Chapter Text

My 21st birthday. My mother wore a new white dress. I spilled red wine on it and ruined it. I laughed it off, but actually felt very bad about it. My father gave me a silver sportscar. He stared at the words on the screen, words he had written just a few weeks ago. The scene was from the alternative life he had remembered, the one Batman had created by saving Bruce Wayne’s parents from death in Crime Alley. The life in which Ra’s al-Ghul had killed the remainder of the JLA and ruled the world, while Bruce Wayne had lounged, happy and contented, by the poolside. The life that had ceased to exist when he and Superman returned their kidnapper “parents” to the future and restored the past to its proper form. The life that, somehow, he had still managed to remember.

Until now. He had felt the memories start to slip away a couple of months after things returned to the status quo, and had recorded page after page of memories in a desperate attempt to cling to that life, to the happiness and warmth he had experienced. But now, looking at his writings, he saw that it was useless. He remembered events, but only in the flattest, most cursory of senses, like you might “remember” a summary of a book, a description of events that you heard happened. None of the emotion remained, none of the passion or joy. Romeo and Juliet: Two young people fall in love and die. Moby Dick: A man chases a whale for revenge. My alternate reality: My parents lived and I was happy. Just stories.

He closed the file and turned his attention to a forensic analysis of a recent case he was working on. On the plus side, he considered ruefully, at least losing memories of his life as the pampered Wayne scion meant he had also lost his memories of that other life, the one in which Batman and Superman had ruled the Earth with brutal efficiency. Of course he had recorded any details that might have been useful in a strategic sense, including some useful additions to his theories on quantum physics and time travel, but the emotions had slowly bled out of the memories in the same way. So he didn’t have to remember how it felt to enjoy crushing and killing those who had opposed him, or how it felt to view the psychopaths who had kidnapped him as his beloved parents. Just seeing the sketch he had made of the perversion of the Statue of Liberty—the looming Batman glowering inland over the city, the gigantic Superman gazing outward across the sea, “Obey or Die” etched at the base—gave him what Tim would probably call “the crawling creeps.” The more he forgot from that timeline the better.

No, there was nothing at all from that reality he would ever want to remember.

He woke that night grasping for a dream that scattered into fragments and faded as he tried to put it back together. It was definitely erotic, but more than that—he could vividly remember the sense of warmth and...security that had suffused the dream. Scraps of physical detail hovered, refused to coalesce: silky black hair beneath his fingers, a gently bitten earlobe, strong hands sliding from his shoulders down his spine. He could almost remember the rumbling murmur of the other person’s voice, telling him that he was perfect, he was loved, he was safe, wrapping him in sound and holding him tightly... No. It was gone. Bruce Wayne rolled over and fell asleep again, his arm flung out across the pillows as if searching for another person there.



“B, this is S. I’d like to talk to you.”

“I’m busy right now, Clark. Later.”

“I would really rather it be now.”

A long pause. Clark could hear irritation crackling in the white noise of the com link. Bruce knew that Superman could circumvent the security of the Batcave—or break through it—if he really wanted to; the question was how much Clark was willing to insist and how much Batman wanted to inconvenience him. Clark picked up the very faintest of sighs from the other end of the link.

“The security is disabled. But keep it short, I have a lot on my plate.”

When Superman arrived in the cave the first thing he noticed was that Bruce had the cowl on. That was unusual. Within the safety of his own haunt Bruce usually preferred to deal with Clark face to face. Batman swiveled his chair to face Superman, his arms crossed across his chest and his eyes narrowed. Well, he hadn’t expected to find the other man in a friendly mood in any case. Clark decided to skip the small talk.

“I’ve been asked to come and talk to you.”

“By whom?”

“A variety of the people you work with. Nightwing and Oracle were...the most urgent about it. Robin got in touch with me as well.” Clark didn’t mention that even the Huntress had sent a cautiously worded message to Superman asking him to check on Batman. “They’re all worried about you. You seem...more distant than usual. Less communicative. Less willing to work with people.” More paranoid, he thought to himself, but he was pretty sure using that word would set Bruce off. He wondered if his next sentence would do the same, decided to risk it. “I’m worried about you too.”

Bruce stared at him for a long moment, then raised one shoulder in an almost imperceptible shrug and turned his chair back to the computer. It was so overtly dismissive that Clark felt his temper flare. He reached out and turned the chair back slightly, his hands tightening with an urge to rip the Batman cowl off so he could see Bruce’s eyes...but he was pretty sure that would be an unforgivable offense. He realized he was looming over the seated figure as Bruce’s jaw tightened and the other man rose from the chair to even their heights. Always these games with Bruce. Batman’s cape rustled silkily as Bruce turned away to tap at some buttons on a different console, bringing up random schemata of various projects. Clark struggled to keep himself from grabbing the other man’s shoulder and turning him around. Why did conversations with this man wear him out more than fights with Mongul? “Feel free to shrug off my worries, then, but don’t just dismiss Dick and Barbara and Tim like that! They’re your family. My God, do you know what I would give to have family like that?”

“You have family. You have Kara and Kon.”

“It’s not the same. It’s...it’s genetic, but we don’t have the history you have with Dick and the others. I don’t really know Kara and Kon as people that well. You, you’re surrounded by people you’ve shared so much with—and the civilians too, Alfred and Leslie and Jim...you have so many people who are devoted to you and love you, even though—“

“—even though I’m an insufferable and overbearing bastard who spends all my spare energy chasing off anyone who’s ever cared for me?” Was there a hint of a wry smile in Bruce’s voice? Taken aback, Clark spoke without thinking.

“There was a time and place when we were family too, Bruce. When we were brothers...”

The other man swiveled abruptly to face him, some strong but unidentifiable emotion flashing across what Clark could see of his face. “Do you still remember that life? What do you remember?” Black-gloved hands gripped his shoulders and shook him gently. Clark struggled to marshal his thoughts now that he had finally and unexpectedly elicited a response from Bruce.

“I...I remember that we were kidnapped as children...that we were raised together...that we ruled the world together. We—“ his mind groped for something, something important, but it slipped away as swiftly as he grasped at it. He briefly heard what sounded like Bruce’s voice, hoarse and almost unrecognizable with rage, yelling “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll kill you!” Why would he remember that? “I know I killed Ollie and Diana. I know we killed almost everyone else. But...I don’t really remember it.”

Batman sagged slightly, the hands gripping Clark’s shoulders curling into fists of frustration. “I guess I had hoped that with your different physiology, perhaps you would remember more.”

“You don’t remember anything?”

“The same as you, I remember most of the facts but none of the real experience of it. I didn’t even want to remember that life, but now I feel like I’ve lost something，something important...” Clark was suddenly struck with how tired, even haggard, Bruce’s face looked, despite the cowl obscuring most of it. He was abruptly tempted to carry the other man upstairs to the mansion, tuck him into bed and insist he get some sleep. He wondered if this was how Alfred felt toward Bruce.

Somehow he doubted it was quite the same kind of emotion.

Into the suddenly strained silence, the screen of the computer hummed into life, filling with a stylized, scarlet eye. The sharp, metallic voice of the spy satellite called Brother Eye crackled through the cave. “Creator. Your latest attempt to disable me has failed. As you can see, your virus was easy to counter, and eye am still operational. Eye will continue to guard against meta-humans, as you have programmed me to do.”

Bruce inhaled raggedly, his attention riveted on the screen now. “I never programmed you to do the things you’re doing! Shut down the O.M.A.C.s—shut them down now!”

“You cannot locate me, Creator. Eye will execute program Truth and Justice.”

“Nice code name there, Batman, I appreciate it.” Clark didn’t even try to keep the hurt out of his voice, though he hoped it sounded like sarcasm. He had never been very good at sarcasm.

“I didn’t name it that!” Batman snapped back around to glare at Superman, then back to the computer console, typing furiously. “I can’t ever get a good fix on the damned thing—wait, I think I’ve got it narrowed down a little—that’s strange...“

Clark processed the readout on the screen and decided it was about time he took matters into his own hands. He was tired of being unable to fight O.M.A.C.s for fear of hurting the humans inside, tired of being used and manipulated by everyone, tired of wondering just how much of Brother Eye’s programming Batman had done himself. In seconds he was out of the cave and streaking toward the location that had flashed briefly on the screen. He desperately wanted to punch something to kingdom come—he was afraid it might be Bruce, but Brother Eye would be satisfactory too.



Batman noticed when Superman disappeared from the cave, of course, and he knew where the Kryptonian must be heading, but was busy enough with trying to track Brother Eye that he didn’t focus on it. It was very strange that he had been able to get any fix at all on the satellite’s physical location; unprecedented, in fact. That made him very uncomfortable. “Superman, be careful. This doesn’t feel right.”

One of the computer screens irised open to show the blackness of space. Red cape swirling about him, fists clenched, eyes bright with the strange, angry red glow of imminent heat vision, Superman came into what must be Brother Eye’s field of vision. The satellite’s voice echoed through the cave as Superman closed on it. “Did you really think my Master did not prepare me to fight this alien? Eye have been specially equipped to deal with such, but have not had the opportunity to test the weaponry...until now.” A high-pitched whine began to ratchet up through Batman’s range of hearing.

“Superman, break off. It’s a trap.” His voice was admirably level and businesslike, he noted. Keeping Superman from attacking killer satellites programmed in part by him, all part of a day’s work for the world’s finest detective... No response from the Kryptonian. The whine had reached teeth-aching levels, and Superman continued to close the distance between him and the satellite.

“Did eye mention, Creator, that eye had jammed your communication channels?” There was definitely a metallic note of mockery in Brother Eye’s voice now. “It should be interesting to see if this kills or merely incapacitates your ally...”

“Clark, break off your approach! Damn it, Brother Eye, don’t do this!” Superman drew closer, close enough that Bruce could see his eyes widen as whatever weapon Brother Eye had energized discharged.

Brother Eye’s camera pulled back to give Batman the best possible view as Superman fell like a star from the sky.



Clark came to feeling stone beneath his back. There was a strange sizzling sound, and wisps of something kept obscuring his vision. He blinked. Smoke? Oh. His body and costume were still smoking with the after-effects of whatever Brother Eye had hit him with. He tried to move, but his muscles didn’t seem to be obeying him at the moment, and it hurt enough that he decided to stop for now. Gray stalactites swam through his vision and he realized he was looking at the ceiling of the Batcave. Batman’s voice came to him from somewhere to his right.

“If you’ve hurt him, I’ll...take you apart gear by gear, I swear it.” Batman’s voice was steady and steely; only Kryptonian super-hearing could have detected the faintest tremor running through it. “On the other hand, perhaps I should thank you. You’ve given me back something...something I had lost.” A click of a broken connection, footsteps drawing near him. Clark tried to turn his head to look at the approaching man. The attempt wrung a small sound from him, which he attempted to bite back.

Bruce’s face moved into his field of vision. He had removed the cowl at last, and Clark could see his deep blue eyes narrow as he studied him. A sharp line cut between his furrowed brows; Clark wanted muzzily to reach out and smooth it away, but his muscles were still a mass of jangled agony. Bruce reached out with a bare hand—he had removed the heavy black gloves at some point as well—and lightly touched Clark’s face, then snatched his fingers away as if he had been burned. Which he probably had been, Clark realized, based on the fact that he was still sending off plumes of smoke. The Dark Knight absent-mindedly put his fingers in his mouth and continued to stare at Superman. Clark swallowed hard. “Sorry,” he managed to croak.

The crease between Bruce’s brows sharpened as anger flickered across his face. It didn’t seem to be directed at Clark, though. “You’ve just managed to almost get yourself killed by a spy satellite that I programmed, a satellite which now appears to have been designed ready to kill Kryptonians. Could you at least have the decency not to apologize to me?”

“You didn’t install that weaponry.” He hoped that sounded like an assertion, not a question; he was afraid the inflection had wavered up a bit at the end.

“I did not.”

“OK.”

There seemed to be an infinite depth of extra meaning to both of those flat statements, shades of apology and promise that Clark was still too exhausted to figure out. He filed that away for later consideration. “How did you manage to...?” he tried to wave a hand in emphasis, winced.

“I was able to patch in to the remaining Watchtower teleportation systems just enough to get you here. Fortunately, I managed to bleed off some of your velocity as well.” Clark wasn’t sure it should even be possible to do that, but he was used to that with Batman. Who, he realized, was still staring at him.

“You might need to pour a bucket of cold water over me,” he said without thinking. Bruce’s mouth twitched, and he rose and went to the computer. An unseen fan directed deliciously cool air over Clark until the wisps of smoke died down and he was merely very warm. He managed to roll over onto his stomach and get on all fours while the cave spun around him. When it stopped spinning, he found that he was almost standing, his arm over Bruce’s shoulder and a fair amount of his weight on the other man. He tried to shift it away and Batman made a small growling noise of irritation; he gave up and relaxed into the welcome support. Bruce maneuvered him towards the stairs.

“You’re in no shape to fly anywhere right now, probably won’t be for a day or so. I suspect you’re lucky Brother Eye didn’t bother to really try and kill you. It was more interested in watching me suffer.” Clark wondered if that would make more sense if he weren’t ready to fall over. He couldn’t figure out the connection between him getting knocked out of the sky in flames and Bruce suffering right now.

Soon he was tucked—cape and all—into a very large four-poster bed with the Wayne family crest on it. A house this big didn’t have a guest room he could have stayed in? Still, the sheets were cool and soft, and he was terribly tired. The last thing he saw as he faded out was Batman sitting in a chair by the bed, staring with a preoccupied look into a dark corner of the room. Probably planning how to take out Brother Eye.

He dreamed he was mock-wrestling with his lover. He pinned the other person down and nuzzled the back of the neck where dark hair began to curl so temptingly. His lover smothered laughter with a forearm; if only the other person would turn over so he could see that face, could remember it...



Once Superman’s breathing had steadied into the long slow breaths of slumber, Batman transferred his gaze to the other man’s face, open and oddly vulnerable in sleep. He spent a long time studying the Kryptonian’s face, letting his eyes linger deliberately in a way he never could while Clark was awake. Then he held up his hand and eyed his burned fingers ruefully.

“That’s just what I need right now. Just how am I supposed to deal with this?” he asked the air. He didn’t get an answer, but then, he hadn’t expected one. For a long time, he simply sat and let the room grow dark around him. There didn’t seem to be much else he could do at the moment.