Work Text:
How to Confess Your Love to Your Best Friend (who also happens to be Batman)
Co-authored by Clark Kent
Part 1: Weighing the Situation
1. Take a step back. Be rational for a moment, and take stock of the situation. If you truly think that you are romantically in love with this person, you should tell them. However, it is important to consider the gravity of your words—ask yourself if there’s a realistic chance that they love you back.
Realistic? Well, you’ve never done realistic all that well anyway. The head and the heart, Gotham and Metropolis, shadow and light, yin and yang; that’s a role reserved for him, not you. The idealist. The optimist. Even so, you’re sharper than you look, more so when it comes to people you actually care about. You know your chances of success are practically zero.
But it’s been creeping up on you for a while now, this long-suppressed revelation, and with that mission—a mission resulting in his week-long coma—you’re not sure how long you can hold it in anymore. You both risk your lives everyday, him perhaps more so than anyone else; an agonisingly painful reminder of his mortality. Such strength yet such fragility. So smart yet so reckless.
Besides, practically zero isn’t zero; and even if it’s part of a facade, hope is what you do best, right? Right?
Right. Time to confess.
2. Consider how they will react. Think of your relationship with that person, and try to predict how they will receive your words. It makes you want to throw up just thinking about it. There’s a reason why you’ve shut up all these years, ruthlessly crushed all traces of anything even the slightest beyond platonic even as it went against everything you’d usually do—everything you wanted to do. It's taken years to form merely some semblance of a good relationship, let alone get to where the two of you are right now; to do this would mean a 99% chance of him sprinting in the other direction faster than the time Barry got caught with a porn magazine.
The thought alone makes something in your stomach twist, grow taut. Him and his stupid idiotic guilt complex. Him and his meticulously constructed skyscraper walls, solid iron and metres of reinforced concrete. Him and his doors full of a thousand different obstinate locks, each one of which you painstakingly coaxed and laughed through until you finally got to know the man beneath all the armour.
Shit, you can’t do this.
How are you supposed to live without your best friend? Your partner?
3. Try not to die. On the other hand, how are you supposed to live with him—at least like this? It’s getting almost physically excruciating, now. You just need to crack a stupid joke; see the sides of his eyes crinkle reluctantly, the near-unnoticeable quirk of his lips; and whoops, that’s it. You’re done for. Your heart is going doki-doki and who cares if you’re from Krypton and there’s no nearby Kryptonite because you’re having a heart attack and you should be used to it by now but you’re not.
It gets worse everyday. You see him grumble about his ten dozen kids—kids that he took in when they needed it—but you see the kindness, the fondness, and you fall a little bit more in love. Your love sharpens into a knife and drives right into the space between your ribs, just shy of shattering your heart completely.
…no. It’s okay. You can get through this. He can get through this. After all the both of you have been through, a bunch of useless dumb uncalled for feelings and a bucketful of awkwardness will be nothing.
Or at least it would be, if it weren’t Bruce allergic-to-vulnerability-emotionally-constipated Wayne you were talking about. Damn. You sigh and close your eyes. This is getting nowhere.
4. Ease into it. That’s right. That’s how you handled him at first, carefully selected words and perceptive actions. Testing the waters…
The Batcave is alight with a familiar cozy glow. “By the way, B…”
“Mm.”
“You- um, you look good.”
It’s 3am. He’s covered in blood from after one of his patrols; his hair is disheveled and not in the sexy way. There are eyebags under his eyes the size and colour of a black hole. Dirt and grime are splattered all over the front of his armour.
“Right.” Bruce raises an eyebrow.
“Really.” You hadn’t lied—he could be wearing a trash plastic bag and he would still look like the reincarnation of Adonis for all you could tell.
Meanwhile, he turns back to the monitors in front of him, words sarcastic but tone warm. “How overjoyed I am to receive praise from the one and only Man of Steel, boy scout of the century, Metropolis’ Golden Boy. Now, are you coming over to give me a hand or what?”
You shrug and comply; not without snarking back. This exchange didn’t exactly provide you with new information, though you got to hear him huff quietly in amusement.
You count that as a win anyway.
5. Lament to your Pulitzer-winning friend-slash-colleague-slash-ex. “Lois, please be ready with my last will and testament. I want a sky burial; or maybe just a normal grave.”
“Clark Kent, you’re being dramatic.”
“You’ve met him. Do you think I’m being dramatic?”
“...I’ll start making preparations.”
6. Stare at them for too long and then make eye contact with their butler when you get caught after they leave the room. “Master Kent-”
“Please don’t start, Alfred.”
There’s a silence, before he approaches you and places a hand on your shoulder; firm, reassuring, warm.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Not the easiest one to love, is he?”
“Alfred-”
“Thank you, Master Kent. Don’t worry. It’ll work out.”
You grab the hand on your shoulder and simply pull him in entirely for a hug. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. “You’re more a man than both of us, you know. Thank you .”
You both stay like that for a while. It’s something you didn’t know you needed, but you leave more resolute than ever.
7. Talk to their kids. “About Bruce-”
“HA!” Jason’s abrupt crow prompts you to fall silent as he holds out his hand to a sulking Tim. “Pay up, losers!”
“Ugh—c’mon, Clark, couldn’t you have waited a week more-”
8. Okay, maybe don’t talk to their kids. “You guys bet on this?”
“Not me,” says Damien, pulling a face. “I would never bet on Father’s love life.”
“I would,” says Dick.
“I would,” says Jason.
“I would,” says Tim.
“I would,” says Babs.
“I would,” says Cassandra.
“I wou-”
You hastily cut Stephanie off. “Alright. Goodbye.”
“We’re rooting for you!” Dick calls out excitedly to his retreating back.
9. Sign your death warran- uh, make up your mind. It’s late by the time you accompany him back to Wayne Manor. By the dancing flames of the fireplace, orange-yellow luminescence flickers over his sleeping features, battle-weary and handsome, lined with stories and scars and fatigue. You sit at the foot of the couch he’s lying on, chest aching fiercely with the almost visceral urge to reach out, trace the curve of his cheek with your fingertips, brush the strand of hair off his forehead, smoothen the crease forming between his brows.
But you don’t. You can’t. It’s a blessing and a curse; he so rarely allows himself to sleep in front of people, no matter how much he may need it. He trusts you enough to do this, and you just had to go fuck it up with your imbecile heart. Good job, Clark Kent.
This can’t go on. He deserves to know.
Thus, it’s then, a quiet moment after the end of another League mission—with moonlight out the window a shade of silvery-pearl and the crackling of the fireplace the only witness to this moment of intimacy—with two men who are battered and bruised and broken but have kept each other whole—that you finally lock in your decision.
Part 2: Setting the Scene
1. Choose a romantic setting. What are some common date locations? Try and find conducive environments and places the two of you can enjoy. The amusement park? No, he’s been dragged there one too many times by his kids already… A restaurant? Brucie I’m-a-billionaire Wayne has probably been to restaurants you can’t even hope to pay for with your kidneys… A picnic at the park? Somehow the image of Batman sitting on a picnic blanket and scowling while eating a sandwich does not inspire confidence…
A movie you do not even begin to consider. The mere notion of it triggers a wince so forceful you feel it down your spine. To drop such a bombshell on top of the emotional baggage of the experience—absolutely not. So where, then?
2. Give up on choosing a romantic setting. Come to think of it, you saw a museum the other day you wanted to bring him to. Would that be a good enough occasion? How about a fly over his beloved city Gotham, or would that be too much? Would he be put off by the reminder that, despite how you may look and act, you are alien—inhuman?
Ah… whatever. You can just pull him aside to confess the next time you see him.
3. Fail to confess the next time you see them. “Why, Mr Kent, I so rarely see you at one of my foundations.” He gives you an appreciative once-over, lingering and deliberate, and even though you know it’s staged, you can’t help but clear your throat.
“Ah—I happened to be sent here today by Perry.”
“Is that so?” He steps in close enough that the scent of musky cologne and a hint of salt and sweat, already heightened by your super senses, morphs even more vividly into sharpness. “A shame, really. I would’ve hoped you’d come to see me.”
You inch backwards ever-so-slightly. This man will be the death of you. That suit should be illegal on him—is it illegal yet? “If it helps, I was hoping to get a quote from you, yes.”
“A private one?” He leans just enough on the word ‘private’ for it to be suggestive. “I’m happy to oblige.”
“Mr Wayne,” you say chidingly; helpless as you catch the teasing glint in his eye. You can hardly confess like this. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Not when you know that smothered affection will drop to resentment and fear in the blink of an eye if you do.
Another time, then, you think as you half-flirt, half-banter back. Another time.
4. Listen to their heartbeat and get struck by inspiration. The both of you are on monitor duty—alone together. It’s the perfect time, but your tongue is tied and your lips are glued shut. Shit. You have no idea what to say. You can’t just up and drop a “‘sup B btw I love you please don’t move to Hawaii haha”. Or can you?
The tuning into a steady heartbeat you could recognise in his sleep is a balm washing over you. Your eyes flutter shut for a brief moment, relishing in the sound of life. Seriously, there’s no way you can say it to his face…
You’re too much of a coward.
Pathetic.
Superman wouldn’t be having this problem. But this is you, meagre little Clark Kent, and all you have to offer him is your bleeding heart on a platter, stitches and scars and cracks all over, barely held together in the form of a man, so how could you ever, to this brilliant man, brave and shrewd and so, so, caring?
You can’t. Not to his face. Never.
Wait. Not to his face?
5. Take the coward’s way out—text. Text? Or email? Or even a letter? No, text would be more convenient than email; he has enough work emails as it is. A letter… you like the idea, initially. It’s sweet and personal.
But it feels a little too open, exposed, and you get the feeling it won’t exactly help your case.
So, a text it is.
Bruce, you type, then backtrack. More familiar. B, I have something to tell you, promise me you won’t run for the hills like Usain Bolt after hearing it.
No.
B, I just wanted to say that you’re my best friend and I love-
Delete.
I love yo-
Absolutely not.
B, I know you’re not going to react well, let alone reciprocate the feelings of someone who isn’t even human, but-
No, no, no .
B—you know that you’re loved, right? You can’t see it, I know; but you’re the best man I’ve ever known and more. You think you’re callous, cold. You’re not. You hate yourself for your mistakes. I say it’s human; I say it’s made you who you are now—someone I wouldn’t change for the world. I would move mountains for you. I would fight the sun. I would catch the sky. I would seize the moon. I would offer you what little I have, these feeble wretched feelings you won’t accept. But you deserve it; you deserve happiness; you deserve, God, Bruce—you deserve everything—
You exit without sending and throw your phone towards the wall. The wall cracks. Your phone screen practically disintegrates. Plan C it is.
6. Plan out what to say. There’s no choice—you’re going to have to do it in person. Make sure you know what you want to say, but ultimately be aware that you have to let things run its course afterwards. Keep it short and simple so you don’t combust. “Bruce, I love you, don’t be pressured to react or reciprocate, these feelings will pass soon (they won’t), just thought you deserved to know, it doesn't have to change anything (it will).” You practice it in front of the mirror. There. That will do.
7. Invite them to the museum after all. “B, there’s this new Justice League exhibit in your favourite city, Metropolis. Want to check it out?”
“Oh, that’s bound to be fun.”
“No comment about the favourite city part?”
“Not when we’re in a manor located in your favourite city, Gotham.”
“Har de har har.”
With that, the scene is set. All that’s left is…
Part 3: Confessing Your Love
1. Draft up a mental legislation to make suits illegal. That navy blue should not work as well as it does with his fake moustache and glasses; the frame of the suit clinging in a way that screams subtle money, and muscle, and you are looking respectfully.
First at the real thing, then at the Batman statue with proportions that are just a little suspicious.
“Look at that,” you whisper behind your hand, not even bothering to stifle your snicker. “A few of your… assets sure have been emphasised.”
He folds his arms; corner of his mouth twitching. “Shall I bring up the statue behind you instead?”
You groan. He’s not wrong—Superman’s statue is equally bad, if not worse. At least Diana doesn’t have to go through it alone.
2. End up having so much fun that you conveniently ‘forget’ your main intention. “Hey B, did you know Batman is known for ‘teleporting to and from the shadows’? I think he’s a ninja.”
“Well, Clark, did you know Superman is known for his ‘handsome looks’? Truly, a marvelous achievement.”
“Not even sure Batman exists, to be honest. Maybe he’s all just one mass hallucination.”
“And you’d think that as someone voted ‘Sexiest Man of the Year’ by People’s magazine, Superman’s civilian identity would be crystal clear by now.”
“Indeed. Whoever could it be?”
3. Go for dinner afterwards and run out of excuses to tell yourself. At least he didn’t bring you to one of his fancy buffets. McDonald’s works out for you, even if it is an incongruent image to have a billionaire of all people placidly biting down on a chicken McNugget. This isn’t just any billionaire, though—it’s Bruce—hence it checks out.
You’re alone, you’ve just gone on what would’ve been an amazing date in the right context, and there’s nothing stopping you except your cowardice. It’s now or never.
4. Carry out your plan (or try to at least). “Bruce, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
He nods at you. “Go ahead, son.”
Bile rises in your throat, stinging in its acidity. “I-”
5. Get interrupted by your shared side job, involving the Justice League and world peace. Both your intercoms spring to life and you don’t know whether to cry out of relief or frustration. “There’s a dumpster to your 2 o’clock, no cameras or visible line of sight externally.” He meets your eyes, a flash of understanding stemming from years of partnership rendering verbal communication unnecessary.
You both suit up and fly to the required location in less than five minutes. You get there and immediately have to dodge a flying car. This is further proof that the universe hates you.
6. Save the world from a nuclear bomb. “Now that he’s apprehended, who’s up for some karaoke, eh?”
Hal claps Barry on the back. Diana looks thoughtful. The others exchange glances.
“Kal.” It’s Bruce, hovering near your back, heartbeat a constant thrum of reassurance in the background. “You wanted to say something just now?”
7. Chicken out. “...no, it’s nothing.”
“If you say so.” He doesn’t press it, but doesn’t look assuaged either.
8. Steel your nerves, pun intended. “Wait, no. It’s just-” You chance a glimpse at the others, who are doing a valiant if extremely shitty job of pretending they aren’t listening in.
Bruce understands. “I’m heading back to the Manor. Are you coming?”
9. Chicken out (again). “Uh… what about the karaoke-”
“You’re coming?” Hal brightens up. “Hell yeah, Supes, that’s the spirit! Diana? Arthur? J’onn?”
He doesn’t even bother to ask Batman, who predictably rolls his eyes and excuses himself. You gawp like a fish, deign to make an aborted motion to grab his cape before he can leave, but you’re glued to the spot; paralysed.
“Feel free to drop by later,” he murmurs to you before he leaves. “If you want.”
“I will,” you reply faintly, before bracing for your eardrums to go through what must be a form of medival torture.
10. Carry out your plan (or try to at least), part 2. When you fly into the manor, attempt not to stumble even if you feel like you’re walking into the lion’s den—or the bat’s cave, in this case. The look that Bruce gives you in response to your tortured grimace upon arriving is patently unsympathetic, if a wrong interpretation.
“What did you expect? Barely any of them can sing.”
“You can sing decently.”
“I wasn’t there now, was I? I don’t know why you always indulge them.”
“Says the one who asked me to fly them to Japan to get their kid that figurine they wanted.”
“Tim was being stubborn.”
“Like father, like son.”
“Very funny.”
You plaster a grin through the psychosomatic cramping in your stomach; it stays on even as Bruce sobers into seriousness. “So? You still haven’t told me what you wanted to say, Kal. Clark?”
Now that you’re in front of him, nothing else can possibly compare. It’s not the mirror you’re facing; it’s the damned man who’s seen you at your highest and your lowest, and vice versa. The man who’s been through heaven and hell together with you. His gaze is razor-edged, attention a focused intensity, and he looks beautiful. His brow is furrowed—cautious, almost worried; and that alone prompts you to take a step forward.
Yet all your words leave you, defenestrating out the window along with your dignity as you open your mouth and-
11. Royally fuck everything up, as you do. His eyelashes are even prettier up close, and you take a deep breath as you finally give in to the urge to skim your fingertips over his jaw, across the rough scrape of his stubble, knowing very well this will probably be the first and last time you ever have the privilege of indulging in this.
He, also predictably, stills under your touch. “Clark…?” The question comes out low, hoarse; bitter, almost. Slate grey eyes meet yours; there’s something—raw, almost—painful—flaring across his expression so swiftly you don’t catch it, before it levels back to unreadable.
I love you. Three simple words. Just say it. Tack on a bunch of platitude and reassurances after that to soften the blow. Just say it, Clark bloody Kent.
His bare skin is warm under yours; he hasn’t moved an inch, as though afraid of what might happen if he did.
“Bruce,” you begin, “I just,” and something in your brain must’ve short circuited because the next thing you know you’re kissing him.
12. ABORT MISSION. ABORT MISSION. This was not how it was supposed to go, shit, fuck—you skipped a hundred steps before this. You slide a hand into his hair and another around the nape of his neck, and— and there’s an air of finality in the kiss; not heated, but not chaste either, lasting one heart-wrenching, time-stopping, chest-throbbing moment of bliss, the split second prefacing waking from an ethereal dream.
Bruce still hasn’t moved.
With that one kiss, you are flayed open—tortured, tormented, wretched—every inch of you his for the taking.
He knows. He can’t not.
You’ve poured your love into the kiss. The words you couldn’t say; now you’re praying helplessly for salvation, for the mutual wordless understanding you’ve both cultivated all these years to not fail you now. You don’t think you can handle having to repeat your sentiments aloud after that.
They say your only weakness is Kryptonite, but it's not. You may have all the power of Superman—but with Bruce, you’re defenceless.
13. Watch them leave and don’t stop them. When you break away Bruce retreats back with every inch of his body lined with tension, confusion, something that edges strangely close to wariness. There’s something uncharacteristically vulnerable on his face, frozen with shock and disbelief; this time he doesn’t smoothen it out—whether he can’t or isn’t aware of it in the first place, you don’t know. “What was that for?”
You laugh; artificial and bitter. You don’t have to wait around for the answer you already know is coming; you see it in his body language, the rigid strain of his coiled muscles, ready to fight or flight the way it is before battle.
“Don’t make me say it aloud.”
“No,” he says, and you’re taken aback by his vehemence. “Say it.”
“Bruce-”
“Clark.” You’re getting concerned now; he looks more and more anguished by the second. “Say it.”
There’s frustration building up in your throat, panic and anxiety all packaged into one. “Bruce, please. I don't— I just—”
You don't finish, and all at once, whatever was on his face is wiped off, gone without a trace, back into an even-tempered poise. “I see.” He sucks in a deep breath, eyes closing. For once, you hear his carefully-controlled heartbeat pounding frantically, rattling against his bones, and it’s all your fault. Then, a blink—in his typical Batman way, he’s gone.
14. Get hit by a healthy wave of self-loathing. You were right. Your predictions were right. You were expecting this. You were, but it doesn’t soften the blow even the slightest bit. In a flash, you’re out of the Manor and in the Fortress of Solitude, falling to your knees, breath coming out in heaving pants. That’s it, then. He’s out of your life. You’ll still see him around, but it’ll be with one mask or the other—the way it was all those years ago—all because you had to go mess it up.
You’ve confessed your love. Maybe not explicitly, but you have; and so that’s it. Bruce had the grace to not spell it out, but you’ve been rejected—perhaps it was the last mercy he was granting as your best friend.
That- that infuriating man. Of course his first instinct was to up and leave. You hate him. You hate him. You hate him, but you love him so much.
And so you curl up, head buried in your arms, blink back tears, and wonder how you're going to continue living.
?: Community Q&A
Question
Soooo… I’m guessing this was before Bruce went through a solid week of an existential crisis at the back of the Batcave, got his act together when all of us told him off, dragged you out to properly communicate, then kissed you back?
Clark Kent
Journalist
Expert answer
Yes. And Dick? Alfred wants you back for dinner by 9.