Chapter Text
"Could've been an email," Bruce mumbles bitterly, wind buffeting his face so hard his eyes water. It's his punishment, probably, for procrastinating putting the lenses into his cowl like Alfred keeps telling him to. The laser shooting in his direction misses his neck by a hair's breadth. "Could've been a text. Hell, I'd've taken a call--"
No, he wouldn't have. But he'd have liked the option, instead of trial by fire; Or rather, trial by incredibly obnoxious, murderous aliens and frantic last-minute-kidnappings off of a rooftop. Superman is too busy punching a whole entire spaceship to look at Bruce, so he multitasks and glares at him while kicking out what he assumes is his current opponent's knees. Or the equivalent.
No please. No can we lift you in the air. No would you help us with this invasion. All of Bruce's normal sensibilities are frankly appalled. Just Bruce, finishing up on a bust at five in the morning, ready to head back home on his bike, and a flying, blue asshole floating in front of him stopping the way.
"Batman," said the Asshole, face serious yet smiling. Rushed, like it was Bruce who was inconveniencing him. "Good to meet you. We need your help."
At the very least, he had the decency to throw Bruce over his shoulder instead of in a princess carry. It made it easier to kick at his stomach. He knows that, as a different kind of indestructible alien, Superman probably didn't feel it, but Bruce's boots are steel-toed for a reason.
Being dumped into an already ongoing battlefield a couple of seconds later (without even taking him out for coffee first) is just about the worst etiquette he's ever seen this side of the fucking known universe. And Bruce would know about etiquette.
Why would they assume he'd help? Like, of course he would, but it's in the principle of the thing. No prior contact until the emergency was already upon them, while from the sounds of the friendly yells and shouts across the battle all of them are already chummy with each other. He feels like a bench player getting tossed in at the last minute, without even getting taught the field signs.
It's the adrenaline that keeps him running. The comm system in his ears buzzes with static, but he hasn't had the chance to disable it what with the lasers shooting at his face every few seconds. It's too rudimentary for the signal to make it...whatever distance they're at from Gotham. Considering it was never meant to leave the confines of the city, Bruce thinks that can be forgiven for now, but he's definitely going to fix it when he returns.
If he returns. The last thing he'd heard on the audio was Dick yelling about his tracker moving away. Bruce kind of hopes the locator doesn't read his placement--If Dick tries to find him now, his broken leg will only get worse, and Bruce will get an even bigger earful.
...Maybe it's a good thing if he doesn't make it. For one, he won't get yelled at and (probably) be forced to detail the cave electronics by hand again. For two, it'll teach these self-obsessed, superpowered assholes that some people who don't have superspeed and super senses could use a little warning before going to fight.
And then Alfred will be their problem. Bruce will be too dead to have to do any more worksheets, and Dick will probably burn Gotham to the ground on accident, but again: Bruce will be too dead to care about that.
Unfortunately, he's too good at punching people (and apparently, aliens and alien robots), because when Bruce feels more like spaghetti than person and he's about to call it quits and just jump in front of the next shot, that's when the last enemy falls. The strewn, unconscious bodies disappear in flickers of holographic static in their retreat, but the destruction doesn't.
And it's...A lot of destruction. From what Bruce can see, Flying Asshole (Green Edition) whacked out several walls, and Land Asshole (Woman Edition) used a pillar from a building as a battering ram. It's not all bad, though. Land Asshole (Fish Edition) is gently coaxing a pair of civilians out from underneath rubble...that looks a little too melted to be just from the missiles. Damn it.
From the looks of it, they're in some coastal city, most likely on the other side of the country to Gotham if the way the sky is still dark is any indication. There's cameras circling the skies, but the darkness feels like enough of a cover that he doesn't bother glowering at them. With any luck, the footage will just tell Alfred and Dick that he's fine. Alive, at least.
"Batman!" Bruce's head starts hurting again. He's not entirely sure if it has to do with any of the injuries he got from last night, from the ones he's just finished getting, or simply from this guy's presence. "Thanks for the assist. Sorry it was such--"
"Sorry? You're sorry?" There are absolutely not enough swear words in the world for Bruce to say everything he thinks about that. Maybe in other languages. "What the hell were you thinking? Or do they not do that on your planet?"
Superman reels, blinking hurt, wide eyes at Bruce, practically oozing confusion. It's like the guy has never studied body language a day in his life. "Excuse me?"
The audacity. The gall.
"You're not excused," Bruce hisses, partly in rage and partly because stepping closer to jab a finger in Superman's entitled, bricklike chest makes him ache all over. "No warning. No contact. We do not know each other. We are not friends. We only barely classify as allies thanks to the last five hours. What made you think you could take me from my city and bring me here to fight your battles? What if I wasn't on your side?"
"We... I thought someone had spoken to you. You're a hero, aren't you?" His eyes dart around, an action so frightfully human that Bruce would almost be fooled, if he hadn't been keeping an eye on news about these so-called superheroes for the past year. "Look, I'm sorry the notice was so short, but I figured for something this big we should bring in all of the known-"
The squabble is starting to attract attention, but the dismissal flares Bruce's anger like nothing else. Sorry this, sorry that. At least Dick can admit when he makes mistakes. Maybe he'd be inclined to be more charitable to the emergency when he didn't feel half-blind from tiredness and pain, but as it is Bruce can't stomach the thought of letting them off the hook.
Bruce has known that these...people, for lack of a better word that isn't outright derogatory, have been colluding. Teaming up to deal with smaller threats around the globe. He's been tracking them, but he hadn't expected them to contact him. Certainly not like this.
He knows what they're capable of. And, more frustratingly, he knows what he's capable of. If they decided to snap him like a twig, there's little to nothing he'd be able to do about it, short of arming a small nuclear blast into his suit as a failsafe.
So maybe Bruce shouldn't be antagonizing them. But he's pissed, and the thought of being cautious seems so far away.
For want of a broken bone, Dick could be in his position. And while Dick is good (Bruce has made sure of it), his muscle tone is nowhere near Bruce's. The thought of him brought carelessly into a fight he couldn't hope to win aches more than the cuts and burns on his skin.
"What if I had died, you fool?" Bruce growls, deep into that lower register that his voice fell into one morning and never clawed back out of. "Without any time to prepare, I very well could have! Who would take care of my city? Who would hold you accountable?"
The so-called 'Wonder Woman' pales over Superman's shoulder, but not as much as Superman himself. Good, says the vindictive part of his brain. If they didn't learn their lesson now, if they picked both him and Dick off of the street and something happened...
"That wouldn't--You had a handle on things," Superman stumbles, hands coming up in placating gestures. "Your abilities were necessary! I'm sorry!"
Bruce curls his lip, a thread of confusion weaving through him at the wording. "What abilities? My skills? My training? None of those were needed here."
Superman opens his mouth to speak again, but Wonder Woman beats him to it. "You are the Batman, are you not?"
... It takes him ten seconds to realize where the miscommunication has happened. Once he does, he feels the urge to hit everyone here over the head with a steel pipe, freaks of nature or not.
He's more myth than reality, to the world. Well--Was. After tonight, it'll be hard to get that reputation back. But for this to happen?
"Did you...assume I have superpowers?" He says, almost sardonically. He'd laugh, but the annoyance cuts deeper. For one communication error--No, to say a communication error would imply any communication had taken place. "I'm human. If any of you had thought to speak to me before anything, you would know that. Clearly, looking into others is beneath you, it seems. Now take me back."
"But--Are you sure?" Superman outright squeaks, coming closer and holding out a hand like he wants to squeeze him just to check. Bruce bares his teeth at him, and the hand draws back like he'd bite him. It's not an inaccurate assessment. "The things you've done...the rumors--"
"Rumors are rumors, and you're twice the fool for not checking," Bruce grits out. Exhaustion is starting to settle in, but he can't afford to pass out here. Not until he's back. At least he can probably haggle away a night or two of homework. "Take. Me. Back."
Superman's mouth clicks shut. The ground swoops up and down as Bruce is picked up again, and he spares a second to close his eyes instead of hurling when everything lurches into motion.
By the time he opens them again, he's standing on the same rooftop he left, though the police that had been there are long gone. So is Superman.
Bruce sighs, and taps into his communicator. "Robin?"
The flurry of noise in his ear to replace the static is almost worth the headache blooming again. He should probably be more worried about the darkness that blooms at the edges of his vision, but he knows how to deal with that by now. Instead, he readies his silk rope, eyeing the distance to Bristol with a weary shoulder.
"Did you really say that?" Dick gasps, relegated to sitting a good foot away from the medical cot in the cave instead of trying to clamber all over Bruce for the nth time. It's better for both of them, but Dick pouts anyway. "I don't believe you."
Bruce grunts. His tongue still feels a little like lead from nearly twenty straight hours of glorious sleep, and Alfred still hasn't come down with the promised soup. He hopes it's asparagus, if only so Dick won't steal any of it.
"You know I saw your trip on the video," Dick continues, scooting the chair back with a screech on the stone floor that makes Bruce long for Superman actually killing him. 'Trip', like it was a vacation. "We couldn't hear what you were saying and it was too blurry to read your lips, but I bet you were just mooning over all of them. Some of them can fly. I bet they weren't impressed and you were embarrassed. I could've done better."
"If you ever see them, you run the other direction," Bruce spits out, chewed up through his teeth. "Superpowered idiots. Thought I was a real bat."
"Well, sometimes you act like one," Dick bites back, sticking his perfectly working tongue out. Bruce wants to strangle him. Before he can try to defy the laws of gravity and throw himself at Dick, a set of footsteps echoes around the cave, audible in the newfound silence. Wordlessly, Dick helps Bruce sit up, so by the time Alfred comes close he can put the fold-out table over Bruce's lap.
The sight and smell would make him cry if he were a weaker man. Asparagus indeed. The sound of Dick's 'blegh' is music to Bruce's ears. "Thanks, Al."
"You're very welcome." It only takes one singular eyebrow raise to quiet Dick's protests, a miracle if he's ever seen one. "I quite agree with Master Bruce, Master Dick. It wouldn't do to have you stolen right out from under our very noses."
"I'd do way better than B," he boasts, throwing out his arms and jostling his cast against the chair leg, drawing a wince out of him. "Ow. But really, I'd beat back all of the aliens! They wouldn't even see me coming. I'd be back in a jiffy, not take forever like he did."
"They'd give you back in three minutes," Bruce says, hiding the twitch of his lips behind a spoonful of soup. A tad salty. Alfred must still be worried. "Maybe less. I can't get rid of you that easy."
Dick scrunches his nose, showing off his top teeth remarkably like a horse, eyes squinted. "You can't get rid of me at all! You're the one who grabbed me. 'He's mine, Alf!'"
"That's enough," Alfred coughs, and Bruce has a feeling he's being laughed at. "Regardless of their...coolness, we'd much rather keep you within the city for now, Master Dick. They are, after all, strangers. Very irresponsible strangers, involving a child--"
"Not a child."
"--A child," now he's definitely being laughed at. Bruce groans at the flinty look his protest gets him. "That they did not know had no powers in their battles. If they are to contact either of you again, they will have to go through me."
"Er, no offense, Alfie," Dick says gently, sharing a look with Bruce over the next spoonful of soup. "But one of them can tank gunshots and shoot lasers. I don't think you could do much."
"There are more things in heaven and earth, my boy." Despite himself, Bruce feels his skin shiver at the flash in Alfred's eyes. He has no doubt something would happen, but he hopes it won't come to that. As much as he's annoyed by these 'heroes', it's not like Bruce can fly people out of sinkholes or rescue them seconds into them falling through the air. Yet.
"Did the donation go through?" He asks, pivoting the topic to something a bit safer. The destruction Bruce sort-of helped prevent (and cause, though through no fault of his) was one of the first things on his mind as soon as he was conscious. Funneling some of the building cash that he has access to into it was the least he could do. "It doesn't feel like enough."
"I'm almost certain it is," Alfred sighs, putting a hand over one of Bruce's legs on top of the blankets. The touch isn't even direct, but he feels the pressure. "I was assured the money transferred with no issues."
Bruce hums, satisfied. He'll check on the contact himself...as soon as he's allowed near the computer again. Batcomputer, says a little voice in his head, but he ignores it.
"'S not like you could go over and rebuild," a voice that sounds suspiciously similar pipes up. Dick shrugs, resting his head on the side of the cot. "I still don't believe they let you fly off by yourself as a kid. Be honest, you used your own plane, right?"
"Unfortunately, it's true." Alfred says, pointedly not saying anything when one of Bruce's traitorous hands goes to twiddle with the ends of Dick's hair. "I had the keys. I'd like to talk to those agents and give them a piece of my mind, frankly."
"Why don't you and Dick go make some cookies, instead?" Bruce cajoles. Dick perks up, and Alfred's eyes flash at Bruce with barely-concealed contempt. "I'm not tattling, Alf. He'll die of boredom down here."
"I mean. Yes, but also noo, I resent that."
"You're literally playing tic-tac-toe on the blanket. By yourself."
"Damn, I thought you wouldn't notice."
"It's on top of me--"
The next time Bruce sees Superman again, Dick is two days off of getting his cast removed. This time it's earlier in the night, so Bruce isn't (in Dick's words) 'cranky and mean'. It doesn't mean he's nice, just that his voice doesn't go above a certain decibel level this time. The time spent not confined to their only medical bed has done wonders for his mood, even if he did like getting to sleep a bit more.
When he sees blue and red appearing in front of him, Bruce braces, stepping back in preparation for either a fight or a talk. The conversation in his ears quiets.
"Everything okay, B?" Dick's voice is about as tense as Bruce feels. Superman floats for a second, staring into Bruce's lined cowl with a grimace.
He's nonsensically reminded of when Alfred used to try to put him in timeout. He squints under the cowl, at the box sitting innocently in Superman's hands. A bomb? Erasing his mistakes?
"Hold," Bruce murmurs, barely a breath into his comm. Dick inhales sharply, and Bruce resists the urge to roll his eyes when no exhale follows. "What are you doing in my city?"
Superman...if he were on the ground, Bruce would say he shuffles in place. As it is, he fidgets in the air, floating cautiously closer. The box is paper, with no visible logos or wires. Still, Bruce doesn't relax.
"I'm here to apologize," he says, voice quiet, color high on his cheeks. He extends the box, and a faint sweet smell wafts from where it bends around his fingers. "With a peace offering."
The petty side of him wants to grab the box and toss it over the side of the building. Dick prevents him by virtue of squealing. "Oh my God, he brought you food. This is like the movies."
Superman floats down to the ground, stance growing a bit more awkward. Hunched. "Er, I should probably tell you--I can hear your...sidekick?"
Fucking super hearing. Bruce grunts in acknowledgement at the same time that Dick gasps in offense. "I'm no sidekick! Hey, Mr. Flying Speedo! I'm his partner."
Superman blinks, looking at Bruce incredulously. Bruce keeps his face flat and impassive under the scrutiny, mostly because fighting Dick on the specifics of wording is not worth it. And also because it's true; Dick is skilled and capable in his own right. If Alfred has his way, he'll be well on the path to gaining eighty pounds of muscle and shooting up two feet in no time. Sidekick, as he's been told countless times, is needlessly demeaning for a pair of coworkers.
The stare makes Bruce itch. A tight feeling--a bad premonition, perhaps--builds behind his lungs as he considers who he's talking to.
"Any other possible violations of my privacy," Bruce rasps out, crossing his arms over his chest. "Or is that the only one?"
Superman flushes, deeper, and Bruce spares a moment for fascination at the fact that an alien's biology can be so similar to a human's. "I haven't...I wasn't listening in on purpose. I can't exactly stop it. But I can see through things? I haven't looked, but I could. See through your mask."
Silence. Superman keeps fidgeting as the knot in his stomach stops his breathing. His identity---everything--All of him? Through him?
"Mister Superman," Alfred's voice rings out through the earbud, slicing neatly through the panic with a sudden weight to his tone. "Can you hear me as well?"
"Yes?" The man, at least, looks regretful. If he's lied about looking, Bruce has no idea what he would do, but...
"Good," he can hear the smile in Alfred's voice. "You do not know me, young man. However, if you try to see through the Batman's mask, or his armor, or any part of his clothing, rest assured we will become very well acquainted. And it will be the last meeting you ever have. Are we understood?"
Bruce needs to give Alfred a raise. All of the money. Every last cent. Superman almost crushes the box--looks like cinnamon rolls. Bruce wouldn't take them anyway, who knows what they have in them--and waves his hands around.
"No, wait, I would never--I mean, I understand, but I need you to understand-" He stops, breathing in deeply for one few too many seconds for the average lungs.
"As long as we're clear." Alfred tuts, and Bruce hears the tell-tale sound of Dick sliding back in front of the microphone. He'd almost feel bad, but his heart is not cooperating with his training exercises to slow back down for the first time in years, so he lets the sight of Superman's embarrassment wash over him.
"Sheesh, that's creepy, Mister," Dick says, his voice colder than Bruce has ever heard it. "You sure you're a hero?"
"I don't peek at people," Superman moans out in defeat, head hanging low, face hidden behind the partially squeezed box of pastries. "My Ma would kill me. It's not like that."
"Any way to counteract it?" Bruce asks, part curiosity and part sharklike, almost casual. And, well, sue him, he has a little bit of pity left. The guy has already spilled he has a 'Ma'. Just a little bit more information, and Bruce can send him away and recoup from the kick in the pants with fear. "Tell me, and I might. Might. Hear you out."
Superman looks up, blinking genuinely moist-looking eyes at Bruce. Heaven help him, Bruce thinks, he's got a bleeding heart.
Something that sounds like his father whispers about the hole in his own chest. Bruce...doesn't silence it, necessarily, but he changes his stance from something combative to something a bit less tense. Alfred would slap him upside the head for it, but he's recalculating the risks.
It's been months. Aside from a few vague interviews, the world really doesn't know all that much about Superman and all these other strong nobodies popping up like daisies to try to make a difference. His own reservations aside, if and only if the guy is the real deal, then Bruce can mostly understand him. He's not against Superman, on principle. Anyone who dedicates a significant amount of time to saving people the way he does can at least be reasoned with, he thinks.
And if he wants to know more than the press on strengths and weaknesses, there's really only one way.
"It's lead," Superman says, standing up straight, giving Bruce a shaky smile and extending his free hand for a handshake. "I can't see through it. Haven't run into anything else that stops it."
"Hn," Bruce grunts, eyeing the hand briefly. It's a risk. If the whole thing has been an act, Bruce's hand could get crushed into mincemeat faster than he could think. Still...
Bruce extends his arm, the rough calluses under his gloves meeting Superman's shockingly smooth (and warm, the guy's like a radiator, Bruce thinks) palms. Their hands are, surprisingly, almost the same size, though Bruce's fingers are a little slimmer. Superman's grip is firm but noticeably careful. Bruce gets the sense he practices a lot to ensure no one ends up broken.
"Never pick me up without asking first," he says, and Superman visibly brightens, holding out the box almost as an afterthought. Bruce stares him down flatly. "No. We're not to the point I'll take food from you. You have one chance to convince me."
His mouth twists, but he nods, and in a fraction of a second the box is gone. Bruce stares blankly at Superman's empty hands as the man starts talking.
Metas, he groans internally. Spare me.