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Someone had hacked the BatCave’s files.
This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, neither was it the worst time. Batman was well-prepared for even his redundant, meticulously-developed security systems to fail on him. He’d always anticipated that there would be some flaw he hadn’t yet considered. As a result, he’d already taken measures to mitigate the damage that could be caused by something like this: he knew exactly which file the hacker had opened, read, and downloaded onto their external flash drive.
The file in question didn’t contain any confidential personal details; Bruce had been mindful of that while he was preparing the document in the first place, and he had double-checked to confirm this after his systems alerted him to the hacker’s presence. The name used throughout the file was Kal-El—a name Batman, his best friend, would know, along with anyone who had read Superman’s Wikipedia page. There was no mention of Clark Kent or the Daily Planet or the apartment he owned in Metropolis. There were some character observations, of course, but nothing too revealing, nothing that couldn’t be figured out just by watching Superman act.
No, the only secret that the document threatened to reveal was Bruce’s, and Bruce’s alone.
It did not put Clark in danger. It did not put the kids in danger. He was lucky, really. If something had to be taken, it was good that it was this file. From a clinical, logical standpoint, it was good.
He didn’t even need to tell Clark about the file’s existence.
“Someone hacked into the BatCave,” Bruce said, voice grave. He’d summoned Tim and Dick, the only ones who knew of the file’s existence besides him. “I’m still tracking down their identity.”
Tim blinked at Bruce over what must’ve been his fourth coffee of the day. “How did they get in?”
Based on his log of the hacker’s movements, they accessed a backdoor into the email server used by the Bats, taking the file from when Bruce had sent it out to Dick and Tim for feedback. The email server didn’t have quite the same protection as the main file system in the BatCave, a security flaw that Bruce would be rectifying as soon as possible.
“The email server,” Bruce replied, “which is why I’ve called you here. You both accessed the file through your emails—”
“They stole the Superman file?” Dick interrupted, a wide grin spreading across his face.
Bruce scowled at him. “This is serious.”
“Wait, they stole that Superman file?” Tim asked.
“Have you opened another Superman file recently?” Dick pointed out.
“Yes, Tim, it was that Superman file. Given the nature of the information on there, I believe it may be some sort of distraction. I need your discretion while I continue to investigate.”
There were only a handful of motivations someone could have for taking that Superman file; a distraction was more likely, but Bruce could also imagine it was the build-up to some sort of blackmail scheme: either he’d need to give in to the demands of the hacker, or the file would be leaked to all of Gotham, his most intimate feelings plastered across every newspaper like it was just another sensational Brucie Wayne mishap.
This wasn’t the favorable outcome, but Bruce was already planning for it, just in case. He could claim it was a decoy of some sort, standing between an intruder and the real information they were after. Officially, Superman would go along with whatever Batman said; in public, their partnership would remain as strong as ever, a united front as the World’s Finest.
Clark and Bruce’s relationship would be much more complicated if the file ever came to light. Bruce knew damn well he only stood a chance if the plan worked to perfection; that was the whole reason he’d drafted it, why he’d even sent it to Tim and Dick to make sure of the plan’s infallibility. But Clark would find the plan weird. An overstep. A wholly unromantic gesture at best and a bold attempt at manipulation at worst. His mind couldn’t stop anticipating the consequences, but he couldn’t exactly plan out how to stop Clark from avoiding him for weeks until the awkwardness wore off.
It was fine. Bruce could handle it. If the file came to light, he’d step down from the League if he had to. He’d cite that Gotham would need him more, and of course they’d all know the real reason, but his colleagues would be wise enough—or scared enough—to avoid ever bringing it up.
If the file ever came to light, it would still be the best outcome, of all the files that Bruce had stored in the BatCave. Really, this was Bruce’s fault for not seeing the security flaw in the email server earlier.
“‘Discretion’?” Dick echoed. “I thought the whole purpose of the plan was to tell him—”
“No,” Batman growled. Any telling was far, far along in the plan, after Bruce had nonverbally indicated his interest in ways that Clark could politely ignore if he didn’t reciprocate. Besides, this was not the plan. “Under no circumstances are you allowed to tell Superman—or anyone in the League—about this file.”
“Is it about him, though, so maybe—” Dick protested.
“It’s not necessary,” Batman interrupted.
Dick heaved a sigh. He wasn’t happy about it, but he wouldn’t be running straight to Superman, either. He looked to Tim, who would surely understand the importance of keeping something like this on a strict need-to-know basis—
“Can I tell Kon?”
Or maybe he didn’t. “Absolutely not. This information does not leave this room.”
Two days later, Bruce still hadn’t found any solid leads on the hacker, and he would be spending his entire monitor duty side-by-side with Superman, the one person who absolutely could not find out that Bruce had even lost anything.
This shift was routine though, so Bruce was prepared. He and Clark had been taking the early-morning shifts together for years; Clark didn’t need to sleep, and Bruce, well, didn’t, and none of the other League members wanted it badly enough to question them for it.
Even if Clark didn’t need to sleep, though, he’d still developed an affinity for caffeine. Bruce set down Clark’s cup of coffee first—two cream, two milk, in a Batman mug because he always found it hilarious when they swapped merch—then his own, before taking the chair beside Clark.
“Thanks!” Clark took a sip, beaming at Bruce. “How’s Gotham?”
Bruce just grunted in response. Thinking of the file only made him think about how this little routine was something he’d lose if it ever came to light.
“And the kids?”
“Fine.” Bruce glanced at Clark; there was an uncharacteristic nervous edge to his smile, like he wanted to ask something but wasn’t sure how Bruce would respond. “Have you spoken to Nightwing recently?”
“No.” The truth. “Why, should I?”
“No.”
Clark raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. Bruce missed the days when Clark considered him still unreadable, when he could fool Clark with just a controlled heartbeat.
(No, he didn’t.)
“I have a new case, but I’m handling it.” Looking at Clark’s expression he added, “There’s no reason for you to get involved.” And every reason to keep him out of it, Bruce thought. At least until he developed version nine of the plan, which would take this entire situation into account.
“Does it have anything to do with Lex Luthor?”
“Why do you ask?”
Luthor—of course! Why didn’t he think of it before? Luthor was almost always the culprit when it came to anything Superman-related, and he certainly had the intelligence and means to hire someone to hack in, even if he didn’t do it himself. And maybe the information he was after was information on Superman’s behaviors, schedule, biology…maybe he even thought he was getting his hands on Batman’s contingency plan to take Superman down, Bruce realized.
Well, he would be mistaken. Bruce hadn’t included any private information Luthor couldn’t obtain by other means, not in the text of the file itself. Dick’s contributions—his “diagrams” of what a “mission success” would look like—were sourced from the public Twitter tag for ‘superbat’, which Bruce wouldn’t be surprised if Luthor followed already. And Tim’s contributions—observations on how… compatible Kryptonian and human biology were, whose origin Bruce was resolutely ignoring—didn’t list out any outright weaknesses.
Still, Bruce couldn’t let him get away with it.
“LexCorp is holding a gala tonight in Metropolis,” Clark said. “He’s supposed to be announcing some new plans for the company. Perry assigned me the article, so I guess I was just wondering if you’d be going, too.”
Clark made a good point; if Luthor was behind the hacking, Bruce might be able to find evidence of it. Perhaps the gala was where the hacker would be passing off the flash drive, and Bruce could intercept the file, putting this whole case to bed completely.
And Brucie Wayne would never miss out an opportunity to make passive-aggressive comments at one of Lexie’s successes. “Yes, I think I will.”
Clark’s smile flared even brighter, sending a wave of butterflies through Bruce’s stomach. He almost dreaded the question he would inevitably ask next. Clark loved helping, but what could Bruce say? Luthor stole a file pertaining directly to Clark, but, no, Clark wasn’t allowed to see the file?
“Well, if I’m there already, you might as well tell me what you’re looking for.”
“Not a chance.”
Clark’s smile didn’t waver. He was used to Bruce being prickly and private about his cases, Bruce thought with a small amount of relief.
He spotted Clark almost immediately upon arriving at the gala, a fashionable thirty-five minutes late. The press badge was fixed prominently to his suit, which was doing little to properly hide his broad, muscular frame. He was smiling placatingly at a well-dressed woman who Bruce vaguely recognized, and his eyes widened with relief as they met Bruce’s across the room.
Still, Bruce moved towards him at a leisurely pace, letting himself mingle the way Brucie always would. As if he had no special attachment for Clark Kent, other than the fact that he was the most attractive person in the room.
Clark approached him first. “Good evening, Mr. Wayne. Got a minute?”
“Of course. Anything for the…”
“ The Daily Planet ,” Clark supplied, fighting an amused smile. “I’m Clark Kent.”
“Kane, of course, I remember you.” Safe in the bespoke suit of Brucie, he let his eyes linger on the firm expanse of Clark’s chest. He cast a performative glance around the crowds, then back at Clark. “Why don’t we go somewhere more private?”
This was why he made the plan originally, Bruce thought, why he ever thought he had a chance in the first place. Because Brucie had every reason to flirt with the handsome reporter, and all Clark had to do was politely refuse. But instead he blushed, bright pink staining his cheeks, and let Bruce lead him down a private hallway where they’d inevitably have to pretend to kiss when a security guard or other guest stopped by.
Then again, Clark probably assumed Bruce was only doing it to keep up his persona’s reputation.
“I’ve been keeping an ear on Luthor,” Clark reported, in a low, more serious voice, as soon as they were out of earshot from the rest of the party. “One of his guards said something about him having a meeting tonight, but I don’t know with whom.”
“Did they mention anything about a file? Or a flash drive?”
“No. Why? What file?”
“It’s not your concern.”
Clark rolled his eyes. “What about a quote? I really do have to write an article about this.”
Bruce obliged, and they returned to the party, with Bruce pretending to adjust the front of his suit, just in case anyone was looking.
The rest of the gala was a bust; he and Clark managed to sneak into the room beside Luthor’s office, but nothing about the meeting indicated that he was involved in the hacking. Clark didn’t pry for more information, and he didn’t threaten to ask Nightwing about it, either.
“That was a bust,” Clark remarked, as they snuck back into the crowd of half-drunk guests for the second time. “Still, at least we didn’t have to fake-kiss this time, right?”
“Right,” Bruce ground out. What a relief, to not have to kiss him. “Have a good night, Mr. Kane.”
Clark hesitated, like he wanted to ask something else. But the moment passed, and Brucie Wayne and a reporter had no reason to keep speaking to each other after Bruce had already gotten what everyone at this party assumed he’d wanted when he first pulled Clark down that hallway.
“Good night, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce just had to dig harder, he told himself. Even if it wasn’t Luthor, Superman still had plenty of enemies who might want information. And there were always Bruce’s enemies, out for information on what would make the Bat tick.
But there was no imminent danger, so Bruce was free to investigate on his own terms without alerting Superman at all. Even Dick would have to agree with that logic.
Unfortunately, the universe had means to dismantle Bruce’s meticulously-crafted logical reasoning.
Technically speaking, the Watchtower could receive packages through the Hall of Justice. Barry, Hal, and Oliver had all used this little fact at various points to get food delivered during boring shifts; they’d mark the Hall of Justice’s street address as the delivery address, then have someone with the right security clearance stick it into the zeta-tube and beam it up to them.
This time, though, Nightwing took it upon himself to personally deliver the exorbitant bouquet of roses that had been dropped off on the Hall’s doorstep, addressed to Superman, in the Watchtower. Bruce rolled his eyes as Nightwing stepped out of the zeta-tube, grinning widely as he hoisted up the bouquet. Hal wolf-whistled, demanding to know who it was for.
Cold dread settled deep in Bruce’s gut as Nightwing, still grinning triumphantly, pushed the bouquet into Clark’s unsuspecting hands.
This was the first step of his plan. But he wasn’t the one doing it.
If someone really did think they’d managed to download his contingency plan on how to take down Superman…
“Me?” Clark squeaked, hand jumping up to adjust glasses that weren’t there. A pink flush spread across his face, a smile pulling at his lips. Bruce’s stomach curdled.
“Who’s it from?” Barry asked, craning his neck to read the elegant white card nestled amongst the vivid blossoms.
“It doesn’t say.”
The note would be typed in a fancy, swirling font, common enough that it couldn’t be traced back anywhere. If this was Bruce, the flowers would’ve been delivered to Clark’s desk at the Daily Planet. Instead, the card was simply addressed to Kal-El, with no other identifying information. Unfortunately, it was still one of the only leads Bruce had; trying not to look too interested, he scanned the paper for any sort of flower shop logo, but it was just plain green.
No matter, he’d just have to dig deeper, start with the flower shops closest to the Hall and work outward. He would track down whoever was co-opting his meticulous seduction plan and put a stop to it. Before they used his plan to hurt Clark. Before Clark ever had to find out that his secret admirer, the one that was making him blush and smile like that, was out to betray and kill him.
“Our Supes has a secret admirer!” Hal exclaimed, thumping Clark on the back.
“You should put those away before the meeting,” Bruce interrupted. Clark sent him a grateful look as he flew out of the room. Bruce had half a mind to break into his room and burn them.
He also had every intention of disappearing before Clark could say anything to him about them, but Clark had the unfair advantage of superspeed.
“B, wait!” Clark called out, intercepting Bruce before he could slip onto the zeta-tube.
Bruce stopped and turned, not having a good excuse to avoid him. “What do you need?”
Clark took a deep breath. “Do you want to get dinner with me? Tonight?”
Oh, did Bruce want to. Thinking of the sparkle in Clark’s eyes when he saw the flowers, though, he knew he needed to put the case first. “I’m busy.”
Clark blinked. “Oh. Oh, of course, I…”
He trailed off, looking so disappointed that it almost hurt. They did dinner all the time; Bruce couldn’t see what was so special about this one. Unless Clark really did want to gush about whoever he thinks sent him flowers, a thought that sat sourly in Bruce’s stomach.
“We can go next week,” Bruce offered, and Clark bounced back immediately, grinning up at Bruce. “I’ll check my schedule.”
“Alright. Next week. I’ll see you then.” Clark made a motion like he was about to step closer to Bruce, then faltered and stepped back. “Good night, Batman.”
Unfortunately, it wasn’t a very good night—not for Bruce, anyway. He’d managed to track down the source of the bouquet to a small mom-and-pop flower shop a few blocks away from the Hall of Justice, but his line of questioning went nowhere. The hacker—or whoever they were working with—had obviously followed the detail in Bruce’s plan about tipping the employees generously to ensure the sender’s identity would be anonymous.
“Oh, I told him I wouldn’t say,” the woman replied, a warm chuckle in her voice as she glanced up at Batman’s looming figure. “He was such a polite young man.”
Batman scowled at her. It had no effect, other than her patting the hard outer shell of his cowl.
The Hall cameras were even less helpful. A young man wearing a green apron, the shop’s logo emblazoned on the front, had been sent to deliver the flowers. Nightwing, however, had intercepted him before he’d gotten close enough to the front door for Bruce to be able to pick up on their conversation or any of the boy’s distinguishing characteristics. It was Nightwing that signed for the package, and Nightwing alone that approached the Hall of Justice, ready to take the flowers up to Superman.
When pressed, Nightwing gave no useful information, other than the observation that maybe, just maybe, Bruce should talk to Clark. Which was a ridiculous suggestion. Bruce might’ve fired him if he was still Robin.
But at the very least, he did finally pinpoint the source of the hacking. Someone had used a guest account on a Wayne Enterprises computer and exploited a backdoor into the BatCave email server that Bruce didn’t even realize existed. Still, he had Tim look into it, and Tim promised he’d already started on getting it patched up.
Looking through the security camera footage, though, the cameras across half the floor had been looped for the hour surrounding the hacking, making it impossible to narrow down which one of the dozens of WE employees were actually involved or not.
It was one of those moments where Bruce had to sit back and remind himself that he really was getting lucky that all the hacker did was take his Superman file. Which raised another disturbing fact: the hacker knew exactly how to get in, and once they were in, they went straight to the file and that file alone. So either they really did think it was Bruce’s real contingency file for Superman, or…
Bruce, uncharacteristically, had no idea what that ‘or’ might be, but he didn’t like it. He liked it even less than the thought of someone thinking roses were somehow another one of Superman’s weaknesses.
“This all sounds dangerous,” Dick announced, dangling upside-down in the Cave, smirking at Bruce. “Have you tried—”
“I am not telling Clark,” Bruce replied, through gritted teeth. “My identity is more compromised than his at this point.”
“It’s not exactly private information that Bruce Wayne helped fund the Watchtower,” Tim pointed out, sitting normally in his seat and not bringing up Clark, like the wonderfully well-behaved kid he was. “If someone knows your secret identity, I doubt they’d be using it for this. Though it could mean that the hacker works for WE, and found the backdoor that way.”
Unfortunately, WE hired a lot of ‘polite young men’. As much as he dreaded to think it, he’d need more information to narrow down suspects, which meant waiting for the hacker to make another move on Superman.
Bruce was intimately familiar with the next steps of the plan: initiating more casual contact, such as placing his hand on Clark’s shoulder; letting him walk in on Bruce wearing some sort of Superman merch, ideally a shirtless Bruce wearing Superman pants to maximize the emotional response; and peppering in more facts about his kids and work during conversations so Clark would realize he was making an effort to open up more. They were all gestures meant to gauge his interest before Bruce said something he couldn’t take back and prime Clark to consider the idea of having a serious romantic relationship with Bruce.
Which meant that the hacker, whether they fully realized the original intent of their actions or not, would be spending the next two weeks finding opportunities to covertly touch Superman.
“Superman, how does it feel to know you’ve just saved the day again?” asked a pretty blonde reporter, shoving her hand in Clark’s face as her eyes ran down the muscles filling out his bright spandex.
Bruce moved without thinking, stepping between them and announcing in a warning growl, “The Justice League will release a press statement later. Superman, you’re needed for clean-up.”
Superman beamed at him. Bruce refused to acknowledge the little flicker of warmth in his chest at that.
Hal snickered, leaning over to Barry to whisper, “Someone’s jealous.”
Batman refused to acknowledge that, too. This wasn’t jealousy; this was protection. The difference was obvious.
Superman didn’t mention the conversation with the reporter when he returned to the Watchtower for the post-battle debrief. There was a smile on his face, though, that Bruce was sure had nothing to do with the last half an hour he’d spent cleaning up any debris left behind by the attacking robots. A cold weight settled in Bruce’s chest, taking in the curve of his lips; he looked undeniably smitten , which meant Bruce’s plan was working to perfection, and Superman was in more danger than he knew.
“Kal, I need to speak with you,” Batman said, voice firm over the din of the other League members packing up.
Half the League, especially the newer members, saw a statement like that as a death statement; Clark, on the other hand, perked up, all but jumping out of his seat. “Sure thing, B.”
“You finally going to ask for his help on that missing file?” Nightwing half-whispered, loud enough that Clark and the rest of the JLA would be able to hear perfectly. At Batman’s glare, his grin only grew. “Sorry.”
Hal whistled. “Someone’s in trouble.” Batman turned his glare on Hal, and he held up his hands in surrender.
“Come on, Kal.”
Clark followed Bruce to a more secluded part of the Watchtower, looking eager as a puppy. “Is this the file you were looking for at Luthor’s party?”
“Yes. But that’s not what this is about.”
“What is it about, then? Do you need my help for something else?”
Bruce swallowed; that was step five of the plan: asking Clark for help on a mission. Clark loved helping, especially Bruce, who so rarely asked for it. He wouldn’t even necessarily need it—the ‘mission’ in question would be a stakeout of some kind, where Batman would let Clark chat about things to his heart’s content. And it would all serve as a cover for step six, which would be asking Clark out to dinner as a thank-you for his help. He’d be his most charming self, witty and warm and free with his smiles, and at the end of the night, if everything went just right, Clark would fly him back to the Manor and give him a kiss on the doorstep.
Clark loved helping, so if the hacker asked—the same hacker who sent him flowers, who had him smiling like that—Clark would never say no.
Dick was right. Bruce needed to talk to him. Just not now—he needed time to plan out how to phrase everything correctly so Clark would trust him over this person he believed he was falling for.
“This is about the flowers you received.”
“Oh. They were beautiful.”
Goddamnit, they were probably sitting in his apartment right now. Bruce should’ve at least swept them for bugs.
“And do you know who sent them?”
Clark raised an eyebrow, scanning the room. Then, with a soft laugh, he said, “Yes, Bruce, I think I have an idea.” His eyes were bright with joy, and the lump in Bruce’s throat grew.
“And you’re open to a relationship with this person?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve had feelings for years. I just didn’t think I had a chance. He ,” Clark put the emphasis on the word, tone a little coy, “sends a lot of mixed messages.”
Of course; the hacker would’ve had no reason to return Clark’s feelings until Bruce’s plan sparked the idea.
The hacker would ask for help, then invite Clark for dinner, dressing the whole thing up as a proper date. And when Clark flew the hacker back to a secondary location, that’s where the Kryptonite bullets would be waiting, and Clark would be too blinded to see it coming.
“Come to dinner with me tonight,” Bruce said.
“No.”
He wasn’t too late, was he? He couldn’t be. “No?”
Clark beamed. “I asked you to dinner, remember? You’re coming over.”
He sounded painfully eager, and every inch of Bruce wished he could be giving Clark good news. He tried to imagine himself sitting in Clark’s living room, eating dinner with him, psyching himself up to say the very words he knew would hurt Clark the most.
“Okay,” Bruce agreed, because what other choice did he have? “I’ll see you tonight.”
When Clark opened the door, he looked beautiful, unfairly so—eyes sparkling, hair windswept, the plaid shirt he was wearing flattering his figure rather than trying to hide it. Bruce couldn’t help but feel glad for the suggestion, as much as it felt like he was intruding, even as Clark let Bruce inside. Here in Clark’s own apartment, he looked comfortable, at ease. That should make the news easier to digest, shouldn’t it?
Clark cleared his throat, looking Bruce over. “You look nice. I mean—you always look nice, but you just. That suit fits you well.”
Bruce didn’t blush. He didn’t. He also knew Clark was lying about the ‘always’ part, because Clark had seen him battered and sweaty and wrung-out from battle dozens of times before, and he’d also met Matches before, in a garish suit and an awful mustache. None of that made for any kind of attractive picture.
“So do you.”
Clark beamed, then motioned towards his kitchen table. “Have a seat, I’m almost done.”
Bruce shrugged off his jacket, laying it against the chair, his suit suddenly feeling stifling.
Clark set down the plates, brushing off Bruce’s offer to help. Clark took a seat, and Bruce took a bite of the pasta dish. It was good, and he made sure to say as much.
“Thank you,” Clark said, a little bashful.
Eating, at least, gave him an excuse to not say anything yet, but he knew he was just stalling. It also seemed to make Clark uncomfortable, as he was fidgeting with his water glass. They opened their mouths to speak at the same time.
“You first,” Clark said, which was good, because Bruce wasn’t sure if he would’ve had the nerve otherwise.
He swallowed. It wouldn’t be pretty, but Clark needed to know, and Bruce was out of excuses to not do it.
At his grave expression, the eagerness on Clark’s face slipped. “B, what’s wrong?”
“I had a plan,” Bruce started, “to take you out.”
The practicing he’d done in the mirror failed to prepare him for the look in Clark’s wide blue eyes, but he forced himself to push through. This was his fault for making the plan in the first place, his fault for not seeing the flaw in his security system, his fault.
“I sent it to Dick and Tim for feedback, but—”
“You had Dick help?” Clark echoed, too stunned to sound angry, but Bruce could see it building.
“I needed it to be perfect.” A weak defense, maybe, but it was true. He couldn’t risk losing his greatest friendship; the mission required the utmost delicacy, and that meant a thorough plan. “But someone hacked into the email server and downloaded it.”
“The file you were looking for…that was it. The plan you had for me.”
Bruce nodded. Clark scoffed, face cold, enthusiasm run dry, leaning back in his chair like he was trying to get as far away from Bruce as possible, even in his own apartment. Here Bruce was, invading his space, his privacy, as always—why did Bruce ever think this plan was a good idea?
“So the flowers?”
“The hacker, or someone he was working for. Operating on my plan for you.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Quieter, he said, “God, I’m such an idiot. I really thought—” He cut himself off with a humorless laugh. “You know I’m fine with your plans. I’ve handed over the Kryptonite myself. But this? Using how I feel to, what? Trick me? You’ve crossed a line. Tell me you can at least see that.”
He sounded offended, wounded. Bruce never stood a chance with him. He never should’ve deluded himself into thinking he did.
“I do, Clark, but I can explain.”
But Clark was already rising from the table. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Bruce was losing him. “Just—wait. I promise I won’t let my feelings for you affect the League, just—”
“Your feelings ?” Clark rolled his eyes. “Right, right, because you’re above that kind of thing. Is this—I thought we were past this. I—”
“Clark, I’m sorry. I never meant for you to find out this way.”
“No, you didn’t want me to find out at all, did you? You—” Clark stopped, head tilting slightly. “Dick’s yelling for me.”
Clark sat back down, a small relief. As pissed as he was—and Bruce deserved every ounce of that anger, he was sure—Bruce could still protect him if he stayed, if Clark let Bruce stay.
Listening to Dick, Clark pulled out his phone. He scoffed and spun the screen around to show Bruce the email he’d been sent by Dick’s Nightwing account.
Attached: plan_for_superman_v8_final.pdf
“You don’t need to read that,” Bruce said. It was more of a plea. “I can tell you what the—”
Clark glared at him, and Bruce fell silent. His eyes scanned the file at superspeed; all Bruce could do was dread as Clark’s expression grew more unreadable.
“You…” Clark swallowed. His eyes flickered between Bruce and the screen. “‘Diagrams depicting mission success’?”
“Dick’s contributions,” Bruce offered. “He enjoys the…superbat tag on twitter.” As if giving that information would do anything to heal the rift.
Clark was quiet for a long moment. Bruce could feel himself being studied, but Clark didn’t look angry anymore.
“You made a ten-step plan to…ask me if I’d want to date you?”
“I told you, I needed it to be perfect.” Look at them now.
“And this is version eight? You have seven other versions?” Clark’s lips are quirked up in what could almost be a teasing smile.
Bruce sighed. “The important thing is that—”
“I think this is the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me,” Clark breathed out.
Bruce nearly choked. “You do?”
Clark nodded. Bruce could see the flush in his cheeks now, the sparkle that was back in his eye. “I’m glad you’re not actually trying to kill me, but…you do know you could’ve just asked me out, right? I’ve been in love with you for years.”
“Really?”
“I think you’re the only one on the League who doesn’t know that,” Clark admitted.
I just didn’t think I had a chance , Clark had said when Bruce asked about his secret admirer. Right before he got unreasonably eager to go to dinner with Bruce. He thought Bruce sent the flowers—not technically an incorrect assumption, given the circumstances.
“I don’t send mixed messages.”
“ Bruce .”
Okay, maybe he had a point. In his defense, the plan as it was laid out would’ve ended up being perfectly clear. “I would hope the file makes it clear that I’ve had feelings for you for years. So, Clark, are you open to starting a relationship with me?”
Clark sat back down, covering Bruce’s hand with his own. “I’d love to.”
The rest of the date went perfectly. Clark flew him back to the Manor at the end of the night, his arms warm and strong around Bruce’s body, and he gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek on the doorstep.
Bruce was still smiling—the kind of smile that hurts, the one you can’t stop doing—when he entered the living room where Dick and Tim were sitting, both pretending to be absorbed in the reports Bruce had left out on the coffee table earlier.
Bruce paused, the final puzzle pieces clicking into place. There were only three people, after all, who knew exactly where the file was and what was in it. “Which one of you bought the flowers?”
He looked at Dick, but Tim was the one who cleared his throat.
Bruce sighed disapprovingly. “And I suppose you also hacked into the email server?”
“B, you didn’t need ten steps to ask him out, you know that, right?”
“Yeah, Tim would know,” Dick quipped. “Besides, if he didn’t, you’d be on version ten by now.”