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Clark has known that magic exists for only three hours and yet he already hates it. It’s because of magic that he’s stuck in this manor with all these people telling him he’s actually thirty-four instead of sixteen, and that he can’t go home to Kansas and stay with his Ma and Pa. Apparently, if they’re going to figure out a way to turn him and Bruce Wayne—don’t even get Clark started on why he’s here—back to normal, they’ll need the both of them, just in case.
So that’s how a sixteen-year-old Clark, whose last memory is walking home with Pete, finds himself sitting in a room, fresh off a phone call with his Ma, trying not to stare at Bruce freakin’ Wayne sitting primly on one side of the couch right across him and getting fussed over by his butler. His butler . But it’s not Bruce Wayne, not really, and not just because they said that Bruce Wayne’s supposed to be forty-five. The Bruce Wayne Clark knows and sees on TV is twenty-seven and a father of one. This Bruce Wayne has bags under his eyes and a weight on his shoulders. Clark wonders what happens to him, to make him so carefree in the future. Clark wonders if maybe he just learns to hide himself better.
“You’ve repurposed the place, Master Bruce. I would have thought it obvious,” his butler is saying.
“This used to be Father’s study. I wouldn’t have just torn it down, Alfred,” Bruce says, his voice shaking. His parents’ death must have been six or so years ago for Bruce, but it seems to Clark like the pain hasn’t gone away yet. Clark imagines Ma and Pa dying; he doesn’t think it’d get easier for him either.
Alfred frowns and replies, softer, “No, you would not have.”
“Then what happened?” Bruce asks.
“I’m afraid it burned down in your later years. However, it’s better not to know the specifics, Master Bruce. After all, you’ll be back to your old self in no time. Now, would you care to tell me what you’d like from the kitchen, Master Bruce, or would you like me to pick for you?” Alfred says, firm and no-nonsense, sounding even scarier and more intimidating than Clark’s Ma. That’s saying something considering that Clark still shivers at the thought of Ma’s clipped reprimands when he got roped into egging the football team’s locker room.
“I’d love some coke,” Clark says, because Bruce isn’t saying anything and it feels kind of awkward.
“I’m not going to let you drink rubbish, Master Clark. What kind of butler do you think I am?” Alfred says, offended. Clark blanches, but Alfred lets himself be distracted and it makes Bruce snort at least, so he counts it as a win.
“Orange juice?” Clark amends, sheepish.
Alfred sighs, but Clark can tell he’s hiding a smile. “Orange juice it is, then. And perhaps hot chocolate for you, Master Bruce?”
“Thanks, Alfred,” Bruce says, bite gone. His lips are turned up in an apologetic smile. It’s a good look on him, a smile.
When Alfred leaves for the kitchen, Bruce picks up one of the slim, rectangular devices the man named Victor left with them and powers it up exactly like Victor showed them, no big deal. Clark, whose brain is scattered and entirely unhelpful, picks the other one up and fiddles with the four available buttons until he gets it right. It’s supposed to be some kinda computer, which is crazy, because as far as Clark knows, computers are either clunky or extremely expensive. Then again, he’s in Bruce Wayne’s manor, so money probably isn’t an issue.
There’s a list of files on the mission where they got turned into sixteen-year-olds, just like Victor said there’d be, but Clark finds himself looking up at Bruce, itching to ask questions. It’s not that he doesn’t want to know what he’s up to when he’s older, but he doesn’t really feel like reading about magic and mission reports right now when he could be learning about Bruce. After all, if they’re in this team together or whatever, then they’re probably friends. It also probably wouldn’t hurt to have someone to talk to other than your butler, and in Clark’s case, it wouldn’t hurt to have anyone at all.
Clark clears his throat.
“So what are your powers?” he asks.
Bruce looks up, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”
“Well, I mean. There’s that guy who’s like a robot, and that guy who’s really fast. Then, there’s that lady with the sword. I don’t know what that other guy does but his trident looks pretty cool, huh?” Clark says.
“What are yours, then?” Bruce asks.
Clark fidgets with the hem of his shirt. “I can see through things. I’m also stronger than I look.”
Bruce smiles an entirely different smile than the one before. This one feels lighter, smug, a smile that fits his age.
“Well, I think you look plenty strong already,” Bruce says, and Clark did not expect that.
Clark feels his cheeks warming. He’s made Clark blush and he probably intended to. It’s not Clark’s fault Bruce can switch from serious to not serious in a split second—Bruce just caught him by surprise, is all.
“Well I’m stronger,” Clark says, trying to sound like he didn’t just blush at a stupid line. He fails.
“Well, in any case, I don’t have any powers,” Bruce says, looking back down at the computer. His smile lingers, just a little, now an almost imperceptible upturn of his lips. “I’m just a kid who has a lot of money and free time.”
Clark shrugs. “Maybe you get your powers later.”
“Maybe,” Bruce echoes, but he doesn’t say anything else. He frowns and worries at his lower lip, suddenly too far for Clark to reach.
Clark figures that’s it for his attempt to make friends, and turns his attention back to his computer.
It turns out that there’s nothing that can be done for Clark and Bruce, which they find out when Alfred calls them over to the meeting hall for a briefing.
“Well, it’s not really that we can’t do anything about it,” Barry says, spinning around in his seat. “It’s more like, trying to turn you back to normal could take just as long as waiting it out.”
Diana nods, not even batting an eye at Barry’s antics. Clark is pretty sure spinning around in your seat with your arms up isn’t something people are allowed to do in meetings though.
“We still have to deal with clean-up, after what happened. So we’d rather save the effort and just let it run its course,” she says.
“How long will we be like this? And how do you know?” Bruce asks. Clark sees him glancing at Alfred sitting next to him like he needs to make sure that what they’re saying is true.
“A week at most,” Diana says. “We know because we have friends who can do magic and they agreed that this is the best thing to do.”
“So magic’s not just spells and potions, then? It’s not that simple?” Clark asks. If it would take as long as a week to get them back to normal, then it mustn’t be as simple as finding the magic words to reverse whatever magic was cast upon them.
“Well, not exactly. Some magic is like that, but other magic can be much more complex. However, in your case, it is not that it’s complex, but that the magic itself is volatile,” Diana explains. “If you’re interested, Victor can probably compile a reading list for you.”
Clark and Bruce share a look. Not a lot of things are clear to Clark still, so Clark thinks he’ll feel so much better if he found out what little he could about this thing that’s been done to him.
Clark shrugs. Bruce turns to Diana.
“Thank you. We’d appreciate that.”
Apparently, there’s a lot that’s unknown about magic even though Victor must have given them books upon books of recommendations on it. If Clark cheated with his powers, he could probably read through them in four days, but he doesn’t think that it would be worth it when he’ll just be back to normal soon enough. Instead, he reads the condensed version Victor put right on top of the list and finds that magic is fucked up and that he definitely does not like it.
“I’m tired,” Clark says, putting the computer down on his stomach and reaching across to poke at Bruce’s arm.
“Then rest,” Bruce says, not even looking up from what he’s reading.
Clark sighs. They’ve been reading for hours. Alfred has come and gone with snacks and offers of rooms where they can sleep and rest in, but Clark doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to lock himself in a room, displaced in time, alone. He pushes down the discomfort bubbling in his stomach and pokes Bruce’s arm again.
“You know, I can also shoot lasers out of my eyes,” he says.
That gets Bruce’s attention.
“What the fuck?”
Clark smiles. “I would’ve thought you rich boy types would have better vocabulary than that,” he says.
“I’m a teenager. We all curse the same way, Kent,” Bruce says, rolling his eyes. He stands up, takes Clark’s hand and pulls him up as well. “Show me.”
“Only if you say please,” Clark says. It’s the most embarrassing Clark’s ever said in his life but it makes Bruce’s lips turn up into a curious little smile, so Clark thinks it’s worth his pride.
“Fine. Please show me how you shoot lasers out of your eyes, Kent.”
Alfred leads them outside. Barry tags along but he might have been just sent off to babysit them. Clark only knows because he overheard Barry and Victor playing rock-paper-scissors to figure out who has to go. It’s fine, though, because Barry brings the targets for target practice.
“How does it work?” Bruce asks. He doesn’t look even one bit wary like Pete did when he first saw Clark lift an entire car. He didn’t really have a choice unless he was going to let Pete go home without his bag. One of the upperclassmen decided it would be a good idea to steal Pete’s backpack and drive over its straps so he can’t get it back.
“You haven’t even seen it yet and you’re already asking questions,” Clark says. He didn’t really expect Bruce Wayne to be anything but a spoiled kid, but he’s surprisingly easy to get along with. Clark finds that he actually likes Bruce Wayne, and it doesn’t even intimidate Clark anymore that Bruce can probably buy out half of Smallville.
“I’ll be asking them later anyway, so why delay the inevitable?” Bruce says.
“Well, I don’t actually know where my powers come from, so I can’t answer you,” Clark says, just as Barry finishes putting up the targets around the field. Clark just knows what his Ma and Pa have told him, that he doesn’t have these powers just to show them off willy-nilly. Clark’s pretty sure that doesn’t apply when everyone already knows he has powers, so he figures he can get away with this demonstration.
“Actually, we don’t know why you have your set of powers exactly, but we do know where they come from,” Barry says, suddenly standing right next to them with a hand on his hip and a grin on his face. “You have the sun to thank.”
“The sun?” Clark asks, his nose wrinkling. He doesn’t know how the sun could give him his powers unless it’s actually a person.
“What, did he get blessed by Apollo or something? Is that why?” Bruce asks, and oh, right, because apparently, the Greek pantheon is real. Suddenly, Clark is thankful he paid attention in English class last year.
Alfred clears his throat, albeit politely. “Didn’t we come out here for a demonstration? We can have this conversation over dinner.”
And so Clark demonstrates. He tries not to think about how, of all his powers so far, this is what he’s spent the least time working on for control. Right. Six targets at different distances and angles. He can definitely do this without setting fire to the entire field.
“Okay, here we go,” he murmurs, more for himself than the others. He breathes, thinks of the last time he heard some kid crying because his bag disappeared and was found dangling from the roof of the school, and lets go.
Clark manages to cut down two trees along with the targets, but he can’t find it in himself to feel embarrassed about it when Bruce is next to him, clutching his elbow.
“Amazing,” Bruce breathes, and suddenly, Clark feels less like a failure.
“Thanks,” Clark says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“You’re amazing,” Bruce repeats, like he still can’t believe what he’s seen.
Clark knows that what he can do is amazing, out of this world, and his Ma makes sure to tell him so whenever Clark secretly uses his powers to help someone. Apparently, the very same words make him feel like butterflies are fluttering around in his stomach when they’re coming from Bruce. Clark tries not to think about it too hard.
Dinner’s just Clark, Bruce, and Barry, who’s all too happy to answer their questions.
“But how’s that even possible?” Bruce says, his lasagna forgotten on his plate as he shakes his head, eyebrows knitting. “Is there some chemical of some kind on the lasso that makes people tell the truth?”
“Well, it’s probably just a magic lasso, right?” Clark says.
“Yeah, and apparently it was given by the gods, so,” Barry says, shrugging.
Bruce sighs, resigned. “This is all amazing, but I have no idea at all how I deal with it on a daily basis.”
Barry, in the middle of drinking water, snorts.
“Are you okay?” Clark says, ready to stand up and help in case it gets worse.
“I’m fine. It’s nothing. Don’t mind me, please,” Barry says, throwing his hands up as if to say, hey, nothing to see here . “Please continue on about how you deal with your life on a daily basis, Bruce.”
“If you say so,” Clark says, reluctantly turning away from Barry and back to Bruce. “Anyway, I’ve lived with my powers since I was a kid, but this is just as weird for me as it is for you.”
“If you knew what Wayne does for the team, you’d know he’s actually the weirdest out of all of us.”
That’s the guy who Barry says is the king of Atlantis, just walking into the kitchen with his trident like it’s no big deal. Even with the shit-eating grin on his face, he still makes Clark want to inch a little closer to Bruce —just a little bit, just ‘cause.
“I don’t think anything can be as weird as talking to fish,” Bruce says, and shit, okay. So apparently, Bruce has a death wish.
Arthur laughs, stopping by Bruce’s chair to pat Bruce on his back, hard. “I see you’re still a little shit no matter what age you are.”
Bruce, instead of just letting it go and being glad he actually got out of that alive, narrows his eyes at Arthur. “Nice to know I don’t lose my touch when I’m older.”
“Yeah, you’re pretty old,” Barry says absent-mindedly. Then his eyes widen, snapping to Bruce. “But that wasn’t the point, right, sorry.”
Arthur comes over to sit next to Barry and ruffle his hair. “Keep it up, kid.”
“Thanks,” Barry says. Then, probably realizing he just promised to keep up the good work of insulting Bruce, Barry backtracks. “I swear I didn’t mean to.”
“Forty-five is not that old,” Bruce says, crossing his arms.
“Forty-five is kinda old,” Clark says. He can’t help but chuckle along with Arthur because right now, Bruce just kind of looks like a cat who’s getting a bath, with that frown on his face and his eyes narrowed.
“Clark,” Bruce admonishes, like Clark is supposed to be on his side by virtue of their whole magic situation.
“I’m sure you’re still kicking ass as a forty-five year old,” Clark says, offering Bruce a smile to appease him.
“He has a lot of gray hair,” Barry says. “When I notice there’s more than before it’s like, is it the stress or is it his age? It’s a little worrying.”
“Some people think that gray hair’s hot,” Clark defends, but he immediately regrets it when he sees Arthur’s face light up all over again.
“Sure, Clark, tell us more about how you think Bruce Wayne is hot,” Arthur says, chin on his hand, way too smug for Clark’s liking. Keeping quiet and letting the topic slide definitely would’ve been better. Not for the first time in his life, Clark wonders why travelling back in time isn’t one of his powers.
“I didn’t say that I think Bruce is hot, just that some people might think he is,” Clark says, pointedly not looking at Bruce who, shit, is sitting right next to him.
“So, the weather’s great tonight, huh?” Barry says, eyes snapping from Arthur to Bruce to Clark He clearly doesn’t like conflict or seeing his friends argue, however good-natured it may be. Clark can relate.
“Yeah, but do you think he’s hot?” Arthur pushes, because he’s an asshole who seems like he enjoys putting his friends on the spot.
“I mean I can’t say because I don’t know what he looks like when he’s forty-five, but objectively, he’s been consistently attractive ever since I first saw him so, I would say that he probably is,” Clark says, all in one go, definitely not defensive but also definitely sounding like he is.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Kent,” Bruce says, bumping his shoulder with Clark’s. That’s great and all, that Bruce is nice enough to pay him back with a compliment. Clark bumps right back, even as his heart all but stages a revolution in his chest, beating too quickly, too much.
“Oh my god,” Barry says, covering his face with one hand and clutching Arthur’s arm with the other. “What.”
Clark raises an eyebrow, but Barry won’t meet his eyes. He doesn’t know what the big deal is. Does he have some kinda crush on Bruce when they’re older? Is that why Arthur was pushing him? Are they making fun of him? Clark can’t really ask without making things weird.
“So the lasagna’s great,” Clark says instead. Thankfully, that’s the end of Arthur’s teasing.
Clark finds that in just one long day that they’ve spent together, he’s already locked onto Bruce’s heartbeat somehow. So now, he’s stuck staring at the ceiling of his temporary room, listening to Bruce tossing and turning in his bed, his room right across Clark’s.
He thinks, for a moment, that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he went over there. He could bring a glass of milk lik his Ma always used to do for him back when he was a kid full of energy and can’t go straight to sleep on a school night. He won’t, though, unsure of how welcome he will be. He’s somehow turned things around this afternoon; he doesn’t want to make things awkward somehow by overstepping Bruce’s boundaries.
Bruce sighs from the room across his, and Clark —
Clark closes his eyes, turns on his side, and wills himself to sleep.
It’s Victor who comes and finds them having some of Alfred’s coffee for breakfast. Oh, and there are pancakes too.
“Drew the short straw today?” Bruce says, somehow managing to be cheeky with an hour tops of sleep. Clark has had a frown on his face ever since he woke up and he can feel the bags under his eyes, so it’s probably just a Bruce Wayne thing.
Victor shrugs and sits down in front of Clark. “Barry would be here but he also has an actual job.”
“A job? What does he do?” Clark asks.
“Works for the police department’s crime lab in Central City. Not so bad at it, even though I’m probably a little biased,” Victor says, lips curving up into a smile Clark’s seen that kind of smile before. It’s fond, almost like Victor didn’t really mean for it to be there.
Bruce nods. Clark knows about Bruce Wayne’s relationship with Gotham’s police force. He regularly donates to them and speaks about how the GCPD is doing its best despite the crime that’s always been rampant in Gotham, so Clark knows that Bruce thinks highly of them.
“Does anyone else in the team have a job?” Clark says, because Bruce has that far-away look in his eyes again. His shoulders are stiff as he pushes the slices of pancakes he’s made around his plate.
“Arthur’s a king, so there’s that. I work with my father at Star Labs as a consultant. Diana’s an art restorer at the Louvre.”
“At the Louvre? That’s amazing,” Clark says, turning to Bruce and placing a hand on his wrist, just lightly, just to pull him back from his thoughts. “I’ve never been to the Louvre. Have you, Bruce?”
Bruce doesn’t startle, but he does look up at Clark and relaxes. “I —I’ve been there once. With Alfred and—my parents. Alfred loves Paris.”
“Diana says it’s beautiful,” Victor says, shooting Clark a small smile. Clark knows by now that almost nothing goes unnoticed in this manor, and this isn’t an exception.
“Yes, it is beautiful,” Bruce says. He seems fine now, so Clark pulls his hand back. He presses his thigh against Bruce’s though, just in case.
“Well, anyway, Barry wanted me to take you somewhere. It’s not Paris but it’s pretty cool, if you ask me,” Victor says. “So when you’re done eating, we can go, if you’d like. Or we can go later. It’s your choice.”
“No, let’s go after breakfast,” Bruce says. He starts to wolf down his pancakes—which is kinda gross and Clark gets why Ma always rolls her eyes and threatens to give him extra chores whenever he does it—but at least Bruce is eating now.
“Aren’t you gonna eat breakfast?” Clark asks Victor. Because physically, he seems like he’s more machine than human, but what would Clark know about cyborgs?
Victor rolls his eyes, like he’s probably heard the question a thousand times already. In Clark’s defense, it’s a really good question if you’ve never met a cyborg before.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Maybe I just need some gas like a car does,” Victor says.
Clark probably deserves that.
They take a drive to a lake house, still well within the Wayne estate, according to Bruce. There’s just one problem, which is that Bruce has never seen this lake in his life.
“It’s artificial. You put it there because it’s a good cover,” Victor says, just as the road they’re on starts to slope downwards, getting steeper and steeper.
“For what?” Clark asks, but then Victor steps on the gas and they’re accelerating towards the lake without any signs of stopping. All Clark can really do is grab onto the headrest of the passenger’s seat in front of him and hold onto it for dear life. He’s about to reach for Bruce, keep him close in case they crash into the lake, but Bruce is the one who reaches for Clark’s hand and squeezes. It’s nothing Clark can’t take, and it makes him feel safer somehow, reminds him that Victor is driving, that’s he’s their friend and he wouldn’t hurt them.
“Hang on tight,” Victor says, and then they’re flying through the air and into the water.
Well, a hole in the water, apparently. Clark doesn’t know why he’s still surprised at this point. Atlantis is real, Clark’s not the fastest guy on the planet, and Bruce Wayne has some kind of lair under his artificial lake.
Soon after, they finally screech to a stop. They get off the car, follow Victor up, and finally see why Barry would’ve wanted to be here. What they find is a collection of tech so big that it feels like something Clark’s only ever seen in movies.
“Welcome to the cave,” Victor says. “Barry likes to call it the Batcave.”
And—what?
“Did you just say Batcave? Like the Gotham Bat?” Clark says, because he knows about the Bat. At least, he’s heard the stories. But that’s all they are—stories to scare the little kids in Gotham so they won’t grow up to be criminals like so many in their city have.
“The Gotham Bat?” Bruce echoes, like he doesn’t know what Clark’s talking about. Bruce is a Gotham boy, born and bred. He can’t not have heard of the Bat.
“Exactly like the Batman,” Victor says, and suddenly everything makes sense.
“It’s not just stories,” Clark says slowly, one step into the realization of something—unbelievable. “Bruce is the Batman.”
Bruce sighs, and Clark turns back to him abruptly, eyes wide. This boy who sometimes zones out in the middle of conversations, who takes so long to sleep only to have nightmares when he does, and who, in the future, adopts a boy called Richard and gives him the world on a platter—this boy standing right next to him is the Batman.
“I did not come up with a stupid name like Batman. I don’t even like bats,” Bruce says. His face is all scrunched up, annoyed. Clark would laugh at how Bruce looks right now if he weren’t so dumbfounded, like someone’s just pulled the rug from under his feet.
“Well, you did, and you also dress up like a bat and beat criminals up. All your gadgets and vehicles are bat-themed. Your base of operations is a cave,” Victor says as he starts powering up the computers. He’s holding back his laughter, which is a feat in Clark’s opinion, considering how ridiculous Victor makes it all sound.
“So this is where it all happens,” Clark says, looking at the bits and pieces of the Bat’s suit as well as the gadgets scattered around the workbench, some finished and others unfinished. There’s an array of computer screens showing security camera feeds all over Gotham and lines of code being updated, presumably by Victor.
“This is Batman’s base of operations,” Victor confirms.
“And I—what—made all of these? Built a house over this place so I can live my life as some sort of vigilante?” Bruce asks. Clark wonders if it’s really sunk in now for Bruce, that he’s a vigilante who’s managed to live to his forties and is in a team comprised of his other vigilante friends.
“Yeah, you did. Besides the Wayne Tech you use, all the designs and all the work’s done by you and Alfred. And me too, I suppose, if we actually manage to get the teleporters working,” Victor says, all casual like he didn’t just drop some sci-fi bomb straight out of Clark’s dreams.
“No way,” Clark says, and he can’t help the way his mouth falls open just a little bit, because this is a lot more amazing than getting any of his powers.
“Like in Star Trek,” Bruce murmurs.
Clark grins. “Like in Star Trek.”
“Want to see the prototypes?” Victor says, and duh .
Clark makes a little noise that’s too excited for his own good. He should probably worry about keeping his powers in check and not destroying the whole place with his laser eyes because he’s getting too excited—but teleporters!
“Are you kidding? Of course we do. Right, Bruce?”
Clark steps closer to Bruce—who grows up to build teleporters apparently, what the heck—and wraps an arm around his shoulders. Bruce, in turn, puts an arm around Clark’s waist.
“Yeah, we do.”
The day ends with Barry coming back during dinner, after, according to him, a mostly boring shift at work. He complains about how he would rather have spent the day with them in the Batcave rather than sitting around at the lab with no real work to do.
“No, you don’t. You love work, no matter how boring it is on quiet days,” Victor says. He doesn’t roll his eyes at Barry’s antics like Clark expects, and instead smiles that fond smile of his.
“Yeah, I do,” Barry says, smiling right back.
The thing is, Barry always smiles. He’s not like Victor who usually keeps a straight face so it feels like the you’re finally seeing the light for the first time when you see him smile. Victor is like Bruce in that respect. But this time, Barry’s smile feels different—softer—like the sunlight in the morning, gently kissing your skin. Clark wonders if somehow, he’s the same, even just a little bit.
It makes Clark glance at Bruce for a moment, before he realizes what he’s doing and inspects the lone magnet on the fridge instead. Clark thinks about why it’s a Bludhaven magnet instead of thinking about Bruce with his eyebrows raised as he stares at Victor and Barry, like he’s just figured them out.
“We could still go if Alfred’s free to take over with Clark and Bruce. We could work on your suit. I know you said you wanted to try out that new sealant,” Victor says.
“Yeah, I’d love to,” Barry says, his eyes twinkling.
“I think I’m gonna go to sleep after this anyway, so you don’t have to worry about me,” Clark says. Victor and Barry have spent most of the day without each other. That’s hard when you’re in love, and Clark knows because he’s been in love before, with Lana, and he wanted to spend every second that he could with her. Victor’s probably sick of Clark and Bruce after having to entertain them all afternoon anyway.
Clark doesn’t even have to elbow Bruce for him to pipe up as well, saying, “Me too, actually.”
“That’s great!” Barry says, and then he’s gone in a flash of red and white.
“He’s probably already at the Cave already,” Victor says, sighing. “Sorry about that, and thanks. I can still ask Alfred to look after you two if you’re not actually going to head to bed yet, you know. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“He deserves to get a nice night to himself,” Bruce says. “We can use some rest anyway.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to come down from all that excitement. We’re gonna be fine, Vic. Go and spend some time with Barry,” Clark says.
That brings a smile to Victor’s face again, just like that, just from the mention of Barry’s name.
“I will.”
Clark didn’t lie about being tired. His shoulders ache and he wants nothing more than to sink further into his bed, close his eyes, and sleep. The problem is he can’t really do that when all he can think about is Bruce, who isn’t even pretending like he’s planning on sleeping tonight. For the past three or so hours, Bruce has just been sitting on his bed, turning the pages of a book every few minutes.
Clark sighs, lets go of the pillow he’s been hugging, and gets up.
After a trip to the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge and sitting in the dark for three minutes while the microwave does its part, Clark finds himself at Bruce’s door, balancing two mugs of warm milk on a tray, ignoring his cold feet and working up the courage to knock. There isn’t any reason to be nervous, and yet he is.
Finally, he knocks twice. He doesn’t need to have super-hearing to know that Bruce is getting up to answer the door. Clark swallows the lump in his throat.
Bruce opens the door, first just a crack, then wider when he sees who it is. “Clark? It’s past midnight.”
“Yeah, but I couldn’t sleep, and I noticed you weren’t sleeping either, so here I am,” Clark says, holding up the tray as some sort of offering. “Warm milk’s supposed to help, right?”
“Have you been listening to me all night, Clark?” Bruce asks, an eyebrow raised.
Clark startles, almost dropping the tray. If not for Bruce’s steadying hands under his, he probably would have. He feels like his heart is about to beat out of his chest, but it’s not because of the thought of his breaking Bruce’s dinnerware.
“I wasn’t,” Clark somehow manages to say, though sounding a bit choked. “I mean, not more than I usually listen to people, anyway, which isn’t a lot, I swear.”
Bruce huffs out a laugh. “I’m messing with you, Clark.”
“Okay,” Clark says. He scrambles for something else to say, but Bruce beats him to it.
“Though I wouldn’t mind it either,” Bruce says, shooting Clark a smile that’s too bright for this time of night. Then he takes the tray from Clark’s hands and turns away.
“What have you been reading?” Clark says, just to get them off the subject. He doesn’t want to say something stupid like well, now that I know you won’t mind it, maybe I will keep doing it.
“Shakespeare. There are so many of his works scattered around, have you noticed?” Bruce says. He sets down the tray on the bedside table, gets a mug for himself before he sits down and pats the space next to him. It’s an invitation for Clark, which he gladly takes, sitting down next to Bruce and taking the other mug to warm his hands.
“Yeah,” Clark says, and he has. They’re in the kitchen, the Batcave, the meeting hall—everywhere. He just didn’t think much of it, just thought that maybe someone in the team must like Shakespeare.
“Anyway, there’s something that’s been bothering me but I didn’t want to ask Victor about it because it might be nothing, you know? The case in the Cave—you know, the one that’s in the middle,” Bruce says, his face set in a frown. Clark thinks a fleeting thought, that maybe this is his frown for when he’s thinking too hard.
Clark nods. “Yeah, I think I know what you mean. Everything’s hidden behind the walls but that one was just covered up with a cloth.”
“Did you look through it?” Bruce asks.
“I didn’t,” Clark says, grip on his mug tightening a little bit. “I wouldn’t.”
Bruce’s face falls, like maybe he thinks he’s offended Clark somehow. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything bad.”
“No, I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Clark sighs. “It’s just that Pa always tells me I shouldn’t use my powers unless I really, really need to. He says people won’t understand and that they’ll be scared.”
“Well, I’m not scared,” Bruce says, reaching out to take Clark’s hand in his, holding tight, like he needs Clark to listen to him. Clark is. “You use your powers to help people. No one could be scared of you, Clark, not unless they’re doing something wrong.”
“You could be saying that just ‘cause you’re my friend, Bruce,” Clark says, squeezing Bruce’s hand to let him know he appreciates it anyway.
“I’m a friend who sees that you mean well, and everyone else on this planet probably does too. You’re a farmboy-turned-hero, Clark. The world should love you, if they don’t already,” Bruce says, squeezing Clark’s hand right back.
He wants to hug Bruce, thank him for believing in Clark. Instead, Clark smiles and tries to make a joke.
“Oh, they should love me, huh?” Clark says, waggling his eyebrows. The question of Bruce loving him too is unspoken.
Bruce rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you and your stupid, pretty face.”
“Shut up. You’re one to talk. In my time, you’ve been most eligible bachelor for three years straight,” Clark says, and yeah, he remembers all the magazine covers and the TV interviews. He can’t really avoid seeing the interviews when Ma keeps the TV on all the time as background noise. He also may or may not have those magazines under his mattress, but only because Lana and Pete are horrible best friends who think he has a crush on Bruce Wayne—and only because they’ve caught him watching the gossip segment of the news a little too closely when they were showing photos of Bruce taking his son surfing at the beach. Anyway, it’s not that important, even if it is a little bit true.
“That’s just because I own a company and a yacht,” Bruce says.
“Eligible is just what people say instead of hot, Bruce. Your money may have a bit of a role in it, but it’s mostly because you have a nice face and nicer abs,” Clark says. “And I guess you’re kinda nice too, in general.”
Bruce actually is nice. Despite the playboy lifestyle, Bruce donates to charities run by good people, doing things that are actually helpful rather than just operating a big-shot money-laundering scheme. He gives well-written, heartfelt speeches at fundraisers. Clark knows that there are forums on the internet talking about encounters with Bruce Wayne where he’s happy enough to go into a cafe and share a meal with a homeless man, or how he shakes hands with all the little kids when he goes to any orphanage and he never coos at them or tries to pinch their cheeks, never treats them like they’re just kids who have nothing important to say.
Of course, that could all be thanks to a ghostwriter, or Bruce being good at acting, or even a good PR team, but Clark realizes now that it could also just be Bruce being Bruce.
“And do you like nice?” Bruce says, softly, setting down his mug so he can shift even closer and hold Clark’s hand between both of his.
Clark, the sixteen-year-old that he is, breaks his mug. Of course he does.
“I’m so sorry,” Clark says, startling. He stands up, pulling his hand from Bruce’s without really meaning to. That’s just great; he’s messed up enough already. “I swear I can control my powers better than this.”
“I guess it’s just me, then,” Bruce says. He’s looking up at Clark, hands left splayed on his lap. There’s still a hint of a smile on his face, which makes Clark breathe a little easier.
Clark figures he owes it to Bruce for believing in him, and now, being patient with him, to acknowledge that Bruce isn’t just being nice anymore. He steels himself, reaches out, brushes a stray hair from Bruce’s forehead.
“Maybe,” he says. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No,” Bruce says, closing his eyes when Clark runs a hand through his hair. “I suppose not.”
Clark reluctantly pulls back, feels warmth in his chest when Bruce follows, refusing to let him go. “I’m just going to clean up real quick, okay?”
“You’ll come back?” Bruce asks, peering up at him through his eyelashes.
Clark smiles.
“I will.”
They spend most of the night talking, so they find themselves waking up too late in the morning for breakfast. It’s Clark who wakes up first, then Bruce soon after, when Clark tries to extricate his arm, stuck under Bruce’s weight.
“What time is it?” Bruce says into his pillow. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet, and he doesn’t let Clark get his arm back either.
“It’s almost ten-thirty and I need to pee, Bruce,” Clark says, pulling his arm slightly just in case Bruce didn’t know he was sleeping on it. He drooled on it a little bit too, but Clark doesn’t mind. It’s kinda cute.
Bruce groans. “Do you really have to?”
“I really need to, Bruce,” Clark says, holding back a laugh because Bruce is so obviously not a morning person, even when he’s got a good night’s sleep.
“Only if you get me coffee,” Bruce says, and really, what can Clark do? Bruce has his entire arm hostage. Granted, it wouldn’t actually be any problem getting it back with his super-strength, but that’s not important.
“I’ll be back as soon as possible with some coffee,” Clark promises.
Bruce grunts and lets him go, finally. “As soon as possible, okay?”
His eyes are still closed. Clark doesn’t know how Bruce ever manages to get out of bed. Alfred probably has to drag him out of it and make him drink coffee.
“Okay, Bruce, as soon as possible,” Clark says, pulling the blankets up to Bruce’s shoulders and tucking him back in. When he leaves the room, he closes the door as quietly as he can.
It’s lunch time when Bruce finally decides he’s drank enough coffee to face the day. It’s a Sunday, so everyone’s there. They don’t really fit in the kitchen anymore, so Alfred holds lunch in the meeting hall. There’s probably enough bacon, eggs, and toast for more than twice their number, but with their appetites, they easily finish everything.
“We usually go to a shelter or an orphanage every Sunday to help out,” Diana says after lunch. They’re cleaning up, taking all the dirty dishes to the kitchen and wiping the round table down. “You can come with us, if you wish to. It’s Bruce’s turn to choose, so we’re going to a free clinic here in Gotham.”
“Which one?” Bruce asks. Of course he’d know every orphanage, soup kitchen, shelter, and free clinic there is in Gotham. There may be rumors that Bruce is just a figurehead for Wayne Enterprises and that it’s really Lucius Fox running the company, but Bruce has never slacked off when it comes to the Martha Wayne Foundation. He visits the orphanages, schools, shelters, and soup kitchens that they sponsor so often that it’s hardly news when he does.
“I think it’s the one in the East End district. There was an attack last week and there’s only one doctor there, so she needs all the help she can get. We’ve never visited it before, but Alfred tells me you’ve been there many times,” Diana says.
“Really?” Bruce says, eyes widening before he shrinks back, eyebrows knitting. Clark wonders what it is about the East End, that has Bruce withdrawing from conversation again..
“We’d love to come,” Clark says, answering for the both of them. When Diana smiles and turns away, leaving them alone in the meeting hall, Clark bumps his shoulder against Bruce’s and holds his place, their arms touching.
“Bruce,” Clark says, softly. “Hey.”
“Sorry,” Bruce says, reaching for Clark’s hand. “I know that clinic. It’s run by a family friend. It’s—near the memorial for my parents, actually.”
Oh. Clark’s read about the death of Bruce Wayne’s parents plenty of times, seeing as it’s brought up every year during its anniversary. They died in the East End district, in Crime Alley.
“We don’t have to go, Bruce.” Clark says.
Bruce sighs. “No, I do want to go. It’s just that—I suppose I’m just relieved I haven’t stopped doing what they would’ve wanted me to do.”
Clark frowns, eyebrows knitting. “Did you think they wouldn’t be proud of what you do as Batman?”
“Clark, no.” Bruce sighs. He rubs his free hand against his temple, backtracks. “Well, it’s not exactly the best way to go about things, is it?”
“But you get crime off the streets anyway, and you somehow manage to take care of your parents’ legacy on the side,” Clark says. He takes Bruce’s chin in his hand, and thankfully he doesn’t have to say anything for Bruce to look up at him. “I didn’t know your parents but I think they’d be proud of you for doing the right thing, Bruce, no matter how you go about doing it.”
It takes a few moments, but Bruce nods eventually, burying his face in Clark’s neck, his hands finding Clark’s waist.
“Thanks,” Bruce says, voice muffled.
Clark—Clark just wants Bruce to be okay. He doesn’t say anything, just hugs Bruce and hopes it’s enough.
That night, Clark doesn’t even pretend to go to his room anymore. When he and Bruce come upstairs after getting home, he doesn’t leave Bruce’s side.
“Do you really think I’ll get powers someday?” Bruce asks, later. They’re lying on Bruce’s bed, staring up at the ceiling, arms touching. It’s only nine o’clock but they’re tired from working all afternoon, helping around the clinic until dinnertime. Bruce’s eyes have fluttered closed more times than Clark can count, but Bruce always startles awake and murmurs another question, or simply watches Clark watching him.
“I mean probably, yeah,” Clark says.
“What if it’s magic, Clark?” Bruce says, reaching out to wrap a hand around Clark’s wrist. “I don’t want to have magic.”
“I hope not. I hate magic,” Clark says, his nose scrunched in distaste. “You’d find a way to make it okay, though.”
Bruce is quiet for a while. Clark tries not to think of how Bruce’s hand is still warm against his skin.
“Yeah, maybe it isn’t so bad. I got to meet you all over again. I’m sure I’ll appreciate it when we go back to normal,” Bruce says, turning to face Clark. Clark can feel Bruce’s breath on his neck.
Clark breathes, wonders if Bruce can feel that too. “Do you think we have this too? When we’re older, I mean.”
“This?” Bruce asks, and then he shuffles closer, holds Clark’s hand instead of his wrist. “What is this , Clark?”
“I don’t know,” Clark says, because he doesn’t. He likes Bruce based on the things he already knows from the news and what he’s learned of him from these last few days. He doesn’t know how Bruce is when he’s even older, with more years weighing down on him, but Clark can’t imagine his character being all too different. He would still be Bruce, and Clark would still be Clark. “But I know that I want it.”
Bruce ducks into Clark’s space and kisses him, feather-light and all too quickly.
“Me too, Clark.”
Clark wakes up at six in the morning decidedly not sixteen anymore. He’s also alone in Bruce’s bed, which is a little worrying considering that Bruce doesn’t usually get up until he needs to.
So Clark sits up, hears Alfred kneading some dough in the kitchen, and comes up short when he tries to listen for Bruce anywhere in the manor. He sighs.
Right. He’s more than a little worried now.
Clark takes it slow, walking to the kitchen, still hoping that maybe he’s just not giving Bruce the benefit of the doubt. He finds only Victor and Alfred in the kitchen.
“Good morning, Clark. How’s it feel to be back?” Victor asks.
“Fine, Vic. Thanks,” Clark says. “Good morning, Alfred. Have either of you seen Bruce?”
“Yes, I believe he came in here a few minutes ago asking for a coffee,” Alfred says.
“Do you know where he is now? He doesn’t seem to be in the manor,” Clark says. He really doesn’t want to assume the worst, but it’s not looking so good for him, really.
“He asked to be left alone, I’m afraid,” Alfred says, his tone not giving anything away. It’s the deadpan manner Alfred always has. While most times, Clark finds it delightful and comforting almost, now it’s just adding to the gnawing feeling in his stomach.
Clark’s mouth sets into a frown, and he tries not to let his disappointment show. “I see.”
“Though if you had something to discuss with him, I’m sure you could find him in the Cave,” Alfred says.
“Thank you, Alfred,” Clark says, because he appreciates it, the blessing to go and find Bruce.
It doesn’t sit right with him though . Bruce doesn’t want to see him, is the point, and Clark thinks that maybe Bruce isn’t wrong to avoid him. They were just kids back then; they didn’t know any better. They didn’t know Bruce and Clark’s history—about Bruce trying to kill him or Clark trying to kill the entire team when he was brought back to life or any of the other little arguments Bruce and Clark have had since then. As much as Clark would love for them to be something , he doesn’t know if he can take it, the chance of getting rejected if he pushes Bruce after what’s just happened to them.
“Have a good day, Alfred, Vic,” Clark says, nodding at them before turning away. He needs to think, some advice maybe.
“You’re not staying for breakfast either? We’re making pull-apart bread and cupcakes,” Victor says, sounding disappointed. If Clark weren’t feeling like he could go for a round with Doomsday right now, he’d probably stay.
“No, I should probably go home for a bit,” Clark says. Shit. He realizes he’s just spent three days thinking Pa was still alive, and his heart breaks all over again.
“See you later,” Victor says, before Clark flies away.
“Hopefully soon,” Alfred says.
Yeah, Clark hopes so too.
Ma is a huge comfort, just like she always is. She just hugs him and everything goes away for a few seconds. Even though his problems come back right after, Clark still feels lighter whenever he visits her.
“Sorry I’ve been away, Ma,” he says when he finally feels okay enough to let go. Of course, he’s been away for longer before, but he knows his Ma missed him anyway, the same way he missed her.
“You’re back now,” Ma says, and that’s that.
It’s simple, with her. He just needs to be Clark and to do the right thing, the way she and Pa raised him to do. With Bruce, he has to think of Gotham and the team and the people Bruce has inadvertently pushed away. It’s never simple, and yet Clark can’t keep away from him because Bruce is so good . Despite the things he’s done when blinded by anger and loss, he’s managed to rise up, to get back to what he truly stands for.
It’s something Clark admires in Bruce, that he can recover himself.
“What do I do, Ma?” Clark asks, staring at his Ma’s hands holding his.
“What’s wrong, Clark?” she says, and there’s a frown on her face that’s all because of Clark. He knows that she doesn’t mind and that she wants to help whenever he comes to her though. She’s already told him that multiple times.
With Bruce, he has to take a leap of faith sometimes. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t known Bruce that long, that sometimes Clark doubts that Bruce likes him, even as a friend. Maybe Clark should just continue to wait for Bruce to let him in like he has been. Maybe he should let what happened to them be an eye-opener and take it as an opportunity to ask Bruce if they could be something more .
“I want to be with him so much, Ma,” Clark says, softly, because he’s never said it out loud before. Well, he did , when he was sixteen and he didn’t have so many things weighing on him like they do now, but that’s different. This feels like Clark’s been scrubbed raw, like he’s immersed himself in a sea of boiling water, helpless.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Ma says, pulling him back into a hug. She already knows who he’s talking about without having to ask. “What do you want to do, Clark?”
“I want to tell him,” Clark says. He wants to know if Bruce meant it when he said that he wanted too.
“Then you know what you need to do,” Ma says, and he does. Clark supposes he’s known since he first felt the bed empty beside him that morning; it’s just that he’s feeling more settled than before.
“Thanks, Ma,” he says, kissing her cheek before he flies away—to Bruce.
Bruce is still in the Cave when Clark reaches Gotham. He’s sitting in his usual place, face illuminated by the light from the computer screen. Clark knows that Bruce would’ve seen him coming, and that Clark probably triggered more than ten alarms because that’s just how careful Bruce is, why so many people have called him paranoid to his face. Now, Clark stands just a few feet away from him, but Bruce still doesn’t look at him or acknowledge him in any way.
“Bruce, can we talk about what happened?” Clark says, softly, because he may be a little bit worked up and worried, but mostly, he just wants to get this over with.
“You can write up a report and email it to me,” Bruce says, and Clark was expecting something like that. Still, it stings.
“I meant everything I said,” Clark says, pushing on despite Bruce clearly not wanting to talk about it, enough to lash out at Clark. “I do want to be with you, Bruce.”
Bruce finally faces him, but he’s frowning at Clark like he would when Barry doesn’t listen to him or when Arthur says he wants to partner with Bruce on a mission. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Bruce,” Clark says, unable to stop a strangled laugh of sorts from escaping, because who’s Bruce to tell him what he’s supposed to feel? “My feelings didn’t show up overnight.”
And it’s true, because even though they argue about so many little things, they still agree about the things that do matter. So maybe that’s why even though one would think that it’d be Diana who everyone opens up to, just because she’s kind but firm with the truth, Clark has always found himself gravitating towards Bruce. Bruce has always said that Clark’s more human than he is, but Clark doesn’t believe it. Bruce is as human as they come, and Clark finds himself clinging to Bruce’s humanity more often than not.
It’s not so surprising for him to fall in love with Bruce, not when Bruce is so good and human and real .
“I didn’t know what I was saying either,” Bruce says, looking away. That’s a lie if Clark’s ever heard one—just a hundred-percent bullshit. Bruce was more open as a sixteen-year-old than he is now. Sixteen-year-old Bruce was burdened by losing his parents but he hasn’t lost Jason, or had to let Dick go and be his own person, or seen Gotham unravel under the influence of all the enemies he’s made despite all his efforts to make the city better. He hasn’t taken all of the blame and responsibility for every bad thing that’s happened in Gotham and to his family. Sixteen-year-old Bruce may not have known as much as this Bruce does, but Clark thinks he knew what he felt.
“Who are you trying to protect?” Clark asks. He thinks he knows Bruce enough to know that’s what he’s trying to do. Either he wants to protect himself from having to deal with a relationship, or Clark from having to deal with him, or something else entirely beyond Clark’s comprehension. “Because I can handle myself, and I won’t hurt you if I can help it.”
Bruce’s eyebrows furrow, his jaw clenching and unclenching for a few moments before he sighs. “You don’t make any sense. You’re not supposed want me, Clark. You’re not supposed to like me.”
“Just because this doesn’t factor into your plans, doesn’t mean it can’t happen, Bruce.” Clark steps closer, tilts his head curiously. Bruce doesn’t move an inch. “Are you supposed to like me?”
Bruce looks at Clark like he can’t believe Clark would actually ask something like that, like he doesn’t know what to say or what to do because he didn’t expect it.
“I’ve always liked you,” Bruce says, finally.
“Oh,” Clark says, blinking, and then he’s surging forward and kissing Bruce. It’s longer than before, softer than Clark expected after confronting Bruce, and better than Clark hoped for.
They pull apart, eventually. He’s holding Bruce by his cheek, keeping him close.
“Are we okay?” Clark asks.
Bruce nods, and Clark can feel Bruce’s breath, shaky, against his skin. “I want this.”
“Me too, Bruce” Clark says, and he kisses Bruce once more.