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It mocks him, the grey plastic flash drive lying on Bruce’s desk. Jason surreptitiously slipped it into his pocket this morning. Bruce assumed the worst, initially — perhaps it was classified intel, a case that Red Hood thought was more suited for Batman — or some sort of danger severe enough he had to ask Bruce for help.
But Jason simply flashed a self-satisfied smirk and wink, rapidly morphing Bruce’s razor-edged concern into wariness. Now, he sits at his desk, tapping a finger once on the back of the flash drive cautiously. It gives a crackle. It appears normal; an unsuspecting piece of plastic and metal.
Screw it. Jason wouldn’t give him something lethal. Probably.
Bruce opens a new desktop and slides the flash drive in; there’s a lone application stored inside. Viruses won't be able to bypass his cybersecurity, so he allows himself to click on it and wait on the application to finish downloading. There’s a soft whir, then a beep as the download completes. The application opens.
Bruce glances up. It’s— it’s a game. It’s—
Justice League Dating Simulator, it says, and what the fuck.
Not five seconds later Bruce blacks out. He hates his life.
Taking stock of his surroundings is the first thing Bruce does. No windows; no doors. Visible escape routes are zero. It’s— he’s in a meeting room, of all places, an empty one — a meeting room suspiciously resembling the Watchtower.
His head throbs, relentless and inexorable, but he clears it with a sharp jerk. He’s disoriented, but he’s had worse; Bruce is on guard and primed for a fight. Was his initial judgement wrong? Was this all an attack, somehow — was Jason tricked into giving him the drive?
He thinks about Jason’s smirk. Maybe, maybe not.
Whatever the case, his priority should be to gather information. He moves around the room, running his fingers over the walls and floor. It’s smooth, unmarred, without hidden trap doors. There’s nothing else in the room that suggests where exactly he’s been taken or why. What’s the last thing he remembers? He downloaded the drive file, it must be some otherworldly technology, maybe even magic — God, Bruce hates magic — and then— and then the file opened to some kind of game. With the title being—
Surely not.
Bruce must’ve seen wrongly. Either that or this is one gigantic, elaborate way for Jason to screw with him. He wouldn’t rule it out.
He has to assume the worst, though; that he’s trapped here, for the time being, and—
And Bruce feels great. His body feels great. It’s— his aches and pains, all the chronic pangs in his body, there’s none of that here; he looks down, and the body he’s in is not his. He inputs this new information with haste, brain whirring, shuffling through possibilities. Has he swapped bodies? That means somebody could be in his body right now, and— and Clark and the rest will handle that. It's hard to remember, sometimes, that he isn't alone anymore. Bruce trusts them. He trusts Clark.
There’s no mirror here; nowhere he can possibly look at his reflection. He’ll just focus on getting out of the room first, then — finding a way back to his own body.
He’s— things are strange, though. Everything is off-kilter, saturated; even his vision is off. At the top left corner in his peripheral, there’s a blur he can’t shake out of his eyes. Bruce blinks once, twice, thinks about the blur; and in his vision, of all things, a game map appears before his eyes.
He shoots to a crouched stance in a heartbeat, although he’s not sure how he’s going to punch a map, but all that gets shot to hell because then a door appears in the meeting room and someone steps in.
“Hello!” says Diana fucking Prince, cheerfully. An— an imposter, no doubt. She's in Wonder Woman gear, lined in glistening gold, but everything from the angles of her face to the way she holds herself is uncannily identical to the woman Bruce knows. “Welcome to the Justice League! Are you excited to be here?”
And then—
And then the map dissolves before Bruce’s eyes. In its place: text.
[ Of course I am! ] [+]
[ I’m excited to be able to prove myself to you. ] [♥]
[ Not particularly. ] [x]
Bruce opens his mouth. Nothing comes out; nothing can come out, except until he forces, “Not particularly,” and then adds, “Where the hell is Superman?” because even if this is some humongous Jason-stamped prank, his first instinct is still to find Clark. Or— find whatever imposter version of him exists here.
‘Wonder Woman’ frowns. “He’s off on a mission with Batman,” she says, and oh, isn’t that rich. She smiles at him, all white teeth and sheer elegance. “Shall I introduce you to the rest of the League first?”
Bruce lets his eyes flutter close, briefly. In summary: Superman in this dating simulator is out there somewhere with his alter ego, and he’s stuck here with options to romance up fucking Wonder Woman. Bruce would laugh at the absurdity of all this if he weren’t already planning how the hell to break out of the magic’s hold. Jesus, his information is lacking and he hates it — he isn’t sure of any details: the magic’s conditions, its rules, whether its an illusion or an alternate world. The best he can do now is to collect as much intelligence as he can, even if that means risking facing danger lies ahead.
“Sure,” he concedes finally. “Lead the way.”
Bruce quickly figures that only the original members of the League are romance options. Other than that, he can move freely, but only on unlocked areas of the map. He’s spent hours finding a way out forcibly, but it’s predictably been futile, so he reasons he has a pretty straightforward path forward: clear the game. It’s intuitive, the best shot to break whatever kind of mind curse this is, and if it doesn’t work, well. He’ll execute backup plans from there.
Bruce also quickly learns that game-Batman is insufferable.
At one point, he tries to sneak into the Batcave, to see if any of the available tech allows him to engineer some sort of device that could help his— strange predicament. Batman practically materialises out of thin air; it makes Bruce’s skin crawl, the familiar predatory stalk and expression masked by the cowl.
He isn’t given time to hide. Batman looms over with a scowl, and a growl, and there’s no way Bruce actually sounds like that, is there?
“What are you doing here?” snaps game-Batman, positively incensed. In hindsight, Bruce can understand, because he would have attacked an intruder the second they stepped foot in the cave, which excludes anyone who isn’t family. Clark’s the exception, but then again — he is family.
[ I was curious about your gadgets. ] [+]
[ I thought you’d want an update on a case. ] [♥]
[ Just checking things out. ] [x]
“Just checking things out,” Bruce says coolly; because this is ridiculous. The Batcave is his. Not that this is real, anyway, but it’s the principle of the matter.
Plus, he has no interest in fraternising with his own alter ego. He’s narcissistic, but not that narcissistic. Predictably, game-Batman doesn’t react well, and promptly kicks Bruce out of the cave.
Bruce is starting to get a clearer idea on why Clark calls him incorrigible all the time.
So Bruce starts by locking the character routes. He’s not familiar with— with dating simulators, Christ, he can’t believe he’s even contemplating this. But he’s listened enough to his children’s ramblings to more or less figure out how to end the game by locking character routes. After their affection meter dips below a certain level, you lock a character, and once all characters are locked, the game ends.
Bruce is just shy of constantly telling all other characters to fuck off. Some of the dialogue options are so bland Bruce can taste it, but he just needs to be his own prickly self and his plan goes brilliantly. He has Wonder Woman at 21%, Aquaman at 12%, the Flash at 7%, the Martian Manhunter at 9%, and Green Lantern at 16%. Batman is at a wonderful negative 2%, which Bruce didn't even know was possible.
The only problem, naturally, is Superman.
What's new? Clark is always the factor that sends even his most carefully crafted schemes awry — it doesn’t matter that it’s some dating simulator version of him, no, because Superman is Superman and game-Superman still gives Bruce a terrible pounding headache. Bruce has somehow, accidentally, stumbled into a whopping 56% on the affection meter with him, despite being very deliberately unfriendly and rude at every turn.
It figures, really, that nothing Bruce says really sticks. It just slides off Superman’s back like water, which is— which is strange, isn’t it? Because that’s not how the game is supposed to work; you pick a certain option and the affection level goes down. But no matter what option Bruce chooses, what he says, game-Superman is unerringly patient with him. It’s— it’s almost like the Superman Bruce knows, accurate to reality, because this was truly how Bruce and Clark had first become friends, and this is truly how Clark treats anyone, regardless of how they treat him.
Bruce despises this part of Clark. He wants to rip it out and snarl, say, tell whoever slights you to fuck off, Clark; you deserve better. But he’s never been able to say it to Clark, not directly, and considering he’s deliberately trying to be nasty to game-Superman, Bruce is hardly going to tell him outright now, is he?
Never mind how— realistic the game is. With their reactions, their expressions; with Clark’s body language and features. Down to the last detail, the game recreates Superman’s features without fail — and Bruce has memorised every single etch of those features, can trace them in his sleep, so he thinks he’s qualified to comment. Funnily enough, Superman is the only League member who’s been recreated this accurately; the rest seem to have been cobbled together, their reactions more like what Bruce would expect from a game who doesn’t actually know the personalities of the members beyond their public image. More plastic, more preprogrammed.
Well. It’s fine. He can just lock the other routes first.
And as for Superman — Bruce will just have to try harder.
Bruce is in the Fortress, this time. It irks him immensely. The Fortress’ mere existence is known only by a select few, as far as he knows, so he has no idea why it’s a map option in the first place. Add that to the growing list of mysteries.
Game-Superman is sitting on a beanbag chair, a half-opened book on his lap; but he was staring, unseeing, at the ceiling instead. When Bruce arrives, he practically clambers to his feet, a hastily plastered smile on his face.
“Hello,” Superman says, and Bruce frowns.
[ What are you doing? ] [+]
[ Do you want updates from the other League members? ] [♥]
[ Did you see the news of the Metropolis fire last night? ] [x]
Metropolis… fire? Obviously Superman’s heard of it. But Bruce is trying to piss him off, so he says, “Did you see the news of the Metropolis fire last night?” and watches the smile on game-Superman’s face flicker.
Bruce almost takes it back, almost admonishes himself for stepping on a landmine, but— not real, he reminds himself. This isn’t Superman. It isn’t really his Clark.
But God, does he look like Clark. Not even Superman — because this isn’t Superman’s mannerisms, not right now, not the way game-Superman runs a hand through his hair and hunches over a beanbag. The way he scrambles to hide behind a smile and a cheery shrug, replying, “I have! I rushed over to help as soon as I can.”
[ I’m glad you’re not hurt. ] [+]
[ It’s not your fault the father couldn’t make it out on time. ] [♥]
[ I heard the father died. ] [x]
And this gives Bruce pause, because— because he knows, firsthand, how shitty that feels, to fail. He knows how much it means to Clark. He looks up at game-Superman, whose expression is strangely unreadable; his eyes are that familiar impossible shade of bright blue.
Fuck it.
It isn’t like game-Superman follows this game’s rules, anyway; it doesn’t matter what option Bruce picks, because depending on how he acts in-between, what he says before or after, that’s really how game-Superman’s affection meter is affected — it fluctuates in a way that the other members’ meters don’t.
“It’s not your fault,” Bruce says slowly, “the father couldn’t make it out on time.”
And game-Superman looks shocked, at that. Blindsided; before a grin that Bruce knows all too well creeps onto his cheeks, and whoever created this game clearly knows Superman eerily well. Bruce has to do more research when he gets out of here.
“You sound like a good friend I know,” Superman says, before shaking his head. “I wish—“ He stutters to a halt, and Bruce blinks as he continues in a quieter voice Bruce strains to hear, under his breath, clearly meant to be to himself. “I wish he were here, you know? I mean— he kind of is, but it isn’t him. Not really.”
Bruce lets a furrow slip through his stoic mask. Is this someone Bruce is supposed to know? A person with relevance to the game, somehow, in game-Superman’s route?
“As in?” he prompts, and game-Superman’s gaze snaps up to him. He’s smiling again, and there’s none of that inner conflict in that smile, except— except there is, because Bruce knows to look. Because Bruce knows Superman, every single one of his expressions; because he knows Clark.
“No one,” Superman says brightly. “Thank you, by the way. It means a lot.”
[ I just hope you’re alright. ] [+]
[ I’m serious, Superman. Don’t beat yourself up over it. ] [♥]
[ Just do better next time. ] [x]
Bruce hesitates only slightly. “Just do better next time,” he says, and pretends very hard not to see the slight flinch that elicits, because damn it, puppy dog eyes should not work on him. “It’s natural to not save everyone,” he tacks on, to soften the blow. “It’s inevitable, in fact.” Bruce tells himself that everyday. He reminds Clark, just as Clark reminds him. “And when we make mistakes, we just learn from them. We’re only human, after all.”
And game-Superman just huffs, once.
“I’m certainly not human,” he says. It comes out bitter.
Bruce sucks in a breath, exhales, because Superman would never act like that, would never say— he wouldn’t sound like that, or at least, not the Superman the public knows, not the Superman Clark puts on like a cloak and an untouchable figure of the sky. But Clark would.
“You’re human in all the ways that count,” he says, before he can stop himself, and Clark’s eyes snap towards him.
His gaze is suddenly piercing.
“A friend said that to me once,” he notes, and what the hell? Bruce — Batman, to be exact — has told Clark that, but this game-Superman wouldn’t know that. He shouldn’t know that. What other friend was he talking about, then?
“I’m leaving,” Bruce says abruptly, in case he screws up any more and ends up being too nice, which is something he never thought he’d ever think, and then he opens his maps and teleports out.
The game has events, too, mandatory ones he’s forced to participate in. Bruce shoots down slime monsters with a gun in an invasion as game-Batman barks orders that Bruce has to grudgingly admit are relatively sound.
The first route he’s locked is Batman’s, after Bruce stole the Batmobile to go on a little joyride. Batman very loudly called him a ‘liability’ and a ‘danger to the League’ and a ‘brainless fool of a buffoon’, along with several other creative insults Bruce was mildly impressed by. Since then, he’s locked the Flash’s and Martian Manhunter’s — and, surprisingly, Wonder Woman’s, though he’s locked hers not in a hostile route but instead in a friendship route.
Meanwhile, the simulation's event is hardly a genuine mission, but Bruce's adrenaline kicks in nevertheless. He stays sharp throughout, quick to assess danger; and he knows himself best, including his blind spots, so when a slime monster wraps itself around game-Batman, he reacts on instinct.
“Batman!” he hears Superman yell, but Bruce is already in motion. Game-Batman is a distance away but that doesn’t matter. He closes one eye; aims, fires, and the slime monster bursts. He turns, frowning when game-Superman locks eyes with him. There’s such a grateful expression on his face that it gives Bruce pause even in the middle of battle, because— well.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. None of this is real.
After the battle, Bruce fends off the League members whose routes he hasn’t locked, before he’s cornered by Superman.
“Thank you,” he murmurs quietly to Bruce. Bruce archs a brow.
“For what?”
“For the assist back there. For helping out Batman when I noticed a beat too late.”
This is ridiculous. “You’re thanking me for him?”
“Well, he’s hardly going to thank you himself,” Superman snorts, with such affection in his eye roll that it makes Bruce’s stomach roil, turn over and bathe itself in acid.
He dismisses the feeling. “Batman, thanking someone? Perish the thought,” Bruce mutters, sarcastically.
And Game-Superman snorts at that, laughter bursting from his lips like he hasn’t meant it to do so, much like Clark does when Bruce surprises him with a scathing well-timed comment. “You really do remind me of a friend. You’re a good guy,” Superman says, and Bruce grits his teeth. You're a good guy, his Clark always says, as if he doesn't know who Bruce is, what he's done, what he's like. As if Bruce were a good person. “I’ll see you around, okay?”
And then he’s gone. In a blink Bruce is back in the League’s meeting room. Two words loop across his vision.
EVENT COMPLETED!
He checks Superman’s affection meter after that, and subsequently lets out a colourful string of profanities that would have Clark wincing.
SUPERMAN (64%)
Bruce would have to— he’s only— he’d just adapt, then. He’s had experience facing Superman before, in several senses of the word, and fine. He’s just going to have to switch tactics.
He can finish the game another way, right? Instead of locking all routes, he can lock onto a specific route and let it play out. That might be even more efficient, anyway, if more of a pain in the ass.
So. No problem there.
Nothing about this is real, after all. It doesn’t matter that it would hurt, pursuing a romance in this godforsaken game when the only one he really wants is Clark. His Clark. It doesn’t matter that it’s a taste of something he can never have; that it’s a delusion and a fantasy that feels like the beginnings of his ruination.
It doesn’t matter because he has to put all emotion aside and clear the game. That’s his primary objective. Everything else — even his own feelings — is secondary.
The next time he’s in the Batcave after Batman’s route locked is only at game-Superman’s behest.
“I don’t see why you’d bring this fool here,” Batman hisses, pissy. Superman visibly stifles a smile; he’s standing close, behind game-Batman’s back, and he has a hand on Batman’s shoulder. Bruce tries to tamp down his automatic reaction to that; a flare of longing-possessiveness-bitterness that rises up unbidden.
“Come on, B. We’re all working on this mission together, aren’t we? It’s a three person job.”
“The two of us could complete it, no problem. We don’t need this imbecile.”
Superman cuffs game-Batman gently around the head, chiding. It’s a little strange; it feels like an out of body experience, seeing not only a replica of Batman in front of him, but a version of Superman interacting with him like this. It’s— humiliating, almost. Mocking. Game-Batman softens around the edges around Superman; that much is evident. Bruce bristles at it. He’s not that careless, is he? He’s not that obvious.
But what’s worse is the look on Superman’s face, the soothing affectionate undertone directed at someone else that would never be Bruce, not really.
“Don’t take that tone with me, B,” says Superman, “you know we need someone extra.” He says something else, too, sotto voce, that Bruce doesn’t manage to catch; something that sounds like, “It’s a set event, anyway,” which has Bruce stiffening. Surely he can’t— it can’t be that he knows about the game’s events, because he’s a character, and Bruce is about to prompt for details when more text pops up.
[ Thank you for asking me to help. ] [+]
[ I’ll make you both proud. We’ll save people together. ] [♥]
[ If you don’t want me, I’ll leave. ] [x]
This is his chance to fuck out of here. “If you don’t want me, I’ll leave,” Bruce says pointedly.
“Aw, come on. Don’t say that; it’s an important mission.” Game-Superman shakes his head. “B here just gets a stick up his ass sometimes.”
“Do me a favour and lose the sense of humour,” growls game-Batman.
Superman smiles. “Do me a favour and buy one.”
And there’s no way that Batman is also Bruce Wayne in this game, meaning there’s no way game-Superman understands the true irony of his retort. Bruce finds himself snorting anyway, maybe because that snark isn’t directed to him for once. Or— instead directed to another asshole version of him. Whatever.
At that, game-Superman whips around to look at him. There’s surprise blazing in his eyes.
“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh,” he says, carefully amused. Bruce shrugs. He wipes his expression blank again.
“Let’s just get this over with,” he says. “What’s the case you need help with again?”
He finally locks onto Superman’s route on his next visit to the Fortress, which is where game-Superman’s ‘base’ is, and is where Bruce spends most of his time. Just because he’s trying to clear the game as quickly as possible — not because he misses Clark, no, not at all, because again, all of this is some god damn dating simulator.
Game-Superman is usually found at the Fortress. But sometimes he isn’t because he’s also frequently found at the Batcave speaking to game-Batman, and Bruce avoids that place like the plague. It's partly because of game-Batman himself and partly because he dislikes watching the two speak. The two of them argue for ages on end. Are the two of them actually that insufferable in reality? He hopes not.
Whatever the case, this time, the Fortress is jackpot. Superman looks up when Bruce enters, seeming distracted but greeting him all the same.
[ Interesting book you’re reading. ] [+]
[ You’re looking good today, as usual. ] [♥]
[ What’s the point in reading when you’re Superman? ] [x]
Bruce picks the option he likes the most. “Interesting book you’re reading,” he says, and it’s not even a lie. It’s the same book game-Superman has been reading for a while, one Bruce just reread recently — Immanuel Kant, on moral philosophy. He’s recommended it to Clark many times. “I didn’t know you read Kant.”
“Not often,” Superman explains, setting the book aside; he dog-ears the pages, a bad habit Clark shares, and Bruce can’t help the face he pulls at that. “My best fr— someone I know likes it, so I thought I’d give it a try, since— since I’ve had spare time recently, strangely, and it’s not often that I have that. I’m not sure how time works here.”
Bruce folds his arms and leans against the wall. “Here as in the Fortress? I’d assume it’s the same as anywhere else.”
“Sure,” Superman agrees, smiling.
“Someone you know likes the book,” Bruce presses. “Is..." He clears his throat. “Is it Batman?”
Bemusement colours Superman’s expression for a moment, but it’s gone in a flash. “It is, actually,” he says, something in his eyes glinting with mirth.
And they spend the next hour or so talking about the book. Bruce doesn’t— he doesn’t even mean to do it, this time, he’s just absorbed in conversation with this man who isn’t real but whose opinions and quips are sharp, and idealistic, and just like Clark—except he isn’t Clark, and Bruce has to remember that. This line of thinking is dangerous. Bruce can't allow himself to fall into its trap. He has to get back to his world, so he can hear what exactly Clark really thinks of the book, when he finally reads it.
“You really do remind me of someone I know,” game-Clark says, after Bruce inadvertently drags him into a long rant about the many misinterpretations of the book’s meaning — and there’s something rueful in his voice; something wistful and yearning.
Then sounds a chime as rainbow lights splash across Bruce's vision.
SUPERMAN (80%)
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE LOCKED ONTO THE [SUPERMAN] ROUTE.
A new dialogue option pops up. This time there are only two options.
[ Would you like to go for dinner with me? ]
[ Would you like to go to the arcade together? ]
The first phase of his mission is a success. He did it, somehow. He’s— one step closer to getting back, but— he still has to go through the motions of romancing this false Clark, and, God. Bruce can’t find it in himself to be too eager, to be anything less than bitter. There’s bile rising up in his throat, staining his mouth and thoughts with acid.
It’s a joke, really, this whole farce. It’s— an indulgence. A pathetic, inexcusable breach of Bruce’s self-control, that he’s allowing himself to do this — to enjoy it, no less, to enjoy entertaining what it would be like to date Superman. To actively pursue him.
What right does he have?
What right does he have to even consider the idea that Clark, any version of him, could love someone like Bruce? None: and so let it be a punishment, then; let it be his reckoning. He is weak — susceptible to the whims of any other human, as much as he tries to deny it. And so, when he returns to his reality, this will be his reminder; that were he a better man, a man with a clean slate, with dialogue options to guide him, perhaps less self-destructive and selfish and angry, then this is what he could have had.
“Would you,” Bruce starts; and it’s not real. It’s not real, but his throat is dry, and his heart is in his throat, and his ribcage has melted from bone to blood and is choking the air out of his lungs. “Would you like to go to the arcade together?”
And game-Clark does a double take at the non sequitur. Not a few seconds ago, they were talking about Kant; now Clark’s expression has been completely wiped clean. He doesn’t look happy. But he doesn’t look shocked, or angry, or disgusted.
He just looks— considering.
“I don’t know if I can guarantee you anything,” he says slowly, and he’s clearly perceptive, he knows what Bruce is implying. “But I don’t mind giving it a shot.” Game-Clark grins, again, but it rings false; it doesn’t reach his eyes, and Bruce immediately hates it. Hates that he doesn’t know what caused it.
[ Looking forward to it. ] [+]
[ There are many shooting games in the arcade, if you’re going to give things a shot. ] [♥]
[ What’s that supposed to mean? ] [x]
And the last option is Bruce’s instinctive answer; an accusation to hurl as a demand for answers.
But he forces himself to calm down. If this were Clark, what would he do? How would Bruce want to tease him? Bruce lets out a deep breath, leaning back his weight on one hip, then channels his inner Brucie.
“There are many shooting games in the arcade, if you’re going to give things a shot,” he smirks, and pairs it off with a slow salacious wink; when Clark looks stunned, Bruce thinks he’s made a mistake, but—
Clark instead dissolves into a genuine laugh, a red creeping up his cheeks that has Bruce momentarily entranced.
“That is horrible,” Clark says.
“Rude.”
“Pot, meet kettle.”
“So I’ll see you tomorrow at the arcade?” Bruce says, and game-Clark just nods, a quiet wondering smile dancing across his lips.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll see you there.”
The arcade is empty and so there’s no one to think it strange that Superman is standing in the middle of it in his suit. It’s a rustic arcade, with neon colours and mahogany wood floors. Bruce is given fifty credits to spend. He sees Clark’s eyes linger on the gacha machine, so he plays that; then he makes good on his earlier promise and they shoot down some digital zombies. Superman kicks his ass in rhythm games but that’s unfair, you have super speed.
Bruce soon gets his revenge watching with ill-concealed amusement as the claw machine eats up more and more credits, when game-Clark tries in vain to catch a small Batman plushie from the machine.
“Really?” Bruce drawls, acerbic. “Anyone sane would've given up by now.”
“But I want to give it to Bru— Batman,” Clark protests, and Bruce looks at him sharply. Was he about to say Bruce? Perhaps he was wrong, earlier, and their secret identities do exist in this world. Nothing about this game is normal, anyway; from the detail of the Batcave to the fact that the Fortress even exists.
“I don’t know what you see in him,” Bruce hears himself say, abruptly, before he can slam on the brakes. “Batman, I mean.”
Clark falters, pulling away from the machine to look at him. Bruce instantly regrets having opened his mouth.
“He’s—” Clark stalls, and he— Christ, he bites his lip, and Bruce has to look away. “He’s not what you think, you know.”
Bruce doesn’t back down.
“Not what I think?”
“He’s kind,” Clark says, and Bruce flinches, imperceptibly. Clark rubs a hand over his face, and for a moment he looks— tired. Sad. “He’s strong. He’s the strongest man I know. He’s also the most infuriating, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I wish,” but whatever he’s about to say clearly dies on his tongue, because he shakes his head before resuming. “I wish that he’d take better care of himself. That he could see how I saw him.” His hand drops, then his Superman smile is back. “I’ve said too much, haven’t I? I’ll shut up now.”
And Bruce’s mouth thins into a line. He doesn’t allow himself to dwell, to think — he cannot.
[ No, it’s fine. ] [+]
[ I’ll get it for you. ] [♥]
[ Stop talking about Batman already. ] [x]
“I’ll get it for you,” he says instead, and when a few tries later he successfully drops out the hideous Batman plushie into Clark’s hands, the beatific smile he receives is the greatest prize of all the arcade's rewards.
They go on like that as per the game’s directions. The game has a few preset date locations, so Bruce picks those he thinks Clark will enjoy the most. The ballet is one, a picnic in the park another.
It’s— perfect. It’s fucking perfect, everything Bruce could ask for, but it isn’t real, and so it’s the most excruciating thing Bruce has ever done to himself.
And that’s saying a lot.
Bruce doesn’t know how he can tell the game is coming to an end, but he can. Maybe it’s the affection meter he now checks and checks and checks, obsessively, before and after every one of their dates; and ever since it’s hit the 80% mark, the increments have been very, very slight.
A few days ago he hit 90%. No matter what he does, it’s stuck there. He doesn’t know what to do, shy of taking more drastic measures. It refuses to budge even an inch — not up, not down, and Bruce can feel the both of them reaching their breaking point, the tangled cobwebs of the space between their shared breaths pulled taut to a conclusion Bruce isn’t quite sure of.
It snaps at last.
They’re walking on an empty cobblestone sidewalk out from the theatre; the fluorescent orange lights overhead buzz incessantly. The sky is littered with stars. The moon shines silver-bright tonight.
Clark’s still in his suit; his hair was slicked back, his shoulders set and spine pulled upright as if he were a marionette on a string; but now his curls fall over his face, his forehead, making him look younger. More like Clark than Superman. Still, it would be a danger to be seen like this — Superman in his suit with a ‘civilian’, coming out to watch a musical together. It would be front page news, speculation rampant. But it doesn’t fucking matter. Why? Because none of this is real.
Bruce is suddenly, sharply, acutely sick of it. The cicadas are loud in his ears. He can barely hear his own thoughts. He wants to go back to the damn Manor and talk to Alfred, and his kids, and a Clark that doesn’t love him back but at the very least is someone Bruce knows is his.
Fuck it, he thinks and then he shoves his shoulder into Clark’s and crowds him up against a light pole.
“You okay?” game-Clark asks, undeniably startled. He sounds a little hoarse; he’s been silent all throughout their walk.
He sounds just like Clark. Bruce wants to wreck him.
[ Did you enjoy the musical? ] [+]
[ You’re driving me crazy. ] [♥]
[ No. ] [x]
Bruce hates this stupid fucking dialogue thing. “No. Can I kiss you?” he bites bluntly.
Clark’s eyes widen.
“What?” he says, inanely. Jesus, his eyes are blue. The exact same shade of blue.
Not his Clark, Bruce tells himself, a reminder just as much a punishment. Not his Clark.
“Can I kiss you?” he repeats.
“Oh. Um. Sure, I guess—“
Bruce fists a hand in Clark’s hair and presses forward, unceremoniously slotting their lips together. It’s a little sloppy, but he angles Clark’s jaw with his fingers to bite down on Clark’s lower lip, pulling him in for open-mouthed kisses. It’s electric and terrible, terrible, terrible, because Bruce wants to do it forever but he can’t.
He can’t, and suddenly— suddenly Clark is pushing him away, and Bruce thinks he’s going to be sick.
“I’m sorry,” Clark blurts.
He sounds as dreadful as Bruce feels. He’s gone pale, an ashen sort of grey; his lips are glossy and bitten and Bruce lets a familiar spear of self-loathing lance through him.
“No need to be,” he says lightly. His expression, his tone, is carefully controlled. It comes out as he wants it to: dry, emotionless. Flippant. Polite, even. He pulls back and almost laughs; even in a fucking dating simulator, Clark doesn’t want him. “Forget about it, then. Shall we go?”
There's a weighted, hefty pause.
Then:
“No,” replies Clark, disconcertingly. It's just like Clark to be so damn contrary, and Bruce hates him a little more for that. Hates that despite it all he still loves him.
“No what?” It comes out a little sharper this time.
“No, you don’t understand.” Clark sounds — inexplicably, unfathomably — desperate. “You’re— you’re good. You’re amazing. Rao, you remind me so much of—” Clark slumps against the pole. He tilts his head back, eyelashes fluttering. He tries for a smile, but it falls short, into a kind of grimace, before he gives up and his voice drops to a whisper. “You remind me of him.”
Bruce’s blood goes ice-cold in his veins.
“I remind you of someone,” he clarifies, more statement than question. “Someone— you’re in love with.”
“Yes. I— Rao. I’m sorry, I’m so— it’s unfair, isn’t it? I’m being unfair. I don’t even know your name.” Clark scoffs; it’s done in an uncharacteristically caustic manner. It’s not directed to Bruce. It’s directed to himself. “Why would I? I don’t even think you have a name.”
“It’s hardly like you thought to ask,” snaps Bruce, sparks flying across his vision. There’s a ringing in his ears. He can’t think straight. Anger toils and rolls under the surface of his nausea; years and years of words bitten back bubble to the surface, just shy of having him punch the light pole and scrape his knuckles, smear the blood against his cheek and yell and yell. Clark doesn’t love him; that’s one thing. Clark loves someone else — that’s another. Bruce has never expected Clark to love him. He’s resigned himself to that fact long ago; and that’s fine because Clark deserves better — but this is the first he’s heard of Clark ever being in love with someone else that isn’t Lois Lane. And it’s not like this is even his Clark, god damn it.
And, because Clark has lost his fucking mind or something, Clark actually laughs.
“There it is, that tone,” he says. And then he sobers. He blinks, and there’s a shine in his eyes; a gloss to them that, despite himself, makes Bruce feel like someone has wrapped their fingers around his heart through his chest and squeezed.
“What tone?” demands Bruce.
“That one,” says Clark. “The one that sounds just like Bruce.”
And—
And…
What?
He stares at Clark. Clark stares back at him.
“Bruce,” Bruce hears himself say blankly. This is— absurd. “Bruce— Wayne.”
Clark shoots him a swift, startled look. “Yes. How did you—“
“You’re in love with Bruce Wayne.”
“More Bruce than Bruce Wayne, but yes.” Clark snorts to himself, like it’s some private joke that he doesn’t expect anyone to get, and his mouth twists wryly as he goes on, “I don’t think I’ve ever admitted it aloud. But I suppose it’s fine, since you’re the protagonist of a game, and I hardly think a computer programme or whatever weird magic this is is going to find its way back to Bruce. Although— dang. Now that I’ve messed up the ending, is the game not going to end?”
“Game,” Bruce echoes. He’s starting to sound like a broken record but he couldn’t give less of a fuck right now. “You’re the one in the game. You think— you think I’m part of the game. You've got it wrong. I thought it was you. Clark, listen to me—“
And Clark whirls around so fast he’s a blur. “I don’t think I ever told you my name.”
“—I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what’s going on. How much of what you said is real; how much is part of the simulation. But whatever it is—“
“Huh?”
“—it doesn’t matter. Our first priority is breaking out of this illusion. Clark, listen—“
“Wait,” interrupts Clark, sharply. There’s a dawning realisation on his face. He looks devastated. “No. Bruce—?”
And then there’s a smattering of iridescent colours across Bruce’s vision, and he reels back like he’s been hit, staggering. Text slams into place in front of him, just fast enough that he glimpses it through his dizziness—
CONGRATULATIONS! ███ CONDITIONS HAVE BEEN MET. YOU HAVE DISCOVERED A NEW ROUTE: [█████].
—before he’s falling back, back, back, and everything goes black.
Bruce is in his office.
A quick glance at the clock tells him no time has passed. The flash drive is gone; it’s like it never existed in the first place.
“JASON TODD,” Bruce bellows. “COME HERE, NOW.”
Shamelessly, Jason slinks into the room, one languid hand in his pocket and the other digging his ear.
“What?” he drawls lazily.
Bruce slams a hand on his wooden desk. He’s shaking. A brisk bemusement passes Jason’s face at his reaction, but he doesn’t move.
“Explain,” commands Bruce; his voice is low, dangerous.
There’s a second figure entering the room, this time, and— and it’s Dick, of all people, guilt painted across his face like an open book. He takes in the scene in front of him; as he approaches, he holds up his hands, cringing.
“Bruce,” he says placatingly, “I know you’re mad, I would be too, I mean I told Jason it was a bad idea—“
“What was a bad idea.”
“I bought two copies of the game as a joke the other day,” Dick explains, coming to a halt. His eyes dart around like he’s calculating the most optimal escape routes from the room. “Jason borrowed it and kind of had them enchanted, they were one-time use matching pairs, and I’m not sure what exactly you encountered there but it’s definitely a modified version because apparently it shifts based on whoever enters the illusion—“
“Why.”
“I think Jason thought it would be funny. And, well. Another reason too, I guess, but I'm not touching that one with a ten foot pole.”
“You gave,” and Bruce finds the clarification stuck in his throat; he ruthlessly crushes the welling in his chest, keeps himself calm, and factual, and objective, because the alternative would be to fall apart then and there: “You— gave the second game to— someone else. Clark.”
“Um.” Dick’s looking increasingly concerned. He exchanges an unreadable look with Jason, then walks forward to steady Bruce with a hand on his shoulder, when Bruce doesn’t even realise he’s begun to sway. “Yes, Jason just— he did. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“What happened?” Jason demands.
Bruce loosens his collar, exhaling. “You gave it to Clark, meaning it was Clark that was in the game, the whole time. The Clark we know.”
“I— suppose?” Dick offers, perplexed.
“What kind of enchantment was it?”
Jason shrugs, his eyes still narrowed. “Dunno. Just told my friend to make it so that it would get the two of you together or something.”
“Let me get this straight,” says Bruce. “You enchanted a game with magic that could’ve been dangerous for all we know, where we could’ve gotten stuck in an illusion, without telling me, because you thought it was funny.”
“Mostly because I wanted to set you two up.” Jason folds his arms, defensive. “Please, we were all sick of it. The number of times I’ve heard Steph complain is phenomenal. I don’t even blame her this time.”
And before Bruce can even begin to formulate a reply to that—
There’s a gust of wind. The door to his office slams open again.
Clark is there, in a plain plaid shirt and jeans; his hair is terribly, messily wind-ruffled, and he's clearly hastily dressed; his eyes are wild, chest heaving.
“Bruce,” Clark says, breathless. He’s the most beautiful thing Bruce has ever seen.
“Aaand that’s our cue,” announces Dick, dragging Jason away.
“It was you,” Clark says, bewildered — slowly, as if waiting for Bruce to contradict him. “All along, it was... you weren’t you. As in, you weren’t the game’s Batman, you were— it was the protagonist, wasn’t it, and—“ He sucks in a breath, ragged and unsteady. “No wonder you—“ Clark's voice breaks. He stops. Tries again. “I should’ve known that no one else would be so—“
“What you said,” Bruce interjects. “What you said, in the illusion. Did you mean it?”
Clark breaks off, gaping. He stares with a pink flush high on his cheeks.
“I don’t—“
“Tell me.”
“I’m sorry,” Clark says. He doesn’t meet Bruce’s eyes; it comes out just shy of a whisper. “I never meant— I never meant for you to find out. Much less like this.” At his side, his fists clench tight enough that Bruce can see his knuckles turn white; he relaxes it, then flexes it again. “You don’t have to do anything. It changes nothing, okay? You’re still my best friend. I don’t need anything more. And as for the— the illusion — it’s alright. You don’t have to worry; I know you didn’t mean any of it. You were trying to clear the game, right? It’s fine. I don’t…”
And there might as well have been Kryptonite in the room, with the expression on Clark’s face: lost, sickened.
But he’s got it all wrong.
“Clark,” Bruce says carefully. “Clark. Look at me.”
There aren’t any dialogue options for him now. There’s just the two of them. The ball is in Bruce’s court.
He crosses the room in one, two, three strides, then slides a hand to cup Clark’s cheek.
He can scarcely breathe.
“We went to the arcade, the park, the theatre, the museum, your Fortress, the cave; we went on missions together. Think about it. What was I like?”
Confusion wars visibly with nausea on Clark’s face. He doesn’t lean into Bruce’s touch, but it doesn’t seem like he can bring himself to tilt away, either.
“Huh?”
“What,” Bruce emphasises, “was I like?”
“I don’t know.” And there’s that familiar exasperation. “You were— you were just like you.”
“Was I Brucie?”
“No.”
“Did I give the impression I was trying to butter you up?”
“No.”
“Did I give the impression I was having my arm twisted?”
“…no.”
“Did I give the impression,” Bruce says, “that I wasn’t in love with you, too?”
Clark stares.
“Oh,” he says.
“Oh,” Bruce agrees. His mouth slants, wry. “Though it’s not a good idea, Clark."
But Clark is smiling, a gradual, brilliant thing that spreads out onto his face like the sun. It’s the most genuine smile Bruce has seen in a while.
“I don’t care,” Clark declares, sure as anything.
“We’re the League’s leaders.”
“We’re professionals, Bruce.”
“It’s a conflict of interest.”
“I’m already in love with you. It’s going to be a problem either way.”
“I’m— not easy to love.”
“Agree to disagree,” throws out Clark, lightly, and then he’s clutching the back of Bruce’s neck, bringing their foreheads together. His eyes are misty again. This time it’s brimming with hope. “Give me a chance, yeah? Who cares about the Superman route? We’re writing our own ending this time, and I write for a living — I’ll be sure to make it good.”
Bruce shuts his eyes at that.
“I should’ve known you’d make some horribly cheesy one-liner,” he says, after a pause, and Clark just laughs and kisses him and Bruce thinks that maybe it isn’t game over yet, after all.