Work Text:
There was nothing in the world that Jason despised more than being compared to Bruce goddamn Wayne. Any aspect of him.
It sent a mortifying shiver of disgust down his spine, usually followed by a very deserved outburst of rage towards the guilty party who even dared to make that horrid connection, then finally a pitiful mental breakdown in bed that night when he’s left alone with his unbearable realizations.
Okay. Maybe that was a bit extreme, but he has always been one for theatrics (after all, there isn’t really anything low-key about returning from the dead, taking control of Gotham’s criminal empire, beating up a kid for taking your place, and making the Bats’ lives a living hell just to have your identity reveal be dramatic enough for your liking).
But still, being compared to that joke of a man, with more problems to last multiple lifetimes, felt wrong on so many levels.
However, unlike Bruce, Jason actually had the ability to face the fact that there maybe, probably were some unfortunate similarities between them, such as their complete refusal to accept or even admit to the fact that they might sometimes need help from others.
Which is why it made it all the more surprising the fact that Jason is currently climbing through Superman’s apartment window, riddled with bullet wounds, a broken hand, and probably a concussion. The journey here was not an easy one.
It was supposed to be a simple check in on a drug hand off. Leslie had come to him, saying that she suspected there was something up with the Metropolis pharmaceutical company she outsourced her clinic’s drugs from (‘cause god knows the kind of shit that goes down with the drugs sold in Gotham). To put it plainly, she was right. As always.
Jason was crouched on a rooftop, watching over as the company’s men loaded the cargo into the back of a truck. But, thanks to the lights of Metropolis being blindingly bright, even at one in the morning, the red glint of his helmet was spotted when one of the men had happened to look up. The guy alerted the others and they proceeded to start firing in his direction. Jason supposes it’s safe to say that people who immediately start firing at someone who is known for only busting hand offs that aren’t completely legit, probably have something to hide.
After that, everything pretty much went to shit, hence the climbing through Superman’s living room window in the middle of the night.
Jason swings his other leg through the window and stands, immediately almost falling flat on his face after putting too much weight on the leg he got shot in. He whips out his non-broken hand and places it on the wall to steady himself. He takes a moment to catch his breath before removing the hand, using it to wrench off his helmet and toss it on the couch.
He limps towards the bedroom.
He would normally just raid Clark’s place for a first-aid kit and patch his wounds up by his lonesome, but considering the fact that there is a bullet hole on the back of his shoulder, completely out of his reach, that probably wouldn’t be the best thing to do right now.
It’s dead silent in the apartment except for the sound of his boots thumping across the wooden floor boards.
Is Clark even here? Jason knows that having super hearing while also being a light sleeper (don’t ask how he knows that) means that it would be practically impossible for someone to sneak up on Clark while he’s asleep. And Jason isn’t exactly trying to be quiet with his steps either.
By all means, Clark should be awake by now, yet when Jason gets to the bedroom doorway, there he is, spread across the bed on his stomach like a starfish, absolutely passed the fuck out.
Jason blinks, then knocks on the doorframe. “Supes,” he calls out.
No response.
He frowns and knocks harder. “Supes?”
Again, no response.
Alright then. Jason pushes down the weird feeling of apprehension rising in him and hobbles towards the bed. “Clark?” He nudges his shoulder. No dice.
Jason pushes even harder at his shoulder. “Clark,” he stresses. He doesn’t even get a twitch back.
Feeling a tad desperate, remembering the protocols that were drilled into his brain at a too-young age, he grabs onto Clark’s wrist and feels for his pulse.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit-
He scrambles for the side of Clark’s neck, pressing his fingers against the pulse point there.
There’s nothing.
What the fuck?! How did this even happen? How did he die in his own fucking bed? Did someone- did someone assassinate him while he was sleeping? How?
Ok, ok, think, Jason. Think.
Kryptonite? Did someone stab him with it?
‘Focus on the facts, Jason’ a voice in his head, suspiciously sounding like Bruce’s, reminds him, ‘Always gather information first before acting.’
Clarks shirtless and from what Jason can see of his back, there’s no kryptonite. There’s no blood either.
He pulls the covers down. His sheets are spotless. There’s no fucking kryptonite anywhere. Is it on his front?
Jason uses his non-shattered hand and strains to roll Clark onto his back, ignoring the spikes of pain that the action sends up his injured shoulder.
He scans his body and finds nothing. No glowing green rocks. No blood. No wounds. Nothing.
“God damnit!”
What the hell happened? How do you kill Superman without kryptonite? How the fuck is he dead? How long has he been here? How has no one realized? Why did Jason have to be the one to find him? How is he going to tell Bruce? How is he going to tell anyone? It’s Superman! What is he supposed-
“Jason?”
Jason screams and ungracefully falls backwards onto the floor. The shock is enough for him to ignore the twinge of pain that shoots through his body.
“What the fuck!?” Jason stares up at an animated Clark Kent rubbing his eyes.
Clark leans over in bed to look down at Jason and frowns. “What’s wrong? Why are you-“ he cuts himself off as he looks over Jason’s body. “Christ, Jason! What happened?” he asks, alarmed.
“How the hell are you alive?!” Jason scrambles off the ground to his feet, struggling with only one working hand.
“What?” Clark gets out of bed and walks towards him. “Jason, you’re injured-“ he says and reaches his hands out towards Jason.
He jerks away, taking a step back. “And you’re a goddamn ghost or a zombie or some shit!”
“What are you talking about?” Clark asks with his hands still raised out.
“You’re supposed to be dead! You don’t have a pulse!” Jason stresses the words out like he’s talking to a toddler. He really hopes that if Clark is in fact a zombie, then he’s not one of those idiotic ones from The Walking Dead. He can’t deal with that shit right now, especially with a concussion.
“What? Jason, I’m fine.” Oh god, he looks so confused. Does he not remember that he died? Maybe that’s probably a good thing; lord knows that Jason wishes he could forget how he died. “You need stitches. And you have a fractured hand.” Really? He had no idea.
Clark reaches his hands out again and Jason snatches one of them. He splays his fingers against his wrist, feeling for his pulse point again.
No, he’s not going crazy; there is no goddamn heartbeat. He releases his hand with a huff and looks up at the other man, giving him a face as if to say ‘see?’. “Clark, I cant feel your fucking pulse! You’re not fine.”
Clark just frowns at him again. “Jason,” he says slowly.
“What?!” he snaps. His patience is really dwindling and he feels like he’s on the verge of passing out.
“You can’t feel my pulse.”
“That’s what I just said, dumbass!” Maybe Clark did lose all his brain cells when he died. Bruce is going to go mental. He probably will still drag Clark around with him everywhere he goes like a lost puppy, trailing after his owner.
“No, I mean, no one’s ever been able to feel my pulse.”
What? “What?” Jason asks.
Clark’s frown just deepens like Jason’s the pitiful puppy in this scenario. “My skin is invulnerable, Jason. Meaning that you can’t feel my heart beating underneath it. They don’t call me the ‘Man of Steel’ for nothing.” His face stretches into a sheepish smile.
Oh. “Oh,” Jason says.
“I’m sorry for scaring you. Can I help patch you up now? You have several bullets inside you.”
“I’m aware,” he spits out, slightly embarrassed now. Jason blames it on the concussion for freaking out and not even checking if Clark was breathing in the first place (Wait a minute. Was Clark breathing? Does he even need to breathe. Whatever. That’s a question for another time). Either that, or the blood loss he should probably be dealing with.
But there’s something that’s still bugging him and won’t go away. “Hold on. Why did it take you so long to wake up? You can hear a pin drop on the other side of the planet, and I wasn’t really trying to be quiet.”
“Oh, I was on a mission with the league. We had to be underground for a couple of days,” Clark says, like that explains everything.
“And? What, did Bruce not let you get your beauty sleep?”
“What? No,” he says quickly. And he’s back to frowning as if he’s the confused one here. “Jason, I don’t need to sleep.”
“You-” Jason breathes out a harsh breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. Hes starting to get really sick of this alien biology bullshit. “If you don’t need to sleep, then why the fuck were you passed out like a log?!” He asks incredulously.
“Because I haven’t had access to sunlight in three days! That’s how I get my energy. That’s why I don’t need sleep.”
“Then why were you sleeping?”
“Because I’m tired as hell, and I needed some way to pass the time until the sun rises!” Clark thrown his hands up in frustration.
Jason squints his eyes at him. “Then why not just fly to the other side of the world? Ya know, where it’s daytime?”
“Because, again, I’m tired and my powers are running low. I just wanted to pass out in bed. Even though my body doesn’t biologically need sleep, my mind definitely does,” Clark says, exasperated, and slumps his shoulders. God, he really does look exhausted now that Jason’s looking at him; he thought it originally was just part of the freshly-dead-slash-zombie-slash-ghost look. “Now, can we get you patched up?”
Jason glares at him for a few moments before moving to limp past him towards the bathroom, shoulder-checking him in the process.
“Fucking goddamn photosynthetic alien bullshit,” he mutters under his breath, ignoring Clark’s sputtering behind him.