OMEGA DAWN (PART 1)

A soft rush of air, a displacement of raindrops. Suddenly, he wasn’t alone.

“You called,” Clark Kent said, hovering just inches above the rooftop gravel, his boots dry. The red and blue seemed almost garish against Gotham’s grim palette, the crest of El glowing faintly beneath the sodden clouds. His face was calm, open, the way it always was in public. But Bruce saw the slight tension around his eyes, the way his hands didn’t quite rest at his sides.

“Metropolis has been quiet,” Bruce stated, his voice modulated by the cowl’s synthesizer into something low and grating. “Unusually quiet.”

Clark drifted closer until his toes touched the ground. “Lex is in Zurich at a renewable energy summit. Live-streamed. I checked.” A pause. “That’s not why you contacted me on a secure frequency, Bruce.”

Bruce turned fully toward him. Rain slid off Superman’s shoulders like mercury, beading on the iconic ‘S’. “There’s a pattern to the Intergang shipments coming into the harbor. Nth metal components, traces of neutron-star alloy. They’re building something heavy. Too heavy for conventional forces.”

“And you need my help,” Clark finished. There was no resentment in his voice, just a weary acceptance. It had been months since they’d worked side-by-side. Months of polite, clipped communications, of Superman saving a falling Wayne Enterprises satellite, of Batman providing intel on a Kryptonite-laced weapon in Suicide Slum. Always professional. Always distant.

Something had broken during the Darkseid invasion. Not trust—never that—but the easy camaraderie, the unspoken understanding. In the aftermath, amidst the rubble of the Hall of Justice, there had been a moment. A bloody knuckle brushing ash from a blue shoulder. Eyes meeting, holding… then Clark had flown off to help with search and rescue, and Bruce had vanished into the shadows. Neither had addressed it. The silence had grown teeth.

“I need your senses,” Bruce corrected, ignoring the subtext thickening the air between them. “The lead-lined containers at Pier 46. Tell me what’s inside.”

Clark nodded, his gaze shifting past Bruce towards the bay. His eyes began to glow, a soft, molten red that cut through the rain and steel and concrete. Bruce watched him, cataloging the minute changes: the subtle flaring of nostrils, the tightening of his jaw.

“Three containers,” Clark reported, his voice taking on a distant, echoey quality as he focused. “The first two… machinery. Advanced forging presses. The third…” He blinked, the glow fading, replaced by a deep frown. “Bodies, Bruce. Twelve… no, thirteen individuals in suspended animation tubes. Life signs weak but stable. Cadmus markings on the equipment.”

“Bioweapon?” Bruce’s mind was already racing, connecting dots.

“Or cloning.” Clark landed fully, stepping close enough that Bruce could feel the unnatural warmth radiating from him, smell the ozone-clean scent that clung to him after flight. “Why would Intergang be involved with Cadmus?”

“Money. Or leverage.” Bruce activated his wrist computer, holographic schematics flickering to life. “We move tonight. Quiet infiltration. Your heat vision on the locking mechanisms from five hundred feet. No sonic booms. No spotlight.”

“Understood.” Clark didn’t move away. “Is that all?”

The question hung there, loaded. Bruce cycled through camera feeds on his display, buying time. “Monitor the airspace. Luthor might be on screen, but his drones aren’t.”

“Bruce.”

He looked up. Clark’s expression had softened into something painfully familiar—the look Clark Kent gave sources who were scared to talk, the one that promised safety. It felt wrong aimed at the Batman.

“After the pier,” Clark continued, quieter now, the sound barely rising above the drumming rain. “We need to talk. Really talk.”

“Operational debriefing is standard—”

“Not about the mission.” Clark took another step forward, invading his personal space entirely. The warmth was overwhelming now, a Kansas sunbeam trapped in the Gotham chill. “About us. About what happened. What hasn’t happened.”

Bruce’s breath hitched, a tiny fracture in his armor. The cowl hid it. He hoped it did. “There is no ‘us,’ Clark. There’s the mission. There’s the League.”

“Bullshit.” The curse, so rare from Superman’s lips, was startling. “You pushed everyone away after Darkseid. Especially me. Why? Because I got hurt? Because you couldn’t control it?”

“Because I *watched* you get hurt!” The roar tore from Bruce, raw and unfiltered. The modulator glitched, stripping the growl away to leave just the anguished man beneath. “I watched that omega beam tear through you. I heard you scream. And I had nothing. No plan, no gadget, no clever trick. Just the certainty that the universe was about to take its greatest light, and it would be my fault for bringing you there!”

He was breathing heavily, fists clenched at his sides. Clark stared, his own composure shattered by the outburst.

For a long moment, there was only the rain. Then, slowly, Clark raised a hand. He stopped, hesitating, before gently placing it on the bat symbol covering Bruce’s chest. The contact sent a jolt through both of them.

“You didn’t bring me anywhere,” Clark whispered. “I followed. I always will.” His fingers curled slightly against the armored plate. “The thought of losing you… it paralyzes me more than any kryptonite. That day, when I was falling, the last thing I saw wasn’t the sky tearing apart. It was you, trying to reach me.”

Bruce covered Clark’s hand with his own gauntlet. The contrast was stark—blackened alloy over sun-kissed skin. He could crush bone with a twitch. Instead, he pressed down, anchoring them together.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was collision. It was years of suppressed longing and shared trauma erupting at once. Bruce pulled him in by the cape’s clasp, Clark’s arms wrapping around him, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. The heat was everywhere, seeping through the suit, burning away the perpetual cold of the cave. Clark tasted like sunlight and hope, a flavor so foreign to Bruce’s world it felt like drowning in clean air.

Bruce broke away first, gasping, forehead resting against the smooth curve of Clark’s neck. “The mission…”

“…can wait ninety seconds,” Clark murmured into the shell of his ear, his voice thick with desire. He descended slowly, landing them both in the sheltered lee of the rooftop access door, out of the worst of the rain. His hands were everywhere—unhooking the cape, tracing the seams of the chest plate, seeking fasteners Bruce knew were impregnable to anyone else.

With a hissed command from Bruce, the cowl retracted, folding back into the collar. The night air chilled his sweat-dampened hair. Clark froze for a second, drinking in the sight of Bruce’s bare face, vulnerable and exposed. Then he kissed him again, deeper, swallowing Bruce’s groan.

It was frantic, clumsy with urgency. Bruce fumbled with the clasps of Clark’s cape, finally yanking it free. His gloves found the zipper at the back of the iconic suit, dragging it down. Clark shrugged it off his shoulders, letting the top half pool at his waist, revealing the sculpted, impossible musculature of his torso. Bruce mapped it with hands and mouth—the firm pectorals, the ridged abdomen, the pulse point at the base of his throat where Kryptonian blood sang just under the skin.

“God, Bruce,” Clark choked out as Bruce bit down lightly on his collarbone. His own hands were learning the architecture of the Batsuit, finding the manual release for the abdominal plating. With a series of clicks, the rigid section came loose. Bruce didn’t wear much underneath—just a moisture-wicking bodysock. Clark palmed him through the fabric, drawing a sharp, ragged gasp.

“Tell me what you want,” Clark breathed, his eyes blazing cerulean in the dark.

“You,” Bruce gritted out, beyond poetry. “Now.”

That was all the permission Clark needed. He spun Bruce gently, pressing him against the cold brick wall. One super-strong hand pinned Bruce’s wrists above his head, not harshly, but firmly. The other tugged the bodysock down just enough, freeing Bruce’s aching cock into the humid air. Bruce heard the rustle of spandex, then the slick, warm press of Clark’s own erection against his bare ass.

“Are you—?”

“Yes,” Bruce interrupted, pushing back. “Don’t treat me like glass.”

A low, approving rumble vibrated through Clark’s chest. He spat into his hand, a shockingly human gesture, and coated himself. The first breach was electric, a stretch and burn that made Bruce seesaw between wanting to shove away and begging for more. Clark moved slowly, agonizingly so, burying himself inch by inch until they were flush, Bruce completely sheathed on him.

“Ohhh, fuck,” Bruce hissed, his head thumping back against the wall. The fullness was unreal, the heat unlike anything he’d ever felt. Clark was trembling with the effort of his restraint.

“Okay?” Clark whispered, lips against Bruce’s temple.

In answer, Bruce rocked his hips. “Move. Or I will.”

Clark snapped. His grip tightened, and he began to piston into Bruce with steady, powerful thrusts. Each one drove a punched-out grunt from Bruce’s lungs—*uhn, uhn, uhn*. The rough brick scraped his cheek, the rain misted his back, and the solid, immovable force of Superman filled him, claiming him. It was brutal and tender and everything they never allowed themselves to be.

“Mine,” Clark growled, a possessive edge in his voice Bruce had never heard. “You’re mine, Bruce. All this darkness… it’s *mine* to protect.”

The words, coupled with the relentless friction, unraveled Bruce completely. He came with a silent, shuddering convulsion, stripes of white painting the grimy wall. The clenching of his body triggered Clark’s own climax; he slammed home one final time and stilled, a muffled cry buried in Bruce’s shoulder as he spilled heat deep inside.

For minutes, they stayed locked together, breathing in sync. The world—Intergang, Cadmus, the rain—slowly seeped back in.

Clark was the first to pull away, carefully withdrawing. He turned Bruce around, cupping his face, wiping a smear of dirt from his jaw with a thumb. His expression was wrecked—full of awe, fear, and a dawning, profound joy.

“Talk later,” Bruce managed, his voice hoarse. He reached for his discarded armor. “Pier 46. Now.”

Clark just smiled, a real, radiant smile. “Yes, sir.”

***

The infiltration was a masterpiece of synchronized violence. From the shadows, Batman disabled guards with nerve strikes and fear toxins. From above, Superman melted locks with pinpoint heat-vision bursts, never making a sound. They moved as one entity, a dance they hadn’t performed in years, yet now it was seamless, intuitive. A glance directed a strike; a tilt of the head signaled a cleared path.

Inside the third container, they found the pods. Thirteen young men and women, floating in amber fluid, connected to banks of monitors displaying complex genetic readouts. All bore a haunting resemblance to various members of the Justice League.

“Project: Chimera,” Bruce read from a discarded logbook. “Hybrid vigor via forced meta-gene recombination. They’re not clones. They’re hybrids. Designed to be sleeper agents.”

“Who’s the donor source?” Clark asked, his face pale as he examined a female subject with Diana’s features and his own eye color.

Before Bruce could answer, alarms blared. Red lights strobed. A synthesized voice echoed from speakers. **“Containment breach detected. Purge protocol initiated.”**

Vents along the ceiling hissed open, spewing a green-tinted gas.

Kryptonite.

Clark gasped, stumbling back as the emerald fog enveloped him. His strength fled instantly; he dropped to one knee, veins standing out in stark relief against his suddenly clammy skin.

“Superman!” Dick Grayson’s voice crackled over the comms. Nightwing swung down from the rafters, escrima sticks sparking. He’d been monitoring from afar, the backup Bruce never admitted to calling. Behind him, Barbara Gordon’s Oracle avatar flashed on every screen, her voice cool and urgent. “Batman, the gas is neuro-toxic to humans as well. You have seventy seconds before systemic failure.”

Bruce acted. He slapped a rebreather over his own face and lunged for Clark, hauling his deadweight towards the container’s door. “Nightwing! Clear the path!”

Dick became a whirlwind of movement, disarming the automated defense turrets that sprouted from the walls. Bruce dragged Clark out into the cool night air, away from the killing fog. Clark coughed violently, green tinge fading from his lips as fresh oxygen hit his system.

On the pier, they weren’t alone. A figure awaited them, clad in advanced battle armor adorned with Intergang insignia. Bruno Mannheim. He held a device humming with sickly green energy.

“The Bat and the Boy Scout,” Mannheim sneered. “Cadmus said you might come sniffing. They said you two had gotten… close. Makes this easier.”

He raised the device. A concentrated beam of Kryptonite radiation lanced out. Bruce shoved Clark aside, taking the brunt of the blast on his armored chestplate. The circuitry fried, systems screaming in his ears. The pain was immense, but it wasn’t lethal to him.

What happened next was a blur. As Bruce staggered, a batarang embedded itself in Mannheim’s weapon from the darkness. A grapple line whipped out, snagging the gangster’s ankle and yanking him off his feet. Tim Drake—Red Robin—descended silently, already dismantling the K-radiator with quick, precise tools.

“Oracle guided me in,” Tim said tersely, not looking up. “She’s coordinating with the Titans to secure the other sites. Spoiler and Orphan are evacuating the hybrids.”

Clark was back on his feet, fury burning in his eyes. He stalked toward the prone Mannheim. For a terrifying second, Bruce saw the potential for absolute judgment in his posture.

“Clark,” Bruce said, a single word.

Superman stopped. He closed his eyes, mastering the rage. When he opened them, they were calm again. He picked up Mannheim with one hand. “Who financed you? Who in Cadmus authorized this?”

Mannheim spat. “Go to hell.”

“He doesn’t know,” Barbara interjected via their comms. “Cutout layers. But the money trail is fresh. It leads back to a shell corporation… registered to LexCorp subsidiaries in Zurich.”

Clark and Bruce exchanged a look. So Luthor *was* involved, even from afar.

As GCPD sirens wailed in the distance, drawn by Oracle’s anonymous tip, the family gathered on the rain-slicked pier. Nightwing helped load the last sedated hybrid into a waiting, discreet ambulance provided by Leslie Thompkins. Red Robin secured evidence. And in the middle of it all, Superman and Batman stood side-by-side, watching their city’s lights shimmer on the black water.

“You saved me,” Clark said quietly, for Bruce’s ears only.

“You would have survived. Eventually.”

“That’s not the point.” Clark’s hand brushed against Bruce’s, hidden by their capes. “You didn’t hesitate.”

Bruce flexed his gloved fingers, feeling the ghost of Clark’s warmth. “We’ll finish this. We’ll burn Luthor’s project to the ground.”

“Together.”

Clark’s smile returned, smaller now, intimate. “Together.”

Later, in the cavernous emptiness of the Batcave, Alfred Pennyworth deposited a tray of tea and sandwiches near the main console, his eyebrows climbing nearly to his hairline at the sight of the torn and scorched Kryptonian cape draped carelessly over the chair beside the master’s workstation. He said nothing, merely offering a slight, knowing nod before retreating upstairs.

Bruce sat before the monitors, reviewing data. The shower in the cave’s auxiliary locker room shut off. Minutes later, Clark emerged, dressed in borrowed gray sweats that strained across his shoulders, his hair damp and tousled. He pulled up a stool next to Bruce.

“Alfred thinks we’ve reconciled,” Bruce muttered, not looking away from a DNA helix rotating on screen.

“Haven’t we?” Clark’s voice was soft.

This time, Bruce did look at him. The fluorescent light of the cave washed out some of his color, highlighting the strong lines of his face, the lingering concern in his eyes. Bruce reached out, hooking a finger into the waistband of Clark’s sweats, pulling him closer.

“Stay,” Bruce said. It wasn’t a request.

The journey to the penthouse at the top of Wayne Tower was made in silence, via a private elevator. The space was all sleek modernism and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a glittering, recovering Gotham. It felt less like a home and more like a perch. Bruce went straight to the bar, pouring two fingers of expensive whiskey. Clark wandered to the window, staring out.

“It never stops, does it?” Clark asked, his reflection superimposed over the city. “The fight.”

“No.” Bruce joined him, glass in hand. “But the reasons to keep fighting… they change.”

Clark turned. He took the glass from Bruce’s hand, set it aside, and then took Bruce’s face in both his hands. This kiss was different from the first. It was slow, exploratory, a rediscovery. It tasted like forgiveness and promise.

They undressed each other there, in the moonlight flooding through the glass. No armor, no suits, no symbols. Just skin. Bruce traced the faint, silvery scars on Clark’s torso—remnants of battles even his flesh couldn’t forget. Clark worshiped the map of older, darker injuries on Bruce’s body—bullet grooves, knife tracks, the cracked-rib landscape of a lifetime at war.

When Clark lifted him, carried him to the vast bed, it was with reverence. He laid Bruce down amongst the cool linens and followed, covering him with his solid weight.

COME BACK FOR PART 2

some superbat pics below!