Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

According to the gossip in town, there's a weird thing going on between the two boys who are polar opposites of each other.

The farm boy lives with his parents on a farm at the edge of town, all gentle and sweet and quietly strong — Except— Oh, didn't his father die? Yes, last year, wasn't it? What a shame. He's out of school but he still visits town for volunteer work. He has a reputation for being peculiar and for being kind. It's okay to leave it at that, to most adults, and it's easy to pick at that, to most of the kids. It balances well.

Then there's the other boy. He's a city kid and he visits the town solely to visit the farm at the edge of town, where the farm boy lives, each year in the early summer. Gossip flows in and out like drying sheets and it's possible that the kid is a movie star or the heir to a billion-dollar throne or that he isn't quite rich at all — that he's just different. He's harsh lines and stoicism and blatant powerfulness, and half the town swoons when he walks across the border (or drives, more like it, in that million-dollar car of his), the other half eyeing him suspiciously.

Because he only comes to town for the farm boy.

“I don't like the way they stare,” Bruce complains, his voice tinny and soft. “Especially how they stare at you.”

“The house is a solace,” Clark responds ruefully. 

“Come to Gotham, then. I'll move you and Martha.”

“Bruce. I'm scared of bats.”

“You love bats.”

“I like one bat.”

Bruce laughs quietly at that. Clark tightens his grip on the house phone but stops immediately when he hears it squeak.

“I'll be there, of course,” Bruce says after a moment. “I haven't missed a single summer,” he reminds.

Clark rolls his eyes, setting his pencil down to only focus on his best friend. “I know.”

“For ten years, now.”

“I know.”

“I sat through many barbeques and irrigation system fixes and store-bought, terrible swimming pool disasters with you.”

“I know, Bruce.”

“I deserve an award. 'This certificate recognizes the extraordinary amount of strength that Bruce Wayne has displayed in his years of watching over Clark Kent'.”

Clark's eyebrows skyrocket. “'Watching over'? Who was the one that had to prevent the other from jumping off the roof of a two-story house under the false belief that he could fly?”

“I'm fairly certain that at least one of us can,” Bruce says.

Clark laughs. “Right. Well, I want some free rides, then.”

“To Gotham.”

“Maybe,” Clark contemplates. “Or to Camp CRAWL.”

Bruce groans. “We agreed at ten to never talk about that place again.”

“It's the birthing place of our friendship, Bruce,” Clark argues. “Besides, it was fun.”

“Except the part where we got stranded in the forest for two days.”

“Our first bonding experience, you mean.”

Clark can sense Bruce's smile — it's the slight, teasing one. “You've always been the optimist.” His tone was so soft.

“Friday?” Clark asks, instead of replying.

“Friday,” Bruce confirms. The phone clicks.

Clark walks over to his bed, falling on it heavily. He pillows his head with crossed arms and stares at the ceiling.

Bruce. Here, again, a year older, in his dark suit and expensive sunglasses and smooth cologne and charming laugh and illuminating eyes —

Clark barely contains his excited grin.

Bruce sighs. "This town, Alfred..."

Alfred eyes him from the front seat. "May I remind you, Master Wayne, as you always ask me to do, of one thing — "

"Clark," Bruce mutters. 

The road beneath them has, at some point, changed from smooth road to bumpy gravel. Though it hardly ruins the easy ride, Bruce feels himself recognize the feeling as a road to Clark.

When they arrive in Smallville, Alfred stops at the library. Bruce arches an eyebrow before he glances out the window.

Clark is as distinct as he ever is. He's walking down the steps of the library, nose half-buried in a book that Bruce can't see the title of. His messy head of black hair makes something tug in Bruce's chest and he murmurs a distracted thanks to Alfred before exiting the car. His heart is already pounding.

Instantly, Clark's head flies up, eyes landing on Bruce's figure across the street. His bright, bright blue eyes shine in joy, lips stretching over an equally blinding, white smile, and Bruce feels his own lips tug up carelessly.

Jogging over to him, they're wrapped in a tight embrace and Bruce gets a sensory overload of Clark's scent and the thrum of his heart and the grasp of his abnormally strong arms and his teasingly soft hair touching Bruce's cheek, ever-so-gently. 

Clark laughs lightly, burying his face deeper into Bruce's shoulder.

Only when a car door opens behind them, a loud clearing of the throat from Alfred, is when they let go of each other. Clark beams at him and Bruce uncontrollably smiles back.

“You're late,” Clark says after a moment, shifting the books in his arms to one side. The sun is beating on his skin, and he looks like he glows. Bruce wonders if he actually is; if that's one of the parts that make up Clark Kent.

Bruce sighs. “I'm early. Last year, I got here at dinner time. Martha made that lasagna for me.”

Clark rolls his eyes, still grinning hard. “Yeah, yeah, she loves to talk about how you actually appreciate her cooking, and Pa and I are ungrateful swines.”

He doesn't flinch when he says 'Pa', but Bruce still drifts his hand closer to Clark.

“You are,” Bruce supports. “Do you know how much it hurts for me to be away from Gotham for this long?”

Clark gives him an unimpressed stare. “I'm sure you can handle a week this time around.”

“A week?” Bruce asks abruptly. He usually stays a month.

Clark gives a nervous glance around. “Maybe we should talk about this back home.”

Bruce frowns, but sees what Clark sees. A large amount of the pedestrians are staring at them as they usually do, ears listening eagerly. He sighs.

“Well, come on, then. What's Martha making, though?”

Clark tries not to wince as it falls from his mouth.

Bruce, however, appears to be unbothered, if only slightly confused.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So you're going to travel. You're nineteen, a lot of people do at this age. Why did this interrupt me helping make dinner?”

Clark shoves his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes. “Bruce. This isn't a gap year trip. It's... I'm gonna do some... soul searching.”

Bruce furrows his eyebrows. Deep.

“Soul searching.”

Clark throws his hands up in the air. “Contrary to pop— Well, actually, contrary to your beliefs, I'm not exactly comfortable with all the new tricks I find out about myself.”

Bruce huffs. “That's ridiculous. Why would you not feel comfortable being you, you're a metahuman. A super— ”

“ — boy, who just wants to know a little more about myself,” Clark says. “Doesn't that sound nice?”

“No,” Bruce says, “because you said one week.”

Clark purses his lips. “I'm sorry, Bruce, I should've told you — ”

“Well, yeah.” Bruce stands, his shoulders shaking a little. Clark stands, too. 

“Bruce, I'll be back before you know it, okay? I just want to... Figure myself out.”

Bruce walks over to Clark's bedroom window, staring out at the fields of corn. “Figure yourself out,” he repeats. “I thought you coming to Gotham with me would...”

Clark walks quietly over, leaning his head against Bruce's back, his forehead resting against the other boy's neck. 

“I can come with you,” Bruce says, his voice so quiet that something in Clark cracks. But he stays strong.

“You wouldn't like where I'm going,” Clark tells him lightly. “And who'd take care of Alfred?”

“Who's gonna take care of you?” Bruce shoots back, stiffening a bit. Clark lifts his head, and Bruce turns. “Why are you doing this, Clark?”

It's Clark's turn to look away, to ball up a little bit. “Bruce.”

“Why are you leaving?”

“Nothing's felt right since he— ” Clark's jaw clenches, his eyes burning. “I've wanted to do this for a long time, okay? I just had to make sure mom was fine, and that you...”

Bruce punches the wall. Clark stares at the hole. 

It's silent for a long time after that.

“Boys, dinner!” Martha's voice travels up the stairs. Bruce straightens. 

“I'll pay for that.”

His eyes are rimmed red, and Clark's suddenly hugging him, tighter than he ever hugs anyone (even though he could go tighter, though he wants to), but Bruce is fine, he's just holding Clark, too.

“Bruce.”

It's already Monday, and Bruce does everything and anything to ignore the countdown that's hanging over the Kent farm.

There was always a fair share of distractions floating around the country house that would help get Bruce's mind away from thinking about leaving. The only problem this time was what was usually the biggest and best distraction, was exactly what Bruce wanted to be distracted from. 

Clark grins at Martha from where she's putting away dessert and chattering to him. She's in a nightgown, and she gently pulls Clark's head down so she can lay a kiss in the middle of his forehead. Bruce has to swallow back cursing at Clark because how can he do this to Martha, to the farm, to his family, to Bruce—

Martha is on her way to the staircase and pauses in front of Bruce. She runs her fingers gently through his hair, and lays a kiss on the top of his head. “Goodnight, Bruce,” she murmurs, and Bruce smiles back at her, slight and a bit bitter but at least genuine, and he knows she understands, so she just pats his cheek and goes upstairs.

Clark is moving things around in the kitchen, and Bruce knows that they've been tip-toeing around one another but he can't find it in himself to try and do anything about it. He just sits on the sofa, the television silent and vinyl playing on Martha's old turntable, and waits for Clark to join him.

Clark joins him, hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans.

"Bruce," he says quietly. 

Bruce exhales, laying his head in his hands. Clark walks over to him, mirrors his mother, and runs his hand through Bruce's hair. Martha's hand wasn't soft, she had spent too many years on the farm for that, but it was smaller, and somewhat more delicate. Clark's hand is— large, warm, wide, firm, and Bruce knew there was an indeterminable amount of strength in them, even as they carded through his messy strands as gently, possibly even more gently, than Martha had.

"Bruce," repeats Clark, his hand leaving its resting point. Bruce has to concentrate on not shivering at the loss. "Bruce, c'mon."

Bruce drags his head up. Their gazes catch.

Clark's lips purse into something a bit like a smile, and his hand falls to one of Bruce's. Bruce stares at him.

"Bruce, c'mon," whispers Clark, and Bruce lets himself be pulled up.

Bruce learned to dance as soon as he learned to walk. He's been to countless galas, a number of balls, and accompanied Clark to Smallville High's senior prom. 

Clark knew how to sway out-of-tune with the music, and how to make Bruce trip over his own feet.

Bruce let Clark wrap his arms around his narrow waist, and Clark's own arms wrapped around Bruce's neck loosely. The music is barely above a murmur, but the house is quiet otherwise, only the gentle wind flowing in from the window and the louder crickets, and Clark doesn't say anything as Bruce takes the lead and starts moving them slowly, just a gentle puff of warm air against his collarbone as Clark buries himself into his shoulder.

Clark's nose rests in the crook of Bruce's neck. Bruce feels his long lashes flutter shut. Bruce's heartbeat thuds harder in his chest, and he feels Clark lean his head just a bit to the side, his ears perking up like a puppy's.

"I could follow your heartbeat anywhere," whispers Clark. "I could tell you apart from any crowd, any planet, any universe."

It sounds like a promise — like a sugar-coated lie to comfort Bruce. 

Bruce lets the lie wash over him and buries his nose in Clark's hair.

They dance through four songs, and then the record stops. They keep dancing, anyways, and Clark's feet move to Bruce's heartbeat — stuttering when it stutters, humming when it hums.

“It's like I have two left feet with you,” Bruce murmurs.

Clark smiles, softly, as if there was nothing else he could do in the face of Bruce's silent confession.

“Another week.” 

Clark shakes his head, refusing to look up from where he's cleaning up random clutter in the barn. 

Bruce jumps down from the barn beam that he was perched on, landing squarely on his feet. "Clark," he starts.

"Bruce, no," says Clark, tone forcefully brisk. "I can't go back on these plans."

"You don't exactly need a ticket anywhere, Clark, you can leave whenever — "

"I won't go back on these plans," corrects Clark, eyes still everywhere but on Bruce. 

Bruce took a long moment before speaking again. "I'm not trying to keep you here forever, Clark," Bruce says, tone level. "I'm just saying that you don't have to leave immediately."

"We still have until Friday night, Bruce."

"It's Thursday, Clark."

The sunset makes the barn glow orange.

Bruce's tone isn't the perfect calm anymore — it's perfectly impassive, and it's something that he had never directed at Clark before, and it said a million things that even an angry tone couldn't have matched.

Clark didn't respond, just fussed with something on the barn's worktable.

"How long are you going to be gone?" Bruce asks quietly.

"I didn't— I'm not planning that," says Clark, hands stilling. "I'll come back when I'm ready to."

Bruce feels something in him twist further past its already grotesquely twisted state before it snaps, the weight dropping to the bottom of his stomach and making something inside him sink.

"Will that be before Martha has to sell the farm, or after?" Bruce says, without thinking.

Clark's entire back tightens from where he's facing away from Bruce. "Don't," he warns.

Bruce nearly sneers. "I hope I see you when my first kid is born."

Clark slams his hand down. Something cracks. Bruce's gaze falls past Clark — the worktable in front of him is broken apart in two. 

"Wonderful," Bruce says.

Clark has reared back, his hands shaking, his eyes wide. He squats down, slowly, hands hovering over the broken table. Bruce is taken by the sudden image of Jonathan Kent, younger and with brighter eyes, lifting both of them onto that same table as they practiced carving wooden signs for Martha and Alfred. 

His mouth dries.

"This is why," Clark says, tone low and emotionless. 

Bruce shakes his head — he loathes the desperation that fills his stomach, but he lets it fuel him. "We can do this together. What haven't we done together? Your speed, your strength, your vision— all of it, Clark, we did that together. Why in hell do you want to do this alone?" 

"You don't need me, Bruce," snaps Clark, twisting and standing so fast that Bruce doesn't actually see it happen. "You're in college now. You'll be taking over the company soon. You won't be able to come to Smallville every summer."

"I don't need you," Bruce repeats. 

Clark looked at him. "You won't. Just because you want me in your life, doesn't mean that it's a good idea."

Bruce stared at him. "So does that mean— What? It means that you don't need me either?"

Clark looked away.

"No, tell me, Clark," Bruce demands, taking a step forward. "Because if you don't need me in your life, and I don't need you in my life, and we only want one another, why have we even bothered all these years?"

The roughest part of it was that Bruce knew that Clark was just trying to make this all easier by antagonizing himself, and Clark knew that Bruce knew, but Bruce just couldn't find it in him to go along with it because he didn't choose for this. He doesn't want Clark to leave, that's a nightmare, and acting like Clark is leaving because of an argument makes him sick to his stomach because that's not how this is happening, it's because Clark chose to leave him—

"I'll be back before you know it," Clark says. "You're going to be leading your own life. You'll miss me and remember me, sure, but you'll forget about— this. And when I come back, we can catch up."

But it won't be the same. Bruce refuses to let the words slip out and make himself more vulnerable in front of one of the only people he's ever been vulnerable to, not when he needs to be stronger than ever now. Now that he can't use Clark's strength to help him any longer.

"I'm not sure if we could catch up, then," he says instead.

Clark looks up at him, eyes intent. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Bruce just shakes his head. "You're leaving tomorrow. Alright."

Clark stares at him. "Bruce. I'll be back before you need me."

The evening wore on.

"No, Clark," says Bruce, "you'll be gone for much longer than that."

Bruce lowers his last bag onto the porch, silently.

The sky overhead is still dark, the sun not even peaking from over the fields — if he had woken up any later, Martha would already be awake for the earliest morning chores.

Martha. 

Bruce ducks back into the house, eyes flying to the clock — Alfred must have landed already. He'd be there within the next thirty minutes.

He grabs his jacket and he runs his fingers over the letter he'd written the night prior, under the guise of wanting to see the stars. Clark hadn't, for the first time in a decade, followed him outside.

"For Martha," he mouths, laying it against the fruit bowl, knowing better than to say anything out loud. There was one thing that he didn't want to happen, and making even the quietest of noises could prompt it to.

He sits on the top step of the front porch to wait for Alfred. The sky in Smallville was always stunning, any time of day — especially compared to Gotham's layer of pollution. After his first summer with the Kents, when Bruce went back home to the Manor, he'd climbed into his bed and shut his eyes tight to cling onto the memory of the Smallville sky. The sunrise, when Clark would wake him up and they would chase the chickens or race to the creek to get muddy and let themselves bake in the sun; the sunset, when Martha would call them in from where they would be following Jonathan around, tired and hungry and happy.

The night sky, where Clark would take him up on the roof and they'd tuck their bodies into one another's side, eyes caught by the constellations overhead.

Bruce's heart skips a beat.

It all makes his chest tighten and his throat hurt, and he feels bereft by the mere thought of what would follow these last few moments of seeing Smallville as it always was — of seeing Clark as he always was.

The screen door creaks open behind him, and he stiffens. Two footsteps and long strides until they stop, right behind him. 

"You heard me," he says, forcing his tone to be even.

Clark doesn't move; Bruce doesn't even hear him breathe. "You don't need to make a noise for me to hear you, Bruce," he eventually says, tone strained. "I can hear your heartbeat anywhere. Even when I'm asleep."

Bruce doesn't say anything. A few minutes pass before Clark sits down next to him. His warmth bleeds, across the scant inch between them, into Bruce's side.

There are so many things to say, but it's not the right time — which is ironic, Bruce thinks, since it's entirely possible that they will never speak to one another again.

"Alfred's coming from town," says Clark suddenly. He must be able to hear him.

They've got minutes, and if you divide it further, seconds.

Bruce turns his neck to look at Clark.

"Come with me to Gotham," he says.

Clark gazes at him, eyes wet.

"Let me come with you," he tries.

Clark's staring at him like he's trying to consume him.

It's not enough.

Alfred arrives, smoothly turning into the driveway. Bruce grabs his bags before Clark can try to help.

“Bruce.”

Bruce takes the steps swiftly. 

“Bruce.”

“I won’t follow you,” Bruce says. “So don’t follow me.”

Clark stares.

“Don’t follow my heartbeat, Clark,” Bruce says.

And he leaves Clark, with the knowledge that Clark left him first.

Chapter Text

When Clark was nine years old, his Ma and Pa had an old friend that invited them on a Caribbean cruise. 

“It's just for five days,” Ma said, and anyone, most of all Clark, would be able to hear her barely stifled excitement. “So we thought you'd like to go to a summer camp, for a month or so.”

Given that his parents generally considered anything that had Clark outside of a five-foot radius of them a part of the 'no-no zone', it didn't take Clark much convincing to start packing.

Clark had never been to a summer camp, and Camp CRAWL was somewhat of a perfect introduction, given that it stuck to being the most stereotypical summer camp that it could be. Their schedules consisted of canoeing, and hiking, and fishing, and quilting, and every other outdoor educational type of thing that you could think of, which Clark had mostly already done with his parents but never with other kids, and Clark was enthused.

His bunkmate was not.

It wasn't that Clark needed the enthusiastic, happy, adventurous bunkmate that he saw on The Parent Trap — he did make friends with some of the other campers, so he didn't need to make up plans with his bunkmate at night when the day was already fun. But he wanted someone who at least spoke to him past a single grunt (or spoke to anyone, for that matter), and would maybe not pointedly put on noise-cancelling headphones whenever Clark climbed into bed. Even if his bunkmate had really pretty eyes and could do anything that their… less than good teacher of a camp head instructed them to do, even when it was obvious that he was doing it for the first time. Clark didn’t need to be his friend, but he’d at least like to smile at the boy without getting scowled at.

Eight days into camp, however, Clark got his wish. Kind of. 

They had crossed the river with canoes, and were venturing into the woods there. Everyone was supposed to go to a certain point in the woods with their bunkmate for the night, and set up camp. They were within ten yards of the other camping pairs, so it was nothing so dangerous, but that was just the thing — Clark and one of the other campers, Buddy, had done… Well, some kind of a dare where they'd branch out a little further. It wasn't exactly a concern , really, because the counselors were doing rounds and would've pulled them in, but whoever got caught out of the ten yard radius longest would have to wear the other's dirtiest pair of socks.

Clark was usually against any type of behavior like that since he never really saw the point of being contrary for the sake of being contrary, but— It was different, being outside of Smallville. No one in Camp CRAWL was looking at him weirdly, or treating him differently, and Clark just wanted—

Clark wanted it to stay that way.

It didn't take much to convince his bunkmate, who just stared at him blankly as he explained the dare, and then rolled his eyes and motioned for Clark to lead the way. Though he was still rude, Clark could appreciate his willingness and frank fearlessness. 

It was a bust, however, because then storm clouds came tumbling in. His bunkmate was setting up their tiny tent, and Clark went to tell him that they should head back (they were already a good five minutes out from where they were supposed to be, which made Clark twitch and his bunkmate smirk) when a gunshot rang behind them.

The camp's manual, which Clark read carefully, said that that meant that the counselors were rounding everyone up — they'd use a whistle, but, if it was urgent, they'd have to use the gun.

He still frowned at the noise, calling, “Hey, Wayne, I think we should start heading — ”

But his bunkmate was gone.

Eyes wide, Clark ran over to the tent. His bunkmate was gone. Disappeared. Possibly eaten. Potentially kidnapped by Bigfoot. 

Clark ran a few paces out. “Wayne!” he called. “Wayne?!”

Another gunshot. Clark looked up at the sky — the clouds were thundering. Droplets of rain touched his face. It was either go back to camp and get a counselor to find his bunkmate, or go out himself.

Clark shut his eyes, and concentrated as hard as possible.

Just as he had hoped, he could hear the counselors, the other campers, and—

Bruce Wayne.

His eyes shut, he started running, focusing on Wayne's rapid breathing and thudding footsteps. 

By the time he caught up with the footfalls, it was pouring. Even with his hearing, he couldn't hear the campers talking or the counselors' whistles behind him.

“Wayne!” he shouted, jogging over. “Wayne, are you alright?”

Wayne was huddled against a tree, shivering like a baby calf born in the thick of winter. The thick pine above them covered him from the worst of the storm, but he was still sopping wet.

“Wayne?” called Clark hesitantly.

The other boy finally looked up. Clark paused because, though with his wet cheeks it was hard to tell, it looked as if Wayne was... crying.

Wayne hurriedly wiped his eyes, standing quickly. “Kent? What the hell?”

Clark's cheeks heated at the curse word, but he furrowed his eyebrows. “No, Wayne, what the heck are you doing out here? We're way out of where we were supposed to be!”

Wayne visibly stiffened his already tense body, and his eyes flicked through the unfamiliar trees around him. Then he glared. “Whose fault is that?”

Clark looked at him, incredulously. “Yours!”

Wayne huffed, crossing his arms, looking away. “Either way, we're stuck here until the storm clears.”

“And past that,” said Clark, frustrated. “Do you really think we'll be able to find our way back? Our tracks will be washed away. Tomorrow morning, the counselors will probably shoot the gun again. That’ll be our chance to make it to the canoes before they cross over.”

Wayne's expression twisted, before straightening out. “Do you even hear yourself?” he demanded. “The counselors? Our camp head is a dingus."

Clark winced because their camp head was a dingus.

“They won't even notice we're gone until tomorrow night after they’ve rowed across and reached camp. We’ll have to walk around the lake,” muttered Wayne, darkly, and Clark went to argue some more before he realized just how badly Wayne was shivering.

Of course. Clark blinked a few times, and then wrapped his arms around his body and tried his best to mimic Wayne's shuddering movements.

Clark stepped a little closer and sat on the ground next to him, shrugging his backpack off. Lightning struck across the sky, but neither of them flinched — Clark couldn't understand how Wayne wasn't startled at that, but he had ran with the gunshot.

But he wasn't really in the mood for conversation either.

It was a good twenty minutes of trembling (and fake trembling), before Wayne made an irritated noise. “Kent, are you waiting for something?” Clark gave him a blank look. “Do you not have hand warmers in your backpack?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Clark, before opening up his sack and grabbing the warmers out of it. He left the blanket, since getting it wet would only worsen their condition when the rain stopped pouring and it was just plain cold. 

Wayne was giving him a very critical eye, most likely because of his bad performance of being cold; Clark attempted to not sweat under the scrutiny because that would really give him away, sweating in a cold rain.

They sat silently. 

Clark tried to stop listening to Wayne's teeth clattering so much, but it was hard to ignore when the only other noise was the white noise of the storm.

Clearing his throat, he said, loud enough for Wayne to hear over the rain, “We should— We should get closer.” Wayne sent him a look. “It's gonna be a long night. And a cold one.”

Wayne scrunched up his nose, muttering things, before lifting his arm up. Clark pursed his lips but tucked himself into Wayne's side and wrapped his arm around the other boy's back.  They fidgeted a bit since their clothes — both Wayne's magazine-style coat and Clark's flannel jacket — kept wetly sticking together and it was just a bad position until they finally settled.

Clark sighed, and Wayne's heart was beating quickly. Clark furrowed his eyebrows before his eyes widened, realization dawning on him as he glanced around the quiet wood. Then he got nervous.

“Bears,” he said hoarsely, because that could be the only explanation of what caused Wayne’s heart to beat as fast as it was.

Wayne's eyebrows jumped up and down. “Bears,” he repeated.

Clark nodded.

Wayne rolled his eyes. “No bear is going to eat us, Kent.”

Not me but maybe you, Clark thought glumly, before sighing again. If push came to shove, he'd let the bear try and eat him until it ran away from his freakishness, and then he'd explain it all away to Wayne. 

He'd save Wayne, even if the guy was seriously annoying.

Clark doesn't need a lot of sleep — not like his Ma, his Pa, or the kittens that the farm cats lay. 

Clark only has to sleep when he really needs to. But that doesn’t mean that Clark doesn’t sleep when he wants to. And when he wakes up, no matter what hour of the day, he's never tired and he only sleeps out of laziness as his Ma says. He prefers to say that he’s practicing sleeping for when he has other roommates, which Pa always smiles at.

He reminded this to himself that first night in the woods, tucked into his mean bunkmate's side. The trees were loud, wind moving the big branches back and forth. The storm was over, but clouds were still cast overhead — Clark could tell by the color and shape of them that it wouldn't be raining, so he pulled out the blanket and tucked it around him and Wayne. Cautiously. Wayne had proven to be extremely easy to wake, so much so that Clark was trying not to breathe too deeply in case he woke him. 

It was whatever , though. Clark could hold his breath for at least ten minutes, probably longer (Pa never let him try), and Wayne was waking up every ten minutes or so, anyways, eyes always looking at Clark, who would shut his own and pretend to be asleep.

So Clark stayed up. If a bear came, the first guy it'd have to get through was him — as far as he was concerned, it wasn't going to even look at Wayne. And Clark would make sure it didn't get too hurt. He really liked bears, though he’d admittedly never met one that was trying to eat him.

When the sky brightened but clouds were still looming above, Clark jumped a little when Wayne pushed away from him. The other boy shuffled a few feet away, stood, arms wrapped around himself, and narrowed his eyes at Clark.

Wayne looked worse for wear. His eyes were smudged with dark circles, his cheeks were concerningly pale, and his body was shaking uncontrollably. Clark frowned at him, standing as well. “What is it, Wayne?”

“Kent,” he said, voice surprisingly even. “Explain.”

Clark furrowed his eyebrows. “What?”

Wayne glared, harshly. “Explain.”

Even without elaboration, Clark realized what Wayne meant.

He knew.

Clark swallowed. “I don't know what you mean, Wayne.”

“I mean,” said Wayne, “explain how you didn't sleep last night and you weren't wearing more than a jacket and a thin blanket, but you are still awake and looking exactly like you were yesterday morning! Not to mention how I saw you lift the entire bunk bed yesterday to get your hat — ”

“Wayne,” said Clark, “stop talking.”

Wayne gave him a burning glare. “No, Kent, I don't think I will — ”

“Wayne,” said Clark, “there's a bear.”

Wayne stiffened like a board, and very slowly turned. About five yards behind him, there it stood. A grizzly bear, eating a large branch of brightly colored berries laid before it.

Wayne inhaled, speaking, quietly, “The area was supposed to be clear.”

“We must've moved further out than we thought,” Clark whispered back, his hands trembling.

Wayne cut his eyes to him, not moving. “Don't move.”

“I know,” Clark hissed from the corner of his mouth.

Wayne grimaced. “She hasn't noticed us. If we walk away slowly, we should be fine. I'll retrieve the backpack, but you start walking to our left.”

“Wayne — ”

“Just do it, Kent.”

Clark helplessly started edging away, eyes flying between the munching bear and Wayne.

Wayne slowly reached down to get Clark's backpack. The bear looked up. Clark carefully avoided her eyes, instead concentrating on the ground just in front of her, and Wayne didn't even flinch — he just kept slowly making his way to Clark.

“Keep moving,” exhaled Wayne.

They kept walking sideways, the bear watching them with an almost curious tilt to her great, big head. Wayne walked carefully, just a foot away from Clark, the backpack in his white-knuckled grip, when, abruptly, a rogue squeeze ball fell out of Clark's sack.

Clark and Wayne both froze.

The bear stared some more. 

“Uh,” said Clark.

The bear straightened, then made the softest noise — a sort of clicking noise, with her tongue, that sounded like, 'uh, uh, uh'. She tugged at the berry branch in front of her, and then tossed a portion of it in their direction, before looking back down at her meal and munching away.

Clark blinked, heavily. Wayne was still.

The bear glanced at them after a moment, made a huffing noise, and then grabbed her berry branch and tugged it off in the opposite direction. When she disappeared in the distance, Clark let out a loud breath, and Wayne twisted on his feet to look at him.

They stared at one another.

And then burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“So,” said Bruce, perched on a rock and eating half of one of the several granola bars in Clark's backpack. “Are you going to explain yet, or…?”

Clark glanced up at him, surprised. 

Using his… advanced hearing, Clark guessed that the rest of the campers had moved all the way back to the main camp since he didn’t hear anyone anywhere near them — which meant that he also heard that no counselors were looking for them, and must've not even noticed that they were missing. Which was a bit depressing. Especially considering that they went across the lake to get to the second camping ground, so he and Bruce would have to hike around it to get to the main camp.

However, it did help Clark confidently direct them in the correct direction after the bear incident, even though he would not have been able to tell you if they had gone east or west, and their tracks were definitely washed away — surprisingly enough, Bruce didn't even argue with him. 

In complete honesty, Bruce wasn't arguing at all. Or glaring. Or grunting instead of saying actual words. It was like the bear nice-ified him — as nice as he seemed to get, which wasn't quite Smallville-friendly but was enough that Clark wasn't holding conversation with himself, and he cracked a couple of smiles at Clark's exaggerated reenactments of the bear encounter.

Bruce was even smiling in response to all of Clark’s smiles (and there was a lot of them); there wasn’t much to stop two kids from smiling at each other, Clark supposed, after encountering a bear and making it out alive.

Bruce was also really smart, which Clark knew because of the camp activities, but was solidified when Bruce said no, they couldn't eat the berries because they weren't human-friendly, and he could tell the time by the sun in the sky which Clark still hasn't figured out how to do though his Ma has taught him once or twice, and he had a lot of really fun bear facts.

With that in mind, Clark should've known better than to assume that Bruce wouldn't remember his accidental displays of… inconvenient abilities. 

“Explain what?” asked Clark.

Bruce gave him an impatient look, like Ma's when Pa would leave his dirty boots in the corner of the kitchen. “I mean,” said Bruce, “and I'm just guessing here— but I think you have some type of heightened hearing, superior strength, and… And your body is either different, or you have some type of protection from the cold.” Then his eyes widened. “To temperatures, more like — is it your skin? I knew I saw you put your hand in the fire to get that graham cracker, but no one else was looking.”

Clark blinked, several times, because he had no idea Bruce was watching him.

Still probably not as much as Clark was watching him, but still a lot to have noticed him fixing his s’more.

He collected his thoughts before deciding against denying it and simply sighing. “If I told you,” he said seriously, “I would have to kill you.”

Bruce stared at him. “What?”

Clark ate the last bit of the granola bar before patting him on the shoulder. “Just don't worry about it, Bruce. Do you want some apple slices?”

“I still have no idea why you packed all of that when lunches were provided,” said Bruce, sulkily. 

Clark grinned. “It was my ma. And whatever — you brought like six bags!”

Bruce's cheeks pinkened as he looked away. “That was Alfred,” he mumbled.

Clark took one of his bags of apple slices and piled about half in his hand — he handed the rest to Bruce. “Who's Alfred?” he asked, politely.

Bruce stiffened a bit. “My… My butler.”

“Hm,” said Clark. “Does he make good apple pie?”

Bruce's gaze snapped to him. “What?”

Clark motioned to his bag — a Tupperware of two slices of Martha Kent's apple pie sat neatly inside. “My ma makes the best apple pie,” swore Clark. “She says that every kid needs someone who can make good pie.”

Bruce stared at him. Then: “You're wrong.”

Clark patiently waited for elaboration.

Bruce pursed his lips. “Alfred makes the best apple pie.”

And it wasn't like Clark could let a poor soul think that anyone could make better pie than his Ma.

Clark watched Bruce carefully eat the pie, cutting it into really neat pieces with the plastic fork Clark provided. Bruce took an average-sized bite, chewing it like he was a judge in a cooking competition.

Clark let him take four more bites until he huffed. “Well? What do you think?”

Bruce frowned a little. “I think that Alfred and your— Ma should bake pies for every kid.”

Clark laughed. “That's not an answer!”

“Hey,” protested Bruce, eyes bright and a tiny smile peeking through. “Once you try Alfred's and try to compare, you'll realize that you can't answer either.”

Clark laughed some more, and Bruce's eyes brightened some more. Clark let his grin turn mischievous. “Say, you inviting me over… does that mean that we're friends, Bruce?”

Bruce blinked at him.

Clark lost his smile, unsure. “I'm… I'm joking. We don't…” He sighed, looking away. 

He startled when he felt something lightly touch his wrist. 

Bruce's hand shot back to his side. Clark stared at him. “If you… If you want to be... friends, then we can be friends,” he said, tone uncertain.

Clark felt warmth spread from his chest, all the way up to his cheeks, which he was sure were flushing red which was all types of embarrassing but he was also so happy.

“Alright,” he whispered.

They spent the rest of the day walking back, and they made it pretty far before night hit and Bruce was looking really tired — and cold. And sick. On top of all of that walking, Clark was keeping up a steady stream of chatter that was probably wearing down on Bruce also, who looked like he kept expecting Clark to disappear in a poof or something.

“Man, I'm exhausted,” said Clark, and Bruce gave him a glare. Clark grinned. “Wanna call it for the night? We still have to go around half of the lake.” Not too much of a journey, but they'd be doing it in the dark.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I would refuse, but I really don't want to leave y — ” He cut himself off.

Clark paused from where he was laying down his jacket for them to lay on (no sense in acting when Bruce knew he wouldn't get cold). “Bruce?”

Bruce shook his head. “It's nothing.”

Clark was concerned, but he didn't push — best let him get it out than try and force it out, as Pa always said. 

They get settled, and cuddling together was less awkward than it was the night prior. Bruce even let Clark lay his head on his shoulder, slowly relaxing into the embrace. 

It was a few minutes but Clark eventually nudged Bruce. Bruce was already awake, so he nudged him back.

“Hey, Bruce,” he whispered.

“Hi, Clark,” he whispered back.

Clark gnawed his lip. “I was just thinking…” He bunched up all of his bravery and shoved it into his heart, and said, “I was thinking that we should be friends for a long time, Bruce.”

Bruce's heart was beating really fast. “Oh.”

Clark's hands fidgeted. “Do you think so, too?”

“Yes,” said Bruce instantly. “I mean— yes. Yes, I'd like that. That would be… That would be really… really excellent.”

Clark beamed. “Excellent.”

It wasn't windy like the night prior, but there was still a chill. Bruce tucked the blanket tighter around them.

“Hey, Bruce,” whispered Clark.

“Yes, Clark?” answered Bruce. Clark hesitated. Bruce twisted a bit. “Clark?”

Clark swallowed. “I came to Earth on an alien spaceship.”

Bruce was silent. Clark felt his stomach twist. He waited for Bruce to run away, screaming, or punch him for telling a stupid joke, or to—

To leave Clark.

Instead, Clark felt a puff of warm air hit his forehead. He looked up, and Bruce was already staring at him, the strangest smile on his lips — unlike any of the small smiles that Clark had seen on him before.

“Of course you did,” said Bruce, still smiling.

Clark blinked. “You… You believe me?” Bruce nodded, easy and bright. “And you don't… You don't think I'm weird?”

Bruce lost his smile a bit. “No,” he said, and he sounded so honest that Clark could— burst with happiness. “No, Clark, I don't. I think that you're… I think that you're the most human person I've ever met, even though you're more special than anyone else.”

Clark laughed. “'Human person' ? Really, Bruce?”

Bruce grumbled. “Shut up.”

Clark laughed some more, and Bruce smiled a little and pushed against him until he fell quiet.

It wasn't long before Bruce nudged him.

“Clark,” said Bruce.

“Yeah, Bruce?” said Clark.

It was Bruce's turn to hesitate. Clark shifted closer, and Bruce finally let out a breath. “You… You never recognized me.”

Clark's eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Bruce scrubbed at his eyes. “I'm Bruce Wayne, Clark. Do you recognize that name?”

Clark twisted to look up at him. “No?” he said, confused.

Bruce stared at him. “You really don't recognize my name?”

Clark flushed. “What— Who are you, Bruce?”

Bruce's expression twisted. “My parents were important people back in my home city of Gotham. After many generations of my family were, as well. I'm… I'm a billionaire because of it.”

Clark's eyes widened. “Whoa.”

Bruce looked away.

“Wait, Bruce,” Clark said, trying to sound as nice as his Ma always is. “Don't worry about it. I don't mind that you have a lot of money. You're too nice to ever be a bad guy and hoard all of it.”

Bruce gave him a little smile at that. “That's— That's not it, though.”

Clark cracked a smile, too. “Can't be as bad as being an alien, though, right?”

Bruce snorted, softly. 

It took a few more seconds until he said, tone wavering, “My dad is— was really great. He always knew how to make me feel better when I was sad. And my mom gave the best hugs. She kept me warm when I was cold.” He smiled a little. “Like you. But, uh… Last… Last year, I went to the movie theater with them. And we left a little early because I was tired, but there was someone waiting out in the side entrance of the theater. And he… He killed my parents.”

Clark's chest hurt. “Oh, Bruce,” he whispered.

Bruce shook his head, his expression twisting into something scary. “No, you don't understand, Clark,” he snapped. “I ran at the camping ground because of the gunshot. We're stuck out here, alone, because I was afraid. I put— I put you in danger because I get scared from the sound of a gun. I'm so, so sorry, Clark.”

Clark couldn't believe it. Was Bruce really that— He didn't even know how to describe him. Unbelievable, is what his Ma would say. Bruce was unbelievable.

“Bruce,” he said. Bruce didn't look at him. “Bruce.”

Bruce looked at him.

“Bruce,” he said. “Don't apologize for this. Don't ever. I've only— I've only known you for a week— No, more like a day, and I feel like you're my best friend. Don't apologize for today, Bruce. And don't ever apologize for what happened with your parents. Please don't.”

Bruce stared at him, eyes a little wet. Clark shifted closer and closer until it felt like their sides were just parts of one body, and hugged Bruce. Bruce hugged him back. Bruce's heartbeat was quick in his chest, but it still made Clark feel inexplicably warm and safe.

And the night went on like that — went on well into a decade. 

Chapter Text

Clark turns twenty-one years old in a town between Oregon and Idaho.

He’s on a late-night shift in a gas station. Truckers flood in and out, as they do every night, tracking in the snow and buying cigarette packs and tiny cups of coffee when Clark glances at his watch.

11:59 PM. On February 28th.

It was the closest he ever got to his birthday unless it was a leap year itself. 

He grabs a postcard from the front, drops a few coins in the cash register, and then scribbles a message on the backside. It’s been over a year since he visited the farm, and he only spent a week there — his Ma would be seriously disappointed if he didn’t visit soon, not after his birthday. 

The hours pass sluggishly into March when the next guy comes in to take over. Clark buys a roughly wrapped muffin as his birthday cake, and heads to the side to fill up a coffee cup — he’ll have to run the four miles back to the place he shares with a couple of guys with unsteady work, and too many years of pretending to be— normal, means that he feels the illusion of exhaustion.

Back at the apartment, his roommates still aren’t in. Falling onto the raggedy couch in the living room (which doubles as his bed since he pays the least amount of rent), Clark turns on the news on their ancient television and lets his eyes droop close. 

“Ah, more snow pouring into spring — at this rate, we’ll have a white Easter. Moving on from the weather report, the astonishing manhunt for one of the richest men in the country continues. All along the East Coast and stretching well across the country is the search for young billionaire and businessman, 22-year-old Bruce Wayne. Wayne was last seen in Gotham City, where the Wayne family is best-known — ”

When Clark opens his eyes, he’s miles from the apartment building and stranded in some field, his hearing going haywire and his heart pounding harshly in his chest. His focus is shot, he’s breathing heavily, and the words are echoing in his head. He needs to— He needs to concentrate, to focus on Bruce, after these hellish two years, he needs to know that he’s alright, that Bruce is fine, that he’s safe, that Clark can be alright. Years of not listening in, of not sleeping or sleeping and waking in a panic because Clark always listened to Bruce’s heartbeat to fall asleep, so Clark can’t find it, not with all of the other noise, so much sound everywhere, and Clark needs to find Bruce, and he can, he can do it, he can, but—

“Don’t follow my heartbeat, Clark,” Bruce says.

But Bruce forbade him.

Clark feels his chest seize, feels a burning but crawling sensation itch across his skin, and his entire body trembles as he tries to breathe more steadily— a useless attempt, he should know that now, after years of trying to breathe, he always feels this weight on his chest, the constant reminder of his failings, and—

Bruce is missing.

Clark will not fail him, again.

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” whispers Clark, and he shuts his eyes to concentrate on that one, resonating heartbeat.

Clark could never really be affected by any drink or drug, not from lack of trying at his lower moments. He still thinks that hearing Bruce’s heartbeat must be a better relaxant than any amount of substance.

It’s steady, and his breathing is even. Clark won’t go so far as to listen to the voices around him, but no one’s heart is beating faster than average. Bruce is safe; he’s just missing. 

Knowing Bruce, that’s exactly where he wants to be, too.

Clark falls to his knees, and shuts his eyes again, letting Bruce’s heartbeat flood over him.

Just as he had when he was a child, and he missed Bruce like a limb in those lonely months outside of summer, he held onto his heartbeat with every single ounce of his concentration, and rested after what felt like a millennium.

Bruce shoves off the cowl, his hair sweaty as he pushes his fingers through it. He inspects the inside of the mask, holding it up to the dim light of the cave, and sure enough, there’s a missing piece. 

He touches the back of his head, his fingers coming back wet.

There it is.

“I don’t suppose we want that to happen again.”

Bruce glances up at Alfred and frowns at the cowl. “No, we don’t. We’ll have to reinforce it, or create a protective layer to the interior.”

“Let me bandage your head,” Alfred says, in place of answering.

Bruce shoves off the suit, faster than he could the night prior, and much faster than the first time he had done so, seven months ago. Where Bruce had planned to only be the Bat occasionally, Batman was on the streets every other night. It’s because of the crime wave, Bruce reasons.

Gotham city is a crime wave in itself, Alfred argues.

Everything is still so new, and the Bat has only barely inspired the type of fear that Bruce had wanted it to strike in the hearts of the criminals on the streets. Bruce was gone for a long time, but he came back to a virtually unchanged Gotham. 

He was integrally changed, however. So he would make Gotham change with him.

Alfred directs him to the small medical center that has slowly been growing with supplies as Bruce comes back with increasingly creative injuries. Bruce falls to the seat and sits quietly as Alfred inspects his head, bandages the shallow cut there, and then checks that the bones in his hands are not fractured.

“There wasn’t any real threat tonight,” says Bruce, and he tries to make it sound like he isn't disappointed.

“Hm,” replies Alfred, and Bruce knows that he heard it. He’s Alfred. He hears everything. 

Including—

“I received an alert the other day,” Alfred comments.

Bruce arches an eyebrow, briefly. “On the clown? Gordon hasn’t told me anything new.”

Alfred shakes his head. “On the curious man who is now residing somewhere in the southern forests of Vietnam.”

Bruce’s eyes snap to him. 

Alfred drops Bruce’s hand. “A woman has sworn that a young American man saved her three children from her burning house within the time it took for her to say the words, ‘My children are still inside.’”

Bruce stands. “Vietnam?”

Alfred watches him. “Yes.”

Bruce turned away.

The last time he saw him was nearly seven years ago. He is twenty-six years old — Bruce is twenty-seven, himself. Bruce didn’t see Clark try out a beer for the first time, or see him finally grow into those big hands of his. He wasn’t there when Clark lost his— He didn’t see Clark at all. He missed seven years of Clark’s life, and Clark is— Clark isn’t nineteen anymore, and he sure as hell isn’t nine anymore.

Bruce grips the desk in front of him.

“Master Wayne,” Alfred says softly. “You do own a private jet.”

Bruce shakes his head, immediately. “No. Never. He left. He left, Alfred.”

Alfred can read in between the lines.

Bruce is inconsolable.

He was my first kiss, Bruce wants to say. We were in that godawful loft of his in that big barn, and we were twelve years old, and we wanted to be each other’s first kisses, and he was my first kiss, and he had smiled.

“Get some rest, please, sir,” Alfred says, before disappearing upstairs.

He was my first promise, Bruce wants to say. And he broke it.

Everything happens rapidly — over the course of nearly fifteen years, the events of discovering his heritage, his home planet, his biological parents, his explanation, seems to happen in the blink of an eye. 

It’s so much, and it’s exactly what he had set out to do.

And still, thought Clark, if he could go back— he would still not leave as he had. He wouldn’t leave Bruce as he had. Even if that did not set him on the path to the discovery that he had found.

He wonders if his dad would be upset with him if he knew that truth.

Lois Lane knows more than she should, but she’s careful about it.

Bruce listens to her conversations and traces her entire career from her writing for her middle school newspaper, and he hears her story of Clark saving her, and his hands fist until he can concentrate on blanking out the emotional aspect of it all.

She already gave fragments of her knowledge to Woodburn, but Bruce knows reporters, knows the gritty, determined ones such as herself, and knows that she must be knee-deep in all of it, that she might be on a plane ride to Smallville already.

She is.

Bruce calls Martha.

“A reporter will come over today,” he says, “a Lois Lane. She’s going to be talking about Clark. I don’t— I don’t know what Clark wants you to say, in these situations, what you have prepared. But she’s a very talented journalist, and she won’t stop until she’s convinced that it’s a better choice for her to drop the story than to pursue it until it was laid bare. I wanted to — ”

“Warn me,” finishes Martha. “Oh, thank you, Bruce.”

Bruce shakes his head, softly. “Don’t ever thank me, Martha. Please. I owe so much to you.”

“Bruce — ”

“I have to go,” he says, “please be careful.” He hangs up.

There is a moment in which Clark considers not approaching Lois Lane from where she stood in front of his father’s tombstone. 

He had saved the woman, and he understood that she felt some type of obligation to pursue him as payment in her intriguing sense of logic, and he also knew that she was the type of morally strong person who would drop it as soon as he asked. 

But there was a moment when Clark just wanted to disappear again, this time with no mistakes. This time, for good.

Instead, he walks to Lois, and she’s expecting him.

“I let my father die because I trusted him. Because he was convinced that I had to wait, that the world was not ready,” Clark says, after pouring his soul out to her. There is something undeniably familiar about her attentiveness, something that makes Clark weary and exhausted and wistful. “What do you think?”

Lois doesn’t say anything.

Clark steps closer and looks down at his father’s tombstone.

The catalyst. The series of events after his death that created Clark’s position as it stood today. 

“I think,” says Lois, voice quiet but calm, “that you’ve led a very lonely life, Clark Kent.”

It’s something about that statement that makes something in him snap. Clark had hosted many emotional breakdowns in the years since he was nineteen, since he lost what gave his purpose a definition, but never had he fallen to his knees as he did right then. Lois is at his side in an instant, her small but sure hands gripping his arms.

“Clark, are you — ”

Are you alright, she was going to ask, and Clark has to cut her off because that’s the damned problem, he’s always alright, he’s never not alright, even when everyone else is weighed down by every little thing that can do nothing to him—

“I’m fine, I’m sorry, I’m— I’m fine,” he gasps out. “I’m just— I— Lois, you’ve got to understand—” He falters. “I wasn’t always alone.”

Her eyes softened incredibly. “Your home — ”

“My home is here,” he tells her. “And, here, I used to have someone.”

Her gaze glances to the tombstone in front of them, eyes squinting a bit. 

Clark shakes his head. “Yes, of course, both of my parents, but— There was someone. I met him when I was young. He knew… He knew everything about me. He knew me inside and out, all of my crazy quirks and all of my boring limits. And I… I knew him.” He laughs. “That’s such a special moment, isn’t it? When you… When someone knows you better than you know yourself, and you — ”

“You know them better than anyone else could,” finishes Lois. “Better than you’d hope anyone else would.”

Clark nods, a tasteless smile on his lips as his hand touches the ground where his father is buried. 

Bruce was there at the burial. Bruce was always there.

Clark was the one who left.

“What happened to him?” asks Lois quietly, ever the journalist.

Clark glances at her. “Nothing so grim,” he assures. “I just chased him out. And I knew him well. I knew that if I— If I did it properly, if I made him feel like I truly wanted him gone… I knew that he would stay away. Forever. He's… He's very stubborn." He smiles a little. “You remind me of him. A nicer version.”

Her eyebrow twitches. “Not a lot of people have called me ‘nice’ before.”

“Then that tells you something,” he smiles wider.

“He’s a part of why you won’t let me tell your story, isn’t he,” she says, and it’s not a question.

Clark exhales. “He’s a part of everything I do.”

Lois leaves, and Clark is left to head back to the house and his Ma and telling her all that he’s found and acting like nothing else is bothering him.

Not that that would ever work on Ma.

She listens and hugs and kisses his forehead, and she is as perfect as always, and she tells him, “Bruce visited six months ago.”

Clark drops the plate he had been drying, catches it within the last second, and then sets it on the counter. His Ma grabs a bowl from the cabinet calmly.

“Why,” he says.

Ma looks at him. “Because he’s always welcome to come here. And he wanted to check in on me.”

“He does this often,” says Clark.

Ma sighs, “Never. He’s done so twice now. He calls me every week, at the same time on every Tuesday, but he rarely visits. This time was important.”

“Important.” Clark is aware that he sounds like a parrot, but he was helpless to do anything else.

His Ma holds up a hand. “We’ll get into this later. I need to finish some chores.”

Clark watches mutely as she heads outside, before slumping against the kitchen counter. A game plays on the television from the other room, and Clark, with all of his hearing, couldn’t tell you which teams were playing. 

Bruce Wayne in Smallville. God, Bruce Wayne in his expensive suits and shoes and shimmering watches and cars and Bruce in damned Smallville after all of those years of not being here and Clark wants to— Clark feels sick at the thought of it, almost, and wonders if Bruce even spared a second’s thought of whether Clark would be at the house or not, whether, if Clark was, Bruce’s jaw would adjust itself a bit as it always did when he was feeling a great amount of emotion that he didn’t want to display, whether Bruce’s jaw even still did that, whether—

Clark shut his eyes.

“Clark,” his mother called from outside. 

“Coming,” he said hoarsely, wiping his face once.

He descends the stairs of the porch, eyebrows furrowed, but his mother points at the sky.

Clark’s lips part.

From inside the house, he can hear it.

“You are not alone.”

Clark.

Clark sure as hell felt alone as he was thrown through building after building of his hometown.

But, he supposed, after all of this, he didn’t really have a home — the remnants of the home that he was supposed to have hated him, and the entirety of the home that he loved was repulsed by him.

Though there was always something to fight for.

Pushing himself up from the ground after Faora-Ul pummeled him into it, Clark thought of him.

If not for Earth, for the planet that he loved, for his Ma and Lois and everyone else, then for the one person that he would always rely on to feel like home.

He shut his eyes.

Bruce’s heartbeat was accelerated, but not so much as to be afraid. He was probably on a treadmill or even with someone else and they would be— Maybe he was watching the news, saw Clark, saw the aliens, and his adrenaline was pumping. In any case, Bruce was safe.

And Clark would keep it that way.

The water is filthy.

Bruce stands under the rain of his shower, and the water is filthy as it collects the soot and grime from the day’s events. The aliens. Wayne Tower collapsing. Losing… Losing so many.

Superman.

Bruce lets his head thud against the shower wall.

It all looked so bleak, so horrifying, so goddamn threatening, but it was—

Clark must’ve felt so alone. 

Bruce wants to be angry with him. The dark, ugly parts of Bruce that take over whenever he leaves the Batcave for patrol has him writhing and itching for a way to prevent this from ever happening again — those parts, that integral, unchangeable core of him want to hunt Clark down, find him, shake him, tear him apart just as he did to Bruce all those years ago, and make him pay for what happened (for then and for now) even if—

Clark found his home, and they tried to kill him.

Another part of Bruce — the broken, wispy parts of Bruce that still lets him have good dreams but then makes him wake up to the harsher truth of reality — wishes he had brought his suit to where Zod had landed earlier that day so that he could kill him before he even laid his eyes on Clark.

Clark is scared.

Bruce should’ve gone to Smallville the second that Zod had taken over the RSS feeds. Bruce should’ve run there, should’ve grabbed Clark and locked him up, made him stay away from Zod and he should’ve figured it out himself, he should’ve solved this all before Clark could get the stupid idea of— of going to him, of endangering himself, of getting thrown through the same buildings that he and Bruce would run through during the summer days, before he could— before Clark could—

Clark would’ve left the planet if that meant saving it.

Bruce, in his entirety, however, would never choose anything over Clark. Clark had been gone for a decade and a half and Bruce knew where he had been for every moment of it since he had gotten back from his own training. Clark had spit him out of his life, and Bruce still scrambled to collect any remaining piece of it that he could. Bruce would— Bruce would do anything for Clark, always would’ve, but it doesn’t become so obvious and so true until after an event like this. Because, even after all of it, Bruce would do anything for Clark. 

Clark could’ve died for it.

Bruce beats the shower wall.

“I know, Lo,” he says. “But right now I’ve gotta go or the Gazette is going to get all of the good stuff and Perry’ll shove my head down a toilet— Thanks, Lo, I’ll see you tomorrow, bye.”

Clark shoves his phone into the inside pocket of the jacket of his suit, an ill-fitted thing that stretches tightly against his shoulders and is unflatteringly loose around his waist, and nods at some of the other journalists littered around the front of a charity gala hosted by the ever-generous Lex Luthor. 

There are flashing lights all around the place, something that Clark had adapted to after the crises that Superman has helped with, hence feeling undeniable relief at them being directed away from his own self. Expensive cars trickle in as pictures are taken and the paps try and get quotes before the socialites are out of their reach and into Clark’s and his colleagues’ grasp. However, there is nothing that Clark would like to do less than spend his evening listening to Lex Luthor speak to a sycophantic audience with his special brand of rich eccentricities.

Clark attempts to concentrate on anything that goes on around him but it was a lost cause — instead, he gathers the few quotes that he really needs, and sets on heading to the bar so that he could suffer through Luthor’s speech and get a quote out of him after that.

Lois is a phone call away and a cure to his boredom, but Clark’s Ma taught him better than to be rude at any hosted event. His Ma is also a quick flight out west, but Clark feels some type of emulation of exhaustion at the mere idea of flying out tonight rather than falling into his bed as soon as possible. 

He wants to order something to drink, just to keep his hands busy and avoid conversation, but it’s been harder for him to eat after— Black Zero, and all of the other times that Superman has touched the ground after it. 

Superman.

Sometimes it’s hard not to consider himself a joke.

Luthor speaks, and as Clark approaches him afterward, the billionaire’s eyes latch onto him and answer his questions readily. Clark tries not to feel unnerved, and evades Luthor’s attention as soon as another journalist sinks in. 

There’s nothing else to do, and nothing else he wants to do, so Clark heads to the door, ears already perking up to catch whether he could get into the suit in the alleyway with no one else around when his hearing catches onto something entirely different.

He stills, his feet stopping in their stride, his eyes shut, and a few people bump into him but it’s all— it’s all background noise. 

Compared to that sound, anything would be background noise. 

Clark turns, just so, and opens his eyes. 

Bruce.

Clark falters.

Bruce’s eyes are already on him, steady and sure and as enrapturing as ever, and Clark is as helpless in front of him as he had ever been, from age nine to age nineteen to always because when would Bruce Wayne not make Clark Kent freeze with absolute terror and excitement and adoration and need —

Clark exhales, and Bruce’s eyes fly up and down, taking all of him in with that one sure glance, and Clark has to shut his eyes once again.

A moment passes before he reopens them.

Bruce is less than a foot away. There’s a sickeningly impassive expression on his face, and there is all of the Bruce Wayne that Clark knows and all of the Bruce Wayne that Clark may never know. Clark feels— ridiculous, like his skin is crawling, like the last person on Earth that would ever be able to hold Bruce’s attention is him, but there’s nothing to do about it.

Bruce is there.

“Bruce,” says Clark.

“Clark,” says Bruce.

Gentle music is humming in the air, the beautiful, flawless, wealthy people surrounding Clark pairing up and he feels that same childish feeling of what is Bruce doing here with him take over him, but there is nothing to do about it except savor every moment he has of his attention— that he has ever gotten of his attention.

“You’re with the Planet,” says Bruce.

Clark nods. “Yes.”

Bruce glances away for a moment. “You’re with Lois Lane, I hear.”

“Yes,” Clark answers. Bruce’s jaw adjusts itself a bit; Clark could cry. “She’s my co-worker,” he adds. He doesn’t even have to have a tone — Bruce relaxes then. Clark subtly wipes away the sweat collected in his palms. “And you’ve become a CEO.”

Bruce tilted his head. “Hardly as impressive.”

“Everything that you’ve done is impressive,” said Clark instantly. “All of it.”

Bruce’s expression wrinkles, a ripple against neutrality. “Hardly as impressive,” repeats Bruce, and his voice is grave.

Clark looks down. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You can’t.”

“I do.”

Clark looks back up, and Bruce’s expression has completely changed — morphed into a fierceness that Clark achingly missed, but it’s all— it’s wrong, that Bruce could just—

“You can’t,” says Clark. “You really can't. We can’t— Bruce, I left, and you— You can’t—”

“Would you like a drink, Mr. Kent?”

It’s a reminder of their surroundings — it’d make sense for Bruce Wayne to offer Clark Kent a drink, after all, and for Clark Kent to accept, for them to continue their conversation on a balcony, maybe. Clark still shakes his head. He wants Bruce to throw a drink in his face, to leave, to do something right, to not give Clark more than he would ever give anyone else, but Bruce just—

Bruce shakes his head right back at him, eyes so damn familiar, reaching a hand out to him.

“Then dance with me.”

Clark accepts before he can tell himself not to.

Clark wants to bury his head in the strong crook of Bruce’s neck, into the scent of his skin, into the soft fabric of his expensive suit jacket, but he can’t. Disregarding his surroundings, Bruce has irreversibly changed. His shoulders are wider, his grip is stronger, his jaw is more square, his scent deeper.

His heartbeat is the only thing that remains unchanged.

There are probably people watching them, how Bruce Wayne has to arrange a nobody reporter’s arms around his shoulders and how Clark laughs without meaning to when Bruce cautiously edges a little further away to avoid his toes getting stepped on— how their movements are so familiar with one another.

They remain a respectful distance from one another, not so intertwined as they used to dance. It forces them to keep eye contact.

From one moment to the next, Clark sees it.

“You’ve forgiven me,” he says.

Bruce doesn’t drop his gaze. “I do have weaknesses, Clark.”

“I do, too,” Clark says.

Bruce’s gaze is piercing. “Still.” It’s a question hidden under certainty.

Clark’s lips stretch helplessly. “Are you kidding me?”

“I won’t let you leave again,” says Bruce, but it’s a plea this time, hidden under apathy.

“I would hope so,” Clark replies.

There is the unmistakable return of warmth in his chest, like finally catching your breath after a barefoot run in the wildest winter — like finding something long-lost in the cracks of light.

“It's like I have two left feet with you,” Bruce murmurs, his eyes brightening.

Clark smiles softly, because if he didn’t, he would cry from joy.

According to the whispers lining the docks of Gotham’s harbor, there's a weird thing going on between the two polar opposite men.

The alien lives in the shining, glimmering city of Metropolis, all polite and thoughtful and intensely powerful, with everyone calling his name amidst their tears, their laughs, and their wishes. He travels the world and helps everywhere he can, working endlessly and tirelessly to cover up all of the flaws that he has as an extraterrestrial. He has a background of being helpful and of being the biggest danger to the world. It's okay to desire him over that, for most citizens, and it's easy to pick at him because of that, to most governments. It balances well.

Then there's the other man. He's a masked man and Gotham is his and his alone. Whispers are muttered about him with fervent glances over shoulders and it's possible that he is anyone, that he is your neighbor, your teacher, your postman, your local policeman, your father — it’s almost comical, how little there is known about him, how the little knowledge that the city holds of him is comparable to what the world knows of their beloved alien. In any sort, he's rough strokes and anger and immutable strength, and he goes to the docks on the harbor of his beloved city as criminals scramble away and the night wears on, and he crouches in the darkness, waiting.

But he only waits for the alien.