SuperBat fic: I Only Have Eyes For You (PG13 fluff)

[the_diggler]

Title: I Only Have Eyes For You {also at AO3}
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: SuperBat, Martha Kent, Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, most of the SuperBat clan is mentioned :)
Genre: Holiday fluff! Always with a touch of angst where Batman is involved, but mostly fluff :)
Warnings/Spoilers: none
Word Count: 3,200 apx
Summary: Bruce realizes the reasons he turned Clark down years ago are no longer valid. He’d said Clark needed someone he could settle down with, start a family with, but somewhere along away Bruce became all those things himself. Some things are all in the timing.
Author's Notes: I did not want over a year to pass before writing more SuperBat. But it's in my new year's resolutions to write more in general, so hopefully another lapse like that won't happen again :)
Disclaimer: characters belong to DC and their respective creators, not me! Title from that old 50's song by The Flamingos.



~ Christmas Day ~

“Come on Conner, say goodbye to everyone, it’s time to take Ma home,” Clark calls in the general direction of the entertainment room as Bruce walks him to the front foyer. The room is too far inside the Manor for Bruce to hear Conner’s reply, but Bruce can tell from the chagrined look on Clark’s face that it’s less than enthusiastic. Clark shakes it off with an amused chuckle, the way a parent might, and Bruce shares a commiserating smirk with him.

Clark gives him a helpless shrug, sliding his hands into his pockets and settling in to wait. It may be a while yet, whether Conner shows up anytime soon or not – a few feet away Alfred is helping Mrs. Kent bundle up against the cold, but they’re taking their time with it, too engrossed in sharing their pie-baking tricks and tips. Bruce overhears Alfred complementing the golden crust of the pie Mrs. Kent baked for their Christmas lunch, and Martha sounding pleased as she says something like, “It’s all in the timing, see. Some things just can’t be rushed.”

“Indeed,” Bruce overhears Alfred reply, “And good things come to those who wait.”

“So Bruce, got any plans for New Year’s Eve?” Clark asks conversationally, leaving Mrs. Kent’s seemingly endless layers in Alfred’s capable hands. “Perry’s sending me to cover Gotham Square for the Planet’s city desk, so I’ll be in the area.”

“Well, Bruce Wayne has been invited to the Mayor’s party at the Square to watch the ball drop, but I’m not sure if I’ll be attending yet. I overheard Dick and Jason talking about fireworks earlier and if I leave the boys to their own devices, they might burn the house down,” Bruce answers wryly. Clark laughs at that, but not before Bruce sees the flash of disappointment in his eyes, too quick for anyone less observant than the Batman to notice. Bruce has to refrain from frowning in response.

“Well, if Mr. Wayne decides to make an appearance, maybe I’ll see you there,” Clark replies, smiling, but he doesn’t frame it as a question. It’s merely a nicety, spoken with the kind of finality which tells Bruce that Clark had quickly resigned himself to Bruce’s answer, as if Clark hadn’t really expected anything otherwise. The desire to frown is even stronger.

“Goodbye, Damian,” Mrs. Kent calls out, interrupting Bruce’s ruminations, and he follows Martha’s line of sight to see Damian standing at the top of the staircase, watching them from behind the corner. Anyone else and Bruce would call it lurking, but Bruce knows Damian is capable of more stealth than that. Which implies that perhaps Damian might actually want to be seen.

Damian doesn’t exactly startle, any kind of surprise-response having been trained out of him long ago. But he does seem caught off-guard, standing stiffly to attention as if he hadn’t really expected to be called on. His nod of acknowledgement is somewhat stilted as well, before he swiftly disappears around the corner in a manner Bruce can’t really describe as anything other than fleeing.

Clark turns to him, raising a questioning eyebrow, and Bruce finds himself similarly bewildered. But again, he doesn’t have much time to ponder his son’s unusual behavior before Mrs. Kent is leaning in to give him a hug.

“Thank you for inviting us into your home for Christmas, Bruce,” she murmurs into his ear, giving him one last squeeze, “You have a wonderful family.”

Bruce’s breath rushes out of him in surprise, her passing remark hitting him with unexpected impact.

Thankfully that’s when Conner finally decides to appear, and the rest of the goodbyes pass in a blur, no one the wiser. But when Clark gives him one last smile as he leaves, Bruce finds his chest tightening in response, still stunned with realization.

~ 15 or so years ago ~

When Clark leans in to kiss him, Bruce leans away.

“Of all the terrible ideas you’ve had, this one is the worst,” Bruce bites out, turning away.

“...What?” Clark says, shell-shocked and confused, like he never even considered the possibility that Bruce wouldn’t respond in kind. Typical Clark – flying into danger without thinking. But of course Bruce has already considered all possibilities. Thoroughly. He’s noticed the way Clark looks at him, especially when Clark thinks he isn’t looking, so this little misstep of Clark’s is no surprise. It was merely inevitable. Bruce has been expecting it from the moment he realized that somehow, somewhere along the way, Clark had fallen for him.

Almost as soon as he’d realized it, he’d known how he would have to respond. He’d known that when Clark falls, he would be the type of man to fall completely. No halfways, no dalliances or affairs or one night stands. He would give everything of himself, and demand nothing less in return.

“What do you mean, this is a bad idea?” Clark echoes. Still baffled. Still confused.

In a way, perhaps, they are similar. Bruce knows what it means to give himself completely to something. But he has already given himself to Gotham. To the Batman. He doesn’t have anything more to offer. And Clark deserves more.

“I can’t be what you need me to be, and you know that,” Bruce hisses back angrily.

“And what exactly, do you think I need?” Clark starts to rally, responding with his own quiet anger.

“Someone to keep you human,” Bruce grits out, clenching his fist as he delivers the blow. He’s grateful he can’t see the impact on Clark’s face when it hits. He’d been trying to keep Clark at a distance, hoping Clark would take the hint gracefully and let it go. But again, Clark’s stubbornness and persistence had rivaled Bruce’s own. So now Bruce will have to make it clear, in no uncertain terms.

Clark is silent for a long moment, before he answers, gutted, “I thought we’d gotten past this.”

Bruce takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “We’ve gotten past this because you’ve surrounded yourself with the right kind of people,” he says.

“I don’t understand.”

“Your family, Clark. Your adopted parents,” he explains. “Your connection to them is your connection to humanity. It keeps you grounded. Keeps you sane. Keeps me from having to use Kryptonite on you.”

“And you don’t think you’re the right kind of person?” Clark asks gently. “There’s a reason I trust you with that Kryptonite in the first place, Bruce.”

“You misunderstand,” Bruce growls. “What I meant is that you deserve someone you can settle down with. Get married. Have babies. Start a family of your own. If you live as long as we think you will, you’re going to need that in the future,” Bruce pauses, taking another deep breath, “And I can’t give that to you,” he says with finality.

“So that’s it then. You’ve already decided,” Clark says quietly, resigned. He knows well enough by now that when Bruce decides something there’s little to nothing that can convince him otherwise.

“I have,” he answers, resolute.

Clark doesn’t reply, doesn’t argue any further, and Bruce ignores the tight clench in his chest when Clark finally flies away.

~ Present Day ~

As the sun rises on the last day of the year, Bruce finds himself sitting in front of the computer in the cave, not typing up his notes from the Batman’s latest patrol, but flicking through the pictures Barbara had taken on Christmas day – Tim and Conner engaged in what seems to be a competition to see how much Christmas lunch they can pile on their plates – Martha serving Damian a piece of her home-made rhubarb pie, making sure he has it with just the right amount of cream, and Damian looking suspiciously like he’s enjoying being fussed over – Dick and Jason falling into a ‘food coma’ on the couch in front of the television in the sitting room, slowly sagging towards each other – A selfie of Barbara and Kara where they were squirreled away by the Christmas tree, giggling like a couple of teenagers on a sleepover – Jim Gordon and Alfred, still sitting at the table long after the meal had finished, conversing easily over a drink of brandy – But the picture Bruce finds himself returning to is the one of him and Clark, sitting in the armchairs by the fireplace, where they had been talking quietly together.

Bruce had sensed Barbara coming, and had looked up into the camera at the last moment, but Clark had not. If anyone should’ve sensed Barbara coming it should’ve been Clark, but instead of turning towards the camera as well, his eyes are still on Bruce, a soft smile on his lips. And the look in Clark’s eyes… Still, after all these years.

It may be nothing. Merely a trick of the light, the glow from the fireplace making Clark’s gaze softer than it really is. Or maybe it is something. Or rather, merely a memory of something. Something that could’ve been, years ago, but is now only a thought that passes through every now and then.

Whatever it is, Bruce can’t seem to click past that picture, whenever it comes up. He always ends up contemplating it, for far longer than he should, Martha Kent’s parting words still ringing in his ears.

He’s been a fool.

“If you see the alien later, tell him his mother’s pie gave me a stomach ache,” Damian’s voice comes from somewhere behind him in the cave, “And that perhaps she should stick to apple next year.”

~ New Year’s Eve ~

By the time he arrives at the Mayor’s party that evening, the festivities in Gotham Square are already in full swing, the streets crowded with sightseers and revelers, dancing and moving to the music pumping loudly from the main stage. It’s decidedly more subdued, however, where the Mayor’s event is being held, in a lush indoor garden with floor-to-ceiling windows directly overlooking the square. It’s the usual high-society to-do – hors d’oeuvres and canapes passed around with wine and bubbly by white tuxedos, a jazz quartet playing upbeat renditions of Christmas carols in an attempt to create a festive atmosphere – but it’s all the same routine.

For once Bruce Wayne arrives dateless, but not for lack of company, as he’s accosted almost immediately by wealthy socialites and political hopefuls, attempting to curry favor through their respective means with whatever power or influence who will give them the time of day. So even though Bruce spots Clark in his tragic reporter’s garb almost immediately, they’re both so tied up with the business of their respective roles they only have time to share a discreet nod of acknowledgement from across the room by way of greeting.

They don’t need to actually talk to communicate, though. After over a decade of friendship and the countless battles they’ve fought together, they can have entire conversations with body language alone, already knowing what the other might be thinking with a single glance. So when someone in Bruce’s company says something horrifyingly pretentious or just downright ridiculous, he often looks over to find Clark arching a sardonic eyebrow or throwing Bruce a wry smirk at what he’s overheard. Sometimes it’s Bruce himself that’s guilty, in the pursuit of maintaining Bruce Wayne’s over-the-top reputation, but it’s worth it to see Clark choking on his drink in response or outright laughing at Bruce’s antics. He’s sure to send Clark a few of his own amused smirks in return, though, when he catches Clark flailing or sputtering in that mild-mannered-reporter-like way of his.

A whole language of looks and glances, smirks tilted just-so and eyebrows arched or furrowed in a myriad of combinations, but Bruce can’t see a single trace of the way Clark had looked at him on Christmas day. Doesn’t even know if he has the right to be searching for it. He may have lost that right, years ago, when he first rejected Clark’s feelings. And maybe Clark had learned from his mistakes then – if they’ve had years to learn how to communicate through facial expressions alone, then maybe Clark has also had years to practice concealing certain things from Bruce as well. They are nothing if not masters of keeping secrets and hiding behind masks, after all.

“Who is that tall drink of water you’ve been eyeing all night, Brucie?” Veronica Vreeland murmurs conspiratorially into his ear as she sidles up next to him, latching onto his arm.

Bruce immediately summons one of his most disarming smiles, inwardly berating himself. “Eyeing?” he echoes, trying to recover. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs, though it feels more like he’s telling it to himself. How could he have been so careless? So obvious? It must’ve been bad if even a vainglorious socialite like Veronica Vreeland noticed. “Now Ronnie, if anyone’s caught my eye tonight it has to be you. You look fabulous,” he replies smoothly, kissing her on the cheek.

“Oh please, Bruce,” Veronica scoffs. “I’ll take the compliment at face value but that doesn’t mean I can’t still smell the deflection,” she smirks, tapping her nose. “That may have worked on the girls you used to date, but I know better. Actually, it’s all starting to make sense now.”

“It… is?” Bruce feels his grin slipping.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed. In fact, I heartily approve. He’s absolutely delicious,” she says, low and coy in his ear. “Why don’t we go over there and see if he might be interested in a threeway?”

Bruce blinks stupidly for a moment, stunned into silence. Not so much because of Ronnie’s suggestion – her advances had only escalated over the years, so he expected as much from her – but because he is overwhelmed with a sudden, vehement possessiveness, at the thought of her, or anyone else but him touching Clark Kent, ever again.

“Aw, what’s the matter Brucie?” Veronica coos in his ear. “Want him all to yourself, do you?”

Yes, Bruce wants to say, with every ounce of his being. And he can feel Clark’s eyes on him, boring into him as if he can find the answer in the depths of his chest – no doubt Clark has heard the sudden racing of his pulse, the grind of his jaw as the silence lasts a beat too long – but he can’t risk giving anything more away. Not in front of Veronica. Can’t risk laughing it off or trying to pretend otherwise, because he’s sure the answer is written all over his face, and he can’t be sure that any attempt to school his features will be successful.

“Ahh, but you’re too late,” Veronica says, bringing Bruce’s internal struggle to an abrupt halt.

“What?” he exhales, breath punching out of him as her words hit a little too close to home.

“Looks like you’ve missed your chance,” she laments, gesturing at Clark’s retreating back as he heads for the door. And damn it, Bruce can’t even go after him, not with Veronica standing right there. He tries to conceal his frustration, but he must fail miserably, as the next thing she does is pat him consolingly on the arm, cooing, “Aww, don’t worry, Brucie. I’m sure you’ll find someone to kiss at midnight,” she laughs, pecking him on the cheek before flitting off.

Bruce doesn’t go after Clark straight away. Not when there’s a chance Veronica might still be keeping her eye on him. He forces himself to mingle instead. Forces himself to smile and laugh, though it sounds strained even to his own ears. He can only hope that any perceived preoccupation on his part comes across as Bruce Wayne’s usual absentmindedness. But as midnight draws near, the sharks start circling closer and closer, hunting their new year’s kiss, and he can’t find an opening to escape.

Why did Clark leave so abruptly? Did he mistake Bruce’s reaction to Veronica’s suggestion as disgust? Or was it perhaps an uncomfortable reminder of Bruce’s rejection, all those years ago? But if that's the case, it would imply that there might still be something there in the first place, something worth feeling uncomfortable about at all. Something that couldn’t be shaken off with an amused eyebrow or a wry smirk, or laughed about like it was ancient history.

Bruce had never really taken note of how often Clark visually checks in with him, not until now. And now that he's gone, Bruce feels the loss of that connection like an actual ache. He realizes that maybe what he’s been searching for has been there all along – not just in one look, in one captured moment, but in every look, in every gesture or smile or shared moment over the years. It may not have been written in their silent conversations, but it’s the very reason that language exists.

Suddenly, Bruce is given his chance, when the Mayor takes the stage to make a speech. And while all eyes are momentarily distracted, Bruce makes a discreet escape. Alfred is at home tonight, making sure the boys don’t burn the Manor down, so Bruce makes one quick stop in the lobby to grab his things, then heads directly for the street exit. Knowing Clark, he’ll want to be right in the thick of things when the ball drops at midnight, so Bruce hurries through the crowded avenues on foot, heading for the center of Gotham Square.

Sure enough, Bruce finds Clark in the press area by the main stage, observing the festivities and dutifully taking down notes for his article. And of course, almost as soon as Bruce spots him, Clark turns around, sensing his presence like he’s memorized the sound of Bruce’s heartbeat.

“Ten!”

How else would Clark know he was there, amidst all the noise and lights and people, most of his face covered by a thick winter scarf?

“Nine!”

But there’s no mistaking the surprised recognition on Clark’s face, followed by slight confusion, questioning concern, and-- there, a flash of hope, quickly hidden, but there nonetheless. Still, after all these years.

“Eight!”

The New Year’s countdown has begun, the crowd chanting around them as the seconds wind down, and Bruce finds himself moving again, pushing through the throng.

“Seven!”

Clark spurs into action as well, weaving through the press area towards the barricade, jumping over it easily and into the thick mass of people on the other side.

“Six!”

Eyes fixed on Bruce, Clark pushes his way through as quickly and carefully as he can, mumbling absentminded apologies at the inevitable collisions without breaking eye-contact the entire time.

“Five!”

Then finally Clark is there, standing a hair’s breath away, bewildered and waiting and so, so hopeful.

“Four!”

And Bruce doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what words to use, to apologize, to ask

“Three!”

So he adds touch to their silent language of looks and laughs and smiles, cupping Clark’s face in his hands and asking with the stroke of his thumb across Clark’s lips.

“Two!”

And there it is, the look Bruce has been searching for all night, the answer written in Clark’s eyes.

“One!”

This time, when Clark leans in to kiss him, Bruce kisses back.

~ fin

Happy New Year :)