Archive of Our Own

Superman tries his best to always, without fail, be human. 

Which isn't always an easy task. It was easier as Clark sure; a human man with a human job and human interests, but the world needed Superman, who definitely was not human. In those moments he shed his outer layers, the polite meek layers of a small-town man doing his best in the big city and became something else entirely—something inhuman; Kryptonian. 

It's why Kal likes being Clark. Clark Kent is human in every way. No one looked at Clark like a switch may go off in his head and suddenly he would turn on humanity and rip it apart to fit his own sick desires. At worst, people looked at Clark with suspicion– suspicion that something dumb they say might make it into the news. Clark is normal, comfortable and most importantly not a threat to the world at large. 

In those first few months of being Superman proper, there are theories thrown around; maybe he's a supercharged metahuman? Some sort of government experiment? Clark Kent writes about them all of course, with a positive spin just to help his public image. But soon the public settles, and the Government reconciles that yes, maybe Superman doesn't have an ulterior motive and he is here just to help. 

It's not as if there aren't any other superheroes in the world. Superman just happens to be stronger than most, though even that he tries to tone down. 

His survival depends on it. 

1. Introduce yourself to the locals!

He meets Batman completely by mistake but Kal is excited anyway. 

That is to say, he hadn't been expecting to follow the creature this far. He hadn't even noticed when he passed into Gotham, but all these massive cities looked the same. But the weird slime monster (maybe it's goop? What is the difference even?) is moving faster than your average perp with a lot less of the damage. As it's from rolls, it moves over or through objects, picking up a few items here or there. The few humans it's picked up, Superman has swooped down, removed from the slime and placed back where whence they came. The items it's grabbing aren't targeted– just bits and bobs from the road as it continues on its way. No amount of physical violence seems to stop the thing either.

In short, Superman was stuck. 

“Gotham has a pretty strict no metahuman policy, you know.”

Kal whips around to find a shadow in the spired of the building he's next to. Slowly those shadows morph into something a little more human. 

“I know you,” Superman barks, suddenly very thankful for the wondering blob he's been tailing for miles now, “Batman right? You stopped some Jester dude from poisoning the water supply.”

The man behind the cowl nods once sharply. His lips are pressed into a firm frown, displeasure radiating off of his shoulders in waves. 

“Sorry,” Superman says, then rubs the back of his neck. Human, normal, see? “This one is mine, kinda just… wandered over. I'll ah, figure this out then I'll be on my way.”

“You let it get this far?” Batman grumbles, as he too watches the thing lumber through the streets. 

“I tried putting it in a shipping container. But it just slips through the cracks. Was gonna try and dilute it in water next,” He shrugs.

The thing has slowly wedged itself into an alley, preoccupied with something in a dumpster. Superman watches and questions for a moment. But it's long enough for Batman to throw something across the street and into the side of the slime. A small red light flashes once, twice thrice then the small apparatus explodes, fragmenting the blob all over the alley walls. Finally, it stops moving. 

“Oh,” Superman says. 

“Now get out of Gotham,” Batman huffs. 

“Is there a place where that metahuman policy is written?” Kal asks. But the moment he turns to look for the shadowed figure, he's gone. 

“I meant to ask if that applies to aliens?” Kal says out loud, but there's no one there to hear him. 

2. Get to know the locals and make friends!

Things change when the Justice League is formed. Of course, the banishment from Gotham doesn't change, but at least now Batman will talk to him. 

If only just. 

He takes his time with each of them when they start to settle in. He memorizes every heartbeat, every creak and groan of their skeletal structure, every smell, and every unique scar. Kal tells himself that they all must be doing the same in some capacity. If there was any threat here on Earth that could take them down, it was each other. 

He takes his most time with Batman and he's not entirely sure why. Maybe it's all the man's intricacies. There's a layer of cologne made with ambergris under the grungy oil smell of his equipment and under that is a layer of sweat and natural musk. His bones creak more than most, with a distinct metal noise coming from somewhere in his spine. It's enough to make Superman question exactly what the Batman was if he had metal rods in his back and a few joints that sounded like gravel. But his heart is strong; stronger than most adult men. It didn't beat far too fast like the Flash’s or precisely normal like Green Lantern’s. It was loud, determined, and easy to differentiate. 

It was comforting, in a way. 

“You're hovering,” Batman would hiss at him and Clark would simply smile and take a step back like he hadn't just been sniffing the man or trying to catch the rhythm of his heart. His human heart. 

It didn't take long for Kal to realize that's exactly what Batman was; completely and utterly human. There's no meta about him. It was amazing really that a completely normal human was keeping up with the superhumans and Aliens that made up the team. It was inspiring really, that despite being the physically weakest of them by several measures he was still somehow one of the strongest overall. And all Kall wants to do about it is sit and listen to the man's heartbeat. Is that too much to ask?

He wonders idly if that's how Kryptonians tended to identify one another; by smell and sound. He doesn't have anyone to ask, so he lets the thought pass just as quickly as it arrives. 

Then he thinks about how Batman might taste if he could divide up every single chemical compound on his skin– if different parts of his body tasted different–

Then that train of thought too is shut down. 

“You're hovering,” Batman hisses at him again. 

They're on monitor duty. There's no need for his chair to be this close to the bat, but he smells different today and it's bothering Kal. It's the cologne, he's pinpointed that it's different but not exactly how. Maybe the formulas changed? Impossible to say now that he's scooted away. 

“Sorry,” Superman smiles. Maybe it's the ambergris? Has the company changed to synthetic stuff?

Batman is quiet for a beat but then he's glaring back at Kal over his shoulder. His lip isn't curled but it's a close thing. “Why do you do that?” Batman hisses. 

Superman blinks, then tries to think of a completely human answer to that question. Heartbeats and scents aren't exactly friendly human identification. When he can't think of a good excuse he shrugs. 

“You're lying,” Batman accuses, just short of actually pointing a finger at him, “Don't give me that shit. What is it?”

“I… uh…” Superman starts, then decides a half-truth is better than a lie, “Your cologne. It changed.”

“...What?”

Kal swallows, then shifts his hips back and forth in his seat, “They’ve maybe changed one of the active ingredients? Not sure. I was just trying to figure it out.”

“... you loom over me like a hungry predator because you like the smell of my cologne?” Batman asks, this time physically turning his chair. 

“I don't loom,” Kal finds himself defending, “And I'm not a predator. It's just your cologne changed. And I got curious.”

I'm human. He wants to add. But that's a lie, and when compared to Batman there's nothing about him that's human in the slightest. 

“You loom. Stop it,” Batman snaps, and turns away. Conversation over. 

Kal doesn't even try to argue. He simply takes another step back and makes a mental note that this, two paces away is what Batman likes, and he will respect that.

He does catch the way Bats tries to take a subtle sniff of himself. It's somehow endearing. 

3. Do your best to mimic human behaviour to set your friends at ease.

Superman eats because the Justice League does. 

Of course, because he metabolizes the radiation from Earth's sun he doesn't need to consume calories.  But eating is a human activity that humans partake in a couple of times a day, so in order to seem human, Kal picks up one of the doughnuts that Barry has brought to the meeting. His eyes, of course, fall on Batman as he chews and swallows. He's learned somewhere along the way that one doughnut is appropriate, two an indulgence as opposed to something like potatoes which could be eaten in an inordinate amount at any time. 

It's not even that he doesn't like eating, but when you didn't need to you tended to forget until you were in a room full of other people eating. It had been different back home when Ma made meals every day three times a day. But then he had moved to Metropolis and at some point he had just fallen out of the habit. 

Yet despite chewing the doughnut a normal amount of times, and swallowing every bite, Batman is still watching– waiting for him to slip up. 

“So…” Flash hums from his seat, “You called us here because…?”

“We’re starting a night watch,” Batman announces. 

From across the table, the Green Lantern groans. 

Batman continues, “We were lucky last time. We all happen to be located within a continent of one another, if Superman didn't happen to be awake we wouldn't have seen the invasion coming until too late. So, until I can get a proximity alarm for our solar system up and running we will be taking turns on nightly monitor duty.”

No need , Superman thinks, because well, he doesn't sleep. But then Batman is looking at him again, expecting some sort of objection so he says nothing. Normal humans sleep, therefore Superman must also sleep once a day for eight hours. 

The team groans, but it's necessary so there aren't any real interjections. 

The first few shifts go fine. 

There are hiccups of course. Barry always forgets to bring enough snacks and sneaks out occasionally. Hal falls asleep once or twice, much to Batman's ire.

Then, one night Clark finds Batman there alone, looking a little worse for wear. 

He can smell the melatonin in Batman's brain, how his body is positively oozing with the stuff. It's been building up there for a while now, perhaps days and has had nowhere to filter. The man needs sleep, desperately. The smell is so strong it permeates his skin and sits on him like a film, glossy and sweet. He must have been up for what? Days now?

“You know,” Kal says as he draws closer to the command console, “I could take over for you tonight.”

Batman grumbles something, though even with his super hearing there isn't much to decipher. It's just grumbling nonsense. 

“Okay big guy,” Kal hummed, “I know it's your turn but it's alright. Here–”

He's in and out of the room in an instant, returning with a blanket from one of the suites down the hall. When he drapes it over the man’s shoulders he doesn't resist, but the glare he gives is enough of a warning. 

Kal smiles. Batman’s nose crinkles up in agitation but there's no energy left in him for a real fight. He looks more like an angry puppy- baring his teeth with no real threat behind it. It's all the more endearing. 

Maybe if Kal wasn't a terrifying alien invader, maybe if he didn't terrify anyone he got close to, then maybe they could do this more often, without the need for one of them to be halfway comatose. 

The chair squeaks across the floor as Kal pulls it up next to his begrudging partner. Lightly, he takes one of the fins on Batman's cowl, and slowly lowers his head to the table. Finally, the man rests. 

“You can pretend this is all a bad dream tomorrow,” Kal assures because he knows Batman well enough by now to know he would never accept this help unless he was in dire straits. 

Batman closes his eyes, and at long last grumbles something comprehensible, “No one told me having a kid would be so much work.”

Kal blinks dumbly. 

Kid? Was Batman married?

“I've heard that's pretty normal for a child,” Kal assures, “it would be easier if you slept regularly.”

“League, Gotham, Kid, work. No time to sleep,” he yawns and slowly lets his eyes close. 

If Batman realizes that Kal changes the monitor schedule, changing every one of his rotations to Superman, he doesn't say anything. 

It's a decent way to pass time at night, Kal rationalizes. He only takes the extra shift to pass the time. It's not affection– a man like Batman would never accept affection like that. 

4. Be vulnerable! Humans are much more likely to relax if they know you're not an immortal God.

There are moments when Superman can't hide what he is. 

And what he is, right now, is impaled. 

The rest of the Justice League is close, not too far away from where he's been thrown and impaled on some foreign alien material. It isn't Kryptonite, but something that can get through his skin and the densest part of his body.  He isn't dead, of course, his heart and lungs function differently than that of a human so even if they are severely damaged he's got some time before the lack of pulse or breathing causes any issues. 

What he can't stand is the pain. 

Any time he's been in pain, true, nauseating spikes of pain his life has been in danger. The presence of it means imminent death, even if logically he knows that he's not about to die. He feels like he's dying, and any control he has is gone with it. All of his muscles are firing on all cylinders, he can hear a pin drop on Mars, and he's aware of everything occurring in the battle around him. 

Distantly, he can hear himself roaring as his fingers dig into and crack the spike he's impaled on. It gives way just enough for a handhold to form, enough of a divet for him to start pulling himself off the thing. He screams. Every cell in his body screams. The fear makes his blood flow easily from the massive hole in his chest, pumping out of him in waves that should be fatal for a human, super-powered or not. Distantly, he feels eyes on him, but self-preservation wins out, and slowly he climbs. The pain rules all in that moment, the need to live, to breathe, to eat, to sleep, to somehow convince himself he's still alive, wins. 

He throws his other hand, creates another handhold, and pulls. He's still screaming. His eyes burn. His breath is cold. There's no air in his lungs but still, he screams. His vocal cords vibrate all on their own, air or not. 

It takes several more pulls through his arms and shoulders, but he hoists himself off the spire and away from death. There's no strength left in him to catch his fall, so he lands in a heap, throwing dust around him when he lands. The fibres of his lungs and heart slowly begin to weave together once again. His cells divide and knit back together, refreshing his entire respiratory and cardiovascular system all at once. The pain stops. The screaming stops. 

He takes exactly one breath, and he's back on his feet again, ready to fight again. Now that the pain is gone, the fear is gone too, and Superman is good as new, save for the massive hole in his costume. 

But when his eyes lift from the ground, he finds an interloper. 

Batman. 

Batman is staring at him and Kal can tell he saw everything. 

His heart is beating too fast– fast like Flash’s. It's wrong coming from a strong heart like his. 

Superman raises a hand and holds it up like it might calm his friend down, “Hey. It's okay. I'm good.”

Batman stares. 

“I didn't mean to freak out like that, promise,” Superman turns up the smile, and laughs, “Just ah– just– You know how it is.”

He won't stop staring. His heart won't calm.

“It’s okay, Bats,” Kal falters. The corners of his mouth won't pull up the whole way. His face feels stiff, “I’m fine. It's fine.”

He takes a step forward. 

Batman takes a step back. 

Oh. Oh no.

“What the fuck… what are you?” Batman asks the open battlefield. 

Kal is almost glad that a bomb goes off right at that moment. By the time the dust has settled, he's already flown off, far away from the threat that is Batman. 

5. Be nice. No one likes an evil invader. 

It's again, completely by accident, that he discovers Batman's civilian identity. 

It starts as most things do, with an investigation for a new piece. The higher-ups want something about some philanthropist in Gotham. Clark immediately lets Lois take the piece and thinks nothing more of it. He hasn't broken the ‘no metahumans in Gotham rule’ since the slime incident and he isn't going to start now. Batman already isn't fond of him and he's not about to give him a reason to become an enemy. 

When Percy wants him to take the piece it should be exciting. He should be bouncing off the walls with the prospect of an exclusive interview with Gotham's darling Bruce Wayne. It's for some sort of charity work he's doing– but that's unimportant. Superman isn't exactly allowed in Gotham and Clark isn't exactly sure how far that rule extends into his personal life. If Batman found out he had sneaked in would he be mad? Take more drastic measures? 

He tells Percy no, and suggests maybe Lois will take the story. He sends a text to Lois under his table at the same time, begging her to agree. 

“No can do Clark,” Percy hums, “Bruce Wayne has a reputation with women, it better we send someone less… seducible.”

Which is true, the reputation part. Lois knew well how to use that sort of predilection to her advantage. But it's a no-go. This is Clark’s story whether he likes it or not. 

It takes weeks to convince Bruce's team that the interview should be held in Metropolis. Then he has to wait another week on top of that so Mr. Wayne can get a few things done in the city all at once on the same day. But somehow by the grace of whatever God is out there, he manages to set up time for a sit down in a city he isn't banned from setting foot in. It wasn't easy and Clark never wants to do it again, but he's pulled it off somehow. 

That hard-won resolve crumbles the moment Bruce Wayne enters the conference room. 

The familiarity is bone deep; past the expensive suit and finely manicured appearance. The smells aren't different, just remixed into a new configuration. The expensive cologne is sharper now, freshly applied and overpowering. The smell of motor oil and Kevlar is still there, just muted and distant. But the sound of a strong heart and metal pins is distinct. 

This is Batman. 

Bruce holds his hand out across the table and shakes Clark's hand professionally. 

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark says and can't help but beam. It's almost too perfect. 

Perhaps all that struggling had been worth it?

“Please, call me Bruce. And you must be Clark,” Batman says in a very non-batman way. His voice is lighter and less throaty. 

Clark can't help himself. He chuckles, “At your service. I hope you found the Building alright?”

The smile Bruce gives him is blinding. He's suddenly letting out a little amused puff of air himself. He rolls his eyes dramatically, “The building sure. But parking? My chauffeur is still circling the block trying to find a space. Did we have to meet downtown?”

The questions Clark asks aren't the ones he wants to but he stays on topic. He wonders about his son since Bruce Wayne is not a married man. He wonders about the insane work-life balance demanded of a man like Bruce. He almost brings up the chronic lack of sleep, and how that must wear on him like a greater. 

But he stays on topic, out of respect mostly. 

“So Mr. Wayne–”

“Bruce.”

“Bruce. Tell me about this new project in downtown Gotham.”

6. Be helpful, Humans are pretty weak overall; sometimes they just need a little help!

Oil rig missions always sucked. 

Not only were thousands of gallons of oil spilling into the ocean but people were dying, things were exploding and Superman always without fail somehow got dunked in the freezing, salty ocean only for a steel beam to fall on top of him. 

Every. Single. Time. 

Kal hated oil rigs. 

Kal hated steel beams. 

Kal hated the stupid smug smirk Batman gave him every time he dragged his soggy ass out of the ocean and back onto the jet. 

“Felt like going for a dip? We're damned near the Arctic, Superman.” Batman chides.

“Oh you know, after that third explosion I thought I might as well cool off,” Kal sighed, tilting his head and smacking his ear trying to drain it. After a third smack, the pressure finally let go and noises didn't sound so garbled, “Did everyone make it out okay?”

“Surprisingly yes,” Batman hums. When he steps forward, he holds a towel up and then throws it lightly over Superman's head, “there's a dry suit waiting for you upstairs.”

“And a warm shower?” Kal smiles hopefully but already knows there's no shower stall on Batman’s jet. But a man can dream. 

“Keep wishing,” Batman hums. 

Everyone has been evacuated to a Coast Guard or emergency response ship by the time Superman has died off and wandered to the front of the jet. There's no reason for him to sit on board when he could be back at the league headquarters before the rest of them have even left the area. But there's something nice about sitting with Bruce after a job well done that he finds calming. 

“Where is everyone?” Kal asks the moment his head count comes up about five people short. It's just him and Batman here. Spooky. 

“I sent them home ahead of us,” Bruce says. He sits down in the pilot seat and takes hold of the controls. His muscles are tense, and Kal can see the fibres of them pulling tighter than needed to move the controls. 

“That explains the bat jet,” He hums, watching closely. He only lets his attention flatter for a moment, just enough time to watch the sea start to drift away as they take off. He takes a deep breath, “Am… I in trouble?”

“I'm not your father, Superman,” Batman deadpans. 

“But you're like… team dad,” Clark says slowly, testing the waters with every syllable. The adds, “That is to say, if anyone was going to try and lecture me, it would be you.”

Batman's grip on the controls doesn't loosen. His muscles don't relax any. It makes Clark second guess himself; had something gone wrong on the mission?

“... You shouldn't be so reckless. Someone could have been hurt out there. Flying that fast around civilians can cause damage– the G-forces themselves are the issue. A few workers passed out.” he finally says, then resets his jaw. 

“So this is a lecture then,” Kal says. He sits back in his chair. His shoulders almost don't fit within the back, but the squeeze is nice. 

Bruce’s fingers twitch, “It's friendly teammate advice. I'm not lecturing you.”

Ah, Kal finally puts all the pieces together. 

“I wouldn't be mad if you were,” Kal offers, not looking at Batman, but listening; waiting, “You chew out Flash and Green Lantern enough. I could stand to take a verbal lashing from time to time.”

A silent moment passes between them both. 

“But if I was mad, I'd complain about it in the break room. ‘Man, Bats is riding my ass now too’ I'd say. ‘what an asshole’,” Kal continues. The silent part goes unsaid; I wouldn't take it out on you. I wouldn't attack just because you were right and I was wrong. “I wouldn't complain if you were right. I just didn't know the G-forces of flying could make people pass out like that. I thought they were scared.”

“Humans have weaker hearts than you, Superman. The blood gets pushed out of the brain at a high enough speed. It happens with Flash too, except they're usually out of his arms faster than yours,” Batman continues. At long last, the muscles in his body are squeaking with the strain. 

“Oh,” Kal crirps, “Okay. I'll be more careful. Is there like a speed limit or…?”

“Slow down around the curves and you'll be fine.”

7. Keep calm. You're big and scary; sometimes humans react poorly to that combination. Stay calm, and reassure them you are not a threat. 

As much as Superman pretends to be human, he knows deep down he isn't. 

That's why the human act is important. If at any point he becomes that Alien monster Lex Luthor wants him to be, there will be no going back. It's as much of a defence mechanism as it is simply part of his upbringing. To be human is to be safe from the Xenophobic crazies out there, ready to exile or kill him for any small slip-up just because he wasn't born here. 

Because he isn't human. 

That doesn't make it hurt any less when he finds Wayne Industries purchasing something from Lex Luthor. He's sure he knows precisely what the 1-foot by 1-foot box contains as it's shipped out of Metropolis to Gotham by armoured courier. But there isn't much he can do to stop it. At best all he can do is follow, eyes locked onto the truck as it passes over the bridge into Gotham. 

He wants to scream at Bruce, wants to grab his shoulders and shake the man out of this insanity. They were friends. Surely this was overkill? Surely he didn't see Superman as this much of a threat? What had he ever done?

He's eaten like a normal human, and slept like one! He's played nice at every turn, given in to any demands made of him. 

Yet still, somehow, he's made himself a threat to those close to him. 

And the worst part was, he wasn't even sure how. 

It had to have been the regeneration incident. It has to have been the blood, the anger and the screaming. When Bruce had learned exactly how hard he was to kill something must have clicked in him. Something that said Kal was a threat.

Was… was Bruce a threat?

Lex Luthor was a threat. And Kal didn't want to make a habit of making powerful rich men his enemies. Something told him Bruce Wayne would be much more of a threat than Lex could ever imagine. 

And now Bruce had Kryptonite in his grasp. 

And all Kal-El could do about it was wait. 

8. Run from conflict. Do not engage if your Humans decide violence Is the answer. 

The noise that escapes Kal is not at all human. It comes from a lower place in his chest, deep in a place where no vocal chords lay but is loud enough to be heard on the camera pointed directly in his face. The noise erupts from him again; a sharp cry like a wounded animal tears through his chest, the force of it making him stagger on the doorstep. He rings the doorbell again. 

If he could, he would just break down the door and tear his way into the mansion. But as it stands, he doesn't have the power to do much of anything. His torso is torn open on the side, green flecks of kryptonite twinkling through the blood and gore like stars in the night. Each minuscule fleck tears a hole in him stops his cells from replicating and prevents him from exercising any more force against the door than that of a small child. 

He's not even sure how he got here. With this much buckshot Kryptonite peppering his skin, he shouldn't be able to move it all. 

Kal cries out again, louder this time, praying it makes it through the old oak doors to someone who can hear him. 

At last, the light above his head flicks on, cutting through the night and signalling salvation. A moment later the Grand oak door groans open, and a polite-looking older man opens the door. 

It's not Batman– not Bruce, and Kal’s heckles rise at the stranger. His lip curls and the low cry coming from his chest morphs into a clicking noise as he forces two pieces of cartilage together in his chest. The man, perhaps wiser than first anticipated or driven by a more primal instinct in front of a predator retreats inside and slams the door behind him. 

But the light doesn't turn off, so Kal stands and waits. 

This time when the door opens, he's greeted by a familiar face. Superman can't hear his heartbeat right now, nor smell the distinct combination that made up Bruce’s identity but it's him. His eyes are wide, his jaw slack and his shoulders raised. 

Kal takes a weary step forward, places a hand on the door and croons at Bruce in that low, animalistic tone. 

“How did– Superman what–” Bruce fumbles and takes a step back. His eyes dart behind him, looking for something before they're back on Superman. 

“Alfred!” Bruce calls, eyes locked now on the gaping hole in Kal’s side. His gaze has turned dark and sharp– much more Batman than Bruce Wayne. 

The strange man is back then, and Kal summons the strength to click and hiss at him. 

Bruce stands in front of the man, and Kal shuts up. 

“Bring the car around,” Bruce orders the butler, “We need to get him to the hospital.”

Kal manages another step, slamming the palm of his hand against the door with no more force than the average human could, perhaps weaker if possible. 

“No,” Kal keens. When he takes another step he trips over the stoop and stumbles into the foyer, somehow still upright. 

Bruce takes a step back. 

“Help? Bats?” Kal tries. He's getting blood on the carpet. That's probably pretty rude of him. 

Bruce's lip curls and his eyes turn harsh. The shadows on his face make him a predator in his own right. 

“Alfred,” Bruce says, tone measured and sharp, “Take our guest downstairs.”

With a soft squeak, Kal permits Alfred under his good arm. Bruce slinks himself under the bad one and lifts enough to slowly manage steps forward, deeper into the mansion. With weary steps, they start down the labyrinth that makes up the Wayne mansion. 

The whole house smells like Bruce or pieces of Bruce. It's a shame to leave a trail of blood as they walk, tainting the whole building with his smell. But there's more here; Alfred has his distinct scent, but there's another human here– a sweeter-smelling one, without the cover of a cologne or Perfume. 

“Bruce? Alfred?” The other scent says, coming around the corner, “Dinner is getting cold what is going–”

It's a teenager; with dark hair and a fair complexion. He smells like the same motor oil and metal that Bruce does, but that's where the similarities stop. He froze in an archway, eyes locked on the mess of Superman's frame. There's no need to defend against a child, especially one who smells so easily of fear at the sight of a little blood. 

“Get back to the dining room, Dick” Bruce orders, as they pass him. 

“Is that… Superman?” The boy marvels, fear slowly giving way to curiosity. 

“No,” Bruce blatantly lies. But then they turn another corner, and the small spawn is left behind. 

They make it to an elevator. When they enter, Alfred presses a button and slowly they start their descent. The sensation makes Kal want to vomit, but he doesn't in an attempt to retain some decorum, given the situation. 

Then, Batman emerges from the depths of Bruce Wayne. His brow furrows, and he only looks at Kal from the side, his attention completely forward. 

“How long have you known?” Batman asks. The question rattles around the enclosed space of the elevator like a physical ball, bouncing around just to punch Kal in the gut. 

“A while,” Kal admits. His stomach rolls, threatening to purge everything and anything from inside him, “You smell like Kevlar and ambergris. Your heart is strong. The metal pins in your back grind when you walk. I recognized you.”

“So we've met,” Batman says. The doors of the elevator open, and the damp smell of sediment fills the air. 

“Yes,” Superman breathes out. His lungs burn when he tries to inhale, “I knew it was you the moment you entered the room, Bats.”

They're in a cave. 

The two men walk him around the computers, workstations and vehicles. In the very back of it all is a stainless steel table. There are medical instruments not too far away on a sliding tray that's balanced delicately on a level portion of the cave floor. Right now, it is all they will need. With the Kryptonite so far embedded inside him, a normal knife would cut it out just fine. 

Bruce dumps him on the table. Alfred helps him lay down. 

“This is my house,” Batman hisses, walking out of view for just a moment. Then he's back with a rolling chair, “You came to my house, my sanctuary. I have a child Kal– do you understand the danger we are in because of you–”

With a shaking breath, Kal tries to be human in that moment. He tries to remember his manners and summon the ball of joy that is Clark Kent from deep within his gut. But he isn't there right now. Pain keeps him hidden, keeps the calculating Kal up front, assessing every danger and searching for safety. You're dying, the pain screams at him, you're dying. Who cares what this pathetic human thinks? You are dying and he can't see that–

Batman wouldn't let him die. He has to believe that. 

“I don’t know how to get it out,” Kal croaks, eyes searching for anything and everything he can use to his advantage, “It burns. I can't touch it, can't–”

“I told you– I told you you weren't allowed in Gotham! I was having dinner Kal, and your ass just had to ruin a good meal huh? In a city you're not even supposed to be in,” Bruce hisses. He picks up a pair of tweezers and hands them to Alfred. He picks up a scalpel next, examines it, then examines Superman's wound. 

Kal shuts his eyes, “I’ll cut. Don't worry, I'll cut real easy now.”

“You’re an idiot. You're a reckless idiot. You came to my house, Kal. My house. I have a family here–” Bruce jabs the knife around one of the kryptonite slivers with more force than needed, “and you know who I am and said nothing. You’re just full of surprises today, hm? I should grab my own Kryptonite and just get rid of you–”

It's automatic. Kal can't help himself. 

He wraps his fingers in the collar of Bruce’s shirt and pulls him down, face to face. Every breath he takes is a fire in his lungs. Every beat of his heart is a stab to the chest. The pain tells him he is dying and this man, this human– a pathetic weak human, is taking advantage of his weakness. 

He tosses Bruce. 

It's a swift movement to yank his body up and over his own, then dump him beside Alfred. He's sat up next, ignoring the pain in his side as much as possible as he reaches desperately for the metal tray. 

The scalpel he grabs is larger than the one Bruce was using, but precision doesn't entirely matter. He struggles to his feet the moment he stabs the knife into his side and starts rummaging around for the small fractals clinging to his flesh. 

He grinds and clicks the cartilage in his chest; as loud of a warning as he can manage and a pant-groans escape his lips. 

He gets one sliver out, then goes for the next but only manages to slice through the delicate muscles on the outside of his rib cage. His hands are too weak, they shake too much. Kal goes on again, this time using both hands to dig the knife in deeper, past the rib of his bone and into the bottom of his lungs where he's sure a piece of the kryptonite is lodged in the lower lobe. He digs the knife around, feeling blind–

There's a noise behind him. Kal takes two steps away from the noise and then leaves the knife lodged in his side. 

It is not safe here , the Pain reminds him, you are dying. 

“Woah– okay Woah Superman–”

Someone is talking. Someone familiar. 

He could still make it out of here alive if he got the Kryptonite out of his organs, even if there were more men with more weapons. The spawn– the spawn upstairs. He could use the offspring to shield himself as he escaped– humans were so attached to their offspring surely that would stop them–

He takes a few steps back towards the door. He could survive this. If he just held on a little longer–

“Kal-El!”

Kal stops, hand returning to the knife in his side. He looks over his shoulder just enough to smell the familiar man. 

Kevlar and expensive cologne. Motor oil and sweat. 

A strong heart and metal pins. 

Bruce has his hands up as he approaches slowly. His eyes are locked onto Kal's, searching for any indication he might try to dart again. 

“I'm sorry,” He says, taking another small step forward. His hands are still raised, “You in there, Superman?”

He is, barely. He blinks at the man, legs wobbling slightly. He's losing too much blood. 

He lets Bruce approach, even putting a hand on his arm. The touch is reassuring, even if the threat Batman poses is still all too real. Kal bites back a snarl and reminds himself that Batman is safe, if only because Superman is useful to this world. 

“It's bad, hm?” Bruce says in a very non-batman way. It's soft– thoughtful and a far cry from the accusations he was just throwing his way. He tilts his head and looks a lot more closely at the wound, considering how to beat tackle it. 

“I shouldn't have come here,” Kal hears himself say. Bruce tugs lightly on his arm, and with a few half steps, he's able to follow. 

“No. You shouldn't have,” Bruce sighs, “I'll be running damage control making sure no one saw you fly in for weeks. But…”

“I didn’t know what to do,” He finishes for him. “I'm dying. I just need– I need it out–”

Bruce sits him back down on the side of the metal gurney. 

“I know,” He says softly as if comforting a child, “Lay down and let us help. I promise you're safe here.”

Kal obeys. But only because the world is starting to swim around him. 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says again, and Superman isn't sure why. 

9. Be open to human curiosity! Humans can be quite inquisitive creatures!

He submits himself to Batman. 

It seems like the right thing to do after last time but that doesn't make it any easier. He doesn't enjoy the probes– the scans– the tests– but they serve a purpose, even if he doesn't agree to that purpose. 

When Kal had brought it up, Batman had seemed almost excited or as close to someone as broody as Batman could be. And that would make sense having finally got his hands on information that might just kill a pseudo god. Kal– Clark– whatever side of him that was scared of dying– tries not to take offence to the smile that broadens Bruce's face or the nurse yet elated mumblings of developing new medical equipment. It's not outward, but in quiet moments with the League Superman can hear him, just a few words here or there about bile, mucus and samples of everything. 

He almost backs out at the last minute. 

Bruce takes a week to prepare. When the day comes, it feels like he's marching towards an execution. 

“I want a sample of everything,” Bruce says, and it is Bruce in his charming, disarming way. He was waiting in the middle of the Batcave and stood beside a much more ssuped-upmedical bay this time. 

“I said anything, didn't I?” Superman hums, and beams a smile to punctuate his false ease.

He's only wearing a plain T-shirt and track pants in an attempt to be comfortable through this whole process though he knows it won't be. The cotton doesn't protect his butt from the cold stainless steel table but he sets his jaw and waits. 

Bruce is fiddling with something on one of the work tables. Kal can't help but watch the way his shoulders move under his dress shirt, the way his hands flex under the nitrile gloves. Each movement is methodical, measured and controlled. Then he turns, with a bottle in his hand. 

“Okay, so, I'm thinking we start with an ultrasound. I just want to make sure you know I can see what I'm working with–” Bruce starts.

Kal hums in approval and lays himself down. He fiddles with the bottom of his shirt. 

“Nervous?” Bruce asks, wheeling a machine and making a funny noise closer and closer. 

“No, not for the tests,” Kal admits, staring straight ahead at the cave ceiling. We wonder if anything Bruce has planned will hurt. When the machine gets closer he lifts his shirt to his throat. 

“Something else then?” Bruce places the tip of the tube and spreads the cool gel across his skin. Kal holds his breath. 

The machine makes a noise the moment it touches his skin, then continues a rhythmic Lub-dub-wub . It's not a new noise, of course, Kal knows the sound of his own heart but it's odd hearing it comes from another machine; from somewhere else outside of his body. 

It's almost nice, even if the machine is just mimicking his heartbeats. It almost feels like there's someone else just like him, out there somewhere. 

The odd sonar trails down, just enough to reach the bottom of his rib cage then tilts up, searching for something. 

Lub-dub-wub.

“Oh,” Bruce says. 

Kal lifts his head, just enough to find Bruce's gaze stuck directly to the monitor. 

“What?” Kal asks. 

“Your heart,” Bruce marvels, “It's… wow. It's larger than normal. It has five lobes–Wow.”

When he lies back down, the ceiling of the cave meets him again. Something deep inside him is unsettled when the facts are laid so openly in front of him. The alien parts of him scream with the exposure, at the simple act of being perceived. 

Clark keeps it in check. This is good. He's being good, human even. 

“Ah,” Kal swallows a threatening snarl, “There's… maybe some organs in there. Extra ones. Not sure what they do.”

Bruce's hands stop. 

“What?”

“I can hear them function. You know, shift around or heal or whatever. I know they're not… normal anatomically speaking,” He says. 

He looks up again. This time Bruce has that same intense stare at Clark's face. 

“You're serious,” Bruce accuses, “You have no idea how your body works?! What do your organs do?”

A sour acrid taste rises in Clark's throat. He forces the words out anyway, “It’s– this is my first time–” he motions to the machine next to him, “You know, consensually. Medically speaking.”

“You're an idiot,” Bruce accuses. 

Clark sits upright blood flushing to his face. A drip of the cool jell trails down his chest and catches in the hem of his pants. “Should I be letting strangers poke around in there? And I have a degree in journalism n,not a medical degree–”

“Touchè,” Bruce hums, holding the little wand in his hand. He tilts his head just so. He places his hand over Kal’s left pec and pushes him back down to the table. He hits it with a thud. 

The doppler pushes up against his ribcage again, up and into the muscle. The comforting Lub-dub-wub starts again, he breathes with them; in for eight counts and out for five. 

Then, he admits his sin, “I have a name.”

“Most people do. Mine is Bruce Wayne, but you knew that. Yours is Ka-Ell,” Bruce states. 

“It's Clark,” Kal says, staring up at the rock formation above him, “Clark Kent.”

“I know.”

Kal blinks. 

“You… know?”

The doppler drags lower, over his abdominals and rests just above his belly button.

“Of course. I'm Batman,” Bruce says, eyes back on the ultrasound monitor. His tone is even and sure as if his identity explains everything. In a way, it does. 

“But I didn't show up at your house, half dead and completely crazed,” Bruce continues, then gives a little gasp and the doppler stops moving, “Oh wow. Yeah. A few extra bits in here. They aren't clear here but… well the MRI should show us more.”

Clark makes a soft noncommittal noise. He's made it this far, might as well give Bruce what he's looking for. 

“It's just kryptonite. If you're looking for… something else. There isn't. It's just kryptonite,” He says and means it honestly.

“... what?”

“I mean, I regenerate Bruce. Normal weaponry doesn't work on me. Sure– sure some materials weaken me, can pierce my skin but Bruce, it's just Kryptonite. And you've got that already,” he explains. 

The Doppler drags lower. 

Clark's breath hitches. He studies the stalagmites overhead. 

“I know,” Bruce says again. His hands stop moving, and the Doppler rests just above the hem of Clark's sweatpants. The touch is soft as if his skin might break from too much pressure. A low grunt escapes Bruce from the monitor. 

“Do you think that's what this is?” Bruce hisses suddenly then suddenly the Doppler is gone, “You let yourself be studied so I could kill you? Are you daft?!”

The Doppler returns, but this time it lands on Kal’s head with a harsh crack. It doesn't hurt of course, but it's surprising. He sits up and rubs the top of his head as if it may have caused damage, “Hey!”

“You're a self-sacrificing idiot with a saviour complex,” Batman hisses and it is Batman. Bruce's pleasantries are completely gone, “You let me take a look at you because you thought I was trying to find a way to kill you?!”

Kal sinks into his shoulders, “Of course you bought Kryptonite–”

“Yes! For an emergency! Because I'm a paranoid asshole!” Batman barks, hitting him over the head again, “But you're not some secretly evil mastermind! You're an idiot Clark! An idiot who showed up on my doorstep half dead and I had no equipment to help! We were lucky your body was weak enough to be cut with normal metal, but what if it isn't next time Clark? What then?”

Kal stares at him. Unsure what to say. 

“Stupid,” Batman snarls, pushes Clark back down onto the table, “Idiot. The strongest man alive, a God amongst men, and he's got the intellect of a first grader. Stupid.”

Clark blinks dumbly up at the ceiling. 

“You can't blame a guy,” he says softly now, “I'm a lone Alien with no home world to return to. I'm just trying to survive here.”

“Idiot,” Batman grumbles again, “You don't think anyone notices when you pretend? I've studied you Kal. I know you're trying to fit in– I know you want to fit in. Why the hell would you think I was trying to kill you?”

“Because I could,” Kal hears himself say, “It wouldn't be hard. People see that Bruce. You see it. And it scares you.”

Slowly Bruce brings the ultrasound machine back to his abdominals. He squirts another glob of lubricant just above his pants. He takes a breath, “You aren't going to kill me, Clark. I see it. I see you. You're terrifying sometimes, sure, but then I remember it's you, the same guy who took my shifts when I adopted Dick. The same guy who very vocally refuses to kill anyone for any reason. Just because you could take over this whole planet doesn't mean you will, that's not who you are.”

“... and if I was? If everything was an act?”

“You aren't acting, Clark.”

“You don't know– WOAH!”

Bruce presses the rod ever so slightly south, just under the lip of his pants as he searches for something–

“What? Got something to hide?” Bruce grins like a Cheshire cat. He doesn't even feign innocence. 

“That is off limits!” Kal barks, sitting up. He pulls his knees into his chest and forces Bruce's wandering hands away. 

Bruce laughs from down deep within his chest. It's a nice sound. 

“Oh come on, you said I could run whatever tests I wanted! Would it make you feel better if you saw mine? We could compare–”

“No! No, no way–”

“What? Do Kryptonians a have like a tentacle or something–”

Kal considers barking back something about dropping their conversation so suddenly. Surely such a tactic was on purpose But the heat of the moment is gone, and Clark doesn't have it in him to continue the argument so he lets it die. 

Something deep inside him settles, nestling down into what It now knows is safety. 

10. It's okay to admit what you are. You'll find they're more accepting than you might first think. 

“You know, you'd probably win if we ever fought.”

Bruce stares at him, face slack in the closet approximation he can to confusion. Batman, of course, doesn't get confused. 

“And where exactly is this coming from?” Batman asks. His eyes don't leave the monitor but tonight is quiet both in and out of the Hall of Justice. 

Superman is sitting beside him, decidedly watching Bruce and not the monitor. He shrugs, “Thinking. It's kinda comforting, you know if anything were to go wrong, that you would be there.”

“Weren’t you convinced that I was trying to kill you not too long ago? And now you're convinced I could do it?” Batman asks, lip curling slightly. 

“I could get brainwashed,” Kal hums, thinking out loud now, “Manipulated. Maybe I'm hallucinating that everyone around me is evil. Maybe one day I just decide the world would be better if I was in charge.”

Batman's muscles flex, but not abnormally so. The prospect doesn't scare him so much anymore. 

“I would hesitate,” Bruce finally says, “Probably right at the last moment, right before I stabbed the Kryptonite into your chest. You'd take advantage of that brief moment and kick me into the atmosphere or something.”

Kal scoffs, “What a cheap cop-out. If you had the time and energy you could pull it off. You're saying you'd hesitate to kill evil dictator Kal-El?”

Finally, Bruce turns, his eyes dark yet open and welcoming. He leans in slightly, just enough to push his personal space into Kal’s. 

“I'm saying I'd hesitate to kill Clark Kent,” Bruce says, the words airy and light, “I’d hesitate to kill the idiot we all know as Superman. Because he's an idiot and I'd feel bad.”

“You like me. It's okay to admit it. No one else is here,” Kal hums, and leans in. Their knees touch. 

Bruce scoffs, “I don't hate you. I don't want you dead. Is that good enough? ”

“No. While it may not be a lie, it certainly isn't the truth.” 

The next moments take Kal’s breath away, not that he needs to breathe. It makes his stomach twisted despite never feeling hunger before. When Bruce Wayne kisses him, he feels more human than he ever has before. 

It's soft and sweet. Kal kisses back and revels in being human for the very first time. 

“Is that better?” Bats asks. 

Clark can't find his voice to answer.