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The itch always starts on his back, between his shoulder blades, and it’s not so much an itch as it is this unignorable urge to abandon his vulnerable skin and give himself over to hardened black scales and large, powerful wings.
Bruce is in the middle of a WE meeting when the sensation travels down the length of his spine, almost burning where his wings would sprout from his back.
But he’s used to it, by now. He’s been avoiding shifts for years. It’s always been hard—harder, before Ra’s showed him how to master his control over both of his forms—but never impossible, as unhealthy as Alfred always insists it is. Still, Bruce isn’t stupid enough to go too long without shifting; his parents always said if he waited long enough it would be hard to turn back once it did happen (Bruce still isn’t sure if that was an old wives’ tale to get him to behave or not), and they always stressed the importance of shifting for a full moon.
Which Bruce hasn’t done for the past four moons, so honestly it’s a wonder the itch has only begun now.
By the time he makes it out of the meeting and back home to the manor, even his fingers and toes are tingling with anticipation, waiting to sharpen into claws. There must be some look on his face that gives him away, because Alfred only has to spare him a glance before he opens the large hidden door in the lake for Bruce to fly through.
Bruce makes an acknowledging noise, more dragon than human, and walks to the only place in the cave big enough for him to shift comfortably.
He strips as he goes, throwing all his clothes into the hamper by the opening to this part of the cave. The smooth rock is cool under his bare feet, and when the itch finally ticks up into something more all-consuming and animalistic, Bruce knows he can’t wait any longer.
The scales spread down his spine first, and he closes his eyes as he bows forward, catching himself on hands that aren’t hands anymore, claws clacking against the stone. His bones shift and crack as he grows, his tail whipping behind him as the ridges along his spine jut out from it. His head gets bigger, longer, and his teeth sharpen in his mouth.
In less than a minute he’s shifted, already grumbling as his joints creak and then settle.
“Feeling better, Master Bruce?” Alfred calls from the entrance. He’s much smaller with this size, but Bruce can still see him and hear his voice as clear as day.
And, since he can’t verbally respond in this form, he only huffs, and he knows it sounds annoyed.
“Well, I am certainly glad to hear it,” Alfred replies, purposefully ignoring Bruce’s meaning. “I’ll have food ready for your return.”
Bruce is already anticipating the sweet tear of rare steak between his teeth and the burst of flavour on his tongue. He lowers his head and nudges his huge nose into Alfred’s side, as much of a thank you as he can manage.
Alfred swipes a hand up Bruce’s scales and says, “You’re welcome, my boy. Now get out before your tail takes any more gouges out of the rock.”
It’s a swift dismissal, but Bruce doesn’t miss the small ghost of a smile on Alfred’s lips as he tucks his tail and spreads his wings.
He manages the tight squeeze out of the lake opening, and with a few correctional beats of his wings, he’s shooting higher into the clouds blotting out the late autumn moon.
The first few moments of bare, open sky and wind are always exhilarating, incredible in a way Bruce hasn’t been able to share since his parents were—since he could fly with his parents. The clouds swirl around him as he breaks through them, wet and cool against his warm scales. He can’t resist a tight barrel roll and a happy chuff that sends smoke wafting from his nostrils.
As much as he hates neglecting his duties as Batman and Wayne Enterprise’s CEO, he can’t deny the thrill or the bone-deep satisfaction that seeps into him whenever he’s forced to make the time to shift, when there’s nothing between him and the stars except open air. Up here, it’s quiet, and solitary, and exactly how Bruce likes it.
The first time he’d shifted alone, mournful and heavy with loss, Bruce didn’t make it out of the backyard before he crashed to the ground and let out awful, pained howls and keens that had petered off into whimpers when Alfred came out and gently held his head. The second time, Alfred offered to go with him, and Bruce was so worried he’d drop the man clutching at his back that he barely thought of anything except the careful, even beat of his wings and keeping level.
Alfred has never come with him since, but Bruce knows he got his lesson across, and since that second time, it’s been easier to let go of his worries and problems to be present during his shift. To feel his wings carve through the air and let his throat spark with fierce heat.
But he can’t deny that there’s some part of him that aches for someone to fly with again.
With his parents, he could glide on their updrafts and rest on their large backs when he got tired before the night was over. He’d burst at them through the clouds and fly clumsily, without a care in the world. Bruce wishes he could have that again—in some form, if not the same.
With Ra’s and Talia—both Wyvern shifters—it had been more about skill and survival than appreciating the gift they’d been granted as shifters during a full moon. With Khoa, it had been a complete abandonment of all responsibility and tradition, a reckless flight of competition and vicious sabotage as they both tried their very best to beat the other.
He wishes he could share this feeling of freedom with someone else. He wishes he could flit through the clouds and bank along mountains and dive toward the sea, wingtip to wingtip. He wishes someone understood what flying meant to him, how deeply he craved it even when he avoided shifting, even though he had trained himself to suppress those shifting instincts.
Bruce wishes he could show someone how precious being a dragon shifter is, despite all that he’s lost.
He flies to the Appalachians, where there are fewer people and more greenery compared to Gotham’s dense population and dark brick architecture. The trip doesn’t take him long—about three hours at a comfortable pace—and soon he’s gliding over spruce trees, the wind whistling in his ears as he dives and swoops upward to crest one mountain, twirling in that moment of suspense where he’s about to fall back down and catching the wind with his wings spread wide. He steers clear where he can hear some campers, and flies low enough for the trees to tickle his stomach as he drifts.
Bruce can’t risk sending up a flame, but he feels the urge to shoot one forward and fly through the smoke, to let the ashy scent curl around him and sigh against the pleasant heat it brings. He darts over the trees and crests the mountains, flying into the clouds again. The moonlight glints on his scales, and he can’t help the satisfied rumble in his throat as the power of a full moon seeps into him and sets a feeling of rightness into his blood, thrumming along his veins.
He feels at home, in the sky. As much as he does running across rain-slick rooftops and clawing up brick walls.
The peace is annoyingly short-lived.
Bruce notes a slight whistle from somewhere above him, getting louder with each passing second. He tilts his head upwards and hears a noise akin to his own cape snapping. A couple hundred feet above him, he sees a streak of red in the sky, getting bigger as it falls closer.
And it’s falling fast.
Bruce flails backward, keeping an eye on the thing as it narrowly avoids smacking into his nose. He only manages to glance at a hint of blue and a bit of gold before the brilliant red swallows them and the thing falls past him, hitting the ground with a large boom.
Bruce investigates.
He lands a little further out, ears and nose tuned to the crash site as he avoids taking down trees with his tail. He moves slowly, silent except for the quiet susurration of leaves against his scales, wings tucked tight to his body. The trees he passes have been snapped in two, whole trunks cracked and bleeding sap, branches strewn about and wood splintered at Bruce’s feet.
He can smell the soft, damp earth, upturned and fresh. The thing made a large divot in the ground, the dirt pushed up and over the crest, spilling out onto the grass and dirtying the plants. The red something is half-buried in the dirt, and Bruce can’t tell what the hell it is.
He lowers himself flat to the ground, bringing his large head closer, poised to shoot off like a rocket if this thing becomes a threat. With careful, deliberate precision, he puffs hot air out between his teeth to blow the dirt off the thing, uncovering it as best he can. When a mess of dark curls is revealed, Bruce has to fight every instinct in him not to flinch back.
That red thing is a cape.
Bruce carefully reaches forward with one paw, hooking his claw into the cape and turning the man over with mounting anticipation.
Superman’s red and gold crest winks at him, limned by the moonlight.
Bruce jerks his paw away, ready to take flight, but Superman doesn’t move.
His angelic face is slack with unconsciousness, the sweep of his lashes low against his cheeks. His entire uniform is covered in dirt, and he’s got it all caked into his hair, smudged across his skin. His cape is torn, too, around the edges. The blue of his suit has a few holes that reveal smooth, tan skin.
Bruce can’t look away.
Which is, frankly, insane. Superman can hear things for miles, and his vision is unparalleled. Even if Bruce were to turn tail and leave now, the alien could likely pick up his scent and follow him right back to Gotham. It’s not safe for him to stay. He can’t risk being revealed as a shifter; to have it connected to Bruce Wayne or Batman would be detrimental to his work, and yet—
And yet.
How did Superman fall unconscious? Surely he’d have stopped himself from falling if he were awake to do so—what made him unable? Is there some danger Bruce isn’t yet aware of? What is powerful enough to knock Superman out and fling him away like it’s nothing?
A growl starts in his chest at the thought, and he flicks his tail, as much restless as it is warning to the unseen threat of danger, if there is one. He takes a moment to scan the area: he can’t hear anything, or smell something intrusive, and when he searches the dark sky, no villain or monster parts the clouds.
Bruce looks back at Superman, limp and unguarded in the soft dirt.
He wants to leave, he wants to—but there is some instinct inside him that says he needs to protect something vulnerable, something smaller than he, and he doesn’t know if it’s dragon or human, but he doesn’t go.
(Even if Superman is the strongest man on Earth. Even if Superman is nigh-invulnerable, and has never, ever needed saving from the likes of Bruce Wayne or Batman or even a dragon. Even if—
Even if Bruce has no logical reason to stay.)
He sends another blast of warm air across Superman and watches his lashes twitch. Bruce can’t see any concerning injuries, or smell any blood. With a weary sigh, he hunkers down next to the alien, tucking him close to his scales and curling his tail around to keep him protected while Bruce keeps watch.
He rests his head on the upturned dirt, carefully keeping Superman’s sleeping form in sight. The alien looks almost peaceful resting against his wing, wild curls half-caught in Bruce’s scales. If it weren’t for the tears in Superman’s suit, Bruce would say the nap almost looks intentional—which is stupid. It’s not like Superman would tuck in and sleep engulfed by a dragon if he ever got tired.
Bruce needs to get a grip. He’ll wait with Superman to ward off danger and leave when the man shows any sign of waking up. He’ll be gone before Superman even knows there was someone else here.
Bruce settles in and keeps an eye out, but soon his eyes are drifting shut for longer than they should, and the darkness of the night threatens to swallow him whole.
He’s more tired than he thought—has spent more time away from his dragon form than he should have—and he dozes off long enough that he can hear the diurnal animals beginning to stir and wake as he rouses.
Bruce's eyes fly open the second he feels something shifting against his wing, his tail. Superman is staring at him with wide eyes and a slack jaw, one powerful hand braced against Bruce’s tail where he’s sandwiched between his dark scales.
His eyes are blue.
Between one blink and the next, Bruce has unfurled and taken off into the sky. Early dawn lights the clouds, giving his large form much less cover than he’d like.
In a flash, Superman catches up to him, even though he’s going full tilt and covering decent ground. Bruce swerves just before Superman can hit his nose, swooping down and around him before surging up through the clouds. He alters his course slightly, angling himself away from Gotham and his cave; he can’t risk leading the alien anywhere important.
“Wait—please!” Superman calls after him, darting forward to block his path again. For all his speed, Bruce can’t outrun the second-fastest man on the planet, so he stalls midair, blinking down his nose at the alien.
For a few moments, the only sound between them is Bruce’s heavy wingbeats, which send the clouds swirling around them both. Bruce notes with a reluctant type of awe that Superman seems to be exerting no effort floating in place. His cape and hair flutter a little in the wind, and he needs nothing but the will to do so to keep himself in the air.
His expression tells Bruce he’s surprised a dragon actually listened to him.
“You’re—you’re beautiful,” Superman breathes, fogging the air between them as he gazes up at Bruce in awe.
Ridiculous. Bruce snorts a fine smoke into his hair and whips his tail, chiding.
Superman laughs, waving it away and blinding Bruce with a bright, sunny smile and a soft rosy tint to his cheeks. “I guess you understood that?” he says, rueful. He darts closer, hovering above Bruce’s snout to focus closer on his eyes. Bruce has to fight hard not to flinch. “You’re a shifter, huh?”
Bruce chuffs and tilts his head, maintaining eye contact.
“Yeah, okay,” Superman chuckles, conceding. “That one is pretty obvious.” His eyes can’t seem to pick a place to settle on, flitting between Bruce’s eyes and scales to the beat of his wings and the slice of his tail. “Wow. I can’t believe you’re real,” he says, and reaches out to touch the space between Bruce’s eyes.
That is when Bruce rears back, sending a warning spark through his teeth—pure defensive instinct, seeing as fire won’t do much of anything to Superman, who jerks his hand back immediately.
Curious. Bruce would have thought he’d be a lot less cautious, given his invulnerability.
“No, no, I’m sorry,” he says, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. “I shouldn’t have— you’re just so incredible. Were you looking out for me? Down in the clearing? I— thank you, for that. It was nice to wake up comfortable and warm instead of with a mouthful of dirt.”
Jesus. Bruce chuffs again, flicking the ridges along his back. It’s getting even lighter out, and he needs to get back to Gotham before he’s forced to hide out in the mountain ranges to avoid being noticed.
“Where do you—?” Superman cuts himself off, head tilting as his eyes go unfocused. Bruce wonders briefly if he’s going to have to catch him and wait for him to wake up all over again. “Oh, shoot,” Superman says, flashing an apologetic smile and shifting back, floating away. “I’ve gotta go, but thank you again, really. Hopefully, I can see you soon?”
Hopefully not, Bruce can’t vocalize, but Superman is gone before he could’ve answered, anyway. He’s already turning with a flick of his cape as he jets off into the early morning sky, leaving Bruce hovering in the clouds, heart beating a mile a minute.
He makes it back to Gotham in record time, and his pulse doesn’t slow until he presses himself to the cool rock in the cave, expelling a heavy sigh that sends smoke curling around his nostrils.
“Everything alright, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks as the lake entrance closes above them. “You’re back later than usual.”
Bruce just closes his eyes, shifting his nose into Alfred’s side.
Alfred smooths his hand along Bruce’s scales, his skin weathered and warm. “Your food is ready when you are,” he says. “I’ll leave you here to rest a while longer.”
He sighs again, and Alfred pats him twice on the snout before doing just that.
Bruce curls up to sleep and tries hard not to think about the man he had pressed against his scales just hours ago, the man who seems so different from the invulnerable, implacable being Bruce has observed through the news and hacked security feeds.
The man who Bruce had decided to protect, without any real reason why. He still can’t quite figure out what made him stay and watch over Superman, or how he ever felt comfortable enough—safe enough—to doze in another person’s presence while in his dragon form.
He acknowledges, tentatively, that it wasn’t—bad.
Superman isn’t at all like Bruce expected; warm and kind, sure, but also painfully earnest in his curiosity. And almost clumsy, too, in the way he speaks and how he stuttered backward after Bruce’s warning, apologizing for getting too close as if Bruce had any real power or control over the situation.
Bruce doesn’t know what to think of him.
He should feel nervous, wary of the interaction considering Superman could still find him now. He should be concerned that Superman might seek him out again, search for a dragon shifter so rare he can’t help but threaten the secrecy of Bruce’s multiple identities.
He should be threatened, maybe, unsettled by the realization that he is no longer the most powerful being around, and yet—
All he can feel is a juvenile spark of hope. Hope that he might be able to fly with someone again, take to the skies and share that feeling of freedom so exhilarating he even chases it in his dreams.