Author's note: This portion of the story has been written for a while. I'd wanted to write entire chapters before posting them, but the past few months have been incredibly busy, so I'm posting this part of the second chapter now. I hope to have another part of this chapter uploaded, if not the entire chapter, very soon. I was in the middle of getting this underway a few weeks back, but the file became corrupted, so I'm back to square one with any additions to this story. I'd appreciate getting more reviews, just to see how well the tale is received. Thanks to those folks that have posted reviews.

Now, on to the story!

Chapter Two – A Beautiful Friendship?

Midnight.

If anyone were to pass by the workout room at that very moment, one would hear the steady rhythmic pounding of fists on punching bags, punctuated by the curses of the highly irritated.

Alfred was such a man.

A butler second and a father first, Alfred had learned long ago how to read the moods of his surrogate son. Though Master Bruce—as Alfred referred to him when speaking with others in his trade—tended to be the non-committal sort to most, Bruce was refreshingly open with the man who'd kept his world from spinning into oblivion when his parents were murdered.

Alfred understood what drove Bruce out into Gotham's darkness night after night as The Batman, fighting the demons on the streets and in his heart. He could feel the anguish emanating from this wounded man when a life went unsaved, a crime went unsolved, or a villain went free. The triumph when the demons of the city met their comeuppance shined like the brightest star from a man who spent his life in shadows and secrecy, never letting the world know that the playboy and the vigilante were one and the same. As far as Alfred could tell, the boy he'd nurtured into manhood returned to Wayne Manor on top of Gotham City's criminal element that evening. In fact, it had been a slow evening, inspiring Bruce to head home early.

So why the sour mood?

Thump, thump, tha-thump thump thump
"Interfering . . ."
Thump
"Uppity . . ."
Tha-thump
"Self . . ."
Thump
"Righteous . . ."
Thump, thump, thump, tha-thump thump thump
"Woman!"

Alfred raised an eyebrow. This did not sound like his ordinary type of woman, though Bruce did, much to Alfred's chagrin, tend towards the unsavory, criminal sort. He decided to brace the lion's den—the bat's cave was underground, and Alfred was fond of the traditional sayings, anyway—to see what was stuck in Bruce Wayne's craw this evening. If nothing else, he could tuck it away for a chuckle tomorrow as he went about his daily chores. It would also be rather impolitic to keep the guest upstairs waiting.

"Another date gone awry, Bruce?" he offered.

"Very funny, Alfred." Thump tha-thump. "Just blowing off some steam before I collapse. Better that than wring her admittedly pretty neck." Bruce stepped from the punching bag and over to the towel rack.

"So it was a date," his closest confidante argued. "You never feel the need to kill a woman unless you are dating her." "You're never going to let me live the Cat Woman episode down, are you?" Bruce complained. "Maybe," Alfred replied, "when you finally find someone that does not inspire me to lock away the fine silver."

"I suggest you don't hold your breath, Alfred. I wouldn't be able to explain to the medical examiner why a perfectly healthy, albeit older man in my employ suddenly dropped dead of asphyxiation."

Even if that threat hadn't been delivered with a grin, Alfred would have known he was joking. That never meant, of course, that anyone else would. Alfred preferred it that way. It kept the gossip harpies on their toes.

"Well, before I go to my death via suffocation, I should probably tell you that you have a visitor."

"This can't be your normal visitor," stated Bruce, aware that he was being obtuse. "Well stated, sir, since 'normal' never applies around here. It is Master Kent, come to speak with you. He is in the receiving room off of the foyer. I had him make himself at home." Alfred headed toward the door. "Shall I prepare some refreshments? From the look of things, I doubt this will be a short visit."

Bruce had no secrets from Alfred, nor did he desire any. Alfred was too astute for his own good, and had recognized Clark Kent as Superman immediately without any help. Alfred kept his own council, and aside from Bruce, no one, not even Clark, knew that Alfred had discovered Superman's secret.

Bruce felt himself transforming. Funny, how he always seemed to do that the moment he thought he would meet someone in costume, especially if the individual was a meta-human. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear it seemed somewhat dissociative.

"Is Clark in uniform, Alfred?" The Batman asked.

"No, not tonight, Master Bruce," answered Alfred, recognizing the tone and responding to it without thinking. He immediately shifted tone, to put Bruce at ease. "He is in civilian clothing this evening."

"A social visit?" Bruce scoffed. "I thought it was past his bedtime?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "It appears that uppity women are the least of your problems, Bruce," he said reprovingly.

"The 'uppity' woman is most likely why Clark is here. We were going to have this discussion sooner or later. Why not in the wee hours of the morning?" Bruce looked at the clock, which stood at twelve-fifteen, and rolled his eyes. "Don't bother to tell him I'm showering, Alfred," Bruce said, ruefully. "He's seen me in states far worse than this."

"As you wish, Bruce."

"I do."

Let's get this over with.

Clark Kent paced around the ornately decorated receiving room, waiting for Alfred to return with Bruce Wayne, cursing himself for even being there. He'd fully intended to spend the rare down time at his apartment, catching up on long-delayed correspondences, calling his parents for their weekly chat. Instead Clark had gone to his apartment and left again as quickly as possible, eager to take flight and clear his head. So much had taken place, and it was there among the clouds that he could think without the demands of his duties to interrupt his solitude. It wasn't until Alfred had opened the door that he realized his thoughts had led him to Wayne Manner.

Clark had spent a long morning at the Daily Planet, listening to Lois wrangle on about superior reporting and Jimmy Olsen raving about his new digital camera paid for by the brass. That day, heading to the United Nations for an exclusive interview with Secretary General Koffi Annan felt more like a vacation than work. As always, it was pleasant speaking with Annan, even though as Clark, he supposedly never met the man. As Superman, Clark been in the UN leader's presence more times than he could possibly count; it was a wonder that the Secretary General hadn't caught on to a disguise which, even Clark would admit, was flimsy at best. That few people actually knew his identity was a never-ending source of amazement to the orphaned alien.

Then again, Clark had been on this planet long enough to realize that no matter how obvious something should be to people they would only continue to see what they wanted to see. Most would refuse to believe that Superman the Kryptonian was raised in the sticks and donned simple glasses with no prescription and a suit to blend in with humanity as Clark Kent.

At this time in his life, it was nearly impossible to separate Clark Kent and Superman. One would be remarkably incomplete without the other. Who knew that being oneself would prove to be the most impenetrable disguise?

Bruce Wayne knew this just as much as he did.

Bruce.

No one in the daylight world in which Wayne found himself would bet that he spent his nights as the Caped Crusader, battling injustice on behalf of the defenseless. Bruce was to most a man with keen business acumen with a terribly sordid personal life. That he donated millions to charitable causes was viewed by most as the "in thing to do" for a man of his wealth and stature. Few realized that this was Bruce's way of retaining his humanity among a social set into which he was born, but despised to the very marrow of his bones. Few understood that for Bruce, this was his way of fighting injustice when he wasn't skulking about his city, scouring the shadows.

Clark reckoned that Bruce often regretted leading the double life more than he did. As Bruce, he was respected for his skill in the boardroom, but not as highly regarded as a man. Rumors of his womanizing had taken on a life of its own years ago; the women that weren't hiding their young girls hovered like madams, pimping their own daughters in the hopes that they would be marrying into the Wayne fortune. The citizens of Gotham were drunk on the details of his public life, and like alley bums, regularly begged for more. To some he was no different than the rest of them, a robber baron of the business world that was smarter than the rest, who gave to the masses when he felt guilty for his good fortune. Others saw the humanity, the loneliness and the need to care that came from his giving, and felt sorry for him.

Public opinion was just as mixed for the Batman. Clark was all too aware that the blue bloods thought that Gotham City's shadow was nothing more than a criminal; his fancy gadgets and reported intelligence cut a swath through the underbelly of their world. It was just a matter of time, they said, before he turned on them. Joe and Jane Gothamite loved the Batman just as much as they feared him. It wasn't unheard of for parents to threaten their gullible children with a visit from the Batman if the did not behave. He was the legend that the working stiff on the docks talked about every morning, the juggernaut that kids idolized. And between them, the Gotham City Police Department saw him as an unwanted ally, capable of solving crimes and executing captures of criminals in ways that would allow the guilty to go free if they were to attempt them. So long as he was on their side and Commissioner Gordon was at the helm, Batman couldn't be touched.

Clearly he made a difference, both as Bruce Wayne and his alter ego. To give up either was completely out of the question, and Clark doubted the thought had ever crossed Bruce's mind. In the end then, Bruce was trapped by his two personae. A normal life was impossible, and this life, hard and deadly though it may be, gave him a purpose.

Clark walked over to the largest window in the room and looked over the grounds, bathed in a pale, silvery light.

"It's the common ground that probably keeps us from killing each other," the Kryptonian murmured, even as his ears alerted him to the sound of the doors opening behind him.

"I'm more civilized than that Clark. Barely. As are you."

Bruce Wayne, colleague and sometime antagonist, stood in the doorway.

Part Three

Bruce would have invited Clark to have a seat, but he knew the Meta was too tense to sit; he could see the stress by the manner in which Clark carried himself. Absent was the relative ease that he usually seemed to exude. Even the most comfortable furniture he could buy was incapable of erasing the discomfort Clark felt tonight.

Bruce had gone to the weight room after patrolling for the same reason.

"She got to you, too, did she?" Bruce finally broke the eternal silence.

Clark looked briefly at the loveseat nearest to him, but discarded the notion of lounging in the receiving room. He needed to stand.

"If you mean Diana, yes, damn it, she did! I'm sure you already figured that out already, being the world's greatest detective."

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

"Even a blind man could tell something was bothering you, Clark, it's written all over your face and in your posture, not to mention the fact that you're at my home after midnight, and not on business." Bruce walked over to the opposite sit of the large window. "And if I am wrong about why you're irritable, I'll hang up my night job for good."

That provoked a snort of laughter from Clark.

"Night job? You make it sound as if you've got a stock boy job at the local grocery store," he shook his head with a smirk.

"A rent-a-cop with the Pinkerton Agency," returned Bruce.

"How about a rent-a-cop with the Gotham Mall?" Clark grinned.

"Gee, thanks, Clark. You could have at least upgraded me to something better. I'd work as a night guard at Arkham Asylum before I'd work the mall," Bruce declared, managing to keep a straight face. "Or maybe even a bouncer at the Decahedron."

Clark was shaking with silent laughter now. "Was that the high class strip club you're rumored to have a weak spot for? Nah, I'm thinking they could use you at Dèjá Vu. You could even wear the bat suit."

The vision of working at a club with "Ninety-seven beautiful women and three ugly ones," in a seedy club, wearing his uniform was too much, even for Bruce. Had sound actually come out of his opened mouth it would have been called laughter. As it was, the billionaire was doubled over, trying to catch his breath, his eyes shut tightly. Clark slumped against the wall, his laughter booming through the room.

Alfred heard Clark's guffaws from the kitchen. Looking down at the refreshments he had prepared, he reckoned that this evening was likely to end on a more positive note than Bruce had expected. Rather then disturb these tentative friends he decided to leave the repast in the kitchen for Bruce and Clark to retrieve themselves.

He wouldn't have interrupted that moment even if someone tried to bribe him into doing so. Bruce rarely had moments like these.

Satisfied that the man he loved as a son needed him no longer this evening, Alfred headed upstairs, whistling happily.

Bruce wiped the tears from his eyes and looked at Clark, who was doing the same. The joking at his expense had nearly destroyed the strain that had formed between them. The relief draped over his shoulders like the warmest of blankets. Though he may not wish to disturb this calm, they had to discuss Diana . . .and Darkseid.

"You were obsessed with him, Clark," he spoke.

Clark looked at him sharply, and began to speak, but checked himself. He sighed audibly.

"He used me like an animal, Bruce," Clark began, his voice trembling with controlled anger. He turned to Bruce and made eye contact. "Darkseid used me to harm the very people I've dedicated myself to protect. How would you take it is the Joker or Two Face or the Scare Crow bent your will to do things to people you would never do in your right mind?" Clark asked hotly.

"I would have wanted his head on a platter," Bruce answered, truthfully.

"You would have had his head on a platter, Bruce," Clark corrected. "You would have done whatever it took to see him destroyed, if it was within your power."

"Perhaps, Clark," Bruce admitted, "but I would not have seen his world destroyed, not when ignoring Darkseid could have destroyed my own." He leaned against the windowsill and looked sideways at Clark. "Your distrust of Darkseid was certainly founded—"

"How kind of you to concede that, Bruce" Clark, said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"—but you were in danger of letting your feelings get in the way of the mission. In fact, I'd say you crossed that line in Brainiac's stronghold. You endangered you own life because of your pride," Bruce finished, gritting his teeth over Clark's interruption. After taking a deep breath and counting to ten, he continued. "For my part, Clark, I grossly underestimated the situation."

"You can't say it, can you, Bruce?" Clark looked at Bruce, dumbfounded. "You can't even say you were wrong, just this once?" Clark's nostrils flared. "You were wrong, Bruce. This wasn't a mere oversight, nor was it a miscalculation!" Suddenly, he whirled and seized Bruce by the collar of his sweatshirt. "You were—"

"WRONG!" Bruce roared, pushing Clark away. "I get it Clark!" The muscle in Bruce's jaw ticked. "You don't think I see that? You agreed to go along, and it nearly got you killed! It tore at me, realizing the part I'd played in Darkseid's plan. The part we all played." He let loose a tired sigh, and lowered his voice to its usual even level. "We both made mistakes that contributed to this Clark. We don't need to debate that." Bruce leaned back against the wall, the adrenaline that had coursed through him dissipating as quickly as it had come.

Clark looked down at his hands, in shock. He forced the anger down into his gut, appalled at what he had done. This drama over Darkseid had shaken him, turned him inside out and left him to fight a war within himself…He hadn't realized how close he was to losing until his iron grip felt the soft fabric of Bruce's sweatshirt.

"I'm sorry, Bruce," he gasped brokenly, leaning against a nearby bookcase for support.

"You know what it's like now, to be broken, Clark." Bruce said in sympathy. "It threatens to eat you alive, unless you force your way past it."

"Your parents," Clark returned, "they were your first taste of that bitterness."

"Younger than I should ever have experienced it, but yes, the first among many. It drives me out of the comfort of the business world and my home night after night."

Clark looked over at him.

Bruce walked the few paces over to Clark and faced him. "This has changed you Clark. I truly regret the part I played in it. Forgive me and yourself." "Forgiving you, my friend, is not hard at all. Myself on the other hand may not be so easy. In the meantime," Clark held out his hand, "perhaps you would consider granting me forgiveness?" Bruce answered by accepting the offered handshake. "Anytime, Clark, as long as you do me one favor."

Clark eyed him warily. "And that would be?"

"Never do that again." Bruce pointed at his sweatshirt.

Clark considered the proposal. "Sure, as long as I can tell the story of Batman in a strip club."

"No, Clark."

Bruce gestured to have Clark follow him out of the receiving room. Alfred must have left the refreshments in the kitchen, and he was starving. Clark walked at his side, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Not even the Decahedron?"

"Especially, the Decahedron, Clark. I was kidding about that place. It's a BDSM club."

"Even better. The Batman wears leather and kevlar, after all."

Bruce decided to let that pass.