Chapter Text
All children’s movies ended with a True Love kiss. The Prince would save the Princess, their eyes would meet, the animation fades to color, showing that they are soulmates, and they live Happily Ever After. Clark was very young when he realized that these Disney romances did not apply to him.
Clark could already see color.
He was the only person in Smallville under the age of fourteen who could see color. Just one more thing on the already long list of things that made Clark different.
To say that it didn’t bother Clark would be untrue. But there was so much else that also set Clark apart that he did not invest any more time dwelling on it than he did his hearing, or his strength, or the fact that he never got injured. There was so much that made Clark painfully aware that he was different, already being able to see color for as long as he could remember, and that meaning that he probably didn’t have a soulmate was just one thread of a rich tapestry.
In his late teens, Martha and Jonathan finally revealed to Clark the truth about his origin, and showed him the pod they had buried under the barn. In it, Clark found the seed-crystal he used to build his Fortress and met Jor-El. Finally, he had an explanation for why he was different. He understood why his hearing was so good, and why he was so strong, or never got hurt.
Jor-El also explained that soulmates functioned differently on Krypton.
On Krypton, soulmates resembled each other. It wasn’t always a perfect one-to-one; soulmates were not identical. But there was an aspect of resemblance. Similar shaped foreheads, cheekbones on the same angle, a nose in common, the jaw, the set of the eyes, the height of the hair line, hair texture, body type, etc. Two individuals from different Houses, but placed side-by-side looked like they belonged to the same House.
The relief Clark felt upon learning that his ability to see color had nothing to do with his soulmate immediately turned to despair. If he came from a dead world, of which he was the last survivor, then Clark would never find his soulmate. His soulmate probably perished with their planet, or else was never even born to begin with.
What were the chances of meeting someone on Earth who resembled a Kryptonian?
What were the chances of meeting an Earthling who resembled Clark?
…
Bruce hated having to leave town for business. Even if ‘leaving town” was just across the bay; it was still across state lines, that meant it was leaving town. Metropolis in particular was its own headache.
Metropolis was all modern, minimalist architecture. Smooth walls with no ledges or decorative trims for Batman to hook a grappling line on. Moving around the city was frustratingly difficult for the Caped Crusader.
In truth, Bruce didn’t even plan to patrol Metropolis. He only brought his suit and equipment ‘just in case’. The opening and dedication ceremony for the new rail that would connect Metropolis to Gotham was a 2-day event and Alfred reminded him that having his butler drive him between the two cities both days of the event would be a bad look considering the whole purpose of the inter-city rail was to reduce vehicle traffic and carbon emissions.
Bruce Wayne often got cancelled for many things, but none of them would be damaging the environment with his entitlement.
That led to him going stir-crazy in a hotel room (read: luxurious penthouse-suite on the top floor of the hotel), which led to him glowering on the balcony at the skyline of sparkling chrome that reflected the city lights (Gotham was never so bright, not even during the day), which led to Bruce just barely catching a streak of motion leaving the roof of the Daily Planet building. Flying up, not falling down. That led Batman to the decision that maybe he should take the opportunity to do some reconnaissance on the alien’s town.
Maybe he’ll even run into the alien himself.
Kal-El of Krypton. Bruce read the article. He only believed maybe every fourth word of it.
That was what led Batman to swinging through the city (read: attempting to swing through the city) and very quickly deciding that he hated Metropolis; and maybe he was starting to hate the alien everyone was calling ‘Superman’ too because this was his city, and it was the mystery of him that drew Batman out. Dick would say he was ‘projecting’ (a concept he learned from the child therapist Bruce was required to send him to as a term of the adoption) but Dick was back in Gotham (he had school in the morning).
Batman did not cross paths with Superman that night.
He did tackle someone he thought was stealing bicycles, only to realize after he gave the man a bloody nose, that he was just collecting Bird electric city-bikes to be rechanged. He followed a woman carrying an unmarked paper bag for two blocks until he realized she was just making a food delivery to an apartment on a street that required her to park in an ally far away. He loomed on the roof of a building, watching someone with their sweatshirt hood up over their head who just appeared to be standing on the streetcorner like a drug dealer, until a Lyft pulled up.
Was everyone in this city a gig-worker?
Was every suspicious action just a gig-job?
Where was the crime!?
Metropolis was one of the five largest cities in America. It had to have crime. The alien couldn’t have put an end to all crime city-wide in just under a year. That wasn’t possible. What about crimes of passion? Spur of the moment events where a person makes a bad decision off of emotion and impulse? What about crimes of necessity? Shoplifting diapers or food?
Batman shot another line, thought the hook was anchored, and swung.
Then quickly found himself falling.
He shot a new line quickly, this one hooking on the momentarily inactive track of the brand-new rail that connected this digital era city to Gotham. Batman swung to safety and remained under the rail’s overpass, standing in the shadow of the overpass’ support pillar while he caught his breath and calmed down. What he wouldn’t give for a mutated man-croc, or killer plants, or someone made of clay. Nothing made sense in Metropolis. It was too clean, and too smooth, and too… too nice!
Metropolis was such a headache!
Batman thought about heading back to the hotel, actually getting a night’s sleep for once. It would be the smart thing to do. It would be what Alfred would want him to do. But Batman got all dressed up and he still hadn’t had an actual sighting of the alien. A flash of motion flying up from one rooftop in the middle of downtown didn’t count. It wasn’t like Bruce could see color, it might not have been Superman, it might have been a drone capturing some B-roll of the skyline at night for the Daily Planet’s website.
Tamping down his frustration and rallying his patience for his obnoxious city, Batman headed to the docks. There was always crime at the docks. Someone was always smuggling something through the docs. Drugs, weapons, migrant workers, sex workers, exotic pets, etc. Batman was sure he’d find something for him to do in Hobs Bay.
Everything seemed normal at the bay.
Yes, it was night and ships were still coming in. But that in and of itself was not suspicious. Cargo freighters still has shipping schedules to keep and they couldn’t control the tides. If after dark was when they were able to make birth, then that’s when they pulled into the port.
Ship names were checked and verified, manifests were presented, along with customs forms, and all the other tedious paperwork.
Batman had never been disappointed to not find any wrong-doing before.
He hated Metropolis.
Batman was ready to call it a night. Go back to the hotel and get some sleep. He could tell Alfred he slept for more than 3 hours; Alfred might even give him a little gold star sticker like the ones he gave to Dick for getting out of bed in the mornings or showering without a reminder.
His hand was already in his belt, fingers curled around his grappling line when he finally saw something suspicious.
A man, dressed in slacks and button down, darted between shipping containers. He was dressed too nice to be a gig worker, and he wasn’t carrying anything to deliver. There weren’t any electric bicycles or scooters around for him to collect and they were too far from the street for him to be dashing to catch a ride-share. So not a gig-worker or customer.
Batman followed him.
He looked young, early to mid-twenties. Wearing glasses with thick frames. His hair was gelled back out of his face, very neat. His button-down was neat too, except it looked a size or two too big on him. It was baggy around the shoulders and arms, but Batman saw when he moved that the loose fit hid muscles. A thick muscled guy dressed that nice hanging around the docs, maybe he was an enforcer for one of Metropolis’ mobs?
Metropolis had to have organized crime, right?
Batman followed him until the man met up with three others. They appeared to be talking. Batman crept closer to listen.
“працюємо по 12 годин без понаднормової роботи.” One of them was saying.
“чи доводили ви це питання до свого профспілкового керівника?” Asked Muscles in the Loose Shirt.
“у нас немає паперів.” Said another. “нам платять готівкою, під столом.”
Batman shifted where he was perched, pulling up the autotranslator on his vambrace. His cape rustled around him and his gloved fingers on the touch screen made the softest of taps.
Mr. Muscles in the loose shirt looked behind him. He couldn’t possibly have heard the Caped Crusader. Batman himself barely heard his own noise and he was the one who was making it. Mr. Muscles must just be the paranoid sort, checking for snoops. Typical mob-type. Behind his cowl, Batman rolled his eyes.
“дякую за розмову зі мною.” Said Mr. Muscles. “Я розумію, на який ризик ти йдеш.”
The party broke up, all going in separate directions. Batman stayed on Mr. Muscles. If he was an enforcer for a local Metropolis mob he might be reporting back to a low-level boss or a mid-boss.
Mr. Muscels turned a corner and Batman followed him.
Then stopped short when he saw Mr. Muscles standing at a dead end between three shipping containers. Hands in his pockets, facing Batman as the Caped Crusader came around the corner. Mr. Muscles didn’t take a wrong turn. He knew Batman was following him and was waiting for him.
“Are you lost?” Asked Mr. Muscles gently.
There was just the slightest of accents to his voice. Not Ukrainian like the longshoremen he was just speaking with, it was very clearly an American accents, just not a New England one. He wasn’t from Metropolis. Not west coast, not southern, not Appalachian; more central. Midwestern.
“Gotham’s on the other side of the bay dontcha know.” Definitely midwestern. “I can give you directions.”
Batman said nothing. His cape fell around his shoulders making him nothing more than a moving shadow with pointed ears and whited eyes. Mob muscle always liked to act tough in front of the Bat until they realized their mouths were writing checks their fists couldn’t cash. Criminals were superstitious and cowardly; eventually, they all cowered under the shadow of the Batman.
Muscles tilted his head and gave the barest hint of a smile. “Unless…” He began and reached into his pocket.
Batman assumed he was going for a weapon and rushed forward to disarm the would-be attacker before he could pull whatever gun or knife he was going for.
Muscles wasn’t a pushover. When Batman’s blow connected with him, his knuckles met with resistance, Batman could feel it even through the protective layers of his gauntlet. But muscles still crumpled anyway. It was like punching a brick wall, there was the slightest breath of a delay, then Muscles fell against the shipping container behind him and slumped to the ground. His hand fell out of his pocket and Batman saw that what he was reaching for was a tape recorder.
Behind the whited-out lenses of his cowl, Batman’s eyes narrowed. A tape recorder? Like what reporters used in the 90s?
Mr. Muscles coughed and heaved, gasping to fill his lungs with air. “Jeez louise! I was gonna ask, ‘unless you wanted to give a quote.’”
Not a mob enforcer putting the pressure on doc workers, a reporter sneaking around for a story. What a headache!
Batman lifted his gaze from the tape recorder in his hand to glare at the man himself.
Their eyes met.
Then everything changed.
Everything.
Through the lenses of his cowl, Bruce’s eyes locked with the reporter’s and his vision changed. Like ripples radiating out from a drop in a pool, Bruce saw color. For the first time in his life, Bruce saw color.
The reporter’s eyes were a cool tone. It had to have a name, all colors had names, but Bruce had never seen color before, he didn’t know what name to put to it. It was a calming shade, cool tone, he understood warm and cool color tones. Before this moment Bruce could recognize warm grays and cool grays. This was the first time he saw something other than gray.
The complexion of his face was a warm tone, not like the cool color of his eyes at all. Warm and soft looking with a clear complexion. The eyebrows and the hair remained black, and the button down shirt remained white in his vision. Bruce knew black and white; black white and gray were the only colors he knew prior to this moment.
The slacks were another cool color, similar to the color of his eyes, but a different shade. More muted, almost powdery.
As soon as Bruce got back to his hotel he was going to look up the color wheel and name the shade of his eyes.
Batman knew what this was. Everyone knew what this was. He was seeing color for the first time after making eye-contact with someone he had just met. Bruce just met his soulmate.
His soulmate was a reporter from somewhere in the mid-west.
Batman had a plan for everything. He had a contingency in place in case he ever met his soulmate while in costume. ‘Batman’ could not have a soulmate. ‘Batman’ had to belong to the mission wholly and entirely. ‘Batman’ was not a person but night and vengeance personified. Only Bruce Wayne could have a soulmate.
“Will you be covering the rail opening tomorrow?” He finally asked.
“That’s a bit of a non-sequitur.” Soulmate-the-Reporter laughed, then winced. (The wince felt oddly rehearsed but Batman was too distracted by his very new change in vision to notice.)
Batman only glared. Dick was good at banter, Bruce never quite picked up the talent for it.
Soulmate stood with a labored groan. “For cryin’ out loud, that’s some right hook ya got there.”
Bruce’s instinct was to offer his soulmate a hand up, but Batman couldn’t show weakness.
Soulmate slipped his tape recorder back in his pocket and dusted off his cool-tone slacks.
“Not one to chew the fat, I see.” He offered a good-natured chuckle. For a who had just been punched by the Batman he was being incredibly… mild about it.
Then again, if he truly was Bruce’s soul mate, then he would have to be calm under stress. The mate to Bruce’s soul could not be a nervous type.
“I feel like if you’re gonna deck a guy, least you could do was tell ‘em why.” Said Soulmate.
Especially if the guy he just decked turned out to be his soulmate.
“Sneaking around the docs is suspicious.” Batman finally growled. “The next time you’re cornered, keep your hands where they could be seen so they know you’re not going for a weapon.”
“So this was just an honest misunder-“
Batman pulled out another grappling line and swung away.
“-standin’.” He heard Soulmate finish.
Just before his line slipped, not being anchored properly on the smooth Metropolis architecture and he had to land on a stack of shipping containers. Gosh, he hoped Soulmate didn’t see that!
Away from the docs, back in the city, Batman was bombarded with color. He had no idea the lights of the city all had different colors! Cars’ headlights were warm, high beams were cool, break lights were warm but a very different warm from the warm of the headlights. Streetlights were three different colors, the round Go light was a cool color, the triangle Slow Down light was a warm color, and the octagon Stop light was another warm color, which was the same color as the octagon Stop signs. LED billboards flashed with yet more colors.
Batman already decided Metropolis was too bright, but now it was too much!
Too many colors.
Lights and color.
Gotham was never so vibrant.
It was overwhelming.
Batman was overwhelmed by the time he climbed back onto the balcony of his penthouse hotel room. He laid on the faux tiled floor more a moment, panting. Face down and eyes closed as he fought a headache from being overstimulated. No one warned that meeting your soulmate could be overwhelming to the senses.
When Bruce finally picked himself up off the floor and shambled inside the suite, he recived one more sock when he caught his reflection on the mirror.
His costume.
The batsuit had color too. He thought it was just gray and black. Bruce told Alfred he wanted to blend into the shadows. Parts of his costume were still gray, but the other color…
Pulling off his cowl, Bruce groped around for his laptop to look up a color wheel to put names to everything he was seeing.
Blue.
His Batman costume was gray and blue. A primary blue and a soft gray.
His soulmates eyes were also blue, but a different shade. Celeste. A celeste blue, like crystal or ice.
His soulmate was a reporter operating in Metropolis, but from the mid-west, with crystal blue eyes. That was enough for the World’s Greatest Detective to figure out who he was
Then he would have to figure out a way to orchestrate a meeting between him and Bruce Wayne.