Chapter Text
Clark wasn’t exactly used to the idea of being vulnerable. Well, not physically, anyway. It just wasn’t something that came up often for him. The whole ‘alien demigod’ thing usually kept him on his feet when the going got tough, and it was only the biggest, convoluted, most well-crafted plans that ever seemed to give him any kind of real trouble.
Kryptonite, for instance, was a problem. But the thing about Kryptonite was that in its natural form, it was tangible. It was glowy, it was green, and it was completely obvious to the naked eye. Unless, of course, it was in the hands of someone with half a brain cell and a scientific education. And usually that someone was Luthor, so Clark had really come to expect it from the likes of him. But ultimately, if he could see the problem, then he could fix the problem.
The physicality of it all was incredibly simple. Kryptonite crippled him to his weakest state, but with some clever manoeuvring on Clark’s part, he could either shuffle himself out of range as best he could, or he could find a way to remove the problem entirely. It was a case by case basis, and a huge pain in the butt, but he had yet to be put down permanently. He figured Kryptonite was a fairly straightforward nuisance to deal with.
It was toxins he hated. They were something he couldn’t manage as well as something physical, and it was beginning to get embarrassing how often he had been laid out by a colourful cloud. The gaseous types of weapons, the kinds that couldn’t be dealt with his fists. How was he supposed to use superstrength against something that just…wafts?
At least his physiology usually had him covered. Smoke, spores, and the occasional chemical mist didn’t do much more than tickle most of the time, so it wasn’t something Clark typically found time to worry about when he was on the field. But then he’d come across someone clever, someone who had done their homework, and suddenly his physiology didn’t seem to be all that perfect.
It was in Gotham the first time it really happened to him. Because of course it would be Gotham. Clark really tried his best to think kindly of the city, but that was hard to do when the place was a legitimate hellhole where hope went to die. Bad Things always happened in Gotham. Bad Things that would snowball into Worse Things that would avalanche into Actual Hell. Clark didn’t know how Batman handled it.
The Justice League had been fairly new when it happened, and Clark may have gone against Batman’s entirely unreasonable request to keep other heroes out of Gotham. He led the team into the city after hearing it was being attacked by some ecoterrorist, announced to Batman that everything was going to be okay, and then proceeded to receive a recyclable can of aerosolised toxins right to the face.
It had been instant. One whiff of those toxins and Clark had lost his mind completely. He turned violent under Ivy’s decree and, according to Lantern and Arrow, ‘majestically lost his shit’ against the entire Justice League.
Batman had been, in a word, displeased.
Even now, years after the fact, Clark had a lot of opinions on Batman’s often excessive contingencies. But it was hard to argue with a man’s clear paranoia when he had actively saved the team with that same compulsion. The toxin hit Clark in the face, Clark went out of his mind, Batman immediately proved himself correct by whipping out a rock of kryptonite and putting him down before he could do too much damage.
Since then, Clark had a healthy respect for Batman’s contingencies and had become a lot more careful when it came to toxins. It only took him one wrong move to learn a life lesson, and usually he was quite good at never making the same mistake twice. But toxins were unpredictable and, regrettably, often unavoidable.
This time, it wasn’t Clark that was hit, but it almost was. If not for a well-timed push and a bat-themed madman taking the hit for him, then once again Superman would have been under the influence of a suspicious drug, and nobody wanted that headache.
But honestly, Clark would have rather have taken the hit over his best friend.
Logically, it was probably for the best — and it felt horrible to admit that even to himself. After some creative questioning and several tests, they found out quickly that the gas had been one to reduce personal emotional limitation. Particularly inhibitions. As kind as Clark liked to be, as gentle as everyone saw him, he knew intimately how much rage he had carefully packaged up in his heart. He wasn’t sure what he would have ended up doing if he was the one who was hit.
As they took Batman back to the Watchtower for recuperation, everyone agreed that Clark could have done a hell of a lot of damage if he was the one affected. They didn’t laud Batman’s decision to take the brunt of the gas, in fact Oliver and Hal were quite vocal in how stupid it had been, but it was better than the alternative. Batman, for all his posturing and intelligence, was only human. Brilliant, certainly, but still bound by the limits of his mortal body. He could be contained far easier than the likes of Superman.
He had been out for thirteen hours so far, and it had been decided that only Clark and Diana would stay by his side until he woke up. As human as Batman claimed to be — very much to the disbelief of some of the others — he was still a skilled tactician. There was a reason he could stand on the same level as metas, demigods and magic space-rings.
His intelligence made him unpredictable, and they anticipated the influence of the gas would exacerbate that. No one wanted to take the risk of what Batman might be capable of if his mind, unshackled by restraint, was left to its own devices.
Together, Clark and Diana presented the best safeguard against any gas-induced outbursts Batman may have had. They’d already removed the utility belt and some of the known gadgets hidden away in the batsuit, but that was just the tricks they actually know about. Nobody could tell just how many more he had squirrelled away, and Clark even doubted his own X-ray vision when it came to trying to figure out Batman’s secrets.
So long as they got rid of his personal slash of kryptonite, which Clark was fairly certain they had, then they didn’t really need to worry. Clark and Diana had the strength and physical endurance to meet him head on, no matter what he had hidden away.
It wasn't the only reason they insisted on being there for Batman. Beyond the practicalities of their strength, they both had a more personal reason to stay. Diana had raised it first and Clark had agreed immediately. They just wanted to be there for their friend. If the gas made Batman say or do something he’d regret, then they were the ones most likely to understand and forgive him.
They may not have known who Batman was behind the mask, but he was still their closest friend. Clark cherished his friendships, regardless of identity.
“He’s waking,” Diana called out.
Clark was immediately by her side. The heart monitor began to raise to a chilled sixty bpm, which would have been healthy if Clark didn’t know that Batman’s resting heart rate was lower than that. The man was an endurance athlete in peak physical form, his heart rate should have been in the forties.
“Are you alright, Batman?” Clark asked. They had strapped him down when they brought him back to the base. It was mostly because nobody wanted his particular brand of unhinged violence free to roam the Watchtower while he was completely uninhibited. With that in mind, Clark made sure to keep his distance. While he wanted to clap his friend around the shoulder, he didn’t know how he’d react to physical touch.
As Batman woke up, there was no yelling, no immediate struggling, and no sudden bat-gadgets flinging out from nowhere. Clark almost breathed a sigh of relief.
Batman frowned at him. “Report.”
“Hey now, is this really the time for—”
“Report,” he repeated, firmer this time.
His voice was almost perfectly steady, save for the modulator dipping in and out of functionality. His heart rate was still a little higher than usual, but his breathing seemed normal and he didn’t seem even remotely rattled by the situation. Maybe, with all of those random skills he had, Batman was just incredibly good at dealing with mysterious gases. With whatever went down in Gotham, Clark could believe it.
Diana was the one to answer him. “To save Kal, you were hit by a strange gaseous toxin. You've been unconscious for almost fourteen hours now. We think your inhibitions have been lowered, so forgive the precautions,” Diana explained, gesturing to the straps that help him down. She smiled gently and, because she was apparently braver than Clark, she placed her hand on Batman’s shoulder. “Though judging by your present state, my friend, the effects seem to be negligible at best.”
Clark nodded in agreement. “You took the hit for me and I—”
“Why are you talking?”
“You asked for a report—”
“Diana has already given me a report, I don’t need another,” Batman continued flatly. “You’re not reporting, you’re reiterating. It’s a waste of your breath and my time. Phone.”
They probably should have found a better way to bind Batman to the medical berth before he woke up, because he managed to free himself rather expertly. Likely because he was the one who designed them in the first place. The fact that he hadn’t called Clark and Diana out on that oversight only served to prove that there was definitely something wrong with him.
Batman pushed himself off the bed and looked down at his bare feet. In an effort to further disarm them, they had removed literally every accessory they could possibly think of while he was still unconscious. The boots, the gauntlets, even the cape. The only thing they left was the shell of the batsuit and cowl itself. Not even Diana dared to go near the cowl.
“Phone?” she repeated.
“I need a phone,” Batman said. He wasn’t being immediately violent, so Clark figured he should be allowed to roam so long as they kept him in the infirmary. Curiously, he watched as his friend headed over to the bench where they stored his more innocuous items, and he began to refile through a compartment in his gauntlet. “No, phones don’t work in space. I need my comm.”
“Don’t you have a comm in your cowl?” Clark asked.
“He won’t answer the bat-channel,” said Batman. Privately, Clark loved that the most serious person he knew used ridiculous bat-terminology to describe the most basic of things. It made him seem more human, and maybe an inch more approachable. Judging by Diana’s smile, she loved it too.
“Maybe it’s not the best idea to call someone while you’re infected with a weird gas, Batman.”
Clark really didn’t know if Batman was staring him dead in the eye, but it certainly felt that way as he snapped open a small black communicator. Those lenses were unnerving on a good day, and Clark usually had the very good fortune not to be the target for that blank stare. It was deep, endless, and was exactly the kind of look that immediately had him questioning his life choices. He could see why Barry always squirmed beneath it.
The communicator crackled to life, the line connected, and Batman turned his back on them.
“I’m sorry,” he said before anyone could stop him.
Clark stared incredulously. Diana straightened up in surprise.
Now, Clark thought very highly of Batman. More so than most people in the League. He and Diana saw the best in him and accepted all of his faults. The thing was, Batman didn’t apologise very often. In fact, Clark could count the amount of times the words ‘I’m sorry’ came out of his mouth on one hand. Even then it was only ever for the most extreme of circumstances. Times where Batman couldn’t even begin to justify himself. Saying sorry implied that he thought he was in the wrong, and he was far too stubborn to ever admit something like that.
It always made Batman’s apologies feel far more weighted than anyone else’s. That wasn’t to say that Clark didn’t find it a frustrating facet of his personality, though. It was extremely exasperating. He used to actually apologise for him until he realised that he wasn’t responsible for Batman’s behaviour.
The person on the end of the comm seemed equally perturbed. “Who the hell is this?”
“It’s me.”
“It’s you and you’re…sorry.”
“Yes.”
There was a long silence. Clark almost went over to gently pluck the communicator from his hands, wrap his cape around him, and sit him down until the toxin had been filtered from his system. Diana nudged him in the ribs before he could.
Finally, the man over the line let out a sigh. “Shit, B. It’s way too early to deal with this,” he said. “Are you having a breakdown or something? ‘Cause I am not prepared to handle you when you’re having a breakdown. Have you tried calling the replacement? Isn’t that, like, his job or something?”
“No, I needed to call you because I‘m sorry.”
“You repeating it isn’t making it any less weird, old man. It actually makes it more weird.”
“I’ve failed at almost every single encounter we’ve had since you came back, and I know that’s because I’m incapable of processing what happened like a rational human being,” Batman continued, nonplussed. In his periphery, Clark could see Diana gape at the admission. He was doing no better, to be honest, but Batman carried on as if he wasn’t saying anything particularly earth shattering. “I didn’t take the time to hear you out and I just made everything worse. I’ve tried to do better, but I don’t know how.”
Silence.
Several rooms over, Clark could hear Captain Marvel drop a glass and blame it on Green Lantern. He could hear the Flash audibly calculate how many euros he’d need to grab real Italian pizza for everyone onsite. He could hear the shrill sound of an ambulance and the occasional pop of gunfire over Batman’s communicator.
Mostly, he could hear how steady Batman was. His heart was settling to its normal rate, his breath was even and controlled. If Clark hadn’t just heard the man both apologise sincerely and admit that he didn’t know something in the span of a minute, then he wouldn’t have been able to tell that he was affected by anything at all.
“...You dying, B?”
“I’m not dying,” Batman replied. “I have been drugged, though.”
“God, that makes sense,” the voice said. “Man, I was this close to callin’ in the cavalry to haul your ass home, ‘cause this sounds uncomfortably close to an emotional conversation, and those always end up with us tryna beat the hell out of each other.” He let out a sardonic laugh. “So, what are you doped on, Bats?”
“Assuming the Justice League have run all the necessary tests and haven’t simply speculated, then I’ve been dosed with a concentrated gas that reduces my inhibitions and encourages me to pursue what I want.”
“So you’re currently blasted on a drug that makes you do whatever you want, and you…you, what? You just decided that you wanted to call me, of all people?”
“Yes,” Batman nodded. “I have a to-do list.”
“Of course you do. And what’s on your to-do list, old man? You gonna reorganise the batarangs in the cave by shape and size?”
“Hm, no. Red Robin did that last week,” Batman said. Clark shared a glance with Diana — who the heck was Red Robin? “First, I plan to leave the Watchtower, though I suspect I’ll have to fight my way out since the League are currently listening to everything I’m saying and they won’t like the rest of my list. I presume that’s the reason I’m currently locked in the infirmary.”
“If Superman is listening, tell him to get fucked.”
Batman turned to look at Clark. “Get fucked.”
The voice over the line snickered, suddenly sounding a lot younger than Clark had originally guessed. “Looks like it does more than just reduce your inhibitions.”
“You’re right. It seems that I’m also open to suggestion, which is concerning. Perhaps a lack of inhibition isn’t the case so much as malleable inhibitions.”
“Hey, is Wonder Woman there too?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, sweet. She’s cool.”
Clark frowned. “Hey…” he said softly, but he was quickly mollified by Diana’s positively endeared smile.
Batman turned back around. The drug seemed to be superseding his paranoia, because he didn’t seem to care that he was potentially spilling some intimate information about his personal life. “After I’m back in Gotham, I intend to track, locate, and take out the Joker for good. I'd like you to join me.”
And there it was. Batman’s unhinged violence coming out in a flood. It was a lot more civilised than Clark originally expected, but the threat alone was cause for concern. It looked like they were going to have to restrain him after all.
“Batman—” Diana started, but the man over the communicator beat her to it.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m resolute towards the no-kill rule,” Batman continued, scarily conversational for a man currently discussing murder in front of two superheroes, “and I’ve abided by that for better or for worse, but if taking out the Joker is the only way to get you to come home, then I suppose that I have no choice.” He glanced over his shoulder at Clark and Diana, as if sensing their shock. “I’ll have to incapacitate the Justice League first, so I may have to meet you there.”
There was a silence that Clark almost took advantage of, but then the man let out another sigh. It was shaky, imperceptibly so. Clark didn’t think Batman had the power to hear just how shaken this mysterious person actually was.
“You know, B, there was a time where I would’ve given my left nut to hear you say that and mean it,” he said, “but you’re high as hell right now. If you kill that bastard while you’re like this, then you’re gonna get all weird about it afterwards. You’ll hate me even more for making you break your stupid rule while you’re all vulnerable and shit. I don’t want— I mean, it’s just not you. B.”
“I don’t hate you, I love you.”
Clark almost choked and Diana let out a soft gasp. She was clutching her chest like she was watching one of the telenovellas Lantern managed to get her into, wide-eyed and completely enthralled by the conversation. Clark had the sudden urge to shuck an arm around her shoulder. They could cling to each other as they watched the drama unfold.
The guy over the communicator breathed in a sharp inhale, so abrupt that it sounded like he’d been punched, but so quiet that Batman almost certainly didn’t hear it. “You’re gonna eat those words when you’re back to normal.”
Batman had either forgotten about his audience, or the toxin made it the least of his concerns. “Right now, I’m in a position not to care about that,” he said decidedly, almost like he was answering Clark’s inner thoughts. “I never stopped loving you, even after everything that happened between us. I didn’t handle anything like I should have, and I regret that, but I don’t want you to ever think that I stopped loving you for what happened.” He stood a little straighter, seemingly deep in thought. “Killing the Joker is a small price to pay to get you back. I’ve wanted to do it for so long. Now that my restraint is compromised, I should take the opportunity.”
The guy huffed out a laugh. “The Justice League are gonna floor your ass.”
“They’re welcome to try.” Batman sounded far too confident for a baseline human that was unarmed and high off his ass. “After I’m done here, I’m returning to Gotham to do what I should’ve done a long time ago. They won’t be able to stop me.” He glanced at Clark. “Not again.”
And suddenly, Clark had a fraction of context for something that had happened years ago.
Back then, all he had known was that the Joker had hurt someone close to Batman, and the aftermath had been brutal. Clark had never seen so much pain in one person. It manifested into devastating grief that had him taking his version of vengeance to the very extreme. It had been inhuman, almost manic, and Clark had done everything he possibly could to make sure Batman didn’t break his most important rule.
There had been screaming. Batman had never screamed at him like that before. He screamed until his voice was raw beneath the modulator. He had broken his hand punching Clark as hard as he could, then sprained the other when he wouldn’t stop. It was perhaps the most self-destructive Clark had ever seen his friend become. It was, above everything, heartbreaking.
The grief passed. Well, it became manageable. After too many months of no-contact with the League, Batman managed to work out his anger on his own. He had even thanked Clark in his own stilted way. It was melancholy and almost awkward. He never mentioned the episode again. Clark never brought it up either.
He must have held onto that sadness more deeply than Clark thought, because now he was just standing by as Batman made plans to do the same thing for the same reason. Diana’s hand on his shoulder grounded him and for now Clark stayed where he was. So long as Batman was still safe on the Watchtower, they could keep him from doing anything he’d later regret.
The reason for his grief felt the same way.
“’Again’? What do you mean, ‘again’? No— shit, B, I can’t believe I’m actually saying this — don’t do it, okay? You’re gonna hate yourself even more than usual afterwards, and that’s a shitty spiral nobody wants to go down again.”
“But right now I want to, and I don’t believe I’ve got much control over that.”
“Right, right, the drug,” the man mused. “Okay, listen, I got an idea. You just need something that you wanna do more than murder, right? You decided to call me before doing anything stupid, so I guess that means you like me or some shit.”
“I love you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Jesus,” he muttered. “But it means that you think talkin’ to me is more important than going off the rails and murdering a colourful piece of shit that we all should’ve banded together and garrotted way back when, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Then how ‘bout this. You curb all these weird murderous tendencies that are cropping up — because, honestly B? It’s weird as hell to me that you actually want to kill the guy after all the shit you’ve given me, but I’m gonna let it slide because you’re doped to fuck right now. You quit it with the murder train, and I’ll…I’ll come over. We can talk and shit. Pretend we have real emotions for an hour or so. Alf can mediate.”
“Come for dinner.”
“...Sure.” He sighed over the line. “Sure, B. But only if you don’t go beast-mode. Get your ass sobered up and I’ll come over tomorrow. We can, I don’t know, hash it out over lasagne or something. You got that? No murder while you’re high. Christ, can’t believe I’m the one saying that. I deserve a medal for the amount of restraint I’m putting in right now.”
All at once, the fight seemed to fall out of Batman. “Okay.”
“And…uh…I—” The man sighed again, faltered, and clearly thought better of whatever it was he wanted to say. “I’ll see you soon, old man.”
The line went dead, the room fell silent, and Clark just about cracked his neck with the speed he turned to look at Batman’s small smile.
It didn’t last. As soon as Batman turned to them, the smile dropped immediately back into his usual neutrality. “What?” he snapped.
Diana recovered quicker. “Do we need to imprison you until the effects wear off, Batman?” she asked gently. “I would hate for your lack of restraint to make you do something you’ll regret later.”
“I don’t need to be imprisoned.” At Diana’s raised brow, he elaborated, “The gas seems to play on the most prominent desire rather than a complete reduction in my inhibitions. Right now, my most prominent desire is to filter out the toxins so that I can go home and have lasagne with my son. I will cooperate until I’m better.”
“Your son,” Clark repeated, mystified. “Of course.”
Diana positively beamed at the sudden Bat-info dropped so casually into conversation, and though Clark wanted to do the same, he let himself think of Jon at home with Lois. Or Conner, who sprung to mind and stayed there. Conner, who was trying so hard to make an identity for himself in a world that saw him as an anomaly. A young man that had carved himself a permanent place in Clark’s heart, despite best efforts on both sides.
When it came to Conner, it had been Batman that knocked sense into Clark in the end. He had meddled and yelled until Clark finally offered Kon an olive branch. An opportunity to start again, to try and create something beyond their inception.
Judging from the call, it seemed that Batman had experience in dealing with difficult relationships. It was sweet that he had tried so hard not to let Clark’s relationship suffer as his own had. Maybe one day Clark could return the favour.
For now, he clapped Batman’s on the shoulder and tried not to take it personally when he was immediately brushed off. “You know, Diana and I are going to want to meet him, right?” he said.
The spontaneity of the drug allowed Clark to watch an awkward grimace fall on Batman’s face — what little they saw of it. “That is the last thing I want to happen.”
“It’s nice you think you’ve got a choice,” Clark replied brightly.
“Hm. Well, now that you know I’m not doing anything dangerous, I’d like to ask you both to leave,” Batman said, ushering them both out of the room. “I’ve got another call to make.”