Work Text:
“You’re angry.”
Batman knew it was the wrong thing to say the second Superman's shoulders tensed, the skin around his eyes tightening, turning on Bruce with his face twisted in indigent fury, an expression so few ever got to see on Clark, on the calm and collected symbol of hope.
It was a painfully human reaction. Bruce felt his heart drop.
“Thank you, world’s greatest detective,” Clark snapped, southern drawl leaking into steely words. “Yes, I’m angry, Bruce. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that we needed to neutralize the threat,” Bruce said, keeping his voice even, holding onto his authority by a thread. Keeping himself blank. “So I neutralized it.”
“We had a plan!”
“Sometimes plans need to change,” Batman said, grateful beyond words for the cowl hiding his face, keeping his fear safely hidden away. “So I changed it.”
“It was your plan.”
“And it wasn’t working.” Bruce snapped his mouth shut, carefully schooling his features back into something unreadable.
This wasn’t a debate, and it wasn’t an argument with the team in the Watchtower’s meeting room. This was Bruce and Clark, alone in Batman’s quarters, Bruce sitting on the edge of the bed still wrapped in his cape as he watched Superman pace.
‘Get a room,’ Green Lantern had quipped when their shouting match had gotten out of hand upon the League’s return, oblivious to the way Bruce had gone stiff. ‘The mission was successful, let the rest of us celebrate while you two lovebirds dish it out.’
Bruce hadn’t said another word, heart hammering away in his chest as Clark had bid his teammates a terse goodbye and stalked down the hallway, clearly expecting Batman to follow.
A month ago, Bruce might have refused. He would have scowled and planted his feet or gone off in the other direction, refusing to indulge Superman’s anger over something so pointless.
But things were different now. They’d been different since they’d both put their stubbornness aside and finally talked, since Bruce had let go of his past for the first time and trusted someone to catch him when he fell, since Clark had held his face like something fragile. Bruce still wasn’t sure which one of them had gathered the courage to close the distance between them first. It hardly mattered, in his opinion.
Things were good, better than they’d been in a long time. He’d already done enough to ruin that tonight.
So Bruce didn’t argue, following Clark through the Watchtower halls without a sound, his cape trailing behind him like a shadow.
He hadn’t gone to remove any of his armor when they made it to his quarters, a futile attempt to protect himself as much as he could, sitting numbly on his bed, too exhausted to stay on his feet, carefully watching Superman’s every move.
He knew how this worked- he may not be the charismatic flirt he played up in front of the cameras, but Clark was far from his first. None of them had been Clark, none of them as gentle or patient or kind, none of them knowing both sides of his life, but Bruce had enough experience to know a partner’s anger was always the same.
He knew what to expect, as sick and helpless as it made him feel.
But Clark had to understand that he couldn’t do that, didn’t he? Bruce could and would (and had, countless times) have taken it from another man his size, from a woman smaller than him, from the furious daughter to the demon head herself. He’d had worse every night under the cowl, he knew to hold still and let them do what they wanted when they were angry. It was only fair.
But this was Superman. And as much as Bruce hated to admit it, loathed letting anyone see for a second that he was anything less than infallible, he couldn’t take that kind of strength. Not from a raging Kryptonian who could break all of his bones with one hand.
Clark could kill him in his outrage, and they both knew Bruce wouldn’t fight back even if he could.
Clark couldn't do this. He couldn’t. He wasn’t Vicki, he wouldn’t just slap and hit and leave bruises and cuts to be covered up with long sleeves and concealer and a smile for the camera. He wasn’t Talia, so close to Bruce’s equal in strength, always angry, always in control.
There was a part of him that knew the pain of Superman’s touch wasn’t even what he was most afraid of. He couldn’t handle that kind of treatment this time no matter how much he deserved it, all because it would come from Clark Kent.
Clark, who had been nothing but kind and gentle and sweet when Bruce deserved anything but. Who held Bruce like he was precious, not broken beyond repair, fit to shatter at the wrong words.
It was a kindness he’d never had, not like this, and everything they’d built was coming undone, crumbling right before his eyes because Bruce couldn’t help but break everything he touched. This was how it always went.
“The plan wasn’t working,” Bruce said again, careful to keep the tremble out of his voice. “So I tried something else. And it worked.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“There wasn’t time,” Bruce argued, well aware of how dangerous a move it was. “People were dying, Clark.”
“You could have died!”
“I was fine.” He took a steadying breath, white knuckle grip on the comforter beneath him, back kept ramrod straight. He wondered if Clark was listening to his heartbeat, slamming against his ribs like it was trying to break free, the only give away to his terror threatening to spill over. “I’m always fine.”
“And one day you won’t be,” Clark said, arms crossed over his chest. Bruce felt like he was going to throw up. “You’re the one who always says we have to work as a team, Bruce. You could have gotten someone seriously hurt today.”
He set aside every defiant outburst, every snide comment, every argument or challenge he usually would have hurled at Superman in a desperate attempt to keep the higher ground.
“I know,” he said instead, staring straight ahead, jaw clenched tight. He sounded robotic. “I’m sorry.”
There was a beat of silence, and Bruce could imagine the surprise on Clark’s face, Superman fighting to keep his anger in check. When he spoke again, his tone had only become colder, icy words like knives to Batman’s chest. “Are you? Or are you just saying that so I’ll drop it?”
Bruce didn’t grace him with a response, raising his head silently in a last show of defiance, staring straight ahead at the hero in front of him without a word.
Clark’s eyes darkened, a dangerous crease between his eyebrows, and Bruce’s heart skipped a beat when he started forward, shoulders stiff.
The dam broke and all of Bruce’s defenses came rushing back like a flood, the Bat jerking back with an almost animalistic snarl. “Don't.”
Clark rolled his eyes, brow furrowing in annoyed confusion as he took a step towards the bed anyway, unfurling his arms from the symbol on his chest. “Bruce, I’m just-”
“If you hit me I’m leaving,” Bruce spat, holding himself so rigid he thought something might break before Clark even got his hands on him, breaths coming too quick, too frantic. “I swear to god, Clark. Don’t.”
Clark’s movements stopped in the blink of an eye, Bruce’s gaze dropping to Clark’s boots, breathless as he held perfectly still, bracing himself.
“What?”
Clark’s voice sounded like a whisper, like he’d lost all the strength to project his anger, far away and small even in the limited space of Bruce’s quarters.
“I mean it,” Bruce said, but his voice was shaking. He couldn’t breathe. “I’ll go. I’ll walk out right now. You… I’ll go back to the manor and the League will never see me again.” Like Clark wasn’t blocking the door. Like his partner wasn’t an immovable wall. “I- you can’t. They need me.”
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let someone see him like this, unraveling like a ball of yarn, helpless to the fear he was supposed to have mastered years ago.
Alfred a handful of times, Bruce clutching him like a lifeline, shaking and sobbing and holding on like the word was going to rip him away too.
Dick once, when a fight had gotten out of hand, when he hadn’t been able to convince his son to leave before his father fell apart in front of him.
And now Clark, standing just a few feet away, watching Bruce spew panicked lies and bargains in a last ditch effort to protect himself. Because they were lies, they both knew that. Bruce wouldn’t go anywhere, no matter how much it hurt.
“Bruce-”
“Please,” came spilling out before he could stop it, chest unbearably tight. He hated this- hated his masks and walls falling away so easily, hated that he couldn’t just sit here and take it. “Kal, please.”
It was pointless. He knew it was pointless- Bruce couldn’t do a damn thing to change this. He wouldn’t fight or argue once it started, reduced down to nothing, silenced by fear and pain. Because he deserved it. He knew this was how things went. This was how things would always go.
No matter what he did, no matter how good he tried to be, no matter how safe he might feel for a few precious weeks, it would always come back to this. This was the way things were for him.
He’d done this to himself.
Bruce couldn’t lift his gaze, completely frozen in his pathetic hunched over position, but he saw Clark move towards the bed, crossing the room with silent strides.
“No.” Bruce curled in on himself, holding out a trembling gloved hand like it would make a difference, squeezing his eyes shut as Superman approached. “Clark-”
He cut himself off with a choked gasp when something touched the side of his mask, warm knuckles brushing the bare skin of Bruce’s jaw just under the cowl, and Batman flinched, waiting for the pain, for the snapping of bone, for more anger, more yelling.
“Bruce.” It never came. Bruce couldn’t breathe. “Can you look at me? Come on, B. Please.”
He couldn’t stop shaking, chest squeezing in panic at Clark’s voice (He didn’t sound angry anymore. Bruce didn’t understand the point of tricking him like this.) but he nodded nonetheless, the motion jerky and uncoordinated, and carefully lifted his head, vision hazy and unfocused, waiting for the first hit.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Clark said, unbearably soft, his hand still harmlessly cupping Bruce’s cheek. “Deep breaths, you’re alright. It’s alright.”
Bruce shook his head, ears ringing. “Just get it over with.”
“Bruce.” Clark sounded pained, like he was the one who’s been struck and Bruce went perfectly still. “I’m not going to hurt you, I… I wasn’t going to hit you.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m frustrated right now,” Clark said carefully, too slowly, deflating a bit at the doubtful glance Bruce sent his way. “I can be angry at you and still control myself, B. I’d never… hey, look at me. I’d never do that to you. I… Jesus, Bruce I could kill you. I wouldn’t do that to anyone, you know that.”
Bruce nodded, still in that pathetic hunched over position, shaking hands clutching at his cape like someone was going to rip it away from him. He nodded, once, struggling to bring himself back down to earth. “I know.” Clark still had a hand on his face, his thumb gently tracing the seams of the cowl, and Bruce took a shaky breath. “I know. I just thought… because it’s me-”
“What do you mean, because it’s you?” Clark was crouching down beside the bed, suddenly eye level with Bruce, eyes brimming with enough concern to wash away the anger completely. “Why would that make a difference?”
Bruce glared, wondering if Clark was just playing dumb to confuse him more, suddenly desperate to regain what little control he could have in this situation. “Stop asking stupid questions.”
“It’s not a stupid question,” Clark said, carefully moving Bruce’s face back when he tried to turn away with a scowl. “Hey-”
“I’m Batman, Clark,” Bruce snapped, yanking his face away and immediately missing the warmth of Clark’s hand. “I can take a hit. No matter what happens to me, I’ve had worse. If I deserve it, it’s fine. Really.”
Clark blinked, momentarily reminding Bruce of a kicked puppy. Bruce wished he’d just slap him. “B, that’s not-”
“It’s not fair to you,” Bruce said, the words spilling out before he could think better of interrupting. “It isn’t fair that you can’t hurt me when I’m…you know. Like this. If you can’t hurt me I should at least be easier to deal with.”
“Bruce-”
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said. “I mean it this time. I’m sorry. You’re angry, you’re allowed to be I just… I’ve never dated anyone stronger than me. You… it’s my fault that I can’t take it. I’m not strong enough, I- I didn’t know how bad it was going to hurt and I just… I panicked. I’m not supposed to do that.” He was talking too much, making excuses and spiraling downward, still cornered on the bed, and suddenly his chest felt unbearably heavy. “This isn’t fair to you. This isn’t… you were mad, and I can’t-”
“Bruce, you need to breathe,” Clark was saying, frantic, and Bruce flinched when Superman’s hands were suddenly on his shoulders. “I’m not going to hurt you, it’s just me. It’s just me, sweetheart. Breathe with me, okay? Come on, B. You need to breathe.”
Bruce hadn’t realized he’d stopped, but the weight on his chest was growing heavier and heavier, an ice cold vice wrapping around his throat. There was an awful sounding wheeze in his ear, the noise rapid and panicked, and it took him a moment to understand it was his own breathing in his ears.
He was panicking, losing himself to the grip of another anxiety attack and he hadn’t even realized it. Clark shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be forced to take care of Bruce when he’d done nothing but piss him off all day.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped, the sound nothing but a choked off gasp. “Clark-”
“Don’t be sorry,” Clark said. He lifted one hand from Bruce’s shoulder, slowly, looking a bit like he wanted to bolt when Bruce flinched again. “Hey, it’s okay. Just copy my breathing, okay? Just like this, B. I’m right here with you.”
Bruce’s hand was being moved, handled like he was being made of glass. His palm found Clark’s chest, felt the steady rise and fall of his deliberately slow breathing and his heartbeat under unbreakable skin.
“Breathe with me,” Clark instructed, but his voice was gentle. “Just like that, there you go. Focus on me. You’re safe, you’re okay.”
Bruce nodded, desperate to do something right, clutching the material of the Superman suit and fighting to follow the steady pattern. His frantic breathing was getting caught in his throat, vision blurring as his eyes grew hot, choking on his own gasps and wheezes as he struggled to pull himself back together.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and a distant part of him was almost amused at the idea of the rest of the league balking at the idea that he even knew how to say those words. “I can’t-”
“You’re okay,” Clark said, voice unbearably soft. “Hey, can I take this off?”
It took Bruce a moment to understand what Clark was asking, his free hand hovering just inches from the cowl, and another before he worked up the courage to give a jerky nod, hunching his shoulders as the mask was carefully removed.
“Oh, honey.”
There was no way to hide anymore, no way to deny his red rimmed eyes and soaking wet cheeks. His breath caught on another hiccupping gasp, dropping his gaze as he broke off into a wrenching sob.
Clark was pulling him forward, slow and gentle, and as soon as Bruce found himself resting against his boyfriend, strong arms wrapped around his back, everything came flooding out all at once.
He held onto Clark like someone was going to tear them apart while he cried, heaving sobs escaping against his will, his own pathetic cries echoing against the steel walls, thrown right back in his face over and over again. He curled forward, Superman’s cape in his grasp, melting into the embrace, crying until his throat was sore and there was nothing left.
“You’re okay,” Clark said, over and over again, holding him tight. “You’re safe. You’re safe, sweetheart. I’m here, you’re okay.”
Superman didn’t loosen his hold until Bruce leaned back, shaky and weak and completely drained. Clark dropped his arms and Bruce dropped his eyes to his lap, shame coloring his cheeks, breaths slower now but still uneven and short.
Clark carefully laced their fingers together, gently squeezing Bruce’s hand. “Can you look at me?”
There was a part of Bruce that still expected to be hit, heart still leaping into his throat at the simple request. But the paranoia was dissipating after the cry, the past fading back to nothing more than the past, and he was too tired to risk another argument, carefully lifting his head until he was looking back at Clark.
“Listen to me,” Clark said, with all the steady confidence of Superman, unwavering and grounded. “I will never hit you, Bruce. Not out of anger, not out of frustration or annoyance or boredom, not for anything. I will never want to hit you.”
Bruce had never been one for eye contact, not without the cowl, but he found he couldn’t look away. “You could probably control your strength well enough. I've- we know I have a high pain tolerance, anyway. If you-”
“I don’t want to hit you, Bruce,” Clark said, and Bruce snapped his mouth shut. “That’s not how relationships work. The fact that someone did that to you is…” He trailed off, dropping his steely gaze for just a moment, before swallowing and lifting his head again. “You should never be hit by your partner. Whether they were stronger than you or not, whether you were Batman or Bruce Wayne. That… that’s awful, B. That was abuse.”
Bruce’s chest felt tight again, the cape on his shoulders suddenly too big, too heavy, and he took careful breaths around the rising panic. “I deserved it.”
“No, you didn’t.” Some of the anger was back in Clark’s voice, but it didn’t seem to be directed at him this time. “Nobody deserves that, especially from their partner. Especially not you.”
Bruce scoffed, the sound quiet and tired. He tried to look away, only to be met with the gentle touch of a hand on his cheek again, Clark’s thumb wiping idly at stray tears. Somehow, Bruce managed not to flinch this time.
“I need you to understand something,” Superman started, almost frantic beneath the forced calm. “This isn’t about my powers. If we were in a room full of Kryptonite, I wouldn’t hit you. If you had my powers and couldn’t feel a damn thing I tried to do, I still wouldn’t raise a hand against you. It isn’t about that, B. I won’t hit you, no matter how angry I might be, because I love you. I love you, and I’ll never hurt you. That’s a promise.”
Bruce’s mouth felt dry, his tongue heavy, but the panic rising in his chest felt different this time. It didn’t feel suffocating.
They’d never said those words. Not out loud. Not yet. It made Bruce want to run, lock himself away, shut down, deny any display of emotion or affection, desperate to protect himself.
Because love like this only meant something bad in the end. Love like this was going to crash and burn and leave Bruce all alone again. Love like this wasn't something Bruce was supposed to have. He didn’t deserve it.
But Clark was looking at him so earnestly, something terrifyingly vulnerable in his eyes, the ray of sunlight Bruce had been shutting out his entire life. It was a look none of the others had ever bothered to give him, patience he’d never been granted before.
Maybe this time, just this one…
“I love you too,” Bruce said, the words foreign and strange on his tongue. “I love you.”
It was a leap of faith, offering something like this, his trust nothing but a battered and broken thing, broken and unwanted. But the look in Clark’s eyes when he smiled, the sunlight shining through Bruce’s dark cloud, made it all worth the risk.