Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne had spent years tracing the words on his skin, desperately pleading to the universe to just give him this one thing every time his thumb looped the 'g' and the 'f' and trailed off with the 'w'. The words had been his everything, even through the death of his parents, the hollow feeling when their murderer finally heaved his last breath, and the clawing sensation to run and fight until his lungs burst. Even when he was rebuilding himself, forging Batman in the heart of cold mountains and breaking his body over and over until he could stand the pain, the words were a reminder that Bruce Wayne still existed. That somewhere there was a person who would love him despite the coldness in his chest and the scars that roped their way across his skin. A reminder that he wasn't alone - that he wasn't destined to live forever in the shadows, silent and isolated. That somewhere was the other half of his soul.
He just wasn't expecting the other half of his soul to be an alien.
He'd been waiting, patiently, for a moment of opportunity after the gala he'd been harassed into attending by Alfred had been overrun by men in animal masks demanding ransom money in the millions, when it happened. Things moved suddenly, and in slow motion. There was the shatter of glass, loud shouting, gunfire, screams: a carnage of images flicking over themselves, overlapping until it was just blurring colours and harsh sounds. Bruce remembered the image of a lion, pressing flush against him, arms dragging him to the side, before he was pushed backwards, toppling into thin air and flailing as he was shoved out of a forty-fifth story window. He'd braced himself, knowing that without his grappling hooks and his armour, there was no way he was going to survive the fall.
Then arms were winding themselves around him and: "Don't worry, I've got you. You're safe; nothing's going to hurt you now."
His words.
Superman. His other half was Superman. And his brain shut off and his mouth moved of its own accord.
"I know," he had replied, stunned but almost light for the first time in a lifetime, "you've been reminding me that every day for thirty seven years."
The look on Superman's face was comical, right up until it wasn't.
His eyes widened into saucers before: "No."
Bruce remembered frowning as he was deposited on the street, unsure as to the reaction. People hadn't spotted them yet, but between the two of them, it was only a matter of time.
"I'm sorry Mr Wayne," Superman said, tone as cold as ice, "but there must be a mistake."
Bruce held back a flinch. "Mistake?" he asked instead, voice too quiet.
"I'm Superman," he hissed in reply, glancing around. "I'm sorry but I know what kind of person you are."
"Kind of person?" Bruce parroted, heart dropping like a stone.
"I read the tabloids Mr Wayne," Superman replied. "I'm well aware of your extra-curricular exploits, and your...disinterest in your company. I'm sorry but someone like that is not my...m-my Soulmate." He shook his head. "This is clearly some sort of cosmic joke... or punishment," he huffed, speaking almost to himself now.
Bruce could feel the weight of the air around him, suffocating him slowly and pricking his skin like needles. Because of course. Of course.
And suddenly the last trace of Bruce Wayne burnt into dust inside him and there was only the Batman left. And Batman didn't need a Soulmate.
"Maybe," he eventually said, voice steady and unyielding. His business tone, his I'm-going-to-get-shit-done tone. "But at least I'm not cruel."
And he turned on his heel and strode away.