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Jonathan Kent narrows his eyes at his son.
"Say that again? I think I might've misheard you."
Clark clears his throat and shifts in his seat.
"I'm dating Bruce Wayne?" He says, more a question than a declaration.
Jonathan's eyes shift over to Martha, who looks equally stumped.
"How—" she begins, then cuts herself off. Her brows furrow and she stares down at her hands for a long while before looking up again to meet Clark's gaze. "How did this even happen?"
Clark swallows.
"I guess—I mean, I interviewed him last year, you remember? That's when I first met him. After that, we kept running into each other at galas I covered. We got to talkin' and—" he holds out his hands, palms up. "The rest is sort of history."
Jonathan narrows his eyes further. He has known his boy too well, for too long to not be able to pick up when he's hiding something. And Clark is definitely hiding something.
"What aren't you telling us, son?" He asks suspiciously. Clark looks like a deer caught in the headlights. He shrugs, shoulder stiff with tension.
"Nothing," he says, a little defensively. "I just—I mean, I know what you're thinking!"
Jonathan is thinking Bruce Wayne, Lex Luthor and all their ilk are cut from the same cloth. Clark had made the mistake of trusting Luthor once, and look where that got him. He can't believe his son is about to make the same mistake twice.
As if reading his mind, Clark says, "he's not like him, Pa. Bruce is different. Good."
Jonathan raises an eyebrow. "That's the same song you used to sing about Luthor. he's not his dad, he's a good man. Forgive me if I don't take your word for it."
"The media coverage on that boy," Martha says, hand coming up to cover her mouth. "The reckless sports, throwing away money, a new beau every week."
Clark lets out a little laugh. "Beau, Ma?"
She gives him a half-hearted glare. "You know what I mean. Oh, Clark. He just doesn't seem very responsible!"
"That's by design!" Clark presses, urging them to understand. "Bruce's been in the papers since he was a kid. He's adopted a—persona, of sorts, to protect himself. The real Bruce is nothing like that. He—he's smart, and—and kind and he's—" Clark presses his lips together. "He's amazing."
Jonathan scrutinizes his son, the naked admiration in his warm blue eyes. He's still convinced he's hiding something, but for now, he won't press.
He sighs. "As long as you're being responsible with your identity. The last thing we need is another Lex Luthor on our hands."
Clark cringes. "Uhm, about that—"
Both Jonathan and Martha's eyes go wide.
"No," Martha whispers. "Clark, you didn't!"
Jonathan slams a fist against the table. "How many times have I told you—"
"It's okay!" Clark rushes to say. "He's not gonna tell anybody."
"You don't know that!" Jonathan shouts, exasperated. "If things end badly don't you think the first thing he's gonna do is go running to the press?"
"He won't!" Clark says fiercely, raising his voice. "I know he won't."
"Because he told you?" Jonathan condescends. Clark's hands clenches into fists. He takes a breath.
"Because he has as much to lose as I have if the truth comes out."
Jonathan and Martha still.
"What aren't you telling us?" Jonathan asks, narrowing his eyes.
Clark stares down at the table, jaw working. After a moment he forces himself to relax and takes a breath.
"I want you to meet him," he finally says.
Jonathan sighs and leans back in his chair. Martha takes his hand and squeezes it, a reassuring pressure.
"I want us all to have dinner here, soon. I've already talked to Bruce and he would love to meet you both."
Jonathan and Martha exchange looks.
"Please," Clark says, leaning forward. "Ma, Pa, I really, really like him. For me, just try."
Jonathan sighs.
"Fine," he says, just as Martha says, "of course dear."
"But I want you to do something first," Jonathan says, pointing a finger a Clark. Clark straightens in his seat.
"What?"
"Ask that Batman friend of yours to look into him and what he thinks of him."
Clark looks confused. "What? Why?"
Jonathan waves his hand around. "They're both from Gotham, right? If this Bruce Wayne is shady, Batman would know."
Clark pouts. "I don't know how I feel about the fact that you like Batman more than me."
Martha laughs and stands up. She rounds the table and places a kiss atop of Clark's head.
"We only like him because he keeps you safe," she says, jostling him lightly.
"I keep him safe too!" Clark grumbles.
"Sure you do, bud," Jonathan says, giving Clark's hand a patronizing pat. "Just talk to Batman."
"I actually already did," Clark says, smiling. "He gave me his blessing."
Jonathan doesn't know how to feel about that. But, after all the times Batman has saved Clark from his own recklessness, Jonathan can't bring himself to distrust the Dark Knight. He hadn't been Batman's biggest fan in the beginning, strongly disagreeing with his methods and what he represented. He had also heard Clark complain about the man more than once since the formation of the Justice League, and his dislike only grew with that.
But time and time again he watched, as this simple mortal fought along side gods and not only held his own, but protected them, saved them. More than once he started to hear from Clark, Batman saved me. So how could he not grow fond of the man?
And if Batman said Bruce Wayne was okay...Well, he didn't like it. But—
"When do you want to bring him?"
-
A week later Jonathan stands in front of the window in the kitchen, gazing outside as he waits for Clark's car to pull up. He sips his coffee slowly.
"Will you sit down?" Martha scolds him. "They'll get here when they get here!"
Jonathan doesn't budge. "I am sitting."
"You're standing."
"Semantics."
Martha rolls her eyes as she sets the table with plates and utensils. Jonathan lets his gaze linger on the horizon for a little longer before looking back at Martha. She's gnawing on her nails.
"I hope this is fancy enough," she mumbles, mostly to herself. "I've never had a billionaire over for dinner before."
"If he doesn't like it he can see himself out," Jonathan grumbles, setting his coffee mug on the windowsill. Martha shoots him an exasperated look.
"He's bringing someone he likes, Jonathan."
Jonathan rolls his eyes. "Billionaire playboy from Gotham. Public record full of reckless stunts, parties and more dates than a fruitcake. That's who our boy picked."
Martha walks over to him and wraps her arms around his middle. She smiles as she looks up at him.
"You're forgetting something."
Jonathan looks down at her, eyebrow raised in a silent question.
"Clark," she says, like it's obvious. "Our boy has good instincts. If he trusts him—"
"He trusted Luthor once too."
Something in Martha's eyes dims. "That's different. He was young, and Lex was—manipulative. Clark has learned his lesson. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice. If he trusts Bruce, it's for a reason."
Jonathan presses his lips together. "I still don't like it."
Far down the dirt road, a car appeares. Jonathan straightens and Martha lets him go.
"Speak of the devil," Jonathan mutters under his breath.
The sleek, black car rolls closer, kicking up a trail of dust behind it.
Martha hums. "Nice car."
And definitely not Clark's. The car comes to a stop in the drive way and the engine turns off. Jonathan watches as his son emerges from the passenger seat, soon followed by another man coming out from the drivers seat.
Even from this distance, Jonathan recognizes Bruce Wayne. Black hair, styled to perfection, a chiseled jaw with the slightest of stubble and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. He takes off his sunglasses and puts them in the pocket of his jacket. He's dressed down, wearing a simple dark green turtleneck under a beige jacket and a pair of black jeans. He stands with his back straight and shoulders squared, exuding the type of confidence that could fill up a room.
Martha takes his hand. "Come on."
She drags him into the hall and through the door leading out to the porch. Clark sees them and immediately grins.
"Ma! Pa!" He calls, jogging over to them, like they hadn't just seen each other last week. Clark hugs his mom and places a kiss on her cheek.
Bruce follows behind him, steps slow and hesitant. Clark hugs his dad next and Jonathan pats him on the back a few times.
Clark takes a step back, coming side by side next to Bruce. "Ma, Pa," he says with a giddy smile, arm coming up to rest his hand against Bruce's lower back. "This is Bruce Wayne."
Bruce holds his hand out. Jonathan stares at it for a while before taking it. He hadn't expected it—the callouses and scars decorating it, feeling rough against his own skin. He had assume Bruce's hands would be baby smooth—a testament to never having to get his hands dirty. Instead they speak of hard and frequent work. His nails are perfectly manicured, but Jonathan can tell. These are the hands of a fighter.
His grip is tight and solid as he shakes Jonathan's hand, not squeezing too much to establish dominance or too loose to show disinterest. He makes eye contact as he greets him.
"Sir," he says, with a respectful little nod.
The handshake doesn't last too long, and they slowly let go. Bruce turns to Martha next, hand outstretched.
"Ma'am."
Martha waves him off and pulls him in for a hug.
"None of that," she chastises softly. "Call me Martha."
Jonathan looks as Bruce's face undergo a series of expressions, starting on shock and landing on acceptance. He carefully hugs her back.
"Martha," he whispers, voice cracking a bit.
And Jonathan remembers—never really forgot—that Bruce lost his parents. How long since he last knew the warm embrace of a mother?
Martha lets him go and gives his cheek a little pat.
"Hope you boys are hungry!" She says, clapping her hands together. "I made pot roast!"
Clark pumps his fist in the air. "You're gonna love it," he says to Bruce. "I'd dare say it's better than Alfred's."
Bruce smiles softly. "Don't let him hear you say that."
Jonathan raises an eyebrow. "Alfred?"
Clark looks at Bruce before turning to Jonathan. "Bruce's butler. He's the one who raised Bruce."
Of course he has a butler. Jonathan nearly rolls his eyes.
They make it inside and head towards the kitchen. While Clark and Martha dissappear quickly, Bruce lingers. The hallway is decorated with photos of Clark and the rest of the family. Jonathan watches as Bruce takes it all in, eyes lingering on each photo for several seconds.
Jonathan wonders what Bruce's home must look like. If it's decorated with photos up to a certain point, or if the memory of his parents were too painful. He wonders if he had anyone to take young Bruce's photo. If that butler of his made sure to document all the big achievements in Bruce's life. Did he have other family? Did he have friends? What did he see, when he watched these photos on their wall. A life that could have been? Proof of what he'd lost?
He turns to Jonathan. "You have a lovely home."
Jonathan eyes him for a bit before shrugging.
"It's not much, but it's ours."
Bruce nods, and together they make it out to the kitchen.
Martha is hunched over, glaring into the oven as if she can make the pot roast get done faster by sheer force of will. Clark is stealing carrots off a cutting board and gnawing on them. When Martha sees him she lightly smacks him.
"You're gonna ruin your appetite!" She scolds. Clark pouts.
"But I'm hungry!"
When the pot roast is ready Martha sets it on the table, an they all sit down. Jonathan sits down across from Bruce with Martha on his left. Clark sits down next to Bruce, across from his mother.
"Well, eat up!" Martha says, gesturing at the food.
Throughout the meal Bruce isn't at all what Jonathan had expected. He had expected loud conversations, full of bragging and fantastical anecdotes of his travellings. What he gets instead are several praises for the food, the house and their hospitality. Soft smiles, and murmurs of thanks, yes, please, and no, thank you. Bruce doesn't talk about himself unless prompted, and what he says is often brief, and dare Jonathan think, humble. Clark often bumps his shoulder against Bruce's and tells him, "don't be so modest!" Before proceeding to take over the conversation and bragging about all of Bruce's accomplishments for him. And Bruce listens. Not in the way rich men do, when they're only waiting for their turn to talk. No. He's focused, interested, body turned towards Clark as he soaks in every word.
It's jarring, to say the least.
As the dinner comes to a close Bruce excuses himself to go out to the porch and take a call.
Clark looks at him expectantly. "Well?"
"Oh, dear," Martha says, putting her hand over Clark's. "He's lovely."
Clark smiles at his mom before his gaze wanders over to Jonathan.
"Pa?"
Jonathan doesn't reply, and Clark's face falls. "Pa..."
Jonathan stands and heads outside
Bruce is just finishing up the call. "—do. Okay. Bye."
Jonathan walks up to stand right next to Bruce, who pockets his phone and turns to look at Jonathan.
For a moment, neither of them say anything.
"Lex Luthor used to be a close friend of Clark's," Jonathan says then into the silence. Bruce doesn't blink. Clearly, this is not news to him.
"With how he turned out, the lengths he has gone to, to hurt my boy. You can see how I am—wary, of people like him. Of people like you."
Bruce nods slowly, eyes trained on the night sky.
"I know nothing I say is going to change your mind. I can only hope, that through my actions, you will be able to see. I love your son very much. I would never do anything to hurt him."
Well, he's right about that. It's gonna take more than words and placations to win him over.
"You know the truth about Clark. I don't like that. It gives you immense power over him."
Bruce licks his lips. "He knows things about me too, if it helps. I'm not going to blabb. I can keep a secret."
"I hope so." He turns then, fully facing Bruce. "And know this, I might be a lowly farmer from Kansas, but if you do anything to hurt my boy, I will make you regret it."
It's a threat as much as a promise. Bruce eyes him for a long time, then he smiles.
"Of course, Mr Kent. I would expect nothing less."
Jonathan gives him a curt nod. "Let's head inside. It's getting cold."
-
Jonathan takes the stairs two steps at the time as he goes to bid the boys a goodnight. He stops when he hears a hushed argument on the other side of the door.
"—just tell them!"
"And I've told you, if I out myself I out the whole family. Dick will be in danger—"
"I'm not talking about telling the world, just my parents!" Comes Clark's voice, tired and frustrated. "Bruce, c'mon. They raised Superman. They can keep a secret."
"It's not about that! The more people that know, the more dangerous it is. If my hand hadn't been forced I probably wouldn't have told you either!"
"You don't mean that—"
"I'm not like you! I can't just—share my identity with whomever!"
"I don't do that!" Clark gasps, affronted.
"Lois, Jimmy, the entire Justice League—"
"You're the only one in the Justice League who hasn't shared your identity!"
"Because I know what doing that could cost!"
They both fall silent. Jonathan holds his breath.
"I brought you here because I want you to be a part of the family. That's never gonna happen if you keep lying to my parents."
Bruce laughs, a sound devoid of any real mirth. He sounds tired. "I told you I'm not the type of guy you introduce to your parents."
"That's cause you've never allowed yourself to be. But I'm serious about you. I want us to be one big family. I want my parents to know the truth. I hate lying to them."
Bruce is silent for a while. "I'll think about it," he finally says after a while. "But I need—I have to talk to Dick first. If we tell them I'm Batman it's only a matter of time before they figure out who Robin is. I won't say anything unless he's fine with his identity being known."
"I can live with that," Clark says, voice soft.
Jonathan takes a few steps back.
So that was it. The big secret. The thing Clark hadn't been able to say.
He turns, heading back down the stairs.
He might not trust Bruce Wayne, but Batman? Batman he trusted.
That would have to be enough for now.