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“Are you going to bed now?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet. I want to ask you something, before Mom goes home.”
Lois’s hand freezes on the door handle. “What is it, Jon?”
The hair on Clark’s arms stands. “Is something wrong?”
“There’s a school trip in a few weeks, the same time Mom’ll be on her work trip. Can I go? It’s an overnight ceramics retreat.”
“Sure,” Clark agrees.
At the same time, Lois asks, “Huh? What’s a ceramics retreat? Clark,” she chides, “you can’t just agree without knowing what this trip is about.”
“It’s through the school. And it’s a ceramics retreat!” he protests.
“It’s through a club,” Jon corrects, “but we have permission from the school! I just need $100.”
“A hundred dollars!” Lois exclaims. “For how many nights?”
“Two nights, three days.”
She crossed her arms. “What kind of ceramics retreat is three days long and only costs $100?”
Jon winces.
“Jon,” Clark prompts.
“Okay, I lowballed you. One-fifty.”
“That’s all?”
He shrugs. “Damian owes me 50 bucks.”
Lois squints. “Why does Damian Wayne owe Jonathan Kent $50?”
He pulls pinched fingers along his lips, flicking the imagery key over his shoulder. “Can’t tell. I promised.”
Lois sighs. “Clark.”
He blinks. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Will you be dropping off our son at his ceramics retreat?”
Clark smiles. “Sure, bud!”
“Sorry we’re cutting into our time together, Dad.” Jon frowns. “Didn’t realize it’d be the week Mom’s away.”
He just shakes his head. “It’s good to try new stuff, get out in the world and do things.”
“Very eloquent,” Lois jokingly murmurs. “Now that that’s settled, it’s time for bed, Jon—let you and your dad get some rest from your long weeks.” She leans forward, hand on his shoulder, and kisses her son’s forehead. “Be good. Sleep tight.”
At the very least, Clark knows Jon is sleeping well. Halfway across the country, on another continent, popping in on another solar system, he can keep track of that kind of thing. He knows what’s normal for his son and how he differs drastically from the average 10-year-old. Really, Jon only needs a few hours a night to function but, prepubescent and all, Clark and Lois as first-time parents raising a half-alien/half-human are airing on the side of better safe than sorry.
All that to say, Clark isn’t actually there when Jon wakes up. Well, he is, but between preventing an asteroid from striking a planet whose people have only recently started peace talks, keeping a flood from damaging a nuclear power plant, and writing articles about landlords and black mold really takes it out of a person. Even a non-person, superhuman alien like Clark.
So, he’s asleep when Jon wakes up.
A few days later, he’s sending him out of Metropolis into more rural parts of the state to forage for clay and burn wood in a kiln.
“Why do you sound like that?” Bruce asks.
Clark frowns. “Like what?”
“Annoyed.”
“I’m not! Not about a ceramics retreat!”
“What even is a ceramics retreat?” Bruce mumbles.
“I have no idea!” Clark exclaims.
He hums ambivalently. “Sorry to waste your lunch break,” he says through the phone. “They’re calling me for something.” He stifles a sigh.
“No problem,” he replies easily, thoughtlessly. “Thanks for chatting anyway.”
He grunts. “Later,” he promises.
The barest smile graces his face. “Bye. Have a good day.”
Then, the call drops.
His phone falls from his hand into his criss-cross-apple-sauce lap as he sighs, head thrown back.
He’s on the roof of the Daily Planet building. He’s not supposed to be here. He's been told off innumerably for surpassing the locked door to access the roof. They don’t scold him too much when he smiles weakly, apologizing for his homesickness and need to take a quiet break in this vibrant city. That excuse used to work a lot better when he was a spring chicken, too green and too ignorant for urban throes. He’s usually only up here during his 9-to-5 because he needs to escape work to catch a falling bridge or as a re-entry point from rescuing children atop burning high rises.
Today, he just needs to catch his breath. Has life been moving quickly? It surely feels that way. To the point where he doesn’t know how or when this feeling began. Clark exhales, trying to take in the ozone breeze and warming, spring sunlight. Maybe if he sits here a little longer, he’ll feel… refreshed.
His phone rings.
He inhales, one eye cracked open to check the caller ID. He accepts.
“Clark, where are you?” Jimmy asks. “Are you busy?” he whispers.
Clark doesn’t lie. “No, I’m not,” he responds. “What is it?”
“I know you’re still on your lunch, but Perry’s been asking for you. I have no idea why. He just keeps asking where you are.” Jimmy pauses. “Just thought you should know."
Taken by some sudden fatigue, Clark falls backward and faces the sky. “Alright,” he mumbles. “Thanks for the heads up, Jimmy. I’ll be down soon.”
“Sure, my pleasure.” Then, “Down?”
“Ah, I really don’t want to deal with HR again,” he groans. “Apparently, being on a restricted-access roof sometimes is an HR issue.”
“Have you gotten written up?”
“Lately?” he mindlessly suggests. “Not sure. Be there soon.”
When he gets downstairs after sneaking around the roof-access stairwell to dodge any and every soul in the building, Clark is barely in the hallway when Perry shouts for him.
“Kent! Office! Now!”
He complies, head hung. He manages to gingerly close the office door before the diatribe begins.
Actually, Clark has no idea what Perry is saying. All he knows is that it’s loud, spit flying, hands waving, fingers pointing, feet pacing, and it stings. (Little pin pricks on impenetrable skin.) He’s dismissed, shutting the office door behind him (with a distinct… hollowness).
Cat’s eyes are wide, but she smiles and pats his shoulder; Jimmy makes a comment as he slides a fresh coffee across his desk. Somewhere, Jon is complaining about glaze cracking, and a group of kindergarteners in Germany screams about a tree falling through the window.
Not that any of that particularly matters. Clark deals with it. He manages—he always does. In the end, it’s all inconsequential. It just rolls off him, stormy rainwater dripping off an umbrella. On and on it goes: Superman saves, Kent writes, and Clark lives.
Yeah.
(It’s fine.)
Clark is up late—2:58 AM—fixing a draft that only made it off Perry’s desk to be dumped into the trash bin. He knew it was no good when he submitted it 15 hours ago, and that feeling was confirmed when it was rejected 12 hours ago. The time in between… Well, Clark has no recollection of it. Surely, between then and now, he’d been busy. He’s always busy.
His apartment door opens.
“Oh, you’re awake.” Bruce sighs. He shoves his copy of the key into his pocket and locks the door behind him. “What are you working on?” He leans over Clark’s shoulder.
“Article,” he replies usefully.
Bruce kisses his cheek and steps away. “Didn’t realize the time. Just wanted to return the ice cream I borrowed yesterday.”
Clark snorts, still focused on the words floating in front of him. (He hadn’t noticed ice cream missing from his freezer.) Nonetheless, he repeats, “Borrowed?”
After a moment’s pause, he says, “It didn’t seem like you missed it.”
Clark doesn’t respond. He’s trying to find a better word for destruction. Does he own a dictionary? Gah! Yeah, he owns a dictionary! What about a thesaurus? Is that the right thing? Surely, his own mind has the answer anyway. A synonym for destruction that is more… impactful, purposeful(—like he gave a damn while writing it).
“You know something…” Bruce starts, pinching a photo off his fridge.
Clark jumps. Right, Bruce is here. “What is it?”
“The other day.”
“Yeah.”
“You were slower.”
“Oh, yeah?” Clark replies mindlessly.
“Yeah.” Bruce steps closer. “Barry brought it up.”
He scoffs. “How would the Fastest Man Alive know how fast anyone else is?”
“You’re not giving him enough credit.”
“And you’re giving him his flowers?” Clark clicks his tongue. He blinks—ruin, demolition, slaughter. “Sorry,” he mutters. Barry is fine, Bruce is fine, Clark is fine.
Next to him, Bruce stands by, cleaning crumbs off the table Clark works on. “Long day?”
He hums quietly. No words have since been written. Twenty-six minutes now, if Clark remembers correctly (unlikely). Gosh, can he do this in time? He’s been awful at writing lately—too slow, too boring, never good enough, and never worth anything. “Are you leaving?” Clark asks.
For a while, Bruce doesn’t reply. Then he says, “Yeah. Alright. Let me know if you need help, okay?”
Silence.
“Good night, Clark.”
“Night,” he murmurs.
The door opens, shuts, and locks. Left to his own devices, now Clark can write and finally satisfy his responsibilities.
(The words don’t rush out of Clark.)
Eventually, he finishes the article. He rereads it—once, twice, three times, and on and on. It seems… fine. Fine enough to allow himself the gift of a little sleep.
There are two problems with this choice. The first is that, when tired, he has a tendency not to sleep. He’s used to it, after all. Going a day or two without any kind of sleep is so laughably easy for a full-time journalist/dad/superhero. That means busy days usually greet him with insomnia. Such is true today.
Issue number two: he sleeps through every single alarm he’s ever had. (Zero alarms, but still!)
He isn’t supposed to sleep this long! What if someone needs him? And what about the universe? And work?
His phone rings. He reaches for it instantly (groggy enough to frown about Bruce and Barry saying he’s slower now).
“Hey, Clark, are you coming in today?” Jimmy asks.
The answer is yes. The answer is always yes. Unless he’s pre-planned his leave or the world or universe is literally on fire, Clark always says yes. “I don’t know.” He sighs, flopping back into his warm bed. “I think I’m taking a sick day.”
“Is something wrong?”
He rests his hand against his forehead, demonstratively taking his temperature like his parents used to when he was a kid. “I don’t know,” Clark mumbles.
“Okay,” Jimmy says quietly. “Don’t push yourself, alright? Sorry, I was calling about your article. The one that Perry—“
“It’s on my desk.”
“You finished it yesterday?” Rustling.
He shakes his head, eyes closed. “I—Uh, what did I do…? Think I flew it into the office when I finished it… Forward thinker and all…”
“Oh, it’s here!” he remarks lightly. “It looks good. Thanks, Clark. I hope you feel better.”
“I don’t feel bad.”
He hums. “Get some good rest, alright? Bye, Clark.”
The call disconnects.
He puts his head into his hands.
He’s missing work? For what? Not sickness, surely not. That was a blatant lie that Jimmy knows perfectly well. It’s not like Clark is injured or busy either! That might be a good use of sick days! Instead, he’s just in bed!
Whatever.
Might as well accept his fate.
He sinks into the bed, blankets and pillows consuming him whole.
Clark wants to sleep; he doesn’t. Insomnia, the damned night mistress, is working against him again. Instead of sleeping, he’s in bed with his hands folded on his stomach, listening to a distorted world.
Jimmy is busy (like Clark should be), vaguely saying this or that about photos to include in the article. Through a rapid of running water, Lois talks about the geopolitics of wherever she is now (that Clark can’t remember). Between stuffy layers of gauze, Dick jokes about the lead paint on Blüdhaven’s walls.
Yeah. Clark has the power to handle all of that—the cognitive health to make decisions about pictures, the metahuman strength to change geography, the stubborn willingness to rejuvenate the health and safety of all the world’s cities. Instead, he’s in bed.
And, yeah, he knows this is a stupid thing to beat himself up about. For all that he is, he still needs his rest. Except the world still spins too fast, people still suffer, and he isn’t actually getting any rest.
He rolls over.
Maybe lying on his side will make it easier to sleep.
There’s a knock at his door. His apartment door, he thinks. He strains his ears, eyes squeezed shut. It sounds like Bruce’s heart, his fidgeting. A voice whispers, “Clark, are you there?”
Clark rolls over. “Mhm,” he groans. “You have the key,” he reminds Bruce.
“I know that,” he grumbles as he enters the apartment. Footsteps cross the apartment, pattering closer until Bruce is next to his bed. “Hello.”
Weakly, he pushes his head past the blankets and smiles. Eyes creaking open, he manages, “Whatcha doin’, hon?”
“Checking on you.” Bruce touches his forehead. “Olsen called.”
Clark emits a small noise. “Why?”
“He said you were taking a sick day. He didn’t know if something was wrong.”
“Did you?”
“What's that?”
“Know if something was wrong.”
Bruce grunts. “Wrong like contracting an alien virus? No, nothing like that. I knew you were tired. I figured it’d pass.”
He hums, closing his eyes.
A hand brushes his hair. “Still tired, Clark?”
“—guess,” he mumbles.
“Going to sleep then?”
“Can’t.” He frowns.
“Clark,” he warns.
He rolls over. “I don’t know!”
A pause. “Are you going to cry?”
Clark lets out a shaky laugh. “Superman doesn’t cry. What would a terrified kid in need of rescuing say if he shows up with red eyes and snot running down his nose?”
Bruce moves, sitting on the floor beside Clark’s head. “It’s just me right now. If you want to cry, you’re allowed to.”
He rolls over. He stares at Bruce—terse, but kind and patient. “I don’t think I can.”
“Don’t force yourself. Another time then.” His hand rests on Clark’s neck, gently massaging.
Clark shuts his eyes, trying to revel in the tranquility of a warm touch and a welcome bed.
“You know,” Bruce trips on his words, “what you’re thinking probably isn’t true.”
“It is,” he replies. “‘You’re a good guy. You’re working hard. You deserve a break sometimes. It’s not a bad thing to take a break. Having a day off makes you better. You need this, your son needs this, your team needs this, your work needs this, your loved ones need this, the universe needs this.’ I know,” Clark huffs. “I know it. I really do. It just… sucks,” he grumbles.
“Oh,” he utters. “Then, what you’re thinking is right.”
Lightly, he chuckles. “I’ll be okay. Soon,” he promises.
“Don’t rush it.” Bruce cups his cheek. “You do so much. Take your time. This isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon.”
Dryly, Clark smiles and says, “You’re so wise, Bruce.”
He kisses his head. “A good man has looked out for me all these years. He should take his own words to heart.” Then, Bruce sets his hands on Clark’s shoulders and rolls him over.
Clark blinks, facing the ceiling.
Bruce pulls the sheets over Clark and smooths out the wrinkles. “Now, go to sleep.”
He starts to open his mouth.
“I’ll let you know if anything happens.” Hidden beneath those pragmatic words is a promise that he’ll be around through his sleep and into his waking up.
All Clark can manage is a small hum. He hopes it sounds sufficiently like Thank you.
He doesn’t fall asleep instantly (that’d be too easy).
He feels Bruce’s hair at the edge of the bed as he sits on the floor. What is he doing? Clark doesn’t really have the energy to make good guesses.
Instead, he thinks about why this feeling, why now?
Maybe he’d been putting a lot of effort in recently. Really, no more effort than he’d put in all his life. He’d heard it before—Ma complaining that Pa was too tired from stretching himself too thin trying to do too many things. Pa had laughed a little, pot calling the kettle black—busybodies, the Kents.
Clark didn’t get it; he gets it now. Just a little bit. But when he thinks about what he should stop doing, his world shrinks.
He likes life! He loves being a part of Jon’s growing up! He hungers for a good story! He yearns for justice and safety and opportunities! He adores kissing Bruce and smiling with Dick and sharing coffee with Lois and protecting alongside Diana! He likes his movies and books, the trees and the Sun, the pictures on his walls and the ceramics yet to be fired, and he’s supposed to give some of it up?
Really, if everyone deserves happiness, shouldn’t Clark be included? He puts in all this effort, and, at the end of it all, he’s just a fraud. Incapable of seeing these things through to the very end. Like, he’s run out halfway on a rescue or dumped an article half-written on a coworker’s desk. It’s not just rude and useless—it’s ungrateful, selfish, and it feels nothing like Clark.
Somewhere between the doing too much, asking too much, accomplishing too little, feeling like too little, he falls asleep.
When he wakes up, he’s not exactly refreshed. Clark frowns. He thought he’d be. (For some reason.) Probably, it was just hope creeping in. He opens his eyes. Bruce isn’t around. He wishes his heart didn’t sink with that realization. Life goes on even if Clark tries to call time out on this… marathon. But he does hear something in the other room.
“A cat named after your butler? That’s a normal pet. Even a cow, sure! A Tasmanian devil?” Bruce sighs. “No, I know, but that’s too abnormal even for us.” A pause. “Well, I wouldn’t tempt the kid. I swear to god if Damian actually bought an endangered animal to live in Gotham…” He huffs. “Yeah, sure. Thanks, Alfred.” The call clicks off, and Clark rolls over, perhaps embarrassed that he caught himself eavesdropping.
“Are you sick?” Bruce asks without preface.
Clark frowns, turning over. “What?”
“You look flushed.” He touches his cheek. “Have you been up long?”
He shakes his head. “Jus’ now.”
“Feeling okay?”
Clark hesitates.
“I’ll take that as a no. Do you want to eat or drink something?” When Clark fails to respond, he informs him, “You slept for five hours.”
He narrows his eyes. “Did I?”
“Yeah. I’ll get you some water.” He nudges his shoulder, gently urging him to lie back. “Maybe that’ll help.”
Clark hums, doubtful but not energized enough to protest. Slow and dull, it’s easier to be docile and entertain these seemingly inconsequential whims of Bruce’s. Maybe it makes it easier to endure Perry’s shouting, the printing mistakes at work, the poor first aid administered at an emergency scene, or even letting Jon go out of town this week. Well, no. Thinking about a lot of those things just makes him annoyed. The world can be so annoying.
Bruce returns with a glass of water that he presses into Clark’s hands.
He doesn’t drink it; he only considers the energy it’d take to bring it to his lips and how nice it might feel to swallow the coolness. “Had a thought,” he mumbles.
“Yeah? What’s that?” Bruce brushes messy, sweaty curls from his forehead.
“Jon isn’t here. Maybe that’s why it’s now.”
“What’s now? Oh, this. Because Jon isn’t here to watch you,” he surmises.
Barely, Clark nods—water idle as ever.
“That makes sense.” He pulls the glass away. “You like being composed, put-together. For other people, but Jon especially. I get it.” He fiddles around, procuring something from his pocket. “That’s how I am with the kids—that’s how you’ve always been with kids. But you know something—“ Bruce strokes Clark’s jaw (ah, his facial hair is already starting to grow in; what a hassle), “—holding that burden for them is tiring. I’m not saying you have to lower your guard around Jon or the boys or the kids who need your rescuing. Just… lower it around me, okay?
“Me, Lois, Diana, your mom, Alfred… Anyone really. Just don’t carry it all by yourself. Not all at once, I think. Just rely on me.” Bruce opens a small box, lead-lined and housing a bright green knife.
Clark thinks about flinching. Instead, he squints as Bruce brings it closer. “Oh,” he exhales.
“Bear with me,” Bruce mutters as he begins to shave Clark’s five-o’clock shadow. “I had Tim bring me a chunk of Kryptonite earlier. You know, since he’s awake at this time of the day.” He grimaces. (It’s already next morning.) “I didn’t have much time to chisel it down into a good razor. Also, you have terrible lighting at your dinner table.” He holds Clark’s face gently, maneuvering his head as he goes. Each stroke is measured and careful. He wipes the fine, dark hairs onto a towel on his thigh. “If you find any stray shards of Kryptonite while you eat your dinner, forgive me, alright?”
Clark’s throat tightens. He wants to joke, You’re forgiven.
But really, what does this man ever have to apologize for? Staying up in his crap apartment because he wanted to take care of his partner, hunched over a non-ergonomic, mass-produced dining chair to tediously shave down radioactive material and shove it into a piece of metal to help Clark when he’s just too damn tired to do it himself?
Gosh, he feels like crap! He didn’t mean to demand more of Bruce (the Heaven-sent angel). Sorry, he wants to say, for all his inadequacies and burdens and uselessly high standards he’s placed on everyone.
Then, a warm, damp towel covers his mouth, glides over his jaw and chin, and soaks into his throat. Clark can’t see it, but he can feel the clean-shaven skin, clear and refreshed.
A little less gross and a little more alive, he realizes of himself; Clark feels a smidge more like himself. So, when he breathes, for the first time this week (a single stretch of one lengthy run), it’s comfortable, like maybe he can rest easy now.