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When Bruce wakes, the ceiling he’s under is not the ceiling he was staring at when he fell asleep, which is never a good sign. It’s vaguely pink. He blinks, but the indefinite gauzyness of the ceiling does not resolve itself. He can hear murmuring voices fading in and out as he claws his way to consciousness, but as soon as he struggles upright they fall silent.
Well. That’s unexpected. The people staring back at him– is people the right word? Beings?– are purple and proboscid, with three long fingers on each hand. The one closest to him taps the suction cups on the end of their fingers together nervously. At least, Bruce thinks it’s nerves. It could mean anything, because Bruce has no idea who these aliens are, where he is, or how he got here.
“You’re going to want to release me,” he croaks, although there's no telling whether the aliens can understand him.
There’s a burst of trumpeting, and the nearest one bangs on a gadget in their hand. The trumpeting resolves into English words. “Oh dear,” the farther one is saying, in a deep, nasal voice that somehow vibrates through every one of the bones in his ear. “Croqud, I told you this was a mistake.”
“Is this thing on?” the alien Bruce assumes is Croqud says, twanging a speaker on the gadget. For a brief and nauseating moment, Bruce can hear both the trumpeting and the English speech, layered dizzyingly over each other.
“Obviously it’s on, Croqud. Look at him, he’s wincing. Stop that.” The other alien grabs the gadget away from Croqud and speaks into it in slow, carefully enunciated tones. “Hel-lo, Bruce Wayne of Earth. Wel-come to Tlop.”
“Why am I here,” Bruce says. He can think of three ways to incapacitate these two, assuming their anatomy is at all analogous to a human’s. But he’d rather not cause an interstellar incident before he knows who he’s dealing with.
The alien looks a little taken aback at the interruption, but continues, slightly more fluidly, with what appears to be a prepared speech. “I am called Uraa, and this is Croqud. We have brought you here as a final appeal to the being called Super-man, Kal-El of Krypton, in hopes that your presence will induce him to hear our plea for aid in our dispute with the Khigezxans. Please understand you are in no danger here, and you will be kept in comfort and privilege in concession to your status as Kal-El’s soulmate.” Uraa pauses and looks at him a little nervously, awaiting his response.
Bruce blinks at them. “Excuse me,” he says, finally. “I think your translator must be malfunctioning. Kal-El’s what?”
But the translator is not malfunctioning. The Tlopi have a compatibility device that is in fact their main industry; the device takes a DNA sample, scans the galaxy for a match, and outputs the name of that person’s soulmate. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. The entire planet is devoted to it; the central computer is housed in a grand building, all shimmering glass and spires, and the rest of the planet is offshoots of that, in every imaginable way. Clothes for your soulmate. Bonding ceremonies. Gifts for your soulmate. Vacation packages for your soulmate. Desserts and massages and tiny mechanical birds that sing your soulmate a little song when activated. He’s been kidnapped by the residents of a Hallmark planet.
“But soulmates aren’t real,” Bruce says, in some consternation. “It’s not like there’s one person who’s your fated lover or whatever. Plenty of people fall in love multiple times.”
Uraa looks a little scandalized. “Well, yes, of course. The machine outputs whichever name is physically and temporally closest at the given moment. If you desire a different answer, of course you may purchase another reading to see if there are other names. Kal-El has received this initial service for free, as a courtesy.”
“Well, also so that you could kidnap me,” Bruce says. “And there wasn’t any question, with the machine.”
“Definitely not,” Croqud assures him. “It spit your name right out. Well, your names. Bruce Thomas Wayne alias Batman, alias the Detective, alias the Dark Knight, alias Matches Malone, alias Knute Brody, alias Bee Gee, alias the Night. Is that number of names normal for your planet?”
“Ah,” Bruce says. “It’s-- we don’t need to get into it.” He scratches at his arm, where the cloth restraints had left a slight mark. “You’re going to need to let me go, though. Superman might have been willing to help you if you’d asked him directly, the normal way. But kidnapping me is really not going to work out well for you.”
“I’m afraid we won’t be able to do that,” Uraa says, bobbing their head and flapping their trunk apologetically. “Kal-El hasn’t responded to any of our messages, and the negotiations with the Khigzexans are coming to a close. They wish to annex our entire planet. Assurance that we stand under Superman’s protection would keep us independent. So you won’t be able to leave until he gets here. But would you like me to bring you anything to drink or eat, while you wait? Perhaps an entertainment? I would be happy to summon some musicians.”
If their music is anything like their language, Bruce would rather skip the migraine. “I’d like a communication device,” he says.
“We won’t be able to provide you with that either,” Uraa says.
“Obviously,” Croqud joins in. “I mean, come on.” Uraa steps on their foot, and they wilt a little.
“So you’d just like me to idly wait here while you keep me prisoner,” Bruce says. “You didn’t do very much research on me, did you?”
“Like I said,” Uraa protests, “any entertainment you’d prefer is easily within our reach--”
“No,” Bruce says. “I’d prefer to meditate in silence. Please leave my quarters.”
“Of course,” Uraa says, already moving towards the door.
“Wait,” Bruce calls. “Could I get some shoes?” He’s still in his sleep clothes, a soft t-shirt and loose pants. It’s not the state in which he generally likes to face the world.
Uraa looks down at their own feet, of which there are four, sheathed in loose silk padding.
“We can try,” they say, a little dubiously. “Fabrication may take some time.” They swing the door carefully closed.
That’s all right. If Bruce is still here by the time the shoes arrive, he’ll probably need them.
“What a weirdo,” Croqud mutters, not quite out of earshot of the translation device. “That’s Superman’s soulmate? I know the computer was sure, but damn. Takes all kinds, I guess.”
“Croqud, it’s still on!” Uraa hisses. There is a muffled fight outside Bruce’s door, a burst of horrible shrieking feedback, and then blissful silence.
Bruce pretends to meditate for all of five minutes before he’s looking around the room for a means of escape. They’ve got him in an exterior room, which was deeply foolish, and while there’s a long drop from the window, it’s not like he doesn’t fling himself off of rooftops all of the time. The bed doesn’t have sheets-- it appears to be a single, slightly soft pouf-- but because this is a Hallmark planet, the room is bedecked with gauzy hangings that are remarkably easy to tear down.
This is how, when Clark bursts through the door, Bruce is halfway out the window, clinging to a rope made of orange gauze like he’s a Regency heroine about to run through the moors with a candlestick.
Clark blurs across the room and hauls Bruce back up. His hands are more frantic on Bruce’s arms than Bruce would have expected. “Are you all right?” he says, his eyes intent on Bruce’s face. His gaze is always so direct. It makes Bruce’s skin itch, wondering what else he might see in Bruce’s expression.
“I’m fine,” Bruce says, coiling the gauze in a heap under the window. Now that Clark’s here, he probably won’t need it, but he hasn’t stayed alive this long by discarding resources as soon as he thinks he’s done with them.
“They didn’t hurt you?”
“No. They were mostly just kind of weird at me. What’s got you so worried?”
“I thought--” Clark looks away for a moment. “I couldn’t hear your heartbeat. I didn’t know what they might have--”
“Oh,” Bruce says. He has always tried to avoid looking directly at the evidence of what Clark might do, faced with Bruce’s death. This isn’t the first time that Clark has rescued him from peril, or serious injury, or cave-in, or collapse. It’s not the first time he’s rescued Clark, either, but Bruce knows very well that if Clark were to die, he would burn down the world. It’s-- distressing, in a way he doesn’t like to examine, to imagine that the reverse might be true for Clark. Especially given that Clark could quite easily burn down the world, whereas for Bruce it would take a little more effort.
“If they’d hurt you, because of--” Clark breaks off again. It isn’t like him not to finish his sentences, at least when he isn’t playing at being the reporter. “I couldn’t forgive myself.”
“Clark,” Bruce says, “you don’t need to worry. I’m fine.” He clasps Clark’s arm. Here I am, he’s saying, with that familiar touch. Here is my heartbeat.
Clark blows out a breath. Now that he’s no longer examining Bruce for possible injury, his gaze has started to skate away. He’s embarrassed, for some reason. Because he overreacted, coming to get Bruce? But he’s never been embarrassed by that before.
Bruce is also, frankly, a little embarrassed. At needing to be rescued, of course, but also that Clark got called all the way out here because of whatever Bruce did to give the computer the erroneous impression that he’s Clark’s soulmate. He isn’t sure how much Clark knows, whether he went through Croqud and Uraa’s dubious welcoming committee first, or if he just peeled the roof off the building until he found Bruce. That Clark might know about his feelings, and be kind about them, also makes Bruce want to shrivel up and hide.
“I’m sorry,” Clark says.
“What for?”
“You got kidnapped because of me.”
“I got kidnapped because the Tlopi apparently can’t tell the difference between a request for aid and a hostage negotiation, and also because they’re no good at reading their gigantic world-defining computer. Don’t worry, Clark,” Bruce says, and he claps Clark on the shoulder. “You had nothing to do with it.”
Clark inhales sharply, like Bruce had struck him, instead of just touching his shoulder. Bruce draws his hand back slowly. Had Clark somehow been injured while looking for Bruce? If the Tlopi are capable of injuring Clark, exiting the palace becomes a much more difficult proposition.
“Are you hurt? Do they have K around?”
“No,” Clark says. He shudders out a little laugh. It rasps in his throat. Bruce never wants to hear Clark make that sound again. “No. It’s-- don’t worry about it.”
“Clark,” Bruce says, and he tries to tilt Clark’s face towards his, to look into his eyes. Both because he’d like to look into Clark’s eyes, and also to check his pupillary response.
Clark jerks away, and then they both stare at each other for a moment. Clark’s eyes are wide. He looks like a trapped animal. The only person here in the room is Bruce, and yet Clark looks like he’s standing in the room with a box full of kryptonite.
“What’s wrong?” Bruce says. He doesn’t mean to, but he uses the gentle voice he usually only pulls out for children and recent bombing victims.
Clark lets out another horrible laugh. “I just. You got kidnapped because you’re my soulmate, something you’ve never once asked for, or shown any impression you might welcome, and you’re standing there and asking if I’m all right. It’s so you, Bruce.”
Bruce stares at him. He’d thought. This whole time, he’d thought he needed to hide it to spare Clark’s feelings. That he’d hidden it, and instead it had made Clark look as pale and nauseous as Bruce has ever seen him--
“I do,” he says, nonsensically, and realizes he needs to clarify. “I do welcome it. My god, Clark, this whole time I thought you would never-- I was your friend. That was more than enough for me for several lifetimes. I didn’t want to get greedy.”
“When have you ever been greedy,” Clark says.
“All of the time.” Bruce looks at Clark, really looks at him, the way he’s never let himself. Not really. And Clark looks back, that blue gaze like the inside of a flame. Bruce is abruptly aware that he’s still in his pajamas. “I’ve wanted.”
“Well,” Clark says. “You don’t have to only want things. You can have them as well.” He’s moved closer to Bruce, enough so that he fills Bruce’s whole field of vision. So that everything he sees is Clark. But that’s not so different. Everything he sees is always Clark, a little bit. Clark reminds him how to see the world. When Bruce is exhausted and miserable and ready to give up on all of it, Clark stops at a corner and points out a hand-written sign for a child’s rock-selling stand. Clark eats an orange with such delighted pleasure. Clark tells him a story about the latest drama in Martha’s quilting group. He’s alive in the way Bruce has always wanted to be, in the way he has always suspected he wasn’t quite built for.
“Can I?” Bruce says. Unable, perhaps, to believe this isn’t just some fantasy, that the Tlopi don’t have him strapped down to a table somewhere with electrodes in his brain.
“You can,” Clark tells him, and tips his chin up to kiss him, and, well, Bruce doesn’t think the electrodes could simulate that.
Bruce is only dimly aware of voices at the edge of his awareness. Most of his senses are taken up with Clark, who has pressed him up against the wall and seems to be intent on discovering what kind of sounds he can wring from Bruce with just his mouth.
“--don’t think we should interrupt him if he’s meditating, Croqud.”
“He asked for shoes. He’s going to get shoes. After the amount of trouble you went to--”
A furious hiss. “We should leave them outside the door.”
“I want to see him put them on. I’ve never seen a human wear shoes before. Aren’t you curious?”
There is a tentative knock at the door. Clark’s mouth disconnects from Bruce’s neck with a wet pop. He looks truly murderous.
“Oh my god,” Bruce says. “Clark. You cannot kill these ineffectual bureaucrats.”
“The same ineffectual bureaucrats who kidnapped you directly from your home?”
The knock comes again, significantly less tentative, and then the door bursts open. “Bruce Wayne, we have brought you shoes!” Croqud cries, triumphantly, and then notices the Kryptonian elephant in the room. Their entire body droops. “Oh.”
“Welcome, Superman, to Tlop,” Uraa begins, launching into their speech with remarkable equanimity for someone who is currently being glared at by a man with heat vision. “We have brought you here in order to request your aid in the matter of our diplomatic negotiations with--”
“Get,” Clark growls, “out.”
Uraa quails slightly, but remains unmoved. “The negotiations are very important to the continued independence of our people, and your voice in our favor--”
“You want my voice?” Clark says. “Start recording. You kidnapped my soulmate in order to strongarm me into claiming that your planet was under my protection. If you had wanted my help, you could have asked. Or you could have contacted the Lantern Corps, who actually do help out with nonsense like this. Earth is under my protection. Right now, your whole planet could go straight to hell and I would not care.”
“We did ask! We sent multiple messages through the Lantern Corp, but G’nort never responded!”
“Wait,” Bruce says, through gasping laughter. He’s never gone from deeply aroused to hysterics so quickly. “The Lantern for this sector is G’nort? Clark, call it off, we do actually need to help these people. They were left in the hands of the Lantern Corps’ one and only nepotism hire. They had no choice but to resort to kidnapping.”
“You’re going to explain this to me later,” Clark says, with enough dark intent in his voice that Bruce knows that’s not all that they’ll be doing later.
“Call Hal,” Bruce says. He takes the proffered shoes from Croqud, who is still holding them out and looking vaguely shell-shocked. “And Croqud, could you get me some actual clothes? Between the two of us we can have this done in a few hours and then,” and he throws a meaningful glance over his shoulder at Clark, “I will tell you all about G’nort.”
“We’re not making this a thing,” Clark says.
“Of course,” Bruce says, waving a hand. “Now. Uraa, what is the situation with Khigzex?” The sooner they can wrap this up, the sooner he can get Clark horizontal. He has plans, for when he gets Clark horizontal. And as always, he’d like to hear Clark’s feedback on his plans.