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The Gotham night was uncharacteristically gentle. The usual oppressive smog had cleared, leaving a rare view of the stars over the manicured grounds of Wayne Manor.
Clark sat on a stone bench in the private garden, his cape pooled around him like blood in the moonlight. Next to him sat Bruce. The cowl was pushed back, resting against his shoulders, exposing the tired lines around his eyes and the soft, dark hair that Clark always resisted the urge to run his fingers through.
For the past hour, they had just... talked. No talk of Joker breakouts, no apocalyptic threats from Darkseid, no budget deficits for the Justice League. Just the quiet murmur of two men who carried the weight of the world, finally setting it down for a moment. Clark watched the way the moonlight caught the sharp angle of Bruce’s jaw, his heart beating a steady, rhythmic lullaby that Clark’s super-hearing cataloged as his favorite sound in the universe.
It was perfect. The air was warm, the scent of night-blooming jasmine was thick, and Bruce was actually smiling—a genuine, fleeting thing that didn't involve a single ounce of Brucie Wayne theater.
Clark swallowed hard, his stomach doing a very un-Superman-like flip. He couldn't keep it in anymore. It was burning a hole in his chest, warmer and brighter than his heat vision.
He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently covering Bruce’s gloved one. Bruce didn't pull away. He just tilted his head, his blue eyes meeting Clark's with a quiet, rare vulnerability.
"Bruce," Clark breathed, his voice dropping an octave, thick with an emotion he had harbored for years. "I love you."
The silence that followed was absolute.
The soft breeze seemed to die. The crickets stopped chirping.
Bruce didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He just stared at Clark. It wasn’t a look of shock, or horror, or even mutual affection. It was a look of profound, deeply rooted bewilderment. He looked at Clark exactly as if the Man of Steel had just announced he was planning on making the entire Justice League wear matching, bright pink, sequined capes to the next congressional hearing.
Seconds ticked by. Clark’s confident smile began to falter at the edges.
Eventually, Bruce’s lips parted, and a single, flat syllable clipped the air:
"... What?"
Clark couldn't help it; a nervous, breathless chuckle escaped his throat. He squeezed Bruce’s hand a little tighter, hoping the warmth of his palm would convey what his words apparently hadn't. "I said I love you, Bruce. I have for a while now, actually."
Bruce’s eyes darted down to their joined hands, then back up to Clark’s face. His expression didn't soften. If anything, his eyebrows knitted tighter together.
"Are you high?" Bruce asked, his voice deadpan, completely devoid of inflection.
Clark’s jaw dropped. "What? No!" He let out another laugh, this one thoroughly baffled. "Bruce, I can’t even get high. My Kryptonian biology metabolizes toxins practically before they hit my bloodstream. You know that. You wrote a seventy-page thesis on my cellular makeup!"
Bruce narrowed his eyes, his tactical brain visibly whirring behind his intense gaze. "Have you been near Red Kryptonite? Silver? A new isotope?"
"No!" Clark protested, pulling his hand back to gesture wildly. "No kryptonite, no magic spells, no weird space spores! I am completely, 100% in my right mind. I’m just telling you how I feel. I love you."
Bruce nodded slowly, but it wasn't a nod of understanding. It was the nod of a man who had just confirmed a highly dangerous theory.
Without a word, Bruce stood up. The relaxed, peaceful aura he had carried moments ago vanished, replaced instantly by the rigid, terrifying posture of the Batman. He began to pace the length of the stone path, his boots clicking sharply against the gravel. His eyes were fixed on the ground, his jaw clenched so tight Clark could hear his molars grinding.
Clark sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. This wasn't exactly how he pictured his grand confession going, but he wasn't deterred. He knew Bruce. He knew Bruce’s first instinct when faced with anything good or soft was to treat it like a bomb.
Clark stood up, taking a step toward the pacing billionaire. "Bruce, hey. Look at me. Are you okay?"
He reached out, intending to offer a reassuring, tender touch. But the exact millisecond Clark’s hand made contact with Bruce’s shoulder, the universe flipped upside down.
Before Clark could even register the movement, Bruce grabbed his wrist, pivoted his hips with terrifying, practiced leverage, and used Clark’s own forward momentum against him. With a grunt of pure exertion, Bruce threw the indestructible Man of Steel over his shoulder.
CRASH.
Clark slammed hard into the manicured grass, the wind knocked out of him more from sheer surprise than actual impact. Before he could even blink, Bruce was on top of him.
Moving with the lethal speed of a predator, Bruce straddled Clark’s chest. He drove his knee sharply into Clark’s hip, pinning his lower body to the turf, while his heavy, gauntleted hands slammed down onto Clark’s shoulders, effectively locking him in place. Because Clark refused to use his super-strength and accidentally hurt him, he was genuinely trapped beneath Gotham’s dark knight.
Clark stared up at him, flat on his back in the dirt, his cape crumpled beneath him. "Bruce," he wheezed, a mixture of utter confusion and inappropriate amusement washing over him. "What are you doing?"
Bruce leaned down, his face inches from Clark's. His eyes were cold, calculating, and deadly serious.
"If you haven't ingested a toxin, and you haven't been exposed to radiation," Bruce growled, his voice dropping into his low, gravelly Batman register, "then there are only two logical conclusions remaining. You are either under heavy telepathic mind control..." Bruce’s grip tightened on Clark’s shoulders, his knuckles whitening. "...or you are an imposter. A mimic. A shapeshifter."
Clark let out a loud, utterly helpless, confused chuckle, staring up at the man he loved, who was currently treating a love confession like a Level 5 alien invasion.
"What?!" Clark laughed, looking at Bruce's deadly earnest face.
Bruce didn't laugh back. He didn't even blink. He just stared down at him, completely, terrifyingly serious.
Bruce’s weight on Clark’s chest was substantial, a heavy, grounding presence that Clark could have easily tossed off with a flick of his pinky finger. But he didn't. Instead, he lay there in the crushed grass, looking up into the shadows of Bruce’s face, entirely captivated by the utter absurdity of the situation.
"I am going to ask you one more time," Bruce growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble that usually made Arkham escapees wet themselves. He leaned in closer, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his breath warm against Clark’s cheek. "Who sent you? Is it J'onn? A Martian renegade? Clayface?"
"Bruce, sweetie, honey, Gotham's greatest detective," Clark said, his voice dripping with fond amusement. "Look at my face. Listen to my heartbeat. It’s me."
"That means nothing," Bruce snapped, his hands tightening their grip on Clark’s shoulders, pinning him harder against the turf. "A skilled telepath could mimic the bio-electric rhythm of a heart, or a high-grade bio-clone could replicate your DNA. The fact remains: the real Clark Kent would not be acting like this."
Clark blinked, the smile fading from his face just a fraction as the true depth of Bruce's paranoia sank in. "Are you... are you being entirely serious right now? The only logical conclusion you can come up with for me saying I love you is that I’m a shapeshifting alien imposter?"
"Yes," Bruce said without a single shred of hesitation.
"Wow," Clark muttered, a breathless, utterly baffled laugh bubbling up from his chest. "Ouch. My ego, Bruce. Truly."
"It’s not a matter of ego, it’s a matter of tactical analysis," Bruce countered, his blue eyes narrowing as he scanned Clark’s face for any sign of a micro-expression that would give away a lie. "It makes perfect psychological sense. The real Clark is cautious, fiercely protective of our boundaries, and possessed of a functional survival instinct. You, on the other hand, are displaying highly anomalous behavior."
"Anomalous behavior?" Clark echoed, his eyes widening. "I told you I love you! People do it all the time! It’s an incredibly common human emotion, Bruce! Even half-human, half-Kryptonian versions of me feel it!"
"Not toward me," Bruce said, his voice dangerously flat. He shifted his weight, his knee pressing a little firmer into Clark’s hip, a tactical move meant to disable a mortal man, but to Clark, it just felt like a very intimate, heavy embrace. "You are obviously an imposter. You’ve been deployed to execute a highly targeted psychological operation. You’re attempting to exploit what you perceive to be a emotional vulnerability, lowering my guards so you can infiltrate my inner circle and gain access to my secrets."
Despite being pinned to the ground by a paranoid billionaire in tactical gear, Clark couldn't help it. He threw his head back against the grass and laughed. It was a rich, booming sound that echoed softly in the quiet garden.
"Oh, right," Clark chuckled, his chest rising and falling beneath Bruce’s heavy form. "Because you're just so full of mysteries. Bruce, you don't have any secrets from me. I have X-ray vision and super-hearing. I know exactly how many hidden compartments are in your utility belt, I know about the secret backup generator in the Batcave, and I know you sneak Alfred’s triple-chocolate biscuits when he’s not looking."
Bruce didn't flinch. He just sent Clark a sharply pointed, intensely icy look—the kind of look that usually preceded a theatrical smoke bomb and a trip to the emergency room.
Clark swallowed his laughter, his eyes softening as he looked up at the stubborn, beautiful, deeply traumatized man straddling his chest. He reached up, his large hands moving slowly, non-threateningly, until they gently cupped the sides of Bruce’s jaw. Bruce tensed, his entire body going rigid, but he didn't pull away.
"Okay, okay, forget what I just said," Clark murmured softly, his thumbs gently brushing over the rough stubble of Bruce’s jawline. "You have secrets. You have so many secrets. You’re practically made of secrets, you beautiful, brooding disaster. But I am not a shapeshifter."
The tenderness in Clark's voice was palpable, a warm, steady wave of genuine affection that filled the space between them. For a fraction of a second, Bruce’s gaze flickered, a deep, aching vulnerability crossing his features before he firmly shut it down, locking his emotional walls back into place.
Bruce stared down at him, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line.
"I don't believe you," Bruce said softly, his voice final, refusing to let himself hope that something this good could ever be real.
Despite the heavy, tactical gloves pressing into his shoulders and the sheer weight of Gotham’s darkest paranoia pinning him to the turf, Clark’s smile only grew. It was a warm, hopelessly fond expression that radiated a gentle heat, entirely at odds with the chill of the night.
"Alright, detective," Clark murmured, his voice soft, a low rumble that vibrated right through his chest and into Bruce’s knee. "I’ll play along. What can I do to prove to you that I’m me? Do you want me to recite your social security number? Or maybe the exact coordinate layout of the Watchtower’s hydroponics bay?"
Bruce’s eyes remained chips of blue ice, entirely unmoved by the charm. "A sophisticated telepath would already have extracted that data from my mind, or yours. Tell me something personal. Something specific. Something only the real Clark Kent would know."
Clark sighed, his thumbs tracing lazy, comforting circles along Bruce’s jawline, entirely unbothered by the fact that he was technically being held hostage in a garden.
"Okay," Clark said softly, his eyes locking onto Bruce's with a depth of tenderness that could melt glaciers. "On your twenty-fifth birthday, you told me you didn't want anything. So I flew to a small, obscure bakery in Paris at four in the morning to get those specific almond croissants you pretend to hate. When I brought them back, we sat on the roof of the Manor, watching the sun come up over the water. You didn't say thank you, but you ate three of them, and you let me rest my head against your shoulder for twenty minutes before you said your cape was getting wrinkled."
Bruce’s chest hitched, just a fraction. For a split second, a flicker of something raw and deeply struck crossed his face. But then, the iron shutters of Batman’s mind slammed shut again.
"A high-level telepath could have pulled that memory directly from my subconscious while I was sleeping," Bruce countered, his voice tight, his grip on Clark’s shoulders tightening. "You could be parsing through my brain right now."
Clark let out a breathless, utterly disbelieving laugh. "Bruce, not even J'onn can penetrate your mental shields without a written invitation and a three-week notice. And I certainly can't. I don't have telepathy. I can’t read minds."
"So you say," Bruce growled, his jaw clenching.
Clark couldn't help it; he started laughing properly now, his chest shaking beneath Bruce’s weight. The sheer, stubborn absurdity of the man was magnificent. "Bruce, honey, how are you so absolutely certain that I'm not me? What is the fatal flaw in my performance here?"
Bruce leaned down a fraction closer, his voice dropping into that absolute, unshakeable certainty he used when profiling a criminal. "Firstly, I just threw you over my shoulder like a ragdoll, and I am currently pinning you to the earth. The real Superman would never let that happen. His reflexes are too sharp. His tactical positioning is flawless. He wouldn't allow himself to be compromised so easily."
Clark’s eyes danced with pure, unadulterated affection. "Bruce, I let you throw me because I love you and I didn't want to hurt you. If I brace myself, your shoulder dislocates. If I resist, you break a wrist. I like your wrists exactly the way they are."
"An elegant excuse," Bruce snapped, completely ignoring the warmth in Clark's voice. "Or, you didn't stop me because you can't. Because your physical mimicry has limits."
Clark’s smile turned a little wicked, a rare flash of Smallville mischief lighting up his eyes. "Oh, is that what you think?"
In the span of a single millisecond—a blink of an eye, a fraction of a heartbeat—the world shifted.
Before Bruce’s tactical brain could even register the synapse firing, Clark used a microscopic burst of his superspeed and overwhelming, effortless strength. In a blur of red and blue, they rolled across the soft grass.
When the world stopped spinning, the positions were perfectly reversed.
Now, Bruce was flat on his back in the crushed jasmine, his dark hair fanned out against the green earth. Clark was straddling Bruce's thighs, his massive frame looming over the billionaire, blocking out the stars. Clark didn't apply any crushing force—he was infinitely careful—but he placed one broad, warm hand flat against the center of Bruce’s chest, right over his heart.
Bruce immediately grunted, his muscles tensing as he shoved his palms against Clark’s shoulders, trying to push him off. He threw his weight into it, his boots digging into the dirt, straining with every ounce of his peak-human strength.
Clark didn't budge a single millimeter. He sat there like a mountain, immovable, a soft, triumphant smile on his face.
"See?" Clark murmured, leaning down so his face was just inches from Bruce’s, his voice a gentle, teasing purr. "I am me. Feel that? Still think I'm a shapeshifter?"
Bruce stopped shoving, realizing the futility of it, and resorted to glaring up at Clark with an intensity that could have burned a hole through lead. "Many advanced shapeshifters can mimic Kryptonian density and strength profiles. The White Martians. Parasite. It proves nothing."
"I am not a mimic, Bruce," Clark said, his voice dropping its teasing edge, becoming thick with a heavy, earnest devotion. He leaned lower, letting his chest lightly brush against Bruce's, sharing his warmth. "I’m just a guy from Kansas who is desperately, hopelessly in love with a very stubborn man from Gotham."
Bruce’s eyes narrowed into slits. "The real Clark would never trap me like this. He respects my personal space. He wouldn't use brute force to override my defenses."
Clark threw his head back and groans loudly at the sky, letting out a sound of pure, loving exasperation. "Bruce, you are absolutely impossible! Do you hear yourself? If I don't fight back, I'm not Clark because I'm too weak. If I do fight back, I'm still not Clark because I'm being too aggressive! I can't win with you!"
Beneath him, Bruce began to wriggle, his hips twisting as he fiercely tried to find a leverage point to slip out from under Clark’s heavy, enveloping frame. He was completely trapped, pinned by the gentle but unyielding weight of the world's strongest man, and it was clearly driving his control-freak nature entirely insane.
"Let me up," Bruce muttered, his voice a tight, frustrated growl as he kept trying to squirm his way out of Clark's embrace, his face flushing a faint, handsome pink from the exertion. "My Clark wouldn't have to fight me at all.
Clark’s laughter rumbled deeply in his chest, a warm, vibrating sound that Bruce could feel directly against his own ribs. He didn't let go, nor did he shift his weight. Instead, he leaned down even further, his shadow completely enveloping Bruce, cutting off the crisp Gotham night air and replacing it entirely with the familiar, comforting scent of laundry detergent, cheap aftershave, and pure sunshine.
"Bruce," Clark murmured, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. "I’m not trying to fight you. I have never wanted to fight you. I just want to love you."
With infinite gentleness, Clark raised one hand and cupped Bruce’s cheek. His thumb brushed over the sharp angle of Bruce's cheekbone, his skin radiating a soothing, steady heat that practically begged the stubborn billionaire to just melt into it. Clark’s blue eyes darkened with an intense, quiet devotion as he began to lean in, his lips parting slightly, closing the final few inches between them for a kiss he had dreamed about all night.
Smack.
Just a millimeter before their lips could touch, Bruce’s gloved hand snapped upward, planting his palm squarely over Clark’s mouth and nose.
Clark froze. He blinked down at Bruce through the spaces between his leather-clad fingers.
"Mmph mff mmph?" Clark asked, his voice completely muffled by the heavy-duty Wayne Enterprises tactical glove. He gently pulled Bruce’s hand down just far enough so his mouth was free, though Bruce kept his fingers pressed firmly against Clark's chin to maintain a physical barrier. "What are you doing?"
"I am not letting some sophisticated, shapeshifting mimic plant its false, genetically fabricated lips on me," Bruce snapped, his voice tight, though a faint, betraying hint of a flush was creeping up his neck. "That is a classic infiltration tactic. Direct contact to deliver a neural pathogen or a hypnotic pheromone."
Clark let out another booming laugh, the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the situation finally shattering any remaining tension he felt. He was currently straddling the world's greatest detective in the grass, being accused of bio-terrorism via kissing.
"A hypnotic pheromone?" Clark chuckled, shaking his head in fond disbelief. "Bruce, you’ve been spending too much time fighting Poison Ivy. The only thing I’m trying to deliver to you is affection."
"Exactly what a Martian sleeper agent would say," Bruce muttered, his eyes narrowing into slits as he continued to hold Clark at bay.
Clark sighed, his expression melting into an expression of profound patience. He could see that logic wasn't working, and Bruce’s defense mechanisms were operating at a catastrophic 200%. If he wanted to get through to his stubborn bat, he had to speak Bruce's language: data.
"Okay," Clark offered, raising his hands in a gesture of peace while remaining firmly seated on Bruce's thighs. "Let’s look at this scientifically. You don't believe my words, and you don't believe my strength. Fine. Let’s go down to the Batcave. You can run whatever tests you want. Put me under your multi-layered lie detector. Run a full-spectrum brain scan to look for telepathic anomalies. Draw my blood—I’ll even let you use that ridiculous Kryptonite-tipped needle you keep hidden in the third drawer of your medical bay. Whatever it takes to prove to you that I’m your Clark."
Bruce’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle leaped in his cheek. He glared up at Clark, his blue eyes flashing with absolute outrage.
"Oh, so now you want me to grant you access to my primary base of operations?" Bruce said, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. "How convenient. Introduce an unknown, potentially hostile entity into the nerve center of my entire tactical network. We are not going anywhere near my cave."
Clark chuckled again, the sound light and airy. He leaned his forearms against Bruce’s shoulders, propping his chin in his hands as he looked down at him. "Alright, fair point. You’re paranoid. I respect the consistency. What do you want to do instead, then? How else can I prove this to you? Oh! We could go talk to Alfred. Alfred always has a perfect sense of judgment. He can tell it’s me in a heartbeat."
The moment the name Alfred left Clark's lips, the atmosphere shifted.
Bruce’s eyes widened with a sudden, fierce flash of protective fury. Moving with a burst of desperate, adrenaline-fueled strength, Bruce reached up, grabbed the heavy fabric of the 'S' shield on the front of Clark’s suit, and violently yanked him down.
Clark didn't resist. He went willingly, diving forward into the movement, utterly curious and slightly breathless to see what Bruce would do next.
Bruce pulled Clark down until their faces were barely an inch apart. Clark could feel the rapid, furious heat radiating off Bruce’s skin, could hear the sudden, frantic spikes in his heartbeat. Bruce’s hands trembled slightly where they gripped Clark's suit, holding him in a vice-like grip.
"Listen to me, you alien parasite," Bruce growled, his voice dropping into a register so terrifyingly dark it made the night air feel freezing. "You will stay away from Alfred. You will not go near him, you will not speak to him, and you will not step foot inside his home."
Bruce’s grip tightened, pulling Clark even closer until their noses almost touched.
"If you touch Alfred," Bruce whispered, a deadly, unshakeable promise vibrating in his vocal cords, "or if you touch any of my kids... I don't care about my code. I don't care about the League. I will break my one rule, and I will personally murder you. Do you understand me?"
Bruce’s breath hit Clark's lips, hot and ragged. His eyes were wide, fierce, and fiercely fiercely protective.
"And if I find out," Bruce continued, his voice cracking just a fraction, a raw, bleeding edge of profound vulnerability tearing through his anger, "if I find out that you have done anything to hurt my Clark... if you have locked him away somewhere, or if you have harmed a single hair on his head... I will tear the stars down to find a way to destroy you. Do you understand me?!"
Clark didn't flinch. He didn't look hurt, or threatened, or angry.
Instead, a massive, incredibly soft, helpless smile broke across Clark's face. His heart swelled to a size that felt entirely too large for his Kryptonian chest. Looking down into the furious, terrified, fiercely loyal eyes of the Batman, Clark had never felt more profoundly, deeply loved in his entire life. Bruce was willing to throw away his soul, his rules, and his entire life's work just to avenge him. He was willing to fight the universe to protect the memory of his Clark.
"I understand, Bruce," Clark murmured, his voice thick with an overwhelming rush of romance and tenderness. He didn't try to pull away from Bruce's harsh grip. He just looked at him with eyes full of absolute, unwavering devotion. "I completely understand."
Even with the absolute devotion shining in Clark’s eyes, Bruce’s grip on his suit didn’t slacken. His knuckles remained white, his breathing ragged, his defensive walls locked down so tight they were practically reinforced with titanium. He stared up at Clark, his mind frantically running through every worst-case scenario, every contingency plan, every dark corner of his own tactical database.
Because here was the thing: they had been dating for nearly two years.
They shared quiet coffee in the mornings at the farm in Smallville. They spent late nights in Gotham, stitched each other up after grueling battles, and shared a bed whenever the world quieted down enough to let them sleep. They were partners in every sense of the word. But in all that time, through all the quiet domesticity and the shared glances across the Watchtower monitor table, Clark had never actually said those three specific words out loud. He had shown it a thousand times, but he had never spoken it.
And to Bruce Wayne’s deeply damaged, hyper-vigilant mind, a sudden, unprompted declaration of love wasn't a romantic milestone. It was a glaring red flag. It was a glitch in the simulation.
"Don't look at me like that," Bruce growled, his voice tight as he glared at Clark’s soft expression. "You’re mimicking his emotional affect. You’re trying to disarm me by projecting a false sense of safety. I know exactly what you’re doing."
Clark let out a long, slow, entirely long-suffering sigh. He allowed his body to relax completely, draping himself over Bruce like a massive, invulnerable golden retriever, ignoring the way Bruce grunted under the sudden distribution of his weight.
"Bruce," Clark said, his voice incredibly soft, pressing his forehead gently against Bruce’s shoulder. "Sweetheart. We’ve been together for nearly two years. I know you don't like to label things because you think labels are a tactical liability, but we live together half the week. I have a drawer in your vanity. You have a toothbrush at the farm. My mother knits you sweaters for Christmas."
"A detailed dossier," Bruce countered, though his head involuntarily tilted a fraction closer to Clark’s, his body contradicting his stubborn brain. "Easily acquired by an espionage ring or a high-grade telepathic scan of the Kent farm."
Clark lifted his head, a mixture of utter amusement and profound tenderness lighting up his face. "Okay, let’s go deeper. Last Tuesday. You came back to the Manor at three in the morning after hunting down Scarecrow. You were covered in mud, your cape was torn, and you were too exhausted to even take off your boots. I carried you to the shower. I washed the cowl out of your hair, Bruce. And while I was doing it, you fell asleep against my chest and mumbled that the Justice League budget proposal was a crime against humanity. Did a Martian telepath spy on us in the shower, too?"
Bruce opened his mouth to reply, a sharp, tactical rebuttal ready on his tongue, but he stopped. His jaw tightened. He looked at Clark’s face—really looked at it. He looked at the slight crinkle at the corners of Clark’s eyes, the specific, warm shade of blue that looked like a Kansas sky, and the absolute, unwavering patience that no imposter could ever truly replicate.
"The real Clark Kent," Bruce said, his voice dropping into a slightly quieter, almost hesitant register, though he refused to let go of Clark’s suit, "is cautious. He knows what I am. He knows what I’ve been through. He wouldn't just... say that. Not out of nowhere."
"It wasn't out of nowhere, you beautiful idiot," Clark murmured, his hand moving to gently untangle Bruce’s fingers from his suit, replacing the harsh grip with a warm, tight lace of their fingers. "I’ve been trying to tell you for six months. Every time I make you breakfast, every time I patch up a cut on your face, every time I fly you back from a mission just so you can get an extra hour of sleep—I’m saying it. Tonight, the stars were out, you actually smiled, and I just couldn't keep it inside anymore. I love you, Bruce. I’m sorry my timing threw you into a tactical panic, but it's the truth."
Bruce stared at him. The absolute certainty in Clark’s voice was like a physical wave, battering against the fortress of Bruce’s paranoia. A normal person would have been insulted, or angry, or walked away after being thrown over a shoulder and accused of being an alien clone. But Clark was still here. He was still smiling, still looking at Bruce as if he were the only thing that mattered in the entire universe.
"You're... you're really not an imposter?" Bruce asked, the Batman growl completely dissolving, leaving behind the quiet, vulnerable voice of the boy from Crime Alley.
"I am 100% your Clark," the Man of Steel promised, leaning down until their lips were barely a breath apart. "No mind control. No magic. No shapeshifters. Just me."
Bruce was silent for a long moment. He looked at their joined hands, then up at Clark’s mouth. Slowly, the tension began to drain from his shoulders, his muscles relaxing into the grass beneath them. The hyper-vigilant detective finally stepped aside, letting the man underneath take over.
"You're a menace," Bruce muttered, a faint, genuine stroke of affection coloring his rough voice.
"I'm a menace who loves you," Clark corrected, his eyes dancing. "Can I kiss you now? Or are you still worried about neural pathogens?"
Bruce didn't answer with words. Instead, he released Clark's hand, reached up, and grabbed the back of Clark’s neck, pulling him down the final remaining inch.
The kiss was everything the evening had promised before the tactical takedown. It was slow, deep, and fiercely possessive, a silent apology from Bruce and a profound reassurance from Clark. Clark melted into it, his massive arms wrapping around Bruce’s waist, lifting him slightly off the ground to pull him closer, burying his face in the warmth of Bruce's neck as the kiss broke.
They lay there in the quiet Gotham garden for a long time, tangled together in a messy heap of capes, tactical armor, and absolute devotion.
Clark pleased a kiss against Bruce’s neck, a careful, gentle kiss, before gently shifting his weight. With effortless grace, he slipped his arms under Bruce’s shoulders and waist, lifting them both off the crushed grass in one fluid motion.
When Clark set his boots back down on the gravel path, he kept his arms securely looped around Bruce’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest. They stood chest-to-chest, the sleek, high-tech weave of the Bat-suit pressing into the soft, indestructible fabric of the House of El. The scent of night-blooming jasmine still hung heavily in the air around them.
"Alright, detective," Clark murmured softly, a deeply affectionate smile tugging at his lips. He leaned in, his eyes slipping shut as he tilted his head for another slow, unhurried kiss, eager to make up for lost time.
Just as their lips were about to touch, Bruce’s hand came up, a flat palm pressing firmly against the center of Clark’s chest. He didn't push him away, but the barrier was undeniable.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Kent," Bruce muttered, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that lacked its previous lethal edge but carried all of his trademark stubbornness. "I still want to run some tests."
Clark opened his eyes, blinking in utter disbelief before a bright, helpless laugh broke from his throat. "Bruce, we just kissed. I practically poured my soul out to you. My heartbeat is a perfectly steady, entirely human sixty beats per minute right now."
"An advanced Martian telepath can project a localized bio-metric field to simulate a resting heart rate," Bruce said, his face a mask of absolute, unrelenting seriousness. "And a high-grade biochemical clone would possess identical DNA down to the nucleotide. I need empirical data. Just to be sure."
Clark shook his head, a wave of profound, unconditional fondness washing over him. This was the man he loved. A man who couldn't simply accept a beautiful, life-changing declaration of affection without verifying it through a mass spectrometer.
"Of course you do," Clark chuckled, loosening his grip on Bruce’s waist but keeping his hands resting lightly on his hips. "Far be it from me to deny the great Batman his data. Lead the way."
"Not so fast," Bruce said. He reached down into one of the specialized, reinforced pouches of his utility belt and pulled out a thick, heavy band of black fabric. "Put this on."
Clark stared at it, then raised an eyebrow. "Bruce. Is that... lead-lined?"
"Double-layered lead-alloy weave," Bruce confirmed deadpan, holding it out. "In the event that you are a sleeper agent or a shapeshifter, I cannot risk you mapping out the secondary structural reinforcements of the lower cavern entryways with your X-ray vision. Put it on."
Clark let out another rich, booming laugh that echoed through the quiet gardens of Wayne Manor. "You are entirely insane. You know that, right?" But even as he said it, he willingly took the blindfold, wrapped it securely over his eyes, and tied it at the back of his head. The world instantly plunged into absolute darkness, his super-sight completely neutralized by the heavy metal lining. "There. Happy?"
"Highly vigilant," Bruce corrected.
Clark felt a firm, leather-gloved hand wrap securely around his wrist. Bruce didn't pull him roughly; instead, his grip was steady and grounding, guiding Clark with an intimate familiarity through the hidden entrance of the manor, down the winding, damp stone steps, and into the roaring, high-tech expanse of the Batcave. Clark didn't actually need his sight—he could map the entire cave by the echo of the flapping bat wings and the distinct hum of the supercomputer's cooling fans—but he let Bruce lead him anyway, enjoying the simple feeling of Bruce's hand holding his.
When the blindfold was finally untied, the stark, multi-layered blue glow of the Batcomputer illuminated the cavern.
What followed was perhaps the most extensive, technologically exhaustive medical examination in human history.
Bruce went to work with a manic, terrifying efficiency. He didn't speak a word, his face set in a grim, intensely focused scowl as he dragged over equipment that belonged in a top-secret government research facility. Clark sat patiently on the edge of a cold, steel medical table, his cape neatly folded beside him, a permanent, ridiculously soft smile plastered across his face.
First came the blood test. Bruce approached with a heavily reinforced, customized syringe tipped with a microscopic sliver of green kryptonite—just enough to weaken the skin for a split second to draw a sample.
"Hold still," Bruce growled.
"I'm holding," Clark murmured, watching with pure adoration as Bruce carefully drew a single vial of crimson blood, his hands entirely steady despite the tense aura radiating off him. Bruce immediately slapped the vial into a centrifuge, his eyes glued to the monitors as the DNA sequencing began to build a digital map on the massive screens.
Next was the lie detector. Bruce strapped specialized, bio-electric sensors to Clark’s temples, his wrists, and over his heart.
"State your name for the record," Bruce commanded, sitting at the console, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
"Clark Joseph Kent."
"Are you an operative of the Light, the Reach, or any hostile extraterrestrial faction?"
"No."
"Do you currently harbor any covert intentions to extract classified tactical data regarding the Justice League’s contingency protocols?"
Clark leaned forward slightly, the sensors taut against his skin. His blue eyes locked onto Bruce’s rigid back. "No, Bruce. I came here tonight because I wanted to look at the stars with you, and because I wanted to tell you that I love you."
The lie detector monitors didn't even flicker. The lines remained perfectly, flawlessly flat, confirming absolute, unadulterated truth. Bruce’s shoulders tensed slightly at the baseline reading, but he refused to acknowledge it.
"Subject's vocal cords could be modulated by a localized psychic dampener," Bruce muttered under his breath, typing furiously. "Moving to neurological screening."
For the next two hours, Clark was subjected to a full-body molecular scan, a high-frequency brainwave analysis to check for telepathic tampering, an infrared cellular density test, and a psychological profiling matrix that involved answering eighty-four highly specific questions about obscure childhood events in Smallville.
Clark passed every single one of them with flying colors. The computer screens practically screamed with green confirmation text:
100% KRYPTONIAN BIOLOGY DETECTED. MATCH FOUND: SUPERMAN / CLARK KENT. NO FOREIGN NEURO-CHEMICALS PRESENT.
Bruce stood in front of the primary monitor, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, glaring at the undeniable data as if the computer itself were lying to him.
Clark slid off the medical table, walking over with soft, silent steps until he was standing right behind the brooding detective. He reached out, his large, warm hands gently coming to rest on Bruce’s tense shoulders. He began to knead the tight muscles at the base of Bruce's neck, using just enough pressure to soothe the ache without triggering Batman's defense reflexes.
"Well, detective?" Clark murmured into his ear, his voice laced with absolute tenderness. "Blood is mine. Brain is mine. Soul is mine. What's the verdict?"
Bruce didn't lean back into the touch, but he didn't pull away either. He let out a long, slow, frustrated breath, his eyes tracing a fluctuating line on the screen.
"The molecular density profile is stable," Bruce admitted, his voice tight. "But the neural scans are only conclusive up to a ninety-nine percent accuracy rating. There are still several deep-tissue cellular variables I haven't accounted for. I need to run a full-spectrum bone marrow resonance test. And a spinal fluid biopsy. Just to eliminate the possibility of a subterranean clone variant."
Clark couldn't help it. He let out a soft, incredibly fond chuckle, leaning down to press a gentle, lingering kiss right against the crown of Bruce's dark head. Bruce was entirely impossible, a man so terrified of losing the one good thing he had that he would rather spend the rest of the night looking for a microscopic reason to doubt it.
"Okay, Bruce," Clark whispered softly, his arms sliding down around Bruce's chest, pulling the dark knight back against him in a warm, unyielding embrace. "Run the resonance test. Run whatever you want. I'm not going anywhere."
The low hum of the Batcomputer was the only sound echoing through the cavernous expanse of the Batcave as the latest round of diagnostic data cascaded down the massive screens. The full-spectrum bone marrow resonance test had finished processing. The cellular density charts had updated. Every single line, number, and microscopic data point returned the exact same undeniable result.
SUBJECT AUTHENTICITY: VERIFIED.
Bruce stood perfectly rigid in front of the console, his arms locked over his chest, his eyes narrowed so tightly they were mere slits of blue ice. He glared at the flawless green text on the screens as if he could intimidate the code into changing its mind.
Clark slid off the edge of the medical table again, his bare boots making no sound against the cold stone floor. He walked over slowly, giving Bruce plenty of time to track his movement, and stepped up right behind the brooding billionaire. With slow, deliberate gentleness, Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce from behind, pulling the dark knight’s broad back firmly against his chest. He leaned down, resting his chin on Bruce's armored shoulder, letting his warm breath fan across the side of Bruce's neck.
"I'm real, Bruce," Clark murmured, his voice a low, soothing vibration that traveled straight through Bruce's cape. "I promise you. No clone. No Martian renegade. No imposter. Just me."
Bruce didn't lean back into the embrace, but he didn't pull away either. His jaw remained tightly clenched. "It could be magic," he muttered, his voice a gravelly, stubborn friction. "A high-level enchantment from the House of Mystery. A localized reality warp."
Clark let out a soft, long-suffering sigh, his chest rising and falling against Bruce’s back. "It's not magic, sweetheart. Zatanna checked the Watchtower’s mystical wards yesterday, and John Constantine is currently passed out in a pub in Liverpool. I’m completely un-cursed."
Bruce twisted sharply within Clark's arms, forcing the Man of Steel to loosen his grip just enough so Bruce could turn around and face him. They were still standing incredibly close, chest-to-chest, Bruce’s blue eyes locking onto Clark’s with an intense, unyielding scrutiny.
"And how would you know?" Bruce countered, his voice dropping into a sharp, analytical clip. "If you are being influenced by a powerful external entity, the primary objective of the spell would be to wipe your conscious memory of the event. The magic would make you forget the manipulation entirely. You would genuinely believe your thoughts are your own."
Clark blinked, looking down at the dark knight. He paused, processing the sheer, labyrinthine layers of Bruce's paranoia. As completely absurd as it was, Clark had to admit that in their line of work, the logic was technically sound. "Okay," Clark said slowly, a helpless, deeply fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I see your point. As crazy as it sounds, I see it. So... how are you going to check me for magic, detective?"
Bruce didn't answer. He simply gave Clark a cool, warning look, stepped out of his embrace, and walked toward the far wall of the cave. He bypassed the rows of gleaming batsuits and the weapon racks, stopping in front of a small, seamless biometric vault embedded directly into the solid rock. Bruce pressed his palm to the scanner, let out a quiet grunt as a retinal laser scanned his eye, and waited for the heavy steel door to click open.
He reached inside and pulled out a small, jagged crystal. It wasn't green, or glowing, or humming with radiation—it was a deep, translucent amethyst that seemed to catch the ambient blue light of the Batcomputer.
Bruce walked back over and firmly placed the crystal directly into Clark’s palm. "Hold it."
Clark looked down at the stone resting in his large hand. He held his breath, waiting for something to happen. A spark, a glow, a sudden burst of purple smoke—anything. But the crystal just sat there, completely inert, slowly warming up against the natural, radiant heat of Clark’s skin. Clark looked up at Bruce, entirely unsure of what a lack of reaction meant in the grand scheme of Batman’s protocols. "Is... is this good, or bad?"
"It’s a localized mystical siphon," Bruce said flatly. He snatched the crystal back out of Clark’s hand, walked back to the vault, placed it securely inside, and slammed the heavy door shut. "If your aura had been compromised by any active enchantment, the crystal would have fractured."
Bruce walked back over, stopping a few feet away. He crossed his arms over his chest again, his cape pooling around his boots, and simply stared at Clark. The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick with an agonizing, breathless tension.
Under the weight of that unreadable, intense gaze, the indestructible Man of Steel suddenly felt incredibly nervous. He shifted his weight from one boot to the other, his stomach doing a very uncharacteristic flutter.
"Well?" Clark finally asked, his voice a little softer, a little more vulnerable than before. "Am I clean?"
Bruce didn't answer immediately. He let the silence hang for three more agonizing heartbeats, his eyes tracing the line of Clark’s jaw, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the absolute, transparent honesty shining in his face. Finally, Bruce gave a single, tight nod.
"You're clear," Bruce said quietly.
A massive, brilliant smile broke across Clark's face, radiant enough to illuminate the entire dreary cave. The tension evaporated from his shoulders in a single, relieved breath. He took a slow step forward, his eyes locked onto Bruce’s mouth. "Can I kiss you now? Without you stopping me?"
Bruce didn't say yes, but he didn't say no either. He just stood his ground, his eyes tracking Clark’s approach with a rare, quiet intensity that made Clark's heart skip a beat.
Taking that as the only invitation he was ever going to get, Clark stepped into Bruce's personal space. He raised his hands, his touch infinitely gentle as he cupped Bruce's rough, stubbled cheeks. He leaned down, tilting his head, and closed the distance.
The kiss was entirely different from the frantic, adrenaline-fueled clash in the garden. This was slow, tender, and dripping with an overwhelming depth of love. Clark poured everything he had into it—all the years of pining, all the shared quiet moments, all the unspoken devotion. His lips moved against Bruce’s with a soft, lingering sweetness, his thumbs gently tracing the line of Bruce’s cheekbones. Bruce let out a low, shaky breath against Clark’s mouth, his hands finally coming up to rest against Clark’s waist, holding him there, anchoring them both in the quiet dark of the cave.
When Clark finally pulled back just a fraction, his forehead remained rested against Bruce’s. He looked straight into the deep, stormy blue of Bruce's eyes.
"I love you, Bruce," Clark murmured, his voice thick with emotion, a sacred, unshakeable truth echoing in the quiet space between them. "I really, truly do."
For a long moment, Bruce just looked at him. The vulnerability in his eyes was staggering, a raw, open wound that he rarely let anyone see. But then, a familiar, fiercely protective darkness flickered back into his gaze. Bruce reached up, his leather-gloved fingers wrapping firmly around Clark’s wrist, his grip tight, almost bruising, forcing Clark to look him dead in the eye.
"Listen to me," Bruce growled, his voice a low, dangerous warning that vibrated with an intense, underlying heat. "If this is a trick, or a prank, or some kind of incredibly elaborate, long-term psychological con... I will absolutely murder you. I will find a way, and I will destroy you. Do you understand me?"
Despite the threat of bodily harm, Clark’s smile only grew warmer, a soft, breathless laugh escaping him. He didn't try to pull his wrist away from Bruce's fierce grip. Instead, he leaned down, pressing another soft, reassuring kiss to the corner of Bruce’s mouth.
"It’s not a trick, Bruce," Clark promised softly, his eyes full of an absolute, unwavering devotion. "My feelings are entirely real. I’m not going anywhere."
Bruce stared at him for a moment longer, searching his face one last time for a lie he knew he wouldn't find. He didn't repeat the words back. He didn't say I love you too. His deeply scarred, fiercely guarded heart wasn't ready to let those words cross his lips just yet. But as he slowly let go of Clark’s wrist, his hand slid down, his fingers curling tightly, possessively into the fabric of Clark’s cape, pulling him back down for another kiss. And to Clark, that was more than enough.