Aka Part 16b, because that conversation got so much longer than it was supposed to. /o\ SORRY ABOUT ENDING SMACK IN THE MIDDLE LIKE THAT. I just couldn't figure out what else to do! Anyway, here we go: in which Clark has some feelings and continues to try to figure out what the hell Batman's deal is! GOOD LUCK WITH THAT, CLARK. WE'RE ROOTING FOR YOU.




Clark can't help shaking his head, disbelieving. He remembers a lot of things about that fight, but not Batman's fear—if anything, the lack of it had been the striking thing. Batman had been human, going up against Superman, and yet he'd hardly flinched. "And you're sure we're talking about the same Batman."

Diana's silent for a long moment. And then she says, very low, "Fear makes people quick to judgment. Quick to violence. But you know that already, Clark. Isn't that why you killed General Zod the first time? Because you feared what he would do otherwise?"

"I—sort of," Clark admits, and then shakes his head again, closing his eyes for a second against the memory of Zod's neck under his hands, the sound of it. "But that doesn't have anything to do with Batman."

Diana looks at him, and then—for a second he thinks she just has an itch or something, ungraceful as that sounds, the way she tucks a finger under the edge of the slim belt at her waist. But when she pulls her hand back out, there's something wound through her fingers, gleaming gold.

(Clark eyes the belt. It doesn't look anywhere near wide enough to hide the entire length of the lasso, which apparently is wrapped around Diana's waist underneath it. Then again: magic.)

"I'm not lying—"

"I didn't say you were," Diana says, very gently. "But I think perhaps you aren't sure exactly what the truth is."

With the lasso across her palm, she holds out her hand; and after a second Clark takes it. It's Diana. There's nothing to worry about.

"I was upset," he tells her baldly, and the lasso makes the words come so easily: less a forced confession than a relief. "Those pictures of my mom that Luthor had, it was—and I tried to talk to Batman first, but he just wouldn't listen to me. And he was right there. I couldn't hit Luthor; but I could hit him. I did hit him. I could have stopped, but I didn't want to, because I was—"

—angry. That's what he's going to say, that's how the sentence ends: I was angry. Angry, and Clark is thinking it when he opens his mouth, but somehow that's not what comes out.

"—afraid." And this is the flip side of the relief the lasso offers—once the dam's broken, you can't be sure how much will flood out. "I was afraid. I didn't want to stop hurting him, I didn't want to deal with what was happening to Mom. I told myself it was all right, that I knew where to draw the line, that I would stop anyway when it came down to it. But with me it would only take one mistake. Every single time I touched him, I could have killed him," and he doesn't even know whether he's talking about Batman or about Bruce—

"You didn't," Diana says, low and steady and sure, and eases her hand out of Clark's, and the lasso with it. "He's all right."

Nothing's compelling Clark anymore. But he says it anyway: "He doesn't trust me. He shouldn't. I was doing the wrong thing and I knew it, and I did it anyway."

Diana doesn't hesitate; that's not the right word. She pauses, precise and deliberate. And then she says, "It was important to him, fixing your suit. It meant something to him to do that—for your mother's sake, but also for yours. He regrets what happened to you, Clark, and in his own way he tried to make what amends he could. There's no reason you can't do the same." She reaches out again—not with the lasso, this time, but just to touch him. Just to hold his hand. "I told you that the thing he feared in you, he fears in himself. Maybe I should have said that the thing he condemned in you, he feared in himself; and maybe you're a little more like him than you realize."




She isn't wrong. Once the ship's accepted Clark as its commander, they fly back to Metropolis through the sunset; and then Clark goes back to his apartment and digs out one folder in particular from Mom's boxes.

He'd never gotten the chance to pull together that exposé he'd wanted to run on Batman. But all the material he'd collected for it is still here—Mom had packed it up, or Lois, and had put it away in the farmhouse basement with the rest of his things. Photos, clippings from the odd past article that had popped up in the Gotham Gazette, printouts of city files and tables of crime statistics, his own scribbled notes.

He flips through it all slowly, a piece at a time. He remembers how it had felt, collecting it: that certainty, that determination, that fiery righteousness. Batman was doing bad things, wrong things, and—

(—and I knew it, and I did it anyway—)

And had to have known it; and had been doing them anyway.

It had been so easy to hate him for it—to be sure about it, unwavering, absolute. But that had been before half the country had started to believe Clark had murdered everyone in Nairomi, before Clark himself had begun to think he really had let that bomb go off through his own carelessness. Certainty had been comfortable: Batman being wrong and Clark being right had been straightforward, clear-cut. Clark hadn't had to worry about whether he was doing a good thing, whether he was making the right choice—he hadn't had to think about whether he was causing more problems than he was solving, or hurting someone who didn't deserve to be hurt. He hadn't had to be afraid of himself.

He gets to the end of the file, flips it all back over so he's at the front again. On top is a picture cut out of the newspaper, clipped onto a photo from the M.E. at the prison: that bat-shaped brand on Cesar Santos's chest.

Does Batman regret that, too?

Maybe it's time to find out.




(Clark passes the penthouse on his way to Gotham. And he's been trying to give Bruce a little room to breathe; but he still can't keep himself from pausing to listen before he flies past.

Nothing. That makes three nights in a row Bruce hasn't even been in the penthouse. Maybe it's caught up to him now—the nightmare, and what Clark did to him because of it. Maybe he's staying away so he doesn't have to see Clark—

Or maybe he's on a business trip. Maybe he's unexpectedly had to work a couple nights. Clark needs to focus on Batman right now, and not build this thing with Bruce up in his head so it looks worse than it is.)




He lands in an alley, diving around the side of an awning, and then he dusts himself off and starts walking. Part of the problem last time, he's starting to think, is that he'd shown up as Superman—as though he did intend to interfere with Batman's work, as though it were somehow League business. And it is, in a way, but mostly it's their business.

He's hoping Batman will mind a little less if Clark Kent comes to Gotham instead.

It's a nice night. He finds himself humming a little bit as he walks, pushing his glasses up his nose and then squinting up at the stars, which are just coming out: there's a big bright one, the tint of light coming from it just a little blue, blocked out by the corner of a tall building and then visible again, and then blocked. Clark catches sight of it again, absently stepping sideways a little so the guy behind him on the sidewalk can go around—

"Don't move!"

Clark had just thought the guy was in a hurry. But no: he was trying to catch up to Clark, and now he has a hand on Clark's shoulder and something pressing into Clark's back at about kidney level. Clark obediently holds still, lifting his hands to show the guy there's nothing in them, and tries to figure out what it is—mouth of a gun? The end of a length of pipe? It's surprisingly hard to tell through his jacket.

And then the guy, shaky, presses harder, and Clark feels the jacket part under it. Knife. Definitely a knife.

"Just don't move," the guy repeats. "All I want is, like, a wallet, okay? You give me that, we're good—you're out a few bucks, you got some credit cards to cancel, but nobody dies and nobody gets life in prison. Good for me, good for you. Understand?"

"Sure," Clark says, and then wonders whether he should have screamed instead. But maybe there aren't a lot of good reasons for people to shout Don't move! in Gotham at night.

Because apparently that's enough.

Batman drops onto the sidewalk ahead of them in a rush of air and shadows, and the loudest thing about it is the swish of his cape—does he practice that? Does he go home and keep the boots on and just jump off of stuff over and over, until he can land quietly enough to meet his own standards?

He's tense, ready for trouble, which makes it easy to see the exact moment when he realizes who he's looking at. His shoulders go back and his chin comes up, and it's probably inaudible to the mugger, but Clark can hear the irritated huff of breath.

And Batman probably can't hear the mugger hiss, "Oh, shit," as well as Clark can. But he can definitely hear the guy say, "Look, don't come any closer. Seriously, I'll kill him," as he jerks Clark toward himself and shoves the knife a little harder against Clark's back.

"I don't think you will," Batman says, flat.

"What, you think I'm not serious, here? Because I am completely serious, man—uh, Batman—"

"Let me rephrase," Batman says. "I don't think you can."

"What?"

The guy's grip loosens a little, his indignant focus for a moment all on Batman. Clark blurs out from under his arm, and takes a second to carefully wrap his hand around the knife before he slows down again, so that when the guy startles—

"Jesus fuck!"

—he doesn't hurt himself with it.

"Sorry," Clark tells him, "I actually don't have my wallet with me. But, uh," and he sticks his free hand in his pocket and feels around. "I've got a couple twenties?"

The guy stares at him, blinking, and then at the dollar bills. He makes a grab for them, seeming almost surprised when Clark doesn't pull them back, and for a second it's like he can't decide what to do. He tugs a little on the knife, watching almost curiously as it stubbornly fails to go through or into Clark's hand; and then he tugs on the bills and successfully comes away with them, and that seems to settle it.

"Okay, then," he says slowly. "You keep the knife, and you have yourself a nice conversation with your buddy Batman, and I'll just—leave."

"Okay," Clark agrees, genial, and watches him back away a few steps before he turns and starts to jog, still shooting bewildered glances at Clark over his shoulder.

And—miraculously—Batman's still there when Clark turns back around.

"It's actually a nice knife," Clark tells him, and flips it demonstratively in his hand. He's not that good with knives, outside what Mom's taught him in the kitchen, but this one seems to have a pretty good balance to it.

He tosses it to Batman, underhand, hilt first; and even with Superman's night vision, he can't quite see what Batman does to make it vanish. "What are you doing here," Batman says, and it's definitely not a question.

Clark answers it anyway. "I just want to talk to you."

Batman seems unmoved. "What is there to talk about?"

Clark stares at him. "... That thing where we tried to kill each other?"

"It's over. You agreed to work with the League. There's nothing else to say."

He sounds steady, confident, which is fascinating considering he's also incredibly wrong. "Really? That's good enough for you?" Clark prods. "Because I don't want to just agree. If we're really going to work together, I want us to trust each other—to be able to depend on each other. I think that matters."

Batman doesn't answer with anything but stern silence.

But he also doesn't climb away up the side of the nearest building. That must count for something.

And Clark had a point he wanted to make. Right. "I'm guessing you know by now that Luthor went to a lot of effort to make me look bad to you. I assume he was doing something pretty similar to make you look bad to me. But Cesar Santos—"

The first test: inconclusive. Batman doesn't ask for clarification, doesn't say Who? But he doesn't fill in the pause Clark leaves, either, so maybe he doesn't remember after all.

"One of the criminals you branded," Clark elaborates, just in case; and he sticks a hand in his jacket pocket and pulls out the M.E.'s photo. "The one who died. The death was Luthor, but the rest wasn't, was it? You did that."

"Yes."

Clark waits a moment, but he doesn't go on. Which is fine. Clark can play this game. "Why?"

Batman looks away—or the cowl does, at least. At this angle it's hard to see his eyes clearly.

And then he looks back at Clark, and says, "Because I didn't care that I shouldn't." The dark head tilts. "Still want to work with me?"

He means it as a jab; but Clark can't help smiling. That was the second test.

"But you do care now."

"What?"

"You haven't done it since then," Clark tells him—because he already knows, but he needs to know that Clark knows, too. "I checked." The photo wasn't the only thing in his jacket pocket: he pulls out the handful of clippings, the befores from his folder and the afters he just spent a half-hour cutting out, with his own notes around the edges in Sharpie. "Seventeen of them—Santos was the eighteenth—and then you just stopped. Better part of a year, now, and not one single writeup about you even mentions branding, never mind another picture like this." He flutters the photo of Santos's chest in Batman's direction. "It does matter to you, to not do things that are wrong.

"What you did to Santos was a mistake; and you know it, and you haven't made it again. And what you—what you tried to do to me was a mistake, too. But you took care of my mother. You fixed my suit. You know it was a mistake, and you aren't going to make it again.

"So," Clark concludes, "I think I can work with you just fine."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Batman says, but for once it comes out sounding almost gentle.

"Yes, I do," Clark says. Dad, Zod, Batman—the nightmare with Bruce. Clark's made all kinds of mistakes. "I do. I do things wrong all the time. But I try not to do them again. You keep on—saying five words at a time and not looking me in the eye, whatever you want to do. That's fine. But you're part of a team with me now, and I'm not going to believe the worst of you anymore. I can do better than that, and so can you."

Batman is silent for a long time, but Clark doesn't mind waiting. It's a nice night, after all.

After a minute or two, he does say, very quietly, "Think what you want. I'll—try to make sure you don't suffer for it."

And then—of course—quick as anything, he leaps for the cornice just above him, swings up and over the edge of the molding in a sweep of blackness, and is gone.