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Bruce had always preferred non-magic enemies. He’d stood by it then, he stood by it now, and he would absolutely continue standing by it for the rest of his natural life—especially after tonight’s incident. The cowl on his head twitched in agreement.
Frowning, he tugs the cowl off—or tries to. It clings stubbornly to his head, as if offended by the idea of being removed. That stupid cowl of his.
The ears droop. Bruce groans under his breath. How was he supposed to face the League like this? Zatanna—who was supposed to be the reasonable one—had laughed so hard she nearly choked when she heard. If that was her reaction, the others…
He’d rather not think about it.
The apprentice magic user refused to say anything about the curse he’d miscast—mumbled something about a contract. Bruce didn’t care. Not even a little. He just wanted the cowl to stop being sentient.
He hadn’t even left the Batcave yet—not even Alfred had seen it. Zatanna had only just departed after causing that spectacle of hers. Bruce could still picture the bewildered, amused look on her face when she popped into the cave after his call. And instead of helping, she’d laughed at him for a full ten minutes before announcing she’d “figure out what the problem is exactly” and vanishing again.
Bruce finally forced himself out of the Batcave, climbing the stairs with the reluctant cowl under one arm and resignation heavy in his steps. He entered the kitchen to the warm smell of pie—Alfred was rolling dough for Dick, who had only been in the manor a few weeks.
Alfred didn’t even turn around at first. “Master Bruce, I prefer you not having the fighting costume on in my kitchen…”
Bruce froze. The cowl, dangling from his hand, perked its ears at being addressed. Alfred turned then—paused—blinked once. “...Good lord.”
Bruce sighed. “It’s cursed.”
The cowl’s ears drooped, as if offended. Alfred pressed his lips into a thin line. “So I see.”
Alfred let out a quiet, contemplative “hmm,” bending closer to the cowl with the air of a man appraising a peculiar antique rather than a cursed piece of armor, “so is it sentient on its own, or does it express what you feel as well?”
Bruce sighed, dragging a hand down what should have been his face but was, unfortunately, still the cowl. “I’m not sure yet… but I’m hoping the former.”
At this, the ears drooped. Bruce groaned in frustration—prompting the ears to flatten and twist back even further. Alfred let out a low chuckle, “Forgive me, Master Bruce, but one might conclude the cowl is simply expressing you.”
“Fu…dgee… Dick! Have you been… enjoying yourself here at the manor?”
Bruce cleared his throat, forcing his tone into something steadier. The ears slid back to their neutral position as he bent down and scooped the young boy into his arms. The boy’s small finger jabbed at the ears, a soft lisp coloring his words, “Mr. Wayne… are you a cat? I thought you were Batman… not Catman?”
Bruce stood there, blinking, mouth opening and closing like a fish before forcing out, “Well… I’ve… kind of been cursed.”
The cowl’s ears sank dramatically. Dick’s small face scrunched up. “Hey! Don’t say that! He has feelings too!”
The ears perked up again—this time, Bruce was genuinely confused. It felt almost like they shared a conscience. “Alright, alright,” he said, setting the boy down as they walked down the halls. “What do you suppose we should name it?”
Dick bounced on his toes.
“Kittykat!”
The ears wiggled happily, a tiny nod of agreement that made Bruce groan. Why did it listen to everyone but him?
Alfred appeared at the edge of the hallway, one eyebrow raised. “Master Dick needs his sleep. And I would strongly advise you to get in touch with the League before this… situation escalates further.”
It was true—he had avoided it entirely, even skipping the mission debrief. Alfred seemed to sense it, commenting as though reading his mind. “You have many missed calls and messages on your private comm—particularly from Superman.”
At once, the cowl glimmered faintly. Glowing. As if mocking him. Its eyes narrowed, an unmistakable grin forming in the eerie light. No. Absolutely not. He would not let that blasted curse—or that infernal cowl—embarrass him in front of anyone, least of all Superman.
Alfred’s eyebrow lifted, calm and judging. “It seems you have something to say, Master Bruce?”
Bruce’s response was barely audible, a strained mutter, “Nothing at all…”, but the cowl gave it all away anyway, no matter how hard he tried to conceal its interest in Superman.
Alfred nodded, agreeing to preserve Bruce’s peace for the moment. As he carried Dick off to his room, the boy’s giggles echoed through the halls. The ears twitched upward at the sound. Bruce exhaled, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He couldn’t deny it—he had missed the joy in the manor. At last, the halls felt alive again.
But he would have to leave soon—very soon. He’d already dodged the mission debrief, and they would come looking for him. They always did. There was only so long he could hide in the manor before someone—Superman—decided to check on him personally.
And that was the problem.
Because the moment he stepped into the Watchtower, the cowl would start acting up. Around him. Sooner or later, he’d have to return and explain why he’d escaped the briefing—why he’d vanished before they could corner him. And when he did, the cowl would betray him completely. It would glow the second Superman looked at him. Warm. Eager. Like it had missed him.
It would happen eventually, so he might as well get it over with now—that was what he kept telling himself on the way to the Watchtower, a mantra born from equal parts denial and self-preservation. If he repeated it enough, maybe he could rationalize the incoming humiliation into something resembling a strategic decision.
The Zeta-tube hummed around him as he stepped inside, and the cowl’s ears twitched in anticipation. Anticipation.Wonderful. Just what he needed—sentient headwear that was emotionally invested in his suffering.
“Stop that,” he muttered, giving the ears a warning tap. They perked even more, as if delighted.
He closed his eyes. This was going to be a disaster. Not a mission disaster—those he could handle. A personal one. The kind that would haunt him in every League meeting for the next decade. The kind Lanten and Flash would never let him forget. The kind Superman would smile softly at, like Bruce was a skittish animal rather than a grown man with several PhDs—not that he knew.
He stepped out of the tube. The Watchtower lights were bright, sterile, exposing every flaw. And the moment the sensors scanned him in, he could already hear footsteps approaching. It’s too late to turn back now. The ears twitched again.
Perfect.
He clenched his jaw, shoulders squared, every inch of him trying to project “professional” despite the fact that his headgear had the emotional stability of a golden retriever. Lantern rounded the corner first, mid-sentence “Bats never skips debriefs!—”
He stopped. Stared.
Blink. Blink.
“Bats… what the hell is wrong with your mask.”
The ears shot straight up, as if affronted. Then, they angled back like a warning. Lantern actually took a step back. “Why did it look at me like that?”
“It didn’t,” Batman said. A lie that fooled exactly no one. “It’s… a situation.”
Before Lantern could respond, Diana approached from behind him, posture composed, expression serene—until she saw him. Her brows drew together. “Your cowl is glowing pink.”
Of course it was—Superman had just turned the corner behind them. The glow intensified like a spotlight, the white lenses narrowing into something unmistakably soft.
Lantern stared between the three of them. “Oh my god. It’s reacting to—”
Batman cut in sharply, “No, it isn’t.”
The cowl’s ears curled forward in blatant betrayal. Superman opened his mouth—probably to ask if Batman was okay, or offer help, or smile that warm, mild, ruin-Bruce’s-life smile he always did—and the ears perked so enthusiastically that Lantern choked.
“Oh this is incredible,” Lantern wheezed. “Bats is cursed and his mask has a crush.”
The ears swiveled toward him with murderous intent. Batman exhaled the world’s longest, most exhausted sigh. “It—he doesn’t like that word.”
Lantern blinked, “What word?”
Batman glared at him, deadpan, “The C one…”
This was already worse than he imagined. Lantern frowned, mentally cycling through every curse word he knew, then snapped his fingers. “Cursed? Seriously? Your mask has… vocabulary preferences?”
The cowl’s ears flattened sharply, like a cat offended to its core.
“…Okay, okay,” Lantern amended quickly, hands raised. “Enchanted, then.”
The ears relaxed—barely. Diana pressed a hand to her mouth, shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter. “So it has opinions?”
Batman lowered his voice. “Apparently.”
“It can hear us?” she asked. The cowl’s eyes narrowed right at her.
“…Understood,” she said, nodding solemnly.
Superman finally stepped forward, gentle concern written plainly across his face. “Are you alright? We were worried when you didn’t show for the debrief.”
The cowl lit up like someone plugged it directly into the sun.
Lantern doubled over, wheezing, “This is the best day of my life.”
Batman muttered something so low even Superman could barely hear it—which was impressive in its own right. “It’s fine,” he grit out. “I’m fine. It’s temporary.”
Superman’s smile softened. “We’ll help figure it out.”
The glow got brighter. Lantern pointed. “See? See?! It’s practically wagging its—ears. Bats, man, you’re doomed.”
The cowl perked at Superman again. Batman wished, with every fiber of his soul, that the Watchtower had a self-destruct button he could press just for himself. He tries to convince himself—as long as they know none of this is actually me, I can survive the humiliation.
Bruce only stays for how long he has to—and leaves right after.
The next time he sees the entire League—unfortunately—is a week later, during a mission. Fortunately, his mask doesn’t cause problems during fights. But there was still no response from Zatanna. No update. No cure. Only more dignity waiting to be stripped from him in front of his coworkers.
He forces himself to actually go to the Watchtower this time, instead of storming home like he did the last time—cloak sweeping behind him, cowl ears flattened in shared mortification. Zoning out—half from nerves, half from a sleep schedule that no longer deserved to be called one—Bruce doesn’t even notice that he’s moving. Not just moving: drifting.
Gravitating—toward Superman.
By the time he comes back to himself, there’s a broad, blue, decidedly muscular back colliding with his face. Snapping back to reality, he curses under his breath and rubs his nose—do all Kryptonian backs feel like solid metal, or is that just a Superman problem?
Superman turns around, surprised and… worried? He places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder and leans down a little. “Hey, B, are you okay?”
Bruce can’t stop it—there is no contingency plan for this. The cowl is glowing pink—because of Superman—in front of the entire League. The lenses tilt into soft crescents, unmistakably smiling.
From the side, Lantern pipes up, “Dude… are you blushing?”
Bruce grumbles, low and murderous, “The cowl.”
Bruce was, in fact, flushed under the cowl. Which no one would have to know—if the cowl weren’t cursed. It betrayed him instantly, broadcasting what should have remained deeply internal. He would never get used to Superman’s tactile nature—never. It was always too much for him to handle, every touch a short-circuit he had no defenses prepared for.
Superman rubs a hand through his hair bashfully, his other hand still warm on Bruce’s shoulder. “Well, I’m glad your cowl likes me, if it makes you feel any better.”
At that, the ears wiggle happily.
Arthur crosses his arms, dead serious. “Are Superman and Bruce’s cowl getting together now? That’s… quite odd.”
The Flash bursts into laughter. “You support interspecies marriage between fish and humans—stay out of this one, man.”
Arthur bristles. “That’s completely different.”
“Uh-huh,” Flash snorts. “Sure.”
The ears tilt toward Superman again, as if choosing a side. Bruce wants to sink straight into the floor. He rolls his eyes under the traitorous mask—useless, since no one can see it—and turns on his heel, leaving before anyone else can comment.
He heads for the meeting room and sits first, hoping that if he looks composed enough, no one will mention any of this (they absolutely will).
As he waits, the members start filtering in one by one. Superman pulls Diana aside for a moment—of course Bruce notices. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but Superman looks earnest, maybe even a little worried. And Bruce feels a pang he refuses to name. Superman never confided in him like that. Weren’t they supposed to be a trio?
Before he realizes it, the eyes on his mask narrow, the ears twitch, and the previous glow fades completely. He just hopes no one points it out—and no one does, they only give small, sneaking glances.
Except J’onn, who gives him a long, suspicious look. Right. J’onn. The one person he forgot to account for. Not that it mattered. J’onn would’ve figured it out eventually. There was no avoiding that.
And that was only the second day around Superman—after that, it only got worse. The cowl had discovered a way to express itself, projecting exaggerated reactions to everything others said.
To make matters worse, most of them mirrored Bruce’s true internal thoughts—like when the cowl rolled its eyes at one of Flash’s terrible jokes.
Not only that, but the curse made Bruce start subconsciously gravitating toward Superman. It embarrassed him to no end—especially since it seemed like Superman and the cowl were actually… bonding.
He would never admit it out loud, but he was starting to feel jealous of the mask.
One time during a fight, Superman had blocked a few hits for him, the collateral damage being some very uncomfortable physical contact. After that, Bruce found himself practically sticking to Superman like glue—involuntarily, of course. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
Or another time—during what he could only describe as the most horrifying sixty seconds of his life—he was being flown by Superman, and had somehow ended up burying his face into the broad House of El symbol. The memory alone made him want to disappear into the floor.
It didn’t help that subtlety was now a joke with the cowl—every time he interacted with Superman, the ears perked up and it glowed pink. Hot pink. And, of course, Superman would pat the top of the cowl as if Bruce’s head wasn’t even inside it.
J’onn pulls him aside. “Bruce, I’m worried for you.”
Bruce’s ears droop. Thanks a lot. “It’s okay. Zatanna’s working on a fix for the mask.”
J’onn shakes his head. “It’s not that—I can’t read through your cowl. I only get a mix of jumbled, half-coherent thoughts from it. It’s as if your mind… isn’t there.”
Bruce’s throat tightens slightly. This… was good for him. He really was the only person who knew about the shared thoughts.
So why, all of a sudden, did he feel unsure?
J’onn pats him on the shoulder. “Come to me if you ever need to talk.”
And just like that, he phases through the wall into the next room, leaving Bruce blinking in quiet, reluctant gratitude.
The next encounter with Superman was possibly even worse. Bruce hadn’t expected him to show up—the briefing was over, and Bruce had stayed back to organize data and files. But the cowl sensed the metahuman before he did. And he realized that not because of Superman, no, but because the cowl had started to purr—out loud.
Cyborg, who had been helping him file, froze mid-action and slowly turned toward the two of them. “Batman… what was that…?”
Bruce coughs. “Must’ve been a… ventilation problem.” He avoids eye contact with both of them. “I’ll get it checked later…”
But he was evidently proved wrong. Every time Superman took a step toward him—why in the world would he do that—the purring grew louder, until it was impossible to ignore. The ears twitched at his presence, and the cowl glowed again.
“Why are you here, Superman…” Bruce muttered, exasperated.
Superman smiled politely. “I just thought I could help.”
The only reason he wasn’t taking the cowl off was for safety and the preservation of secret identities—but he was seriously debating which was more important now.
Cyborg cleared his throat. “I, um… have to go to the washroom… Sorry, I’ll help organize later.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Awkwardly, Superman takes the seat Cyborg vacated. They work in silence for a while—after tuning out the relentless purring—until Superman breaks it. “Uh, B… great work today. You did really well leading us when we got separated.”
Bruce doesn’t look up from the work. “It’s what I’m supposed to do. Don’t thank me for it.”
But the mask ruins his facade, ironically. The ears wiggle delightfully at the compliment, practically bursting at the seams for more.
And then Bruce hears something he hadn’t allowed himself the pleasure of hearing, not even in his dreams—Superman laughing. A genuine laugh. Not one of the polite, everyone-pleasing smiles or chuckles.
It makes him look up from his work, finally. And there he is: Superman, smiling at him, warm and bright, filling the room—and somehow, Bruce feels as if that light is meant just for him.
Pursing his lips, Bruce tries to pretend it doesn’t affect him—though the mask betrays him at every twitch and tilt.
Superman continues, “Well, since you like the praise so much…” Bruce doesn’t know who he’s referring to. “…I think Bats is so strong.”
He doesn’t stop. “The strongest. Out of everyone in the League—the bravest. To do this without powers—I can’t even imagine it.”
Bruce feels heat crawling over his body, his face red beneath the cowl. “That’s called being foolish.”
Superman shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. You stay levelheaded, always so controlled in stressful situations—I admire you, B.”
The cowl responds immediately. The ears tilt forward, quivering like they’re leaning into every word. A faint pink glow spreads across the mask. Bruce feels it searing across his cheeks, though of course no one can see it.
He grips the edges of the table to steady himself, telling himself over and over: It’s the cowl. Not me. Not me.
But the purring starts again, soft at first, then louder, vibrating against the back of his head. His throat tightens. Why now? Why does it choose this moment?
Superman doesn’t even flinch, just smiles warmly. And that’s the worst part. Bruce can feel the cowl practically melting into the admiration, broadcasting every heat, every flutter, every small, panicked heartbeat.
He wants to tell it to stop. He wants to tell himself to stop. Instead, he just mutters under his breath, “Damn cursed thing…”
And the cowl wiggles its ears like it’s mocking him.
“And you’re so organized. When I hear you explaining concepts that I don’t understand in the slightest, it wows me.”
“Your only flaw,” he continues, eyes earnest, “is that you keep undermining yourself.”
The cowl’s ears twitch violently at that, almost vibrating with glee. Bruce feels his jaw tighten, his chest heating even more under the armor. Stop reacting. Stop reacting. It’s the cowl. Not me.
And then the worst thing happens: Bruce starts reacting himself, instead of the cowl. He thanks his past self—and simultaneously despises him—for adding the thick, heavy armor to his suit.
The cowl, of course, follows suit. It tenses, glows red, and practically clings to Superman in response. The momentum throws Bruce forward, pressing him uncomfortably against Superman’s chest.
Bruce freezes, heat blazing through him, mind scrambling for some semblance of composure. This is—this is impossible. This is… mortifying.
Superman, surprised, steadies him as he stumbles, holding him firmly. He pats Bruce’s back reassuringly. “Are you okay? The cowl seems worried.” He glances around, unaware of the real predicament. “Is there danger nearby?”
The danger is Superman, Bruce thinks miserably, every reassuring touch, every brush of contact making it worse. He chokes out his words. “No—no, it’s okay… I… I have to go—”
In a rush, he bolts, leaving Superman alone with the data, who watches him go with a slightly confused, slightly worried expression.
The next time they meet is a full week later. They don’t make contact during the mission, or even on the way to the briefing. But unusually, all eyes turn toward him the moment he steps into the room.
“…What is it?”
Hawkgirl starts, “We think Diana may have figured something out.”
Bruce inwardly winces, completely unaware of the real-time drooping of the cowl’s ears.
Diana exhales deeply before beginning. “I believe the cowl is sentinel-bound to someone.”
No one needs to ask who. They all know. And if it weren’t already obvious, the cowl makes sure to confirm it—snapping Bruce’s head toward Superman, along with the rest of the League.
Superman, unfazed, smiles politely at him.
Bruce panics. “Okay, wait—I can explain—” He opens his mouth, then closes it, blinking helplessly at the League’s expectant faces. “No. I… I can’t. Don’t look at me. I don’t know.”
J’onn steps forward, calm as ever. “Let me try to figure it out.”
Before Bruce can stop him, it’s already too late—J’onn has begun probing the cowl’s link to Bruce. Bruce’s chest tightens. No, no, don’t—stop—this is private! The cowl, of course, has other ideas, shifting subtly against his head, the ears twitching toward Superman as if egging him on.
When J’onn finally pulls back, he’s unnervingly silent, expression unreadable. Bruce’s stomach drops. “Bruce… you—your cowl keeps broadcasting… mating signals… whenever Superman enters the room.”
The words hang in the air. Bruce wants to disappear entirely, crawl under the nearest table, or—ideally—sink through the floor. The ears droop slightly, mockingly, as if the cowl itself is laughing at him.
The room is silent. No one says—dares to say—anything. Until Green Lantern finally breaks the silence, snorting, “Whoa… so that explains a lot.”
Diana tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “I suspected something… but this…” Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge of amusement.
Bruce grips the edges of his chair like a lifeline. “It’s… not… I mean—it’s the cowl, not me! I—”
Superman, looking unbothered, only offers a small, polite smile. And that—that—is enough to make Bruce feel like the entire room is laughing with him, while the cowl adds a final, gleeful flourish of betrayal with a soft, unmistakable purr.
Bruce stands abruptly. “You know—I think I have work to do.”
Of course, his luck has other plans. To get to the door, he has to pass Superman—but the mask refuses to cooperate. Instead, it yanks him back onto the only available seat: Superman’s lap.
Someone mutters from the side, “Yeah, he needs that mask off asap...”
Bruce freezes, disbelief and horror flooding him. The ears twitch, the faint pink glow spreading as if the cowl is enjoying every second of this. And this time, Bruce can’t hold it in. He curses, loud and sharp: “Fuck, man.”
Superman blinks in surprise, hands pausing mid-motion as he looks down at him, a faint, amused smile tugging at his lips. Oohs and aahs echo from the surrounding heroes. Bruce’s mind races: Get up. Get up. Move. Pull yourself together. But the cowl only tightens slightly, as if confirming its own victory, ears wiggling in sheer delight. Bruce groans, wishing he could melt into the floor—or better, vanish entirely.
In the end, he throws in the towel, voice tight with frustration. “Superman… can you… get up, please?”
The cowl twitches, ears perking slightly, as if mocking him for even asking. Bruce sighs, cheeks burning beneath the mask, resigned to his complete and utter defeat. He was never going to live this down.
Superman, still smiling faintly, obliges, lifting himself carefully. “Sure, B. Are you okay?”
Bruce huffs, brushing himself off as if that would erase the memory, the cowl glowing faintly pink in protest. “I’m fine,” he mutters, voice clipped, though the heat in his chest betrays him.
The ears twitch one last time, like a victorious smirk from the mask itself. Bruce swears silently under his breath, glaring at the cowl. You’re lucky Zatanna can’t fix personality.
From the corner, Lantern snorts, clearly enjoying the show. “Man, that’s one way to get Superman to notice you.”
Bruce glares—but inwardly, a small, reluctant part of him acknowledges the warmth in his chest whenever Superman’s smile lingers. The cowl, of course, amplifies every pang.
He sinks into the nearest chair, muttering to himself, “I am never sitting near him again…”
The rest of the meeting goes as smoothly as possible, with Bruce steering everyone back on topic using nothing but sharp glares whenever anyone digressed. But the real hiccup comes at the end—and this time, it’s not the League.
Just as most of the League has filtered out, a sudden poof of glitter and dust fills the room, sending everyone into a coughing fit. Bruce waves a hand in front of his face, blinking through the haze.
Zatanna, perched precariously on the edge of the table, begins pacing with her usual chaotic energy, scattering bits of spell residue in her wake. “Okay, Bats, I found out that the curse actually expresses your inner thoughts—”
“Zatanna,” Bruce interrupts, sharp, exasperated, though he’s mostly ignored by the sparkling whirlwind.
She doesn’t even glance at him, focused entirely on her own explanation as the dust settles around her. “But the good news is that that discovery helped me figure out a cure—” She pauses mid-step, eyes sweeping the room. “Although… I feel like I might have interrupted something.”
Bruce groans inwardly, cowl ears drooping in shared mortification. Yes, you did. You, glitter, and the entire League.
The cowl reacts immediately. The ears twitch toward Zatanna, glowing faintly, as if protesting the interruption—or maybe just trying to assert itself. A low, almost disgruntled purr vibrates through the armor.
Bruce groans, pressing his hands to his temples. Not now. Not this moment. Stop. Just stop—some people were still watching.
Zatanna, oblivious to both his internal panic and the cowl’s betrayal, waves a hand dramatically. “Alright, alright! Relax. The cure is simple, really—just a minor reversal spell. Easy peasy.”
The cowl, of course, seems to take great offense at being reduced to “minor.” Its ears flick, and for a brief second, Bruce feels a nudge—an almost deliberate push toward Superman—as if it’s insisting he appreciate the compliment he’s getting.
Bruce whirls around, glaring at the mask under his own control—or what passes for control at this point. “Zatanna… please just fix it now.”
She grins, glitter still clinging to her hair and clothes. “Patience, Bats. Magic takes a moment… but don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
The cowl wiggles its ears in triumph. Bruce sighs, knowing full well that his personal humiliation isn’t over—not until that pink glow is gone for good.
Zatanna raises her hands, murmuring the reversal spell with careful precision. The glitter around the room swirls once, twice, and then settles. Bruce feels a sudden lightness—like a weight he didn’t know he’d been carrying is lifted. The ears twitch… and then, mercifully, return to their neutral position. The pink glow fades. The soft, traitorous purrs vanish.
He exhales shakily, finally able to look around without feeling broadcast to the entire room. “Finally,” he mutters, voice low, almost reverent.
Zatanna grins, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. “There. Good as new. You can thank me later.”
Bruce swipes at the remnants of glitter on his shoulders, glaring in every direction at the mess—and mostly at the mask. “Good as new… until you find another way to betray me,” he mutters under his breath.
The cowl remains perfectly still, ears relaxed, as if sulking—but Bruce doesn’t care. For the first time in over a week, he can move freely, breathe freely… and not blush every time Superman steps into the room.
Ignoring any and all questions from the others, he storms out—not even sparing a glance for Superman. He didn’t want to see the expression on his face. Disgusted? Taken aback?
Behind him, the League exchanges glances. Hal raises a brow, smirking slightly. “Wow… I didn’t expect that.”
Diana folds her arms, lips pressed together in a thin line, though there’s a hint of amusement in her eyes.
Arthur shakes his head, muttering something about human—or rather, bat—stubbornness.
Cyborg glances at Zatanna, whose grin is impossibly wide. “I’m… not saying anything,” she whispers, though the sparkle in her eyes betrays her.
Superman watches the retreating figure in silence, a faint frown tugging at his lips, though he says nothing.
Bruce’s mind races as he storms down the hall, cowl neutral, ears thankfully still. Never. Again.
He takes the Zeta-tube and sets off. For at least a week, he wouldn’t have to show his face to them. Good. Things would cool down by then. He would sort it all out. So what if Batman… had a crush on Superman? It had nothing to do with the rest of the League.
Just as he reaches the manor, something blips on his radar. Another enemy—already? Bruce groans, his brows furrowing. The Zeta-tubes were new, and he hadn’t yet had the chance to integrate weaponry.
Landing on a nearby rooftop, he squares his shoulders and readies himself for combat, eyes scanning for weaknesses, mind calculating angles, every muscle coiled and ready.
Instead, a blur of red and blue streaks across his vision. Bruce groans even harder. Really? Not now. I don’t have the energy for this. He leans back slightly, assessing. Every instinct screams readiness, but every fiber of his being aches for… anything but this.
Superman lands on the roof in front of him, cape flowing with effortless grace. It’s almost laughable. Coming all this way… just to reject him. Bruce can’t help the flush creeping under the cowl. He feels more humiliated than he thought possible, every muscle tense as if the air itself were judging him.
“Bats…”
Bruce turns away, starting to walk off. “I don’t want to hear it.”
For the first time since they met—back when things hadn’t exactly gone smoothly—Superman raises his voice, firm but not angry. “Will you just listen to what I have to say?”
Bruce pauses. He doesn’t turn back—he doesn’t have the nerve to meet those eyes. “What is it?” he mutters.
“Is it true…? What Zatanna said.”
Bruce hesitates, silence stretching between them. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nods.
He hears the sound of shuffling—clothing, the faint clack of something falling and being picked up. Then Superman’s voice comes again, softer this time, almost hesitant.
“Turn around, B.”
Bruce freezes. Was he really doing this? Was he sure? Or worse… Does he think that Bruce won’t like him anymore, now that he knows? That would never happen.
“It’s okay, B. Just trust me.”
Bruce slowly turns, giving in, and then freezes. “Why—why would you show this to me?”
Before him, there is no longer Superman, the symbol of strength and invincibility. Instead, there is a man—a human. Or rather, a human identity.
He recognizes the face—not just as Superman, but as someone who had once interviewed him in the past. The familiarity sends a strange jolt through him: this wasn’t the invulnerable hero of legend anymore, but someone real, someone… vulnerable. Bruce swallows, his mind racing.
Suddenly, it hits him. The name.
Clark. Clark Kent.
One of the Planet’s reporters, sent once to cover for Cat, who usually handled Bruce’s charitable events. Clark had left an impression—his questions had been insightful, well-researched, and far from the typical fluff interviews Bruce usually endured.
Bruce swallows hard, chest tightening slightly. He remembers the ease with which Clark had navigated the room, the subtle intelligence in his observations, the way he had managed to get past Bruce’s usual defenses without theatrics.
And now… here he was. Standing before him, unmasked, human, real.
Bruce blinks, caught off guard. His mind stumbles over itself, trying to catch up.
Clark’s voice is calm, steady, but there’s a warmth to it that Bruce hasn’t heard before. “Because… I feel the same.”
The words hang in the chilled air, simple and unadorned, yet heavier than anything Bruce has ever faced. He feels the cowl shift slightly, as if it, too, recognizes the truth—but this time, there’s no pink glow, no mischievous twitch. Just silence.
Bruce’s chest tightens, and for a long moment, he can’t speak.
Clark repeats, softer this time, letting each word sink in. “I love you, Batman.”
Bruce swallows hard, voice tight. “What if I’m not perfect?”
“No one’s perfect,” Clark replies without hesitation, eyes locked on him.
Bruce hesitates again. “What if I’m not at all like you expected?”
“I don’t care,” Clark says simply, calm and unwavering.
Bruce feels the weight of his own confession pressing on him. “I’m… a worse person than you think I am. I’ve done many bad things.”
Clark steps closer, unwavering. “Haven’t we all? You’re the best person I know.”
Bruce’s chest tightens, emotions tangling, heart pounding beneath the cowl. For once, there’s no mask, no trickery, no distractions—just Clark, just honesty, and an unshakable certainty that leaves Bruce… speechless.
Exhaling deeply, Bruce makes up his mind. It’s only fair that he return the favor. With careful resolve, he places his hands on the sides of his cowl, fingers pressing against the edges as if bracing himself. Every muscle tightens, every instinct screaming caution—but beneath it all, there’s a flicker of something else: trust.
For the first time in a long while, he’s not hiding behind armor, behind masks, or behind walls. He’s choosing to step forward, to let Clark in.
And finally… he takes it off.
He refuses to look at Clark at first—not yet. Not while his mind races with possibilities: the shock, the disbelief, the moment Clark realizes Batman is Bruce Wayne, the “stupid billionaire of Gotham.”
A few seconds pass. Heart hammering, he finally allows himself to look.
Clark is smiling. Ear to ear. Warm, bright, utterly genuine. Bruce feels his chest tighten, an odd mixture of relief, disbelief, and something unnameable. For the first time in what feels like forever, he can breathe. And maybe… just maybe… allow himself to hope.
Clark starts, stepping slightly closer, confidence in his voice. Lately, he seems to be taking the initiative more than usual. “I’m relieved.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow, staring at him with sheer absurdity, as if the concept alone is ridiculous.
Clark doesn’t even flinch. “What’s so wrong with being Bruce Wayne? I admire him.”
Bruce blinks. He… admires me? The billionaire playboy façade? Somehow, the words are both infuriating and disarming. He crosses his arms, trying to regain composure. “I—don’t see why that matters.”
Clark smiles softly, unwavering. “It matters to me,” he says, stepping closer. “Because I’ve seen. I’ve seen the ways you selflessly help the people of Gotham—whether as Bruce Wayne or as Batman.”
Bruce swallows, caught off guard by the sincerity in Clark’s voice. The cowl is long gone, the armor irrelevant; all that remains is the truth of his actions laid bare before someone who truly sees him.
For a long moment, he says nothing, letting the words sink in. Relief and disbelief tangle together, and against all his instincts, he feels a small, reluctant warmth spreading through him.
Bruce steps forward, each movement deliberate, slowly closing the distance between them. They stand there for a few long moments, simply taking in each other’s presence—the shared relief, the unspoken admissions, the quiet understanding that’s passed between them.
Then, at last, Bruce acts. Fully. Closing the final gap, he presses his lips to Clark’s.
Clark responds immediately, warm and steady, as if he had been waiting for this moment as long as Bruce had. Every hesitation, every fear, every lingering embarrassment from the past week melts away, leaving only the two of them—Batman and Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne and Superman—finally together.
For a heartbeat, the world outside doesn’t exist.
A hand comes up to caress his cheek, warm and steady, while the other lands gently over his. Smooth fingers press against the calluses of his palms, rubbing softly, as if the simple touch could ease the weight he’s carried for so long.
Bruce inhales sharply, the sensation both grounding and disarming. Every tension, every lingering doubt, every memory of embarrassment and restraint begins to soften under the quiet insistence of care. For the first time in a long while, he lets himself feel… unguarded, seen, and, somehow, safe.
Finally, they part, foreheads barely apart, breaths mingling. Bruce meets Clark’s gaze, and for a moment, the world narrows down to just the two of them. Clark’s eyes seem to reflect the galaxy itself—endless, warm, and steady.
“Clark,” Bruce says quietly, voice low but certain, “I think I love you.”
Clark chuckles, a soft, affectionate sound that makes Bruce’s chest tighten. “At least it’s you… and not your cowl.”
Bruce lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head slightly, but the tension in his shoulders eases for the first time in weeks. The cowl may have caused chaos, humiliation, and embarrassment—but in the end, it had led him here.
The next time they meet is the following day—and the day after—when Bruce finally introduces Clark formally to Alfred. The butler regards him with his usual measured scrutiny, though there’s a faint, approving twinkle in his eye.
Everything seems… normal. Settled. Peaceful.
That is, until the next League meeting, a week later.
Bruce hadn’t expected to notice anything amiss—until he does. The issue is subtle at first: a flicker in the corner of his vision, a hint of movement that feels eerily familiar. And then it hits him.
The cowl.
Though the curse had been lifted, he realizes, with growing horror, that one small effect remains—something only a meeting with the League, when he was suited, could reveal.
When the League gathers to plan for any upcoming attacks, Clark arrives late—set back by an earthquake on the opposite side of the planet.
And at that moment, the ears on Bruce’s cowl perk up. Just the ears. Nothing else—no pink glow, no purring, no betrayals. But that was the thing: everyone noticed.
The room goes silent for just a beat, eyes flicking between Bruce and the subtle twitching of the cowl. Clark walks closer, and when he sees the faint, lingering quirk, he chuckles—a deep, amused sound that makes Bruce grit his teeth. For a journalist, he really was terrible at containing rumors.
Bruce rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath, “Really, Supes?”
Clark grins, not sorry in the slightest, “I’m sorry… I couldn’t help it.”
The others exchange glances, some smirking, some too polite to comment, while Bruce internally sighs. Apparently, the ears are a permanent reminder of that cursed week. Something to live with. Something he’ll begrudgingly tolerate.
Bruce straightens, hiding his irritation under the familiar mask of composure. But as Clark leans just a little closer during the briefing, he notices the ears twitch again—just a little—and Bruce allows himself the smallest, almost imperceptible smile.
Maybe some things weren’t so bad after all.