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Bruce was never religious. His father had been a devout Atheist, and his mother a non-practicing Jew. He himself was raised without belief, although there had always been the shadow of a possibility that he would one day choose to believe in God. Or a Higher Power. Or something. That possibility, of course, had died with his parents.
Ever since he was eight years old, Bruce has known that there is no God.
There is no God, and anyone who thinks otherwise is either willfully fooling themselves, or has been so thoroughly indoctrinated from childhood that they can see the world no other way. And many humans are fools— that is why there are different religions. And many other humans are violent fools, and that is why there are wars over religion; each side claiming that they have the One True Faith. But where is the proof that any of them are right? There is none.
That, Bruce muses, is the genius of ‘faith.’ It needs no evidence to burn strong inside a person— someone could go on fooling themselves for a life-time. He, of course, is a man of science and reason— a detective. He tries to be empirical in all things, and he has never doubted his methods.
°°°
Bruce does not need a God to tell him what his impact on the world is; he need merely look at the three tombstones in the Manor’s yard to see it.
°°°
If Luthor is right about anything, it is that no being is both all-powerful and all-good.
Bruce doesn’t give credence to the rest of the man’s unhinged prophesizing— it’s all pseudo-philosophic bullshit anyway— but he agrees that Superman is not all-good. It is this juxtaposition that worries Batman the most. Since there is no God, Bruce is sure as hell that the alien isn’t one either.
°°°
Superman is an unnatural disaster waiting to happen.
He acts like an all-good God, and humans, who have a long history of being fools especially in regard to religion and ‘faith,’ believe in him. Humanity wants a savior, wants someone who is all-powerful to come and sweep away their problems, wants the miracles, the wine from water, the fish, everything. Humanity wants a Superman. And since humanity wants something all-powerful, they cannot have something all-good.
The man being is alive, Bruce knows that much— it’s an empirical fact because Batman can see the impact that he has on the world— and if Bruce has a gravestone, then the alien has a cemetery. Since the alien is alive then he (it?) can die because nothing alive is all-powerful. Nothing alive is God, because God is intangible, and does not exist. Therefore, because the alien is alive, tangible, and not all-powerful, he is not a God. Even if he acts like one.
“But if he is not all-powerful, then why can’t he be all-good, Master Wayne?” Alfred asks.
°°°
Superman seems to try to be good, Bruce admits reluctantly. He saves cats and babies and airplanes. But he also crashes into occupied buildings and causes things like the Black Zero event. Empirically, that is not good. Neither is murder. And there is at least one confirmed case of Superman killing.
Trying to be good, Bruce knows, is not enough. He has tried to be good, and has concluded, after twenty years of trying, that either one is good, or one is not. Bruce is not. And in a lapsarian world (there is nothing post about it), no one is good. There are those that come close, it’s true, but nothing is all-good.
Additionally, because there is no God, there is nothing powerful enough to make things be all-good. Therefore, anything powerful that claims to be all-good is not. Therefore, anything (or one) claiming to be a savior should not be trusted. Therefore, Superman is dangerous. A threat. And Batman has dealt with clowns in suits for twenty years, and plenty of other threats too.
°°°
Bruce decides that the Kryptonian needs to be dealt with.
°°°
Nairomi happens, and Bruce is not surprised.
The U.S. Capitol is bombed during the hearing on metahumans (Superman). This is unexpected.
Batman works with a kind of grim-tirelessness towards his goal. Even Alfred’s words no longer deter him.
°°°
The first time he meets Clark Kent, Bruce comes away from the interaction feeling jittery. There is just something about the man that rubs him the wrong way— only, Bruce has no evidence as to why this is, and it bothers him. After all, it’s a rare person who likes Bruce Wayne, and they don’t often maintain that opinion for very long.
He worries at his snap-judgement, and frequently finds his thoughts wandering to the glasses-wearing reporter the whole week after Luthor’s gala. There’s just something about him, Bruce muses again. He tries to put his finger on the unsettlement of his experience, but can’t.
He glances distractedly out of his W.E. office window at the miniaturized activity of Gotham’s citizens below. There’s also the matter of his thief to deal with, Bruce reminds himself. But despite that (pressing) concern, and his increasing worry over Luthor’s activities, he can’t stop poking at why Clark goddamned Kent is so intriguing to his psyche.
°°°
The White Portuguese is a ship. It’s a ship that is docking tonight in Gotham, with some (a lot) of Luthor’s illicit xenomaterial aboard. Bruce very much intends to steal it; there are some benefits to not being good. But if he is to do so, he’ll have to be patient, and be ready to move quickly when the time is ripe.
°°°
When the alien appears, Bruce isn’t surprised.
°°°
Pain is something that Bruce— Batman— is used to. But he still feels dazed when his face hits the tumbler’s steering wheel, and only the shock of a very broken nose and also broken arm keep him from shouting out. Bruce— really the tumbler— has just been body-slammed by the alien. True, he has the armor, and always wears a seatbelt (no matter how many suicidal musings he may be having that day) but those are nothing compared to the strength of a being who can lift (or destroy) a building.
As the tumbler’s roof is slowly torn off— with a great, ear-splitting shriek— Batman’s mildly-concussed eyes try to focus on the blurry red-and-blue form of Superman. He growls, and sets about attempting to free his broken arm from where it’s caught between the now-crumpled dash and deformed steering wheel.
The alien disappears momentarily, the tumbler’s roof in hand. Bruce finally pulls his arm free. In the distance, he hears a vague banging sound— the torn-off roof being destroyed further, probably. With his slightly-trembling right hand, Batman unbuckles himself, and stumbles out of the car. The alien, for some reason (a display of strength, of superiority) lets him.
Bruce squints up at Superman, and tries to ignore the uncomfortable wet throbbing that is his nose, the warmth of blood dripping from it, and the tingling zaps of pain coming from his left forearm. The alien comes first. Bruce grits his teeth, and sourly regrets that he hadn’t gotten more of the xenomaterial; he has only his small collection in the cave. The silence swells as the alien continues to hover ten feet in the air above Bruce.
Blood runs smoothly down his face, into his mouth, and Bruce spits. Superman winces. Bruce offers a sardonic, bloody smile which makes the alien sigh softly. He drops rapidly to the ground, so that his cape seems to lag in the air behind him, for a moment, as if it’s forgotten the laws of physics. Then he walks over to Bruce.
Batman steps back, and has to grab onto the tumbler’s— where the tumbler’s roof should be— to keep his footing. For a moment, his vision swirls, and Superman’s form becomes nothing but an impressionistic blob of color. He blinks, and the alien comes into somewhat sharper focus. Batman cautiously releases his hold on the car, wipes his face, and tenses.
°°°
Superman stops about a foot away from Batman. For a moment, they merely observe each other— two dominant predators, of different species, trying to stake a territorial claim. After a bit, Superman shakes his head, and mutters, “Lead. Unbelievable.” If Bruce’s cowl didn’t have hearing enhancement he wouldn’t have caught it.
The alien sounds… not amused, no. But… not as angry as Bruce would have expected either. It is confusing. He’ll have to think more about it when he’s not concussed. Bruce blinks. Errantly, he wipes his nose again. Superman watches, and makes an almost pained noise. Abruptly, he is reaching for Batman, and Bruce snarls.
Superman sighs, and his eyes narrow. They’re blue, such a light, unique blue. The small factoid startles Bruce, because it is so irrelevant, and he needs to focus. Focus, because the alien takes another step toward him and Bruce tenses more, and he feels his heartbeat against the Kevlar, in the blood that pulses more rapidly from his nose, from the beat of pain in his arm, and— he is not prepared for this.
What force could possibly contain a Superman?
°°°
The alien finally speaks. Bruce is startled, because in his intent focus, noticing things like the passage of time has become unimportant. But it has been a while since any words have been spoken. “You’re hurt,” he says.
Bruce growls. “So?” he challenges. Isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that why you came here— to intimidate the Bat into stopping? The alien’s blue eyes widen. He looks surprised.
“But- but you’re human.”
Bruce snarls, “I’m still strong enough to hurt you.”
Superman blinks. He looks confused. It’s a very human expression on him. Bruce frowns. “Why? Why do you want to?”
“Because you’re not a god, and you are not all-good,” Bruce growls fiercely. The alien’s eyes narrow. He takes another step closer; if Batman tenses anymore, he’ll pull something.
“But you aren’t either! At least I don’t BRAND PEOPLE!” Superman exclaims. He stalks forward again. Bruce swallows. Superman is slightly shorter than he is.
Bruce lets out a caustic laugh. “At least I don’t destroy cities!” A taut, trip-wire silence falls between them. Superman’s gaze is red-tinged for a moment. He looks angry— Bruce bristles.
“What’s to stop me from taking you in right now?” the Kryptonian asks quietly. “Give me one goddamned good reason, Batman.”
Bruce’s stomach drops. He grits his teeth. The alien slowly floats up. One of his eyebrows is slightly raised, and he folds his arms, like an impatient parent waiting to hear their rule-breaking child’s excuses. Batman seethes. “Because I know who you are.”
°°°
Superman hits the ground so hard the worn cement cracks. He stands there a moment, looking like a statue. “What,” he says softly. Bruce’s mind spirals. Why did he say that why did he say that of all things? He doesn’t even know the man’s identity. At his silence, Superman strides forward; in a moment, he’ll reach Bruce.
Batman thinks, harder than he ever has before, and is struck by a thunderclap. Blue eyes. Righteous attitude. Shorter than him. Black hair. White teeth. “Clark. Clark Kent,” he says, half-astounded at the name. It can’t possibly be true, and Bruce has just gotten himself killed. But, miracle of miracles, the alien looks just as astounded as Bruce. He stops walking.
Superman stares sharply at Batman and asks, “How did you find out?”
Bruce is silent for a moment, and he feels like he needs to sit down. The feeling is only slightly caused by physical duress. Unbelievable. Truly unbelievable. Clark Kent is the alien— the alien is Clark Kent. Superman. Bruce feels dizzy.
The last thing he thinks before passing out is: Oh. Maybe it was the shock after all.
°°°
Bruce wakes up and realizes that he’s lying on the ground. He’s still at the docks, next to the tumbler, so he must not have been out for too long. And he’s not actually entirely on the ground either, because Superman’s got his head supported across his thighs— he’s sort-of kneeling, sort-of sitting behind Bruce. Bruce blinks, feeling a strong surge of adrenaline, because the other thing he notices is this: the cowl is no longer covering his head.
And of course not— it’s not like a couple hundred volts or knockout gas would really be able to stop the alien, right?
°°°
Bruce sits up, and shoves the alien away; he’s warm, just like a human. Clark. The alien. Is warm. He tries to stand, but immediately realizes that that’s not going to happen as his vision swims. So instead, Bruce swats away the alien’s Superman’s Clark’s his hand, and thumps against the side of his wrecked vehicle. Superman doesn’t move for a moment, apparently deciding to let Bruce adjust, but then he does.
The other man sits next to Batman against his vehicle. Bruce turns his gaze out across the docks to avoid meeting Superman’s eyes. But he can still feel the alien’s gaze roving over his face. Absently, Bruce reaches for the cowl, which has been carelessly discarded a few inches away. It sits upended by his feet.
“Your nose,” Superman protests.
Bruce snorts. “I’ve had worse.” He puts the cowl back on.
Superman blinks. He looks confused. “You’re Bruce Wayne,” he says, as if it’s a question. Bruce snorts again— instantly regretting it, as a fresh trickle of blood spatters his face. Superman looks concerned. Bruce eases his head back against the tumbler, and closes his eyes behind the cowl. He’s tired.
Lead. Batman gets it now. Lead stops x-rays.
°°°
They sit there long enough for Bruce’s nose to start clotting. It’s an extremely unpleasant sensation, but no more than all the other ones of the night. Bruce shifts minutely, trying to regain a bit of feeling in his cold legs, and grimaces. His arm pulses steady jolts of pain, but if he keeps it still enough it doesn’t hurt as much. Bruce learned long-ago to ignore his pain.
Superman, who has seemingly been content to just sit next to Bruce in silence, shifts subtly. If he acknowledges him, he’ll have to talk to him. Bruce sighs, and turns his head slightly. He catches a glimpse of blue, the curl. A hesitant twist of the mouth. Red— the cape. “We need to talk.”
Bruce groans. Superman sits up quickly and is suddenly crouching in front of Batman. Bruce startles slightly, and then feels his cheeks heat. He’s no damsel in distress. “That was purely frustration. I’m fine.” Superman subsides. Before Bruce can blink, he’s assumed his earlier position. But he is sitting a hair closer to Bruce.
°°°
“I’m sorry about the- the—”
“Tumbler,” Bruce interrupts. He doesn’t want to listen to the alien fumble around for words. He’s got his eyes closed again, head resting against the driver’s door. But he can still sense Superman nod.
“I’m sorry about the tumbler. And your nose. And the arm,” he says quietly.
Bruce sighs. He considers opening his eyes, but he also doesn’t want to look at Superman just now, and he’s… well, not comfortable here, not when his legs are mostly numb, but… fine. Not bad. And after everything else that’s happened tonight, that’s saying something. “Well, I’d say I forgive you, but I don’t,” he murmurs dryly. It comes out half-normal because he speaks so softly. Good.
Superman sighs, and at that Bruce does open his eyes. The other man is looking at him as if he’s a math problem he can’t quite figure out. What’s the derivative of this encounter? Bruce asks himself. He barely keeps from snorting. Abruptly, Superman stands. He moves slightly so he’s in front of Bruce and offers a hand. Bruce ignores it, and slowly pushes himself up.
°°°
“Let me take you home,” Superman says firmly. He’s using his ‘hero’ voice, something that mildly irritates Batman. If it had been an hour ago, he might have snapped at the other man. But he’s too tired to do that. Also, the offer is tempting. Probably because the tumbler’s very much out of commission— and Alfred is going to be pissed at that— and he’s not feeling great. Still, Bruce hesitates. But… mutually assured destruction; Clark hasn’t killed him yet, so he probably won’t on the trip home (not like he’ll learn anything from it either, as everyone already knows where Bruce Wayne lives), and Bruce still knows his civilian identity. He sighs.
“Fine. But make sure to come back for the tumbler. I don’t want the Gotham underworld getting a look at the Bat’s toys.”
°°°
Alfred is very surprised when Superman rings the lake house’s doorbell, while holding an arm-full of Bat. In fact, after he opens the door, the butler blinks. He stands there a moment, completely still, and then shakes his head. “My word, Sir. You never cease to amaze me with your ability to be dramatic,” he says, stepping aside. Once they’re across the threshold, Bruce pushes himself out of Clark’s arms, and stalks across the house to the cave entrance. Hovering awkwardly, Clark follows. Alfred trails behind them, still tutting.
°°°
Bruce lets them all into the cave and they proceed down the stairs silently.
Superman stops abruptly, at the base of the stairs, and Alfred shoots him an exasperated look as he suddenly has to weave around an invulnerable alien blockade. Bruce smiles. He leaves the alien to his observations, and heads for the med bay. Alfred swiftly follows. Perhaps, on another night, he would’ve had more words for Bruce, but tonight’s different. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to embarrass Batman in front of the alien he’s been trying to kill for upward of a year.
As Alfred helps him start stripping off the armor, a small cough comes from the med bay’s ‘doorway.’ Superman peeks his head in awkwardly. Bruce almost rolls his eyes, but his mood is abruptly lost as Alfred briefly touches a hand to the exposed tip of his nose. Bruce hisses.
°°°
Superman suddenly shrinks at the noise and— Bruce can see it. He’s really Clark Kent, he thinks, with renewed amazement. Alfred mutters something about “carelessness” and “idiocy” but he’s gentle with the warm washcloth that he dabs at Bruce’s upper lip with. The alien slinks closer, and Bruce actually does roll his eyes this time. “If you’re going to lurk, you might as well be useful doing it.”
Alfred gives him a curious look— he still doesn’t know what’s been going on. Bruce twists slightly, and meets his curious (concerned) gaze. “Things have changed,” Bruce says. I’m no longer gunning for Superman.
Alfred raises an eyebrow. “I would have never guessed, Master Batman,” he says sarcastically. Bruce, in answer, removes the cowl. You were right, old friend. I do have a flair for the dramatic.
°°°
“Ah… I see,” Alfred mutters. He swiftly glances at Clark, who, naturally, doesn’t look surprised. “And when were you going to tell me about this development, Bruce?” Bruce opens his mouth to respond, but it’s Superman who beats him to it.
“It’s fairly recent— as of tonight, actually… I broke his nose. And his arm,” Clark says. Alfred goes still beside Bruce, and raises one eyebrow; he’s always been overprotective.
“By stopping my vehicle with your body,” Bruce amends. Alfred resumes removing Bruce’s armor. Superman winces, and looks as if he’s about to argue, but Alfred steps in.
“I do believe you have x-ray vision? When I get this off, come tell me how bad the break is. If it’s mild, we can set it here,” he says. Then he sets about removing Bruce’s chest plate armor, and gauntlets.
°°°
After the rest of the armor is removed, Alfred checks Bruce’s eyes with a pen light, and doesn’t look too displeased by the results, which Bruce takes as a good sign. He then orders Bruce to take a quick shower, which he does eagerly. When Bruce gets out, there’s a pile of soft, clean clothes waiting for him. He towels off his hair and then pads back to the medical cot. Then Alfred asks Superman to x-ray Bruce’s broken arm.
Clark slowly and gently takes the appendage in hand, and asks that Bruce be still. That’s not a problem, as all Bruce can think is: he’s warm. Skin doesn’t feel any different than any other person’s. He feels the small tremblings of some mental storm beginning— which he shoves away. Later. When he’s not beaten half to hell and exhausted.
The break, Clark says, isn’t serious.
Alfred, when he cautiously offers sedatives, probably isn’t expecting Bruce to agree to take them. But he’s exhausted, in a not-insignificant amount of pain, and honestly? Bruce would like for this whole night to just be over. Besides, he has a feeling that Superman isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. And even if he does— he’ll be back later. They do need to talk.
Clark says as much, just after Bruce takes the pills. “I’ll be here,” he promises seriously, “when you wake up.” Bruce nods, before sinking back against the pillows and fading out of consciousness.
°°°
Bruce wakes around noon. He silently pads upstairs and sees Superman— Clark Kent— sitting on his couch. The man offers a cautious smile, which Bruce is too out-of-it to return. But he does embarrass himself by offering a goofy little wave (which Clark returns). Alfred makes his presence known from the kitchen, and says that he’ll have breakfast waiting for after Bruce gets dressed.
Bruce changes into an equally comfortable outfit and tries (in vain) to smooth down his bed-head. He heads into the kitchen and sits at the island. As Bruce eats breakfast, Clark— who has either eaten elsewhere (or been fed earlier)— makes polite small talk with Alfred. It is, overall, a strange experience.
After Bruce is done, they retreat to the living room. Alfred disappears down into the cave.
°°°
They talk. About Bruce’s concerns. Clark’s. Each offer reasons and justifications, but mostly they exchange backstory and share histories. Clark shares more since he’s not famous in his civilian identity. Bruce discloses, “I’m not actually stupid.” Clark nods solemnly. They keep talking. They talk until things feel different— they’ve reached an agreement.
Alfred comes by with tea and sandwiches. Bruce blinks. It’s been three hours.
°°°
After that, Clark swings by the lake house regularly. Sometimes he talks shop with Bruce (although Bruce doesn’t mention Luthor’s actions— he’s handling the investigation personally) others he listens as Bruce complains about the banality of society life. Occasionally Clark dishes on a story he’s writing. Surprisingly, Bruce doesn’t actually hate the man he’s been trying to kill for the better part of two years.
He feels that earlier mental storm start to spin within him.
°°°
“I’m sorry.”
“What for?” Clark asks.
Bruce swallows. He looks away. He’s typing case notes at the computer. Clark is leaning against the workshop table behind him, seemingly content just to be around Bruce (which is an odd thought). “I was going to kill you.”
Clark is silent a moment. Then: “I might’ve too. If you hadn’t been injured that night— well, who knows what might’ve happened. But it didn’t. That’s what matters.” Bruce, who’s stopped typing, turns around. He watches as Clark runs a hand through his hair, and offers a small smile. Bruce blinks incredulously.
“Want a coffee?” Clark asks.
Bruce, unsure of what else he can say, says, “Yes.”
°°°
His thief’s name turns out to be Diana.
°°°
She knocks on his front door one morning (a rare day off for Bruce) and Alfred, perplexed, lets her in. He retrieves Bruce from his study. Upon seeing her, Bruce shoots Alfred a questioning look. Diana addresses some of his concerns when she clears her throat, and then tosses his own flash drive at him. Bruce, of course, catches it. He recognizes it as the one that was stolen months ago. How things have changed since then.
°°°
Diana explains that she’s been watching. She tells Bruce how she’s been in exile for over one hundred years, and only returned once she’d seen that there was hope for mankind. This hope, she claims, comes from the small fact that Batman and Superman did not try to kill each other after all. She shows Bruce what she can do— Amazons are real, apparently. Then, politely, she requests that he call Superman.
Bruce wants to explain that he doesn’t have the alien at his beck and call, but at Diana’s insistent look, he sighs, then acquiesces. “Superman,” he says. “We have a visitor.” Clark is there five minutes later. Bruce is only a little humiliated at Diana’s amused hum, and Alfred’s quirked eyebrow.
Bruce offers introductions while Alfred goes for refreshments. Then Diana reveals her powers to Clark, who turns to give Bruce a look full of child-like wonder— and for the first time in nearly 37 years, Bruce feels hope.
°°°
Calmly and discreetly, Batman hands over all the evidence of Luthor’s wrong-doings to one Jim Gordon. He also quietly leaks the documents to Lois Lane. Two days later, Luthor is arrested. Superman regains possession of his ship shortly thereafter— Bruce knows because its abrupt removal from Hero’s Park makes headlines in The Daily Planet— and a day after that, there is a rap against the lake house’s office window.
°°°
When Clark comes— unannounced— to visit him in his home office, Bruce isn’t annoyed. He merely lets him in through the large sliding-glass window. When Superman comes by the cave, Bruce (secretly) relishes his company, and the way he always tries to sweet-talk the bats. When Clark Kent asks Bruce Wayne for a quote, Bruce gives it to him (and tones down the ‘Brucie Wayne’ persona).
Alfred comments mysteriously, “Master Clark has been spending more time with you.”
Bruce shrugs. “He’s good company.”
°°°
When Clark kisses him one day— after they’ve finished eating lunch (cooked by Alfred)— on the lake house’s back patio (the one with a lake view), Bruce isn’t surprised. In fact, he kisses him back. Now that does surprise him. But not unpleasantly so.
°°°
Bruce stands stiffly and resolutely in the back of the miniscule Smallville, Kansas graveyard. Despite the location’s size, it is packed with a sea of black-clad mourners. He shakily breathes in the scent of the cool fall air and of fresh grave dirt. The leaves crunch, and he sees Diana, dressed in a respectful black dress. She steps to his side and gently places a comforting hand on his shoulder. Maybe, Bruce thinks, things can’t be all-powerful. But they can be all-good.
He will never believe in the existence of God, but Bruce has faith now—
With Clark by his side (hopefully forever) and Diana’s assistance, they can change things, Bruce knows they can, because he has hope. He knows now that he was wrong (he was wrong for so long about so many things), but especially about Superman, about humanity; about the way he viewed the world—
nothing is all-powerful or all-good, but that doesn’t mean that things can’t get better.