clark’s fingers moved back to the waistband, thumbs slipping beneath the fabric. His hands moved slowly, patiently, drawing the last layer down over Bruce’s hips, his thighs, until it was just skin - bare, flushed, trembling faintly with tension.

Bruce shifted under him, exhaling through parted lips. His eyes never left Clark’s face.

The air between them was heavy. Warm. Still humming with everything unspoken.

Clark let the discarded fabric fall beside them, his palms trailing softly back up the lines of Bruce’s legs - knees, thighs, the sharp angles of his hips. He took his time, like he was learning a language written in muscle and breath and barely contained want.

Bruce looked beautiful like this. Open. Quiet in his vulnerability. His chest rising with each breath, his fingers still threaded into Clark’s hair like he was afraid he might drift away if he let go.

Clark pressed a kiss to the inside of Bruce’s thigh, just above the bend of his knee. 

Then another, higher. His hands steadied Bruce’s legs, thumbs brushing over the heat of his skin. Every touch a word he wasn’t brave enough to say aloud. Not yet.

- Still okay? - he murmured, voice low, warm.

Bruce swallowed. Nodded once. - Yeah. I - He blinked slowly. - I want this.

Clark smiled - just slightly, just for him - and leaned in again, mouth parting against the crease of Bruce’s hip. Kissing gently, purposefully. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to.

This wasn’t just about release.

It was about worship. It was everything they hadn’t said finally unfolding between them, slow and certain.

Clark’s hand reached up, threading with Bruce’s again. And then he kept going.

Bruce lifted his hips slightly, allowing Clark to peel the fabric down and off, inch by inch. His thighs trembled, not from fear, but from something deeper - something that had lived in silence for far too long.

Once bare, he looked at Clark with eyes wide and dark, breath caught somewhere in his throat.

Clark swallowed hard, gaze tracing over him like a man starved. He didn’t rush. He just… looked. Admired. Let the moment settle between them like gravity.

Then, with a kiss just above Bruce’s knee, he moved upward - slow, reverent kisses climbing over his skin. Along his hip, the curve of his abdomen, the soft skin just beside where Bruce was already hard and aching. His hand came to rest there, fingers curling gently around him, drawing out a shudder from Bruce’s chest.

A low sound slipped past Bruce’s lips - half gasp, half name. His hips stilled, tight with restraint.

Clark glanced up, the heat in his eyes softened only by tenderness.

- You’re safe, - he whispered.

Bruce nodded, eyes never leaving his. - Please.

That word - just that - was enough.

Clark leaned forward, mouth parting as he took Bruce in, slowly. He felt Bruce’s breath hitch above him, a full-body stutter of need, and Clark’s fingers splayed over his thighs, holding him steady, guiding the rhythm with care.

He moved deliberately - wet heat, soft suction, the occasional flick of tongue that made Bruce arch, his fingers tightening in Clark’s curls. It wasn’t rushed. There was no need for it to be. This was weeks in the making. This was sacred.

Bruce’s moans came quieter now, strung with disbelief, like he hadn’t expected to be seen this way. Touched this way. Loved, without needing to ask for it.

Clark pulled back after a moment, shedding the rest of his clothes away. His jeans were kicked away, his boxers next, and Bruce pulled him close, hands sliding down the line of Clark’s back, anchoring him to earth.

The mattress shifted below them. Clark hovered above Bruce, chest to chest, heartbeats thudding loud between them.

They kissed again - slower now. Tongues brushing, teeth grazing, hands roaming over skin, both of them rediscovering every line, every angle, like they’d been waiting to map this for years.

Clark reached to the drawer beside the bed, retrieving what they needed. He paused only once - looking down at Bruce beneath him, skin kissed with light, breath warm on his cheek.

- You still want this? - he asked, fingers curling around Bruce’s hand.

Bruce answered by guiding those fingers lower. A soft gasp escaped him as Clark returned to his touch - preparing him with quiet focus, with care, with the kind of patience that made Bruce feel like he was being unraveled slowly, not just physically but soul-deep.

Each stretch drew a deeper sound, Bruce’s breath shaking as Clark leaned in to kiss along his jaw, whispering against his skin.

When he was ready - when Bruce finally whispered his name in that cracked, desperate tone - Clark rolled on the protection, and positioned himself carefully, one hand cupping Bruce’s hip, the other steady at his side.

He pressed forward slowly.

Bruce arched beneath him, gasping sharp, a hand sliding down to grip Clark’s shoulder. And Clark stilled for a moment, letting him breathe, eyes locked with his.

- I’ve got you, - he murmured.

Bruce nodded, swallowing around the tremor in his throat. - I know.

And then Clark moved - inch by inch, slipping deeper, until Bruce was full, completely filled, and they both exhaled like the world had finally righted itself.

There was no space left between them. Only skin and breath, the heat of their bodies tangled under the heaviness of Gotham, and the overwhelming feeling that this was where they were always meant to be.

Clark moved slowly at first - so slowly it almost hurt.

Not from lack of rhythm, or pressure, but from the overwhelming weight of what it meant to be here , to be inside Bruce, to be with him in every sense. His hips rolled forward again, then back, a steady, careful glide. Bruce’s legs had wrapped around his waist, holding him close, grounding him.

Clark braced himself with one hand beside Bruce’s head, the other sliding gently up his side, over his ribs, as if memorizing every breath, every quiet tremor of his chest. He dipped his head to press a kiss to Bruce’s neck, the edge of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Like he couldn’t stop kissing him. 

Like kissing was the only way to keep himself from falling apart.

- You’re doing so good, - he murmured, voice low and a little breathless. - You feel... you feel amazing.

Bruce’s fingers gripped at his back, nails dragging lightly down skin slick with sweat. His breaths came in shaky gasps, each of Clark’s movements drawing a sound out of him - soft, breathy, aching. His eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils wide, the flush creeping down his chest, blooming across his collarbones.

- I’m right here, - Clark whispered again, moving just a little deeper, his thrusts careful and slow, coaxing rather than claiming. - With you.

Bruce’s hands moved to Clark’s face, cradling it, pulling him down into a kiss that wasn’t rushed or hungry - just full . Of everything. Of fear, and hope, and the kind of longing that had built over the silence of terror.

Their mouths moved together in rhythm, syncopated with Clark’s slow movements. Bruce’s hips lifted to meet him, subtle but desperate, chasing each touch. The friction between their bodies was electric and intimate all at once, warm skin sliding over warm skin, sweat and breath shared in the space between them.

Clark kissed his cheek, his temple, his shoulder. Each kiss a reassurance: I’m here. I’m yours.

And Bruce let himself feel it - all of it. The fullness. The stretch. The care in every roll of Clark’s hips. His eyes fluttered shut for a second, overwhelmed, lips parting in a stuttering breath as Clark bottomed out with a low, shaking groan.

He moved again - steady, fluid, pressing into Bruce with aching devotion, each thrust slow but deep, built on a foundation of knowing exactly who he was holding. What he meant.

They rocked together in a rhythm that felt like forever - not frantic, not rushed. Just two hearts finally finding a shared pace.

The world narrowed to the heat between them. The way Bruce gasped when Clark angled just right. The way Clark whispered Bruce’s name like a prayer. The way neither of them wanted to let go.

Their movements found a rhythm that was steady, deep, and drawn-out - not frantic, not hurried. 

Just full . 

Every slow thrust from Clark sent a wave of pressure through Bruce’s core, his body curling to meet it, chasing the heat rising steadily in his stomach. Their skin clung, slick with sweat, breaths mixing, lips brushing with every pass.

Bruce clung to him like he was the only thing tethering him to the earth. His thighs trembled around Clark’s hips, his hands tight at Clark’s back, dragging down his spine like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Clark’s mouth trailed across his cheek, jaw, the hinge where his neck met shoulder - tender kisses that pressed against hot skin. He rolled his hips again, deeper now, drawing a stuttering gasp from Bruce’s lips.

It was too much. Not enough. Everything.

Bruce’s head tilted back into the pillow, lips parted, a soft whine escaping him as Clark rocked into him again, and again. The pressure had built unbearably, that exquisite friction twisting up inside him, making it harder to breathe.

His voice came out rough - wrecked. - Clark -

Clark didn’t stop moving, didn’t even pause. Just kissed along Bruce’s collarbone, murmuring, - I’m here.

- I need - Bruce gasped, breath catching as Clark angled just right, again, again, sparks firing along every nerve. - I need to - please.

Clark lifted his head then, just enough to look at him. Their foreheads nearly touched, noses brushing. Bruce’s eyes were glassy, lips parted, flushed to the throat.

- Let go, - Clark whispered, voice low, ragged. - Let me see you.

Bruce swallowed hard, trying to hold on, to stretch the moment just a little longer - but his body was already trembling, the tension in his stomach unbearable. And then Clark’s hand wrapped around him, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of his hips, stroking with care and purpose - and that was it.

Bruce cried out - his whole body shuddering - back arching as the heat took him. 

His vision blurred, and the only thing anchoring him was Clark - his name on Bruce’s tongue, his voice in Bruce’s ear, his body wrapped tight around his.

Clark didn’t stop. He slowed, held him through it, kept pressing into him, now with more heat, more desperation, like feeling Bruce come apart beneath him had stolen what little restraint he had left.

And through it all - the rush, the rhythm, the euphoria - Bruce held onto him, heart pounding against Clark’s chest, gasping for breath and whispering his name like it was the only word left in the world.

- Clark.

And Clark answered with a kiss, deep and sure.

- I’ve got you, " he said, over and over, like a vow.

Bruce was still catching his breath - flushed and loose beneath Clark, his body slick with sweat and the remnants of ecstasy - when he felt the way Clark’s rhythm began to change.

It was subtle at first. A slight shift in his hips. A tremble in his arms where they held him up, elbows braced beside Bruce’s head. His breath had grown ragged, teeth catching on his bottom lip as he moved, now with just a little more desperation. 

A little less restraint.

Clark’s eyes found Bruce’s - darkened now, blown wide with everything he was feeling. Want. Wonder. Worship.

- You okay? - he murmured, voice barely holding together.

Bruce nodded, still dazed, still utterly wrecked. But he brought his hands to Clark’s face again, thumbs brushing along his cheeks. - I want you to finish, - he whispered, - right here.

That undid something in Clark - something primal and aching. 

His jaw clenched as he dipped his head, pressing their foreheads together, his hips rolling forward with more urgency. Still deep. Still measured. But now laced with that unbearable tension, the need to let go.

- God, Bruce, - he groaned, the sound torn from his throat.

Bruce held onto him, hands roaming across his back, sliding down to his hips to anchor him. To urge him on. Clark moved harder now, the angle shifting with it, hitting deeper - sharper. Each thrust drew a breathless moan from him, sweat dripping down his spine.

And Bruce - Bruce just looked up at him like he was something to be seen . 

Something to be kept.

Clark buried his face in the crook of Bruce’s neck, lips brushing over hot skin, mumbling something incoherent - maybe a prayer, maybe Bruce’s name, maybe both - as the pressure started to crest in him.

Bruce felt it in every motion. The way Clark started to stutter. The way his hips moved just a little less rhythmically, chasing friction. The way his whole body began to tremble with it.

He pressed a kiss to Clark’s temple. - It’s okay. Let go.

And Clark did.

With one final thrust - deep and shattering - he gasped, his body locking tight as the pleasure overtook him. His hands curled into the sheets beside Bruce’s head. A sharp cry spilled into the space between them, chest heaving as he came, utterly undone.

He stayed there - pressed flush against Bruce, panting, arms shaking - heart pounding wild behind his ribs.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Bruce smoothed a hand along Clark’s spine, up between his shoulder blades. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Clark’s breath was still uneven when he finally looked up, eyes glassy and raw.

- I’ve never… - he started, voice hoarse. - Not like this.

Bruce managed a tired smile. - Yeah. Me neither.

And in the space between their shared pulse, and the cooling sweat on their skin, and the flickering streetlight outside their window…

They knew.

This wasn’t just something they’d fall back from.

This was the start of something that had been burning between them for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

The afternoon light had waned into a soft amber wash that stretched long shadows across the manor floors. The kind of light that should’ve brought warmth, but here, it only painted dust in gold and drew hard edges from the towering arches of the old house. Bruce stood in the grand main room beneath the gothic beams that creaked faintly overhead with age and storm-weather. He was alone now.

The rounded table in the center groaned slightly as he pushed it aside, calloused hands pressing against its heavy oak surface. Its legs scraped the stone flooring as it moved - a sound that echoed hollowly in the cavernous space. 

His pants hung low on his hips, loosely buttoned but half-forgotten. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt. Sweat clung to the muscles of his back, still flushed from the sparring hours before, or maybe from the dreams he hadn’t spoken of. His shoulder blades moved in sharp rhythm as he worked, the stretch of his spine tight, purposeful.

On the floor beneath where the table had been, concealed beneath the layered rug, was a small panel—nothing obvious. He knelt down, fingers brushing across the edge until he felt the lip of it give. A hiss of air as it unlatched, and he opened it with practiced quiet.

Inside was a compartment - small, lined in matte black steel, and filled with shadows that didn’t catch the light. Bruce reached in and pulled out a sealed folder, thick, heavy with notes and evidence - things he had not shown Clark. 

Things Alfred had never been allowed to see.

Photos. Scratched-down theories. 

Maps of Gotham marked with Xs, symbols, red circles that had bled through the paper from being pressed too hard. A taped-off corner of a letter. Something torn, half-burned, something left behind at a crime scene that never made the official reports.

He laid them out slowly across the floor, bare feet moving between the scattered papers. His gaze flicked from one detail to the next, reading the story no one else had pieced together yet. 

His jaw tightened. The silence of the manor was suffocating, broken only by the distant sound of the old pipes ticking and settling.

He hadn’t meant to keep this from Clark. But part of him still believed that if he let someone too close - if he let Clark shoulder the same darkness - then he would destroy the very light that had started to bloom between them.

And yet, Clark had seen him. All of him. And he hadn’t turned away.

Still, Bruce’s hand hovered over one of the photographs. A blurred image of the figure he had seen at the funeral. Just a silhouette in the high window, but something in it set his nerves alight. He remembered the way that presence had stared at him - not at the crowd, not at the chaos. At him.

His fingers clenched.

There was something here. Something deeper. A web he hadn’t yet understood, but was already caught in.

He heard footsteps above - soft, deliberate. Clark. The sound of him moving through the halls was unmistakable. Bruce didn’t look up, but he exhaled, slowly. The kind of breath that was almost a prayer, almost a surrender.

He didn’t want to do this alone anymore.

And yet, he kept the folder spread out before him, in the space where sunlight no longer reached. The muscles of his back flexed once more, shoulders drawn tight with the weight of every secret he’d ever buried beneath this house.

The shadows stretched a little longer. And the storm hadn’t passed.

The room was still, steeped in shadows that the dying light of day couldn’t quite banish. It spilled only in slanted lines through the high stained glass, casting fractured colors across the floor. But none of it reached Bruce, who stood shirtless in the center of the grand hall, the cold stone beneath his bare feet grounding him in the silence. The spray can in his hand hissed to life with a sharp click and a stream of white arced to the ground.

He was marking it. Like a ritual. Like a map etched not with directions, but with ghosts.

The Sins of My Father - the first line he wrote, long and slow, just beneath the lip of the stairs. Each letter deliberate, trembling slightly in the lamplight. A breath escaped his chest, shallow and tight.

He moved with purpose, dragging a heavy crate of files closer, its contents spilling open across the dusty floor. Case files. Obituaries. Yellowed newsprint and old receipts. Faces of the dead stared up from grainy photos - judges, officials, men once held up as Gotham’s pillars. Now fallen.

Another line was sprayed, thick and almost angry: No More Lies.

Bruce didn’t flinch as the fumes burned his lungs. His eyes stung, but his hand stayed steady.

He crouched low, reaching for a photograph - a man with glasses, wide eyes frozen in fear. A district attorney. Another name on the list. Another piece of the web that wrapped itself around Gotham’s throat. Bruce laid the photo down and sprayed beside it: Colson.

He stood again, moving clockwise around the room like a pendulum, like time itself grinding forward with every stroke.

Mitchell.

Savage.

Each name was an accusation. Each line of spray paint was a wound he carved into the manor's floor, into his family’s legacy. Into himself.

And finally, curving around the bottom of the map, like a prophecy - Renewal Is a Lie.

It echoed in his mind again, louder this time. Renewal. Thomas Wayne. The fund. The promises. All of it connected. All of it corrupted .

He dropped the can for a second, the metal clattering across the stone. It spun to a stop beside a photo of his father - Thomas Wayne smiling at a press event decades ago, young, confident, and draped in belief.

Bruce stared.

He didn’t even know how long he had been collecting these things - how long he had been moving beneath the surface, silently tracking the rot. But it had all begun with a whisper in his chest the moment he saw the first card from the Riddler. It had only grown louder since.

And now?

He stood in the middle of it all. A storm of evidence, of questions, of guilt. Chalk-white lines forming a network of grief and accusation around him, the air tight with secrets.

He didn’t know if Clark had noticed. Part of him hoped he hadn’t. The other part - the bruised, restless, shadowed part - knew Clark was already watching. Had always been.

But Bruce couldn’t share this yet. Not this. Not the possibility that the very foundation of his family’s name was built atop corruption. Not until he had proof. Not until he knew whether he was avenging his father...

Or exposing him.

His breathing steadied. He picked up the can again. There was more to write.

The spray paint had long dried, curling slightly at the edges where it clung to the cold stone floor. The heavy air inside the manor didn’t move. Outside, the last burn of daylight was gone, swallowed by the heavy gray skies rolling over Gotham like a bruise, thick with the threat of another storm.

Bruce didn’t notice. He was already deep beneath the manor, in one of the lower wings where the old study had been converted into a private archive decades ago - its walls lined with boxes that smelled of dust and paper rot, of time sealed and forgotten.

A dim floor lamp glowed behind him, barely cutting through the dark. His knuckles were smudged with old ink and ash. He pulled another binder from the shelf, thick with yellowed documents, and dropped it onto the desk with a dull thud. The folder was labeled WAYNE ENTERPRISES – PUBLIC RELATIONS ARCHIVES / 2000–2003 .

He opened it, fingers trembling faintly - not from fear, but from the heavy anticipation of what he might find.

Clippings. Press releases. Financial statements. A photo of Thomas Wayne shaking hands with Mayor Mitchell in 2001. Another with William Savage, former police commissioner, smiling beside the Wayne Foundation logo. Bruce stared at them long.

It felt like being stared down by ghosts.

He flipped pages faster, more forcefully.

Every name on the floor upstairs - Colson. Mitchell. Savage. - they had all received money from the Renewal Fund. Large amounts. Regular disbursements. Most of them cloaked as anonymous donations, others buried beneath foundation grants.

And there - Thomas Wayne’s signature.

Multiple times.

His father’s name was all over these documents. The Renewal Fund had been his dream. His vision. A way to revive Gotham, to heal its wounds after the Arkham tragedy. But the deeper Bruce went, the more it read like a ledger of blood.

He pulled out a tape recorder from one of the boxes, dust coating the top. On the label in his father’s handwriting: Personal Archive: Renewal Interviews .

Bruce hesitated for a long moment. Then he slid the tape in and pressed play.

"This city needs saving from itself, and I have to try. Even if it means putting the Wayne name behind something larger than myself."
"Renewal isn’t just a fund. It’s a legacy."

Thomas’s voice crackled with static and hope.

Bruce sat back in the chair, tape playing in the background like a memory refusing to die. His jaw clenched, eyes fixated on a copy of a bank transfer stapled to one of the files. A massive sum. Labeled "Urgent Assistance – Falcone Orphanage Repairs. " But the orphanage never reopened. It burned down the following year. A cover?

Bruce’s chest tightened.

He didn’t want to believe it. But the evidence was there, staring him in the face.

Why would the Riddler come after him?

Because Bruce Wayne wasn’t innocent in this. Not in the Riddler’s mind. Even if he’d only inherited the sins, the blood was still on the family crest. The city still viewed him as the golden heir of something rotten.

He slammed the file shut, standing, pacing like a caged thing.

There had to be more.

He moved to the next crate, opening a locked metal case with shaking hands. Inside, black-and-white photos. Surveillance, maybe. One of Savage exchanging something in a dark alley. Another - of Thomas again, arms around Martha at a gala, a man in the corner of the frame half-hidden in shadow. Was that... Carmine Falcone?

Bruce leaned in.

The dots were connecting themselves, but the full picture still refused to come into focus.

He exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, wiping sweat and grime from his brow. His stomach churned with unease. What if the man he was trying to avenge had already made a deal with the devil? What if everything - the name, the manor, the mission - had been born in compromise?

He backed away from the desk.

He needed answers. And he needed to know whether he was still the man he thought he was  - or if this mask he wore was just another lie.

The silence in the archive room was heavy, suffocating. 

Even the crackling tape had stopped, the recorder’s wheel ticking in the hush like a clock winding down a death sentence. Bruce stood still, hunched over the desk, breathing hard. His hands were braced against the table, knuckles white, veins thick beneath the skin. His chest rose and fell, sharp and shallow, like he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

All around him, the ghosts stared back.

Faded photographs. Folders with Thomas Wayne’s name stamped on every page. Footage of ribbon cuttings, of shaking hands, of smiling monsters who built this city on the backs of orphans and addicts and broken promises. Colson. Savage. Mitchell. Falcone. The same names over and over.

And yet - it wasn’t enough. There was no smoking gun . No confessional. No damning document that would tell him, once and for all, what the Riddler believed he already knew.

That the Wayne name was rotten.

That the city had been built on lies.

That Bruce himself was born from a legacy of violence disguised as benevolence.

He shoved away from the desk, stumbling backward, breath hitching in his throat. His eyes burned - not from the dust. Not from the dry air. From something else.

He turned in a slow, furious circle. The shelves seemed to close in around him. The boxes, the ledgers, the videotapes, the grainy photographs - they weren’t answers. They were walls .

And he was trapped inside them.

- Goddammit, - Bruce growled under his breath. His voice cracked on the end of it. He swallowed. Jaw clenched. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

Then -

He snapped.

With a guttural sound, he grabbed the edge of the tall metal filing cabinet beside him and shoved it with everything he had. It screeched across the floor and crashed onto its side, slamming into the desk with a violent thunder that echoed down the stone halls of the manor. Folders exploded across the ground, papers spiraling like dead leaves in a storm.

He didn’t stop there.

Bruce kicked one of the boxes, sending its contents skidding under the table. His shoulder slammed into the bookshelf, toppling its contents. He grabbed a thick binder and hurled it at the far wall with a roar that came from somewhere deep inside, where the pain lived raw and untouched.

A sound like a wounded animal escaped his throat.

And then silence.

All of it, broken - papers blanketing the floor, cassette tapes cracked, the file cabinet dented where it hit the desk. His chest heaved with the effort, every inhale shaky and ragged. Sweat clung to his bare back, muscles flexed and trembling, the waistband of his pants hanging low on his hips, breathless from the rage that had poured from his bones.

He pressed his palms to his knees, staring at the mess.

What had it fixed? Nothing.

What had he learned? Still nothing.

But at least for a moment - it hadn’t felt like drowning.

He straightened slowly, the tightness still clinging to his ribs, his eyes rimmed red with exhaustion and grief. He looked around at the wreckage. And beneath the chaos, still half-visible in the mess on the floor, he saw his father’s signature again.

Like it was watching him.

Mocking him.

The quiet came back, louder than before.

And Bruce, the only child in the castle built on secrets, stood in the center of it - angry, haunted, and utterly alone.

The sound woke him like a sudden jolt in the night - metal clattering, something heavy slamming to the floor. It echoed faintly through the stone halls of the manor, distant but sharp, jarring the silence like a scream held beneath water.

Clark sat up in bed, breath catching for just a moment.

It wasn’t a door. It wasn’t wind. Something had fallen - hard.

He threw the covers off with a swift motion, already alert, senses honing in on the distant reverberation of unrest. The shadows of the manor seemed thicker than before, steeped in grief and unease. He pulled on his boxers, barefoot as he slipped out into the hallway, shoulders tense, chest tight with quiet worry.

The day had stretched long, and the sun was just starting to edge downward beyond the Gothic towers of Gotham. Its last traces of warmth didn’t reach the inside of the house - not past the high, vaulted windows or the cold, old bones of this place.

He walked slowly.

Down the corridor. Around the corners of long-forgotten halls. Everything in him was searching for Bruce.

It wasn’t just the crash. It was the silence afterward. That was what unnerved him most.

Clark passed through the grand study, past the dim light of the chandelier, and into the deeper, darker part of the house. No sign of Bruce yet, but the tension in the air was unmistakable - like the house was holding its breath.

That’s when he saw it.

A flickering light ahead - unnatural, low, almost blue.

It was coming from the kitchen.

Confused, Clark stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of dust and static. The space was empty- quiet now - but the small, old television tucked in the corner was glowing, humming with faint distortion. Alfred’s old set. The one he kept even after Bruce had modernized the rest of the house. It was barely louder than a whisper, but it played.

And it was him.

Thomas Wayne.

Smiling. Clean-cut. Polished in a way only politicians knew how to be.

He stood on screen in a twenty-year-old campaign ad, the picture grainy and faded. Behind him stood Martha - poised and elegant - and between them, a very young Bruce, maybe no older than seven, dressed in a suit two sizes too big, standing perfectly still.

“From a very young age,” Thomas was saying with a smile, “my family - Martha’s family, the Arkhams - instilled in both of us that giving back is not just an obligation… it’s a passion. That is our families’ legacy—”

The screen froze.

Mid-sentence. Mid-smile.

A beat of silence followed.

Then the tone shifted.

The image distorted - cutting to black-and-white photographs, aged documents, asylum paperwork, grainy images of Arkham itself.

The music twisted into something dissonant. Sinister.

A familiar voice filtered through the speakers - metallic, warped by the familiar distortion that had become the city’s worst omen.

“The Waynes and the Arkhams,” the Riddler’s voice crackled, slow and deliberate, “Gotham’s founding families. But what is their real legacy?”

Clark’s eyes narrowed, jaw tightening.

More images. Old medical records. A young Martha Wayne’s name circled in red across a faded psychiatric file. The words “voluntary committal,” “paranoia,” “emotional instability” scrawled across it.

The light from the screen flickered like a dying flame against the aged tiles of the kitchen. 

Clark stood motionless now, shoulders squared, heart tightening in his chest. The kitchen was cold. That sort of still cold that felt thick in the air, like grief lingering in the walls. The television was humming with static, just before the next wave of images began again. And when they did, it was like something rotten had been pried open.

Flashes of police photos. Corpses. Blood. Scars carved into skin.

Each image came quick and ruthless - like fists to the chest.

The Riddler’s voice slithered through the speakers once more, coated in eerie calm.

“How when Martha was just a child... her mother brutally murdered her father, then committed suicide... and how the Arkhams used their power and money to cover it up...”

The screen showed the death certificate - Cause of Death: Accidental.

Clark’s breath hitched. The corners of the paper were yellowed, official, institutional - lies preserved in filing cabinets. He could almost feel Bruce's silence wrapped around these truths like a shroud.

The feed cut to a grainy black-and-white shot, filmed from behind a rusting chain-link fence. A young woman with crossed out eyes. And later on a women behind bars, screaming her lungs out in terror. The camera zoomed closer - Clark couldn’t breathe.

“Martha herself was in and out of institutions for years...” the voice said, like an accusation, “... and they didn’t want anyone to know.”

The screen flicked again.

Legal documents.

Hospital records.

Photos of Martha weeping. Screaming. Silenced.

Then came Thomas Wayne again - this time walking through people, shaking hands, charming, clean, the illusion of compassion flawless.

But over it all played the Riddler’s next revelation.

“Thomas Wayne tried to force this crusading reporter into a hush money agreement to save his mayoral campaign…”

The screen cut to the legal document - clean, formal - spinning across the screen like a brand.

“But when the reporter refused... Wayne turned to longtime secret associate - mafia kingpin Carmine Falcone - and had him murdered.”

A gunshot rang out, so sharp Clark flinched.

The kitchen lights buzzed above him. The screen now showed both Carmine and Thomas Wayne, with crossed out eyes. Flickering evidence, as the letters read “The Sins of The Father.”

Clark’s jaw was locked tight now, his hands balled at his sides. His heart wasn’t beating right. Not for what he was watching. But for Bruce - somewhere in this house - who might’ve just learned his father was capable of murder.

Or worse - had always known .

The Riddler’s voice - calm, cold, certain - slithered one last time:

“The Waynes and Arkhams... Gotham’s legacy of lies... and murder.”

Then, the screen lit up with one final image.

A campaign poster. A clean-cut Thomas Wayne looking hopeful, confident - until the graphic shifted. The word “MAYOR” was scraped through with jagged red, replaced by a new one beneath:

“THOMAS WAYNE FOR MURDERER.”

The image held, burning itself into Clark’s vision.

He stepped back, chest rising and falling in a shallow rhythm. The flicker of the screen danced over his features - jaw tight, lips parted, eyes full of disbelief and dread. Not for what was said, but for the man who’d had to carry the weight of all of it in silence.

He knew, now, why Bruce had pushed him away. 

Why his eyes had been hollow, why his anger simmered under every breath. Why he hadn't come upstairs last night. This wasn't just legacy. It was betrayal , deeply sewn into Bruce’s skin like scars too old to bleed.

Clark didn’t turn the television off.

He turned around instead.

And started walking. Searching.

Bruce needed to be found.

Chapter Text

Rain hammered down like a punishment from the sky, thick and endless, blurring the city into streaks of silver and grime. The streets of Gotham were flooded, filth and water rising in the gutters like the secrets it tried so hard to bury. 

It was the kind of rain that chilled through clothes, bone-deep, and didn’t care who you were. 

But Bruce Wayne walked through it like he was carved out of it - his black shirt clinged to his body, hair matted against his forehead, his face pale beneath the streetlights, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

He didn’t bring a car. Didn’t bring Clark. Didn’t tell anyone.

He came alone.

The soft glow of the Iceberg Lounge shimmered through the rain, a gaudy promise to the city’s elite and scum alike. It rose like a black pearl on the edge of the pier, humming with bass and secrets. 

Bruce’s boots hit the pavement with purpose, water splashing under every step. As he reached the heavy, velvet-roped entrance, the music pulsed faintly from behind the thick doors, like a heartbeat from the belly of a monster.

He knocked.

Waited.

The twin bouncers stood where they always did - tall, broad, and cut from stone, dressed in black. They barely flinched as Bruce approached, but something in their stance shifted. Recognition prickled behind their blank stares as he came into the glow of the entrance lamps.

He stood in front, soaked to the skin, hands shaking slightly - whether from cold or fury, not even he could tell. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then Bruce lifted his chin, his voice a low scrape in his throat, cracked from silence and anger.

- Know who I am? - he asked, the question tearing from him more like a broken sound than a curiosity.

One of the twins blinked, the smallest twitch of his brow betraying the surprise that had frozen him in place. The rain pounded down harder as if leaning in to hear.

The second bouncer slowly exhaled, voice barely above a whisper, as if even he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

- You’re... Bruce Wayne.

Both of them stared - not at the name, but at the man . 

This wasn’t the billionaire they knew from headlines or society pages. This wasn’t a man in a tuxedo and polished shoes. This was someone else entirely. His knuckles were red. His eyes were darker than before, rimmed in shadow, and held something jagged behind them - as if he hadn’t slept, hadn’t stopped in days. A man possessed.

Bruce nodded once, like that was all the confirmation the world needed. His voice dropped lower, heavier.

- I wanna see Carmine Falcone.

The twin bouncers didn’t move right away. They exchanged a glance, subtle but unsure - because this wasn’t a planned meeting. No security sweep, no heads-up. Just Bruce Wayne, drenched and haunted, standing at their door like a ghost that wouldn’t stay buried.

After a long beat, the one on the right slowly opened the door. The music spilled out, warmer, richer, but it didn’t touch Bruce. He stepped past them without another word, eyes already scanning the interior like he knew where to go.

The elevator groaned as it ascended, the lights overhead flickering with every floor it passed. 

Bruce stood in the center of the cabin, shoulders stiff, soaked clothes sticking to his frame, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched white. A low hum vibrated through the steel walls, but the only voice he could hear was the one that had haunted him all day - his voice.

The Riddler.

The way it had spilled through the televisions in the manor like a sickness. How it had twisted the past into something grotesque and unrecognizable.

- I hope you're listening, Bruce Wayne... This is your legacy too.

Bruce's jaw clenched harder.

- And Gotham needs you to answer, for the sins of your father.

His father.

The air in the elevator felt heavier than the city’s smog - thick with smoke, rain, and betrayal. The lights above gave him a sickly yellow hue in the mirrored paneling, and for a moment, he didn’t recognize himself. The man looking back at him wasn’t the son of a savior. He wasn’t even sure he was a son at all.

The doors dinged open with a soft mechanical chime.

Beyond them, a hallway stretched ahead - deep wood paneling, vintage wallpaper peeling at the corners, and the faint smell of cologne and cigar smoke. The luxury of old money wrapped in the stink of crime. 

Bruce’s boots hit the floor with finality as he strode down the corridor, every step echoing like a clock ticking toward something inevitable. At the end, the heavy doors to Carmine Falcone’s loft stood slightly ajar - and inside, warmth and decadence pulsed like a heart ready to stop.

He stepped through.

The drawing room came into focus in bursts - low lights casting gold glows across expensive furniture, thick Persian rugs, and the rhythmic clicking of billiard balls. Hooded men and women lingered around a pool table, dressed like they owned the world, a few women draped across Falcone’s lap like ornaments, laughing at some half-finished joke.

And then everything stopped.

Eyes turned.

Glasses lowered.

Bruce Wayne - soaked, stern, carved from stone - stood in the middle of it all with water dripping from his collar, steam beginning to rise off his skin as the room quieted under his presence. 

Carmine Falcone looked up from the table, his hand mid-shot with a cue stick, the corner of his mouth twitching with something that looked like a small smirk. He was dressed in a fine dark shirt, sleeves rolled, a ring glittering on his pinky, gold peeking from beneath his collar. He looked every inch the man who thought the city owed him its breath.

- Give us a minute, fellas, - he said with an easy grin.

No one argued.

The bodyguards moved quick, ushering out the guests, who left with mutters and confused glances. A few lingered a second too long, as if they knew something was about to unravel. But soon, the room was empty, save for the man who had ruled Gotham’s underworld for decades... and the man who had once believed in fairy tales.

Falcone gestured to one of the armchairs.

- Have a seat.

But Bruce didn’t move.

He stood there, soaked through, fists at his sides, shadows clinging to the hollows beneath his eyes. His silence dragged long enough that even Falcone’s smirk faltered.

- Thought I might hear from you, - the mob boss continued, fingers slowly spinning his cue in hand. - This Riddler sonuvabitch is really stirring things up, huh? City’s crawling with fear... but I gotta admit, he’s got flair. He’s -

- Is it true? - Bruce’s voice came low and sharp - a rasp that sliced between them.

Falcone paused. Blinked.

- What? - he asked, faux-innocent. - That reporter business?

Bruce said nothing. He didn’t need to. His eyes burned with the question. The real question.

Falcone exhaled through his nose, slow and calculating. He set the cue down gently on the felt.

- Whatta ya wanna know here, kid? - he asked, eyes gleaming. - Whatta ya lookin’ for?

Bruce stood there like his legs grew vines into the hard floor, the wet fabric of his clothing whispering against itself. He looked at the man who had once stood beside his father - laughing, smiling, shaking hands for the cameras. And all he could see was rot. A man who knew where the bodies were buried, because he had helped bury them.

The rage inside Bruce didn’t scream. It simmered.

- The truth. Did you kill him? For my father? - he said.

Falcone chuckled low in his chest, then leaned forward - as if about to tell a bedtime story. But whatever came next wasn’t going to be comforting.

- Look, your father," he said. - Your father was in trouble, ok? This reporter had some dirt, some very personal stuff about your mother, her family history … - the man took a step closer from the billiard table, towards Bruce - you know, everybody's got their dirty laundry, that's how it is. But he didn't want none of that coming out, not right before the election. Your father trieda pay this guy off, but he wasn't goin' for it. So he came to me.

Falcone stepped forward slowly, a measured glide in his step like a man who’d spent a lifetime owning every room he entered. The smoke from a nearby ashtray curled up into the ceiling, lazily drifting above them like a phantom, as Bruce stood rigid, a flicker of doubt growing beneath the weight of everything he'd just heard.

Falcone now stood close enough for Bruce to see the rough texture of his skin, the age behind his eyes - and something else too, something colder. When he spoke again, it was quieter, but heavier, dragging the past behind every syllable.

- I never seen him like that, - Falcone said, voice dry as dust. - Your father. He looked me dead in the eye and said: ‘I want you to put the fear of God in this guy.’ ”

Bruce didn’t move - but his breath faltered, his throat constricting with something he couldn’t yet name. His father’s voice, echoing in his imagination. A version he didn’t recognize.

Falcone kept going, slow and deliberate, savoring the moment, the way a predator toys with a wounded animal.

- And when fear ain’t enough… - Falcone leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming like a shark’s, - ...you take it to the next level. Your father wanted me to handle it.

A long pause. Then, with venomous pride:

- So I did. I handled it.

The words struck Bruce like a hammer. He blinked, disoriented - something in him breaking open. The truth, or what passed for it, felt like acid behind his ribs. He turned slightly away, as if trying to breathe, but Falcone wasn’t done.

- I know, I know, - the old man said with a faint chuckle, looking at Bruce, looking through the lenses like he was inspecting a memory. - You thought your father was a boy scout. Gotham’s saint. But you’d be surprised what even a ‘good man’ is capable of... given the right situation.

Bruce’s hands were trembling now, just slightly, his jaw tight.

Falcone paused, tilted his head.

- Do me a favor, - he added, almost kindly, - don’t lose any sleep over this, alright? This reporter? He was a lowlife. A leech. On Maroni’s payroll the whole time. He got what was comin’.

That name. Bruce turned, eyes narrowing.

- ...Maroni? - he echoed, the word dry and foreign on his tongue.

Falcone’s smirk widened.

- Oh yeah, - he said. - Maroni could never stand your father. And me? I got history with the man. Old, deep history. After what happened with the reporter, I think Maroni got nervous. Thought your dad was gonna be in my pocket forever.

He took a step closer, speaking now like a man laying bare a final truth - intimate, sharp.

- He woulda done anything to keep your father from becoming mayor.

A beat. Heavy, unbearable.

- You understand?

Bruce didn’t answer. He shook his head instead, slow and tormented, trying to resist the undertow pulling at everything he thought he knew. The idea - no, the possibility - that all of it had been a lie from the start.

Falcone didn’t wait.

- Sure you do, - he said softly.

Then Bruce’s voice finally cracked through the air, rough with disbelief, something fraying at the edge of it.

- Are you saying…? - His breath hitched. - Salvatore Maroni had my father killed?

The question hung between them like smoke - and for a moment, even Falcone’s smirk faded. He looked at Bruce, studied him, before giving a long, slow shrug.

- Do I know it for a fact? " he said. - Nah. I’m just sayin’... it sure looked that way to me.

Silence.

A bomb detonating inside Bruce’s chest.

His father. His mother. Dead in an alley, gunned down before his eyes. And now? The man who claimed to know everything about Gotham - saying it wasn’t a random act, but a retaliation. A hit.

Bruce stumbled back a step, barely aware of his own movement. The air in the room was suffocating, thick with the rot of secrets and the ghosts of old deals. He felt like a child again, lost in a hallway he could never escape.

Falcone watched him coldly now, no smirk, just silence - as if studying whether Bruce would crumble or survive this.

- This what you wanted? - he asked finally. - This little conversation here?

Bruce didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Falcone stepped away, picking up his drink from the table, taking a slow sip before glancing back once more.

- Ahhh, - he said, exhaling. - I s’pose it’s been a long time comin’...

He looked Bruce over like he’d seen the full arc of his life play out already.

- I mean, you ain’t a kid no more.

Bruce just stood there, still as stone - but inside, the fracture lines ran deep, and they were starting to split wide open.

The rain didn’t stop. Gotham pulsed beneath it - headlights slicing through the mist, red taillights smeared like blood across wet pavement. Clark drove like he was chasing the end of the world, and maybe he was. He didn’t know what he'd find, but he knew if he didn’t find Bruce soon, something in him might break open.

After the broadcast - the revelations - he knew Bruce had disappeared somewhere into the storm, into the truth, into the rot and violence and inheritance of his name. The Riddler had twisted the blade deep. 

And Bruce - Clark had seen it in his eyes last night - was ready to bleed quietly for it.

He tore through the manor, calling his name, no answer. The lounge, the garage. Nothing. And then something - maybe instinct, maybe hope - had pointed him toward the hospital.

Toward Alfred .

Clark pulled into Gotham General’s side lot and didn’t even shut the door before sprinting through the rain. The lobby lights hit him like a slap after the storm - cold and sterile. A nurse blinked at him behind the front desk.

- Bruce Wayne, - he said, his voice lower than he meant it to be, threaded with urgency. - I need to know if he’s here.

The nurse didn’t ask questions. Maybe it was the look on his face. Maybe it was the name.

- ICU, - she said, almost gently. - Second floor.

Clark didn’t wait for the elevator. The stairs swallowed him. Two steps at a time. His pulse hammering at his throat.

He slowed only when he reached the second floor.

The lights here were dimmer. Softer. Quiet padded every inch of the corridor, broken only by the hum of machines behind closed doors, the soft patter of a nurse’s shoes disappearing around the corner. Clark moved slowly now, turning a bend - and froze.

Through the tall pane of glass across the hallway, he saw them.

Alfred lay in the hospital bed, pale, almost ghostly under the low blue of the monitors. Tubes snaked from his arms, oxygen hissing gently beneath the rhythmic hush of the machines. But it wasn’t that that stopped Clark’s breath.

It was Bruce.

He was curled in the visitor’s chair, fast asleep - or more accurately, unconscious from exhaustion. His head was tilted to one side, hair messy and damp at the ends, his jacket hanging off one shoulder. One hand rested limply near Alfred’s on the edge of the bed, not touching, but close. Like it had been. Like maybe, before sleep took him, he had reached out to hold on.

Clark stood there for a long moment, just looking at him.

There was something stripped away in the way Bruce lay there -  not the icon. Just a son. 

A man. Haunted and worn down, trying so desperately not to fall apart next to the only person left who ever knew how to hold him together.

The machines beeped softly through the glass. Rain traced patterns down the window. And something inside Clark cracked - slow, and deep, and quiet.

He pressed his palm lightly to the glass. Just a breath. Just to feel the weight of the moment. The ache of it. The love that was blooming painfully in his chest.

He whispered, even though Bruce couldn’t hear him.

- I found you.

And in the dim light of that hospital wing, with thunder rolling faintly outside and the storm pressing against the windows, Clark swore to himself - no matter what darkness came next, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Not now.

Not ever.

Clark stayed frozen in the hallway, the hum of the hospital floor dulled by the hush of rain crawling across the upper windows. The glass between him and the room felt like a veil - thin but insurmountable - as he watched the stillness inside shift.

Bruce stirred.

Slowly, like a man coming out of water, Bruce’s hand moved, rubbing his face, dragging over his mouth and jaw. He blinked, the haze of sleep slipping off him in quiet layers. Then, a movement beside him - soft, faint.

Alfred.

The old man’s fingers twitched, and his eyelids fluttered open. There was a flicker of recognition. A shallow breath. The kind that seemed to take more strength than most people knew. Bruce was upright in an instant, every tired line in his face hardening into raw attention. He leaned in, close to the bed, his shoulders curved in a silent shield.

Clark’s heart caught in his throat as he watched it unfold.

Bruce said something. A whisper, low, soft. Through the glass, it barely carried, but Clark caught the first faint fragment:

- …listen to me…

There was a pause. Alfred blinked again, slower this time, his lips parting.

- …your father… was a good man…

Clark couldn’t hear Alfred’s response - just the subtle shift of Bruce’s expression. A clench in his jaw. The way his mouth wavered. Whatever was being said wasn’t easy, wasn’t light. It carried the weight of years. Of unspoken hurt. 

Guilt, even.

Another moment passed, and then Alfred’s voice came clearer, barely threading through the still air - maybe a mercy of the acoustics in the long corridor, maybe the way the rain drew silence around everything else.

- I know you always blamed yourself… - the words trembled. - …You were only a boy, Bruce. I could see the fear in your eyes. But I didn’t know how to help.

Clark felt something twist inside him.

Bruce turned his face slightly - just enough that Clark saw the subtle, breaking shift in it. Not a full reaction. But something had cracked. The line between grief and guilt thinned, bled into itself.

He looked so young just then.

Not the man Clark had seen stalking through shadows or fighting demons in hallways of his haunted mansion. But the boy left behind in a city that never gave him anything but ghosts.

Inside the room, Alfred’s hand reached - slow, deliberate. And Bruce… Bruce met it. Without hesitation. His fingers curled around Alfred’s in a silent, desperate anchor.

Clark’s throat tightened as he watched it. The moment wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic. It was a small, aching reconciliation. A bruised hand taking another. An apology exchanged in silence.

Thunder grumbled beyond the windows. The rain kept pouring.

And Clark stayed there, his palm still pressed faintly to the glass. 

Watching. Bearing witness. 

Knowing, deep in his chest, that whatever came next - whatever darkness or revelation or vengeance waited for Bruce in the days ahead - something fragile had just been salvaged in that room.

A thread stitched back through time.

A breath caught between father and son - in everything but name.

And Bruce… Bruce didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

Hi everyone,

I’ve sat with this decision for a while now - hesitated, reworded, second-guessed - but after a lot of thought and reflection, I’ve decided to officially finish Close Quarters, and with that, step away from the SuperBat fandom and all the other story ideas I had planned, including Smoke Signals and future AUs.

This isn’t something I say lightly.

Over the last few months, this project - and this pairing - have meant a lot to me. I found inspiration again. I let myself get swept up in characters that felt electric in my head: Robert’s Bruce, broken and dark and quiet, and David’s Clark, full of light and softness and strength. I loved the contrast of them. I loved how they challenged each other. I loved how the chemistry felt both inevitable and impossible. It became something I could lose myself in - and for a time, that was a very beautiful thing.

What made it even more meaningful was putting that vision out into the world. I hadn’t shared my writing publicly in over a decade. English isn’t my first language, and publishing anything - even a single chapter - was terrifying. But I did it. I showed up. I let myself be vulnerable, and messy, and passionate, and hopeful. I poured my time, care, and energy into building something intimate and strange and aching, and I know many of you felt that. I got messages from people saying they saw themselves in this story. That it moved them. That they couldn’t stop thinking about it. And that kind of connection? That’s magic. That’s what every writer dreams of.

So, to those of you who did support this story - who left kind comments, kudos, or just sat with the words - I want you to know: I appreciate you more than I can ever say. You gave me courage. You made me feel seen.

But unfortunately, the broader experience within the fandom space has been a different story.

There weren’t hate messages or overt cruelty, but there was something quieter and, in some ways, more disheartening. A kind of coldness. A sense of dismissal. A feeling that unless I was writing these characters in a certain way - unless they matched a specific expectation of sexuality, power dynamics, or even bedroom roles - my work wasn’t valid. That unless I conformed to a fandom-approved version of who Bruce and Clark are, my writing didn’t belong.

And that hurts.

Because stories are personal. Writing is vulnerable. And to feel like your voice is being quietly shut down or picked apart - not out of care or constructive thought, but out of rigid expectation - is exhausting. I came here to share something I loved. I didn’t come here to fight for permission to tell it.

Over time, this weight grew heavier. At first I ignored it, focused on the good. But lately, I’ve found myself dreading feedback, questioning every line, second-guessing my choices, even losing the joy I once felt while writing. Something that used to be a source of light and excitement has turned bitter. What once healed me now started to hurt.

And today, that weight finally tipped over. Some interactions on AO3 pushed me past the edge, and I realized something I’ve been avoiding: I need to step away.

So here it is, with as much love and peace as I can give it:
Once Close Quarters finishes, I won’t be continuing with this fandom. That means Smoke Signals, which was planned as a firefighter!Clark, childhood-friends-to-lovers, human!AU, will be shelved for now. I’m proud of what I’ve written. And I still love the story in my heart. But I can’t keep pushing through a space that no longer feels safe or inspiring to me.

Maybe one day I’ll return. Maybe there will come a time when writing about these characters feels joyful again, and I’ll share those stories with you. But for now? I need to protect the part of me that creates. I need to hold onto the love I still have for storytelling before it turns into resentment.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Truly. Thank you for being here, for seeing me, for letting these characters mean something to you too. That connection is what made it all worth it.

I wish you soft nights, brave hearts, and the courage to tell your stories your way. And if you ever read Close Quarters and feel something stir in your chest—just know, that’s exactly what I hoped for.

With love,
 - battinscnz.

Chapter Text

The quiet between them didn’t last.

Clark stood leaning against the cool beige wall just outside Alfred’s room, arms crossed tight, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He’d waited long enough. Given Bruce the moment with Alfred. Let the storm inside him settle, just barely.

Then the door opened.

Bruce stepped out, his shoulders rolled forward with exhaustion, but something in his face had shifted. There was a new weight in his eyes, as if whatever Alfred had told him had sunk in and found a place to stay. But before Bruce could say a word, Clark’s voice came low, sharp.

- Where the hell were you?

Bruce blinked. - Clark -

- You disappeared.

- I had to -

Clark pushed off the wall, stepping closer. His voice never rose above a murmur, but the fire inside it made Bruce halt in his tracks.

- You’re being hunted, Bruce. You're not invincible. You’re not some ghost in a cloak who can just disappear and walk back like nothing happened. - Clark’s eyes didn’t leave his. - Do you have any idea what I thought when I couldn’t find you? What I went through?”

- I had to see Falcone.

- Are you even hearing yourself? - Clark’s voice cracked then, raw, full of disbelief. - You walked straight into the hands of the one man who could’ve handed you over to the Riddler in a heartbeat.

- I didn’t have a choice.

- There’s always a choice, - Clark snapped.

Bruce took a step back, jaw tightening, eyes flashing with a mix of defiance and regret. - He knew something. Things I had to hear for myself.

Clark scoffed, pacing once before rounding back to face him. - You’re not alone in this. Do you get that? How many times do I have to tell you that? You don’t get to run off and make yourself a target just because you think you’re the only one who can carry the weight.

- You think this is about martyrdom? - Bruce said, his voice rising for the first time. - This is about truth. About knowing who the hell I even am.

- I know who you are, - Clark said, suddenly, the words punching out of him like a confession he hadn’t meant to say. - And you’re not someone who gets to die just because you’re afraid of being wrong about your father.

Bruce stared at him - and for the first time, didn’t have an immediate reply.

The air between them shifted. Grew hot.

Clark took a step closer. - You keep pushing everyone away because it’s easier than letting yourself be - he hesitated, the words caught in his throat  - cared for. And I’m tired of pretending I’m just your bodyguard when you scare me like this.

The heat collided there. Bruce didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. But something moved in his eyes - a tremor behind the quiet fury.

- I didn’t ask you to care, - Bruce said, but it came out weaker than he wanted. Like a defense long cracked at the edges.

Clark swallowed. - Too late.

Another breath passed.

- You scare me because you think pain is a compass. Because you keep walking toward whatever hurts most and calling it justice. - Clark’s voice softened then, but the gravity didn’t ease. - You disappeared on me. And I don’t know what I would’ve done if I hadn't heard your name in the TV, and connected the dots.

Bruce’s expression fractured.

He looked away, shoulders sinking under the weight of the storm in Clark’s words.

- I thought if I just found out the truth, - he said, quieter now, - maybe some of it would make sense. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I was losing what little is left of who I used to be.

Clark stepped forward again, gentler this time. Close enough for Bruce to feel the warmth radiating off of him. Close enough to hear the ache behind the silence.

- You’re still here, - Clark said. - That’s what matters.

Bruce met his eyes.

And for a long moment, neither of them said anything more. The fight drained out of their muscles, but something more potent remained. The breath between them felt electric - too charged, too heavy to be ignored.

- You should’ve let me come with you, - Clark said softly.

Bruce didn’t answer. But his hand drifted ever so slightly, brushing against Clark’s.

Just barely. Just enough.

The hospital hallway had grown quiet again. Too quiet.

Clark stood just a few feet away from where Bruce sat, unmoving on the bench just outside Alfred’s room. The sterile lighting above him cast long shadows on the tiled floor, and even though Bruce’s posture was still, Clark could feel the weight simmering beneath his silence. 

Rage and grief - two forces forever boiling just beneath the surface of the man. Clark had come to recognize the difference now.

Then -

Clark’s phone vibrated violently against his hip. He fished it from his pocket without thinking, eyes narrowing at the name that lit up the screen.

GORDON.

His stomach tensed immediately.

He stepped down the hall and answered. - Commissioner.

- Clark. - Gordon’s voice was low and fast, the edge unmistakable. - We got him.

Clark’s pulse spiked. - The Riddler?

- Yeah. We caught the bastard.

Clark straightened, jaw clenched. - Where?

- In a fucking coffee shop. Can you believe that? - Gordon’s disbelief was palpable. - He was just sitting there at a table like he was waiting on a latte. Our guys surrounded the place, took him in without a single word of protest.

Clark glanced back down the hallway toward Bruce. - He didn’t resist?

- Didn’t even flinch, - Gordon said, still catching his breath. - Two ID’s. But the mask was in his bag. Same green coat we’ve seen on the footage. Real name is Edward Nashton. Accountant. Rented an apartment in the Narrows. Quiet as a grave. No social media, no friends, no past. Nothing but this... mission he’s been playing out.

Clark’s fingers curled around the edge of his phone.

- We’re heading to his apartment now. Thought you might want to be there when we crack it open. See what’s inside

There was a pause. Then Gordon added, voice slower now - heavier:

- But there’s more. When they brought him in, he didn’t say a word to the arresting officers. Not one. But once he was about to be sent to Arkham, once we put him in the back of the truck… - Another pause, then Gordon’s voice dropped. - He asked for someone.

Clark’s gut twisted. - Who?

Gordon exhaled, and when he spoke again, it was with a grim finality.

- Bruce Wayne. He said he’ll only talk to Bruce Wayne.

Clark didn’t respond. He couldn’t - not at first. The words hit harder than he expected. His brain began stitching together the implications, the patterns, the horror of what that might mean.

- He asked for him by name? - Clark finally said, voice low.

- Word for word. ‘I want to talk to Bruce Wayne. Only him.’ Then he smiled. Like he was proud.

Clark’s blood ran cold. 

He turned again toward Bruce, who was still watching him, distant and unreadable. The lights above made the bruises beneath his eyes darker, more hollow, like something inside him had already known this was coming.

- He knows everything, - Clark said quietly. - He’s not just picking names from headlines. This... this is personal.

- I think it’s always been personal, - Gordon said. - We just didn’t realize who the game was rigged for.

The line stayed quiet for a second longer before Gordon spoke again.

- I’m heading there now. Let Wayne know. But Clark - be careful with this. Whatever’s in that apartment, whatever else he’s planned... we’re not out of the dark. Not even close.

- I’ll be in touch, - Clark said, hanging up.

The phone was still in his hand when he returned to Bruce.

Bruce stood up the second he saw Clark’s face.

- What? - he asked. His voice was sharp, too calm. That kind of calm that came just before a hurricane.

Clark didn’t sugarcoat it.

- They caught him. The Riddler. In a coffee shop.

Bruce’s mouth moved, barely. - Alive?

Clark nodded. - Didn’t resist. Said nothing - until he got to the precinct.

- And then?

Clark’s throat tightened. - He asked to speak to you. Only you.

Bruce didn’t react - not on the outside. His body was still as stone. But Clark could see the way his jaw clenched, the way a vein in his neck pulsed hard and hot beneath his skin. Something was unraveling behind those eyes, fast and loud.

Bruce turned, like he was already planning his next move.

Clark took a step closer. - Bruce. This isn’t over. You know that, right?

Bruce looked at him, and there was something scorched in his expression. Not surprise. Not fear. But a kind of resignation Clark hadn’t seen before. Like he’d known it would come to this. Like it was always going to end this way.

- It was never going to be over, - Bruce said softly. - Not with someone like him.

And beneath it all, Clark could feel it again - that quiet, unspoken vow building in his chest. A promise he hadn’t said out loud. Not yet.

I won’t let anything happen to you.

He swallowed the words, but they lived in him. Loud. Permanent.

Because whatever was coming next, whatever secrets were waiting behind Edward Nashton’s locked door - Bruce wouldn’t be walking in alone.

Not as long as Clark was breathing.

The doors to Arkham shut behind Bruce with a cold clang that echoed down the long, sterile corridor.

He didn’t flinch.

The further he walked, the more the silence sank in. Not peace - never peace - but a stillness, the kind born from too much history buried in these walls. It was suffocating. The white lights above flickered in some places, buzzing softly, revealing cracks in the ceilings, rust along the frames. Decay masked as structure.

The guard escorting him didn’t speak. No need. Bruce knew exactly where they were going.

Cell Block E - deep in the heart of the asylum. The place where the city buried the minds it couldn’t understand, and didn’t want to.

They reached the security checkpoint, and Bruce’s ID was scanned without a word. Then the final door opened.

He was led into a viewing room. Four walls. No color. No air. No mercy.

Pitch-black.

For a moment, Bruce stood completely still in the dark, his breath held like the room might hear it. Then -

The shutters hissed as they rolled up, slow and mechanical, revealing the glass partition on the other side. A single light buzzed to life beyond it.

And there he was.

Sitting perfectly still, as if he’d been waiting forever.

Edward Nashton.

The Riddler.

The Stalker.

Behind the glass.

He wore the rust-orange scrubs of the institution, his posture far too composed for a man in chains. His face was slightly bruised - likely from his arrest - but otherwise, he looked calm. His thin, pale fingers were folded neatly atop the table. His glasses caught the light, obscuring the full weight of his gaze, but Bruce could still see the glint behind them.

Recognition. Admiration.

Possession.

Bruce’s blood turned colder.

Edward tilted his head slightly. The corners of his mouth curled - not into a grin, but something smaller. Something more knowing.

Like this wasn’t a conversation.

Like it was a reunion.

Bruce stepped closer, his boots hitting the tile with soft, deliberate thuds. He could hear the air vent breathing against the ceiling, the way time seemed to stretch in this room like tar.

Nashton didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch. He simply whispered something behind the glass, the words unreadable.

Then he mouthed it again, slower.

- Bruce. Wayne.

Bruce’s stomach churned.

There it was - that sick intimacy. The way Nashton said his name like it was something holy. Like he had been waiting to say it for years.

Bruce didn’t sit.

Edward Nashton leaned forward just slightly, the metal of his cuffs rattling against the table as he did. - You came, - he murmured, his voice muffled but eerily clear through the mic. - I knew you would.

Bruce stared at him, silent, unreadable.

- You saw the tape, didn’t you? - Edward’s voice held something between curiosity and ecstasy. - You saw the truth about them. About your parents.

Bruce’s throat tightened, but he didn’t respond.

Nashton exhaled, his lips parting slightly, almost in awe. - You and I... we’re not so different. Orphans. Left behind by liars. Living in the rot they left us.

Bruce’s jaw clenched.

- But you, - Nashton continued, now slowly tapping one finger on the table. - You were the golden boy. The prince of Gotham. And still... they lied to you. Used you. Built their empire on bones.

He leaned even closer, his smile soft, unnerving.

- And now look at you. Here. With me.

Bruce finally spoke, voice like gravel. - What do you want?

Edward blinked. - To be understood.

- No, - Bruce said quietly, eyes narrowing. - You want validation.

Nashton’s smile faded, only for a second. Then it came back, colder.

- You of all people should understand what it’s like... when justice never comes. When the system protects the corrupt. They wanted to forget people like me. The city left us to rot. - He leaned back, eyes twinkling under the florescents. - But not you. No, no. You... they celebrated. They gave you everything.

Bruce didn’t flinch, didn’t move.

- So I became their reckoning, - Nashton continued, voice light, like he was telling a bedtime story. - I showed them the rot. I made them look. And I thought... you’d understand. I thought you’d join me.

The words fell like knives in the quiet room.

Bruce’s heart thudded hard in his chest. He could feel the glass between them, but it wasn’t enough. Not now. Not when he could see so clearly that Nashton truly believed in this twisted mirror he’d built between them.

- You’re sick, - Bruce said low.

Nashton tilted his head again. - And you’re afraid.

The silence fell thick again. Even the humming vent above felt like it dimmed.

Nashton’s eyes didn’t leave him. - There’s still so much more to come. You haven’t seen the full picture yet. But you will.

Bruce’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

- You think this is about you. About your father. But this is about Gotham. And Gotham’s not done bleeding.

Bruce didn’t move.

Across the glass, Edward Nashton was watching him - that hungry silence filling the space between them. The glass buzzed faintly as the intercom clicked on again.

- You know why I chose you, don’t you?

Bruce’s mouth was a tight line, his eyes harder now. - You think this is personal.

- It is personal, - Edward said, leaning forward slowly, as if the weight of the years had dragged him there. - But not in the way you think.

He took a deep breath. His hands folded neatly again, fingers twitching nervously with habit. And then, he began.

- I was seven when they pushed me into that hellhole. - His voice was low, even. - The Gotham Orphanage. Not the new one they talk about in the news. The old one. The brick tomb on the edge of the Narrows, with walls so thin you could hear rats crawling between them. There were a hundred of us stuffed into that place. More when the city got tired of the ones on the street.

Bruce watched. Quiet. Still.

Edward’s eyes flickered - glassy, but sharp.

- We starved. We froze. We screamed ourselves to sleep when the lights went out and the older kids started hurting the little ones. And no one came.

The fluorescent lights buzzed. The air in the room grew heavier, like grief settling over bone.

- Then, - Edward said, his smile turning almost wistful, - Thomas Wayne came.

Bruce’s breath caught.

Edward’s voice softened.

- He was running for mayor. He stood in front of us, right in the main hall, camera crews behind him, Martha on one side, and you - little golden boy - on the other. He knelt down to us. I remember thinking he smelled like silk and money. He looked right at me. - Edward chuckled under his breath. - I thought... he saw me.

He paused. His throat worked as if swallowing a lump.

- He promised us he was going to make it better. Said this place was an embarrassment. Said we mattered. We mattered.

The words cracked.

Bruce stayed silent.

Edward looked up at him, no smile now - just hollowed pain.

- And then? - He tapped the glass, once. - Nothing. No renovations. No food. No heat. Just more of us dying in the dark.

The intercom fizzed slightly with feedback as Edward’s breath grew shaky.

- I waited every day thinking maybe that was the day he’d send help. Maybe that was the day something would change. Maybe... maybe I really had been seen.

His voice went flat.

- But he lied. Just like the rest of them. Just another Wayne selling dreams to the poor while pocketing the city’s soul.

Bruce’s throat was dry. - You think what happened to you... was my father’s fault?

- No, - Edward whispered. - I know it was.

He leaned so close to the glass now his breath fogged it.

- You have no idea what it’s like to be promised salvation, and then abandoned. To be invisible. To scream and scream and never be heard.

A pause. Then:

- You were born into a legacy. I was buried under it.

Bruce’s eyes locked with Edward’s - haunted, disturbed.

- That’s what this is, - Edward continued, quieter now. - My reckoning. Our reckoning. For the lies. For the rot. For the sins of your father.

The shutters began to roll down.

- I just needed you to see it. Before it’s done.

Then silence.

Only Bruce remained, still staring at the glass as it sealed Edward Nashton from view.

But not from his mind.

Not anymore.

The heavy doors of Arkham Asylum creaked shut behind him like the final punctuation on a chapter Bruce wasn’t sure he was ready to finish. The cold air outside hit him instantly, sharp against the skin of his face, but he barely felt it. 

The encounter still sat inside him like a weight, lodged just beneath the ribs - a dull, pulsing reminder that the past had teeth, and they were still tearing into him.

He stepped out into the gray. The sky above was iron-colored and unmoving, heavy with a kind of stillness that felt unnatural - as if even the clouds were holding their breath, listening. The rain had stopped, but the ground still gleamed with moisture, reflecting fractured pieces of Gotham’s skeletal skyline in its puddles. His footsteps echoed across the cracked asphalt of the institution’s lot, steady and slow, each one filled with the kind of exhaustion that went beyond the physical.

And then, there he was.

Clark.

Leaning against the driver’s side of the black car like something out of a dream Bruce hadn’t meant to conjure. The lines of his body relaxed but alert, a study in quiet strength. 

His white shirt clung faintly to his chest, sleeves pushed to his elbows, exposing the sculpted lines of his forearms - sun-burnished skin and restrained power. His broad shoulders rose and fell in a slow rhythm, patient. Present.

The muscles in Bruce’s stomach clenched at the sight of him - not from fear, or nerves, or anything he could put into language, but from the sheer gravity of Clark’s presence. He looked at Bruce like nothing else in the world mattered. Like he hadn’t moved since Bruce went in. Like the act of waiting for him had been effortless - a given.

Clark didn’t speak. He didn’t raise a hand, didn’t call out.

But his gaze - calm, steady, blue like twilight pressed into the ocean - never left Bruce’s face.

Bruce kept walking, each step heavier than the last, not because he didn’t want to move, but because the ache in his chest was blooming into something he didn’t know how to contain. Riddler’s voice still rang in his ears.

“He promised us a future. He promised he’d make it better.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. His hands were fists at his sides. He could barely breathe.

And then he was standing in front of Clark.

So close that he could smell the familiar trace of his cologne - something clean and woodsy, like cedar bark and warm amber, something that always reminded him of late nights and quiet trust.

Bruce didn’t think. He didn’t calculate.

He stepped forward - and folded into Clark’s chest.

His arms came around him with quiet desperation, curling into the thick line of Clark’s shoulders, pulling him close like he was the only solid thing in the world. Bruce held on like something was slipping, like if he didn’t hold tight enough, he’d fall straight through the cracks in his own mind.

Clark froze. Just for a second.

A soft inhale, a tension in his spine.

And then… he moved.

His arms wrapped around Bruce’s back, strong and firm and warm. One hand settled between Bruce’s shoulder blades, the other low on his spine, anchoring him. He leaned in, his face close to Bruce’s hair, his breath steady against the shell of Bruce’s ear.

- I’ve got you, - Clark said, low and certain, a promise that didn’t need repeating.

Bruce didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go either. 

And Clark didn’t make him.

For a long moment, the two of them stood there in the chill of Arkham’s lot, framed by the silhouette of the car and the cold Gothic bones of the asylum behind them. It was as if the entire world held still, just for them. Just for this.

When they finally pulled apart, it was slow. 

Bruce’s hand lingered on Clark’s wrist, the way a drowning man might linger near the surface of the water before slipping back under. Clark’s gaze searched his, trying to read the words Bruce still couldn’t say out loud - but something unspoken passed between them anyway. An understanding. A breath shared in silence.

Clark opened the car door and gestured for Bruce to slide in.

He did - wordless, eyes still a little glassy, his body tight with grief.

Clark circled the hood of the car, hands flexing once at his sides before he slipped behind the wheel. The keys clicked into the ignition with a soft sound, the hum of the engine breaking the quiet.

As they pulled out of the lot, neither spoke. The city stretched out before them - rain-slicked streets and flickering signs, alleyways where shadows gathered like secrets. The windshield wipers whispered against the glass, and the sky above them began to darken even more, folding into the deep indigo of dusk.

Inside the car, it was warm.

Inside the car, there was no Riddler.

No father’s legacy.

No guilt. No monsters.

Only two men. One who had shattered. And one who was staying.

Chapter Text

Morning had come slowly, like the first breath after drowning.

For the first time in what felt like days - maybe longer - Bruce had slept. Deeply. Dreamlessly. The kind of sleep that doesn’t ask permission, but simply claims you. He woke beneath heavy sheets, his muscles loose for once, the shadows in his chest slightly lighter, the ghosts a touch more quiet.

Sunlight filtered in through the tall windows of his bedroom, golden and muted behind sheer curtains. It painted soft lines across the floorboards and spilled in long streaks over the bed, catching on the bare skin of his chest, the dark scatter of hair, the fading bruises on his ribs. There was warmth in the room - not just from the light, but something else too.

A shift in the air.

Footsteps.

And then: Clark.

The door opened without ceremony, just a quiet creak of hinges, and there he was. Silhouetted in morning gold, framed like something carved from devotion and quiet promise. 

He wore nothing but a pair of black briefs that clung low on his hips, riding the carved lines of his waist like they were meant to live there. His chest was bare - smooth and strong, the kind of body that came from discipline and quiet strength. Broad shoulders, powerful thighs, and the tiniest trail of hair leading from his navel downward.

Bruce stared.

He didn’t mean to - but his breath caught at the sight. Sleep still clung to him, softening his edges, and for a moment, it was like he’d woken into a dream he wasn’t ready to end.

Clark’s gaze was soft as he approached, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth like he wasn’t sure if it was allowed.

- Hey, - he said quietly, voice husky from sleep. - Didn’t mean to wake you.

Bruce sat up, slowly, pushing the sheets from his chest, still watching him. The scent of the coffee hit first - rich and dark and exactly how he liked it - followed immediately by the scent of Clark himself. Clean skin. Morning air. 

- You didn’t, - Bruce murmured.

Clark came to the side of the bed, crouching down slightly to sit at the edge, the mug cradled in his large hands before he passed it to Bruce. Their fingers brushed - skin on skin - and a small jolt went through Bruce at the contact. He took the mug silently. Clark was close. His thigh pressed lightly against Bruce’s under the blanket, warm and solid. He didn’t move away.

- I wasn’t sure if… we should talk, - Clark began softly. - Or if maybe it’s too soon, or if you even want to - 

Bruce turned his head. Their eyes locked.

Clark exhaled slowly, his voice low and careful. - Can I kiss you?

It was so simple. So human. Nothing hidden behind it. Just a question and all the fear that came with it - not of being turned down, but of misreading something sacred.

Bruce didn’t answer with words. He leaned in.

And when their mouths met, it was like exhaling for the first time in days. Clark’s lips were soft, warm, tasting faintly like coffee. His hand slid gently to the back of Bruce’s neck, thumb brushing behind his ear as he kissed him deeper, slower. It wasn’t frantic, or possessive - it was full of quiet reverence, like Clark had waited a long time to touch him like this. Like he wasn’t just kissing Bruce Wayne.

He was kissing everything he thought was broken in him.

When they parted, their foreheads pressed together for a moment, breath mingling in the stillness.

- I didn’t want to assume, - Clark murmured, brushing his thumb gently across Bruce’s jaw. - After everything. I know what this started as… and I know what it is now. But I need you to tell me. If this is okay. If we’re okay.

Bruce’s eyes searched his - and found nothing but honesty. Nothing but a man who had shown up for him in every way that mattered, again and again.

- I don’t know what we are yet, - Bruce said, voice raw, but sure. - But I know I don’t want you to stop.

Clark smiled. Soft. Grateful.

He leaned in again and kissed Bruce’s lips, just once. Then settled beside him on the bed, bare leg brushing his under the covers.

The coffee sat untouched for a moment on the nightstand.

And for once, there were no voices in Bruce’s head. No guilt. No past. Just morning light, and the man beside him.

The curtains swayed gently with the breeze from the open window, letting in streaks of light that cut across the room like lazy brushstrokes. The air still held the faint scent of them - warm coffee, shared breath, and something deeper that hadn’t yet faded.

Bruce hadn’t moved much. Just letting the silence fill in for the moment.

Clark sat next to him, his back against the headboard, the sunlight kissing the bare lines of his torso. He wore only a pair of dark boxer briefs, the waistband riding low on his hips, his thighs parted as he turned slightly toward Bruce.

He was watching him.

Softly. Almost shy, in that post-euphoria way. But there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth - lazy and crooked.

- You’re staring, - Bruce murmured, voice still hoarse with sleep.

Clark didn’t look away. - Yeah. I know.

He leaned in, slow and smooth, one hand braced beside Bruce’s shoulder. The kiss he pressed to Bruce’s mouth was unhurried - like the first sip of coffee on a Sunday morning, like he already knew there’d be more where that came from. 

And Bruce didn't hesitate to respond.

He kissed back, slower still. Their mouths brushing, teasing, falling back into rhythm like it was second nature. Clark deepened it, tilting Bruce’s chin with his fingers, then easing down closer, until he was no longer just sitting beside him, but moving to hover over him again.

His body settled between Bruce’s legs, not with urgency, but with something warm and grounded. His hips pressed low, the faint hardness beneath his briefs brushing against Bruce in a way that made both of them breathe a little deeper. The fabric of the sheets shifted beneath them. Bruce’s thighs spread slightly, instinctively, letting Clark slide further into the cradle of his body.

Clark pulled back only slightly, just enough to speak against Bruce’s lips. - You okay?

Bruce nodded, swallowing. - More than okay.

Their foreheads touched. Clark’s hands framed Bruce’s waist, thumbs brushing over his ribs. They kissed again, this time slower, deeper, teeth grazing, tongues lazily exploring as the heat between their bodies began to build once more - not fiery and frantic, but slow and simmering. A morning kind of hunger.

They weren’t rushing.

The kiss deepened like a breath held too long - slow at first, then hungry. Clark’s hand slid to the back of Bruce’s neck, fingers threading through his hair as their mouths moved together, open and wet, tongues brushing in rhythm. It was softer than the night before, but no less desperate. 

If anything, the quiet made it feel louder somehow - like the air itself buzzed with the weight of everything they hadn’t yet said.

Bruce let out a soft sound into Clark’s mouth, one that made Clark grip him tighter, pull him closer.

Hands roamed now, no longer tentative. Clark’s palm dragged down the curve of Bruce’s spine, the pads of his fingers skimming along every ridge, memorizing him all over again. Bruce’s arms tightened around his shoulders, anchoring him there, refusing the space that tried to rise between them.

Their hips shifted against each other, the friction immediate, electric - just fabric separating them now, and even that felt like too much.

Bruce’s hand moved between them, fingers curling at the waistband of Clark’s briefs. He paused, just a beat, eyes flicking up to meet Clark’s - dark and certain.

Then he tugged them down, slow and firm, knuckles grazing along heated skin. Clark exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed as the cool air hit him, then opened again when Bruce’s hands moved to his thighs, pulling him closer still.

Clark responded in kind. 

His own fingers hooked beneath the thin waistband of Bruce’s underwear - what little was left between them - and he dragged it down in one smooth motion, not looking away. Bruce lifted his hips, letting it fall to the side, and now, finally, there was nothing.

Nothing between them but skin.

Warm, flushed, aching skin.

Their bodies aligned again - hard against hard, chest to chest, breath to breath. The heat was almost unbearable, but neither of them pulled away.

Clark leaned down and kissed him again - slower this time, but with more weight. More need. Bruce’s fingers curled into his hair, holding him there, and Clark let himself be held.

No words passed between them. They didn’t need them. Everything they hadn’t said - everything that lived in the ever since Clark moved in to protect him, in stolen glances, in the way Clark was ready to sacrifice his own life before Bruce’s - it was all here now.

In the way their bodies moved.

In the way Clark rocked against him, their hips aligning, slick and aching, every brush of skin sending shivers up Bruce’s spine.

In the way Bruce’s legs curled around Clark’s hips, pulling him in, whispering don’t go without saying it aloud.

Desire bloomed again, unspoken but undeniable - this urgent, breathless need to feel everything all over again.

Clark hovered above Bruce for a breathless moment, his chest rising and falling as he looked down at the man beneath him - flushed, open, wanting. The kiss they’d just shared still buzzed on his lips, but the hunger was shifting now. It curled low in his stomach, heady and electric, more than just need - it was craving .

He pressed one last kiss to Bruce’s mouth, slow and deliberate, then leaned close to his ear. - Turn over, - he whispered, voice low and thick.

Bruce didn’t hesitate.

He shifted beneath Clark, rolling onto his stomach, forearms folded beneath the pillow as his hips lifted just slightly, breath already quickening. The muscles along his back flexed beneath Clark’s touch as he trailed his fingers down his spine - tracing each ridge like he’d been waiting to do it forever.

Clark settled behind him, pressing soft kisses between his shoulder blades. 

Lower. Slower. 

His lips followed the slope of Bruce’s back, the curve of his waist, teeth grazing now and then just to feel Bruce twitch beneath him. Bruce’s thighs parted a little wider, welcoming the press of Clark’s body, his trust laid bare in the quiet morning light.

- You’re perfect like this, - Clark breathed, kneeling between his legs.

He let his hands glide over Bruce’s hips, his thumbs brushing along the creases of his thighs. 

He leaned in again, kissing lower, spreading him gently, reverently. Bruce let out a soft, broken breath when Clark’s lips ghosted over the small of his back, then lower still - teasing, tasting, claiming .

Clark took his time.

He kissed him there - between soft gasps and whispered curses - tongue warm and wet and patient, licking gentle stripes over his entrance, fingers spreading him wider with each careful movement. Bruce arched into the sensation, one hand fisting the sheets, the other clutching the pillow like he might break it in two.

And Clark didn’t stop.

He moaned softly against him, like he could get drunk on the taste of Bruce’s skin alone. He opened him with his mouth, tongue circling, coaxing, and when Bruce pressed back, needy and trembling, Clark’s hand snuck beneath him - wrapping around him, stroking slow and sure.

Bruce cried out, body twitching with each movement —-Clark’s tongue, Clark’s hand, the heat of Clark’s breath ghosting over his spine. He was coming undone already, and Clark hadn't even taken him fully yet.

- Clark, - Bruce gasped, voice hoarse, - please -

Clark pulled back only slightly, just enough to press a kiss to the small of his back again. Then reached for the drawer, for the familiar essentials waiting inside.

- I’ve got you, " he said softly. - I’ll give you everything.

And he meant it. Every word.

Clark’s breath caught as he rolled the protection on, hands a little shaky, not from nerves - but from how much this meant. How much Bruce meant.

Bruce stayed just as he was, hips raised, arms braced beneath him. His head turned slightly to the side, cheek pressed to the pillow, chest rising in shallow, heated breaths. Every inch of him was stretched in quiet invitation - willing, ready, his .

Clark reached out and ran both hands down Bruce’s back - thumbs brushing along the indent of his spine - before gripping his hips and shifting forward. He kissed the curve of Bruce’s shoulder, nuzzling there for a moment, like a grounding breath before the plunge.

- I’m right here, - he whispered, his voice low, rich with promise.

He lined himself up, his tip brushing against Bruce’s entrance - warm, slick, open. Bruce’s fingers curled tighter in the sheets. A shudder ran through his thighs.

Clark moved slowly.

The first push was careful, just enough to let Bruce feel him, to give him a second to breathe through the stretch. Bruce groaned, low and guttural, hips twitching back toward him. Clark’s fingers gripped tighter at his sides.

- God, - he murmured, - you feel - so good.

Bruce’s reply was barely a sound, just a gasped breath and a subtle press back, wordless but pleading.

Clark slid deeper, inch by inch, until he bottomed out, hips flush against Bruce’s skin. They both stilled there, overwhelmed - Clark’s forehead pressed between Bruce’s shoulders, Bruce trembling beneath the weight of it all.

The heat that simmered before now began to build.

Clark drew back slowly, then pressed in again. Once. Twice. Each time a little deeper, a little more sure. Bruce’s body welcomed him - tensed, trembling, but so open. 

So his .

Then the rhythm began to build. Their bodies found the right pace. A cadence pulled from instinct, from days of repressed want and a night that had broken every wall between them.

Clark moved harder, faster now - each thrust driving a gasp out of Bruce’s throat. His hands were firm on Bruce’s hips, pulling him back into each movement. Sweat gathered between their bodies, slick and hot, the sound of skin meeting skin growing louder as the room filled with the sounds of their bodies - of breath, of moans, of want crashing into need.

Bruce’s hand slipped beneath him, gripping himself, matching the rhythm Clark had set. His head dropped, mouth parted, every sound tumbling free now - no shame, no silence.

Clark leaned over him, his chest flush to Bruce’s back, mouth at his ear. - I’m not stopping, - he rasped. - Not until you come again.

Bruce whimpered, body tightening.

And Clark kept moving - relentless now, each thrust hitting deeper, sharper. The bed shifted beneath them, the mattress groaning in protest, but Clark didn’t care. Nothing mattered except the way Bruce felt beneath him. The way he sounded. The way they fit.

There was nothing between them now. No secrets. No walls. Just this. Just them.

Clark’s name left Bruce’s mouth again - louder this time, shaking, raw. And Clark, with one last thrust that sent shivers down both their spines, swore he saw stars behind his eyes.

And still - he didn’t let go. Not yet. Not until Bruce shattered all over again.

Clark didn’t hold back anymore.

The tenderness was still there - woven into every kiss, every breath, every low murmur of Bruce’s name - but the restraint was gone. It burned away with the heat rolling through his spine, with the sounds Bruce made beneath him, with the way Bruce arched into every thrust like he needed it more than air.

He gripped Bruce’s hips tighter, dragged him back against each movement, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the sunlit room. His rhythm was powerful now - unrelenting - but not careless. Never that. He knew Bruce’s body like he’d been dreaming of it for years, because he had.

Every angle. Every reaction. The way Bruce gasped when Clark went just a little deeper. The low groan he gave when Clark leaned in and pressed his chest to Bruce’s back, moving harder, faster. The small, helpless sounds he made when Clark’s hand slid around his waist to stroke him in rhythm.

- You take me so well, - Clark growled against the sweat-slick skin of Bruce’s neck, his voice low, hot, ragged. - Like you were made for me.

Bruce couldn’t form a reply - only a broken noise in the back of his throat as his head dropped forward, overwhelmed. His fingers dug into the mattress, into the sheets, into anything he could hold to keep himself grounded.

Clark drove into him again - deep, rough, reverent - every thrust an unspoken confession, days of tension melting into motion. His curls stuck to his forehead. His body trembled. The pressure inside him coiled tighter and tighter with each passing second.

But he held out - he had to . Had to feel Bruce fall apart beneath him first.

- You close? - he panted, lips brushing Bruce’s ear.

Bruce nodded with a sound that was part moan, part plea.

Clark’s hand worked faster, perfectly in time with his hips. - Come for me, Bruce. I want to feel you lose it.

That was all it took.

Bruce shattered with a cry - his whole body locking up, then trembling violently, his release pulsing through him in waves. He shook, gasped, felt . And Clark never stopped moving.

Watching Bruce fall apart like that - feeling him tighten, hearing his voice break on Clark’s name - it undid something in him.

Clark cursed softly, head tipping back, stars bursting behind his eyes as he finally let go. He pressed in deep one final time and came with a strangled breath, hips stuttering, hands shaking from the force of it.

They stayed like that - still joined, bodies slick and panting, the world narrowed to heat and skin and sweat. The inferno still glowed low in their limbs.

Eventually, Clark sank down, wrapping an arm around Bruce’s chest, pulling him close against his front. He buried his face in the space between Bruce’s shoulder blades and kissed the skin there.

No words yet.

Just breath.

Just them .

And the fire - that wild, consuming fire - finally settling into something warmer. Steady. Real.

Chapter Text

A few days had passed, and the silence in the manor had changed.

It wasn’t peace, not really. Gotham didn’t do peace. 

It simmered instead - the city’s heartbeat a low, constant pulse beneath cracked sidewalks and rain-guttered rooftops. Sirens still echoed in the distance like ghosts refusing to rest, and the wind still whistled through alleyways with stories it wouldn’t share. But the chaos had, for now, stilled. And as Bruce stood near the tall window of the east corridor, the city spread out beneath the heavy sky, he wondered if this was what healing looked like - not quiet, not stillness, but a breath caught just before the next storm.

The television buzzed softly behind him in the drawing room, echoing through the stillness of the manor. Bella Reál’s voice, calm but firm, played across the small screen, her face determined against the backdrop of Gotham’s damaged skyline.

“We will rebuild... but not just our city. We must rebuild people’s faith. In our institutions, in our elected officials, in each other. Together, we will learn to believe in Gotham again.”

Bruce exhaled slowly. He hadn’t spoken to her since the funeral. Not really. 

And yet, her words reverberated through him now, clashing against the old beliefs he’d been forged in - the ones Alfred taught him to question, the ones Clark’s presence had begun to soften.

The city was rebuilding.

But not everything broken could be neatly stitched.

His fingers brushed against the faint bruising on his arms, a quiet reminder of all that had happened - the Riddler’s plan, the chaos that had followed, the boy in his arms, the wreckage in the mayor’s office. And Clark. 

Always, now, Clark .

He thought of the waterline that still soaked the lower edges of Gotham’s oldest districts, the buildings torn open like old wounds. And in those wounds, he saw himself.

The city’s angry. Scarred. Like me .

He had said those words - maybe only to himself - in the quiet dark of his bedroom one night, unable to sleep, the weight of the past clawing through his ribs. But they never left him. They circled him like ghosts, waiting to be acknowledged.

Our scars can destroy us... even after the physical wounds have healed. But if we survive them... they can transform us. They can give us the power... to endure. And the strength to fight.

He thought of Alfred’s hand trembling in his. Of the boy he saved, silent and clinging to him like a lifeline. Of Clark at the doorway, with sleep-heavy eyes and that look - the one that somehow saw everything Bruce tried to hide.

Bruce had lived a long time in the shadow of his pain. It had been his fuel, his fire, his reason. But now... maybe it was also a door. One he could walk through, even if it hurt.

The manor still smelled faintly of smoke and disinfectant. Some wings were sealed off for repair. Others remained untouched - like the corridor he stood in now, where the light broke through the tall stained windows and pooled like molten gold on the dust-heavy floor.

He turned from the window, walking slowly toward the living room, where the news still murmured, and his footsteps echoed like heartbeats. He wasn’t sure what came next. The Riddler was caught. The plan was stopped. But Gotham was still sick. Its wounds were deep. Its ghosts still watching.

But maybe now... he wouldn’t be alone in facing them.

Maybe now, he didn’t have to be .

The light shifted across the polished floors as the sun crept higher, streaks of gold melting through the grey. Bruce stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back, staring at nothing in particular - yet his mind was loud, relentless. 

He didn’t flinch when the coffee in the kitchen machine sputtered behind him, didn’t move when a distant breeze creaked one of the high windows open. The silence in the manor had never felt this hollow. Not even after the funeral. 

Not even after Alfred’s near death.

The truth was... he didn’t know what to do next. Not in the usual sense - he knew how to fight, how to protect, how to dig until his hands bled from gripping the edges of his own obsession. But this? Rebuilding something he never really let himself believe in? Gotham ?

That was different.

That required a different kind of strength.

And maybe for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure if he had it.

His jaw tensed as he paced slowly past the remnants of his father’s study, now only half lit from the outside. The name Wayne had once meant something in this city. It stood for power. 

For dignity. For legacy. 

And for a long time, Bruce had wanted no part of it. He’d buried himself in darkness instead, in solitude, in the endless obsession of hunting men who wore masks - never realizing he was wearing one too.

The Riddler had pulled something rotten from Gotham’s bones. He held a mirror up to the filth and made it sing. And somewhere in the reflection, Bruce saw himself - complicit. Silent. Removed.

He thought of the orphanage.

He thought of the children who still walked through flooded halls in worn shoes and hollow stomachs. Of the kids who watched the news with empty eyes, seeing nothing of themselves in the billionaires who shaped their city. Not until one of them finally snapped. Not until a broken child became a monster - and made it everyone else’s problem.

Bruce’s throat tightened.

What if Alfred was right? All those talks. All those years of quiet pleading in his voice: “You need to be more than a legacy, Bruce. You need to live in it.”
And Bruce had shrugged it off. Ignored the galas, the invitations, the charities that bore his family’s name but none of his effort.

It had always felt so far from him. Fake. Performative. What good was a handshake or a smile when blood soaked Gotham’s gutters?

But now, he wasn’t sure that was enough.

Maybe there was strength in being seen. In showing up. Maybe you couldn’t ask people to believe in a city you didn’t stand in yourself.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back. The exhaustion clung to his skin, but something else sparked beneath it - faint but steady. The embers of resolve.

He would need to go public again. 

Not just as Bruce Wayne, but as someone active . Someone present . The Wayne Foundation had collected dust for too long. Its funds allocated, yes, but its figurehead absent. That needed to change.

He needed to change.

And God, it would be uncomfortable. Socialization was a battlefield of its own - all the fake smiles, the small talk, the weight of being seen and known. But maybe discomfort was the point. Maybe that was how you grew .

Maybe that was how you rebuilt faith - not in masks or myths, but in showing up and staying, even when it hurt.

He glanced toward the corridor leading to his room - the one Clark had walked down just hours ago. The image of him standing there, hair still damp, the quiet strength in his eyes - it lingered.

He wasn’t alone in this. Not anymore.

And maybe now, that was enough to start.

The sky above Gotham was a shifting sheet of dull gray, clouds pressing low like the weight on Clark’s chest. Rain threatened but hadn’t fallen yet, though the air was thick with the scent of it - wet concrete, coppery ozone, and smoke lingering faintly from the weeks of chaos the city had endured. He stood with his hands folded in front of him, planted just beyond the arched drive of Wayne Manor, the grand house looming like a silent witness behind him.

It was too quiet.

A sharp wind tugged at the hem of his dark jacket as he waited, unmoving, eyes fixed on the curve of the distant road. At any moment now, General Lane’s car would pull into view - sleek, black, and faceless like every government vehicle Clark had ever known. It would arrive without ceremony, as cold and detached as the orders that came with it. And with it, the understanding that his assignment here was over.

The threat was neutralized. 

The Riddler, locked away in Arkham, had stopped speaking. Gotham was trying to mend itself, frayed and bleeding at the edges. And Bruce Wayne - by every technical measure - was safe.

But Clark couldn’t make himself believe it.

And worse, he didn’t want to go.

He ran a thumb slowly across the back of his opposite hand, grounding himself in the gesture. The air was heavier here - not just Gotham’s infamous gloom but something more intimate. The kind of weight that came from feeling too much , from knowing he’d crossed a line somewhere along the way and never wanted to go back.

Because somewhere between the late-night patrols and near-death chaos, between hushed conversations and shared silences in the dark, Bruce Wayne had become more than just a client. And Clark had stopped pretending otherwise a long time ago.

It wasn’t just about duty anymore. 

It wasn’t about the job, the paycheck, or even the mission. It was about him . About the man who carried grief like armor and guilt like breath. About the way Bruce looked at him when he was unguarded, when the rest of the world wasn’t watching. About how Clark’s fingers still remembered the feel of his skin, his pulse, his trust.

He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. The idea of walking away - just stepping out of Bruce’s life now that the danger had seemingly passed - felt wrong . Like abandoning something he hadn’t even begun to understand yet.

But what could he do? General Lane wasn’t the kind of man you said no to easily. His presence was always a reminder that Clark wasn’t just anyone - that he belonged to something larger, something colder, more demanding. And yet, standing here, his feet rooted to this foreign, crumbling ground, Clark Kent had never felt more human . 

And more torn.

He reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing over his phone, wondering if he should say something - if he should tell Bruce now before the dark car came curling around that bend. Before uniforms stepped out and handed him reassignment papers. Before the distance between them solidified into something permanent.

But still he stood there, motionless, heart thudding behind his ribs. The gate stayed empty. The wind blew. His mind raced.

Because the truth was, he didn’t want to be reassigned.

He wanted to stay.

With Bruce.

Even if that meant nothing made sense anymore.

Even if it cost him everything.

The long, black car moved like a shadow over water - gliding silently across the mist-wet gravel of Wayne Manor’s front drive. Even before it rolled to a full stop, Clark Kent could feel it - like a storm was about to step out of it wearing military-grade boots.

He stood tall beneath the stone archway that framed the manor’s entry, the gray morning curling coldly around him. Gotham was quiet now, but not calm. The silence felt deceptive. Like the city itself was holding its breath.

Clark’s shoulders were tense beneath his dark sweater, the fabric soaked through in parts from the fading drizzle. His eyes locked on the car door as it opened with a soft, metallic groan.

Out stepped General Sam Lane - military-cut coat buttoned to his throat, black leather gloves, polished boots, and that unreadable look Clark had grown up studying. It had been years since Clark had seen him in person. And yet, nothing had changed.

Not the weight of the man. Not the cold authority in his gaze.

Clark gave a nod. - Sir.

Lane’s eyes scanned him, and for a moment Clark felt like a cadet again - eighteen years old, standing too straight in a uniform that never quite fit. That feeling lodged in his ribs.

- Kent, - Lane returned evenly. - Walk with me.

He didn’t wait for a reply.

Clark fell into step beside him, boots crunching softly against the gravel path that wound around the eastern side of the manor. The trees were dark above them, leaves slick with last night’s rain, casting crooked shadows on the stone.

They walked in silence for a moment, the wind threading between them. It carried the scent of petrichor and old soil, that lingering, ghostly perfume of Gotham after a storm.

Lane was the first to speak.

- I’ve read the incident reports. The GCPD has the Riddler in custody. His apartment’s been secured. You kept Wayne alive.

It wasn’t a compliment. Just facts. Cold as iron.

Clark said nothing. His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked along his cheek.

Lane shot him a glance. - But you didn’t report in.

- I was… occupied, - Clark murmured, eyes fixed on the path ahead.

- Occupied, - Lane repeated dryly. - You were sent here with one objective. That mission is now complete.

Clark stopped walking. The wind shifted. The air between them grew taut.

- I’m not done, - he said quietly, but with resolve that sat like lead in his chest.

Lane turned, one brow raised.

Clark faced him fully now. - The Riddler was just the start. He didn’t act alone - maybe not directly - but there are others out there. His message sparked something. Bruce Wayne is still a target, and this city… - He paused, breath fogging the air. - This city’s not finished bleeding.

Lane’s stare hardened. - So this is about the job? Or something else?

Clark didn’t blink. - It’s about doing the right thing.

But the truth hovered underneath. Electric. Raw. It was about him . Bruce. Every shadowed hallway. Every sleepless night Clark spent listening for his footsteps. Every stolen glance that lasted a breath too long. Every time Bruce flinched when no one else was watching.

Lane exhaled through his nose. - You’re emotionally compromised.

Clark didn’t deny it. - Then maybe that’s why I should stay.

The General studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. A gust of wind sent leaves skittering across the damp stone. Somewhere, a church bell rang distantly through the mist, slow and heavy.

Finally, Lane nodded. Just once.

- I’ll inform Washington. You’re off the record as of this moment. As far as they’re concerned, your assignment is finished.

Clark’s chest lifted, barely.

Lane wasn’t done.

- You stay here, Kent… it’s on you. No oversight. No backup. No fail-safes. You’re not protected anymore.

- I know, - Clark said. - I’m not here to be protected.

- You better be damn sure, - Lane murmured. - Because you’re not the first to let the line blur.

Clark met his eyes. - No. But I intend to be the last.

Lane held his stare another moment, then turned without another word. His coat fluttered in the breeze as he headed back down the path. The gravel under his steps was the only sound in the world.

The car door opened. Closed. Then, like the shadow it had arrived as, it pulled away into the Gotham mist, leaving nothing behind but the echo of finality.

Clark stood alone.

His breath was slow. Steady. But his thoughts raced beneath it like a heartbeat underwater.

He turned slowly, gazing back toward the manor.

Back toward the dark windows. The iron balconies. The silhouette of the man inside - tired, haunted, more alone than anyone he’d ever met - and Clark knew, without question, without hesitation:

He was staying.

Not because he was ordered to.

But because Bruce Wayne needed someone who wouldn’t leave.

The manor was quiet in a way that felt unnatural.

Bruce stood by the window of the east wing’s study — the one that overlooked the circular gravel drive and the long, winding path to the gates. Pale morning light filtered through the clouds, casting the room in a cold, silver-blue glow. Dust hung in the air like forgotten thoughts, drifting through stillness that felt almost sacred.

His hand rested on the cool glass, fingertips aching faintly from the pressure. It was the only thing grounding him as his eyes locked on the figure below.

Clark.

Still there.

Still standing outside long after the dark car had pulled away - a black silhouette swallowed by the mists of Gotham's hinterlands. General Lane’s departure should’ve meant the end of it. The mission. The bodyguard detail. The constant presence of a man Bruce had grown used to in ways he didn’t want to admit.

And yet Clark remained.

He stood like a sentry at the edge of a dream, his broad frame half-shrouded by the fog that crept low across the ground. He wasn’t looking up. Wasn’t doing anything at all, really. Just… existing. Still. Unmoving. Like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

Neither was Bruce.

He told himself this wasn’t new. He was used to watching people walk away. From the windows. From his life. From whatever brittle pieces of himself he’d offered over the years. It had always been easier when they left. When the decision was made for him. Less risk. Less mess.

But this felt different. Like a decision hadn’t been made yet - and he was waiting, with lungs tight and heart taut as wire, for the moment it would be.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. Long enough for the cold from the window to seep into his skin. Long enough for the breath in his chest to become unbearable.

Then, finally, Clark moved.

But not away.

Toward the manor.

Bruce’s breath caught. His fingers curled against the glass like he could reach through it, drag the man back if he dared vanish again. But no - the front doors creaked open, the sound echoing through the cavernous halls like the first note of something unfamiliar.

Footsteps followed. Heavy, purposeful, measured.

Then, from the doorway behind him:

- I’m staying.

Bruce didn’t turn. He couldn’t. The words hit harder than he expected - clean and simple, but soaked in something heavier. Something irrevocable.

- I told General Lane my assignment is complete. He’s gone, - Clark said, voice softer now, carrying that easy steadiness that always wrapped itself around Bruce’s nerves like warm cloth. - But I’m not leaving.

The silence that followed stretched thin as a knife’s edge. Bruce’s eyes burned. The air inside the manor felt thick and old, like it hadn’t been touched by something alive in years.

Finally, he turned.

Clark was standing in the doorway like he belonged there. Not like a soldier on guard or a guest overstaying his welcome - but like a constant. Like something this place had always been waiting for.

His dark hair was still wet at the temples, curling slightly from the rain. His jaw tense, eyes searching, serious. There was something in the way he stood - shoulders firm, expression unreadable - that made Bruce’s pulse skip.

He didn’t want to hear it. And yet he needed to.

- Why? - Bruce asked, his voice rough from disuse and tension. - The job’s done. There’s nothing left to protect.

Clark stepped forward, slowly, like he was crossing a threshold more intimate than the one carved into the floor.

- I’m not staying because I’m assigned to you, " he said gently. - I’m staying because of you.

Bruce’s stomach twisted, hard and fast. He didn’t flinch, but his hands curled at his sides, knuckles pale.

- You don’t know what you’re asking for, - he murmured.

- Then tell me.

Bruce’s gaze dropped to the floor, searching for something safe to look at - the edge of the rug, the flicker of dust motes, the dull gleam of polished wood. But there was nothing safer than Clark’s eyes. Nothing more terrifying, either.

He looked back up.

Clark was close now. Not touching. Just near. And near, for Bruce, had always been the most dangerous place to keep someone.

- I don’t know how to be someone worth staying for, - he said, voice cracking around the words.

Clark didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just breathed with him.

- You don’t have to know how, - he said. - You just have to want it.

Bruce closed his eyes for a second, jaw tight, the ache behind his ribs building into something hot and electric and impossible. He’d built walls tall enough to block out grief. Armor thick enough to keep desire at bay. But this man - this impossibly good, impossibly real man - was slipping through all of it.

One breath at a time.

Bruce opened his eyes again, and Clark was still there.

- Let me be the one who stays, - Clark said, voice barely above a whisper now. - Let me choose you.

There was no thunder. No swelling music. Just a long, quiet moment in which Bruce finally let the silence crack - and let someone in.

He took a step closer. Then another.

Their foreheads nearly touched, breath shared in the narrow space between them.

And for once, Bruce didn’t retreat.

He just breathed - and stayed.

Chapter Text

The water ran in a steady rhythm, echoing through the tiled walls like a heartbeat too loud to ignore.

Steam clung to the air in ghostly whorls, curling up from the heat and blurring the gilded edges of the mirror across the room. It was early - before the world had shaken off the weight of sleep, before the manor’s long corridors came alive with the subtle movements of breath and waking. Outside, the sky bled slowly from charcoal into bone-white. The kind of morning that felt like it existed outside of time.

Bruce stood beneath the stream of water, his head bowed forward, palms braced flat against the cool marble wall. Droplets slid in winding paths down his back, following the curvature of old scars and tired muscle. His skin glowed faintly pink from the heat, shoulders rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths - like he was trying to keep himself here, tethered in this moment.

The warmth soaked into him like a lullaby. Like hands he didn’t deserve.

The shower had always been a place to disappear. 

To let the world fall away with the grime, the bruises, the blood. But today the water couldn’t wash away the thoughts. They clung to him more tightly than anything else ever had.

Clark. Still here.

Still in his house. Still choosing him.

It didn’t make sense - not to the logic Bruce had lived his whole life by. Clark could’ve walked away yesterday. Could’ve gotten in that black car, closed the door, and never looked back. Could’ve saluted the mission and let it die with the Riddler’s capture.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

The words echoed through Bruce’s skull like a psalm he didn’t know how to pray to. I’m staying. Let me choose you. Like a hymn carried through dust-choked chapels. Like a mercy he hadn’t dared ask for.

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut under the stream of water, jaw clenched. The pressure behind his ribs felt unbearable. Not pain - not exactly. More like a fullness. Like something inside him expanding too fast, too much, pressing against the edges of what he thought he could hold.

He wasn’t used to permanence. To people who remained after the job was done. His world had always been built on transactions, masked affection, and silent departures. He’d learned not to need. Not to ask.

But Clark was a fault line. He moved through Bruce’s life with quiet conviction, splitting him open with nothing more than a glance, a hand on his shoulder, a truth spoken plainly in the dark.

And now, he was still here.

Maybe just down the hall. Maybe still asleep in the guest room that never really felt like someone else’s anymore. Or maybe walking the garden path with his shirt tugged halfway down and that sleep-soft look in his eyes, the one that made Bruce forget how to breathe.

The thought made his throat tighten.

He let his head fall forward, forehead resting against the wet stone, and tried to exhale the ache out of his lungs.

What did it mean - to be chosen? To be wanted , not out of obligation, but in full view of his worst parts?

Clark had seen them. He’d seen the way Bruce shut down. The way he snapped, turned cold, disappeared into his own mind when the weight got too heavy. He’d seen the bruises Bruce gave himself just to stay numb. The restless pacing. The eyes that didn’t know how to look forward - only back.

And still, he stayed.

The water began to cool slightly, a faint reminder that the world moved on even when Bruce didn’t. But he stayed where he was, letting it pour over his shoulders, watching it run down his arms in translucent threads.

He thought about the way Clark looked at him. Not with pity. Not with awe. Just... with.

As if Bruce wasn’t a broken cathedral, but something holy in its ruin.

He wanted to believe in that. He wanted to believe in the kind of story where someone like Clark could want someone like him - all of him. The silences. The damage. The darkness that lived just beneath his skin like a second heart.

But wanting was dangerous. And Bruce had never been good at surviving soft things.

Still… he couldn’t ignore the shift inside him. The quiet hunger for something more. The ache for hands that didn’t leave. The desperate, unfamiliar hope that maybe - just maybe - he didn’t have to be alone in this house anymore. That maybe love didn’t have to look like losing.

He breathed in, slow and deep.

The water had cooled to a heavy warmth - no longer scalding, but dense with the weight of morning stillness. Bruce remained where he stood, water threading through his hair, across the nape of his neck, down the long line of his spine like a thousand liquid fingers tracing the path of tension carved deep into him.

His eyes were half-lidded, breath steady, chest rising and falling in slow intervals. Yet nothing about him was calm.

His mind was still chasing itself in circles, heart thudding like it didn’t know how to slow. He had told himself he wouldn’t get used to this - to him . To the closeness of Clark Kent in his home, in his life, in the corners of his world Bruce never let anyone near. And yet, even now, some piece of him waited for it. For the sound of quiet footsteps. For the warmth that came not from the water, but from him.

He didn’t hear the bathroom door open.

Didn’t hear the subtle shift of fabric sliding off a body or the faint creak of the glass door as it opened behind him.

But he felt it.

The press of presence. The change in the air.

And then - touch.

Strong hands came to rest on his hips, grounding him. A chest against his back. Warmth that wasn’t from the water. A breath against the side of his neck.

Bruce exhaled like something inside him had been unknotted without warning.

Clark didn’t say a word.

He just slid closer, the wet sound of skin against skin echoing softly in the steam-thick stall. One of his hands moved up - splayed across Bruce’s abdomen, fingers spanning the muscle there like they belonged. The other curled around Bruce’s shoulder, steadying them both.

And then Clark pressed his lips to the wet skin behind Bruce’s ear - slowly, reverently - like it was a prayer, not a kiss.

Bruce shivered beneath the contact. Not from cold. Not from shock. But from the unbearable tenderness of it. The way Clark touched him like he wasn’t afraid of the cracks. Like he knew them. Counted them. 

Wanted them.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to find Clark’s mouth with his own.

The kiss was deep from the start.

All wet heat and quiet need, mouths sliding together with the kind of hunger that had waited too long to be named. Clark kissed like he meant it - like each stroke of his tongue was a promise, like every gasp that passed between them was a secret he didn’t want back.

Bruce reached back blindly, hand finding Clark’s thigh, then his waist, pulling him closer until they were chest to back, hip to hip, everything touching. He felt Clark’s arousal slide against him, hard and slick, and the sensation pulled a sharp, involuntary sound from his throat.

Clark groaned low, deep in his chest - and Bruce felt it through him.

The heat between them swelled. Not just from the shower, but from skin, from friction, from the unbearable ache of two bodies learning the language of each other like it was the only one that mattered.

Clark moved a hand between them, fingers skimming down Bruce’s stomach until they both gasped - erections pressed together now, flushed and sliding against one another in the slickness of heat and water and desperation. There was nothing hurried in it - only depth . Slow, deliberate, grounding. A claiming not of possession, but of presence. 

Of being here.

Bruce let his head fall back onto Clark’s shoulder, eyes fluttering closed, mouth parted with quiet gasps as Clark held him close and moved with him in the rhythm of need and understanding.

They said nothing. They didn’t have to.

Everything unspoken was in the way Clark kissed the line of Bruce’s jaw. In the way Bruce reached behind to clutch at the back of Clark’s thigh, needing him closer, needing him real.

They breathed together like it was the only thing that tethered them to the earth.

Two bodies. One rhythm.

The sound of water. Skin. Breath. And being.

They didn’t chase release - not yet. This wasn’t about that. This was about the knowing . About letting each other in beneath the armor, beneath the noise, beneath the wounds. Here, wrapped in heat and steam and morning silence, they were nothing but truth.

And for the first time, Bruce didn’t flinch from it.

Clark didn’t need words.

He never did - not with Bruce.

He let his body speak instead.

With the way he kissed Bruce like he’d been dying for it. With the way his hands roamed down his chest, mapping him with reverence and hunger alike. With the way his grip tightened just a little - possessive, not cruel - as though anchoring them both to this moment.

Then he moved. Strong arms slid under Bruce’s thighs.

And just like that - lifted him.

Effortless. Fluid. Like Bruce weighed nothing at all.

Bruce's back left the slick stone beneath their feet, his arms instinctively wrapping around Clark’s neck. The sudden shift, the surprising power of it - of being held, pinned, wanted with such force - stole the breath from his lungs.

Clark carried him the short distance back until Bruce’s shoulders met the cool, wet tiles of the shower wall.

The contrast of heat and chill made Bruce gasp. His legs tightened around Clark’s waist. Their mouths collided again, open and unforgiving now - no longer slow. This wasn’t tenderness anymore. This was ache. This was a fire that had gone too long unfed.

Clark kissed him like a man possessed - lips bruising, tongue pushing past all resistance, all restraint. One hand gripped under Bruce’s thigh, the other pressing hard into the wall beside his head, keeping him caged there, completely his.

Bruce groaned against his mouth - low, hoarse, feral.

And Clark answered with motion.

He didn’t ask. 

Didn’t speak.

He just moved.

Bruce felt the head of his cock sliding against him, slippery with water and want, angling lower, slower, until it found where it needed to be. The anticipation made Bruce shudder, a broken moan escaping his lips as Clark pressed in - deep.

No barrier. No pause. Just him.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t gentle. It was real.

Bruce arched, breath caught in his throat, nails scraping down Clark’s back. He had never felt so full. So claimed . The stretch was intense, biting and beautiful all at once. But Clark held him, bore him, worshiped him through it.

And then Clark began to move.

Hard. Sure. Unrelenting.

The rhythm wasn’t rushed - it was purposeful. Raw. His hips slammed forward, each thrust pushing Bruce further up against the wall, pulling gasps from his throat that echoed in the tiled stall like a prayer spoken in tongues.

Their bodies moved like storm and sea - colliding, crashing, needing.

Water poured over them, a cascade of heat trailing down muscle and sinew, steam wrapping them in a shroud of secrecy. The wet slap of skin echoed, punctuated only by the ragged sounds of breath and the occasional bite of a name.

- Bruce…

Spoken like a vow. Like an ache.

Bruce’s head fell back, hitting the tile with a dull thud, his mouth open, gasping. He couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. His body burned. His mind was wrecked. And yet it was perfect . Because Clark was there - surrounding him, inside him, his.

The hand on his thigh squeezed tighter, grounding him. Keeping him from falling apart completely.

Clark angled his thrusts now - deeper, sharper, hitting something that made Bruce cry out, his whole body clenching around him. It was too much. It was not enough.

- Clark -

It was half-warning, half-plea.

Clark answered by slamming into him harder, rough kisses chasing the curve of Bruce’s jaw, his ear, his throat. And still he moved - like this was everything he had held back until now, everything he couldn’t say with words poured into his thrusts instead.

Each movement was brutal in its honesty.

And Bruce took it all. Welcomed it. Needed it.

Because in this - in Clark’s strength, in his heat, in the way he held him like he was the center of gravity - Bruce could finally let go.

Could finally feel without retreating. Could believe in something.

And as Clark drove into him, breath ragged, forehead pressed to his, Bruce knew - this wasn’t just about sex.

It was about surrender.

It was about finally being seen.

The rhythm turned primal.

Clark held Bruce like a man gripped by something beyond reason - the edges of control fraying fast, instincts overriding all else. He kept Bruce pinned against the slick wall, thighs tight around his waist, and thrust into him again - and again - and again , each movement stealing the breath from Bruce’s lungs and replacing it with fire.

Bruce clung to him, a low, guttural sound rising from his throat, more beast than man. His head pressed against Clark’s, foreheads touching, teeth grazing against each other’s lips, as their breath mingled - wet, desperate, heated.

Water poured over their bodies like baptism, a curtain of steam cocooning them in white heat, making their muscles slick, their skin glass-smooth and burning. It wasn’t just water anymore - it was sweat and sex and tension dissolving into the shower tiles, running down Clark’s spine and Bruce’s thighs, the sound of it mingling with the ragged slap of hips colliding.

Clark moved like he was chasing something sacred in Bruce.

And Bruce gave it - all of it - willingly, achingly, completely.

Every inch of him spread open to Clark’s claiming, every groan torn from his throat begging for more, for deeper, for harder.

- Clark, - Bruce gasped, the name dragged from him like a confession.

Clark’s answer came with his whole body - a thrust so deep it knocked a cry loose from Bruce’s mouth, one that echoed off the walls, raw and ruined. 

He could feel him - all of him. Hot, thick, perfect - buried to the hilt. Their chests pressed together with each motion, abs flexing, sliding, contracting. Clark’s jaw clenched near his neck, his breaths sharp and huffing against Bruce’s damp skin.

It was almost too much. The friction. The fullness. The rhythm that was no longer steady but frantic - wild.

Bruce was unraveling. 

Coming apart under the weight of Clark’s body, under the sheer intensity of the moment. His cock was trapped between them, leaking against Clark’s stomach with every grinding motion, his body begging for release even as he held on - needing to feel Clark’s end first.

He wanted to feel it.

Clark’s voice broke in his ear - a deep, strangled growl.

- Can’t -  Bruce - I’m -

That was the only warning.

Because then Clark snapped.

His hips slammed forward with brutal urgency, burying himself deeper than before, one final time - and then he came.

Hot. Violent. Real.

Bruce felt it, pulsing inside him - a flood of heat, spilling into him like something sacred and filthy at once. He gasped, legs tightening instinctively around Clark’s waist, holding him there as Clark shuddered with the force of his release, his whole body convulsing against Bruce's.

A groan ripped from Clark’s throat, low and ruined and broken , as his orgasm took hold - his muscles twitching, his arms trembling as he held Bruce like something precious, even while he rutted out the last aftershocks with desperate, grinding thrusts.

Bruce was panting.

Speechless.

Full.

Utterly fucked .

Water still rained down around them, trailing over their mouths, their lashes, their necks, and down the lines of their joined bodies like a silent witness.

Neither of them moved for a long, suspended moment.

Clark was still deep inside him, still twitching faintly with the last sparks of his climax. His forehead rested against Bruce’s temple, breaths now slowing, grounding, heavy and uneven.

Bruce’s heart thundered in his chest, but he didn’t try to speak. Didn’t need to.

Because in that raw aftermath - bodies tangled, breath shared, water cascading - the silence between them said more than words ever could.

He had never felt so taken . So held.

So utterly known.

The shower was a cocoon of warmth and steam, its veil thick against the glass, the world beyond reduced to soft silhouettes and silence. Water coursed down Bruce’s body in steady rivulets, tracing the lines of muscle and tension, washing away nothing but adding weight to the stillness that followed their rough, primal high. His breath was ragged, heart still staggering against his ribs, each beat echoing the memory of Clark inside him.

But Clark - Clark was still hungry. Still tethered to the moment like it meant something more than just sex. To him, it always did.

Bruce stood tall, hands braced against the cool, wet tile in front of him, legs slightly apart for balance. The tile bit into his palms, grounding him as his body pulsed in the aftermath. His thighs bore the ache of where Clark had held him, left the bruises of wanting, and his core throbbed with the stretch, the fullness, the claiming .

And then - he felt it.

Clark's hands, warm and wide, slid down the backs of his thighs with reverence, mapping him like a holy text. 

Bruce let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut as his spine arched slightly at the touch. He didn’t look down. He didn’t need to. He felt Clark kneel behind him - felt the shift in air, the soft exhale of breath against his skin, the gentle grip that steadied his hips like Clark was grounding himself just to touch.

Then the first kiss. Soft, deliberate. Planted low on the small of Bruce’s back. A mark of patience.

Clark kissed lower. Slower. 

Traced the curve of Bruce’s backside with his mouth, with the edge of his teeth, with his tongue. As if rediscovering what he’d just taken - cherishing the mess of it, the intimacy of it. His fingers spread gently, revealing what he’d left behind, and his breath caught at the sight. Bruce didn’t know what expression he wore - something like shame, maybe, or the rawness of being seen so openly - but Clark didn’t flinch.

Instead, he leaned in and tasted.

Bruce gasped, muscles tightening as Clark’s tongue slid along the delicate, wrecked place he’d just filled. The sensation was immediate, electric, filthy in a way that went straight to his spine. His knees nearly buckled, and his fingers clawed against the tile for leverage. 

But Clark didn’t stop. He licked and kissed and devoured the evidence of his own release - like it meant something, like it proved something. That Bruce was his. That pleasure was worship. 

That Bruce’s pleasure mattered more .

The soft slur of Clark’s tongue moved with deliberate patience, making Bruce keen through gritted teeth. He could barely take it - overstimulated, trembling - but he wanted to. He wanted to let Clark have this, take this, feel this. Not out of dominance or submission, but because this - this brutal tenderness, this feral reverence—was where Clark lived when it came to him.

Clark’s hand came around, wrapping warm and firm around Bruce’s length. 

A groan ripped out of Bruce’s throat before he could stop it, head tipping back as pleasure shot through him like live current. He was already so close again - already right on the edge, his body remembering what it meant to be undone by hands that loved him.

And God, Clark did love him. Not just in words, but in action . In kneeling for him like this. In tasting him. In putting Bruce’s release above all else.

Bruce's voice came hoarse, nearly broken: Clark…

That was all it took.

Clark redoubled his efforts, mouth pressing deeper, tongue moving with increasing hunger as his hand stroked Bruce in slow, perfect rhythm. The sounds - wet, obscene, unrelenting - filled the shower stall like a hymn. Bruce’s legs shook under the weight of it, of Clark, of pleasure itself. He was falling forward against the tile now, barely holding himself up, but Clark never let go.

When the climax came, it surged through Bruce like wildfire - sharp, brilliant, soul-wrecking. His whole body jerked with it, breath catching on a groan that filled the air between them, and Clark stayed with him, through all of it, mouth and hand and heart utterly in sync.

Even when it was over, Clark stayed on his knees. Lips pressed against the back of Bruce’s thigh. Eyes closed. 

A man in prayer.

Chapter Text

The silence inside Wayne Manor was cathedral-like.

Not the kind born of peace, but of something older - emptier. Like sound itself had forgotten how to breathe here. The grand house was a relic from another time, its polished floors and towering windows swallowing every footfall, every movement, like a mausoleum built for memory.

Bruce sat motionless on the edge of his bed, shoulders slightly hunched, towel still draped around his waist. His skin was damp and tacky with cooling sweat and water, strands of hair curling damply at his temples. The shower hadn't washed the heaviness from his body. If anything, it had stirred something deeper - buried, bruised, breathing.

The sex should have left him lighter. Should have loosened the coil of tension knotted between his shoulder blades. Instead, everything felt worse.

Not because of Clark. Never because of Clark.

It was the after. The silence after. The echo after. The way his own heartbeat sounded too loud in his ears, and the way the Riddler’s voice still rasped inside his skull like a splintered prayer.

- He promised us he was going to make it better. Said this place was an embarrassment. Said we mattered. We mattered.

The words had clung to him even under the scalding shower, even with Clark’s mouth at his neck, Clark’s hands parting him open like something sacred. And now, stripped of the noise of breath and skin and warmth, the words crawled back into focus - crisp, cold, unshakable.

His fingers curled against the bedspread. Smooth beneath his touch, yet utterly unremarkable in the weight of everything pressing down on him.

He stood. Slow. Controlled. The towel slid slightly at his hips, but he didn’t bother fixing it. He moved through the bedroom with deliberate steps, past the untouched suit on the valet stand, past the floor-to-ceiling window now bathed in amber light. Gotham glinted in the distance, its skyline jagged and solemn. From here, the city looked quiet.

But Bruce knew better. He always had.

The hallway outside his room stretched long and narrow, lined with aged portraits and cold sconces that had long since been replaced with soft, recessed lighting. The ghosts of his family watched him from gilt frames - his father’s stern jaw, his mother’s gentle brow - and Bruce kept his eyes forward, past them. Always past.

He found himself in front of the old study before he even realized his feet had taken him there.

The door was cracked open. A slant of dying sunlight spilled across the rug in a crooked shape, as though the house itself couldn’t quite remember how to hold straight lines anymore. He didn’t step inside. He hadn’t truly stepped inside in years.

The desk was still there, polished and empty. The decanter untouched. The smell of paper and worn leather books, faint but undeniable, tugged at something deep in his chest.

He’d used to sit there, on the rug, as a boy - his knees drawn up, listening to the cadence of his father’s voice as Thomas Wayne dictated letters into an old recorder. He remembered how loud the ticking clock used to sound when he tried not to fidget.

The innocence of those memories had been gutted long ago.

He turned away.

The stairs were quiet beneath his bare feet. The handrail smooth under his palm. When he reached the kitchen, modern light spilled from the pendant lamps above the island. The counters were too clean. Impersonal. Clinical.

And yet - 

A mug sat in the sink. Half-rinsed. A ring of coffee staining the bottom like a watermark. And beside it, resting lightly on the cool marble countertop, a folded paper napkin held in place by the weight of a honey jar.

Bruce didn’t need to read it. He already knew who it was from. But his hand reached for it anyway, fingertips brushing the soft paper, unfolding it with slow reverence.

Duty called.
Help yourself to coffee.
- C.

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not quite. But something close.

Clark. Always careful. Always respectful of boundaries, even after he had breached every one of Bruce’s just hours ago. Even after he had touched him like no one ever had before - not roughly, not possessively, but with something devastatingly sincere. Reverent, even.

Bruce could still feel it. Every echo of Clark’s body. The imprint of large hands sliding down his back, the graze of lips over his throat, the sound of Clark’s voice as he whispered his name in the mist-heavy silence of the shower.

It had felt like baptism.

And yet - here he stood. Still dirty. Still haunted.

He poured the last of the coffee from the pot. Lukewarm, slightly bitter. He didn’t mind. He carried it with him into the drawing room, untouched for weeks, and sat down in the single armchair by the fireplace.

No fire burned in the hearth. But the embers in his chest did.

He sipped the coffee slowly. Staring at nothing. Listening to everything. His mind drifted back - not to the Riddler, but to Clark.

To the sound of the shower gurgling over their joined bodies. To the gasp that escaped Bruce when Clark pushed into him, slow, unrelenting. To the way Clark had held his gaze even when Bruce tried to look away.

No one had ever done that. Not during. Not after.

Clark hadn’t spoken much afterward. Just helped him rinse, run fingers gently through his hair. Pressed a slow kiss to his temple. And Bruce, overwhelmed by the tenderness of it, had leaned into him like someone starved of sunlight.

He should’ve said something then. Anything.

But words had caught in his throat, too fragile, too real. And now, the space Clark had occupied felt vast. Unfillable.

Bruce leaned forward, elbows on his knees, coffee cup cradled between his hands. His skin prickled. Not from cold - but from memory.

He could still feel the way Clark’s palm had pressed against the small of his back. The softness of his voice when he said, “I’ve got you.”

And yet, nothing had changed. Not the city. Not the rot.

Not him.

Just… the possibility of something more. Something terrifyingly close.

Bruce closed his eyes. He let the memory breathe. And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to feel everything. Even the hope.

The Gotham City Police Department was already awake by the time Clark arrived.

The building itself was a crumbling brick monument to grit and exhaustion, four stories of bureaucratic entropy pressed against the smog-stained skyline. The kind of place where the overhead lights buzzed like wasps and the windows never fully closed. Where the coffee was burnt, the chairs were stiff, and the air always smelled faintly of old printer ink, gun oil, and wet concrete.

Clark stepped through the front doors just after nine. The cold autumn hadn’t quite hit its peak, but already the city felt sticky with anticipation - of rain, of crime, of something worse. Gotham always seemed to be waiting for the next breaking point.

Inside, the department thrummed with chaotic rhythm.

Phones rang off the hook. Officers in plainclothes and uniforms brushed past one another like pieces on a board too small for the number of players. Someone was yelling near the back, something about a missing suspect transport. The bullpen floor was littered with folders, half-eaten bagels, and the stink of too many hours without rest.

Clark moved through it all with practiced calm, towering above most, dressed down in jeans, a black jacket, and the same steel-threaded patience he wore in Metropolis when facing the press.

But this wasn’t Metropolis.

This was Gotham .

And Clark felt it in the soles of his boots, in the way officers looked at him too long, too warily. 

They knew his name. He’d worked with Gordon before, on the fringes. They’d met during raids and task force meetings. There was a silent understanding between them - a kind of respect. But even still, Gotham never trusted an outsider. Especially not one as clean-cut as Kent.

A uniformed officer glanced up from behind the front desk, eyeing him with tired suspicion. - Help you?

- I’m here to see Commissioner Gordon, - Clark said. Calm. Clear. He offered the ID badge tucked in his wallet - a federal consultant credential that opened a lot of doors these days. - Tell him it’s Clark Kent.

The officer didn’t ask questions. Just picked up the receiver, muttered something into it, then gestured toward the elevators. - Third floor. You know the way.

Clark nodded his thanks and moved on, passing detectives hunched over desks piled with case files. One muttered into a radio; another was asleep, head pillowed on a folder labeled HOMICIDE - NARROWS . The hallway smelled like overused air freshener and nervous sweat.

When the elevator doors opened on the third floor, the air shifted.

Quieter here. More controlled. But no less tense.

Commissioner Gordon’s office sat behind a pane of grimy glass, the blinds half-drawn. 

The man himself was seated at his desk, a mountain of case files surrounding him like a paper barricade. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray near his right hand, its curl of smoke rising lazily toward the ceiling fan that did little more than push stale air around the room. His tie was loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, and the look on his face suggested he’d been living in this chair far longer than any doctor would recommend.

The blinds in Gordon’s office were half-drawn, the daylight cutting across the glass in narrow stripes that landed on the commissioner’s desk like bars on a cell. He looked up when Clark stepped inside, his eyes narrowing for the briefest moment before settling into a more guarded neutrality.

- Mr. Kent. - The greeting came low, gravelly, like his voice had been ground down by years of adrenaline and too many late nights. He didn’t bother to rise - just gestured with two fingers toward the chair opposite him. - You’ve been busy.

Clark moved forward, the muted thud of his boots carrying over the low hum of the squad room beyond the glass. He lowered himself into the cracked leather chair, the upholstery letting out a tired groan beneath his weight, like it hadn’t been made to accommodate someone built like him.

- So have you, " he said evenly, his tone smooth but without warmth.

Gordon leaned back, the springs of his chair creaking faintly. The sigh he let out was not a casual one - it had the heaviness of a man who’d been running on caffeine and stubborn will for far too long. - I’m guessing this isn’t a courtesy visit.

- No. - Clark’s voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it. - It’s not.

He anchored himself to the chair, broad hands gripping the worn armrests, body still as stone. His gaze locked onto Gordon’s without flinching, unblinking - there was nothing casual about this.

- I want to talk about Edward Nashton. The Riddler.

The commissioner’s eyes narrowed again, though his face didn’t give much away. He didn’t fidget, didn’t shift. - Go on.

Clark drew in a breath, slow and deliberate, as if every syllable that would follow had to be chosen with care. Outside the office, the precinct’s noise kept moving - paper shuffling, typewriter keys clattering like distant rain, a half-heard argument from an interrogation room down the hall. Gotham’s usual chaos. 

But inside these walls, the air felt heavier, denser.

- He’s in Arkham, - Clark began, his voice steady but edged with something harder - steel wrapped in calm. - That doesn’t mean he’s contained. Nashton’s not the kind of man you lock in a room and forget about. The way he works - it’s not just physical. It’s psychological. Infectious. His words go further than his reach ever could. - Clark’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as if he were forcing himself to keep his composure. - And he’s not playing games anymore. He was targeting Bruce.

Gordon’s mouth pressed into a flat line. - You’re asking me to put a man in a level of isolation that’ll raise questions. Solitary on psychological grounds isn’t something I can wave through without fallout.

- I’m not asking for solitary, - Clark said, leaning forward slightly, voice dropping lower. - I’m asking for containment. Controlled interaction. Minimal opportunity. You’ve seen the footage. That wasn’t the rambling of a man in a padded cell - it was a precision strike aimed at one person.

The phone somewhere outside the office rang twice, unanswered. The sound seemed to hang between them before fading into the rest of the precinct noise.

Clark didn’t let the pause slow him. - Bruce isn’t going to ask you for this. He’ll tell you he can handle it. That it’s his burden to bear. But you’ve seen what Nashton does to people - how he gets inside their heads. You’ve seen the cost of obsession.

For the first time, Gordon’s gaze wavered, slipping toward a thick folder near the edge of his desk. The tab read: WAYNE / NASHTON INTERACTIONS - RED LINE.

- He was unraveling, - Clark said, and this time his voice was softer, but it filled the room like a slow-closing door. - He was pulling at threads that shouldn’t be pulled. He wasn't sleeping. He started turning it inward - blaming himself. Nashton knew it. And he was feeding off on it.

The commissioner rubbed a hand down his face, the stubble rasping against his palm. - You’re not wrong, - he admitted. - But if I start cutting off access without an airtight cause, the oversight committee is going to bury me in hearings.

- Then let me be the cause, - Clark said, his voice low, but with that kind of weight that made the words land like an iron bar on a table. . Put it in writing that I submitted a psychological safety request. That I flagged a behavioral manipulation risk. Say it’s part of the federal surveillance watch - you know how many strings the NSA pulled after the last incident.

Gordon’s sigh was slow, deliberate, almost like he was buying himself time before admitting the truth of it. 

The sound rasped in his throat, the sort of sound you only made after too many years in this city, after too many nights staring at reports that told you there would never be a clean victory here. - You’re serious.

Clark didn’t blink. - I’m serious when it comes to Bruce.”

The pause between them was long enough for the outside noises of the GCPD to seep back into the edges of their awareness - the faint clatter of a typewriter in the next room, the low murmur of two officers arguing over case files, the harsh ring of a desk phone somewhere deeper in the bullpen. 

A draft from the cracked window carried the smell of rain-soaked concrete, of wet paper, of Gotham itself: cold, damp, and faintly metallic.

Gordon studied him for a moment longer, then reached for the battered black pen lying on the edge of his desk. 

He clicked it once, the sound sharp in the room, and opened the side drawer where forms sat in careful, dog-eared stacks. He pulled one out without glancing at the label - he already knew exactly which one Clark was asking for.

- I’ll draft a limited communication freeze, - Gordon said as the pen scratched against paper. - Ninety days. Conditional review after that.

Clark’s shoulders loosened, just slightly, relief slipping across his otherwise guarded expression. - That’s all I need.

The commissioner kept writing, his head bowed under the weak overhead light. - He’s lucky to have someone watching out for him.

Clark stood, the movement quiet but decisive. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its edge; it was softer now, almost meant for no one’s ears but his own. - He wouldn’t say that.

- No, - Gordon agreed, still bent over the page. - He wouldn’t.

The conversation was done, but the moment lingered. 

Clark stepped out of the office and into the corridor, the door swinging shut behind him with a muted click. The heartbeat of the station wrapped around him again - raised voices from somewhere on the second floor, boots striking linoleum in staccato bursts, the constant shuffle of papers, the dry cough of a detective who’d been smoking since the seventies. 

A small television mounted above the front desk played the morning news, its colors muted under the fluorescent lighting, the anchor talking about an upcoming gala at the Iceberg Lounge, voice cheerfully disconnected from the city’s pulse.

The world moved on.

Clark didn’t.

He stopped at the stairwell landing, his boots planted firm against the scuffed tile, and turned toward the narrow, high-set window that overlooked the city. The glass was streaked with condensation, the October air outside cool enough to bite but not yet sharp enough for snow. 

Gotham lay sprawled beneath a bruised sky, its jagged skyline clawing upward as if in defiance. 

The rain from earlier in the morning still clung to the rooftops, pooling in the corners of rusted gutters, making the streets glisten in the half-light.

He let his gaze wander to the neighborhoods he knew Bruce frequented - the old district with its cracked cobblestones and faded gas lamps, the polished corporate towers where Wayne Enterprises loomed over the skyline, the dark alleys between where shadows seemed to have their own pulse. Somewhere out there, Bruce was moving through this city like he always did: guarded, untouchable, a man whose armor wasn’t Kevlar but distance, sarcasm, and a stubborn refusal to admit when he was in danger.

Clark’s jaw tightened. 

Gotham had a way of eating people whole - chewing them down to their bones, leaving nothing but a shell behind. Bruce thought he could outwit that, outlast it. 

Maybe he could. But Clark wasn’t willing to test the theory. Not with the Riddler watching, not with vultures circling the name “Wayne” like it was blood in the water.

He’d seen too many good people taken apart by this city’s cruelty, their reputations twisted until they barely resembled the truth. And Bruce - Bruce wasn’t just another name in a file. 

He was the reason Clark had learned to stand between danger and the person who refused to acknowledge it.

Somewhere below, a siren wailed, sharp and urgent, before fading into the hum of the streets. Clark stayed where he was, watching the clouds roll heavier over the city. His reflection in the window was faint, almost ghostlike, but his resolve was carved into every line of his face.

If Gotham wanted Bruce, it was going to have to go through him first.

Chapter Text

The Wayne Tower gym was never truly empty, not even in the dead of night, but that evening it carried an atmosphere that felt as though the city itself had crept in with Bruce. Gotham was rotting in November - skyline dark and jagged, streets wet with the slow drizzle of half-frozen rain, steam rising in ghostly plumes from the grates below. 

The city bled into the room: the hum of distant sirens, the pulse of car horns muffled by smog and rain, the vague thrum of electricity leaking from every fluorescent light overhead. 

It all seemed to synchronize with the rhythm of Bruce’s body as he moved.

He was shirtless, sweat slicking every inch of his torso, chest rising and falling like something caged. The overhead lights carved harsh shadows into him, his ribs sharp in relief, every vein a road-map of fury and discipline. 

His hair had fallen into his face, damp strands clinging to his temples, dripping onto the padded floor. He ignored it, as he ignored everything else - Clark’s lingering eyes, the callouses tearing open fresh on his knuckles. All of it became secondary to the slow, brutal cadence of the workout. The dumbbells rose and fell, iron against air, then dropped with a muted thud that echoed into the steel bones of the tower.

Bruce’s breath came ragged, but controlled. A ritual. 

The kind that ate at him from the inside until it found release in motion. His movements were violent, graceless, the kind that didn’t belong to someone sculpting themselves for aesthetics but to a man punishing his body, asking it to take more than it should. There was no music playing through speakers, but Gotham provided its own kind of soundtrack. And Bruce carried it in him: the ache, the bruised melody, the strange beauty of destruction. Every flex of muscle was a verse, every exhale a chorus.

Outside, the sky was bruised with November gloom, a smear of violet and ash across the clouds. The windows fogged faintly from the heat of his body, a stark contrast to the cold leaking in through the walls. 

The whole city felt suspended in that transition between autumn and winter - streets slick, breath visible, trash fires in alleyways burning low. It was Gotham’s lullaby: a hymn to survival, a love song to decay. And Bruce, in the center of it, fit perfectly.

Clark stood near the door, watching in silence. 

He had seen Bruce fight, seen him bleed, seen him wear suits that cost more than Clark’s rent. But this - this stripped-down brutality, this isolation that crackled off him like static - was different. 

It wasn’t just working out. It was a man drowning, teaching himself to hold his breath longer each time. Clark knew better than to interrupt, but still, his chest ached at the sight. Bruce drove himself to exhaustion as if fatigue could cauterize the wound the Riddler left in him. As if muscle and bone could carry what the mind refused to let go of.

The weights hit the mat again, hard, a note of finality. 

Bruce leaned forward, bracing both palms on his knees, hair dripping sweat onto the floor. His shoulders shook, not from weakness but from the kind of relentless strain that turned men into statues, into monuments. He inhaled through his teeth, exhaled sharp, again and again, grounding himself in the rhythm until it was the only thing left.

And Gotham outside continued to pulse, unbothered by the man breaking himself apart above it. Sirens wailed, neon flickered against rain-streaked windows, the Iceberg Lounge burned through the fog with the sound of bass and broken promises. Bruce didn’t hear any of it, but Clark did. And the cruel symmetry of it hit him: Gotham was Bruce, and Bruce was Gotham. Ruined, restless, beautiful in its decay.

Clark pressed his hand against the doorframe, steadying himself against the heaviness in his chest. Watching Bruce like this - sweat-slick, unyielding, furious at ghosts no one else could see - reminded him why he stayed. 

Why he couldn’t leave, no matter how Gotham chewed at him, no matter how Bruce pushed him away with silence or sharp edges. Someone had to stand at the threshold, someone had to watch when Bruce forgot to. Because in moments like this, Clark realized, Bruce wasn’t training for survival. He was training to vanish, to disappear into the noise, into the pain, until there was nothing left but iron and sweat and the ghosts that haunted him.

Clark couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t.

Clark leaned in the doorway, arms folded loosely across his chest, watching. Not just watching - studying. The way Bruce’s body moved like punishment rather than training, each rep like he could squeeze the poison out of his veins if he just pushed hard enough. 

The clang of iron plates rang sharp against the silence, followed by the wet rush of breath from Bruce’s lungs. His body was a storm in motion - shoulders straining, veins standing out like rivers, chest gleaming with sweat under the pale light. His hair was damp, sticking in loose strands across his face, the jagged dark curtain only half-hiding the bruised weariness etched into his expression.

The barbell rattled as it hit the rack, the sound loud and final, like something breaking. Bruce sat up, rolling his shoulders forward, sweat sliding down the carved lines of his torso. His back was hunched, knotted, as if the weight hadn’t lifted from him at all.

- You’re going to tear something if you keep pushing like that, - Clark said, his voice low, carrying the warmth of concern without accusation.

Bruce didn’t answer right away. 

He sat there, head bowed, fists pressed against his knees. His chest rose and fell, hard and fast, like he was running after something he’d never catch. When he finally glanced up, his eyes burned with that restless, sleepless intensity Clark had come to know too well.

- I can’t stop, - Bruce muttered, his voice rough, throat thick with exhaustion. - Not now.

Clark stepped further inside, the faint smell of sweat and iron filling his lungs. - Because Alfred’s back tomorrow?

That got Bruce’s attention. His gaze cut sharp, like the word itself was a blade. Alfred. The one constant. The one person in Bruce’s orbit who had been nearly stolen from him by a madman’s game. The thought of losing him had burrowed under his skin and stayed there, raw, festering, no matter how many nights passed since.

- He almost died, - Bruce said, quieter this time, but sharper too, every syllable like glass. - Because of me. Because the Riddler knew where to cut. - His hand tightened into a fist, the tendons straining. - What happens when he comes back? What happens when I’m not enough to stop it again?

Clark’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm. Gentle. - Then you don’t face it alone.

Bruce’s laugh was bitter, empty. - I was alone. That’s the point. That’s why he - His voice broke off, and for a second Clark swore he saw the boy under all that armor, swallowed whole by a city that never stopped taking. Bruce shoved to his feet, pacing toward the heavy bag in the corner, jabbing at it with the same unrelenting rhythm he’d shown the weights, sweat spraying with every blow.

Clark let the storm rage for a moment before crossing the room. His boots thudded dully against the rubber floor. He didn’t try to stop Bruce outright. He waited until the punches slowed, until Bruce’s breath came ragged, until the fury dulled just enough for the fear beneath it to show. Only then did he step close, his hand brushing Bruce’s hair out of his face, steady, grounding.

- You don’t have to destroy yourself to keep him safe, - Clark said, softer now, his voice carrying like a thread through the heavy air. - You’re not the reason he was hurt. The Riddler is. And Alfred knows the risk. He chose to come back. He chose you.

Bruce stilled. 

His forehead pressed against Clark’s soothed skin, damp hair clinging to his temples. For a moment, the only sound in the room was his breathing - shallow, uneven, the sound of someone who wanted to believe but couldn’t quite let himself. His fists loosened, dropping to his sides.

Clark stayed beside him, close enough that the warmth of his body brushed against Bruce’s shoulder. He wanted to wrap him up, shield him from the entire city, but he knew better. Bruce didn’t need a cage. He needed an anchor.

- You’ll drive yourself into the ground if you keep this up, - Clark murmured. - And then who’s going to protect him? Who’s going to stand between him and everything that hunts in this city?

Bruce’s eyes closed. His voice cracked when he finally whispered, - I can’t lose him.

- You won’t, - Clark promised. - Not while I’m here.

The words hung in the air, heavier than steel, softer than breath. Bruce didn’t respond, but he didn’t move away either. His body leaned, just slightly, into Clark’s presence, and that was enough.

Above them, Gotham’s November night pressed against the windows, the sky low and swollen, clouds dragging like bruises across the moon. The cold seeped through stone walls, the kind that never left your bones. 

Outside, the city breathed in smoke and neon. But here, in the sweat-stained silence of the gym, Clark stood steady, watching over Bruce like he always would - through every shadow, every jagged edge, every storm that refused to pass.

The rain came first - thick, heavy, unrelenting. 

Gotham’s morning sky was swollen with storm clouds, churning like a restless sea above the skyline. Water struck against the glass of the penthouse windows in relentless sheets, turning the world outside into a blur of motion and grey. Inside, the sound was constant, filling every hollow corner of the room with its weight. A storm like this made the city quieter, dampened its chaos, pressed the noise of sirens and traffic into a distant hum. For once, Gotham felt muted, as if the storm itself demanded silence.

Bruce stirred awake, but not with the abruptness of nightmares. No - this was different. His body was sore in the way that spoke of human things: late hours, fists to the bag, sweat carved into his muscles. He blinked through the dim grey light filling the room and found the sheets tangled low around his hips, damp with the heat of another body beside him.

Clark.

The name flickered in Bruce’s mind like a flame refusing to go out. The sight of him grounded him more than any routine, more than any armor or mask he’d ever worn. Clark lay sprawled across the sheets, the lines of his body undone by sleep, the weight of his arm draped over Bruce’s side even in slumber. His chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of someone unburdened by nightmares, unafraid of Gotham’s constant threats.

Bruce turned onto his side, the sheets whispering against his skin, and let his gaze linger.

Clark was - God, he was there. Entirely present, and yet something more than human. The stormlight carved over his body, pulling shadows into the hard planes of his chest and abdomen, every muscle etched like marble but softened now in sleep. The sheets had slipped low enough to leave little to the imagination. The line of his hip disappeared beneath tangled fabric, but Bruce knew what lay there, the strength, the weight, the warmth of him beneath it all. It wasn’t simply lust - it was gravity. 

A constant pull.

He could see the faint sheen of last night’s sweat on Clark’s skin, the way it caught the morning light like dew clinging to stone. His hair was damp still, a dark mess across his forehead, strands curling where Bruce’s hands had gripped too tightly hours before. There was a bruise on his collarbone - small, but visible in the dim glow - and Bruce knew it was his doing. A mark left in a moment of desperate need. The thought unsettled him and steadied him all at once.

For weeks now, Clark had been there, hovering in Gotham’s shadow, anchoring Bruce with his presence. 

Watching. Guarding. Shielding. 

And Bruce had fought it - every instinct in him screaming not to lean on anyone, not to let another human into the core of his fear. But here Clark was. Not on the rooftop. Not in the gym. Not beside Gordon’s desk. Here - naked in the sheets, chest bare, body warm, close enough that Bruce could feel the slow exhale against his skin.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. His hand moved - hesitant - hovering just above Clark’s chest before lowering with a careful weight. The steady beat beneath his palm was undeniable. A pulse. A rhythm. Strong. Trustworthy.

And it shook him more than the storm outside.

The past weeks played in his mind like broken reels of film: Riddler’s voice slithering through speakers, the image of Alfred lying broken beneath rubble, the endless fear that Clark had seen too clearly when no one else could. And Clark - always Clark - promising, swearing in a voice too steady, “Nothing will happen to you while I’m here. Not again. Not ever.”

Bruce didn’t believe in promises. Not in this city. Not in his life. But lying here, with Clark’s body stretched out against the sheets, strength and softness woven together, he realized he wanted to believe. Needed to believe.

The storm raged harder. Thunder rolled low, rattling the glass panes. The city looked like it was drowning, and still Clark slept. Unmoving. Unshaken. A monument against the chaos.

Bruce swallowed, his throat dry. His fingers moved slowly, tracing the line of Clark’s chest, following the ridges of muscle, the warmth of skin. He thought about the hands that had held him down, steadied him, pulled him from the spiral when no one else could. He thought about what was beneath the sheets - raw strength, yes, but also safety. Shelter. Something Bruce had been starved for, and now couldn’t bring himself to let go of.

He leaned closer, pressing his forehead lightly to Clark’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of smoke, sweat, and rain that seemed to cling to him no matter how the city shifted.

The storm outside cracked with lightning, spilling white light into the room, but Bruce didn’t look away. Bruce watched Clark like a man watching a slow-burning candle, as if memorizing the way the flame leaned and breathed. 

Clark lay relaxed and unguarded, the neat lines of his body softened in sleep: broad shoulders slumped, throat rising and falling, a long, easy back dotted with faint scars that only made him more achingly human. 

The sheet had bunched around his hips and slid low enough to reveal the hollow of his waist and the sweep of his abdomen - skin warm, slightly salty from last night, the fine hairs along his temple damp and dark. Light from the storm caught in the curve of his collarbone, played across the plane of his chest, and when Bruce’s fingertips hovered above that skin his whole chest responded like a tuned instrument.

He reached without thinking, slow as tide. His hand found the slope of Clark’s hip beneath the sheet, the familiar hitch where hip becomes waist. He let his fingers trace that line like a cartographer, mapping the small ridges and valleys as if putting names to territory. Every touch was careful, pressing with enough intent to be felt but never harsh - palms flattening, then fingers kneading, each pass a quiet claim. Bruce moved deliberately, as if by touching he could anchor himself to reality: the warm, living presence of Clark under his hand, the rise of breath that deepened when he dared brush lower.

Clark stirred, a murmur under the storm, an eyelid lifting to reveal sleep-soft eyes. 

They were unfocused at first, then found Bruce and cleared with the kind of steady, private recognition that never felt casual. - Morning, - he said - low, slightly hoarse - and the sound slid through Bruce like something needed.

Bruce didn’t answer with words. He answered with mouth and motion. He leaned in, the kiss at first gentle, a tender proof that he was there, that he had returned from whatever dark had been chasing him. Then the kiss deepened, not rough but urgent, long enough that the sound of it tangled with the rain. 

Clark’s hand found Bruce’s wrist and held it, fingers warm and firm, not to push him away but to keep him steady; then his own hand slipped up to cup the rear of Bruce’s skull, bringing him closer so the pressure of their mouths matched the quickening they both felt under the sheets.

The sheet twisted and pooled as Bruce shifted, weight settling over Clark’s hips. He moved with a slow possessiveness - sitting, then easing, palms braced against Clark’s chest to steady himself. The contact was electric: skin on skin where the damp cotton left trails of heat and where their bodies met there was a tangle of breath, a hush that swallowed the storm. 

Bruce’s hair hung long in his eyes as he leaned forward to drink in Clark’s face, tracing the line of his jaw with the back of one hand, feeling the stubble there rasp against his palm. Clark’s breath hitched, a slick vulnerability flashing across his face that Bruce drank in like a benediction.

Kisses continued - spare, demanding, threaded with feral tenderness. Bruce’s mouth traveled, soft and sharp at once, finding the hollow beneath Clark’s ear, the seam of collarbone, the soft spot at the base of his throat. Clark responded the way someone does when they’re both steady and undone: with small sounds, with hands that splayed against Bruce’s back and dragged him nearer, with a grip that spoke of ownership and shelter at once. 

There was no frantic haste - only a careful, almost ritualistic joining, as if both of them were cataloguing, reacquainting, learning once more how to occupy the same dangerous little world.

Bruce’s hips moved subtly, a slow, precise rocking, pressing into Clark in a language made of friction and promise. The motion was a question and an answer; Clark’s hands tightened, the fingers at his lower back drawing him closer until their chests met and the press of their skin was steady and hot. For a long moment the storm and the city and the past narrowed to that small place where fabric clung and breath mingled. 

Every tiny noise - the soft slap of rain, the rasp of fabric, a muffled curse - felt amplified, sacred.

They shifted there, breathing in the afterglow and the ache, arms and legs entwined beneath the sheets. Bruce’s palms flattened against Clark’s sternum, feeling the beat of him, counting, reassuring. Clark’s eyes half-closed, expression melting into something like worship, as if every small movement Bruce made confirmed a truth he’d been afraid to say aloud. 

Bruce leaned down and kissed him again - this time slow and devout - then moved lower, taking time to explore the planes of Clark’s ribs and the warmth of the place where thigh met hip. Clark’s hands threaded into Bruce’s hair then, anchoring, guiding, as if to show he was both willing and waiting.

They made no declarations - there was no need. Instead the morning unfolded in gestures: fingertips that memorized, mouths that catalogued, small possessive pressures that stamped claim without words. Bruce let himself be the one to mount the hold, to take up the space above, to anchor himself to Clark’s hips and feel the beating certainty beneath him. He felt Clark beneath him in a way that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with truth: a steady warmth that anchored his own stormy edges.

Outside, the rain kept tearing at the world; inside, they created their own weather - slow, filthy with need and tender with devotion. The sex in it was present but not explicit, a language of closeness that left them naked in more ways than one. 

It was about being seen, being kept, being taken and given in equal measure. Morning did not hurry them; the city waited, boats drifting past wreckage of other lives, but here they moved in a deliberate, intimate rhythm. Clark’s lips brushed Bruce’s forehead, then his temple, then found his mouth once more in a kiss that tasted like commitment and danger both.

When they finally stilled, breath mingling and the storm a steady drum on the window, Bruce stayed, chest pressed to Clark’s, palms splayed across him in a protective, careful grip. He lowered his forehead to Clark’s, letting the cool of the glass and the warmth of flesh balance him. There was relief and hunger braided together - an exhaustion that was not surrender but a held, certain promise. Clark’s hand moved up to tangle with Bruce’s damp hair, thumb stroking slow, grounding.

For a long moment they simply existed: a pair of bodies tangled under sheets, storm outside, city sleeping around them. Bruce felt the worth of the day settle in his bones - the small, stubborn thing that said he could stay; Clark, the quiet force beneath him, said he would let him. It was fierce and intimate and utterly theirs.

The rain had not stopped all morning. 

Gotham’s skies wept in steady, relentless sheets, turning the long drive of Wayne Manor into a river of dark stone slicked with silver streaks of water. The fountains at the base of the estate gushed like overfilled veins, their statues streaked with moss, their faces bowed to the storm. The trees that lined the manor bent under the weight of it all, their skeletal branches rattling in the sharp November wind, stripped bare of leaves.

Bruce stood at the crest of the drive, an umbrella angled above his head, the black canopy beating like a drum under the downpour. His hair was damp anyway, dark strands clinging to his forehead, slicking back against the sharp line of his jaw. He didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were fixed on the distant headlights cutting up the drive, a pair of pale orbs splitting the storm like some herald from another world.

Beside him, Clark stood. 

No umbrella shielded him - he hadn’t bothered with one. The rain fell heavy over his shoulders, soaking into the simple shirt that clung to the carved planes of his body, running in rivulets down his arms and throat. He looked almost out of place, a beautiful figure cut against the bleakness of Gotham: unmovable, vast, a quiet presence that hummed with a steadiness Bruce couldn’t name. 

Yet in the stillness of that moment, in the soft thunder of water around them, Bruce found himself grounding in Clark’s presence the way he always did now. A steadiness in the storm.

The black car came to a slow stop before them, its engine quieting with a purr that was nearly lost to the hiss of rain. The windshield wipers stuttered to a halt, leaving behind a sheet of blurred water that reflected the long columns of the manor behind Bruce. The rear door remained shut, but the passenger side opened first.

Bruce’s chest tightened.

Alfred stepped out.

Even through the wall of rain, Bruce could see how the man moved - slower than before, more deliberate. He wore his coat close around his shoulders, but the lines of his posture still carried the same meticulous dignity, the quiet authority that had raised Bruce through a house haunted by ghosts. 

His hair was damp, thinner than Bruce remembered it being in those early years, and the sharpness of his features had only deepened with age. Yet Alfred’s eyes - the precise, cutting blue that had always seen Bruce far more clearly than Bruce wanted - were unclouded, unwavering.

Bruce’s hand tightened around the umbrella’s handle. His throat worked once, silently, before he stepped forward, rain splashing up from the gravel at his shoes. He moved slowly, as if approaching some apparition, a figure conjured by memory and need rather than the reality before him. The umbrella tilted forward, catching Alfred beneath its shelter, though it was too late - the man was already half-soaked, rain dripping from his coat sleeves and gloves.

- Bruce, - Alfred said, voice low, steady despite the storm. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth, the kind that was never indulgent but always warm in its own restrained way.

Bruce’s lips parted, but nothing came. Not at first. For a beat too long, he just looked at the man - looked at him and thought of the last time they had spoken, the last time he had heard Alfred’s voice through smoke and static and the unbearable thought of losing him. The image had haunted him since, every night, every hour.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher than he wanted. - Alfred.

The name cracked against his teeth, weighted with everything he hadn’t said, everything he couldn’t.

Clark shifted slightly beside him, the quiet giant at his shoulder. His presence was not loud or intrusive, but grounding - a tether. Bruce felt the faintest brush of Clark’s hand at his back, not for Alfred to see, not for the world to notice, but for him. A reminder. You’re not alone. Not anymore.

Alfred’s eyes flickered just once to Clark, taking him in, weighing the man who stood at Bruce’s side as if he belonged there. The butler’s expression did not falter, but Bruce knew him too well not to catch the faint glimmer in his gaze - curiosity, quiet suspicion, and something else. Something gentler. Approval, maybe. 

Or relief.

The storm pressed down harder, sheets of rain slamming against the gravel, rushing down the carved gargoyles and stone gutters of the manor. Yet under the umbrella, in that fragile shield of silence, Bruce stood with the man who had raised him on one side, and the man who refused to let him fall on the other. And for the first time in weeks, the sharp coil of dread inside his chest eased - not gone, never gone, but softened.

He stepped closer to Alfred, offering the kind of shelter he never had as a boy, his voice quieter now. - You’re home.

And Alfred, dripping wet and impossibly steady, only nodded. - I always was, Bruce.

The manor loomed above them like a cathedral of shadows, and Clark’s hand remained steady at Bruce’s back as they turned toward the doors, the storm raging and unrelenting at their heels.

The moment Alfred’s polished shoes touched the gravel drive, Bruce moved forward, too quickly, too urgently for the man’s calm pace. The years between them - layered with grief, with distance, with arguments that tasted too much like love - collapsed in an instant. 

He closed the space, reached for Alfred, and pulled him into an embrace that knocked the wind out of the older man.

Alfred stumbled, his hand instinctively reaching up to Bruce’s back, fingers digging into the drenched fabric of his coat. It was not the precise, measured gesture of a butler, nor the steady presence of a man who had taught discipline and poise - it was a clumsy, human clutch, the grip of someone caught off guard by need. 

For a breath, for a moment carved out of the storm, Alfred felt the weight of a boy pressed against him, not the steel frame of the man Bruce had built himself into. The boy who once clung to him in the rubble of loss, who had needed arms around him when the world had shattered, was here again, trembling at the edges beneath the armor.

Bruce’s jaw pressed against Alfred’s shoulder, his breath shaking against the man who had stood as both shield and anchor. And Alfred, for all his practiced composure, felt his throat tighten as he closed his eyes against the sting of rain - or tears, he could not tell which. 

In that embrace was both desperation and reverence, a silent confession of love Bruce could never put into words. For a heartbeat, time folded in on itself: the boy who needed a father and the man who had sworn to never need anyone at all.

The rain cascaded down, drowning the world in a gray hush, the umbrella nearly useless as it bowed under the storm. Clark stood a step behind, his silhouette still and watchful, letting the moment belong only to the two of them. The manor loomed behind like a shadowed sentinel, its windows glowing faintly against the storm. 

Bruce did not move, not yet, not until Alfred steadied himself enough to pat his back and murmur something only half-formed. For that moment, Bruce was not Gotham’s broken toy, nor its darkened heir. 

He was simply a son - holding on, and held in return.

Under the curtain of rain, with the storm wrapping them in its hush, the moment closed on something simple and unshakable: an embrace that had been waiting, patient and aching, to finally come home.