I'd feel worse about torturing Bruce like this if it were less fun. :D OH BRUCE. JUST KEEP PRETENDING YOU'RE NOT HAVING ALL THOSE FEELINGS, I THINK THAT'S WORKING GREAT. And, uh, as a side note this borrows some themes from a certain thread or two that got spent yelling about identity porn—by which I mean if you don't like the trope of people with secret identities trashing their own alternate selves in front of people who don't realize that's what's happening, you may want to bail out now. /o\
"That whackjob?" Bruce says steadily, without hesitation. "He's still around, I think. Kind of a surprise, him living through something that killed you, but then again the man's a coward. Wouldn't swoop around in the dark like that if he weren't. Very model of a modern vigilante, isn't he?"
Clark's face—Clark's face does something entirely understandable, Bruce thinks. He does remember Batman trying to kill him, then. That's good: even if he had sustained some kind of brain damage during the fight or by being dead, his Kryptonian physiology seems to have dealt with it thoroughly. Fuzzy or failed memory is one of the most basic signs of head trauma that there is; not that Kryptonians necessarily suffer the same symptoms as humans, of course, but in the absence of any other framework for making an evaluation, it will have to do.
"Luthor was manipulating us," Clark says—or rather tells himself, Bruce thinks, trying to sound convincing, trying to remind himself to believe it.
"Luthor was manipulating you, yes," Bruce says. "That's why he took your mother. There's no reason to think—"
But Clark's already shaking his head. Already pulling himself together—already prepared to be generous beyond all reason. "No, he—he saved Mom. He must have." He blinks and then squints up at Bruce. "And you must have seen him, if you were there."
Damn. Bruce can't rewrite that; Martha won't lie about it. If Clark asks her whether Batman got her out, she'll say yes.
"I was, but not for that part," he says aloud. "All I know is the men watching me were called away, and the next time the door opened, it was your mother. That woman's awfully good with knots."
Clark doesn't get distracted. "Then he did," he says unsteadily. "I asked him to and he did, and I can't pretend that doesn't count for anything." His hands are still in fists; but he bites his lip and then adds, "And I don't know whether Luthor did anything to him. Set him up somehow or baited him, or—or who knows what."
And oh, Bruce wants to tell Clark exactly how wrong he is: that Lex Luthor hadn't had to do a damn thing to him except tell him exactly what he'd wanted to hear, that he'd swallowed it all from hook to sinker without a second thought. That Batman is the absolute last person Clark should be willing to make excuses for.
But he can't.
Martha saves him from having to scrape together a reply—she comes back in before he can even open his mouth. She has a stack of clean clothes pinned under one elbow, two towels under the other, and a bowl of water in one hand; and in the other hand is a phone. "It should be just about morning where Lois is," she says softly, and then smiles a little. "And that woman's always been an early riser."
Clark stares at her, and then at the phone, and he's looking at it like it's a chunk of kryptonite.
"Her number's already in here," Martha adds. "I'll just explain what's happened, honey, and then you can talk to her." She sets the bowl of water down; and then she tosses Bruce a glance, a little nod toward the porch. She's not wrong: he should go. Clark's forgotten about him entirely, still looking at the phone, and there might not be a better moment for Bruce to bow out.
So Bruce nods back, and goes.
With no one looking, he can indulge in a moment's indecision. He should take off before Clark can get a hold of himself, before he absorbs enough sun and breathes enough air for all his strengths and powers to come back completely—if nothing else, there's still a chance that if Bruce goes right now, Clark genuinely won't hear the Batplane. But—
But Martha's the one who called him here. Martha wanted his help. He shouldn't leave without at least talking to her, making sure she's all right. And she can't handle everything from here by herself. If nothing else, getting a legal declaration of death reversed could prove difficult—but a few consultants from Wayne Enterprises will almost certainly make that easier. He should at least bring it up, so she'll be prepared for it when matters get a little more urgent. (Thankfully, he does own the Daily Planet; if nothing else, he can ensure that Clark Kent won't have any trouble getting his job back, even after being dead for half a year.)
He pauses on the front walk, looks out across the flat Kansas fields and makes a deal with himself: a minute, that's how long he'll wait, just in case Martha wanted him to, and then—
"Bruce."
He turns around.
Martha did want him to; he can see that the moment he looks at her. "Bruce," she says again, and in a rush she comes down the front steps and grabs for his hands.
There's a pause then—she doesn't speak, looking down instead, but her grip is so tight Bruce almost can't tell her hands are shaking. "Martha," he says carefully, and she blows out a long breath and then shakes her head.
"My god," she says, "my god. I thought I might be—I don't know. But you saw him too—"
"He's real," Bruce says.
"My god," she says again, and then laughs, sharp and a little wild. "Oh, listen to me—tell me to get a grip already."
"You've got a pretty good one," Bruce tells her, making a face like a small wince; and she looks at him blankly for a moment and then all at once eases up on his hands.
She doesn't let go, though.
"Oh, oh, I'm sorry," she says, and laughs again. "I'm so sorry."
"I've had worse," Bruce says.
"No, I—not just for that," and then Martha hesitates and lowers her voice. "I am sorry, Bruce, really. I wasn't thinking when I called you—"
"I don't mind, Martha, I've told you: I want you to call me—"
"—about your identity, I mean," she clarifies over him, and that makes Bruce go quiet. "I wasn't thinking about how it would look to Clark. And I know you want all that to stay a secret. I didn't mean to make that harder for you." She pauses for a second, and then she must see something in his face, because she adds, "Don't worry, Lois picked up. I promise you, he's not listening to anything but what's on the other end of that phone."
And she's right, no doubt. "It's fine," Bruce says. "He seemed to believe the cover story I gave him. I'm sorry to put you in this position, but if you can—at least not deny it, if he asks—"
"Of course," Martha says instantly. "But if he does decide to be Superman again, to work with you and Diana, you'll tell him."
She isn't asking—because to her, Bruce thinks, it doesn't seem like much of a question. Bruce and Diana know each other's identities, and they both know Clark's, too. It would be strange, lopsided, to forcibly keep him out of the loop.
But that's only because she isn't thinking it through.
"He's going to need my help," Bruce explains gently.
"Of course—"
"No, not as Superman. As Clark. He was declared dead," Bruce reminds her. "That needs to be reversed."
"Bruce," Martha says.
"I have to straighten things out at the Planet. There must be a way to open up a position for him. And his tenancy—"
"Bruce," Martha says.
"There's no reason he needs to know until everything is sorted out," Bruce says. It's common sense.
"Bruce," Martha repeats.
She's looking at him oddly—softly. He's not sure why. He hasn't said anything that warrants it.
"You didn't kill him," she says, very low.
"I know that," Bruce says.
He does. He's reviewed it a thousand times in his head, a thousand more times with the collected footage from the helicopters; he even has Diana's recollections, safely voice-recorded, after he'd explained to her that it would be useful for tactical analysis. The kryptonite shell Bruce had fired at that last instant had been necessary: it had weakened Zod at a critical moment. Compared to the amount of kryptonite on the end of the spear, it's unlikely that what had reached Clark had been the critical factor—that Clark would have been less impalable to the exact degree necessary without it. Clark had chosen to take up the spear, had known what it would do to him. In point of fact, he'd had a pretty exact idea what it would do, given that Bruce had shoved it into his face not half an hour beforehand. It's possible that the experience even helped him brace himself for it, and made it easier for him to withstand its effects long enough to reach Zod. Bruce hadn't killed Clark at all.
He'd just tried to. He'd just walked right into Luthor's trap; he'd just allowed himself to be manipulated in ways that had made it impossible for Superman to collaborate with him until it was too late. If they'd been aware of the true threat, there's no doubt in Bruce's mind that he and Diana and Clark together could have defeated Zod without losing anyone. And he could have ensured they'd get the chance to try. But he'd wasted his time masterminding ways to destroy Clark instead.
Bruce hadn't killed Clark, no. He just might as well have.
"He just doesn't know you," Martha says kindly. "Once he does, once you explain, he'll understand."
"You of all people should know it isn't that easy," Bruce says.
It's something of a low blow; but Martha doesn't flinch. "I didn't say it would be easy," she says, calm, "and I didn't say it wouldn't take time." She's still got hold of his hands: she squeezes. "You're right, I hated you—but it didn't last. I don't see how it could have, after everything you did. And it won't with Clark, either. You told the truth that day: you are a friend of my son's. You've already proven that to me. And my son will be a friend of yours, too, Bruce, if you let him."
She's a kind woman, Martha Kent. Generous; it seems to run in the family. Which means Bruce needs to be careful. My son will be a friend of yours, if you let him. And she isn't wrong, after all: Bruce has ample proof that, given the opportunity, Clark will wholeheartedly make the worst choice available to him regardless of the cost to himself.
(Which surely means that Bruce—as a friend—should make every effort to stop him.)
"For all the good it will do him," Bruce says aloud, wry, because jokes are typically the least uncomfortable way to tell the truth.
But Martha doesn't let it slide that easily. She smiles at him and squeezes his hands again. "It's done me plenty," she says without hesitation, and she's about to add something else when the sound of the screen door creaking open stops her.
She and Bruce both turn.
It's Clark. He's stepped out onto the porch, barefooted, and the suit is gone, traded for a shirt and sweats, but there's still dark streaks of dirt along his arms, ground into the skin along the backs of his knuckles. He's holding the phone, but not to his ear—it's silent now, dark, and he's staring down at it.
"She cried," he says unsteadily. "But she—she's not coming back. This assignment is important to her, and she needs some time."
He recites this like he's memorized it, like it's something he was sitting in there repeating to himself for five minutes before he came out here and told them—and maybe he was.
"Oh, sweetheart," Martha says, and finally lets go of Bruce so she can step away and take the phone from Clark's hands. "You have to understand, it's been months—"
"Yeah," Clark says. He's looking down at his empty fingers, now that the phone is gone: his palms are still dirty, too. "Yeah. I guess it has."
FILL: as to which may be the true; Bruce/Clark, identity porn (3/?)
"That whackjob?" Bruce says steadily, without hesitation. "He's still around, I think. Kind of a surprise, him living through something that killed you, but then again the man's a coward. Wouldn't swoop around in the dark like that if he weren't. Very model of a modern vigilante, isn't he?"
Clark's face—Clark's face does something entirely understandable, Bruce thinks. He does remember Batman trying to kill him, then. That's good: even if he had sustained some kind of brain damage during the fight or by being dead, his Kryptonian physiology seems to have dealt with it thoroughly. Fuzzy or failed memory is one of the most basic signs of head trauma that there is; not that Kryptonians necessarily suffer the same symptoms as humans, of course, but in the absence of any other framework for making an evaluation, it will have to do.
"Luthor was manipulating us," Clark says—or rather tells himself, Bruce thinks, trying to sound convincing, trying to remind himself to believe it.
"Luthor was manipulating you, yes," Bruce says. "That's why he took your mother. There's no reason to think—"
But Clark's already shaking his head. Already pulling himself together—already prepared to be generous beyond all reason. "No, he—he saved Mom. He must have." He blinks and then squints up at Bruce. "And you must have seen him, if you were there."
Damn. Bruce can't rewrite that; Martha won't lie about it. If Clark asks her whether Batman got her out, she'll say yes.
"I was, but not for that part," he says aloud. "All I know is the men watching me were called away, and the next time the door opened, it was your mother. That woman's awfully good with knots."
Clark doesn't get distracted. "Then he did," he says unsteadily. "I asked him to and he did, and I can't pretend that doesn't count for anything." His hands are still in fists; but he bites his lip and then adds, "And I don't know whether Luthor did anything to him. Set him up somehow or baited him, or—or who knows what."
And oh, Bruce wants to tell Clark exactly how wrong he is: that Lex Luthor hadn't had to do a damn thing to him except tell him exactly what he'd wanted to hear, that he'd swallowed it all from hook to sinker without a second thought. That Batman is the absolute last person Clark should be willing to make excuses for.
But he can't.
Martha saves him from having to scrape together a reply—she comes back in before he can even open his mouth. She has a stack of clean clothes pinned under one elbow, two towels under the other, and a bowl of water in one hand; and in the other hand is a phone. "It should be just about morning where Lois is," she says softly, and then smiles a little. "And that woman's always been an early riser."
Clark stares at her, and then at the phone, and he's looking at it like it's a chunk of kryptonite.
"Her number's already in here," Martha adds. "I'll just explain what's happened, honey, and then you can talk to her." She sets the bowl of water down; and then she tosses Bruce a glance, a little nod toward the porch. She's not wrong: he should go. Clark's forgotten about him entirely, still looking at the phone, and there might not be a better moment for Bruce to bow out.
So Bruce nods back, and goes.
With no one looking, he can indulge in a moment's indecision. He should take off before Clark can get a hold of himself, before he absorbs enough sun and breathes enough air for all his strengths and powers to come back completely—if nothing else, there's still a chance that if Bruce goes right now, Clark genuinely won't hear the Batplane. But—
But Martha's the one who called him here. Martha wanted his help. He shouldn't leave without at least talking to her, making sure she's all right. And she can't handle everything from here by herself. If nothing else, getting a legal declaration of death reversed could prove difficult—but a few consultants from Wayne Enterprises will almost certainly make that easier. He should at least bring it up, so she'll be prepared for it when matters get a little more urgent. (Thankfully, he does own the Daily Planet; if nothing else, he can ensure that Clark Kent won't have any trouble getting his job back, even after being dead for half a year.)
He pauses on the front walk, looks out across the flat Kansas fields and makes a deal with himself: a minute, that's how long he'll wait, just in case Martha wanted him to, and then—
"Bruce."
He turns around.
Martha did want him to; he can see that the moment he looks at her. "Bruce," she says again, and in a rush she comes down the front steps and grabs for his hands.
There's a pause then—she doesn't speak, looking down instead, but her grip is so tight Bruce almost can't tell her hands are shaking. "Martha," he says carefully, and she blows out a long breath and then shakes her head.
"My god," she says, "my god. I thought I might be—I don't know. But you saw him too—"
"He's real," Bruce says.
"My god," she says again, and then laughs, sharp and a little wild. "Oh, listen to me—tell me to get a grip already."
"You've got a pretty good one," Bruce tells her, making a face like a small wince; and she looks at him blankly for a moment and then all at once eases up on his hands.
She doesn't let go, though.
"Oh, oh, I'm sorry," she says, and laughs again. "I'm so sorry."
"I've had worse," Bruce says.
"No, I—not just for that," and then Martha hesitates and lowers her voice. "I am sorry, Bruce, really. I wasn't thinking when I called you—"
"I don't mind, Martha, I've told you: I want you to call me—"
"—about your identity, I mean," she clarifies over him, and that makes Bruce go quiet. "I wasn't thinking about how it would look to Clark. And I know you want all that to stay a secret. I didn't mean to make that harder for you." She pauses for a second, and then she must see something in his face, because she adds, "Don't worry, Lois picked up. I promise you, he's not listening to anything but what's on the other end of that phone."
And she's right, no doubt. "It's fine," Bruce says. "He seemed to believe the cover story I gave him. I'm sorry to put you in this position, but if you can—at least not deny it, if he asks—"
"Of course," Martha says instantly. "But if he does decide to be Superman again, to work with you and Diana, you'll tell him."
She isn't asking—because to her, Bruce thinks, it doesn't seem like much of a question. Bruce and Diana know each other's identities, and they both know Clark's, too. It would be strange, lopsided, to forcibly keep him out of the loop.
But that's only because she isn't thinking it through.
"He's going to need my help," Bruce explains gently.
"Of course—"
"No, not as Superman. As Clark. He was declared dead," Bruce reminds her. "That needs to be reversed."
"Bruce," Martha says.
"I have to straighten things out at the Planet. There must be a way to open up a position for him. And his tenancy—"
"Bruce," Martha says.
"There's no reason he needs to know until everything is sorted out," Bruce says. It's common sense.
"Bruce," Martha repeats.
She's looking at him oddly—softly. He's not sure why. He hasn't said anything that warrants it.
"You didn't kill him," she says, very low.
"I know that," Bruce says.
He does. He's reviewed it a thousand times in his head, a thousand more times with the collected footage from the helicopters; he even has Diana's recollections, safely voice-recorded, after he'd explained to her that it would be useful for tactical analysis. The kryptonite shell Bruce had fired at that last instant had been necessary: it had weakened Zod at a critical moment. Compared to the amount of kryptonite on the end of the spear, it's unlikely that what had reached Clark had been the critical factor—that Clark would have been less impalable to the exact degree necessary without it. Clark had chosen to take up the spear, had known what it would do to him. In point of fact, he'd had a pretty exact idea what it would do, given that Bruce had shoved it into his face not half an hour beforehand. It's possible that the experience even helped him brace himself for it, and made it easier for him to withstand its effects long enough to reach Zod. Bruce hadn't killed Clark at all.
He'd just tried to. He'd just walked right into Luthor's trap; he'd just allowed himself to be manipulated in ways that had made it impossible for Superman to collaborate with him until it was too late. If they'd been aware of the true threat, there's no doubt in Bruce's mind that he and Diana and Clark together could have defeated Zod without losing anyone. And he could have ensured they'd get the chance to try. But he'd wasted his time masterminding ways to destroy Clark instead.
Bruce hadn't killed Clark, no. He just might as well have.
"He just doesn't know you," Martha says kindly. "Once he does, once you explain, he'll understand."
"You of all people should know it isn't that easy," Bruce says.
It's something of a low blow; but Martha doesn't flinch. "I didn't say it would be easy," she says, calm, "and I didn't say it wouldn't take time." She's still got hold of his hands: she squeezes. "You're right, I hated you—but it didn't last. I don't see how it could have, after everything you did. And it won't with Clark, either. You told the truth that day: you are a friend of my son's. You've already proven that to me. And my son will be a friend of yours, too, Bruce, if you let him."
She's a kind woman, Martha Kent. Generous; it seems to run in the family. Which means Bruce needs to be careful. My son will be a friend of yours, if you let him. And she isn't wrong, after all: Bruce has ample proof that, given the opportunity, Clark will wholeheartedly make the worst choice available to him regardless of the cost to himself.
(Which surely means that Bruce—as a friend—should make every effort to stop him.)
"For all the good it will do him," Bruce says aloud, wry, because jokes are typically the least uncomfortable way to tell the truth.
But Martha doesn't let it slide that easily. She smiles at him and squeezes his hands again. "It's done me plenty," she says without hesitation, and she's about to add something else when the sound of the screen door creaking open stops her.
She and Bruce both turn.
It's Clark. He's stepped out onto the porch, barefooted, and the suit is gone, traded for a shirt and sweats, but there's still dark streaks of dirt along his arms, ground into the skin along the backs of his knuckles. He's holding the phone, but not to his ear—it's silent now, dark, and he's staring down at it.
"She cried," he says unsteadily. "But she—she's not coming back. This assignment is important to her, and she needs some time."
He recites this like he's memorized it, like it's something he was sitting in there repeating to himself for five minutes before he came out here and told them—and maybe he was.
"Oh, sweetheart," Martha says, and finally lets go of Bruce so she can step away and take the phone from Clark's hands. "You have to understand, it's been months—"
"Yeah," Clark says. He's looking down at his empty fingers, now that the phone is gone: his palms are still dirty, too. "Yeah. I guess it has."