#clarkkent

Chapter 13

Extra Scene 1

Location: Clark’s apartment, Metropolis. Time: Sometime later. State: Let’s pretend there’s a sheet.

Clark: There’s… something I need to tell you.

Bruce: If you have doubts, tell me n—if you have doubts, we need to talk about it now.

Surprised, Clark watches Bruce sit, even though just a moment ago he seemed to melt next to him, like water.

Clark pulls him down to lie back again.

Clark: It’s not… really bad. But… some inappropriate pictures of me might be circulating. From recently. I don’t want you to think that… I don’t know what I want you to think, but you should know I didn’t do anything.

Bruce narrows his eyes.

Bruce: Are they illegal?

Clark frowns, thinking.

Clark: I don’t think so. There were a lot of people, they would’ve stopped us.

Bruce relaxes slightly.

Clark: They’re…

Clark doesn’t seem able to finish the confession.

Bruce: With another partner?

Not ideal, but Bruce has horrid skeletons in his closet and Clark intertwined his fingers with his during sex. He could cry just remembering. Again.

Clark: No! Just… just me… well, in underwear and a little wet…

Honestly, if that’s Clark’s level of embarrassment, Bruce will have to make a dossier and tactfully explain a lot of the things someone could find online about Brucie…

Clark: … riding a mechanical bull.

Oh.

Oh…

Bruce blinks.

That’s… different.

Slowly, he nods.

Bruce: And who has these pictures?

He can’t add “so we can stop them from circulating,” though he’ll work on that after he gets them.

Chapter 12

13. The Shape of Truth

Location: Clark’s apartment, Metropolis. No more places to run. Time: 2:13 a.m. State: Desperate after a week.

Clark hears the window before he hears the boots. Not because Batman is careless—Batman never is—but because Clark has spent an entire week listening for him and his heart has been racing ever since he heard him cross the bay.

The cape moves first in the darkness. Then Bruce enters the apartment, clad in black armor, shoulders rigid. A statue barely daring to set foot on the generic living room-kitchen floor.

Clark slowly puts down the book in his hands.

Neither speaks immediately. The rain taps softly against the windows.

Bruce looks exhausted.

Clark stands.

Clark: Hi.

Bruce clenches his jaw.

Bruce: I need to say something before I lose my nerve.

Clark feels his chest tighten instantly. Because Bruce never says things like this, and he wonders if it’s because normally he doesn’t feel them and is now in a crisis—or if he always does feel them but hides it, unnoticed by anyone.

Clark nods once.

Bruce doesn’t move further into the apartment.

Bruce: I owe you an apology.

Clark blinks.

Clark: An apol…?

Bruce: Let me finish.

The words come out rough, unmodulated.

Bruce: I’ve spent weeks trying to avoid this because I thought… because I believed it would taint something important.

A sudden chill runs through Clark.

Bruce: You’re my friend. My partner. The person I trust the most. And I…

His voice almost breaks.

Bruce: …I’ve tainted it.

Clark’s heart cracks a little. He steps forward immediately.

Clark: Bruce, no…

Bruce finally looks at him. The white eyes of the cowl, but even covered and in darkness, seem terrified.

Bruce: I constantly desire you.

The room falls silent. Bruce breathes once, and a human could have heard it. Bruce, who is shadows.

Then it all begins to spill out of him, as if truth has finally broken a dam.

Bruce: I think of you when you’re not here. I wait for you. I feel calmer when you’re near. I trust you with things I trust no one else with. Sometimes I hear or think something and wish you were there to share it with me. You make rooms feel safe. You make me feel safe. Me.

Clark checks that his mouth is closed. Bruce clenches his fists at his sides.

Bruce: I love your kindness. Your ridiculous hope. Your self-control. I love the way you look at people, as if they deserve to be saved. I love your voice. Your laugh. I…

He swallows hard.

Bruce: I think I’ve loved you longer than I know now, because I appreciated many of these things before the Rann mission, but I couldn’t admit it to myself because I wanted to feel there was something I hadn’t poisoned or ruined.

Silence.

Then Bruce looks away abruptly, embarrassed that these words exist outside of him.

Bruce: I’m sorry. The outburst and… I’m so sorry for loving you, Clark. You deserve better.

Clark crosses the room before he can think. He gently takes Bruce by the arms.

Clark: Better?

Bruce freezes.

Clark smiles, helpless, warm, face unmasked by relief.

Clark: Bruce… I love you too.

For a moment, Batman seems completely vulnerable.

Carefully, Clark releases one of his arms and reaches up to pull back the cowl. He’s never as handsome as with his hair mussed and stuck, his huge gray eyes.

Bruce blinks once.

Clark stares at him. A moment passes.

Clark: I’m going to kiss you.

Bruce breathes in, unable to speak, only nods like a starstruck teenager.

It’s a soft kiss at first and at the end.

Bruce’s gloved finger brushes Clark’s cheek as they part, staring without blinking.

Clark: Tell me the sky is red. Or that you voted for Mayor Hill. Or that… or that you don’t love me.

Clark’s voice is fragile. Bruce opens his mouth, ready to say any lie except the last one.

Bruce: It’s… it’s…

And he can’t.

Clark’s face falls, but Bruce just presses a little closer.

Bruce: Don’t be sad. It’s okay. At least you’ll never doubt what I’ve said.

A scant consolation, in Clark’s opinion.

Bruce exhales, exhausted, over Clark, as if he’s finally laid down the pillars of the Garden of the Hesperides.

Bruce: Diana was right. It’s a relief.

That’s a better consolation, if you ask Clark. So he laughs softly against Bruce’s hair, hugging him tighter.

The end.

Big Blue

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Superman and Midnight. Cat and Mouse. Cops and Robbers. Hero vs Villain. Two people who shouldn’t mix, yet cannot stay away.

Content: MDNI ~ Unprotected pnv (wrap it up kids) kissing, angst, down bad Clark. Smut basically.

Superman x oc (you can pretend it’s you ;) )

wc: 3.k ish

“Okay. The fun’s over.”

The words bubbled from his throat, dry and brittle. He goes for commanding, an authoritative tone he uses in press conferences, the one that says he is in control, the city’s Superman.

But it falters, breaks into a breathless hitch as Midnight’s lips brush the sensitive skin just below his jaw. Her mouth is impossibly soft, a stark, decadent contrast to the insistent pressure of her palms against his chest pinning him. 

This is not superhuman strength, not the kind that can bend steel, this is a different type of strength, one that has nothing to do with her powers and everything to do with the way his own body, his own treacherous heart, betrays him.

His eyes roll back, lids fluttering shut as she sucks gently, a slow, deliberate pull that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight down his spine. A tender mark that only someone as strong as her could leave blooming, a secret blush he’ll have to hide tomorrow, a brand hidden beneath his collar, a private joke for a public man.

She hums, a low, vibrating sound of pure disagreement that resonates through his chest, a sound he feels more than hears. Her warm breath ghosts over the shell of his ear. She takes the lobe between her teeth, a delicate almost playful nibble that makes his entire body tense. 

“Come on, Big Blue,” she murmurs, her voice a silken taunt that wraps around him. “You’re exactly where you want to be.”

He wants to deny it, to push her away and finally, finally, do what he swore he would do. But his hands are already moving, disobeying the frantic, screaming orders from his brain. They find her waist, gripping the sleek, cool material of her black catsuit. The fabric is thin, clinging to every generous curve, and he can feel the heat of her skin radiating through it, a furnace in the cool night air. His fingers dig in, not a push, but a pull.

He holds her tightly like a desperate, silent plea for her not to move. He can't let her go. He would always choose this. He would choose her. And the thought terrifies him.

“Not here,” he groans, a hollow protest, pathetic even to his own ears. It’s not the location he objects to, not really. He’s had her in worse places. It’s the surrender. It’s the way this dingy alley, with its single flickering streetlamp casting long, distorted shadows has become their home.

It’s the knowledge that at any moment, his carefully constructed life could collide with this raw, secret reality, shattering into a million irreparable pieces.

As if to prove his words a lie, she shifts her weight, a fluid motion that speaks of her agility. Her thigh slides between his, pressing upward with excruciating deliberate slowness. Her thigh grazes directly against the rigid, straining length of his cock trapped in his suit. 

A choked sound escapes him, half-gasp, half-moan. His hips jerk forward, a primal, involuntary response seeking more of that maddening friction. The thin fabric of his suit feels impossibly thick, a barrier he suddenly despises with every fiber of his being. Her stomach brushes against him with each shallow breath she takes, a constant, teasing torment.

She kisses a path along his jawline whilst her hands abandon his chest, moving upward to thread through the dark, unruly curls of his hair. Her fingers are strong, nimble, the same fingers that can crack a state-of-the-art safe in under a minute.

She tugs, never hard enough to cause pain, but with a possessive insistence that pulls his head down, angling his face toward hers. The slight pull on his scalp sends another shiver through him, a direct line to the ache pooling in his groin.

“There’s nowhere else for us, Kent, can’t you see?” Her voice is softer now, the teasing edge replaced by something rawer, something that sounds dangerously like truth. It’s the use of his real name that does it, the name that only she uses in these moments. “This is where we belong.”

He hates her in that moment. He hates the way she sees through him, the way she articulates the very thing he has been fighting since the first time he saw her, a priceless diamond necklace dangling from her fingers. He wishes, with a depth that feels like a physical wound, that it could be different.

He wishes she was the woman he met at work, a museum, a park, somewhere normal. He wishes he could take her to dinner, learn her real name. 

He wishes she wasn’t Midnight, the phantom cat burglar who has eluded law enforcement for years, the one he has sworn, in front of cameras and the city’s mayor, to apprehend.

The one who leaves a crescent moon-shaped calling card at every scene, a symbol of the moon that now hangs above them, a silent, indifferent witness to their downfall.

But he knows, with a certainty that settles in his bones like a cold heavy stone, that if she were any of those things, this magnetic pull would not exist. Their danger is their aphrodisiac, the forbidden nature of their touch is what makes it electric.

The line they cross is the very thing that draws them to its edge. They are caught in each other's gravity, destined to crash and burn in a spectacular, beautiful explosion.

That realization doesn’t stop him. It never does.

His grip on her waist tightens, and he uses his leverage, his own strength, to grind his hips against her stomach. A soft gasp escapes her lips, a reward that spurs him on. He is no longer passive, he is an active participant in his own undoing. The thought is a bitter pill, but the taste of her is sweeter than anything he’s ever known.

Clark prefers the term ‘making love.’ It’s what he was raised to believe sex was, a respectful, tender joining of two people. But what he does with Midnight is nothing of the sort. It is not gentle. It is not reverent. It is a furious and desperate.

They fuck like rabid animals in heat, all teeth and claws and desperate, grasping hands. It’s a battle as much as it is an embrace, a way of exorcising the impossible tension that coils between them.

Every time, he tells himself it will be the last. And still, every time he leaves marks on her skin, purple and red fingerprints on her hips, the curve of her ass, the swell of her breasts, as if to stake a claim he has no right to make.

And she lets him. She trusts him. Midnight, who trusts no one, who has built a life on solitude and secrecy, allows him this. She allows him to see her undone, to hear her real voice break from her lips in pleasure, to touch her in ways no one else ever has. It’s a trust that is more terrifying than any super-villain, more disarming than any weapon. He has the power to destroy her, and she gives it to him willingly, night after night.

He doesn’t even know her name. ‘Midnight’ is a moniker, a persona. A convenient label for the woman who only appears to him when the clock strikes twelve. They meet in the shadows, they hide behind the very identities that should keep them apart. He is ‘Superman’ the hero. She is ‘Midnight,’ the thief. It’s easier that way. It’s easier to pretend this is just a game, a temporary madness.

Her mouth finally finds his, and the thought shatters. The kiss is not gentle. It’s a collision, a desperate, hungry press of lips. His tongue sweeps into her mouth, claiming, and she meets him with equal ferocity.

Her hand tightens in his hair, holding him in place, while her other hand snakes between them, her fingers tracing the prominent bulge in his suit. The touch is light, a maddening tease through the layers of fabric, and he bucks against her palm with a guttural sound, a deep, animalistic noise of pure need.

“See?” she whispers against his lips, her voice a ragged, triumphant puff of air. “Right where you belong.”

He can’t argue. Not with her body flush against his, not with his erection throbbing under her touch, not with the taste of her filling his senses. He is lost. The vow he made to the city, the promise to his own conscience, it all dissolves into the humid air of the alley, forgotten.

All that matters is the feel of her, the scent of her, the undeniable truth that in this moment, in this filthy, forgotten corner of the world, he is exactly where he wants to be.

His hands slide from her waist down to the curve of her ass, pulling her even tighter against him, a silent admission of surrender. 

He spins them around, a sudden display of strength that has her back hitting the wall with a soft thump. A small sound of surprise escapes her, but her eyes are alight with fire, with thrill. He crowds her, using his larger frame to cage her in the way she had him moments before.

His hands move from her ass to her hips, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the waistband of her suit. He can feel the slight tremor that runs through her, and it fuels him.

“Clark,” she breathes. 

He doesn’t answer with words. He answers with his body. He hooks his fingers into the neckline of her catsuit. The material is strong, durable, but he is stronger. He hears the distinct, satisfying sound of fabric ripping as he pulls, tearing the suit down from her collarbone, exposing the pale, smooth skin of her chest and the swell of her breasts. She isn’t wearing anything underneath. Of course, she isn’t. His gaze drops, his breath catching in his throat, her nipples are already hardened into tight peaks. 

He leans down, his mouth closing over one of them. He sucks hard, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub. Her back arches off the wall, a sharp cry tearing from her throat.

Her hands fly to his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his suit. He lavishes attention on her breast, tasting her, marking her, his other hand coming up to roll her other nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 

“God, yes,” she gasps, her head falling back against the brick, “Don’t stop.”

He has no intention of stopping. He switches his attention to her other breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, drawing another sharp, pleasured cry from her. He can feel the desperate, frantic energy building between them, the same energy that always leads to this.

He grinds his hips against her, letting her feel the full, hard length of his cock, still trapped and straining. He wants to be inside her. He needs it like he needs to breathe.

With a growl of frustration, he pulls back just enough to fumble with the opening to his suit near his crotch. His fingers are clumsy, shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and lust.

She watches him, her chest heaving, her lips swollen and parted. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire as she reaches down, her nimble fingers easily helping him, pushing his suit down just enough to free him. His cock springs out, hard and heavy, the tip already beaded with precum.

Her cool fingers wrap around him, and he hisses, his hips jerking forward into her touch. She strokes him once, twice, her thumb smearing the fluid over the head. The sensation a white-hot jolt of pleasure.

“Please, Clark,” she pleds, her voice low and urgent. “I need you.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs the back of her thighs, just below the curve of her ass, and lifts her. Her legs automatically wrap around his waist, her heels digging into the back of his thighs. The torn front of her catsuit flaps open, and he can feel the wet heat of her against his stomach. He holds her against the wall, one hand supporting her weight, the other guiding his cock to her entrance.

He pushes the torn fabric of her suit aside, his fingers brushing against the slick, wet folds of her pussy. She’s so ready for him, so wet, and the realization sends a fresh wave of lust crashing through him. He positions himself at her opening, the head of his cock nudging against her.

He pauses for a fraction of a second, looking at her, he can see everything he needs to in her eyes. The desperate need. The trust. The shared, beautiful doom.

He buries himself to the hilt in one hard, deep thrust. A cry tears from both of their mouths, a mingled sound of pain and overwhelming pleasure. She’s so tight, so hot, and it feels like coming home. It feels like damnation.

He stills for a moment, letting her adjust, letting himself feel the incredible sensation of being buried inside her, of her walls clenching around him.

“Move,” she whimpers, her nails digging into his shoulders again. “Please, Clark.”

He pulls out, almost all the way, before slamming back into her. He sets a punishing rhythm, hard and deep, just the way they both like it. The sound of their bodies slapping together echoes in the quiet alley, a lewd, percussive beat.

The brick wall scrapes against her back with each thrust, but she doesn’t seem to care. She meets him stroke for stroke, her hips rolling to meet his, her legs tightening around him, pulling him deeper.

He buries his face in her neck, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh where he’d left the mark earlier. He tastes her sweat, her skin, the city on her. He fucks her like he’s trying to exorcise her from his system, but he knows it’s useless. She’s already a part of him, a poison he can’t live without.

“Clark,” she chants his name like a prayer, a curse. “Clark, Clark, Clark”

Her voice gets higher, more desperate, and he knows she’s close. He reaches between them, his fingers finding her clit. He rubs tight, hard circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. Her whole body tenses, her back arching, her head thrown back.

“Fuck!” she cries out, her voice shattering on a sob of pleasure.

Her pussy clamps down on him like a vise, It’s too much. The feeling of her coming undone around him, the sound of her cries, the scent of their sex in the air—it all pushes him over the edge. With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep inside her and lets go.

His orgasm rips through him, a blinding, white-hot wave of release. He comes hard, spilling himself into her, his body shuddering with the force of it.

For a long moment, they stay pinned against the wall, their bodies locked together, their harsh breaths the only sound in the alley. The world slowly comes back into focus. The distant wail of a siren, the drip of water from a faulty pipe, the cold night air on his exposed skin.

He gently lowers her to the ground, his cock slipping out of her. He feels the sudden loss of her warmth like a physical ache. He stumbles back, tucking himself back into his trousers, his hands shaking. 

He can’t look at her. He can’t look at the mess he’s made of her suit, at the marks on her skin, at the evidence of his utter loss of control.

He leans against the opposite wall, running a hand through his tangled curls. He feels empty, hollowed out. 

The post-orgasmic clarity is a bitch, bringing with it all the guilt and self-loathing he’d previously managed to banish.

She doesn’t say anything. She simply pulls the torn sides of her catsuit together, a futile attempt at modesty. She looks at him, her expression unreadable. He can feel her gaze on him, heavy and knowing.

“We should stop,” he says, his voice hoarse, the words tasting like ash. It’s the same thing he says every time.

She lets out a soft, breathy laugh, a sound devoid of any real humor. “We both know we won’t.”

She’s right, of course. They are caught in a loop, a beautiful, destructive cycle. He will hunt her tomorrow. Superman will give interviews to himself— Clark Kent about bringing the notorious Midnight to justice. And tomorrow night, or the night after, he will find her in another dark corner of this city, and they will do this all over again.

She pushes off the wall and walks toward him. She stops just in front of him, her body close but not touching. She reaches up, her cool fingers gently tracing the tender mark on his neck, the one she made.

“Be safe, Big Blue,” she whispers, her voice soft, almost sad. Then she turns and, with a grace that defies gravity, leaps onto the dumpster, scrambles up the fire escape, and disappears into the night.

Superman stands alone in the alley, the scent of her still clinging to him, the feel of her still imprinted on his body. He is the city’s hero. But in the darkness, he is just Clark Kent, irrevocably and tragically in love with the one woman he can never have. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

First post eek!

“I’m really sorry, Clark.” You say quietly as you start your bowl. He stands and walks to your fridge, when he comes back it’s with your brand new bottle of insulin and your meter. 

He hasn’t said anything since he brought the bottle and your dinner home. Too worked up and too upset to say anything calmly. He rarely gets this upset with you, so it stings your heart when he doesn’t maintain eye contact with you. 

He lifts your shirt sleeve and kisses your arm before wiping it clean. 

“Deep breath,” he murmurs and you do. You know the drill, you’ve known the drill for years. When it’s clicked into place he finally gives you his full attention. 

“You scared me, angel.” His voice is so soft that you can’t help bursting into tears. 

“I’m really sorry Clark,” you sob, hiding your face in your palms. 

You hadn’t really even realised you’d been out of insulin till you’d been at work and then your meter failed and there wasn’t much else that could be done. 

You hadn’t had any insulin in your office fridge, and you hadn’t been paid to buy your new bottles or meter. 

By the time you made it home you’d been drinking water nonestop and your vision was so blurry your eyes just watered. By the time Clark made it to your house the first time, you were surrounded by water bottles and he’d smelt the sugar on your breath the second he’d made it close enough to you and his heart had pummeled when he’d tested your blood and found you at the low end of 300. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“It’s not worth the hassle,” you’d responded and that had been when he’d walked out. 

There might have been a misuse of the Superman costume and name, but by the time he’d gotten your insulin and made you eat the meat from the pho first and then have the broth. 

Now it’ll come down and you’ll be right as rain. 

“Honey girl,” he scoops you up, your head on his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have been so upset with you.” He murmurs as your cries worsen. 

“I should’ve messaged about my insulin,” you hiccup. “You were right, that’s important.” 

He doesn’t say much, just rubs your back as you cry and your shoulders shake. 

When you calm down some, he pulls you out of the book you’ve made for yourself in his neck. 

“It is important, you being healthy is so important to me, angel. I understand that it’s hard for you to ask for help, but I want you to tell me what you need, not just what you think is okay to ask for okay?” 

He tips your chin back, looks you in the eye and says, “I want you to ask things of me. I want to do everything you ask, and I want to get you things you need and want. Please don’t think that you’re not worth the hassle again.” 

You nod, eyes bloodshot and you’re exhausted now for a bunch of different reasons. 

“Thank you for taking care of me.” You whisper, eyes shutting slowly. “I’m really sorry I scared you and that I said that. Wasn’t fair at all.” 

Clark tuts and kisses your forehead, “It’s all forgiven, honey girl. Do you think you can manage another forkful of my beef and broccoli?” 

You manage it for him, because you both sort of know you’re full up. But you’d do anything to not have to see Clark look at you like you’d ripped his heart out again. 

Chapter 11

12. Probably

Location: Watchtower. Status: Emergency briefing.

The room is quieter than usual for a meeting about good and easy news. So it is like usual, because they rarely get good and easy news.

Zatanna stands before the main holographic console, her fingers tracing faint trails of residual energy only she can see. The air around her crackles softly when she speaks, as if reality itself is remembering how to bend.

Batman stands rigid beside Superman.

Clark does not look at him. Not directly. As if he is trying to give him space even in perception.

Zatanna: Okay. I’ve got it. And… magically speaking, it’s a mess.

She flicks her wrist. The hologram shifts, showing Rann, the Thanagarian artifact, the moment of impact. A wave of invisible force spreads across Bruce’s silhouette.

Zatanna: The explosion you used to “deactivate” the object gave consistency to part of the magic surrounding it. I don’t know what it was. Some of the “dust” hit you, B, and… partially anchored you.

Barry leans forward.

Barry: That sounds bad.

Zatanna: It is bad. It means the spell didn’t form correctly.

Diana’s gaze sharpens.

Diana: And what did form?

Zatanna hesitates for a moment.

Zatanna: A conditional “Truth Binding.” Not global. Just personal and focused on something.

Barry: That doesn’t sound that bad.

Zatanna: It is, because I can’t undo it. And I don’t think anyone can. It’s stuck halfway formed—we’d have to find the exact missing half to undo it, and that… is luck. We don’t even know how much dust hit B or what percentage of the curse each particle carried.

Everyone falls silent. No matter how much they actually understand, the important part is that it cannot be undone.

Bruce clenches his jaw.

Bruce: Define “conditional.”

Zatanna exhales.

Zatanna: When you fulfill the condition, it breaks. I think. Normally that’s how it would work.

Bruce: And how do we know what the condition is?

Zatanna’s eyebrows lift.

Zatanna: Ah… it’s always the same: when you express your deepest hidden truth, your most intimate secret, the anchor releases and you regain the ability to lie.

A sepulchral silence settles over the room.

Clark finally looks at Bruce.

Clark: That is… specific and incredibly vague.

Zatanna (shrugging): Magic loves specificity and mystery.

Hal mutters something under his breath about hating magic entirely.

Bruce remains motionless.

Bruce: “Deepest hidden truth” is not measurable.

Zatanna: Oh, it absolutely is. But it usually means you first have to be honest with yourself, and the spell only forces you to be honest with others.

It is such a terrible thing—and even more terrible because it is emotionally constipated Batman—that everyone falls silent as though Zatanna has announced a deadline for Bruce’s life.

For several full minutes, all the heroes remain quiet. Screens shift colors. Things beep softly.

Finally, Victor adjusts the console.

Victor: So if he confesses it, the effect breaks.

Zatanna: Probably. Or it stabilizes. Or rebounds. But I trust it’ll end even incomplete.

Barry groans.

Barry: Bats is never going to manage that. He could move a mountain, sure, but…

Diana: Of course he will. When he is ready.

That silences Barry, though not his expression, nor the heaviness in Bruce’s chest.

Clark’s voice is quieter.

Clark: And if he doesn’t?

Zatanna looks at Bruce, not unkindly.

Zatanna: Then he stays like this. Honest. Exposed. The strain could… break the binding anyway. Probably.

Bruce finally speaks. Eyes forward, seeing no one, lost somewhere among the stars beyond the great window.

Bruce: Who do I have to tell?

Everyone falls silent.

Zatanna, speaking carefully: Who do you tell… your secret to?

Batman nods.

Zatanna: Oh… oh… —she seems to understand. The others probably do too, but Bruce refuses to look at them—. The person. The people involved. If it were, uh… a secret about yourself, verbalizing it would be enough. If it’s about someone else…

It does not matter that she never finishes the sentence.

Bruce: And then it ends.

Zatanna: Probably.

Bruce: “Probably” is unacceptable. And there are too many here.

Zatanna almost smiles.

Zatanna: Welcome to magic, B.

To be Continued...