The conclusion! TOOTHROTTING AS IT IS. Get ready, Bruce, you're about to be punched in the face with a fistful of sunshine. (OP, if this is too twee for you: I UNDERSTAND and I'M SORRY, let me know and I will 100% write you another ending. /o\)
I said this on the previous part but should have saved it for here: thank you SO MUCH to everybody who's been reading this, and to the anons who've left such wonderful, lengthy, incredibly kind comments! ♥ you all, I don't even know what to say. Except, of course, THANK YOU.
And, perhaps, revise that starting summary line to: five ways Bruce said "I love you" without saying it—and the time Clark didn't say it right back at him.
(basically everything he does, despite his best efforts.)
They take Bruce Wayne because they can: because no matter how much he varies the times and the days of his visits, if you stake out the Wayne mausoleum carefully enough, you'll catch him eventually.
Bruce can't even bring himself to regret it. He'd rather be kidnapped now and then than stop visiting his parents. If that's the price, he can accept it.
The worst thing about it isn't that he feels stupid anyway. It isn't that they've clearly been planning this for months, and he somehow missed any chatter. It isn't that they hit him, that they ziptie him; it isn't even that they let him see their faces, which means they aren't planning to let him go after they get whatever they can squeeze out of Lucius Fox for him.
It's that there's nothing he can do about any of it, because he doesn't have his damn suit.
Batman's body armor just isn't the kind of thing Bruce can fit underneath his day-to-day business clothes, not even with extremely expensive custom tailoring. And he'd been thinking of that as a positive, mostly—that kind of thing leaves a paper trail, and if anyone had been looking, that would definitely qualify as a clue connecting him with Batman. Bruce Wayne is as unremarkable as it's possible for a billionaire to be all day long; and then he goes back to the Cave and suits up and becomes Batman. And most of the time, that distinct separation is for the best.
Just not today.
Even without any of his equipment, of course, he's good enough to handle three. Maybe four, if none of them manage to get a decent bead on him with their guns within the first three seconds. But there's nine of them at least, and without grappling lines, batarangs, the armor, it gets harder and harder to come up with a way to pull it off.
Not to mention he'd then be stuck explaining how exactly Bruce Wayne had taken out nine heavily-armed men without dying. Because—maybe for the pressure it'll put on Lucius—these geniuses have already contacted the press.
Which means that without even knowing it, they've trapped him as well as any supervillain could. He's going to have to keep being useless, harmless Bruce Wayne, unless something happens that changes the stakes.
"—and no ransom demand has yet been made," a pleasant newswoman is saying tinnily from the tall one's smartphone screen. "But three images confirmed to be of Bruce Wayne have been released—"
"All right, all right, that's enough," says the blond one, and the tall one obediently shuts off the sound. "We'll give Fox a half-hour to get back to us, like we said, and then—"
The end of the word gets lost in a low pounding sound; the blond one goes silent and glances out the front of the van, further toward the city.
Toward Gotham—toward the docks, toward Metropolis, and toward, Bruce thinks with sudden clarity, the echoes of a goddamn sonic boom.
For a split second, he's so angry he can barely see straight; but he takes a slow breath, lets it out, and then pastes on Bruce Wayne's smug smile. Better start laying the groundwork.
"As much as I'll hate for this little adventure of ours to get cut short, I think that might be my ride."
Superman doesn't waste time: it only takes about thirty more seconds before the sides of the van's roof suddenly dimple inward with a crunch. Blond Guy hits the gas, but it doesn't do any good once the van's wheels lift off the ground. Superman flies them up to a rooftop, balancing the van carefully off one corner of the building, and tells the kidnappers to let Bruce get out or he'll let go. Which is a blatantly empty threat, coming from Superman, but then again they're pretty high up. The kidnappers turn out not to be gambling men.
Bruce grins at Superman sunnily, throws a wink sideways at Blond Guy, and then knee-walks up the slight angle of the van's floor until he can climb out the back. The kidnappers can't see his face anymore, which means it's safe to let it fall into the grim lines Bruce wants to direct at Clark; and the wind up here will snatch the words away before they can hear him say, "You really shouldn't have done this."
"You know, most people are happier to see me," Clark tells him, unfazed. And then he hauls the van safely onto the roof with one hand and reaches around to snap the ziptie around Bruce's wrists with the other.
Naturally, a news helicopter catches the whole thing.
They might still have gotten through it without actually having to talk to the press, except that Clark has to deliver the van to Gordon—and also carefully unscrunch the metal around the doors so they can be opened again. It only makes sense for him to take Bruce with him, so Bruce can provide the police with a statement and agree to file charges; and by the time they get out of the station, there's a crowd of reporters waiting for them.
The photos are going to be a problem all by themselves. And for all that he's one of them, Clark's never understood how to talk to reporters—and Superman's image won't let him brush them off the way Bruce Wayne can, anyway.
Maybe if Bruce just goes. "Thanks for the lift," he tries, and starts pushing away down the station steps; but of course Clark catches his arm, because Clark has never known when to quit.
"Let me take you back to your building," Clark says, earnest.
"That's really not necessary—"
"—you say you're friends with Bruce Wayne, Superman?" rises clear of the hum of questions being thrown at them, and of course that's the one that manages to catch Clark's attention.
"We weren't personally acquainted before today, ma'am," Clark says, which is technically true, and would have been fine if he'd been able to resist adding, "Which is a shame, considering all Mr. Wayne has done for this fine city."
Christ. "You're going to make me blush," Bruce says, in as smarmily dickish a Bruce Wayne tone as he can manage.
But of course the reporter doesn't let it go. "No doubt you're aware of Mr. Wayne's unsavory history with—"
She stops when Clark frowns—and who could blame her? With the suit and the perfect Superman face, it's as sudden and thunderous as the wrath of God; except it's Clark, which makes it more like the gentle, chiding disappointment of God, because He knows you're better than that. "I'm sure you're not suggesting Mr. Wayne should be weighed and measured, ma'am, and that you expect me to find him wanting. Everyone deserves to be saved."
It should be laugh-out-loud trite; but coming from Clark, somehow all it does is silence the questions, the clicking shutters. Only for a second, but that's long enough for Bruce to mutter, "Just get us out of here."
And of course Clark hears it, even if no one else does. "Excuse me, ma'am, but Mr. Wayne has a lot of work to do," and with one more polite smile, Clark catches Bruce around the waist and lifts off.
That's also technically true, but Clark doesn't take him to a Wayne Enterprises office building—he takes Bruce back to the manor grounds instead, though thankfully not to the mausoleum. That wouldn't have helped Bruce keep a level head.
Bruce bears the flight, the close pressure of Clark's arm, with grim resignation, and the second Clark sets him down, he moves away. "You really shouldn't have done that," he says, because apparently Clark didn't hear him the first time.
And it doesn't seem to get through this time, either. Clark just looks at him and says, "Why not?"
"Any association between Bruce Wayne and Superman is dangerous for both of us," Bruce says, and allows himself the over-precise enunciation of an irritated man, because he shouldn't have to spell this out. "Superman and Batman are both part of the League. If you start spending too much time around my civilian identity—"
"I save a lot of people, Bruce," Clark says. "Nobody's used it as a reason to accuse any of them of being Batman so far."
Another technically true thing. "You need to be more careful," Bruce says anyway, because that's also true.
It should make Clark angry, being scolded like that. But it doesn't. Instead he frowns again, crossing his arms, and looks at Bruce; and then he says slowly, "If you don't want to come to Thanksgiving, you don't have to."
It's such a ridiculous thing to say that Bruce almost laughs. Thanksgiving's going to be a mistake, Bruce is well aware of that, but on a solely personal scale. Bruce consciously considered what going into a family home, sitting at a table with Clark and Martha Kent, and eating a holiday dinner would cost him, and decided to agree anyway.
Today's been a mistake on a completely different level.
He shakes his head and then glances up—Clark is still watching him, eyes narrowed, and after a long quiet moment says, "No—no, that's the wrong thing, isn't it?"
"Excuse me?"
"Is it about the reporter?" Clark barrels on. "I'm sorry I had to—I mean, it was the truth, in a way, at least about Superman and Bruce Wayne. If she'd known what she was actually asking, you know I would have said yes."
He says it like that helps, like he thinks that fixes the problem. Bruce can't stop himself from grimacing. "That's the last thing you should be saying in public, Clark."
And Clark looks—Clark looks utterly confused. "What? Why?"
"Why?" Bruce repeats. "Because people respect Superman—"
"Half the press still hates me—"
"—they admire Superman—"
"—and the other half just wants a picture—"
"—and they should," Bruce snaps. "They should. But they can't if he starts spending time around—"
"Around what?" Clark says, when Bruce breaks off. His tone is soft; but his gaze is sharp, inescapable. "Around you?"
Bruce looks away. Clark's talking like that isn't the point of Bruce Wayne—as if he isn't constructed entirely out of unadmirable things, as if he isn't specifically designed to prevent anyone worth respect from respecting him.
"But Batman is all right—is that it?"
"That isn't the same," Bruce says, because it isn't. He'd never have formed any kind of partnership that was just between Batman and Superman—nothing would have kept Superman's motives more questionable than that. The League works because it's not Batman's, because it becomes less about Batman with each new hero they find. That's what makes it viable.
"No," Clark murmurs, "I guess it isn't. He and Superman are both just part of the League. That doesn't make Superman look worse, it makes Superman look better: he's just trying to find a way to work with someone like Batman. But getting too close to Bruce Wayne—that could drag me down. Is that it?"
It's logic. He doesn't need Bruce to tell him he's right. Bruce keeps looking away and doesn't say anything.
"Bruce," Clark says, and then there's a swish of air, of motion—the superspeed, Bruce thinks, and by the time he thinks it Clark already has a hand on his face, fingertips light against his jaw, turning his head.
He's not using the strength at all. Bruce gives in anyway.
"Bruce," Clark repeats, more quietly. "I'm not worried about being dragged down," and his gaze, his tone, are nothing but sober when he adds, very seriously, "I can fly."
For a half-second, Bruce is bewildered; and then all he wants to do is roll his eyes. "For Christ's sake, Clark," he tries to snap, but Clark has already started to laugh, is smiling at him like the sun coming out. Clark isn't listening anymore—if he ever was listening at all.
"I don't care about that," Clark is saying. "I want to be your friend, and I want people to see me doing it." He shakes his head, still halfway to grinning. "I want you to let them understand why I would. I—I want—" and then he cuts himself off, swallowing, and his eyes go wide. The sharp breath he draws says he's just realized how close to Bruce he's standing; his gaze jumps back and forth across Bruce's face once, twice, and then briefly down to Bruce's mouth before leaping hurriedly back up.
It's obviously the first time he's thought about it, or at least the first time it's really come together for him. It should scare him—it still scares Bruce sometimes, when he lets it. But Clark's not Bruce. Clark's Superman, Bruce thinks distantly; he doesn't back down. Not even from things that could destroy him.
"I—I, um," he says instead, uncertain, and then he stops himself again and settles for moving his hand: not just brushing Bruce's jaw anymore, but his fingers sliding into Bruce's hair, his palm warm against Bruce's throat, his thumb just barely touching the corner of Bruce's mouth.
Bruce should step away. If he did, Clark wouldn't stop him—wouldn't dream of it. (He could. Of course he could. He could break Bruce's neck before Bruce even knew what was happening. The only thing that's stopping him—and stopping him where armies, tanks, even nuclear bombs wouldn't be able to—is that it will never occur to him. That even if it did, he'd never do it.)
But Clark's started smiling at him again, slow and warm, almost more than Bruce can stand to look at; and Clark's right there, touching his face, so close and so bright and so unhesitatingly glad. Bruce should stop him, and could—just needs to say any one of a dozen things, casually unleash one of a hundred petty cruelties. Superman's invulnerable, but Clark really, really isn't. It would take a little time to make Clark genuinely hate him again, but it could be done. At the very least, he could get Clark to let go of him, to move away. He could get Clark to stop looking at him like that. (He could make it so Clark never looked at him like that again.) And yet—
And yet Clark—Clark wants Bruce. He as good as said so. And Bruce, God help him, wants to let him.
It's as if Clark can hear him, even though telepathy is maybe the one superpower in the world he doesn't have; Bruce realizes with a jolt that he's murmuring, "Let me—let me," as he moves nearer, as if he can somehow tell what Bruce is fighting with. As if he really does know Bruce that well.
And that thought is terrifying; but not terrifying enough to keep Bruce's hands hanging where they are instead of rising helplessly to Clark's shoulders. Not terrifying enough to keep Bruce from kissing him back.
FILL: coming up these steps to you; Bruce/Clark, saying "I love you" without ever saying it (6/6)
I said this on the previous part but should have saved it for here: thank you SO MUCH to everybody who's been reading this, and to the anons who've left such wonderful, lengthy, incredibly kind comments! ♥ you all, I don't even know what to say. Except, of course, THANK YOU.
And, perhaps, revise that starting summary line to: five ways Bruce said "I love you" without saying it—and the time Clark didn't say it right back at him.
(basically everything he does, despite his best efforts.)
They take Bruce Wayne because they can: because no matter how much he varies the times and the days of his visits, if you stake out the Wayne mausoleum carefully enough, you'll catch him eventually.
Bruce can't even bring himself to regret it. He'd rather be kidnapped now and then than stop visiting his parents. If that's the price, he can accept it.
The worst thing about it isn't that he feels stupid anyway. It isn't that they've clearly been planning this for months, and he somehow missed any chatter. It isn't that they hit him, that they ziptie him; it isn't even that they let him see their faces, which means they aren't planning to let him go after they get whatever they can squeeze out of Lucius Fox for him.
It's that there's nothing he can do about any of it, because he doesn't have his damn suit.
Batman's body armor just isn't the kind of thing Bruce can fit underneath his day-to-day business clothes, not even with extremely expensive custom tailoring. And he'd been thinking of that as a positive, mostly—that kind of thing leaves a paper trail, and if anyone had been looking, that would definitely qualify as a clue connecting him with Batman. Bruce Wayne is as unremarkable as it's possible for a billionaire to be all day long; and then he goes back to the Cave and suits up and becomes Batman. And most of the time, that distinct separation is for the best.
Just not today.
Even without any of his equipment, of course, he's good enough to handle three. Maybe four, if none of them manage to get a decent bead on him with their guns within the first three seconds. But there's nine of them at least, and without grappling lines, batarangs, the armor, it gets harder and harder to come up with a way to pull it off.
Not to mention he'd then be stuck explaining how exactly Bruce Wayne had taken out nine heavily-armed men without dying. Because—maybe for the pressure it'll put on Lucius—these geniuses have already contacted the press.
Which means that without even knowing it, they've trapped him as well as any supervillain could. He's going to have to keep being useless, harmless Bruce Wayne, unless something happens that changes the stakes.
"—and no ransom demand has yet been made," a pleasant newswoman is saying tinnily from the tall one's smartphone screen. "But three images confirmed to be of Bruce Wayne have been released—"
"All right, all right, that's enough," says the blond one, and the tall one obediently shuts off the sound. "We'll give Fox a half-hour to get back to us, like we said, and then—"
The end of the word gets lost in a low pounding sound; the blond one goes silent and glances out the front of the van, further toward the city.
Toward Gotham—toward the docks, toward Metropolis, and toward, Bruce thinks with sudden clarity, the echoes of a goddamn sonic boom.
For a split second, he's so angry he can barely see straight; but he takes a slow breath, lets it out, and then pastes on Bruce Wayne's smug smile. Better start laying the groundwork.
"As much as I'll hate for this little adventure of ours to get cut short, I think that might be my ride."
Superman doesn't waste time: it only takes about thirty more seconds before the sides of the van's roof suddenly dimple inward with a crunch. Blond Guy hits the gas, but it doesn't do any good once the van's wheels lift off the ground. Superman flies them up to a rooftop, balancing the van carefully off one corner of the building, and tells the kidnappers to let Bruce get out or he'll let go. Which is a blatantly empty threat, coming from Superman, but then again they're pretty high up. The kidnappers turn out not to be gambling men.
Bruce grins at Superman sunnily, throws a wink sideways at Blond Guy, and then knee-walks up the slight angle of the van's floor until he can climb out the back. The kidnappers can't see his face anymore, which means it's safe to let it fall into the grim lines Bruce wants to direct at Clark; and the wind up here will snatch the words away before they can hear him say, "You really shouldn't have done this."
"You know, most people are happier to see me," Clark tells him, unfazed. And then he hauls the van safely onto the roof with one hand and reaches around to snap the ziptie around Bruce's wrists with the other.
Naturally, a news helicopter catches the whole thing.
They might still have gotten through it without actually having to talk to the press, except that Clark has to deliver the van to Gordon—and also carefully unscrunch the metal around the doors so they can be opened again. It only makes sense for him to take Bruce with him, so Bruce can provide the police with a statement and agree to file charges; and by the time they get out of the station, there's a crowd of reporters waiting for them.
The photos are going to be a problem all by themselves. And for all that he's one of them, Clark's never understood how to talk to reporters—and Superman's image won't let him brush them off the way Bruce Wayne can, anyway.
Maybe if Bruce just goes. "Thanks for the lift," he tries, and starts pushing away down the station steps; but of course Clark catches his arm, because Clark has never known when to quit.
"Let me take you back to your building," Clark says, earnest.
"That's really not necessary—"
"—you say you're friends with Bruce Wayne, Superman?" rises clear of the hum of questions being thrown at them, and of course that's the one that manages to catch Clark's attention.
"We weren't personally acquainted before today, ma'am," Clark says, which is technically true, and would have been fine if he'd been able to resist adding, "Which is a shame, considering all Mr. Wayne has done for this fine city."
Christ. "You're going to make me blush," Bruce says, in as smarmily dickish a Bruce Wayne tone as he can manage.
But of course the reporter doesn't let it go. "No doubt you're aware of Mr. Wayne's unsavory history with—"
She stops when Clark frowns—and who could blame her? With the suit and the perfect Superman face, it's as sudden and thunderous as the wrath of God; except it's Clark, which makes it more like the gentle, chiding disappointment of God, because He knows you're better than that. "I'm sure you're not suggesting Mr. Wayne should be weighed and measured, ma'am, and that you expect me to find him wanting. Everyone deserves to be saved."
It should be laugh-out-loud trite; but coming from Clark, somehow all it does is silence the questions, the clicking shutters. Only for a second, but that's long enough for Bruce to mutter, "Just get us out of here."
And of course Clark hears it, even if no one else does. "Excuse me, ma'am, but Mr. Wayne has a lot of work to do," and with one more polite smile, Clark catches Bruce around the waist and lifts off.
That's also technically true, but Clark doesn't take him to a Wayne Enterprises office building—he takes Bruce back to the manor grounds instead, though thankfully not to the mausoleum. That wouldn't have helped Bruce keep a level head.
Bruce bears the flight, the close pressure of Clark's arm, with grim resignation, and the second Clark sets him down, he moves away. "You really shouldn't have done that," he says, because apparently Clark didn't hear him the first time.
And it doesn't seem to get through this time, either. Clark just looks at him and says, "Why not?"
"Any association between Bruce Wayne and Superman is dangerous for both of us," Bruce says, and allows himself the over-precise enunciation of an irritated man, because he shouldn't have to spell this out. "Superman and Batman are both part of the League. If you start spending too much time around my civilian identity—"
"I save a lot of people, Bruce," Clark says. "Nobody's used it as a reason to accuse any of them of being Batman so far."
Another technically true thing. "You need to be more careful," Bruce says anyway, because that's also true.
It should make Clark angry, being scolded like that. But it doesn't. Instead he frowns again, crossing his arms, and looks at Bruce; and then he says slowly, "If you don't want to come to Thanksgiving, you don't have to."
It's such a ridiculous thing to say that Bruce almost laughs. Thanksgiving's going to be a mistake, Bruce is well aware of that, but on a solely personal scale. Bruce consciously considered what going into a family home, sitting at a table with Clark and Martha Kent, and eating a holiday dinner would cost him, and decided to agree anyway.
Today's been a mistake on a completely different level.
He shakes his head and then glances up—Clark is still watching him, eyes narrowed, and after a long quiet moment says, "No—no, that's the wrong thing, isn't it?"
"Excuse me?"
"Is it about the reporter?" Clark barrels on. "I'm sorry I had to—I mean, it was the truth, in a way, at least about Superman and Bruce Wayne. If she'd known what she was actually asking, you know I would have said yes."
He says it like that helps, like he thinks that fixes the problem. Bruce can't stop himself from grimacing. "That's the last thing you should be saying in public, Clark."
And Clark looks—Clark looks utterly confused. "What? Why?"
"Why?" Bruce repeats. "Because people respect Superman—"
"Half the press still hates me—"
"—they admire Superman—"
"—and the other half just wants a picture—"
"—and they should," Bruce snaps. "They should. But they can't if he starts spending time around—"
"Around what?" Clark says, when Bruce breaks off. His tone is soft; but his gaze is sharp, inescapable. "Around you?"
Bruce looks away. Clark's talking like that isn't the point of Bruce Wayne—as if he isn't constructed entirely out of unadmirable things, as if he isn't specifically designed to prevent anyone worth respect from respecting him.
"But Batman is all right—is that it?"
"That isn't the same," Bruce says, because it isn't. He'd never have formed any kind of partnership that was just between Batman and Superman—nothing would have kept Superman's motives more questionable than that. The League works because it's not Batman's, because it becomes less about Batman with each new hero they find. That's what makes it viable.
"No," Clark murmurs, "I guess it isn't. He and Superman are both just part of the League. That doesn't make Superman look worse, it makes Superman look better: he's just trying to find a way to work with someone like Batman. But getting too close to Bruce Wayne—that could drag me down. Is that it?"
It's logic. He doesn't need Bruce to tell him he's right. Bruce keeps looking away and doesn't say anything.
"Bruce," Clark says, and then there's a swish of air, of motion—the superspeed, Bruce thinks, and by the time he thinks it Clark already has a hand on his face, fingertips light against his jaw, turning his head.
He's not using the strength at all. Bruce gives in anyway.
"Bruce," Clark repeats, more quietly. "I'm not worried about being dragged down," and his gaze, his tone, are nothing but sober when he adds, very seriously, "I can fly."
For a half-second, Bruce is bewildered; and then all he wants to do is roll his eyes. "For Christ's sake, Clark," he tries to snap, but Clark has already started to laugh, is smiling at him like the sun coming out. Clark isn't listening anymore—if he ever was listening at all.
"I don't care about that," Clark is saying. "I want to be your friend, and I want people to see me doing it." He shakes his head, still halfway to grinning. "I want you to let them understand why I would. I—I want—" and then he cuts himself off, swallowing, and his eyes go wide. The sharp breath he draws says he's just realized how close to Bruce he's standing; his gaze jumps back and forth across Bruce's face once, twice, and then briefly down to Bruce's mouth before leaping hurriedly back up.
It's obviously the first time he's thought about it, or at least the first time it's really come together for him. It should scare him—it still scares Bruce sometimes, when he lets it. But Clark's not Bruce. Clark's Superman, Bruce thinks distantly; he doesn't back down. Not even from things that could destroy him.
"I—I, um," he says instead, uncertain, and then he stops himself again and settles for moving his hand: not just brushing Bruce's jaw anymore, but his fingers sliding into Bruce's hair, his palm warm against Bruce's throat, his thumb just barely touching the corner of Bruce's mouth.
Bruce should step away. If he did, Clark wouldn't stop him—wouldn't dream of it. (He could. Of course he could. He could break Bruce's neck before Bruce even knew what was happening. The only thing that's stopping him—and stopping him where armies, tanks, even nuclear bombs wouldn't be able to—is that it will never occur to him. That even if it did, he'd never do it.)
But Clark's started smiling at him again, slow and warm, almost more than Bruce can stand to look at; and Clark's right there, touching his face, so close and so bright and so unhesitatingly glad. Bruce should stop him, and could—just needs to say any one of a dozen things, casually unleash one of a hundred petty cruelties. Superman's invulnerable, but Clark really, really isn't. It would take a little time to make Clark genuinely hate him again, but it could be done. At the very least, he could get Clark to let go of him, to move away. He could get Clark to stop looking at him like that. (He could make it so Clark never looked at him like that again.) And yet—
And yet Clark—Clark wants Bruce. He as good as said so. And Bruce, God help him, wants to let him.
It's as if Clark can hear him, even though telepathy is maybe the one superpower in the world he doesn't have; Bruce realizes with a jolt that he's murmuring, "Let me—let me," as he moves nearer, as if he can somehow tell what Bruce is fighting with. As if he really does know Bruce that well.
And that thought is terrifying; but not terrifying enough to keep Bruce's hands hanging where they are instead of rising helplessly to Clark's shoulders. Not terrifying enough to keep Bruce from kissing him back.