Work Text:
Soulmarks suck.
Bruce Wayne firmly believed that soulmarks sucked. He wished he had never gotten one. He tried numerous times to burn it off, cut it off, chop it off. He even just scribbled all over it with Sharpie once in a fit of pique. Still, no dice. Thing didn’t go away.
It was a stupid soulmark, anyways. His was on the inside of his right wrist, a small design, just a red sun and a yellow moon orbiting each other. It had small stars trailing around it; they almost looked like they twinkled in the right light.
What a stupid fucking mark.
As an extension of how much he hated his own mark, Bruce didn’t pay very much attention to anyone else’s marks either. He knew Arthur’s, because Arthur’s was right on his chest and he never covered his chest, and Mera had a matching one she didn’t bother to cover, either. He’s seen Diana’s, but only once, and it was so fucking sad he doesn’t ask about it. He knew Dick’s, and kept an eye out for a matching one for him. He hadn’t found it yet, but he was still optimistic, even if it was just about this one thing. He didn’t know Jason’s, but he did know Tim’s. Tim was just waiting for the right person to come along, wearing his mark like a badge of honor.
Bruce wore his like an embarrassing scar.
He didn’t know Hal’s. He didn’t even know if Hal had one, or if any aliens had them at all. He didn’t know Barry’s, even though he felt as though Barry probably would’ve wanted to share by now. He didn’t know J’onn’s, but, again, he didn’t know if aliens had them. Atlanteans had them, but they were still on Earth.
He didn’t know Superman’s.
Again, aliens.
Nobody knew his, except his three boys and Alfred. That was it. They were all sworn to secrecy, and knew what would happen to them if they told anyone what it was. Even knowing that one person out there knew his mark made Bruce itch, though, let alone four. Bruce wore a cuff around the mark at all times. He never took it off. He even kept it on in the goddamn shower, just in case. He knew what he had to do to keep a secret.
Unrelated, but working with Superman had been incredibly difficult lately. The first time they met, Bruce felt this weird surge of heat he had chalked up to rage, and it had been boiling ever since. His skin itched horribly when he was with him. Superman was the worst kind of rash. Or, second worst, to the fucking soulmark. Superman was also the only one whose identity Bruce hadn’t figured out so far. World’s greatest detective or not, Superman was a tough nut to crack. That also drove Bruce nuts.
But they still got teamed up more often than not, because they worked really well together, which even Bruce could concede, and Superman was just about the only person who could put up with Bruce when they had to assign someone to work with him.
Bruce preferred to work alone.
Superman has never really let that happen.
And it was on one of those exact days that Bruce was itching more than usual. He felt like his hands were numb and tingling, all of him hot, and it set him on edge for the entirety of his and Superman’s patrol. Superman didn’t seem to notice; just like usual, he just kept chattering on and on about some dinner his mom had hosted the past weekend and what the old ladies from church had gossiped about while he was there. Bruce mostly tuned him out until they stopped to take a break on the edge of a rooftop. Superman sprawled out, lounging in a lazy stretch at the building’s precipice. Bruce eyed him, then crouched beside him, never quite relaxing. Superman eyed him in return and leaned back.
“I wish we had somebody to fight,” Bruce commented, probably interrupting something Superman was saying. Superman gave him a look. “Just. You know.”
After a long pause, Superman said, “Yeah.” He turned out to the city and stared, putting his chin in his hand. “It is pretty dull when things are this quiet.”
“Yes,” Bruce echoed. They fell back into silence. After a little while of total quiet, in which Bruce stared hard at one precise spot on one exact building until his vision went black and Superman seemed to be nearly catatonic in his relaxation, Superman sat up.
“Someone’s getting mugged,” Superman said. There was a hint of a suggestion in his voice, and he grinned at Bruce. “Want to put the fear of God in them?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Bruce grumbled, jumping down after Superman and sprinting after his shadow toward the alley Superman had apparently scented the mugger in. There were only three muggers, so having Batman and Superman show up was definitely overkill, but Bruce would probably replay the looks on their faces when they saw them for a long, long time. Superman just reached out and punched one of them in the jaw, then spun to knock another one toward Bruce, to let him have a turn. The woman they were mugging stared, open-mouthed, at the five of them brawling. Bruce knocked one of the guys out easily and caught the one that Superman had spun at him. When Superman turned to him and pulled his arm back to punch the daylights of him, though, Bruce’s grip on the mugger’s wrists faltered. He regained it immediately, and Superman didn’t even notice as he knocked the guy to the ground and started monologuing about righteousness and justice. Bruce could barely hear him.
Superman had the same soulmark as him.
The same stupid fucking soulmark.
Just, right there, on his left wrist. Red sun, yellow moon. Stupid stars twinkling in the stupid glow of the stupid, stupid streetlight.
Bruce decided he had to leave before he actually went ballistic.
“I, uhh,” Bruce managed to choke out. Superman stopped monologuing briefly to look back at him, and Bruce forced his face to shut down behind his cowl. “I’m going.”
“What?” Superman said, clearly confused. The two muggers Superman let stay conscious looked on, baffled. The third was unconscious, courtesy of Bruce. Bruce envied him. The woman they were mugging was still staring.
“I’m going,” Bruce repeated gruffly. “I’ll do my reports later.” He pulled out his grappling hook and shot it up without looking, letting it yank him off the ground and up to the roof above him. As he took off, he faintly heard Superman say:
“See ya, Batman.”
He ran faster.
“You’re home early,” Alfred said, when he found Bruce stripping out of the uniform with an uncharacteristic haste. “Bee in your bonnet?”
“Fuck off,” Bruce grumbled, knocking his cowl aside. Alfred raised an eyebrow at him. “Sorry.”
“Of course,” Alfred replied. “May I ask what happened?”
“No,” Bruce said, slipping on his sweatpants and t-shirt and shoving his suit into a haphazard pile. “Where’s-”
“The kitchen,” Alfred told him. “It’s still dinnertime.”
Bruce followed Alfred up to the kitchen where, true to form, Tim was consuming an unholy amount of food, Jason was staring at the far wall, and Dick was playing solitaire on the countertop. Dick and Tim both looked up at him when he came in.
“You’re home early,” Dick commented,. Bruce rolled his eyes and opened the fridge.
“I didn’t realize the entire household kept track of my schedule,” Bruce said, grabbing a hunk of watermelon from the fridge and taking the seat beside Tim at the table.
“You don’t have a schedule,” Jason said, picking up Tim’s butter knife and flicking it between his fingers. “You’re home before midnight, which is early.” He stabbed one of the sausages off Tim’s plate with the knife and shoved it in his mouth.
“Did something happen?” Dick asked. He frowned at the red queen in his hand before sticking it under the deck.
“No,” Bruce bit off. Tim looked up at him with all the concern that a nearly-fifteen-year-old boy could muster.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. Bruce shook his head and kept eating his watermelon.
“Did Superman say something?” Dick suggested. Bruce glared at him. “That’s a yes. What’d he say?”
“He didn’t say anything,” Bruce told him.
“Fine,” Dick said. “What did he do, then?”
“It’s fine,” Bruce spat. Tim frowned up at him.
“Did he hurt you?” Tim asked, concerned. Bruce looked down at him.
“I’m not hurt,” he said. “Eat your dinner.”
“Did he beat you in a fight?” Jason asked.
“He did not,” Bruce said. “As if he could.”
“He definitely could,” Jason said.
“Oh, yeah, for sure,” Dick agreed. “Did he stop you from doing something wrong?”
“No,” Bruce said. “All of you, fuck off.”
“Sorry,” Tim said. Bruce hesitated before reaching out and ruffling his hair.
“It’s no big deal,” Bruce assured him. “Just eat your dinner. Did you finish your homework?”
“Yeah,” Tim said, and Bruce released him.
“Then we can go out tonight, if you’d like,” Bruce said. Tim looked sheepishly at Dick.
“I offered to take him out tonight already,” Dick said. “Take advantage of your night off. Do something a normal person would do. Don’t you have a benefit or something tonight, Bruce Wayne?”
“What did Superman do?” Tim asked again.
“He didn’t do anything,” Bruce told him. “I promise.”
“Did he do something ridiculously attractive?” Dick asked. “Did he got you all hot and bothered?”
“Dick-”
“He did,” Dick gasped. “What did he do?”
“Nothing-”
“Something with his-” Dick motioned in the direction of his head, “-face? Something face-related? He’s got a nice face.”
“Legs?” Tim suggested. Bruce glared down at him. “Arms?”
“No,” Bruce spat.
“Arms,” Dick said. “What about his arms?”
“His elbows?” Tim asked.
“It is his muscles?” Dick asked.
“Did he choke you or something?" Jason offered. "Did you like it?”
“Jesus Christ-”
“Oh,” Jason said. He glanced up at Bruce, then reached out and pointed at his wrist. “Was it-”
“No,” Dick gasped. Tim looked between him, Jason, and back to Bruce. “He doesn’t.”
“What?” Tim asked.
“It’s his soulmark,” Jason said. Tim dropped his fork.
“No,” he echoed, hands covering his mouth. “Was it?”
“Well?” Dick prompted, when Bruce didn’t say anything. Bruce just shoved another chunk of watermelon in his mouth. “Holy shit.”
“It’s nothing,” Bruce told them. “Stop talking about it.”
“Superman has the same soulmark as you?” Alfred asked. “That’s a handy coincidence. When will he be stopping by, presuming you didn’t kill him on the spot?”
“He won’t be stopping by,” Bruce said.
“How did you notice?” Tim asked.
“His sleeve rode up,” Bruce said, “when he pulled his arm back for a hit.”
“Hot,” Dick commented. “And he didn’t notice?”
“No,” Bruce told him, “and he won’t.”
“You didn’t say anything?” Tim asked, incredulous. “Bruce!”
“What?”
“You have to tell him!” Tim exclaimed. “It’s in all the books, you have to tell him. He’s your soulmate.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Bruce said.
“It means something,” Alfred reminded him. “He’s your best match on Earth.”
“He’s an alien,” Bruce said. “He’s not even from Earth.”
“Best match in the universe, then,” Alfred amended. “That’s not something to let slip by.”
“You gotta tell him,” Tim insisted again, shoveling biscuits into his mouth. “It’s the only way.”
“I don’t think so,” Bruce said. He made eye contact with Jason, who just lifted one shoulder in a shrug and stabbed a biscuit out of Tim’s hand with the butter knife. Dick shoved him away.
“Don’t even bother,” Jason suggested. “Just tell him to fuck off. Never see him again.” He bit the biscuit in half. “You’d be better off.”
“That’s not true!” Tim exclaimed. Jason flipped him off and stood, his chair screeching back on the tile before he left the kitchen. Tim slumped in his chair. Bruce ruffled his hair again and turned back to his watermelon. He could feel Dick’s eyes on him and, eventually, caved and looked up.
“Try to be happy for once,” Dick suggested. Bruce glared at him for a little bit longer, then turned his attention back down to his fruit.
“I’m not going to tell him,” Bruce said. Tim groaned loudly and started eating again. “Finish up and go get dressed. Dick, don’t keep him out too late.”
“Ay, ay, Mom,” Dick said. “What’re you going to do tonight, if you’re not making any rounds?”
“I don’t know,” Bruce said.
“Remember,” Dick said. “Try to do something a normal person would do. Go to your benefit. Read a book. Go to sleep. Be normal.”
“Sure thing,” Bruce agreed. “Of course.”
An hour later found Bruce back in the suit and up at the Watchtower. He expected it to be empty of any of the actual Justice League members, so he was surprised when Arthur was sitting in front of the computers and viewscreens, absently twirling his seat slightly to the left, then to the right. He glanced back at Bruce when he got in.
“Hello, Batman,” he offered, turning back to the screens. “Nothing much right now. Can I help you with anything?”
“No,” Bruce said. “Just- checking in.”
“Okay,” Arthur said, staring up at the screens. Bruce hesitated, then took one of the seats near him, watching the screens, as well. One thing Bruce appreciated about Arthur was that he understood the value of silence and never felt the need to fill it around Bruce. The two of them watched the scenes Arthur had chosen to monitor: some beachside town, a spot in Atlantis, a few locations in several cities. Bruce recognized a couple of familiar Gotham haunts.
When Bruce eventually turned and glanced at Arthur, he got a full view of the soulmark on his chest, a cluster of pearls inscribed with intricate designs of a Pacific origin. He didn’t look away fast enough, and Arthur caught his eye. He raised an eyebrow.
“Can I help you?” he asked. Bruce shook his head.
“I was just looking at your soulmark,” Bruce told him. Arthur grinned, turning back to the viewscreens.
“Why?” he asked. “You a match?”
“No,” Bruce said. “No, sorry, Artie.”
“Don’t call me Artie,” Arthur said, smiling. Bruce offered a smile of his own in return. “You got a mark?”
“Yes,” Bruce told him. He lifted his wrist and pulled his glove and sleeve apart to reveal his cuff. Arthur glanced back at him. “It’s a secret, though.”
“Of course,” Arthur said. “What isn’t, with you?”
“Not all of us run around in tights, telling everyone we’re the King of Atlantis.” Bruce watched as Arthur laughed and turned away again.
“Got a soulmate?” Arthur asked.
“I must,” Bruce said, “somewhere.”
“Haven’t met them?”
“Well-”
“Haven’t told them,” Arthur corrected. “I get it.”
“Did you tell Mera?” Bruce asked. “About yours?”
“I didn’t have to,” Arthur told him. “She noticed first. Anyways, in Atlantis, soulmarks are important. You people, you keep yours secret. We wear ours proudly. We weren’t ashamed. She couldn’t keep it to herself once she realized we were a match. I wouldn’t’ve been able to, either.” He twisted to and fro in his chair again. “It’s important to me, anyways. I think it’s important.” He shrugged. “It’s your soulmate. What else could I have done, knowing that half of my soul was out there and I wasn’t with her? You know?”
“No,” Bruce said, but Arthur turned back towards him and smiled anyways.
“Sure,” Arthur conceded. “Well, think about it. They probably want to know, too.”
Bruce hadn’t thought of that. He hadn’t thought of a lot of things, actually. But now, all he could think about was not keeping the secret from Superman, but how Superman would react when he learned about the soulmark. Would he be pissed off? Disgusted? Disappointed? Would he- and Bruce didn’t even want to think about it, but he did anyways- Would he be pleased? Would his whole face light up, would he be thrilled? Would the odd burning Bruce felt for Superman be echoed in him, would that affection Bruce suppressed be returned?
Probably not.
Whatever.
“I’m late for a thing,” Bruce said, standing. Arthur offered him a wave. “Goodnight, Art.”
“It’s Arthur,” Arthur corrected. “Or Aquaman. Or Your Majesty. I’m not picky.”
“Goodnight,” Bruce repeated, taking his leave of the Watchtower.
“Good luck!” Arthur shouted after him. Bruce just picked up his pace and kept going.
After a quick stop at Wayne Manor to change from the batsuit into a normal suit, Bruce was on his way to the benefit, driving himself and parking in a haphazard manner outside the reception hall, how people expected Bruce Wayne to park. He tossed the keys to the valet and strode inside, past the photographers still lingering outside despite the fact that Bruce was fairly certain the benefit had started over an hour before, past the entrance hall and the mingling socialites. He headed straight for the drinks and scooped up a glass of wine at once. He was turning to try and find the food table when he suddenly had a familiar face blocking his vision.
“Clark Kent,” he said, forcing himself to give that Bruce Wayne smile. Clark offered one of his own in return. His camera hung around his neck; he had a notepad and a pen in his hand, and another pen tucked behind his ear, snug against his glasses.
“Bruce Wayne,” he replied. “Always a pleasure. Can I have a moment?”
“You can have exactly three, if you’re quick,” Bruce said. “It’s a busy night for me.”
“Of course,” Clark said, “which is why you’re over an hour late.”
“Some people actually do have better things to do than harass philanthropists and show up at useless benefits,” Bruce told him.
“Good thing neither one is here,” Clark replied. He pulled out his notepad. Bruce wished the guy wasn’t so goddamn handsome; it would make it easier to ignore him if he was. As it was, Clark showed up at most Wayne events, representing the Daily Planet. Sometimes he brought coworkers: Lois Lane, who was beautiful and witty in her own right, or Jimmy Olsen, who was a far superior photographer. Tonight, he seemed to be on his own.
Bruce looked up at Clark over his wine glass. Clark smiled.
Too goddamn handsome. Puts Superman to shame.
The reminder of Superman had Bruce frowning down into his wine glass. Clark seemed to catch on to his mood change.
“We can schedule an interview for another time,” Clark suggested. Bruce waved him off with his glass.
“You’d never leave me alone,” Bruce said, “even if I said yes.”
“You’re onto me,” Clark said. He clicked his pen open. “Can I ask you a few questions about the Wayne Foundation?”
“You can,” Bruce said, “but will you?”
“There’s that Wayne humor we never hear about,” Clark said with a grin. He shifted, tugging his sleeves back to stop them from catching on his notepad, and Bruce’s smile slipped off his face the second he looked down.
Soulmark.
The same-
The same fucking soulmark.
Bruce’s eyes darted back up to Clark’s face, scanning his features. He had a dopey grin on his face, big glasses over his eyes, his hair combed and curling to the side.
Bruce really looked.
He knew those eyes. Blue eyes, eyes he’d seen shoot fucking lasers, eyes he’d seen staring back at him, smiling, happy, sad, afraid, dying, living, warm, friendly. He knew that nose, straight like it had never been broken, even though Bruce knew it had been smashed on several occasions. He knew that mouth, knew it when it grinned, when it was shouting at him, when it was frowning. He knew that jawline, sharp and almost inhuman.
Actually, apparently genuinely inhuman.
“Mr. Wayne?” Clark asked, interrupted Bruce’s revelation. Some detective he was. World’s greatest, and yet he somehow couldn’t figure out Clark Kent was fucking Superman. “Do you want me to repeat the question?”
“I’ve got to go,” Bruce said at once. He handed Clark his glass, which Clark took with a frown.
“I’m sorry, did I-” he started to say, but Bruce waved his hand, cutting him off.
“Not your fault,” he said, flashing a smile that he knew didn’t feel right. It must not have looked right, either, because Clark looked absolutely baffled. Bruce found himself staring again, finding Superman in Clark’s face, and Clark in Superman’s. “Jesus Christ.”
“Excuse me?” Clark said, and Bruce turned before he could make another mistake, heading right back out the door, snatching his keys from the valet and jogging to his car. He sped the whole way home.
“Before midnight again,” Alfred pointed out as Bruce pulled up the driveway and hopped out of the car. “You’re having an interesting night.”
“You’re telling me,” Bruce said. He locked his car and jogged past Alfred inside. Dick and Tim were already back from their night out, having already shed their costumes in the Cave and changed into pajamas. They were playing a video game in the living room, Jason sitting on the armchair beside their sofa and reading a book, a half-eaten apple at his side, when Bruce entered.
“You’re home early,” Dick said again. “Where’d you go this time?”
“Watchtower,” Bruce said, “and then the benefit.”
“Must not have been there very long,” Dick commented. Tim paused the game and they both turned to look at him. Jason kept his eyes down at the book in his lap, flicking his Swiss army knife between his hands as he read and actively ignored them. “What happened this time?”
“Isn’t Aquaman on call right now?” Tim asked. “Why’d you go to the Watchtower?”
“Peace and quiet,” Bruce answered.
“Why’d you go to the benefit?” Dick asked.
“To be normal,” Bruce said, “as you so kindly suggested.”
“Then why are you home already?” Dick prodded. “Was Superman there?”
Bruce didn’t answer.
“He was?” Dick said. “I didn’t see that on the news or anything.”
“He wasn’t there as Superman,” Bruce told them.
“No shit,” Dick said. “You figured out his identity.”
“Spill!” Tim exclaimed. “Who’s Superman?”
Bruce glanced at Jason, who must have felt the eyes on him, because he looked up and snorted. “I don’t give a shit about Superman,” he told them. “I’m not hunting down a Boy Scout for shits. I don’t care who he is.”
Bruce hesitated, then said, “He’s Clark Kent.”
“The reporter?” Tim asked, brow creased. “But that guy’s a klutz.”
“The perfect cover,” Dick said. “A moron.”
“Clark Kent is your soulmate?” Alfred asked. “That’s oddly fitting. I’ve seen the two of you bicker.”
“Unless they’re two different guys and you’ve got a hot threesome coming your way,” Jason offered unhelpfully, grinning with teeth. He dog-eared his page in his book to join the conversation. “You sure it’s the same guy?”
“I saw his soulmark,” Bruce said.
“I stand by what I said,” Jason replied.
“Actually,” Dick said, “Clark Kent being Superman actually makes a lot of sense. I’ve never seen them in the same place, Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen are always the ones writing about him and taking pictures of him, they look kind of shockingly alike. I can’t believe we didn’t notice before.”
“Especially not Mr. World’s Greatest Detective,” Jason said.
“But he’s a moron,” Tim said. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” Bruce assured him.
“Shall I prepare for his arrival?” Alfred asked. Bruce glared at him.
“He’s not coming,” Bruce reiterated. Dick and Tim both groaned.
“You didn’t tell him again?” Dick asked. “Jesus Christ, Bruce.”
“What am I going to say? ‘Nice soulmark, Superman has one just like it and so do I, so you must be Superman and I must be your soulmate.’” He accepted the mug of coffee Alfred gave him and took a sip. “That’s a lot to have happen at once.”
“Well, you have to tell him,” Dick said.
“It’s so sweet,” Tim said. “You found his real identity because you’re soulmates. You find his true self.”
“Jesus, kid, chill out,” Jason said. He turned back to Bruce. “Kill him.”
“No.”
“Make him leave the Justice League.”
“No.”
“You leave the Justice League, and I take your place.”
“Fuck off, Jay,” Dick said. He turned to Bruce. “Why won’t you tell him?”
“You have to tell him,” Tim repeated. “It’s so nice. You have to.”
“I live alone,” Bruce said, ignoring Dick when he motioned to the four other people currently living with him. “I work alone.”
“Justice League,” Tim pointed out.
“I don’t play well with others,” Bruce snapped. “He’s not going to want-”
“Ahh,” Jason said, when Bruce cut himself off. “Got it.”
“Bruce,” Dick said, slowly. “Do you want to tell him?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Bruce replied. Tim frowned.
“Yeah, it does,” Tim argued. “Do you like him?”
“Tim-”
“Do you?” Tim insisted. Bruce stared down at him, then sighed.
“Yes,” he said, teeth clenched together.
“God, it’s like we’re shoving bamboo under your nails,” Dick said.
“This is nothing like that,” Jason commented, picking his apple back up and cutting a slice out. He popped it in his mouth. “This is much worse, honestly.”
“You’re not a sad, dark, brooding person, really,” Dick offered. “I mean, you’re definitely unhinged, and kind of a drag. But you’re not as bad as you make yourself out to be. Jason is as bad as you make yourself out to be.” He pointed at Jason. “That is real sad. You’re just lonely sad.”
"Fuck you, Dick," Jason spat. Dick heartily ignored him.
“You need Superman,” Tim agreed, all attention on Bruce. “Tell him you love him.”
“I do not love Superman,” Bruce said. “Jesus Christ.”
“You definitely could,” Dick pointed out. They all fell silent. Alfred broke it.
“He has a point,” Alfred offered. Bruce groaned.
“Stop adopting children and go get yourself a man,” Dick said. “Fill that hole in you. Tell your soulmate about yourself.”
“Fine,” Bruce said. Tim jumped up, excited.
“I can’t wait for Superman to be our step-dad,” Tim said, and Jason flipped him off. “Oh, fuck off, Jay.”
“You’re a bad influence,” Jason said to Dick.
“Yeah, I’m the bad influence,” Dick said, turning back to Bruce. “Let us know how it goes. Try not to come back before midnight again.”
“Can do,” Bruce said.
“Clark Kent is still at the benefit,” Tim told them, “according to Twitter. He was there twelve minutes ago. I can’t imagine he’s left yet.”
“Go back to the benefit,” Dick insisted. “You look nice. Just go back and tell him.”
“Sure thing,” Bruce said, and left.
Bruce circled around the house, changed back into the batsuit, and headed straight for the Hall of Justice just to get ten minutes of peace and fucking quiet.
Apparently, that was too much to ask for, because Superman was hovering just inside the door when Bruce got there. Bruce slammed the door shut with a little too much force and walked past him.
“Was it something I said?” Superman asked. “What’s eating you? You left patrol pretty early before.”
“Nope,” Bruce said. “I’m all good. Just forgot something here. Just taking a break.”
“Two separate reasons,” Superman pointed out. Ugh. Not even just Superman anymore. Clark. And now that Bruce knew, it was impossible not to see it. Too fucking handsome, too fucking good. Fucking perfect.
Clark landed back on the ground and came to stand beside him. “Anything I can do? Anything you want to talk about?”
“Nope,” Bruce repeated. “All good. Like I said. Bye.” He brushed past Clark and was trying to just straight-up leave the room when Clark called out,
“Bruce Wayne?”
And Bruce stopped in his tracks.
“What?” Bruce asked, turning back. “What- about him?”
“What about Bruce Wayne?” Clark asked. “He blew me off earlier tonight. Kind of weird that both of you would do that. Is it me?”
“It is weird that Bruce Wayne would blow you off,” Bruce said. “Not easy to blow off Superman.”
“Actually,” Clark corrected him, “he blew me off in my secret identity.”
Bruce was silent.
“Weird, isn’t it?” Clark continued. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
Bruce glared at him. “Are you asking if I know Bruce Wayne?”
"No."
"Are you asking if I am Bruce Wayne?"
“Maybe.”
“Why on Earth would I be Bruce Wayne?” Bruce asked. “That guy’s a total asshole. He doesn’t have time for anyone but himself. And even if I was, which I am not, how would you have even come to that conclusion?”
“Well,” Clark said, taking a seat and motioning for Bruce to do the same. Bruce did not. “It’s interesting that Batman kind of just abandoned our patrol after, presumably, seeing my soulmark." Bruce immediately froze up. Clark just kept going. "Then, later that same night, Arthur tells me that Batman stopped by and said some cryptic nonsense about soulmarks. Then, after that, I show up at a Wayne Foundation benefit, Bruce Wayne sees my soulmark, and he abandons his benefit.” Clark kicked his feet up on the table in front of him and shrugged. “I might be pretty, Bruce, but I’m not dumb.”
Bruce forced himself to unfreeze.
“You think you’re pretty?” Bruce asked, the first thing that came into his mind, and Clark laughed.
“Jesus Christ, you’re thick,” Clark said. “Is Bruce Wayne the real persona? Are you actually that dumb?”
“Bruce Wayne is a complex and layered person,” Bruce defended, his mouth dry.
“What’s wrong with my soulmark?” Clark asked, apparently going all in. “Have you seen it before? Do I match Nightwing or something? Because I wouldn’t be thrilled, but things could be worse.”
Bruce frowned. “What, Nightwing’s not good enough for you?”
“Are you arguing that I should date Nightwing?” Clark asked, looking bewildered. He laughed. “I’m just not interested. I got someone else in mind.”
Bruce stared at Clark. Clark stared at Bruce.
Bruce carefully, slowly, reached up and pulled his cowl off. Clark smiled at him, but it was less of a show than before; it was softer, genuinely happy.
“I’ve seen your soulmark before,” Bruce told him.
“Great,” Clark said. “Where?”
Bruce hesitated, then brought his hand up to his mouth and pulled his glove off with his teeth. He yanked his sleeve down and brought the cuff out, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the fingerprint access points. The cuff unlocked, for the first time in a long time, and Bruce held his arm out. Clark stood and ghosted over, hovering for a moment before he landed on his feet and took Bruce’s wrist between his two big hands.
“How long have you been wearing that thing?” Clark asked. “Your skin’s so pale.”
“I didn’t like looking at it,” Bruce told him. Clark pressed his thumb into the red sun, then the yellow moon. Bruce’s skin burned.
“Krypton has a red sun,” Clark told him.
“I wish I’d known that before,” Bruce said.
Clark looked up at him, then back down at the soulmark. He rolled up his own sleeve and settled it in the air beside Bruce’s, their matching marks lining up.
“Superman and Batman, soulmates,” Clark said. “What a scoop.”
“And Clark Kent would know a thing or two about that,” Bruce said. Clark grinned.
“How long have you known?” he asked, and Bruce shrugged.
“A while.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” Clark said. He touched Bruce’s mark again, and the skin grew hot once more. He touched further up his arm, that warm trail following. Bruce couldn’t figure out if it was a soulmate thing or if Clark just ran hot. “Are you mad?”
Bruce paused. “Am I mad?”
“Yeah,” Clark said. “You ran away twice. It’s not an unreasonable question.”
“I never thought my soulmate would be a Boy Scout leader,” Bruce commented. Clark smiled down at their wrists. “It’s not the worst thing in the world.”
“How romantic,” Clark murmured.
“How could I be mad?” Bruce offered. “Unless you’re not really Clark Kent. Am I in for a threesome?”
Clark laughed. “Unfortunately, no, I am Clark Kent. Sorry, Bruce Wayne.”
“No apologies necessary,” Bruce said, and Clark tipped his head up and kissed Bruce before either of them could think better of it. Something wild and previously displaced settled inside of Bruce’s chest and, judging off the expression on Clark’s face, he felt the same thing. “Guess we were right.”
“Guess so,” Clark said. He hesitated, then brought Bruce’s wrist to his mouth. His mouth was just as hot as his hand. “Is this okay?”
“It’s going to have to be,” Bruce replied. Clark smiled against his wrist and kissed his skin again.