#dialoguefic

Week 7: Christmas

Week 1, Week 2, Week 3, Week 4, Week 5, Week 6

Smallville, Christmas Eve.

It’s snowing again when Bruce arrives. No announcement. Just the familiar sound of boots on Kent porch wood.

Martha: Bruce! You came! Bruce: Alfred insisted. Clark: He does that.

But Clark knows better. Alfred might have insisted — Bruce chose.

Inside, the lights are warm, the tree uneven, the stars on top handmade. Clark catches Bruce staring at them like they’re an impossible puzzle.

Clark: You okay? Bruce: It’s… a lot. Clark: That’s family.

Later, after dinner, after Kara’s terrible karaoke and Martha’s unstoppable hospitality, Clark finds him outside, under a sky scattered with stars.

Clark: You don’t have to go back tonight. Bruce: Gotham— Clark: Will survive until morning.

Bruce hesitates. Hope is dangerous for him. But so is leaving.

Bruce: This isn’t my world. Clark: It could be.

Silence. The kind that isn’t empty anymore.

Clark moves closer—not touching, but close enough that he could. Close enough that maybe he should.

Clark: You keep showing up, Bruce. Bruce: Bad habit. Clark: Best one you’ve ever had.

Bruce finally meets his gaze. No cape. No cowl. No armor except the fragile kind.

Bruce: Don’t make it mean something it doesn’t. Clark: If it didn’t mean something, you wouldn’t be here.

A long beat.

Bruce doesn’t argue.

He never learned how to lie to Clark.

The farmhouse glows behind them, warm against the winter night. Bruce exhales—the smallest surrender—and steps inside, not away.

Clark lets himself smile, slow and unstoppable.

For a man who never stays…

Bruce has stayed.

Christmas morning arrives quietly, soft as snowfall. No declarations. No grand gestures. Just coffee, warmth, presence.

And in the quiet between them — that sacred, stubborn quiet — something new is already beginning.

Something like hope.

Something like a future.

Something like them.

The end.

Happy Christmas!!

Week 4: The Case

Week 1, Week 2, Week 3

Metropolis, Early December. The city is half-dressed in Christmas lights, and Clark’s pretending not to notice the pattern in the break-ins. But Bruce has already noticed. Of course he has.

Bruce: Five tech companies in two weeks. All using prototype energy cells. Clark: You’ve been keeping busy. Bruce: Surveillance only.

They’re standing on a rooftop again, wind slicing through the quiet. Bruce’s cape moves like part of the night itself. Clark’s coat doesn’t have quite the same effect.

Clark: I was hoping you’d come back. Bruce: You mean to Metropolis. Clark: Sure. To Metropolis.

Bruce glances at him — unreadable.

Bruce: You could have called me. Clark: Maybe. But it’s easier when you’re here. Bruce: Easier, or better? Clark: You’d like to think those are the same thing.

The silence — always the silence — lingers between them. It’s not pleasant this time, but Clark blames the cold, biting wind whipping through their clothes. Below them, sirens fade in and out like distant thunder. Clark’s hearing catches a thousand tiny details, but none of them matter more than the quiet between them.

When the suspects finally show, it’s almost anticlimactic. Two men, one van, stolen tech. Batman moves with that precise, predatory rhythm Clark has come to recognize — silent, deliberate, relentless. Clark intercepts the van before it can crash, and it’s over in less than a minute.

Afterward, they regroup on the rooftop, breath fogging in the air.

Clark: You make that look easy. Bruce: It was easy. Clark: You don’t have to sound disappointed. Bruce: Efficiency isn’t disappointment.

He would kiss him — kiss the bruise, whisper in Bruce’s ear that he’s done more than enough, that he should rest in a warm, comfortable bed and enjoy all the luxuries a rich kid deserves. But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t, because Batman is his friend, and asking him to stop would go against the very core of who Bruce is. And although Clark would love to see him safe, warm, and at peace, he loves him for who he is: Batman.

Clark: I’ll file the report. You should get warm. Bruce: I’m fine. Clark: You always are.

He smiles as he says it — not mocking. Bruce doesn’t respond, but his shoulders are calm.

The city below them hums — bright, endless, alive. And for the first time since Gotham, Bruce doesn’t turn away immediately.

Week 1: Arrival

Metropolis, Monday Night. The air is cold, and Clark can hear the city breathing — traffic, heartbeats, laughter, all of it mixing into that low hum he’s come to love. It’s almost peaceful until he hears a sound that doesn’t belong: boots on concrete, a cape cutting through wind.

Clark: You don’t usually announce yourself like that. Bruce: I didn’t. You just hear everything. Clark: Occupational deformation. Bruce: Or boundary issue.

Clark smiles before he can stop himself. Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s shadow in an immaculate coat, stands on a rooftop overlooking Metropolis like he’s measuring it for weaknesses.

Clark: I thought Gothamites were allergic to sunlight. Bruce: This is reconnaissance. Clark: You mean vacation. Bruce: I don’t take those.

They fall into silence. Below them, the city glows. Clark wants to ask why Bruce really came; he knows it isn’t business that brought him to Metropolis. He also knows he won’t get an answer.

Clark: What do you think? Bruce: Bright. Loud. Too clean. Clark: You say that like it’s an insult. Bruce: It’s an observation.

The wind picks up. Clark watches Bruce scan the skyline, the way his gaze lands on the Planet’s globe, then the river, then nowhere at all. There’s a kind of reverence there. He’ll never admit it, of course.

Clark: If you stay long enough, the noise becomes part of the rhythm. Bruce: I’m not planning to stay long. Clark: You never are.

He says it softly, but Bruce looks up as if he’d shouted it. For a moment, neither of them says anything. Clark can only think about how much he’d like him to say something — anything.

Of course, there are no words when it comes to Batman.

When Bruce finally turns to leave, Clark calls after him: Clark: There’s a diner two blocks from here. Best coffee in the city. Bruce (without turning): I’ll take your word for it.

Clark watches him disappear into the skyline. The wind moves again. For someone who claims not to linger, Bruce feels a lot like something that does.

Week 5: Decorations

Week 1, Week 2, Week 3, Week 4

Metropolis, Mid-December.

Clark never meant to drag Bruce into holiday shopping. Truly. He’d been following a lead — something about energy signatures tied to those stolen prototypes — when he spotted Bruce on a balcony, staring at a building-sized inflatable Santa like it was a tactical threat.

Clark: You look like you’re planning an ambush. Bruce: It’s unsettling. Clark: He brings joy to children. Bruce: He breaks into homes. That’s a crime.

Clark laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but it comes out bright and warm and impossible to ignore. Bruce doesn’t smile, but something in his face relaxes, which is as good as a smile for Batman.

They walk. Neither of them calls it that, but it is — a walk. Among crowds, lights, and that particular December warmth that has nothing to do with temperature. Clark notices Bruce analyzing everything: security systems, crowd patterns... Christmas ornaments.

Clark: You never decorated the Manor? Bruce: Alfred tried. Clark: Making things beautiful is the point. Bruce: Beauty isn’t practical. Clark: It doesn’t have to be.

Bruce stops at a storefront with a small, ceramic star. His reflection glints in the glass — sharp edges softened by the golden light.

Bruce: It won’t fix anything. Clark: No.

Their eyes meet. It’s brief. It’s everything.

Bruce turns away first.

Bruce: The stolen energy cells are powering something. I found traces of a containment field on the docks. Clark: Work tonight? Bruce: I don’t take holidays. Clark: So you keep saying.

And yet he’s here.

Clark doesn’t say it aloud. Not yet.

Week 6: Snowstorm

Week 1, Week 2, Week 3, Week 4, Week 5

Gotham, One Week Before Christmas.

Clark shouldn’t love Gotham. It’s chaotic, cold, and always smells faintly of despair. But knowing Bruce is here makes the whole city feel magnetic.

They’re tracking the thieves now—not a petty gang but a group experimenting with unstable power sources. Clark lands near a rooftop gargoyle just as snow starts falling, thick and relentless.

Bruce: You shouldn’t be here. Clark: Everyone keeps saying that. Yet here I am. Bruce: You have a city to protect. Clark: So do you. And nothing happened because you went away for a few days.

That lands. Clark knows it. Bruce doesn’t flinch, but something in him tightens—not anger. Something closer to fear. Maybe.

They find the lab. It nearly explodes—energy cells rigged to detonate. Bruce moves first, reckless in a way that’s almost emotional. Clark stops the blast; Bruce disables the trigger.

When it’s over, they stand in the settling dust and snowfall, breathing hard.

Clark: You could’ve been killed. Bruce: It had to be done. Clark: But not by you alone. Bruce: It was under control. Clark: No. That’s the lie.

Bruce finally looks at him. Really looks.

Bruce: You complicate things.

Clark’s voice drops, softer, truer.

Clark: You make things worth complicating.

The snow thickens. Bruce doesn’t answer. He walks away… and yet he doesn’t leave. He pauses just out of reach, waiting for Clark to follow.

And Clark does.

Every time.

Week 3: Thanksgiving

Week 1, Week 2

Smallville, Thursday Afternoon

The train ride is long enough for Clark to start regretting his invitation. It had been half a joke: “You should come to Thanksgiving. My mom makes the best pie in Kansas.” He hadn’t expected Bruce to take it seriously. He hadn’t expected him to show up.

But when he hears the crunch of gravel outside the farmhouse, he knows. He doesn’t need x-ray vision to recognize that way of walking.

Clark: You actually came. Bruce: Alfred insisted. Something about… social obligations. Clark: I’ll have to thank him for that.

Bruce is overdressed, of course, long coat, polished shoes, looking faintly absurd against the autumn fields and the smell of apple pie. Martha opens the door before Clark can say anything else.

Martha: Oh, you’re definitely Bruce. Taller in person than on TV! Come in, come in, you’ll catch your death out there. Bruce: I doubt that. Clark: He means thank you, Ma.

Inside, everything feels too bright, too close for someone like Bruce Wayne. But he doesn’t flinch. He accepts a cup of cider, stands by the kitchen window, and listens to stories he doesn’t interrupt. Martha says nothing when the kids squabble or when Kara gives them a light smack to quiet them. She remains unfazed by mismatched dishes and uneven laughter. Clark can’t stop watching him.

Later, when the plates are cleared and the sun is setting over the fields, Clark finds him outside on the porch.

Clark: You survived. That’s something. Bruce: Your mother tried to feed me three separate pies. Clark: That’s called love. Bruce: It’s called making foie gras.

Clark leans on the railing beside him. The air smells like cinnamon, and it’s cold. It’s not Christmas yet, but that same loving stillness is already wrapping around the Kent farm—the kind that lingers until long after Epiphany. Clark loves it. He hopes Bruce does too.

Clark: You didn’t have to come, you know. Bruce: I know.

There’s a pause, a silence like that of a late-night café, the kind that’s becoming common between them. No longer uncomfortable. Just expectant.

Clark: Still, I’m glad you did. Bruce: Don’t make it a habit.

But when he turns to go, there’s a flicker, just a small one, of something softer in Bruce’s eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Or the faint horror of realizing he doesn’t hate it here. Clark can’t tell which one, but this time, he likes them both.

Clark watches him walk back toward the farmhouse lights. He knows he’ll remember this... not the meal, not the jokes, but the way Bruce’s silhouette looked against the horizon, caught somewhere between night and home.

Week 2: Night Coffee

Week 1

Metropolis, One Week Later. It’s just past midnight when Clark walks into the diner. He isn’t surprised to find Bruce already there, sitting in the back corner, reading The Financial Times like he’s hiding from it.

Clark: You know, when I recommended this place, I didn’t expect you to actually come. Bruce: I was nearby. Clark: Uh-huh. On WayneTech business? Bruce: Something like that.

Clark sits across from him. The waitress knows him by name; Bruce declines coffee until Clark orders for him. He takes a sip, grimaces.

Bruce: This is awful. Clark: It’s character-building. Bruce: That explains a lot about you.

Clark laughs, a real one. He’s used to people either revering Superman or dismissing Clark Kent, but Bruce manages to treat both sides of him like they’re equally ridiculous. It’s disarming.

They talk. Or rather. They exchange carefully measured sentences. WayneTech logistics. League maintenance. Clark mentions his editor; Bruce mentions Gotham’s endless rain.

It’s strange, this familiarity outside the League, outside the epic moments of disaster or triumph. No sooner has he thought it than Clark corrects himself: it’s not strange. It’s wonderful.

Outside, the first flakes of snow start to fall. Clark watches them through the glass. Bruce doesn’t look up.

Clark: You ever take a night off? Bruce: I’m here, aren’t I? Clark: You were nearby for work. When we part ways, you’ll just go take care of something else, won’t you? Bruce: Isn’t it the same thing? Clark: Definitely not.

Bruce raises an eyebrow but doesn’t reply. He’s made his point, in his own opinion, the only one that matters. Classic Bruce.

Clark studies him: the sharp angles, the way his shoulders stay tense even at rest. He wants to tell him that Metropolis isn’t an enemy, that not everything bright has to burn. Instead, he says:

Clark: Next week’s Thanksgiving. You should stay. Bruce: I don’t do holidays. Clark: You go to fancy dinners. This’ll be the same, just more fun and relaxed. No costumes required.

Bruce gives him a look, and Clark’s heart stumbles because it feels appraising. That’s never good, not when it’s Batman doing the appraising. Bruce already has his opinions, and if he’s bothering to reconsider them, it usually means he started from a terrible one.

It could also just be a jaded look and Clark decides to treat it that way: answering with his best Boy Scout grin. It must work, because Bruce snorts, shakes his head, and folds The Financial Times shut.

Between the ticking clock and the soft hum of their next, easy conversation, Clark tries to convince himself that it’s not just coffee shop talk.

"Oh my gosh."

"Is that-"

"Oh, yeah."

"Does he know that you have this?"

"Nah, not yet. I think I've got another hour left in my grace period before he realizes, probably."

"Look at him! He was so adorkable, look at his little face!"

"God, looking at him now, it's like he fell out of the puberty tree and hit every branch on the way down..."