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Clark caught up with Bruce in a blind alley.
If he hadn't already known something was wrong, that would have been enough to make it obvious. Bruce would never have retreated into a dead end, not if he'd been in his right mind.
But he wasn't.
He was crouched low in a corner, back to the walls that formed it, watching Clark with hard unblinking eyes. It wasn't Batman who'd been dosed with Scarecrow's latest innovation, but Bruce Wayne—controlled dispersal in a public area, and Bruce had been close enough that he'd plunged into the mix himself, trying to get people clear of the gas cloud, unwilling to waste time suiting up.
Clark hadn't been there. But it had only taken half a dozen words from Diana when he'd arrived on the scene to make it obvious what must have happened.
Plenty of people had panicked. Plenty of people had fled. But only one of those people was Batman. And more specifically, Batman without the judgment to understand what would happen if Bruce Wayne, with all of his higher brain functions shut down, reflexively dealt the kind of damage he was capable of to civilians.
Clark had gone after him immediately. He probably had the best odds of being able to neutralize Bruce and take him somewhere safe without drawing too much attention. He had the vision to scan for Bruce, to search him out, and the strength, the speed, to subdue him, the flight to transport him away without causing a scene.
It had made sense, at the time. But looking at him like this, Clark found himself wishing he'd thought this through a little more carefully.
Bruce had gotten a knife from somewhere—found it, Clark hoped, rather than having had to hurt somebody who'd tried to use it on him before taking it for himself. But he was holding it awkwardly, clutched in his fist like he had no idea how it worked. He'd ditched Bruce Wayne's dress shoes and socks somewhere; he was barefoot, hunched in on himself, and practically growling, a harsh deep warning noise coming from the back of his throat.
Diana had said feral, had said reduced to animalistic behaviors. But Clark hadn't thought—somehow he hadn't quite managed to imagine it, Bruce and that sharp quick mind, endless tactical assessments and risk analysis, reduced to something almost unrecognizable.
"Diana," Clark said into his League comm, and lifted his hands, palm-out. There was no way to guess whether Bruce would understand the gesture in the abstract; but showing him that Clark didn't have a knife like his, that Clark wasn't coming toward him with anything meant to hurt him, was probably a good idea anyway. "Diana, if you're able to disengage—"
A flat soft tone, from the comm. She'd set it to incoming only—which was no wonder, considering how many people were still in the plaza. She had to be busy trying to keep them from hurting each other, trying to separate them and contain them until they could be sedated.
Clark bit his lip. He'd been hoping maybe there was some way she could get here. But it looked like he was out of luck.
The thing was, Bruce trusted her. Bruce trusted her more than he trusted anybody else, except Alfred, and she'd known him the longest out of anybody on the League, and if there was anybody he'd still trust, still listen to, when he was like this, it had to be her.
But she couldn't come. Which meant it was up to Clark.
Clark, who'd once scared Bruce so badly just by existing that Bruce had tried to kill him.
Great.
Clark swallowed, and took a half-step closer to Bruce. Bruce drew his lips back off his teeth, baring them in a snarl. And god, Clark didn't even know whether to hope Bruce was able to recognize him or not—didn't know what Bruce would see, if he did recognize Clark.
They'd worked together for a while now. The League was a team, and it felt like one. Bruce and Clark shared space, relied on each other, saved each other's lives now and then.
But that didn't mean there wasn't still some subconscious part of Bruce that perceived Clark as a threat—the part that had driven him to decide that he had to eliminate Clark in the first place.
And right now, the subconscious parts of Bruce were basically all there was.
Clark took another step, and tried to look harmless. He could take Bruce by force, fly away with him before he even knew what was happening; but as far as he was concerned, that was a last resort. He didn't want to make this any worse for Bruce than it had to be.
The growl softened, and then died away. Bruce was looking at him, scrutinizing, eyes narrow. He tilted his head, and reached out with the hand that didn't have the knife in it—Clark held perfectly still, and Bruce gripped him by the chin, tipped his face as if to examine it more closely.
(Was it the hair? Would he have known Clark right away if Clark were wearing it loose, instead of slicked down the way he kept it as Superman?)
And then, after a moment, Bruce's grasp softened. He opened his hand a little, he—he skimmed it to the base of Clark's throat, let his palm settle there, and jesus, he'd never—he didn't ever touch Clark like that. Clark swallowed a helpless gasp and tried to ignore the way his heart had started pounding.
And then Bruce leaned in close. Really close, closer than—
He was drawing a deep breath in through his nose. He was—god, he was smelling Clark, and the thought of it, that Bruce knew what Clark smelled like, was instinctively relying on it now, made heat prickle up the length of Clark's spine.
Jesus, he needed to get a grip.
"Yeah," he made himself say aloud, trying to keep his tone gentle, level. "That's right, Bruce. It's me. You know me."
Bruce huffed, a soft satisfied sound, and absently dropped the knife—gave himself a second free hand, and reached up and pushed his fingers into Clark's hair.
(Yeah, okay, maybe it had been the hair after all.)
And it was probably stupid to keep talking to him, when he clearly couldn't understand any of it, but Clark couldn't help it. It was comforting, reassuring, to do it. And even if the words didn't make sense to Bruce right now, surely the tone came through.
"Bruce, we need to get out of here. All right? This place isn't safe, and you need help. I don't want to scare you." Clark stopped, and swallowed. Bruce was just watching him now, eyes flicking back and forth over his face, bright and intent and curious. "I don't—I don't ever want you to be afraid of me again," Clark let himself say, quiet. "But I don't know how else to get you back to the Cave."
He reached out and turned his hands over, cupped Bruce's elbows in them.
He'd done the best he could. Bruce recognized him—maybe. Bruce trusted him—at least sort of. The flight would be quick. Clark could make it quick. And if Bruce wanted to panic and hit him and run from him, he could do it, as long as they made it to the Cave first.
But god, it was hard. It was harder than he'd thought it would be, somehow. To look at Bruce like this, to be aware that he couldn't explain anything; to just have to hope Bruce wouldn't be frightened too badly by it, wouldn't hate him for it.
Clark held on tight, and didn't look away, and lifted them both off the ground.
He'd expected Bruce to panic. He'd braced himself for it; he'd decided that the second his feet left the pavement, he'd have to go as fast as he could, and hope he could hang onto Bruce until they made it to the lake house.
He heard the startled intake of Bruce's breath. He turned them in the air, positioned himself beneath Bruce so he wasn't straining Bruce's arms or shoulders. Ten seconds. Just ten seconds.
And in those ten seconds, Bruce pressed himself against Clark, and hung on. He still had a hand in Clark's hair; he caught Clark's shoulder with the other. He was—he plastered himself over Clark, held Clark to himself and curved his shoulders, tense, alert.
Because what the hell did he know about what was going on? Nothing, Clark understood in an instant. As far as he was concerned, Clark hadn't done a thing. They'd been standing in the alley, close, Clark talking to him quietly. And then suddenly the world had moved and the wind was screaming, and he was—
Jesus, he was trying to protect Clark from it. He didn't know what was happening, or why. Clark wasn't moving, wasn't so much as flapping his arms; flight didn't require anything from him except the will to make it happen, a silent internal exertion. Bruce had no idea Clark was doing it, and whatever was doing it clearly wasn't going to be allowed to get to Clark without going through Bruce first.
Clark slowed once they reached the lake, until the water barely ruffled underneath them. Bruce had keyed the exterior sensors to open the lake entrance for any member of the League, Clark knew, but it was still a relief when it opened for him, and within another fifteen seconds he had Bruce safely within the bounds of the Batcave.
He set down, and let go of Bruce. He was still half-expecting Bruce to panic, to run from him—but Bruce didn't let go of him in return, kept a hand on him and crowded him back against the closest wall, shoulder in front of Clark, glancing all around the Cave with narrowed eyes like he wanted to make sure they weren't going to get tossed back into flight again.
Clark took the opportunity to reach up and touch his comm, and switch channels. "Alfred," he said.
"S," Alfred said, in tones of understated but profound relief. "I was informed you'd be on your way. I take it you've got him?"
"Yeah," Clark said.
"Excellent. I'm pleased to be able to inform you that the situation at the plaza is nearly under control. F should be along momentarily with a sample of the toxin, and then I can begin analysis. Is he all right?"
"Yeah, he's okay," Clark said, because it was true. The line of Bruce's shoulders had started to relax, now, as the Cave proved itself trustworthy: half a minute, and their feet were still on the ground. His gaze had turned curious, intrigued. But he still didn't seem to want to let go of Clark. "He's—getting comfortable. And the team's okay? It's all right for me to stay with him?"
"Absolutely, sir," Alfred assured him instantly, unhesitating. "In point of fact, I was about to ask whether you wouldn't mind doing precisely that. Until I've had an opportunity to make a preliminary evaluation of the toxin, there isn't much that can be done for him except to keep him calm. If this is anything like the Scarecrow's previous work, the danger is in becoming disoriented, terrified. As long as that can be prevented, it may well wear off without causing undue harm."
Clark swallowed a grateful sigh. He'd have gone back to help, if the League had needed him, and he'd have done it without hesitating. Bruce would be the first to agree that people's lives mattered more than his own state of mind; Clark would've left him here, alone and frightened and angry, if he'd had to—because at least he'd have been safe in here, and if there had been civilians out there who weren't, Clark couldn't have ignored that. And Bruce wouldn't have wanted him to.
But that tradeoff didn't need to be made. Clark could tell from here that Alfred was right; he'd been so focused on Bruce he hadn't been listening for it, but there was Diana's calm voice, Victor murmuring something soothing to someone who was crying softly, Barry searching for someone specific among the affected crowd who were now contained—no more screaming, no fresh danger.
Which meant Clark got to stay here instead.
"Well, he seems to like it down here," Clark said aloud, which was also proving increasingly true as he watched. Bruce seemed to have grasped that the Cave was closed in, had limited entrances and exits—and of course he liked that. A dead-end alley, Clark recalled: where Bruce could put his back to the wall, could see anything that was coming for him before it could get there.
"Of course he does," Alfred murmured, dry.
Clark laughed, and shook his head. "All right, I'll stay with him. Let me know if there's anything else I can do?"
"Of course, sir."
Clark closed the channel, and looked at Bruce.
He was still standing between Clark and the rest of the Cave. But whatever it was in him that had recognized Clark, it seemed to recognize the Cave, too. His gaze wasn't leaping around anymore; he'd narrowed his eyes, and tilted his head. There was a worktable not far from where they were standing, and—with a sharp glance over his shoulder at Clark, as if to make sure he would stay put, right where Bruce had left him—Bruce let go of Clark and took three quick steps toward it, graceful, on the balls of his bare feet, knees bent, every line of his body ready to react at an instant's notice.
He touched the table, passed his hand over the tools. He gave no indication that he understood what they were, or that he had any idea how to use them, and Clark felt a stark strange pang at the idea—that so much of what Bruce was, his cleverness and capability, his endless inventiveness and dizzying technical knowledge, had been taken from him.
But there was still so much of him left, too: he looked at the worktable, the equipment scattered across it, with bright interested eyes. Clark took a step toward him, and Bruce turned and gave him a flat stare—exactly the one he always used when Clark ignored his instructions on-mission, and Clark couldn't help but laugh.
Bruce huffed through his nose, clearly unamused by Clark's callous disregard for his attempts to enforce some kind of caution here. He returned to Clark, two long strides, and curled his fingers into the back of the suit, over Clark's shoulder blade; holding on, tight. He turned away again for a moment, surveying the Cave, or at least the parts of it that he could see from here.
Evaluating his options, Clark understood a moment later, and then Bruce's assessing gaze found the Batmobile.
"Oh, of course," Clark said, as Bruce began to tow him toward it. "Of course."
The Scarecrow's new formula could make Bruce feral, animalistic, non-verbal. But it couldn't actually make him less intelligent, even if he wasn't able to use that intelligence the same way he usually did.
Clark had expected to have to help him get the Batmobile's door open. But Bruce had designed the doors, the latches, the entire damn car, and apparently it still made a certain intrinsic sense to him; he crowded Clark up against the side of the Batmobile, to keep Clark caged there safely while he examined it, and inside about forty seconds, he had it open, one side of the upper canopy lifting itself out of the way.
To be strictly accurate, Bruce had redesigned the entire damn car. Now that the League existed, now that there was a meaningful chance that the Batmobile might end up with more than one occupant again—Bruce had made it bigger, almost a full bench seat in front, with the option to collapse several additional compartments in a way that could nearly double the interior space, if necessary.
And to the Bruce who was looking at it right now, it was as good as a dead-end alley. Better, even. Enclosed, obviously readily defensible. He was probably three-quarters of the way toward the decision to make use of it even before the screech.
Clark didn't hear it. Not consciously, not until Bruce reacted and he automatically cast his mind back trying to figure out why. Even then, it took a second. Bruce had jerked around, spine stiff, shoulders up, that fierce gravelly sound coming from the back of his throat again—he'd kept a hand on Clark, a shoulder against Clark, and he tensed so hard Clark probably would've bruised if he'd been human, fingertips digging in sharply.
"Hey," Clark said, low, aiming for somewhere in the vicinity of soothing. "Hey, Bruce, come on—"
Bruce wasn't buying it. He'd turned to face the Cave, Clark and the Batmobile behind him, and he was pushing, now, muscling Clark up against the surface of the car, toward the open upper canopy.
"Bruce," Clark said again, bewildered.
And then, abruptly, he understood, heart clenching helplessly in his chest.
Because jesus, it was so easy to forget. It shouldn't have been, but it was. Bruce worked in here all the time, practically lived in here now and then, when he had a project that was important enough to him. And when he was—when he was in control of himself, his mind, Clark had never seen him so much as flinch. He moved around the concrete parts of the Cave, monitors and metal and falling water, as easily as he moved around the rough-hewn natural rock section, storage, parking, spare gear and equipment.
But that section was where the bats lived.
And now that Clark was paying attention, the screech must've been a reaction, something waking a few of them; they were chittering, squeaking to each other, wings rustling somewhere up there in the dark, and all the sounds tended to echo down here—
"Okay, okay, you're right," he said, throat tight, and tipped himself over the edge of the hatch. He did it kind of sideways, cheating a little bit with the flight, so he could keep an arm over it, and hang onto Bruce. "Come on, you too. It's safe in here."
He had a good grip on Bruce's arm. Between that and Bruce's bare feet, all the ridges and edges that created purchase on the outside of the car, Bruce was up and over in an instant. And then—
And then it was the two of them, crowded together in the Batmobile.
Half the canopy was still shut. Bruce seemed to want to take shelter under it without actually closing the other half; didn't want to end up trapped, or maybe he wanted to be able to see the bats coming, if they were going to.
He shoved Clark all the way under it, against the far side of the Batmobile's interior, and put himself—again—between Clark and the Cave. He was strung tight, tense, eyes skipping back and forth across the open hatch, the area visible through it, and his breath was coming hard, fast. Clark kept quiet and did what Bruce seemed to want him to do, didn't move otherwise.
But after maybe a minute, the bats had settled down again. Clark could still hear them, obviously, but only when he tried; if he dropped his hearing down to human-normal, everything went quiet, except the hum of electricity, the buzz of the lights, further into the Cave.
So he took a chance, reached forward and covered Bruce's shoulder with his hand. "Bruce, it's okay. It's okay, the bats aren't going to hurt us. Everything's fine."
Bruce huffed, gaze still sharp on the open canopy. But Clark put a little more pressure into his hand, a little more, and finally Bruce began to bend: relaxed, fractional, just enough to turn and look at Clark.
"It's okay," Clark said again, more softly. "Come on, it's all right."
And Bruce let out a long slow breath, and then—gave.
Turned for real, toward Clark, which meant the curve of his shoulder rolled out from under Clark's hand, and suddenly Clark's palm was splaying out across his chest instead. Dress shirt, because that was what Bruce had been wearing, and thankfully he hadn't figured out how to get it off and ditch it like the dress shoes; but Clark felt heat rise into his face anyway. He was already crowded up against the side of the Batmobile, the curving capsule shape of it, the seat under him—and Bruce was only moving closer, easing in over and beside him, between Clark and the control panels.
Which meant Clark had the seat under him, and the back of it against his side: the comfortable part.
He snorted, helpless, just a little, and shook his head. His eyes felt hot. "You just can't help it, can you," he murmured, curling his fingers, letting them twist themselves up in Bruce's shirt the way they wanted to. "Even like this. You're so goddamned stubborn."
Bruce couldn't understand him, obviously. But he didn't seem to mind. He was just watching Clark, Clark's mouth, uncomprehending but intent. And then he bent his head, and he was—he rubbed his face, his cheek, the line of his jaw, against Clark's arm; even through the suit, Clark could feel it, the faint prickling burn of stubble applied, and his breath caught in the back of his throat.
He didn't make Bruce stop. Bruce paused all by himself, as if resting like that, with his face against the back of Clark's wrist. And then he looked at Clark again, and shifted closer.
An inch at a time, torturous. He watched Clark while he did it, gaze flicking searchingly back and forth across Clark's face, as he settled gradually into place across the front of the seat, knees bumping Clark's, feet sneaking between Clark's booted ankles.
Clark didn't move, except to help; except to make room for him, where he could. And finally, it was—it was like they were kids, sharing a sleeping bag, heads tipped together in the dark. Bruce pushed his face against Clark's ear, and then into the side of Clark's throat, and Clark froze helplessly. It felt like some rare butterfly had just landed on his hand, like a stray scarred cat he'd been trying to coax closer for months had just climbed into his lap, and if he so much as breathed wrong, it would take off again.
But Bruce seemed satisfied. Pleased. He let out a long slow breath, rubbed his cheek against Clark's shoulder and then left it there, and shut his eyes—Clark couldn't see him, not at this angle, but it didn't matter. He could feel Bruce's eyelashes touching him, which was a sentence he had never expected to get to think in his life.
He lay there, stunned, staring up at the inside of the closed half of the Batmobile's canopy without seeing it. And Bruce, against him, relaxed by degrees, warm weight going gradually slack: he was falling asleep.
Falling asleep. Bruce hardly ever slept; as far as Clark could tell, he survived on ungodly amounts of coffee and sheer willpower. He never seemed groggy over League comms, no matter the hour of the day or night that an alert had gone off. Clark sure hadn't ever seen him asleep, never mind felt it.
But after about eighteen minutes, Bruce had gone absolutely boneless against Clark, bare toes twitching gently against Clark's bootheel, soft shallow breaths puffing out against the suit where it crossed Clark's collarbone. Dreaming, maybe.
Clark shut his eyes, swallowing. It was a good thing, Bruce asleep. And not just for Bruce. Because Clark was going to need as much time as he could get, if he was going to figure out how to fit his stupid raw bruised-up heart back into his chest before Bruce woke up and saw it like this: holding his hand closed in Bruce's shirt, pinning him so carefully still against and under Bruce's sleeping form—spilling itself all over his face.
The toxin took another hour and a half to wear off.
The first clue Clark had that it was happening was the way Bruce began to tense up. He didn't even really understand that that was what was going on, at first; he'd fallen asleep, too, somewhere in there, and he became aware that he felt warm, comfortable, and dimly confused. Something had changed, and he wanted it to go back the way it had been, so he could go to sleep again.
And then the world started to filter in around him properly. He understood where he was, that he was still lying on the broad curving front seat of the Batmobile but now he was on his back. That the solid steady weight across him was Bruce.
Bruce, unmoving. Holding himself conspicuously still, and very slightly away from Clark, to the degree it was possible.
Clark swallowed. He could almost have convinced himself that the toxin was still working, except—
Except that if the toxin were still working, Bruce would've woken Clark, if something had frightened him. Bruce wouldn't have hesitated to, wouldn't have tried to hide it or contain it, because he wouldn't have been able to. Because it wouldn't even have occurred to him to try.
It was an awful, cruel, selfish thing to think. But for a split second, Clark wished it hadn't worn off so fast.
He opened his eyes.
Bruce met them immediately. His face was composed, forming a mild but ultimately unreadable expression. "I—apologize if I woke you," he said; calm impersonal words, a faintly wry tone.
Clark swallowed, offered him what was probably only about a quarter of a smile. "You're all right, then," he managed, and helped Bruce lift himself up, shifted quickly out from under him. A sitting position, in what would've been the passenger side in any other car, though knowing Bruce the Batmobile could be piloted from either position, and Clark was—Clark needed to get a grip.
A sitting position. Safer, giving Bruce half the seat to himself, without any part of Clark touching him.
"Yes," Bruce said. "I'll have to perform a full medical workup to be sure. But I feel fine." He met Clark's eyes, and, so evenly and mildly that Clark knew it had to be incredibly difficult for him to say, he added, "Thank you."
Jesus. Clark bit down on the inside of his cheek. He needed to not do anything stupid. He needed to not make Bruce feel more self-conscious about any of this than he did already—
"It wasn't a hardship, Bruce."
Bruce wasn't looking at him anymore. All the carefully deliberate signals of warmth were gone from Bruce's face; without them, he looked impossibly far away, for all that he was literally within arm's reach.
"The toxin didn't wipe your memory, did it?" Clark pressed.
"No," Bruce agreed, tone colorless.
"So what exactly do you think you have to thank me for? Finding you? Making sure you didn't hurt yourself? Bringing you back here in one piece, and letting you rest—"
"You shouldn't have had to deal with that," Bruce said. "With—me, like that."
"With you like," Clark repeated blankly, but it wasn't going to make any more sense if he stuck the fourth word on, too. "Bruce, I'm grateful. I'm glad. I—you trusted me. Even when you couldn't talk, couldn't think, you trusted me. You were willing to stay with me."
He stopped, and shook his head, helpless. He didn't think he was going to be able to figure out how to explain it, not really, not in a way that was going to make Bruce understand exactly how much it meant to him. Not that he wanted Bruce to understand exactly how much it meant to him, he thought with grim amusement, because that would send Bruce sprinting in the opposite direction for sure. But he wouldn't mind being able to convey something in the ballpark of the right order of magnitude, at least.
He made himself look at Bruce again.
Bruce was staring at him.
"Willing to stay with you," Bruce repeated.
There really was an echo down here, Clark thought wryly.
And then Bruce's whole face changed, a sudden terrible awareness in it, and Clark almost wanted the unreadable blandness back.
"You thought I was going to be afraid of you."
Clark swallowed. "I know that you know you don't need to be, not anymore," he said. "But there's a difference between knowing it and feeling it."
Bruce looked at him a moment longer, strange and taut, suspended. And then it was like—it was like something in him gave way. Deliberate, now that he was himself again, in control, but he folded, elbows on his thighs, and rubbed a hand across his face. "Christ," he said, very softly. "Clark, I had no self-control, no restraint. My judgment, my ability to comprehend the meaning of my own actions and their consequences, was utterly gone. And what I did, what I wanted to do—"
He stopped. He was, Clark understood with a distant sense of astonishment, starting to flush, hot pink color rising up the line of his jaw and into his cheeks, his throat working.
"What I wanted to do," he ground out, "was drag you in here and shove my face into your shoulder and fall asleep."
"Well, I'm pretty sure you don't sleep enough," Clark said automatically.
But that was—the way Bruce was looking at him, the way Bruce had had to choke the words out, that meant something. Bruce thought it meant something, something he'd felt the need to apologize to Clark for, as if it were something he expected Clark to mind: that Bruce had wanted him there, had kept him close.
Clark bit his lip. "Bruce, you mean." He had to clear his throat. His heart was pounding. Fear toxin had nothing on this. "You mean you—"
He gave up on words, since they weren't getting him anywhere and he was almost out of them anyway, and reached out.
Six inches, but after having Bruce pressed against him so unselfconsciously, asleep, it felt like a mile. He crossed it anyway, set his hand against Bruce's chest—smoothed his fingertips up, over the wrinkled place where they'd been closed in the fabric before.
"I'm not afraid of you," Bruce said, as if that were the important part.
"Good," Clark said, breathless, inane, terrified, and then he leaned across the seat and drew Bruce in and kissed him.
Bruce didn't move, for a moment that felt endless. His mouth was soft, open, utterly still, under Clark's—and then he drew a sharp, startled breath, and his hands came up, gripped Clark's arm and shoulder, just the way he had when the toxin was working. Uncontrolled, unthinking, as if he wanted to do it, as if he were never going to let go; and he kissed back.