Chapter Text
The Elliott Building, which now sits in the heart of what is not-quite-affectionately called Old Gotham, was built in 1884 through the funding of Edward Elliott, one of the esteemed founders of modern-day Gotham City. It was a model of Gothic Revival architecture, rising majestically into a sky that would soon become crowded with an overabundance of similarly designed buildings, fighting for a sliver of sunlight that never filtered down to the masses below. The ribbed vaults of dark stone reached into a darkness that hid its elegantly pointed arches, the stained glass along each wall beautifully warped by time. The slate tile floor had been methodically cared for since its placement on the uppermost level, with countless gray tones that flecked and swirled across its surface.
It was upon this exquisite slate tile floor that the Batman was now laying, knocked out cold.
From the vantage point of the night watchmen cowering behind a large potted plant directly across from the anachronistic modern steel elevator, it appeared as if the man was dead. Shards of glass were embedded in the black cape that lay twisted around him, glittering in the moonlight that filtered down from the window through which the Dark Knight had fallen. The bottom half of his face looked deathly pale in the moon’s ethereal glow; a smear of blood ghosted across his lips, unnaturally bright against his deathly pallor.
After a span of a freakishly accurate timing of five full minutes in which the Batman had neither moved nor been approached by any other living being, the night watchman crept towards the figure. The broken glass seemed to crunch so loudly under his feet that he thought ridiculously for a moment that if he turned towards the darkness at the end of the hallway, he would see the Joker staring back at him, eating a bag of chips, maybe. Sounds like something that sick bastard would do, watching the Batman’s death like it’s some kind of show, he thought to himself disgustedly, until he realized the ludicrousness of this entire line of thought. Shaking his head, he tiptoed closer to the fallen figure ringed by moonlight, seemingly placed at that exact spot as some sort of bizarre display.
As he came close enough to the Batman to touch him, he was stunned to see that the unnaturally red blood was not blood at all, but face paint. Face paint that reminded him distinctly of the warnings so often given on the local ten o’clock news about—
“Joker!”
The night watchmen flew back at the sound, slipping on the shattered glass and falling with a loud clatter. He immediately felt a sharp pain in his hands and drew them up with horror, seeing the shards like pinpricks on his skin; blood dripping down his wrists and into his jacket cuffs. I’m not here for this shit, man. Twelve bucks an hour is not enough to put up with this sh—SHIT! He looked up suddenly as a shadow crossed over his bleeding palms.
“Are you alright?” the shadow asked.
The night watchmen looked up into the shadow, realizing that it wasn’t a shadow at all, but a dazzling display of color and light.
“S-superman?” he squeaked. “But this is Gotham!”
The man, if you could call him that, looked down at him concernedly. “You need medical attention. Can you make your way down to the first floor on your own? There are paramedics waiting.”
“Uh, yeah. I can do that,” he replied cautiously. “Do you…need a statement or something?” he asked before he could stop himself. Idiot! Superman’s not the GCPD. Get out of here before anyone knows you saw anything. You know that’s the only way to survive in Gotham. Before he could consider this line of thought further, he realized that Superman had already started responding to his question.
“—anything worth seeing?”
“What? Oh! Oh, nah man. I mean, I just went to see if Batman was alright after he crashed through the window. Gave me a hell of a scare. Thought he might’ve died or something, y’know?” He paused for a second, gauged Superman’s neutral expression and continued. “Right when I came up on him was when you showed up, so I really got nothin’. I mean, he looks like he got Jokered—“ he made a quick slicing gesture over his lips, “but I’m sure you’d know that better than me. I’ll just let you do your Justice League thing.”
He stood up and began to walk slowly to the elevator before turning to face the superhero, standing slightly out of the moonlight that still washed over the deathly still Batman. At that moment, the night watchman felt the first sense of unease since the Man of Steel had arrived. For the first time, he realized that despite all his incredible strength, Superman was just like any other man who had to see someone he cared about in pain -- sad, worried, and more than a little tired.
“Hey man,” he called from down the hall, bringing the hero out of his reverie, “if you don’t need anything from me or anyone else around here, what’re you waiting for? Take the man to the superhero hospital or something. Gotham can’t go too long without him.”
He turned to the elevator and pushed the down button, wincing at the glass still stuck in his palms. In the thirty seconds it took for the elevator to reach the penthouse level, he didn’t look back.
It wouldn’t have mattered; the heroes were gone, leaving nothing behind but glittering glass and moonlight in their wake.
In the time it took for Superman to conclude his seemingly never ending conversation with the night watchman, Batman had woken up and mentally catalogued a rough estimation of his injuries. Nothing serious, of course. A few surface injuries and a concussion, most likely. Before he could inform Clark of this fact, however, the man had already picked him up in his arms and begun flying out the broken window. The man was disturbingly fast; it was frustrating beyond belief. To his surprise, instead of voicing this frustration and demanding to be put down, he had begun to drowse off in the warmth that radiated from Superman’s body, his mental injury catalog blending into some unintelligible dreamland.
Suddenly, he was jerked awake by the cool blast from a sharp updraft of wind. Bright blue and red flashed in the corners of his vision, a sound like a whip crack echoed by his left ear. He opened his eyes and moved his head sharply.
“Superman,” he stated coldly.
“Batman,” the alien replied blandly. “Go to sleep; you’re badly hurt. I’d hate to have to tell Alfred that you’ve been fighting with me at the expense of your own health. We’ll be at the manor soon enough.”
Before Batman could muddle through his own drowsy thoughts and pain to respond, Superman spoke again, his chest vibrating gently against Bruce’s side, oddly comforting in a way Bruce didn’t want to contemplate further.
“Never mind, we’re already here. Must’ve flown a bit faster than I’d thought.” The man sped through one of the cave’s entrances that had never been shown to him before, irritating Bruce to the point of bringing him out of his dreamlike state.
“Superman,” he stated with as much authority as he could muster while being held like a baby in the man’s arms, “what are you doing here?”
Superman set Batman down perfunctorily on a medbay and hit a button on the Batcomputer’s console to call Alfred before turning back to face Batman, his cool exterior belied by eyes full of concern.
“Kent, if you don’t explain what you’re doing in Gotham in the next ten seconds, I’ll be forced to activate a protocol,” Batman stated with steely reserve as he slowly peeled off the cowl.
“Bruce, you may view your own interpersonal relationships as an unfortunate side effect of accomplishing your mission, but the fact of the matter is that your skills and your expertise are valuable to the League. Countless encounters around the world against seemingly insurmountable forces have been successful due directly to your work—“
Bruce interrupted harshly, his face eerily angry in light of the bright red smile painted across his lips. “None of this explains why you’re in Gotham with me right now, Superman. The work I do in Gotham is my own. When the League needs me, you know I’ll be there in my most efficient capacity. You don’t need to come by to extol my virtues on your off time.”
The sound of the entrance to the cave opening at the top of the stairs sounded distantly as the two men glared at each other.
“Bruce,” Clark sighed. “You were in trouble. I don’t know what kind of business you’re trying to stop this time in Gotham, but no one’s heard from you in days. Nightwing and Oracle contacted me to see if I could find out what you were up to. Luckily, I showed up when I did, or who knows—“
“I’ve gotten myself out of plenty of scrapes before without your interference, Superman. If I need you, I’ll call you. Don’t waste your energy or your time coming to check on me. I don’t need to be looked after by the people I trained, and I don’t need colleagues using personal time better spent elsewhere to deal with work-related matters.”
Superman’s eyes widened as Alfred made his way to the medbay. “Bruce, you can’t – oh hello, Alfred – you can’t seriously think that your safety and well-being is solely an occupational issue to be dealt with. Barbara and Dick care about you! I care…” he broke off suddenly into silence, glancing around the cave at the solitary world Bruce had meticulously built around himself over the years. After a moment, he consciously slid his eyes to Bruce, who had remained silent in the wake of Clark’s confession. He looked dully at Clark as Alfred grabbed a medical wipe to clean his face, as if waiting for Clark’s full attention. Clark took a deep breath.
“Look, Bruce. We’ve been…colleagues…for at least five years now—“
“Six years, three months, and twenty-three days,” Bruce interrupted calmly, scrubbing his face with the wipe. The bright red paint bled into the cloth profusely, yet a dark faded mark remained visible on his pale skin. Clark felt a sudden overwhelming need to use his superhuman abilities to force it off his face.
“Uh, right,” he replied, gathering his bearings as Bruce continued to scrub. “Anyway, that seems like a fair amount of time in which we would have developed some sort of personal relationship that extends past colleagues, wouldn’t it?” Clark looked expectantly at his oldest ally. Bruce continued to stare back silently. He had stopped scrubbing, his face slightly pink and raw, yet still dyed a dull maroon across his now puffy lips. His hair was ruffled and slightly damp, giving the effect of having spent the sort of night Bruce Wayne was expected to have, rather than the one he actually did. The effect was surprisingly more disturbing, yet somehow sensual. Clark didn’t like thinking about Batman and sensual in the same sentence. Something about it just seemed…off, somehow.
“Well, I mean…it’s just that…” Clark drifted off mid-sentence, staring into space. Suddenly, he banged his hand on the medbay, startling no one but himself. Bruce looked as creepily composed as he had for the past five minutes, and Alfred, unflappable to the extreme, continued his methodical assessment of Bruce’s injuries.
“Damnit, Bruce! What I’m trying to say is that it shouldn’t be so difficult to tell you that I care about you as a person and that I…wouldlikeitifwecouldbefriends,” Clark finished in a rush. Bruce continued to stare at him dispassionately; most likely calculating the pros and cons of friendship and its impact on his mission, Clark thought, with a hint of bitterness.
After a moment of staring that had become increasingly uncomfortable for Clark, but apparently unnoticed by Bruce, the man finally decided to speak.
“Superman. I...,” he stated before pausing. He seemed to have difficulty looking directly at Clark as he spoke. After a moment of what almost looked like nervous fidgeting, he continued, “…I appreciate your concern. I value partnership and collaboration as much as the next man. However, I cannot allow myself to become emotionally attached to colleagues in this line of work. I’m sure you understand.”
He turned abruptly towards Alfred. “Are we ready for phase two diagnostics?” Alfred nodded and headed out of the medbay toward the Batcomputer. Bruce turned back towards Clark, who was standing in silence, as if waiting for Bruce to address him further.
“You can see yourself out. I’ll contact you when I’m in operable condition for League missions.” He then turned and slowly made his way toward the Batcomputer.
“Bruce.”
Clark’s voice, so capable of carrying across any earthly boundary, sounded tinny and strange as it echoed through the cave. Bruce turned back sharply, surprised at its foreignness. Clark’s astonished eyes stared back at him searchingly before continuing.
“You can’t be serious. After all we’ve been through...after tonight! You were out cold in a sea of broken glass for over five minutes with no one but a rent-a-cop for backup. If I hadn’t been there, who knows what rogue would have found you!”
Bruce turned again, eyes hard and glinting. “If you’re expecting a thank you for tonight, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
Clark’s face quickly shifted from incredulity to anger. “Okay, Batman; if that’s how you need it to be. Forget any mention of our relationship beyond our convenient partnership in the greater service of justice. I will inform the Justice League of your operational status.” He turned abruptly and flew out of the entrance by which they had arrived together mere moments before, but Batman had already turned away.
By the time Alfred had finished documenting Bruce’s injuries, it felt as if no one else had been in the cave at all.