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Bruce was halfway through a board meeting at Wayne Enterprises when his League communicator went off.
Metropolis. Doomsday-level threat. All available heroes were called to assist.
He was on his feet before he even finished reading, already calculating flight paths and contingencies—much to the confusion of everyone else in the boardroom. Then his phone buzzed, and Bruce paused long enough to glance at the screen.
A text from Clark.
If I hear your heartbeat outside of Gotham, Bruce, so help me, I’ll divorce you. And the kids don’t leave Gotham either.
Bruce froze, phone in hand. His heartbeat picked up instantly, though not from fear. The kids, sure. Clark had every right to demand that none of them left Gotham. But him?
He glanced down at his leg, still braced under the expensive cut of his suit pants. Healed enough to walk without a cane, but not enough to fight. His ribs still ached every time he breathed too deeply. Technically, he was still benched.
Not that it mattered. He’d fought in worse condition before.
But Clark wasn’t just his teammate anymore. He was his husband. And Bruce… Bruce loved him far too much to test the edge in that text.
Not to mention, he hadn’t signed a prenup. If Clark was serious, he could take him to the cleaners.
With a grim exhale, Bruce lowered himself back into his chair, ignoring the curious looks from the board. His city was safe for now. And Metropolis had Superman and all the other superheroes that were about to join him for the fight.
Still, the silence on the other end of the communicator left a weight in his chest heavier than any broken rib.
The next few hours were pure agony. Bruce sat stiff-backed in his office, eyes unblinking, locked on the chaos unfolding in Metropolis. The television blared with frantic reports, each one more desperate than the last. A hulking mecha tore through the city, its path a blur of destruction, shrugging off everything the League threw at it. He watched Hal’s constructs shatter like glass, Arthur dragged into the pavement, Victor sparking and smoking where he fell.
Only Diana and Clark still stood. And even Diana—gods’ blood and steel—was caught by a well-aimed strike that sent her cratering into a building. She didn’t get back up.
Bruce’s stomach went cold.
Now it was just Clark.
The mecha bore scars from the fight, plating dented, glowing seams leaking energy—but none of it slowed the thing down. Clark, on the other hand, looked… worn. His movements weren’t sluggish yet, but Bruce could see the toll: the fraction too long it took him to rise after being slammed through concrete, the faint hitch in his breathing even through the broadcast’s shaky feed.
Bruce’s hands clenched on the armrest of his chair, knuckles aching. He cataloged every strike, every missed opportunity, every second Clark was left vulnerable, as if his mind could solve the problem at a distance. As if sheer calculation could protect him.
It couldn’t.
All he had was the screen. All he could do was watch as the man he loved threw himself again and again at something that didn’t break. It was Doomsday all over again.
And for the first time in a long time, Bruce Wayne felt truly powerless.
Clark kept forcing the fight away from the streets, driving the mecha back step by brutal step. Bruce could see the effort in every blow, the strain of steering something so massive, but Clark held the line. He herded it toward Centennial Park—the green heart of the city—where, years ago, the world had built a monument in Superman’s honor. A statue to a man they believed they’d lost forever.
Bruce’s throat tightened as the cameras caught the gleam of it: Clark in bronze, cape unfurled, gaze lifted toward the sky. The memory of that day—the coffin lowered into the ground, the silence that had swallowed Metropolis—clawed at him.
And then, in an instant, it was gone. The mecha swung wide, a seismic blow that shattered the statue at the waist. The head toppled first, striking the ground with a dull, heavy thud that made Bruce’s gut twist. Clark barely had time to block the next strike, skidding across the park’s torn earth, but he kept fighting—kept the destruction contained, even as every impact left blood bright against his lip, his temple, his hands.
He wasn’t winning. But he wasn’t letting the city lose, either.
Bruce’s chest ached with the familiar, infuriating pride of it. Of course Clark would bleed himself out in that park, of all places. Of course he would destroy his own monument if it meant sparing someone’s home.
Bruce wanted nothing more than to be there, to drag him out of that hell with his own two hands. But he couldn’t. All he could do was watch.
The mecha was clearly designed for destruction and never meant to leave the ground. But Clark managed to lock his arms around its torso, every muscle in his body straining. Bruce sat up, a surge of hope rising in his chest—Clark had seen something. A weakness no one else had until then.
The machine convulsed in his grip, clawing at the air, digging into the earth as if it understood what Clark intended. Bruce could almost feel the vibration through the television, the raw refusal of a beast that knew what heights would cost it.
And then Clark wrenched it skyward. Just for a breath, the massive frame left the ground, its limbs flailing. Bruce’s chest tightened. Clark didn’t hesitate—he fired a blast of heat vision into the exposed joints at its flank. Metal shrieked, glowing lines spreading like cracks in ice.
It wasn’t enough. The thing crashed back down with a quake that sent Clark staggering. The damage was real, visible—but not fatal. Not yet.
Bruce’s jaw clenched. Clark was bleeding, shaking off concrete dust, lips pressed tight in determination. The mecha roared and hammered him into the earth, but Bruce knew—he knew—Clark would try again.
And he did.
Worn, battered, barely upright, Clark forced the monster skyward a second time. This time his heat vision tore through the weakened seam, straight into its core.
The world exploded.
Bruce lurched forward in his chair, the flash searing across his vision, and then the sound followed—deep, concussive, rattling the windows of every building around the park. Fire and smoke bloomed over Centennial Park.
And then came the shards.
Glittering green shards raining outward in every direction, like a nail bomb. Kryptonite.
Bruce’s heart stopped. He saw at least three pieces punch into Clark’s body, while the rest tore gouges into the earth, and some smashed into the buildings surrounding Centennial Park, windows shattering in sprays of glass.
“No!” His voice tore out of him, raw, useless, echoing in the sterile glass office. On the television, Superman fell from the sky—then vanished beyond the camera’s field of view.
Bruce’s breath came shallow, fast, his ribs screaming with every inhale. His mind was already racing through contingency upon contingency, but none of them mattered. Not when he didn’t know if Clark was breathing.
Seconds crawled like hours. The battlefield on screen was smoke, fire, silence.
Then movement—Diana, battered and limping, one arm pressed tight to her ribs, emerging from the haze. She staggered forward, eyes searching, and Bruce nearly crushed the armrest in his grip.
She found him. She bent, lifted Clark’s limp form with care, and without a word to the cameras, took to the sky.
The broadcast feed lost them in the smoke.
Bruce did something he could count on the fingers of one hand he had ever done.
He zeta-tubed directly from Wayne Tower to the Watchtower.
As soon as his wingtip shoes hit the Watchtower’s floor, he didn’t hesitate. He ran, his leg stiff and unreliable beneath him, each step a jolt of pain shooting up his body. It wasn’t until he reached the medbay that his ribs flared up, screaming in protest with every shallow, ragged breath. His body screamed at him, but none of it mattered. He had to see Clark. He had to know.
He nearly collided with Leslie Thompkins outside the medbay. She caught his arm automatically, eyes narrowing at the strain in his face.
“Bruce, for goodness' sake, you shouldn’t be running on that leg—”
“How is he?” The words ripped out of him before she could finish. “Is he alive?”
Something in his tone made her expression soften. She didn’t waste time on scolding after that.
“He’s going to be fine,” she said, steady and certain. “The fragments didn't hit any major organs, and they were large enough that I removed them easily, as soon as Diana brought him in. He’s on the sunbed now.”
Bruce’s chest loosened fractionally, though his heart still hammered like it meant to break through his ribs. “Can I see him?”
“He was still unconscious when I left,” Leslie said gently. “But he should wake soon.”
That was all Bruce needed to hear.
She started to move past him, but he caught himself before she left. “The others?”
“No major injuries. Nothing we couldn’t fix,” she assured him. “I’ll have a few extra patients for a couple of days, but nothing permanent.”
Bruce nodded once, though his mind was elsewhere, already tugged toward the medbay doors. His leg ached, his ribs protested with every shallow breath—but none of that mattered. All that mattered now was Clark—alive, breathing, and right there, within reach.
As he stepped inside, the dim glow of the medbay enveloped him, softened to let the sunlamps above the recovery bed work their quiet magic. Clark lay beneath them, unconscious, his skin bathed in golden light, wounds knitting closed, bruises paling by the second.
Diana sat at his side, posture straight despite the fatigue that radiated off her. Someone had tended to her injuries—bandaged ribs, cuts cleaned—but she still looked like she’d been carved from battle.
“Bruce,” she said quietly as he stepped inside. “I was keeping him company until you arrived.”
“Thank you for saving him.” His voice was rougher than he intended.
Her mouth curved, not quite a smile. “We always have each other’s backs.”
He lingered at the foot of the bed, his gaze never straying far from Clark’s steady, even breaths. “I couldn’t be there today. I should have been.”
“You will be next time,” Diana said firmly. “And Kal handled himself admirably. He saved all of us. I was just there at the end.”
Bruce’s throat tightened. “He’s the best of us.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke, their eyes drawn inexorably to Clark—Superman, sleeping, but still holding the weight of the world even in rest. The harsh edges of battle had melted away under the glow of the sunlamps, leaving behind something almost fragile.
After a few minutes, Diana rose, her hand brushing Clark’s arm in farewell. “Well,” she murmured, “I’ll leave you be.”
She gave Bruce a last look—soft, knowing—then slipped silently out of the room, leaving him alone with Clark.
Bruce sat beside him and took his hand, gripping it as if the world might try to take Clark away again. He didn’t know how long he stayed there. Minutes, hours, days—it all blurred. Time meant nothing as long as Clark was breathing under the glow of the sunlamps.
Finally, Clark stirred. Slowly, the way he always did at home in their bed, as though waking was optional, as though the day could wait. His eyes opened, warm and unguarded, and for a heartbeat he smiled like nothing had happened.
Then he saw Bruce’s face. His smile faded, a frown creasing his brow. “You’re crying.”
Bruce startled. He hadn’t even realized. His throat was raw when he forced the words out. “I thought I lost you.”
Clark’s hand came up, thumb brushing the tears from Bruce’s cheek. His voice was gentle but steady. “You won’t.”
Bruce’s chest clenched. “I already lost you once,” he whispered. The memory of Doomsday, of standing over a coffin, of facing a world without him—it pressed down like a weight he’d never learned to carry. “I can’t do it again.”
Clark’s eyes softened, a fierce tenderness burning through the weariness still in his features. “I would never do that to you.”
Bruce huffed, trying for control, trying for armor he no longer had. “You better not. Or I’ll divorce you.”
That earned him Clark’s laugh—quiet, bright, the sound of life where silence could have been. He tugged Bruce down, closing the distance with a kiss that was as much promise as it was relief.