Chapter Text
10 YEARS OLD
Where he’s coming from and where he’s going is a blur. The long winding dirt road makes it harder to keep track—all of it is more or less the same. Bruce doesn’t know how many days it’s been. During the day, the pain is distant as if it shies away from the sun or watchful eyes of his… his… his Alfred. At night, he lives that moment over and over again in visceral detail. His body seizes up, hearing the gunshot despite being in his too big bed and not an alley. He has nowhere to go. No one to run to. It doesn’t feel right asking Alfred to hold him. He won’t shy away from the man’s comforts—Alfred needs it too—but he can’t bring himself to ask. He’s alone now. He needs to be strong in the name of his parents' memory.
“Master Bruce, how are you doing back there?” Alfred glances at the boy in his rearview mirror.
Bruce straightens up, determined to be mature for his age. He shows up to the events where he is requested and he tries to learn about his father’s businesses as much as a ten year old can. He pretends to know what everyone’s talking about instead of seeing his parents ghosts in the places where they should be.
“Yes, I’m fine.” He glances at the mirror, meeting Alfred’s eyes to make sure that the truth is conveyed clearly. Then, he goes back to looking outside at the fields of corn and wheat flitting by. They make it too easy for his mind to wander, but the sun’s still up, which means he can’t stumble into a nightmare.
The ‘pop’ of their tire has Bruce tensing so badly, he cuts little half-moons into his palm while gripping his seatbelt so hard his knuckles turn white. The car comes to a slow, a flopping sound outside the window.
“It’s just a flat tire,” Alfred says loudly.
Bruce isn’t here. He’s somewhere else—a dark place where blinks of light are accompanied by the ‘pop’ popping sound of bullets and the scatter of pearls on the ground. In some versions of the memory, he falls to his knees and picks up every bead, as if each one is a piece of his mother’s soul and if he could just put them back together, she’d come back to life. Other times, he imagines saving both his parents by putting pressure on their wounds just like it said in one of his books. If he could just do it over again, he’ll be better prepared. He’ll know what to do to keep his parents alive until the cops come with the paramedics. Better yet, he’d keep his father alive long enough for him to guide Bruce through saving his mother. I need another chance.
This time, he isn’t in a controlled daydream.
This time, the bullet strikes his father somewhere in the chest in a place that makes him drop dead on the pavement.
This time, his mother’s blood stains the ground as she looks at him sadly.
“Bruce,” he hears his name called distantly. “Bruce, you’re alright.”
Alfred touches his wrists, pulling them away from his head. When—When did he start clutching at his ears, trying to block the world out? The older man kneels outside the open car door, and he gathers Bruce into his arms, holding him tightly and providing him with an anchor to this reality where his parents are already dead and time has swept past them, like they didn’t matter at all in the grand scheme of things. Bruce allows the hug, and he grips Alfred’s jacket with trembling hands.
“You’re alright.” Alfred repeats, despite the lie. Bruce isn’t okay. The old butler holds him for as long as he needs, ignoring the ache in his knees and the weight of a ten year old in his arms. Bruce has grown too quickly, and yet, he’s far too young to have to shoulder all this. He rubs the boy’s back with a firm hand, soothing him. “You’ll be alright.”
“Heyo,” a voice shatters their moment and grounds Bruce even more than Alfred’s comfort. He releases Alfred’s jacket, and steps back, standing against their car. Bruce smoothes away the fear and the grief from his face, looking up at the stranger.
“Hello,” he says with an even-keeled voice, as if he wasn’t reliving his parents’ death at the sound of a popped tire. He’s only just noticing their surroundings—the white fence upon which the man leans, the vast fields, the farmhouse behind him and another boy his age holding a ball under his arm.
“Can I give ya’ll a hand?” The unfamiliar man says.
“Oh, that would be very kind of you,” Alfred says. “Mr.?”
“None of that,” the man waves him away with a charming lopsided grin. “John’s just fine. This here’s my boy Clark. He sure could use some company while we work,” he motions behind him while speaking to Bruce. Clark waves at Bruce, smiling with his missing tooth front and centre, as he radiates excited energy.
“Alfred,” the butler answers, holding his hand out and shaking John’s hand. “Bruce, would you like to wait with Clark?” He doesn’t use ‘play’ purposefully. Ever since the murder, Bruce has latched onto the need for productivity. Everything needs to mean something. There is no room for play. A child could not save Thomas and Martha Wayne, which is why he is so determined to grow up quickly.
“This is my car. If I may stay with you and learn how to fix it, I would appreciate it.” Bruce remains firm, meeting the eyes of both men and establishing himself as their equal despite his small stature.
John glances at Alfred. Neither adult knows what to say, but it seems they agree that it would do Bruce some good to spend some time with someone his age. It’s Clark who speaks first.
“That’s a good idea! If you get bored, you can come play with me whenever you feel like.” Clark nods, grinning at Bruce. His hair’s a mess and he’s got dirt on his nose. His jeans have grass stains on his knees. Clark is picture perfect joy on his little farm with his dad. “I got a ball and everything.”
“I can see that,” Bruce says, trying his best not to be dismissive. He turns to the other men. “Where should we begin?”
“That depends,” John says, leaning on his elbows. “You got all the tools you need?”
“Yes, but if you happen to have a car jack, I assure you I’ll take you up on the offer.”
“Sure do.”
John pushes off the fence, walking towards his son and ruffling Clark’s hair. He says something to Clark softly, and Clark bounces on the tip of his feet, nodding his head and answering his father eagerly. The sight of them sends an ache through Bruce’s chest and he turns away from the moment he will never live again with his own father.
The old guys are slow. Bruce can feel himself aging as they try to roll the jack under the car in the right way, get it wrong and then finagle with it until it’s perfectly aligned with the right part of the car’s frame so that the weight is bared the right way. John is a nice teacher, explaining what they’re trying to do to Bruce, yet when it comes to execution, they just can’t quite get it right. Alfred says it’s because he doesn’t often repair cars, and John just isn’t familiar with this model.
“I know what you’re doing,” Bruce says to Alfred when John heads over to ask Clark to fetch them all some water. “You just want me to play with him.”
“I would never push you to do anything you don’t want to, Master Bruce.”
Bruce narrows his eyes at the diplomatic answer. John returns, and they keep at the tire change. Suddenly, the brakes are too worn to drive and Bruce starts to tune their nonsense out. He watches Clark play alone, throwing or kicking the ball into the air and running after it alone. It doesn’t look fun at all. It’s inefficient, too. He’d probably have more fun with a partner.
He kicks at the ground, hands in his tailored pocket. He really does look like a little gentleman in his suit.
“I’ll give you guys some space to work,” he grumbles under his breath before ducking under the wooden fence and walking over towards Clark.
The ball rolls towards his feet and he stops it with his shiny black dress shoe.
“Hey,” Clark jogs over to him, a big grin on his face. “You’re gonna get your nice clothes dirty. Wanna borrow some of mine? I got a really cool Smallville Giants shirt. My dad played on the team.”
“The Gotham Knights are better,” Bruce counters quickly.
“Nuh uh,” Clark grins. “My Ma says us Smallville boys are built different. I’m gonna sprout like a weed!” He tosses his hands out in the air.
Bruce tilts his head.
“Gothamites are tougher than anyone else around.” Despite everything he’s been through or the name he carries with him, Bruce Wayne is still just a ten year old kid who was raised to be damn proud of his city, flaws and all. He removes his jacket, and starts rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt. “Let’s settle this fair and square. You against me. You have a football?”
“Sure do. You want some sneakers?” Clark looks at Bruce’s fancy shoes. “Don’t wantcha to get hurt.”
“Worry about yourself, farm boy.”
“Whatever you say, city boy.” Clark skips off to get a football. When he comes back in a hurry, excited to have someone to play with. He holds the ball out to Bruce. Bruce doesn’t take it.
“Set it down.” He says, walking to draw lines in the dirt. “We’ll start ten paces away from each other, countdown to three and on go, we fight for the ball. One point per touchdown.” Bruce spaces, giving his instructions like a very strict coach. “Simple, right?”
“Yeah! Okay, can we start?”
Bruce doesn’t even think Clark was listening to him. The kid is just a ball of happy, excited energy which is a contrast to Bruce who keeps ignoring the tight, anxious ball in his chest. Running around will do him some good. He walks to his starting point, and counts down loudly. On ‘go’, both boys sprint towards the ball and Clark is just that much faster. The other boy snaps up the ball a second before Bruce can reach and bolts towards the makeshift touchdown line.
Now, he’s annoyed.
“Boys, we’re heading out for parts!” Clark’s father calls over.
“‘Kay!” Clark chirps, beaming at Bruce and setting the football down between them again.
“You got lucky,” Bruce says after waving the adults off and narrowing his eyes at Clark.
“My Pa says it’s bad luck to talk down to your opponents. Makes you feel silly when you lose.” Oh, the farm boy knows exactly what he’s doing. “Ready?”
Bruce nods, counting down and starting off round two. It goes exactly the same. No matter how hard Bruce pushes himself, it’s not enough. Clark is just a little bit faster, a little bit more agile and a little bit more. It’s not fair. He won’t listen to any of the banter, snapping at Clark to get the ball back in place. He needs to get better—be better—because there are consequences to being… unprepared. Bruce doesn’t even like football all that much, but it shouldn’t be this hard to get a ball across a line. Just once. All he needs is one point to open the gates.
“Hey,” Clark says softly. “D’you wanna take a break?” He chews on his words the same way his father does and it annoys Bruce.
“No,” Bruce clips. “Again.”
Worry crosses the other boy’s features, and Bruce ignores it. He’s going to make this work. Every round is another chance to improve and change the outcome. Again, again, and again. Bruce gets more aggressive, making plays that are risky and get up in Clark’s face. Losing feels like danger, and Bruce can’t explain why. His heart kicks up the more rounds he loses, and the desperation gets the better of him. He tackles Clark, and he knows—he knows Clark is letting him win this time because they both hit the ground and Clark seems to be bracing for it.
Bruce is only ten years old; he’s got a little body and emotions too big for him to contain. It bursts out of him before he can stop it.
“You’re cheating!” He gets on his feet, clothes dirtied by their not-quite-scuffle. “You’re slowing down! You let me tackle you! I don’t need your pity!” Bruce motions at him wildly, ferociously upset. His frustration is only compounded by Clark’s wide blue eyes, staring up at him in shock. “Don’t look at me like that! I can do it myself. Stop looking at me like that!”
“I’m sorry,” Clark scrambles to his feet, the gap in his teeth adding a slight lisp to his words. “I just didn’t think it was fun for you! Sorry.” He reaches to touch Bruce’s shoulders and soothe him.
“Don’t touch me!”
People who pity him keep touching him, like that will help keep the pain at bay. They’re strangers, all of them. He doesn’t want their stupid fucking head pats, elbow squeezes or awkward hugs. Bruce is fine. He can handle himself, but his throat still prickles with needles and eyes burn.
“I was having fun before you started cheating,” Bruce snaps.
Clark chews on the inside of his cheek. “Then, why are you crying?”
“I’m—I’m not!” He wipes the evidence off his face, glaring at the ground instead.
The two stand at an impasse for a long time before Clark breaks form and wraps his arms around Bruce. Bruce freaks out immediately, likening his comfort as an attack on his strength. He’s not weak because he’s crying; the tears are flowing against his will. He doesn’t need a stupid hug. Clark is stronger than he is, so he can’t fight the other boy off. He’s tired from pretending and playing, and he gives up.
Bruce goes limp in Clark’s arm, feeling the other boy squeeze as tightly as possible. When he isn’t raging against the pity, Bruce realizes that it isn’t like other hugs. It’s for show. It’s warm and oddly safe, just like Alfred’s. He’s never felt sincere compassion from anyone else before.
“I’m sorry,” Clark says. “I just wanted you to have fun. You looked lonely.”
21 YEARS OLD
Shit. This is how it ends.
A stupid mistake.
The world flickers in and out of focus, pain dotted with unconsciousness (to save himself from the pain, but pain wakes him up again). The sound of gunfire is muffled, not due to distance, but his flickering focus. Bruce—no, no, the Batman managed to drag himself into a dark corner. He should call for help, but he never meant to involve anyone in this… this compulsion for justice. He’s thought about it for years now, ever since that day. Every extreme sport or niche area of study was leading to this. Nothing fills the hole in his chest like vengeance.
Well, the metaphorical hole. Not the one near his chest—in his shoulder, to be exact—and bleeding profusely into the black kevlar and latex of his outfit. Bruce presses a gloved hand against the wound, trying to will the shock out of his system and find some final burst of energy to get out of here. He’d rather rot in a dumpster, than somewhere where the trash inside can find him. Bullets continue to fly, enemies shooting at shadows where they think a monster might be.
Shit, he thinks to himself again, feeling his pulse beneath his palm. Bad sign.
He’s tired. His eyes start to flutter shut, partly because of the sweat clouding his vision. Bruce makes a note to do something about the heat under the cowl, if he survives this. Fuck, if he survives this, he’s going to come back better and stronger. No more mistakes. Even in his last moments, he chases perfection.
Movement to his left goes unnoticed. His entire side is frozen, from his bleeding shoulder and his injured hand still mangled in the faulty wire of his grappling gun. Never again is he trusting equipment not built or checking with his own two hands. He swallows hard, feeling the needles in his throat.
Get up, Bruce. Die on your fucking feet.
That’s all he’s ever wanted, anyway—to die fighting like his parents would have, given the chance. Get up, he snaps at himself. His mind turns to mush as he keeps thinking: up, up, up, up. His body won’t obey, and even if it has given up, his mind is stronger than that. Get up, get up, get u—
Bruce’s stomach swoops with the feeling of going… up? He would revel in the thought of mind over matter, but it’s hard to lie about his own prowess when he’s fully leaning on a broad chest with an all-too-familiar emblem. He can’t fight, annoyed at being cradled in anyone’s arms. He tries to push off the bright ‘S’, but his head swims. All he can do is offer a harmless glare, staring up at the worried expression of America’s Favourite Hero.
Death is breezy. It’s a welcome feeling, it makes him feel less sticky and stuffy. He didn’t think he’d go to Heaven when he died, after all he’s failed to do, but the clouds are pretty and soft against the night sky. Yeah, Bruce thinks this is a decent end.
I gotta… ok?
You… safe…
Stubborn as all hell.
The afterlife is strange. Bruce can’t seem to tune into its frequency, floating in and out of tangible imagery. Heaven shifts into small doses of a reality check, eyes fluttering open to see baseball cards lining a wooden dresser and back shut. Posters on the wall leave imprints in his mind, floating around like guardian angels in Bruce’s confusing stay in purgatory.
Turns out, he isn’t dead. Bruce sure wishes he was, but hey, what’s new?
He blinks awake after some time, laying in a shabby kid’s bedroom, on sheets with rocket ships and dinosaurs—an anachronism in the name of childish entertainment. Great. The last thing he needs is some random civilian picking him out of a live crime—
Wait. Wait.
No, no, no, no—
Bruce bolts up in bed and winces. The pain brings tears to his eyes as he touches his useless arm.
The last thing he remembers is being swooped up in Superman’s arms, like some damsel in distress. Did Superman drop him off with some random people, hoping they’d get help? Bruce leans over, grateful that the single bed is pressed up against the window so he can get an easy vantage point without moving much. There’s nothing more than vast fields, either wheat or corn, and a long dirt road before hitting the main one. Familiar…
His eyes travel down, clocking the young man hauling groceries out of an ancient pick up truck. The man looks up and Bruce pulls back immediately, hiding out of sight. He’s gotta get out of here. Crawling out the window will be hard, but not impossible. He can drop to the roof below and the distance between it and the ground isn’t too bad. He’ll need a sling. If he can find something to cut the sheets with, he’ll be set.
Bruce’s mind works hard, clocking everything in the room and himself. His suit is hung over the back of a wooden chair placed in front of a small modest desk. Good, he can get his equipment and get the hell out of here. He debates changing out of the loose Smallville Giants shirt, but he’s out of time. A knock at the door has him putting his good fist up, ready to fight on the off chance he’s been kidnapped.
“You wanna let me in? I know you’re awake. I’m not gonna look, I promise.”
“The fuck does it matter,” Bruce growls, in a low gravelly tone, as if he’s still wearing his cowl. “You already took my mask off.”
“I didn’t see anything. I swear it.” The stranger says. There’s a long silence as neither of them know what to do. Bruce doesn’t want to let him in, but he knows the man’s going to want to come in. It’s his house after all. “I’ve got food and I went by the pharmacy to get you a sling. I’ll leave it at the door. Just… come down. I won’t hurt ya, I promise.”
Just because the guy keeps saying ‘I promise’ doesn’t mean Bruce is gonna take his word for shit. He waits, listening for the creak of wood as he’s left alone. Bruce glances at the cowl, rolling his eyes and sighing. This is stupid, and he knows it’s stupid, but he refuses to walk out that door without some kind of… protection. He smoothes his hair back and pulls it on with great difficulty. It takes four tries to get it on one-handed.
Bruce gives up on changing his shirt, but tries for the bottom half of his suit, at least. He looks ridiculous, but he feels safer. He stuffs the rest of the stuff in a school bag he finds in the room; he can buy the guy a new one later. The stairs are impossibly loud, giving away his descent to anyone in the house. There could be more people. He checks his corners, listens for someone outside and when he’s confident it’s just them, he walks into the kitchen.
“I’m taking your car. I’ll have it sent back to you when I’m done with it,” he says to the stranger’s broad back. The smell of food betrays his plans, filling his lungs with something damn good and his stomach happily adds to the conversation. It croaks and rumbles, signaling its interest in an offer that Bruce fully intends to reject.
The other man turns, a frying pan and a big grin on his face.
“You.” Bruce gasps.
It’s been ten years, but Bruce cannot forget that stupid, bright-hearted kid who saw right through him. He hasn’t thought about him in so long, eager to move on with the facade of his life. Only Clark and Alfred saw him so vulnerable, and maybe Martha and Jonathan Kent saw a little too. He remembers his mother, how it made his heart ache to hear that name again. He’s seeing the kitchen again properly, now that his guard isn’t so high up. (It’s there, but marginally lower.) It looks exactly the same as that day.
“I didn’t think you’d piece it together so quickly.” Clark says.
Bruce approaches the photos hanging in the living room, refreshing the image in his mind of the Kents. “Piece it together?”
He was only half-listening, warring between the comfort bubbling up in his chest. The Kents made him feel safe, and reminded him what it was like to be around family. That night was so normal in a home full of people and so unlike his lonely dinners at home while Alfred works in the background. He has too many questions to be lulled into the false sense of security and trust over one night. It’s been ten years. Clark could have grown up to be anything. A threat… that lives on a farm, patches vigilantes together and makes them breakfast. Fuck, the Smallville Giants shirt should have tipped him off.
“That I’m Superman.”
“What?”
35 YEARS OLD
It is so hot on the farm. Bruce can feel himself melting under the Kansas sun. The Kents don’t have A/C, but Ma’s lemonade makes up for it. A part of his mind buzzes, thinking that he’s been through worse and the Batman wouldn’t flinch at standing on the surface of the damn sun fully dressed in his war suit. Another part of him glances across the yard and… settles. He’s getting soft in his old age.
He sips at his lemonade, half-hiding behind it and sinking in his chair. Oh, yeah, he’s getting soft. Somehow, he keeps ending back here, more and more willingly. The fact that he’s sitting here, enjoying the sights is proof that he’s most definitely losing his edge in his old age. While he might be questioning his integrity and youthfulness, Bruce is sure that Clark isn’t getting soft. He’s all defined muscle, barely even breaking a sweat as he works.
Strong like an ox, and probably still growing under this blazing sun, Clark keeps working. (Shirtless, at that.) He hauls bundles of hay over his shoulder with ease, fearing no consequences to his immeasurable strength. The farm is their safe space. Clark can be Clark, not some neutered version of himself or an idealized facade. Sure, the reporter and the hero are parts of him, but Bruce sees the whole of him in moments where he doesn’t have to be either. As for Bruce? The farm is the safest place for him to ogle (and mean it). They’ve come so far, and Bruce is tired of fighting Clark about this; he’s tired of fighting himself.
“How’s the lemonade?”
Bruce coughs, straightening himself and finding every gentlemanly fibre in his body to show to Martha Kent. “It’s good,” he says, finding his footing easily. Years of practice makes Bruce mostly unflappable. (He’s too damn comfortable here.) “Thank you.”
Martha squeezes his shoulder, smiling at him and looks on towards Clark. “I’m glad you came to visit. You should come more often.” She pats him gently. “I knew you’d be friends when you first met. Clark liked you so much. He couldn’t stop talking about you for days.”
He knows this story like the back of his hand. Despite all the things he thought as a boy, Clark was a lonely child, too. Martha and Jonathan didn’t mean to isolate him, but it’s to be expected when their only child falls from the stars and possesses a laundry list of superhuman abilities that will get him caught at any moment. Bruce was the first friend Clark ever had over. A pang of guilt strikes him whenever he hears this story because he had just… moved on.
“Funny how that works, huh?”
“Fate works in mysterious ways,” Martha smiles. “I’m going to be out late tonight. Feel free to stay over.”
“Oh, I don’t want to bother—”
“Bruce, don’t be silly. Neither of you have enough time off with everything you do. Enjoy the quiet.”
Bruce’s brows raise. “How long have you known?”
“Please.” Martha gives him a look. “Have a nice evening, Bruce.”
She heads over to say ‘bye’ to Clark, and Bruce gets up to help Clark finish the farmwork. Clark can finish it all in a couple of minutes with the help of his powers, but there’s value in time spent together. Bruce will never admit it, but it’s grounding, too. Together, they finish up the remaining tasks, including Bruce’s regular stand off with Frances, the old mare that does not like him and keeps nipping at his neck whenever he turns away from her. He’ll win her over sooner or later. He likes the challenge. Today isn’t the day, and that’s alright with Bruce. He’s far more interested in spending the rest of the night with… his… boyfriend.
“Clark.”
Bruce does not raise his voice. The tone is enough to convey the seriousness of the matter. Clark can fly, but he knows the Kryptonian is purposely padding around the house hurriedly and giggling to himself to annoy Bruce. He slips out of his room, leaving Bruce behind on the too small bed. Bruce has choice words about them having sex on Clark’s childhood bed meant for one person.
The humble billionaire grabs the first shirt he finds in Clark’s drawer—it’s that damn Giants shirt again, he’s going to have to buy the team to make a spiteful point—and chases after him. He skips down the stairs, staring blankly at the open screen door. He didn’t.
Clark beams, popping up at the kitchen window and holding up Bruce’s pants by the belt loop.
“See, this is why we,” he motions between them. “Couldn’t happen. Look at what it’s done to you.” There’s no way that he’s stepping outside pantless. “Your mom’s going to be home at any minute.”
“I’ll hear her before she gets anywhere near the house,” Clark beams. “You look good in my clothes.”
“And you’re too smug.” Bruce approaches the window and stops just out of reach. He pulls away when Clark leans in, angling for a kiss.
“I’ve waited over a decade for this, let me have this.”
“Would you have preferred it if I was easy?” Bruce takes one step closer, knitting his hands behind his back innocently.
“No, no. Not at all. I’m especially attracted to hard-headed, hyper talented, brilliant vigilantes with a death wish. Emphasis on the death wish. Gosh, I get so riled up every time you launch yourself into danger.”
“Cute,” Bruce complains, rolling his eyes, but he does finally breach the distance between them to press his lips against Clark’s. “If you think you can stop me because we’re doing this the right way…”
“I know, I know,” Clark whispers against his lips. “I can’t stop you. I’m just happy you’re letting me stand beside you.” He reaches inside to take Bruce’s hands.
Bruce takes this moment, snatching his pants back. He had to do it. “Like I could have stopped you.”
Superman barreled himself into his life the same way Clark threw his arms around him that first time to offer him comfort. Clark sees something in Bruce worth sticking around for, and it isn’t fair to keep pushing him away. Bruce will bear whatever comes next, whether it’s Clark getting tired of his playboy cover or getting tired of worrying about Batman being human and getting himself killed.
“You can’t.”
“I know.”
“To be fair,” Clark says, floating through the window and joining Bruce in the kitchen. “I was fine with our previous arrangement. As long as I get to touch you.” He has no problem emphasizing his point by getting handsy.
“So, you don’t want me to call you boyfriend?”
“Hey, now! I didn’t say that.” Clark swoops Bruce into his arms and carries him back upstairs.
42 YEARS OLD
Grief is difficult. The last person anyone should turn to when it comes to grief is Bruce Wayne. He does his best to comfort, having in Clark’s personal space whenever he can, but the tears are difficult. He hasn’t cried since he was ten, and seeing Clark cry makes him feel… something. There’s no one or nothing to fight, not unless he can stop time, turn it back or bring back the dead. He probably could figure out how, but it wouldn’t be right.
He slips his fingers in between Clark’s, squeezing his hand tightly to remind him that he’s here. Clark gets caught up in his sorrow, toying with Bruce’s hand so much in his absent-mindedness, he warps the shape of the wedding ring on his finger. Things can be replaced. People can’t. As long as Clark is processing.
The funeral is a popular affair. Smallville might be a small town, but that just meant that Martha Wayne had time to get to know every single soul that came through town. Everyone who has crossed her path attends, sharing kind words which make Clark smile and cry more.
Aside from simply being here for Clark, Bruce makes sure to keep himself busy. He handles the paperwork that comes with Martha’s will. He carries as much as he can, lifting the weight off of Clark’s shoulders as he processes his grief. Bruce tells himself that Martha’s death doesn’t affect him; he’s perfectly fine, functioning so well that he doesn’t have time to even think about it.
“Bruce.”
“Almost done.” He’s got his head stuck inside the fridge. There’s a delicate art that comes with casserole tetris. “Was there a group e-mail about the casseroles or something? People do know other recipes, right?”
“Bruce, you can finish later. Can you just look at me?”
“I gotta make it fit.”
There’s a tug on his shirt, gentle but insistent, before Clark closes the fridge door. He slots himself between Bruce and the fridge, one of two because they’ve gotten too many thoughtful trays of food. (Casseroles, it’s all casseroles.) Clark wears a familiar look and Bruce shakes his head.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine. I’m fine.” Bruce holds his hands up, pressing his palms on Clark’s chest in hopes of maintaining this distance.
Clark doesn’t say anything; he knows better than to talk to his husband about this. There are no words that can convince Bruce into processing his emotions. He works through things on his own time, and preferably with some kind of violence. Justice. He means justice. Instead, Clark pulls him into his arms, wrapping Bruce up in warmth and love, and making him feel—
Everything.
Everything he’s been holding at bay comes pouring in. He’s tense, resisting the safety of Clark’s arms. You’re okay, Clark seems to say with anything but words. The minutes take by, taking away the bristling hesitation Bruce carries with him when it comes to mourning. He wraps his arms around Clark, hugging him back.
“I’m okay,” Bruce says softly. “We got to make so many memories with her.”
“I know.”
“It was her time.”
“I know.”
“And it didn’t hurt.” Martha went peacefully in her sleep.
“I know.”
“Okay.”
Bruce stays there for a long time, burying his face in Clark’s shoulder. They don’t need to say anything. Nothing will be the same without her. She was the mother he needed, but never a replacement for the one he lost.
56 YEARS OLD
“Dick, you’re going to break something. Jason, you’re overworking the dough. Tim, where’s Damian?”
“First off, what do you know about baking?” The second Robin snaps, wearing a pink apron that says Pie Master Champion 2001. His hands are coated with flour, and he is taking no notes from anyone except Clark. There’s a reason Ma didn’t give Bruce her recipe book.
“Probably in the barn with Cas and Duke,” Tim says without looking up from his phone. There’s a distant ‘boom’, probably the sound of Kon heading home at supersonic speed from town. There’s a second one, which is most definitely Kara in a hurry to get home.
“I’m just stretching.” Dick complains, using the door frame to dead hang and loosen his spine.
Family gatherings are loud and there isn’t nearly enough space to accommodate all of them, but that’s why they all like it so much. They practically have to sleep over each other, and Clark had to sneak into the kitchen to try and make breakfast without waking anyone—an impossible task, if anyone’s asking. The farm is homey and safe, even before Tim installed the latest technology in security systems. That’s on top of having four of the strongest beings on the planet.
Krypto skitters across the living room with Ace in tow, the two dogs playing with one another as Clark shoos them out. The grin on his face is immeasurable. He’s happy. They all are. Bruce is too.
“Why do these balls look lopsided?” Dick asks, and Jason makes a sound of annoyance.
“You see this line?” Jason motions at the line where wood turns to tile, separating the living room from the kitchen. “I will shoot trespassers. Get out of my kitchen.”
“Dad!”
“Dude, how old are you?”
“You’re both embarrassing.”
“Damian, what’s under your shirt?”
“It’s a piglet. He’s smuggling a piglet into the house.”
It’s chaos, and everyone’s stepping over one another. There’s a row of ducklings following the youngest Wayne, and now everyone has to make sure not to step on them either. Food is being made by the truckload, and that probably won’t even satiate one Kryptonian, much less the entire family. Clark joins them soon after, a basket of eggs, fruit and veggies hanging off different fingers, dressed in his old overalls.
“Someone call for me? What’s up?” Clark kisses Bruce.
“On the farm, they’re your kids,” Bruce sighs, bringing the baskets over to the kitchen counters.
Bruce is more than happy to have a distraction and help Clark.
The two of them fall in step so easily. Bruce likes the more direct tasks: problems to do, chores to complete. Clark tries to herd his family to find some sense of order (or an idea of what everyone wants to do). He likes to make sure every single soul present feels cared for. Bruce is the one they turn to with decisions to be made or help. Clark is the heart of the family, listening to everything and everything they have to share. Bruce is a good listener too, but Clark has the words and the warmest hugs.
They are two halves of one whole, and Bruce… couldn’t do any of this without him. He’d tried to do it once when things were rocky between them, so they took space (and that time where Clark was literally lost in space). It was hard, and he felt like anything he did was wrong. Fuck, he still recoils at the ways he failed Jason. He glances over towards his second oldest, lost in thought.
Jason pops his bread in the oven, and Bruce takes a moment to just… bask. He’s still here. Without Clark, Bruce wouldn’t have believed in second chances. Or third ones. Or any other number that comes after that.
A full house was one of Martha’s dreams; she’d wanted more children, and couldn’t have any until Clark came to them. It grew with the addition of Bruce, and one by one, the children they adopted. She’d seen flickers of it, but not like this. He’s come a long way, from a boy with no one but his butler to a whole army of boisterousness and chaos. He doesn’t feel like a father figure; he’s still that kid that just doesn’t want to be alone. He huffs to himself.
“What are you laughing at?” Jason snaps, untying Ma’s old apron.
“Nothing. I’m glad you’re home, Jaylad.”
Jason rolls his eyes, joining the rest of his siblings.
Bruce makes himself a cup of tea, and lets its warmth take over him just like the joy he feels right here and now.
100 YEARS OLD
The sun rises in the distance, casting a soft orange glow on a freshly painted farmhouse. It drinks in the colour, and drinking in the different hues the same way his skin soaks up each ray that touches him. His belly is full, despite the light breakfast—he’d gotten used to eating easy foods in Bruce’s old age and hasn’t broken the habit yet—and he stretches his back out on the front porch. Clark holds the door open for the pup tailing him. Alright, alright, pup is used loosely. Krypto’s about as old as he is. The dog’s steps click against the floor, and Ace’s collar over his own jangles softly with the movement.
The farm is quiet these days. Clark has downsized the number of animals in the last decade, focusing on caring for his husband. The kids still come by, but they’ve got their own families to worry about. Diana’s the worst offender, trying to rope him back into League missions here and there. Those days are long passed, at least for now. His heart needs to settle. Time will show him where he needs to be. For now, Clark is just fine here.
He sits on the steps, enjoying the silence. Bruce liked to watch the sun, especially towards the end. So much of his life was spent under the cover of night, and he always said he never took the time to appreciate the light and the warmth. The spot at Clark’s side feels empty, and there’s a hollow feeling in his belly. On some days, it feels like the Bruce-shaped space in his heart won’t ever be filled, but on most days, Clark knows he’s lived a love worth a lifetime.
They fought for what they had (and the world).
They cherished it in good times and especially the worst.
Every time they came back alive from a mission was a blessing in Clark’s eyes; it was a chance for just a little bit more. Bruce could never see far ahead, not when it came to them. He had contingencies for everything, except for his happy ending and yet, he lived long enough to see it all. Children, grandchildren, and generations of heroes who promised to uphold his vision. The Batman would always put Superman and Wonder Woman at the forefront, but everyone who mattered knew it was all him.
The love they had can never be replaced; it was sown and cultivated by their own hands, nurtured carefully and slowly. There were times where Clark felt like the sun chasing after the moon, never to catch him. When their love finally bloomed, it was imperfect, a flower with roots pulled in different directions trying to find sustenance in opposing places, but it was an enduring thing. Though they butt heads, no one else could come between them. Bruce and Clark are equally stubborn when it comes to love, determined to make the pieces fit when others would have given up a long time ago.
Bruce didn’t have a plan for after he’s gone, not more than securing their family’s finances and inheritance, and Clark thinks that’s a wonderful thing. It means he learned how to live in the present towards the end; Clark can’t ask for anything more. Not even for a little more time.
Clark smiles to himself. He’s not alone. Knowing Bruce, he’ll probably find a way to still be here when he should cross over.
“You better be resting,” he says to no one in particular. Clark leans back on his hands, tipping his head towards Krypto. “Make sure to chase those pesky ghosts away. They’ve got more important places to be.”
Krypto tilts his head and glances at the space above Clark’s head. He has no idea what Clark’s talking about.