Archive of Our Own

Bruce is currently in the process of attempting to synthesize kryptonite.

It's not that he doesn't trust Superman, after Superman saved the human race from extinction-by-black-hole even after the human race had turned against him; it's just that Bruce trusts very few people. And his distrust is exacerbated by god-like, virtually undefeatable metahuman abilities. He's never seen Superman up close, though a red-and-blue blur passes over Gotham occasionally, and plans to keep it that way. To keep the kryptonite, should the synthesis prove successful, carefully contained, and only use it on the off chance that Superman ever stops being so incorruptible. Bruce feels this is reasonable, but his experiments are done not without a small amount of shame.

Last week, as Bruce watched on the news, Superman rescued an infant from a hot car, and cried openly as the neglectful parent was dragged away in handcuffs. Superman cradled the baby close to his chest, shielding her as much as possible from the cameras. He rocked and blew cool air over her until paramedics arrived to carry her away. She was giggling when they parted; he was grinning tearfully.

Bruce fumbled to switch off the television, startled by the sting behind his eyes. He wondered unbidden if Superman, or the man he is outside of costume, is a father.

But one — or a hundred thousand; rarely does a day go by when Superman doesn't rescue someone — instance of kindness can't negate the potential for apocalyptic violence. Bruce remains cautious, and perseveres through his third unsuccessful kryptonite synthesis. He's trying to grow the crystals layer by layer, but they keep growing too thin.

Today he endures his dreaded monthly in-person appearance at Wayne Tower. He would never appear here at all if not for Alfred's insistence, would attend all board meetings via Zoom, able to sit comfortably at his own desk and focus on his own work with the business drone as background noise, repairing damaged equipment from the Bat’s last patrol or reviewing the only structural study of kryptonite in existence — conducted by one Professor Emil Hamilton and obtained with great difficulty on Bruce's part — out of view of his laptop camera. He has so much to do today, but instead he's suffocating in a double-breasted suit and dragging his stiff leather dress shoes from meeting to meeting with mounting misery.

Finally, after a particularly mind-numbing meeting focused mainly on the percentage of people who are and are not opening Wayne Enterprises promotional emails, Bruce escapes to the roof. His only interest in the company is ensuring that its activities are wholly moral and the bulk of its profits go toward reputable charities; aside from this, he could not possibly care less.

Alfred likes to talk about Bruce's family legacy during their monthly argument over this appearance, and it irritates Bruce exponentially more every time. He stands on the very edge of the Tower's roof, his hand braced to a tall spire, and looks down at the speck of a parking lot below. Great heights calm him, make him feel at home even now, when he's without his grapple gun.

But this building is not home, and it is certainly not his family legacy.

Bruce has stood here for twelve minutes, casting his eyes slowly over the highrises surrounding, watching dark clouds roll over the gray Gotham sky, wondering with dull amusement how many Wayne Enterprises executives are currently searching the Tower for him — when he senses a shift in the air behind him. A presence, eyes on him. He whirls around.

A beacon of primary colors, seeming uncannily bright against the dark bricks. A red cape swaying slowly. A kind face.

"Hey there." Superman’s voice is soft and gentle, his smile just the same. He's standing ten or so feet away from Bruce on the roof, and starts to step forward, but stops when Bruce tenses. "It's okay. Shh, you're alright." Superman's voice becomes impossibly softer and more gentle, but there's a caution in his eyes, a gleam of fear. "I just want to talk to you for a while,” Superman says. “Can I do that?"

Bruce narrows his eyes. Superman flies over Gotham on occasion, but never lands here. Gotham is the Bat's territory; all the other metahumans understand that.

"Why are you here?" Bruce asks, stiff and defensive. Vaguely, shamefully, anxious. The question bites into him: Does Superman know, somehow? It seems like too strange a coincidence that Superman would come to Gotham and seek out Bruce Wayne, of all people.

If only Bruce had just one shard of kryptonite ready. He closes his hands, empty, into fists.

"I just want to talk to you," Superman says again, soft and gentle. Careful. "I was flying over the city, and I noticed you looked a little lonely."

Bruce tilts his head. "Lonely," he repeats, deadpan.

Superman nods, bounces the curl over his forehead. He takes another step closer to Bruce and puts his hands up as if to placate, as if Bruce is a stray animal in need of wrangling. Bruce scowls. "What's your name?" Superman asks, still smiling. "Do you work here?"

"No," Bruce intones. "I own the company."

"Oh!" Superman's surprise is genuine, as far as Bruce can tell; so Superman doesn't know who Bruce is. He must have come for something else. But what? "You're Bruce Wayne," Superman says, wide-eyed. "Gosh, that's right! I, uh. Sorry, I've seen you on TV."

There's something unsettling about the thought of this inversion, Superman watching Bruce on TV. Bruce pushes past it.

"What do you want?" he asks lowly, increasingly suspicious. There's not much he could do here, without his tools, if Superman attacked him. Bruce owns this building, and he's the taller of the two of them with the ledge lending him an extra foot, but he's hopelessly outgunned. He feels it in his gut, at the back of his neck, in the place that told the first men to fear the dark. He feels threatened.

And, wary, he steps back, just half an inch, instinctively aware of the edge.

In an instant, quicker than a breath or a blink, with a red-and-blue blur and a rush of displaced air, Superman is grabbing Bruce under the arms, holding Bruce against his chest like a child. Bruce shouts, more frightened now than he's been since he was a child, and struggles uselessly against Superman's immoveable bulk as he's hauled away from the edge, dragged to the center of the roof. Bruce thrashes, and manages to slam his fist into Superman's jaw, but it's like striking concrete.

"It's okay, I've got you," Superman soothes. He's speaking gently, holding Bruce gently, but Bruce can't think beyond the terror of being restrained. "I'm sorry, pal, I can't let you do that. Everything's gonna work out, you'll see, but not if you do that."

Oh.

"I — I wasn't going to jump!" Bruce growls out, and yelps when Superman catches his next punch, holds his fist still. This is the only place their contact is skin-to-skin, and Bruce hates it. "Get off of me!"

"Not until I get you back in —" But just like that, with a gasp and a shudder, Superman releases him.

Bruce stumbles back, panting, fists raised, and sees Superman in a similar state of shock. He's staring at Bruce with wide, disbelieving eyes and a slack jaw, his hands dropped to his sides.

"What is it?" Bruce asks, roughly. He should run, maybe, but he no longer believes that Superman is here to harm him.

He tenses. Why does he no longer believe that Superman is here to harm him?

"I, uh. Wow." Superman smiles again, and, shocking Bruce, a tear slips down his cheek. He laughs wetly, staring at Bruce as if under some spell. Bruce is readying to ask if Superman has encountered a Dr. Pamela Isley at any point in the past few days, but then Superman says, his voice raw and unsteady, "This is... I've never felt anything like this before." Superman steps toward Bruce and, more shocking, Bruce doesn't feel threatened. He doesn't flinch back. "Do you feel that?" Superman asks, hopeful.

"I..." Bruce frowns, baffled at himself as he comes to this realization. The adrenaline in him dies away, his heart slowing. The war of fight-or-flight comes to an armistice. His body relaxes, automatically, the way it only does when he's alone with Alfred or Selina. He lowers his fists. "I trust you?"

What the hell?

Superman laughs again, explosively joyful despite the tears he wipes from his face. "I — I never thought I'd get to have this," he says. "I've read about it, in Kryptonian books and things that were downloaded to my ship, but I never imagined, not even in my wildest dreams..."

"I don't understand," Bruce says, now openly curious rather than wary. He wants, disturbingly, to stand closer to Superman. To have Superman's arms around him again.

He grimaces. No.

"I know, I'm so sorry. This is gonna be a lot. Just bear with me, baby, I'll explain everything as best I can — but first..." Superman grins widely, and when he comes forward to hug Bruce, though Bruce resists the impulse to hug him back, Bruce doesn't protest. Helpless to this weakness, he leans his head on Superman's broad chest. Bruce waits to feel affronted, attacked, violated, knows that he should — but.

He only feels safe and warm in the embrace, try as he might to summon some righteous rage.

Something is very wrong here.

"Wait." Bruce scowls. ”Baby?”

Within the hour, Bruce has a vicious migraine. At least the cold of the Arctic alien ice castle helps.

The one-eyed numbered robots, maintenancing a high-tech computer system and giving Bruce curious glances, are less helpful.

"What?" Bruce asks, near hysterical. Superman — Clark, he said his real name is Clark Kent — has been talking for a while, but at some point his voice lost its shape in Bruce's stunned ears. They've been here for an hour, with Bruce seated on a padded chair, huddled under the mound of blankets Clark piled onto him after they arrived, and Clark pacing around him, speaking in excited tones. Bruce was warm and unalarmed during the flight around the globe, with Clark radiating heat and Bruce trusting, inexplicably, that Clark wouldn't drop him.

"You are Superman's Kalo," says the robot with the 4 on its chest. Bruce gawks. "The bond is most sacred, but unprecedented to experience with a human —"

"Thanks, Gary, but I've got it," Clark says kindly. He comes to stand close to Bruce, lays a steadying hand on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce resents that this touch is so automatically comforting. "You're my Kalo." Clark's voice is slow and tender; Bruce manages to absorb its meaning this time, staring up to meet Clark's strangely adoring eyes. "You see, on Krypton, people...presented in more ways than they do here. On Earth, it's pretty much all about gender and sexuality, right? But Krypton was more complicated. A lot more complicated, most of it I don't even understand myself." Clark chuckles, sits beside Bruce on the chair. "But I understand this. Kalo are people who..." Clark hums and seems to choose his words carefully. "Well, they sometimes act a lot younger than they are, and when they're in that younger headspace, they need someone to take care of them. So every Kalo has a, um... A caregiver, I guess would be a good word for it. A Kalo and their caregiver know each other right away, the first time they touch." Clark sighs blissfully, moves his hand down from Bruce's shoulder to rub Bruce's back. Bruce doesn't flinch. "Like we did."

Bruce reels, lost and drowning in questions. But in the end, it's all he can do to ask, "How?"

"Honestly, I don't know, and I really don't know how to explain it for us. Because you're not Kryptonian." Clark shrugs, smiles. "A miracle, maybe?"

"But... What do you mean, younger?" Bruce shakes some of his shock, and shrugs off Clark's hand. Clark doesn't seem at all disheartened. "As young as a child?” Bruce asks, and at Clark's nod, “What would be the purpose of that?"

"I read this one book that explained it pretty well, I think," Clark begins, pensive. "So, um. On Krypton, everything had a greater purpose, and even though some things, like the whole concept of Kalo, seem almost, like, magical, it was actually pretty practical for society as a whole. Because Kalo and their caregivers made up a quarter of the population, and because they had each other and that bond was so strong, they'd almost never want to have romantic partners or kids. So it was like a natural form of population control, to prevent Krypton from burning through all their resources." Clark drops his eyes to the ice under his boots. "We all know how well that turned out." He brightens. "But there were other benefits, too. I mean, Kalo and their caregivers were basically fulfilling their life's purpose by being together."

Bruce considers this for a while, then frowns at Clark. "I don't do that," Bruce says. "Act younger than I am." He's not even sure what that would look like.

"Oh. Never?" Clark sounds disappointed, and grows sheepish at Bruce's scowl. "Maybe you could try?" Clark asks, almost too earnest and hopeful to snap at.

Almost.

"No, this is insane!" Bruce shoots to his feet, though he keeps one thick blanket clutched around himself. He feels like he's been floating in a daydream for an hour, and he needs to clear the fog before it consumes him completely. "Why are you doing this, what do you want from me?" Bruce demands, though, infuriatingly, he still can't manage to muster up much suspicion for Clark.

"I don't want to hurt you, Bruce. I'll never hurt you," Clark promises, all soft and tearful again, staring at Bruce as if Bruce has the power to hurt him. No kryptonite required.

Bruce groans in frustration. "Why do I trust you suddenly? Why did I let you bring me here?" he grates this out through his teeth, mostly just berating himself. "It makes no sense! Was I drugged? Is this some kind of alien pheromone?"

"I — I don't know if it has anything to do with pheromones," Clark says, helplessly. "I just want to love you."

Bruce's jaw drops.

"Aww," Gary says, from the computer.

"Love me?" Bruce repeats, and scoffs at Clark's hopeful smile and small nod. "You don't know me! For the past three months I've been trying to synthesize kryptonite so that I can kill you if necessary!"

He did not mean to say this. He winces, watches Clark recoil in shock.

"You —" Clark gasps. "But — I — why would you do that?" He asks this so genuinely, sounding so hurt, with wide wet puppy-dog eyes. Bruce's heart aches in his chest, even as he tries to harden it.

"Because I..." Bruce sighs, lowers his voice to a begrudging mutter. It's only fair. "I'm Batman."

With a loud clang, Gary slaps a mechanical hand over the vent of his mouth. Bruce fires a glare at him, then turns back to Clark, who is gaping at Bruce.

"Golly," Clark says, blinking rapidly. "You — you're... Huh."

Bruce crosses his arms, narrows his eyes. "I think you should fly me back to Gotham now."

"No, please!" Clark stands, clasps his hands in front of him. He's begging, Bruce realizes with a guilty jolt. "Can't you just stay a little longer? I'll make hot chocolate!"

"Look, I... I'll keep your secret if you keep mine," Bruce says, less harshly. "And I'll scrap the kryptonite." He means this. Strangely.

"I don't care about that!" Clark bursts, surprising Bruce. "I just want you! It's like, my whole life I've wanted you, but I didn't know until today that it was you I wanted all along. I've wanted — no, I've needed someone to take care of, all this time, ever since I was a little kid swaddling baby dolls. Some nights it's so bad I have to hold a pillow and —" His voice splinters; he sniffles, tears shining in his eyes. "And pretend it's someone. But not just anyone. My Kalo."

"Why don't you just get a dog?" Bruce grumbles.

"I have one," Clark says sadly. "He bites me and runs off with my cousin. And he's not you."

Bruce hugs his blanket more tightly, drops his eyes to glower at his horrible leather dress shoes. "This is absurd," he whispers. Infinitely more absurd is the fact that some new part of Bruce wants to give in, open his arms to Clark and accept this — whatever the hell this is.

"Please?" And then Clark's hugging Bruce, soft and gentle, whimpering and clinging and pressing desperate little kisses to Bruce's cheek. Bruce wishes he found them disgusting. Instead, as if in reaction to the contact, the pounding in his skull subsides. "Please, Bruce, I — I'll be good, I promise I will. I can make you happy, I just need a chance, just one chance. Please."

Bruce sighs miserably, slumps his head onto Clark's shoulder. Definitely not.

Two days later, Bruce is in the foyer of Clark Kent's apartment in Metropolis.

"One chance," he snarls in Clark's moonily smiling face, as Clark hugs him for the third time since the car dropped him off here. He told Alfred he was visiting a friend, so of course Alfred thinks he's in Blüdhaven with Selina; Selina being his only friend.

"One chance," Clark agrees, eager and still grinning. "Also, check it out! I made you something!" He's gone and back in a blink-of-the-eye flash, holding a red binder. He offers it to Bruce, and Bruce takes it cautiously, flips it open to the thick packet of paper bound inside. "That's the book I was talking about, one of the ones I was sent to Earth with," Clark explains brightly. "I had the robots translate it. It's far from perfect, there are so many Kryptonian concepts that just don't have Earth words, so take it with a grain of salt. You ever use Google translate? It's about on par with that." He giggles; he's so ridiculously excited for this, like a teenage boy on prom night. Bruce can't understand it.

"Thanks," Bruce says blandly. He closes the binder, reluctant to read any of it, and sets it aside on the small table beside Clark's front door. Bruce will take it with him when he leaves, maybe.

"I just thought it might help you, y'know?" And Clark hugs Bruce again, nuzzling his face into Bruce's hair. Bruce sighs and allows it; it's just one evening, one chance. The strange new part of him that's enjoying this is irrelevant. "Knowing that it's a real thing," Clark says. He falters and hugs Bruce a little more tightly, as if for comfort. "Or, was a real thing, I guess."

Politely, Bruce keeps it to himself that Krypton is better as a was, just a long-ago piece of cosmic history. Any curiosity he feels for Kryptonian culture is soured significantly by the memory of the instructional video Clark's parents sent him.

If Bruce didn't trust Clark so instinctively and completely — irrationally — he would wonder about ulterior motives Clark might have in wanting to revive Krypton's culture here on Earth.

But Bruce spent much of yesterday thoroughly investigating Clark Kent, and as far as he can tell, Clark has never raised a single red flag his entire life. An immaculate record like that is almost suspicious in and of itself.

"Thank you so much for this," Clark sighs out, just cuddling Bruce against his chest, his voice quiet and content near Bruce's ear. "I was so relieved to get your call this morning, I actually cried."

“Mm.” Irrational or not, Bruce does trust him. And the hugs, loath as Bruce is to admit it even to himself, aren't entirely unpleasant. Soft and gentle, warm and secure; safe. Bruce hasn't been hugged like this since he was a child.

"So," Clark says eventually, though he's still hugging Bruce, rubbing up and down Bruce's back in a way that Bruce is beginning to find slightly hypnotic. His eyelids flutter. "Guess we should get started now, huh?"

Bruce brings his hands up to rest on Clark's waist, just lightly. He'll never voice this, but he clutched a pillow all last night; he dreamed of gentle hands and a soft voice, a warm embrace. He accepted Clark's phone number two days ago begrudgingly, only to get Clark to stop fawning over him and fly away, resolving never to call it. He probably wouldn't have, if not for that dream.

He woke with tears on his cheeks.

"Guess so." He hopes this one chance, whatever Clark has planned, will cure him of this strange weakness, so he can get back to work.

"Thank you." Again; as if Bruce is doing Clark a great favor. Clark kisses Bruce's cheek and finally steps back, though he takes Bruce's hand and holds it gently. He's smiling so widely, watching Bruce with a look of such hopeful excitement. "Now c'mon, let's go get comfy."

He leads Bruce toward a modest, comfortably cluttered living room, and Bruce follows easily, without protest or suspicion.

Bruce finds that he isn't nervous or on edge at all, to be in an unfamiliar place with an all-powerful alien. Clark feels automatically safe, like he did two days ago when they touched and something changed inside Bruce. Bruce is no closer to understanding it; he ran every test imaginable yesterday, and despite his best efforts he could find nothing physically wrong with himself. Whatever caused this change, drug or pheromone or miracle, it's undetectable.

"Sorry my place is kind of a mess right now. I tried to clean it up for you," Clark says, sounding genuinely apologetic as he brings Bruce by the hand to a worn leather couch covered in soft blankets and pillows. Bruce looks around at the shelves crammed with books and CDs, the framed band posters on the walls, the desk in the corner piled high with stacks of papers, the small mounted television. There's a row of green plants on the windowsill that seem to be flourishing. One of the legs on Clark's coffee table is broken, and is being propped up by a thick hardcover book. Bruce doesn't see a mess.

He sees a home, the kind he secretly longed for when he was a child; the kind of home where you can run around without the risk of knocking over some priceless old painting or vase. Not that he ever wants to run around anymore, being an adult.

"S'okay," he mutters, frowning and squeezing Clark's hand. He's thinking unusually often about being a child today; those memories seem closer to the surface somehow, less muddied.

"You wanna lie down?" Clark asks gently, his thumb rubbing circles over Bruce's wrist. "Let me hold you?"

Bruce just nods, embarrassed by the swell of eagerness he feels at the suggestion, and lets Clark move him. Never releasing Bruce's hand, Clark sits and reclines on his back on the couch, guiding Bruce down to lie on his chest.

"I've got you, c'mon," Clark's cooing, soothing Bruce's split-second hesitation to rest his full weight on someone's ribcage. He's not a small man; Clark is just bigger, and so much stronger. Bruce lies down, his chest pressed flush to Clark's, his face tucked against Clark's neck. Clark squeezes Bruce's hand, wraps his other arm around Bruce's back. "This is perfect. You're perfect, baby," Clark says, nosing at Bruce's hair. Baby again. "Every part of me wants this. Do you feel that way, too?"

Bruce considers. Clark's chest is a surprisingly comfortable place to be, maybe even the most comfortable place Bruce has ever been. Clark's strength is subtly on display, in the slight but powerful way his chest rises and falls with his breaths, rocking Bruce gently up and down, entirely unimpeded by Bruce's weight. But Bruce trusts Clark, and isn't unsettled. Bruce likes Clark's arm around him, Clark's hand rubbing from the nape of Bruce's neck to the base of his spine, sweeping back and forth, planting sprouting seeds of contentment under Bruce's skin. Bruce likes Clark's other hand still holding his, their fingers loosely laced, their palms pressed together.

It's bizarre that Bruce's body is so completely empty of panic, he recognizes this even as he sinks deeper into the calm. This is precisely the sort of thing that should panic him. He hates to be hugged — though, actually, he can't remember the last time he was — can barely even accept a handshake through leather gloves without shuddering. He's not wearing gloves now, or any other armor, and he's being held, pressed to someone head-to-toe.

And he likes it.

"S'okay," he mumbles into Clark's shirt collar.

"Yeah?" Clark chuckles warmly, Bruce riding the accompanying movement of his chest. All this rocking is beginning to make Bruce tired. "Maybe by dinnertime I'll be able to turn that 'okay' into 'good.'"

"Mm." Bruce brings his hands up and curls his fingers into Clark's shirt. "What else do you want to do, besides this?"

"This is about it, actually." Clark kisses Bruce's forehead. Bruce shies, hides his face against Clark's neck. "I want you to have toys to play with eventually, cars and trains and dolls, whatever you want — but for right now, I just wanna hold you. I feel like that's all I've ever wanted. And I'll feed you when you're hungry, and take care of everything else you need as it comes up. Just say the word, okay? I'm at your disposal."

Superman, at his disposal. Bruce snorts and nods, disbelieving. He'd thought it would take an arsenal of kryptonite to get Superman at his disposal, but in the end, all it took was a hug.

So Clark just holds Bruce for a while, and Bruce just quietly enjoys it. He even enjoys Clark's babbling, mostly. "This is literally the best thing I've ever felt, I don't even know how to describe it. Like, this must be how puzzles feel when you finally find that last piece that was hiding under a couch somewhere and finish it, y'know? I hope we can do this again soon, even if age regression isn't something you can do. I mean, I've looked it up, it definitely exists here on Earth, but it's a very niche thing. I understand, I don't mind, I just want you. Maybe we can just be friends who cuddle sometimes — or, a lot of times, preferably. We can be cuddle buddies! And we can work together in costume, if you want. I've always admired your work."

Bruce hums. The tired feeling grows, until his muscles seem melted and a warmth spreads outward from his chest, encouraged by Clark's rubbing and hand-holding, the calming drone of his voice. "'Kay."

"Okay?" Clark grins against the side of Bruce's head; he sounds overjoyed. "Thank you! Superman and Batman — no, Batman and Superman! That has a nice ring to it, huh? This is awesome! Y'know, just between us, I'd much rather team up with you than the Justice Gang. I mean, they're great and all, they're my friends, don't get me wrong, but it can get a little superficial over there. Especially with that Maxwell Lord guy running the show."

"I... I don' like him," Bruce mumbles. LordTech Industries is known for cutting corners at the expense of the public and the planet, endangering customers and destroying wildlife. Lord also never fails to be the most insufferable person at a party. "He's...mean."

"Yeah, I'm not a fan, either." Clark strokes Bruce's hair, combs it back from his forehead with gentle fingers. "You okay, Kalo?" Clark asks softly. "Feeling a little smaller?"

Bruce frowns, then whimpers, because he is feeling smaller. A lot smaller. Abruptly, dangerously small — and frighteningly defenseless, with a thickening fog in his skull and his muscles reduced to mush. He doesn't understand, he's never felt this way before, and he panics at the loss of control. It's as if he just slipped, without realizing, swept down by Clark's touch and voice.

And now he's helpless to it. A sob boils up his throat; his first in years.

"Shh, shh, shh, I've got you, baby. You're okay, Bruce, you're safe. This is supposed to happen, everything's okay." Clark holds Bruce more tightly, and laughs, bright with relief. "Oh, thank gosh!"

He's happy about this? Bruce tries to struggle, outraged, but only succeeds in squirming weakly on Clark's chest.

Clark's voice immediately sobers to a more appropriate tone, soft and sympathetic. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'm just excited to be with you. It's a little scary being small, I know, but I'm right here to take care of you, everything you need. That's all I wanna do. I won't ever let you be hurt, or hungry, or cold, or anything bad." He kisses Bruce's temple. "I made you a promise, remember? I promised to be good, to make you happy, and I meant it."

Bruce whines, decidedly unhappy, though he can't help but be soothed by Clark. Through the fog, Bruce is still distantly aware of the absurdity of this, the fact that they only met two days ago, but it's almost as if Bruce's body, or some bone-deep, only recently discovered part of Bruce, has known Clark a lot longer.

Maybe forever.

"That's it, shh. Let's just stay like this." Clark settles Bruce on his chest, rubbing Bruce's back, rocking Bruce with his breaths. "It's okay to be small, Kalo," Clark says softly. "'Cause I'm here to protect you. That's my purpose."

The fog in Bruce's skull becomes more solid, and somehow it doesn't hurt or horrify. It begins to feel familiar. A weight he hadn't realized he was carrying falls away. Still wary, he hides again, his face tucked against Clark's neck. Because Clark is safe, Clark is here to protect him; Bruce knows this somewhere deep down, at his secret center.

"Hey," Clark whispers, after a while of gentle touches and soft kisses. He puts his lips to Bruce's ear. "I just thought of an Earth word for this. Soulmates."

Eventually, over the course of some honeyed amount of time and a hundred or so kisses, happiness blooms in Bruce's chest. He forgets why he was ever miserable, or that he's supposed to be big. All he knows now is that he's safe and warm in Clark's arms, and Clark is speaking to him in soft, soothing tones.

And everything's okay.

Things become less okay when his stomach grows teeth and starts growling, and he whimpers, tugging urgently at Clark's shirt. In that secret deep-down place, Bruce knows that Clark is here to take care of him.

"You hungry, sweetheart? I can hear your tummy rumbling." Clark sits up with Bruce in his lap, kisses noisily at Bruce's neck. Startled, Bruce laughs. "Aww!" Clark grins down at Bruce, his eyes soft and bright. "Baby, you have the most beautiful laugh I've ever heard."

Bruce smiles, but presses his face to Clark's chest in an unsuccessful attempt to hide it. He's not supposed to smile, he doesn't think. Or laugh. For some reason.

"Okay, dinnertime!" And Clark stands with Bruce in his arms, easily, as if Bruce weighs nothing. For a beat Bruce is instinctively shocked, clinging tightly to Clark's shoulders, but the shock fades quickly as the fog descends and Clark settles Bruce comfortably on his hip. Bruce is so small, and Clark is here to take care of him; of course Clark can pick him up. Something clicks in Bruce, slides smoothly into place. He loosens his grip, knowing that he won't be dropped. "C'mon, honey!" Clark kisses Bruce's cheek, starts walking toward a kitchen as endearingly modest and cluttered as the living room. "I was thinking breakfast for dinner, how's that sound? We'll have scrambled eggs, and sausage, and cupcakes for dessert!"

"Cupcakes," Bruce says, his voice small, his smile shy. He feels a spark of excitement in his stomach.

"Cupcakes, that's right!" Clark kisses Bruce's cheek, bounces Bruce on his hip. Bruce is helpless to another laugh. "You just hang on and watch Chef Clark work, okay, sweetheart?"

Bruce stays snugly on Clark's hip while Clark fixes dinner one-handed. He watches Clark move, listens to Clark's bright voice narrating every step, drools at the delicious smells and smiles helplessly every time Clark pauses to kiss Bruce's cheek. Clark talks about how beautiful everything is, how good Bruce feels in his arms, how Bruce is so tiny and soft and smells like heaven. Bruce giggles at this.

He spots the cupcakes in a plastic container on top of the small refrigerator, and eyes them eagerly. If he weren't so shy, he might whine that he wants one now, but the words get caught in his butterfly-filled stomach. He knows Clark is safe, but he's still a little nervous. He wants to be a good boy.

"You see, breakfast for dinner is a sacred Kent family tradition," Clark explains sagely, as he pours the scrambled eggs and sausage out of the pan, dividing them evenly between two plates. Bruce watches and listens with rapt interest, his head on Clark's shoulder. "No one knows when exactly it started, but it's been going on for generations."

"Wow," Bruce whispers, awed.

"Aww, cutie!" Clark kisses Bruce's cheek again, three times in a row; Bruce smiles. "Anyway, my folks got me hooked on it, we had breakfast for dinner for holidays and birthdays and all the special occasions, and I think you're gonna like it, too," Clark says, carrying one plate from the counter to the table, then coming back for the other, then making a third trip for two cups of orange juice. It would be easier if he put Bruce down, but he never does. Bruce is glad; he likes sitting on Clark's hip, his arms and legs wrapped around Clark and his easy strength, feeling held and supported and kept safe. "After all, breakfast is the best meal of the day, so why should we only have it once? Does that make sense? Oh!” Clark hesitates. “Do you like orange juice? I have apple juice, too, and soda, and water —”

“Orange juice is good,” Bruce says. “An’ I like breakfast.” Though he doesn't think he has a favorite meal of the day. Sometimes he doesn't eat any meals at all, and Alfred shouts at him.

He feels a brief pang in his chest; he misses Alfred.

"Good." Clark chuckles, and sits at the set table with Bruce in his lap. "And this is a special occasion, y'know," he says, beaming at Bruce, hugging Bruce close to his chest. "My first meal with my Kalo. Golly, this is so exciting!"

Bruce just opens wide when Clark holds a forkful of scrambled eggs to his mouth. He chews and swallows, and realizes that Clark is staring at him, intent and grinning.

"Well?" Clark asks. "What do you think, sweetheart? Don't hold back, you can tell me if you hate it — and it's okay if you don't like having breakfast for dinner, by the way!" His excitement gives way to nervousness. Bruce frowns worriedly. "Gosh, this was pretty presumptuous, wasn't it? I should've asked what your favorite food is and tried to make that, I'm so sorry," Clark says, fretting. "What's your favorite food?"

"I like eggs!" Bruce says. "S'good, don't be sad."

"You like it?" Clark's beam returns, and Bruce can't help but smile back. There's something infectious about Clark's joy. "Thank you, baby, that means the world to me." Clark kisses Bruce's forehead, then between his eyes, then the tip of his nose. "And don't worry," Clark tells him. "Now that I know you, I will never, ever be sad again. Even if you decide you just want this to be a one-time thing."

Clark's voice never darkens, earnest and bright and true. Bruce accepts the next forkful, this one a piece of sausage, and watches Clark shovel some of his own eggs into his mouth.

"But seriously, what's your favorite food?" he asks, with his mouth half full. Bruce swallows down a giggle, thinking of how Alfred would scold Clark for this. "I gotta know!" Clark shouts eagerly; this time Bruce can't stop himself from giggling. Clark is silly. "I gotta know everything about you, so I can give you all your favorite things."

Bruce opens for his next mouthful and chews thoughtfully. "My favorite's soup," he decides. It's a very special kind of soup that only Alfred can make, but Bruce doesn't say so, in case it makes Clark sad again.

"Roger that! From now on, I am a soup fanatic," Clark declares, and dabs at Bruce’s mouth with a napkin. "I won't rest until I'm the best soup chef in the world, promise."

"'Kay." Bruce smiles. He thinks it's okay to smile now, and laugh, just like how it's okay to relax on Clark's lap and let Clark feed him. He leans back against Clark's chest, his unused hands fidgeting gently with Clark's shirt, accepting forkfuls of delicious scrambled eggs and sausage and sips of orange juice, listening happily to Clark's bright voice.

"Thanks for letting me feed you," Clark coos, once Bruce has swallowed the last of his breakfast dinner. Bruce is surprised briefly, wondering why Clark would be grateful for this when Bruce is the pampered one, but then Clark is announcing, "And now, cupcake, it's cupcake time!"

Bruce giggles, a warm feeling in his chest. He likes smiling and laughing; it feels like home.

"By the way," Clark says as he quickly carries Bruce to the refrigerator, grabs down the plastic tray and returns to their chair at the table with a skip in his step. There are three chairs at the table, but Clark keeps Bruce in his lap. Bruce nuzzles Clark's shoulder happily. "Does my Kalo have a favorite dessert?"

"Nuh-uh." But the cupcakes look really, really good. Clark pushes their empty plates aside to make room for the tray, pops it open, and Bruce sees that the cupcakes have all different colors of icing: blue, pink, purple, and yellow. "Maybe cupcakes," Bruce amends, leaning eagerly forward.

"Yeah? Me, too! I mean, isn't a tray of cupcakes just a more convenient cake?" Clark grins, kisses Bruce's cheek. "What about a favorite color?" Clark adds helpfully, "They're all chocolate, and the icing is all vanilla, I think."

"Um." Bruce considers his options, though he doesn't like having so many choices, none of them seeming right. He begins to feel overwhelmed, and hides his face in Clark's neck. "Help?"

"Of course, sweetheart," Clark soothes, hugging Bruce close. "That's what I'm here for, I've got you. Now, let's see... Ooh, how about yellow?" Clark suggests. "'Cause it's bright and pretty like the sun. Like you, sunshine."

Bruce's cheeks warm. Sunshine. This feels right. "'Kay."

"Here you go, baby," Clark coaxes. When Bruce peeks out from Clark's neck, Clark is holding a yellow-iced cupcake to his mouth. "C'mon, give it a try."

Bruce does, taking half the cupcake in one bite, and smiles widely at the rush of sweetness on his tongue.

"Sorry if they're not the best, they're just from the grocery store." Clark sounds nervous again, and vaguely afraid, thumbing crumbs from Bruce's lips with his other hand. "I should've made them fresh for you, huh? Next time I will, I promise, baking just isn't my strong suit —"

"S'good," Bruce says around his mouthful, gently, and squeals when Clark floats up off the chair with a delighted laugh, crossing his legs and cuddling Bruce in his lap. At least he maintains a sitting position in the air, so he still has a lap to sit on.

They eat two cupcakes each, and Bruce only whines a little when Clark carries him to the sink and, crooning praise and encouragement, wipes his face with a wet cloth; and only his face. He expects to have his hands washed, too, and his cheeks flush when he realizes why Clark bypasses this step: Bruce didn't touch a single piece of food all dinner. Clark fed him every bite.

"All done! Good job, Kalo!" Clark squeezes Bruce gently to his chest, kisses the top of Bruce's head. Bruce is still on Clark's hip; he hasn't touched the floor since the couch, where the world got small and peaceful. Bruce doesn't understand this change, but that's okay; he suspects, somehow, that he doesn't have to. "Thank you for the best dinner of my life!" Clark says, as if Bruce is the one who cooked it; Bruce giggles and hides his face in Clark's shoulder. "Now, whaddya say we cuddle some more, and then get ready for bed?"

Bruce nods against Clark's shirt. "'Kay."

Clark carries Bruce back to the couch, swaying his hips and humming a bouncing, soothing tune as he flops down onto the cushions with Bruce on his chest. Bruce smiles at the gentle jostling, and stretches out over Clark again, wrapped in his strong arms, rocked by his strong lungs when he sighs deeply, soft and thick with contentment. Bruce is content, too, full and held and safe — but there's an edge of uncertainty, as if contentment is new to him. As if he was sad for a long time, before. He knows who he is, remembers almost everything, the fog isn't over his memories — but he can't imagine ever not trusting Clark, or wanting to be anywhere but here.

Bruce belongs here. He feels it, deep down inside.

"Clark?" Bruce says, though the name feels clunky and too big in his mouth. But he doesn't know what else he could call Clark. Not Superman.

"Yeah, sunshine?" Clark asks, and giggles. "Oh yeah, that's gonna stick." He cups Bruce's face, his eyes crinkling with his broad grin. "Your eyes are like a summer sky, did you know that? And you're so warm."

Bruce gets warmer, cheeks flushing. "Nuh-uh," he says shyly.

"No?" Clark tuts, kisses Bruce's nose. "That's too bad. I'll make sure to remind you every day from now on, that you're my sunshine." When Bruce is too bashful to speak, Clark prompts gently, "What is it, Kalo? Do you need anything, are you okay?"

"Uh-huh." Bruce wriggles his face out of Clark's hands, hides against Clark's chest again. Clark's hands move down to rub Bruce's back instead. "But I'm confused," Bruce admits. "How come I was scared of you on the roof? An' how come I wanted to make ker — kryp... Green rocks?"

Clark hums thoughtfully. "I guess because you didn't trust me. You were worried I might try to hurt you," he says, softly. Bruce frowns. "And that's okay," Clark soothes. "You didn't know me then, we hadn't found our bond."

"But..." Bruce furrows his brow. "You'd never hurt me." He knows this, it's written on his heart.

"You got that right, sunshine." Clark nuzzles Bruce's hair. "I'm so glad I found you. I might've gone my whole life without having this, without knowing how it feels to be..." He pauses, then sighs out, his smile curving against Bruce's head, "Complete."

So Bruce gives up trying to understand, knowing that it doesn't matter, and melts down onto Clark. He focuses on Clark's stroking hands, Clark's steady breaths and heartbeat, the rumble of Clark's voice as he coos soft things into Bruce's ear. Bruce drifts, small and held, a gentle ache in his cheeks from smiling for so long.

Bruce flutters his eyes open when Clark stands, yawning and whining unhappily at being disturbed.

"Shh, shh, I'm sorry, sunshine," Clark soothes, Bruce cradled in his arms. Clark sounds droopy and near sleep, too, catching Bruce's yawn. "But it's gotten awfully late, and I bet you'd be more comfy in a bed than on the couch."

"Bed," Bruce agrees, but startles when he realizes the other reason that he's not entirely comfortable right now. "Um." He squirms.

"Don't worry, I've got you." Walking quickly — five times as quick as anyone else could walk — Clark carries Bruce down the hallway, to a small bathroom with pink tiles. "Here's the potty, baby." Clark kisses Bruce's head and puts him down. The first time he's put Bruce down. Bruce whimpers and grabs at Clark's shirt. "Go ahead,” Clark coos. He takes Bruce's clinging hands, holds them briefly, then lets go, promising, “I'll wait for you right out here.”

Bruce grumbles, dragging his feet into the bathroom, and whines in protest when Clark pulls the door shut behind him. “No!”

"I'm sorry, honey, it's okay, I'm not going anywhere!" Clark opens the door again, but only a crack, so they still can't see each other. Bruce doesn't understand. "But I've gotta give you your privacy, unless you tell me otherwise — and you can't tell me otherwise until you're a grown-up again. Darn it, I really should've asked you about this before we started. I'm so sorry." His voice wobbles.

"S'okay," Bruce mutters, petulant. He tries to get done quickly, though everything's difficult now that he's small and out of Clark's arms, and the roar of the toilet flushing makes him jump. He's frustrated and overwhelmed by the time he gets to the sink. "Clark!" He stamps his foot. "Help!"

"I'm coming, Kalo!" With a blur and a rush of displaced air, the door flying open, Clark's hugging Bruce tightly from behind, pressing frantic kisses to the top of Bruce's head. "I've got you, I'm here. Oh, my poor baby..."

Appeased, Bruce holds up his hands. "Wash."

Clark is here to take care of him. He knows this, and he's not shy anymore; he just wants Clark.

"On it." Clark turns on the faucet, squirts Bruce's hands with soap and guides them under the water, lacing their fingers. Bruce leans back against Clark's chest; the overwhelmed feeling fades away to nothing. Clark sings absently under his breath, his cheek pressed to Bruce's head, "Yuck, yuck, yucky germs, wash them all away. Everybody wash your hands several times a day..."

Bruce shouts with laughter.

"I'm so proud of you, sweetheart," Clark says, rocking soothingly as he carries Bruce out of the bathroom. Bruce is still giggling. "And I'm sorry about that little hiccup, that was totally my fault. From now on I'm gonna be the communication master where you're concerned. When you're a grown-up again, we'll have a nice long conversation and lay out everything. That way, there won't be any confusion whatsoever the next time you're small. If you decide you want to be small again, I mean."

Bruce doesn't fully understand this, but he's too tired to mind, his eyelids suddenly heavy. He rests his head on Clark's shoulder. "S'eepy."

"Aww, I know. Me, too." Clark rubs Bruce's back, and pauses in the doorway at the end of the hall. Bruce turns his head to peer inside the room, at the bed with its blue comforter and mound of mismatched pillows. "This is my bedroom," Clark explains. But he seems hesitant to step inside. "Maybe — it might be a little inappropriate for us to sleep together, before we have that conversation," Clark says, gently; Bruce frowns. "Umm... Baby, how about you sleep on the bed tonight, and I bunk on the couch? I'll tuck you in, and —"

"No!" Bruce screams, outraged, swiftly followed by a violent sob. "No, no, no, no —!"

"Okay! Shh, shh, shh." Clark whisks Bruce to the bed, rocking and shushing at a panicked pace, sounding like he might start sobbing, too. "I'm so sorry, sunshine, what was I thinking? Of course I'm gonna stay with you! That was awfully silly of me, wasn't it?"

Bruce sniffles, and only feels okay again when Clark lays them both down on the bed together. "Yeah," Bruce huffs.

"I'm sorry." Clark moans with sympathy, squeezes Bruce gently to his chest. "I'm just so afraid to mess this up, and now I'm messing it up because I'm so afraid to mess it up, and..." Clark whines. "Why am I like this?"

"I like you," Bruce says, content again. "You're good."

Clark gasps, his eyes a little tearful when he pulls back to beam at Bruce. "Aww! Thank you, Bruce! You're good, too, you're the best!"

"You're welcome." Curious, Bruce casts his eyes around the room while Clark giggles and cuddles him. Clark's bedroom is only as big as one corner of Bruce's, but somehow, Bruce likes it a lot more. It's more welcoming, with a crowded bookshelf in one corner and a small dresser in another. There's a window by the bed with open blinds, slivers of moonlight peeking through, and a warm yellow lamp. No priceless artifacts anywhere. The rest of the room is taken up by the bed, and the walls are covered in pictures, framed and unframed, full of smiles. Bruce notices a picture of a woman on Clark's nightstand, with dark hair and pale eyes. She looks a little familiar. Bruce points. "Who's that?"

"Oh, that's Lois! She's just about my best pal — second only to you, now. We work at the Daily Planet together." Clark shifts them around so they're lying on their sides, facing each other, Bruce bundled against Clark's chest.

"Oh." Bruce thinks he's seen her on TV before. "Is she famous?"

Clark chuckles, pulling a light blanket over them. Anything heavier and Bruce would be too hot, with Clark's chest acting as a furnace. "Kinda! Not as famous as you, though," Clark says, and hesitates, stroking Bruce's hair. "Do you want me to call anyone for you, sweetheart? Is there anyone who needs to know that you're sleeping here tonight?"

"Umm..." Bruce thinks, and shakes his head. He told Alfred, and Alfred is all he has. Except Selina, who's gone most of the time. And except Clark, now. "Nuh-uh."

"Alrighty." Clark smiles. "I want to know all about that, too. Your friends, I mean, I'd like to meet them, and I'd like you to meet mine. And my family, of course." Clark sighs happily. "My parents are gonna love you, I just know it. I've told them all about my Kalo problem — but I haven't told them about you yet, I'm waiting for your permission. Something else for us to discuss when you're a grown-up again!"

Clark didn't say he wants to meet Bruce's family, and Bruce knows that he knows. Everyone knows. "Do you have lots of friends?" Bruce asks. He doesn't want to talk about himself.

"Not really, but the few that I have are awesome," Clark says. "They pretty much all work at the Planet, except for the Justice Gang."

"Oh." Bruce scrunches his nose, thinking of the dark-haired woman. "Is Lois your girlfriend?"

"She was, for a little while," Clark explains, gently. "But that's not the kind of relationship I wanted, so we ended up deciding we were better off as friends." He kisses Bruce's forehead. "I just want this, always have. My Kalo. You're the only one for me."

"Good." Bruce is pleased by this. He wants to be the only person Clark hugs and kisses.

"I want pictures of you," Clark gushes suddenly. "I want my whole apartment covered, I want you everywhere. I'd get a tattoo if I could!”

Bruce laughs, then yawns, nuzzling his head against Clark's chest, clinging to Clark's shoulders as he turns to switch off the lamp. Bruce hums, more comfortable in the darkness.

"Goodnight, sunshine," Clark coos. He holds Bruce tightly, so they're pressed flush together and Bruce knows that nothing will be able to pry them apart in the night. "I'll see you in the morning. I read that Kalo usually only regress for a day at a time, so you'll probably be a grown-up again. We'll have that conversation over breakfast, okay? Ooh, I'll make pancakes!"

"'Kay," Bruce mumbles, and then he's asleep, floating toward feather-edged dreams.

Bruce wakes with a silent gasp, himself again — and horrified at himself. Clark is snoring quietly with his mouth pressed to the back of Bruce's neck, his arm draped heavily over Bruce's waist. Like a cage.

Swallowing down a scream, Bruce slips out from under Clark, out of the bed and out of the room, without looking back. Then out of the apartment, yanking on his shoes, hesitating to grab the binder Clark gave him yesterday. The Kryptonian translation. Ultimately Bruce uses morbid scientific curiosity to justify taking it, and from the curb outside he calls for a car to take him to the airport. There's a storm inside him, churning rage and disgust and betrayal. The most potent of this mix are shame and fear. Bruce still feels that strange automatic trust for Clark, finds it absurdly difficult to throw blame at him for anything, but this only fuels Bruce's turmoil. He's never felt so completely stripped of control in his life, not since he was a child.

He was acting like a child yesterday. He remembers every humiliating second of it. He remembers liking it.

Decidedly, he does not read the contents of the binder in the car or on the plane. He receives the first call from Clark and ignores it, blocks the number after the fifth call; though that small new part of him, buried and stifled under the shame, aches to answer, to be back in Clark's arms. Bruce hates it.

He's home by noon, and finds Alfred waiting for him in the foyer, with crossed arms and a severe frown.

"Bruce, how nice of you to come home. And in one piece, too," Alfred begins. "I called Selina earlier. You —"

"I wasn't there," Bruce growls, shouldering past Alfred, in a beeline to the elevator to the Cave. There's a viciousness in Bruce, like a kicked animal, and it lashes out at the nearest blameless target. "Do me a favor, Alfred. Treat me like a grown man for one day and leave me the hell alone!"

Alfred scoffs, and leaves him alone. Ridiculously, Bruce spends the elevator ride wishing Alfred would follow him down. Alfred doesn't.

Once he's smothered this pang, Bruce storms over to the corner of the Cave he's dedicated to kryptonite synthesis, slaps down the binder on his workbench. He resolved to scrap this project two days ago, but he held back, uncertain and distracted with investigating Clark Kent, and he's glad for it now. He's obviously been dosed with some alien poison, something inside him that's making him weak. Vulnerable to attack. The infected part of him flinches in protest, unable to believe that Clark would ever hurt him or anyone else, convinced that Clark is nothing but kind and gentle — but Bruce gets a grip and shoves it down. He wasn't able to piece this together at Clark's Arctic base, too drugged and complacent in Clark's hypnotic presence, but now, gasping with rage, Bruce glimpses the truth.

Clark wants to reduce the entire human population to mental children, trusting and defenseless, making it all the easier for him to seize control. Bruce was his first test subject; that's all yesterday was, just a cruel experiment. Bruce has to break through this spell’s influence, like he did Dr. Crane's toxin.

But...

Bruce hesitates, reaching for the most promising of his crystals in its leaded glass case.

Clark called, but he hasn't come after Bruce. He let Bruce go.

Slowly, Bruce pulls back his hand.

Clark held him, and kissed him, and made him feel safe. Bruce remembers that secure, peaceful feeling, a sting creeping up behind his eyes with the memory. Clark carefully handfed him every bite of dinner, gave him cupcakes and called him sunshine. Clark spoke to Bruce with bright, adoring enthusiasm, as if there was nowhere else he'd rather be and no one else he'd rather be with. Clark wanted to know Bruce’s favorite things, worried about the cupcakes not being up to Bruce's standards, and respected Bruce's privacy when he was so vulnerable. Clark confided his greatest secret in Bruce, mere minutes after meeting him.

That automatic trust — Clark felt it, too, for Bruce.

"I just want to love you,” Clark said, and his arms did not feel like a cage.

"What am I doing?" Bruce mutters, staggering back from the crystals. He slumps down into his chair, groans and catches his head in his hands. He thinks of the baby in the hot car, and a woman Clark saved from drowning earlier this week.

Clarity returns.

Killing Clark would make Bruce a mass murderer; Clark saves so many people on a daily basis. He's not here to hurt anyone, much less Bruce. Because Clark is good. This knowledge feels solid and true in Bruce's chest, not like the feverish unreality of fear toxin. He was startled by the...regression, and in his shock and anger rushed to an irrational conclusion. He accepts this, miserably.

He sits despairing for a while longer, then stands to feed the crystals and Professor Emil Hamilton's kryptonite study into the incinerator, then returns to his chair to despair some more.

So Clark is telling the truth. So they have some strange alien bond that makes Bruce mentally a child — a Kalo — and Clark his caregiver. So Bruce has a weakness just as devastating as Clark's vulnerability to kryptonite. So Bruce felt safer and more at home yesterday in Clark's arms than he ever has anywhere his entire life. So he wants, increasingly desperately, to feel that way again.

So what? Does Bruce accept this new weakness, indulge Clark and that small new part of himself? Or does he resist its aching call?

Bruce flips through the contents of the binder. It's obviously an imperfect translation, barely readable in places, but it does help, somewhat, like Clark said; knowing that, long ago in a faraway galaxy, this was normal. Kalo were cherished and celebrated, and it was regarded as the duty, honor and life's purpose of their bond-mate to protect and provide for them all their lives. The translation describes the bond as "predestined," and claims that no matter how far apart the Kalo and their caregiver are at the beginning, fate will inevitably bring them together in the end. Bruce rolls his eyes at this, closing the binder, tossing it aside. This really is absurd — and he can only imagine the scandal if the media ever got ahold of it. They'd make him out to be some kind of sex freak, him and Clark both.

But it has nothing to do with sex. Bruce is glad for this, if nothing else; he's never had much interest in being with anyone in that way. He's always wanted something, though; something else, something far more shameful. Something to do with warm hands and gentle touches; all softness. Being held and taken care of.

He remembers what Clark said about Lois, how he didn't want that kind of relationship.

Is this predestiny? Like the chances of Clark passing over Gotham just as Bruce stood on the edge of the roof. Of Clark noticing Bruce, being good enough to assume and worst and want to prevent it. What were the chances?

Disturbed and undecided, Bruce sulks his way back up the elevator. It's late afternoon now, dark outside. He finds dinner waiting on the table, a cold serving of Mulligatawny soup, and eats it quickly, then tracks Alfred to the study, where he sits reading in his armchair.

"Sorry," he says sharply, without looking up, as Bruce reaches the doorway. "I'm busy leaving you the hell alone."

Bruce winces. Furtively he comes to sit on the couch near Alfred's chair, and haltingly, tells him everything.

"Oh," Alfred says at length, staring over at Bruce, his book discarded in his lap. "And here I thought you were off putting the fear of Batman into some poor criminals."

"I don't know what to do." Bruce sighs, hangs his head. "I mean — this is very strange, isn't it?"

"To some, maybe." Alfred comes to sit beside Bruce on the couch, and lays his hand on Bruce's back. Bruce melts at the soothing contact. "But... You enjoy it?" Alfred asks tentatively. "It helps you?"

"At the time," Bruce admits. "But now I'm myself again, and I'm...ashamed."

"What if you were yourself then, too? Just your child self," Alfred suggests, with no trace of ridicule or judgement. Bruce leans his shoulder against Alfred's, deeply appreciative. "I'm all too familiar with that child, by the way," Alfred says lightly. "I love him very much, and I can tell you that if anyone ever deserved happiness and peace, it's him."

Bruce's throat tightens. "Alfred..."

"Bruce," Alfred says, rubbing Bruce's back; like when he was that child. "Almost every night you submerge yourself in the dregs of humanity. It's the rare morning that you don't turn up with some form of injury for me to tend to, be it a black eye, a bruised rib or a gunshot wound. If Superman —" Bruce was careful to refer to Clark only as Superman in his recount, to keep Clark's secret. "— wants to partner with you, that's a blessing as far as I'm concerned. Maybe he'll keep you from getting so banged up. As for the rest of it..." Alfred shrugs, smiles. "To each their own. There are men who drink to escape the stressors of their lives, or turn to drugs, or engage in horrifying sex acts."

Bruce snorts. "Really?"

"Hush." Alfred chuckles. "I won't comment on the 'alien soulmates' part of it, I'm honestly not sure what to say about that. What I will say is that if your preferred form of stress relief is being doted on, then that's by far the healthiest method I've ever heard. Frankly, I'm relieved."

"So I should call him," Bruce says through a heavy, surrendering sigh.

"You should call him," Alfred agrees, nodding. "I insist on it, in fact. Go on, off you pop, why are you still moping around here?"

So Bruce climbs to the roof, to allow Clark ease of access should Bruce choose to go through with this. He looks up at the emerging stars and feels pleasantly puny, just one man among billions, foolish enough to think he controls his tiny corner of the universe. He thinks of how good it felt to give up that pretense of control, to let Clark take care of everything for a while. How much he trusted Clark to take care of everything when he was small. How much he still trusts Clark, deep down in that strange new part himself — which might not be so strange or new after all, like Alfred said. And maybe that little boy does deserve some peace, finally.

Bruce imagines it, working with Superman and coming home to Clark, washing off the filth of the world with Clark's warmth and tenderness. Before, Bruce might have called this a childish idyll, but now, it's in his grasp.

He should've stayed for pancakes.

Decided now, he unblocks Clark's number and calls it. Clark answers on the second ring, his voice shrill with worry:

"Hello, Bruce? Baby, are you okay?"

Bruce smiles helplessly, though he does feel a pang of remorse for putting Clark in such a state. "Yes."

"Oh, thank gosh!" Clark's voice softens with relief. "I was so worried when you were gone this morning, I didn't know where you went, or if something happened to you, or if you hated me! It was torture not to go after you — but I completely understand, sweetheart! I laid so much on you yesterday, I'm sorry, I should've done a better job of explaining." He whimpers. "You must've felt so confused and overwhelmed. I want you to know that I — I won't hold it against you, not one bit, if you never want to see me again —"

"Clark," Bruce says gently. His smile grows; guiltily, he likes that Clark worried for him. "I want to patrol together tonight, and then go back to your place. Have that conversation. Okay?"

A beat, a gasp. Clark bursts, "Okay? Better than okay! That's perfect, that's — oh, that's better than I ever hoped! Thank you, sunshine!"

Bruce feels his chest swell, a brightness in him despite the darkening sky above. "You do realize you can't call me pet names while we're in uniform."

"Of course! I —" Clark clears his throat, then says very seriously, "Of course, yes. Sorry, Batman."

"Good." Bruce grins. "Can you come to me? I'm in Gotham, on the roof of Wayne Manor."

Clark loses some of his seriousness, giggles excitedly under his breath. Bruce hears a sound like a launched missile; a kind, gentle missile with a good heart. "I'm on my way!"

Bruce looks up and waits.