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Clark knew he should take a break.
Go back to Smallville, visit his folks for a couple of days, and just… be. But the world needed saving, Lex Luthor was keen on coming up with ways of killing him every two business days, he had League business to attend to and Perry’s deadlines waited for no man—not even Superman.
Physically, Clark was fine. He didn’t need as much sleep or food as normal people, though he liked both. They made him feel human. But on weeks like this, it was a blessing that he could function on four non-consecutive hours of sleep or survive a fortnight without food, as long as he had water—and yes, coffee counted, thank you very much.
Mentally, though? Clark was hanging by a thread. He could power through another hellish week. Kara and Kon would be back from their Titans mission soon, and with two more Supers on Earth, the weight on his shoulders would finally ease. Until then, it was all on him.
“You look like shit, Smallville,” Lois greeted jovially, never one to mince her words.
“Thanks, Lo,” Clark muttered, not bothering to look up from his laptop.
For once, he was the first to arrive at the Daily Planet. Not out of diligence, but because he’d finished a late-night search-and-rescue mission after a building collapse in the Gulf of Mexico. By the time he was done, dawn had broken, and Perry’s 9 a.m. deadline loomed like a guillotine.
He took a sip from his coffee mug and grimaced as the cold, bitter dredges hit his tongue. The disgust was impossible to hide, and Lois noticed. She was perched on the edge of his desk, studying him with the same intensity she brought to exposing corrupt politicians.
“Here,” she said, holding out a warm cup of coffee.
Clark blinked at her, caught off guard. It was from their favorite coffee shop just around the corner. He stared at the cup like it was a miracle.
“How did you—” he stopped himself, then chuckled. Of course, Lois had known he was here. They were both award-winning investigative journalists, after all. Lois probably knew he was behind on his deadline and made an educated guess.
“Thank you—I could kiss you right now,” Clark said, taking his first glorious sip of decent coffee in days.
Normally, a line like that would earn a laugh from Lois. They were exes turned best friends, and banter like this was second nature. But instead of laughing, Lois just frowned, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied him.
“You really don’t look good, Clark,” she insisted. Then she lowered her voice even though it was just past six, and the only other people in the building were the janitors and the poor night guard who still hadn’t been relieved from his shift. “Did you catch a kryptonian flu or some shit like that?”
Clark sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He tried not to snap, but exhaustion had worn his patience thin. “I’m fine, Lois.”
“You don’t look fine. Maybe you should call Bruce—have him run some tests to make sure you’re really ok?”
Clark’s jaw tightened. “What I need,” he said sharply, “is to finish this damned article before Perry gets here. Or I’m fucked.”
Lois arched a brow, clearly unimpressed with his tone. But after a moment, she shrugged and slid off his desk. “Fine. You’re the boss. But you’re not fooling me, Smallville. You’re running on fumes, and it’s going to catch up with you.”
She retreated to her own desk, but Clark could feel her eyes on him as he hunched over his laptop and struggled—for approximately the next three hours—to piece together a coherent article that weaved together quotes, research, and statements he’d gathered in between superheroing and what little remained of his personal life.
“This is far from your best work, Kent…” Perry said at the weekly editorial meeting for their Saturday edition.
Please let there be a but… Clark thought, resisting the urge to cross his fingers.
“… but I think with some editing, it can be greenlit,” Perry finished.
Clark sighed in relief. Perry’s approval meant he wouldn’t have to rewrite the entire piece—which was a huge weight off his shoulders. Earlier that morning, Flash had sent him a text, asking to swap monitor duty shifts. Clark would take Wednesday, and in return, Flash would cover that evening. It was a rare stroke of luck, one that might actually give Clark his first free night in weeks —barring a world-ending catastrophe, of course.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself, Kent,” Perry snapped, breaking through Clark’s brief moment of relief. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been handing in subpar work for the last few weeks.”
Clark winced. He took pride in his writing, and it stung to know his recent efforts had been less than stellar.
Perry’s expression shifted—his brow furrowing in thought—and Clark’s stomach sank. That look never boded well. A Perry White inspiration was brewing, and those always meant trouble for Clark.
Please, Rao, God, Zeus, Vishnu, any gods that might be listening… Clark prayed, growing desperate. He didn’t even need a couple of days anymore—just one night. One night.
“Actually…” Perry said, drawing the word out like he was savoring it. “I think you’ve gotten too complacent, and maybe I’ve been too soft on you. You’re going to cover Lex Luthor’s robotics demonstration tonight.”
Clark could cry. He actually felt like crying.
“Perry, I’m already covering that event,” Lois interjected, her tone sharp and exasperated.
“Then you’ll both go,” Perry said with a dismissive wave. “My two best reporters should be able to find different angles—heaven knows Luthor’s always up to some shady shit. Maybe Superman will even make an appearance.”
“He certainly is now…” Clark muttered under his breath.
“Kent can handle the online article for the website after the event. Lois, you’ll write the piece for tomorrow’s paper,” Perry continued, undeterred and his tone leaving no room for argument. His gaze landed on Clark once more. “And this time, Kent, put some damn effort into it.”
Clark nodded, too resigned to argue. His one chance at a quiet evening evaporated like a mirage in the desert.
Okay, so maybe Lois wasn’t entirely off when she asked if Clark had the flu. Or maybe it was the two minutes he’d spent thinking he actually had a free evening, only for Perry to yank it away so heartlessly, that broke something inside him.
Either way, his powers were… a teensy tiny bit on the fritz.
Which was fine.
Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. As a kid, it had been way worse—back then, he had no clue what was happening and had been scared shitless. One minute, he was a normal farm boy in Kansas, and the next, he was seeing his teacher’s skeleton and hearing someone sneeze across the country.
It wasn’t just a childhood problem, either. When he first started as Superman, the same thing had happened. He’d never used his powers so extensively before, and in those first few months on the job, it sometimes felt impossible to “turn them off.” The world was so loud, so overwhelming, that he wasn’t sure he could keep going. But he’d always managed to pull himself together, to find control when he needed it most.
At least now, he had experience on his side. If he focused hard enough, he could usually rein in his vision and hearing. And really, none of it had affected his ability to do his usual patrol. Not yet, anyway.
Still, as he made his rounds before heading back to get ready for the robotics demonstration, he couldn’t help but feel a little… off. Not enough to stop, of course—Superman didn’t get sick. But maybe just enough to hope that Luthor wouldn’t try anything too ambitious tonight.
He was just missing his tie when his phone buzzed from its spot on the bed.
Bruce, 7:24 PM
— I was invited to LL’s demonstration tonight.
— Thought I might attend just to keep an eye on our “friend”.
— Want to meet afterwards before I leave for patrol?
Clark’s mood instantly lifted. Bruce was going to be there!
7:25 PM
— I’m also attending for work.
— See you there!Bruce, 7:26 PM
— See you there, Clark.
Knowing Bruce would be around was more reassuring than Clark cared to admit. If Luthor was planning to use the demonstration as a cover for another attempt to kill Superman—and really, the odds were too good to rule out—then at least he wouldn’t be facing it alone. Bruce always had his back. And on a night like this, when Clark wasn’t feeling his best, that small comfort made all the difference.
The Metropolis Continental was one of the newest and most luxurious hotels in the New Troy borough, right in the heart of the city. With its sleek modern architecture, amazing amenities, breathtaking views of Centennial Park, and sprawling top-tier conference rooms, it was no wonder Lex Luthor had chosen it for his latest demonstration. Even someone with Luthor’s ego would have to admit that it was a cut above hosting the event across the street at LexCorp.
Clark’s pride was still a bit wounded from Perry’s comment during their earlier meeting, so he made sure to do a little research beforehand. He learned that Luthor was unveiling a new type of nanobot controlled by mental waves. The damned things actually seemed useful—capable of everything from construction to delicate medical procedures. But knowing Luthor, they’d likely end up as weapons of mass destruction or some military project. It was a real shame. Luthor had the kind of intelligence that could benefit humanity immensely, if only his megalomania didn’t get in the way. If he wasn’t so consumed with world domination, scheming with the Legion of Doom, or trying to kill Superman, he could actually make a real difference.
The hotel lobby was ostentatious, the kind of place that practically screamed, If you don’t have a six-figure income, why are you even here? Clark had been inside before for various assignments, but this time, they were heading to the main conference room. From what he’d heard, it was less a conference room and more a ballroom where people in Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor’s tax bracket hosted their extravagant galas.
Lois met him at their usual spot, dressed impeccably as always, in a deep purple jumpsuit that somehow managed to be both elegant and functional. It was perfect for breaking into places, chasing down leads, or casually wowing a crowd. (And her internal organs looked healthy—something he definitely didn’t need to know. He quickly switched back to normal vision, realizing only then that he’d even switched in the first place.) Clark, in contrast, had gone with his least frumpy suit and a blue tie his Ma had given him because it brought out his eyes. A “Clark Kent classic,” as Lois had once teasingly called it.
“You don’t look any better, Clark,” Lois said by way of greeting, her brow furrowing. “I know Perry wants you covering this, but you should be home resting.”
Clark scuffed his worn shoes against the marble floor, internally berating himself for forgetting to shine them. He wanted to be home resting, but alas… that wasn’t an option.
Somewhere, two cities away, a kid was throwing a tantrum because he wanted pizza instead of the tuna casserole his mom had slaved over the minute she got home from work—what an ungrateful brat... Clark quickly dialed back his hearing, refocusing on Lois.
He tried for levity. “I see what you’re doing, Lane—you’re worried Perry’s going to read my piece and decide it’s better than yours. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure mine’s just good enough for the website. I wouldn’t want to get fired, after all. But hey, I won’t steal your byline... or your glory.”
“Firstly, as if, and secondly, don’t try changing the subject when you don’t like the conversation, Kent,” she admonished. “I’m really worried about you. If you want to go home, go. I’ll share my notes with you—I’m sure you can come up with a different angle just from those.”
Rao, the woman five floors up, had started tapping her high heel against a chair leg again. The noise was sharp and grating, gnawing at Clark’s frayed nerves. He wished she’d just stop.
Then it hit him—he could stop listening. With a quick adjustment, he refocused on Lois.
Clark shook his head. “That’s basically just copying your homework.”
“I have both Bruce’s and your Mom’s numbers, and I’m not afraid to use them,” Lois shot back.
“For Christ’s sake, Lois, I’m fine! I’m not sick, just overworked. Between my freelance job and the impossible deadlines Perry keeps throwing at me, I’ve got a lot on my plate.”
His vision flickered between normal and X-ray a few times before settling back to normal.
“Maybe you should cut back on your freelance hours, then?”
Clark snorted. “Sure, Lois. Because the world totally takes a break from needing saving, right?”
“Clark…”
“Look, Bruce is attending tonight as a guest. I’ll talk to him, have him run some tests if it’ll make you feel better. Just don’t call my Ma—my folks worry enough about me already.”
“Okay,” Lois finally relented.
That settled, they finally entered the conference room. It was, in a word, impressive. Perhaps a bit too much so for a robotics demonstration—live string quartet on a raised dais, servers in formal attire offering hors d'oeuvres, and the crowd of wealthy guests milling about in what they no doubt considered “casual,” but what Clark would estimate cost more than half a year’s rent. The atmosphere screamed luxury, the perfect stage for Lex Luthor to showcase his brilliance—or his ego. No wonder Bruce had been invited, despite Wayne Enterprises being LexCorp’s biggest competition.
Lois was nearby, already charming a possible investor for quotes, when Clark caught sight of Bruce across the room. Leaning casually against the bar with a glass in hand, Bruce appeared perfectly at ease—playing the role of the aloof playboy as only he could. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Bruce offered him the smallest of nods—just enough for Clark to know he’d been noticed.
Clark managed to hold it together for the first half hour but he never actually made it to Luthor’s presentation. He was juggling polite conversation for his job, trying to stay engaged, trying to keep his attention focused on the conversations at hand. But the sheer number of people was starting to wear on him. It wasn’t just the chatter—maybe it was the heat, the constant flash of cameras, the press of bodies crowding in all around him. It felt like everything was happening at once, and he was caught in the middle of it, struggling to keep up.
The voices, at first a dull murmur, began to blend together. First, it was one conversation rising above the others—then another, and another. Every word became jumbled, overlapping like a hundred radios turned up to full volume at the same time. Clark heard the soft clinking of a glass being set down, followed by a woman’s laughter, the hum of a nearby air vent, a politician’s voice making a speech somewhere off to the side in another part of town. Then, somewhere, a baby began crying, and Clark’s mind snapped to it, focusing on the high-pitched wail—every high-pitched wail, all the way across the room, and then down the hall, and from miles away.
His head pulsed with each new sound, an unbearable crescendo of noise, each layer more maddening than the last. The room wasn’t just full of chatter; it was a storm of sound, a constant bombardment of overlapping voices, all too loud and too clear. And his hearing couldn’t filter it out. His temples began to throb, the edges of his vision blurring as he tried to focus on a single voice.
But then his vision flickered. The lights overhead seemed to blur into a kaleidoscope of shifting shapes, and the walls started to pulse with unnatural clarity. His X-ray vision kicked in unexpectedly, catching every hidden structure in the room—the metal supports inside the chandeliers, the wiring behind the walls, the faintest outlines of people’s bones beneath their skin. It wasn’t just distracting—it was overwhelming. He could see through everything, and his mind had to process each detail in real time. A waiter’s wrist turned from flesh and bone to an intricate network of muscle and cartilage before snapping back to normal.
For a moment, the visual overload was enough to make him feel like he might collapse. His eyes darted wildly, trying to find a focal point, trying to stop the chaotic visuals of X-ray flashes that kept invading his field of vision. Then, in a split second, he caught sight of a woman across the room—her organs were visible as if they were laid bare for him to see. A brief flicker, but it made his stomach turn. He quickly squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on something normal, anything to block out the intrusive images.
But his microscopic vision kicked in, pulling him closer to details he hadn’t asked for: the minute cracks in the marble floor, the fibers of a man’s suit, the texture of the fine crystal glasses in their hands. His eyes kept adjusting, jumping from one focal point to another, making him dizzy, straining to re-center on something simple. But every detail, every shift in vision, intensified the exhaustion, and he could feel his focus slipping away.
He stumbled, taking a half-step back, feeling the walls closing in around him. He could smell the faint perfume of a woman passing by, the waft of expensive cologne mixing with the scent of hors-d’oeuvres, the stale air of too many bodies in a cramped space. It wasn’t as overwhelming as all his other senses, but it didn’t help either.
Clark muttered an excuse to Lois, his voice feeling hollow even to him, before he took a few unsteady steps away from the crowd, heading toward an alcove at the edge of the ballroom. It was quieter there—or at least less overwhelming. The sounds muffled, the flashing lights softened, but the strain in his head didn’t ease. His hands trembled slightly as he pressed them to his temples, trying to block out the noise and the images that kept flickering in his mind’s eye.
“Clark.”
The voice rang out above the rest—low, commanding.
Clark opened his eyes—or tried to. His vision flickered again, jumping between normal, micro and macro with dizzying speed. But even through the chaos, he recognized Bruce’s silhouette. Before Clark could protest, Bruce was at his side, a hand gripping his elbow with surprising firmness, steadying him.
“We’re leaving,” Bruce said quietly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Clark barely had the strength to resist as Bruce guided him through the crowd, each step swift and purposeful. The usual playboy façade was gone, replaced with the efficient decisiveness of someone used to navigating chaotic situations. No one stopped them; Bruce’s presence alone parted the crowd as easily as a knife through butter.
Within minutes, they were in Bruce’s private penthouse suite—or at least, that’s where Clark believed they were. The sudden quiet should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. Even here, Clark could still hear everything —Luthor finally making his presentation downstairs, the distant hum of traffic outside, the ambient noise of the world beyond the walls. It was all crashing into him, amplifying his dizziness. He stumbled toward a chair, sitting heavily with his head in his hands, trying to drown out the overwhelming sensation.
“Clark, talk to me,” Bruce said, crouching in front of him.
Clark barely registered the words, his mind too fractured to focus. “It’s—it’s too much,” he managed, his voice strained. “The noise. The lights. Everything.”
Bruce’s frown deepened, his sharp eyes scanning Clark as if evaluating a crime scene. “Sensory overload,” he said, almost to himself.
Clark didn’t have the energy to react. His head was pounding, his body trembling from the onslaught of sensations. The room felt like it was closing in on him, the walls pressing in with a weight that made it hard to breathe.
“Focus,” Bruce said, his voice firm, cutting through the fog in Clark’s mind. “Not on everything. On one thing. One thing you can hold onto.”
Clark lifted his head slightly, his gaze locking with Bruce’s. His vision flickered again, and in the brief, sharp moments where his X-ray vision activated involuntarily, the bruises on Bruce’s body came into sharper focus. They were dark, fresh, and deeply unsettling. Clark tried to push past it, the anger bubbling up that Bruce hadn’t mentioned it, but he couldn’t afford the distraction. Not now.
Bruce softened his tone. “Pick something specific. Not the noise, not the chaos. Just… one thing.”
Clark hesitated, breathing shallowly. Then, as if drawn to the only steady thing in the room, he closed his eyes again, searching through the noise, through the swirling chaos. There it was—the rhythmic pulse of a heartbeat, steady and constant. Familiar. Comforting.
Bruce’s heartbeat.
Clark focused on it, letting the steady thump of Bruce’s heart drown out everything else. He’d memorized it long ago, a mark of trust, of safety, something he could rely on. It was grounding, and as he latched onto it, the chaos began to fade, slowly, like the quiet after a storm. The pounding in his head softened, the flickering of his vision stilled.
Clark exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping as the tension drained from his body. He remained silent for a long moment, just letting the calm settle in, the world outside fading as the connection between him and Bruce anchored him.
"Clark," Bruce’s voice broke through the fog, low and serious.
Clark didn’t open his eyes, didn’t look at him, just kept his focus on that heartbeat. It was the only thing he could latch onto right now.
"Did Luthor do this to you?" Bruce's voice was demanding, no hesitation in his tone. "Were those nanobots full of kryptonite or some other kryptonite adjacent compound? Did he trigger this somehow?"
Clark opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the dimness of the room. Bruce’s face was etched with concern, but also suspicion—always quick to connect the dots when something was wrong. For a split second, Clark thought about lying. But that would just make things worse.
"No." His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. He closed his eyes again, focusing on Bruce's heartbeat, letting it slow his breathing. “It’s not Luthor. I… This was all me.”
Bruce’s frown deepened, but he didn’t interrupt, waiting for Clark to continue.
Clark took another shaky breath, sitting up a little straighter, though his head still felt like it was being squeezed. “This used to happen a lot when I was kid when I first got my powers. Then, when Superman became a thing I was still getting a handle on using them regularly I sometimes just… lost control.”
Bruce’s eyebrows arched, surprised but still not fully satisfied. He crouched in front of Clark, keeping his hand firmly on his elbow. “That was years ago. What changed?”
“I thought I had it under control,” Clark said, his voice tighter now, almost defensive. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the weight that was settling in his chest. “But the last couple of months, with everything going on, trying to keep up with the League, the Daily Planet, the world seemingly intent on getting destroyed every two days… I guess I’ve been ignoring the signs. Lois said I was overworking myself, and maybe she was right. I guess I pushed myself over my limits…”
Bruce’s eyes were sharp, assessing.
“You should’ve said something sooner. This doesn’t just go away, Clark. You can’t keep pretending like you’re invincible.”
Clark bristled at the word invincible, his jaw tightening as he glanced at Bruce.
“Like you're one to talk,” he muttered, his voice tight. “You’ve been hiding injuries for years, Bruce. For years you insisted on working alone, pushing yourself until you broke, and then expected everyone else to pick up the pieces.”
Bruce didn’t flinch at the criticism, but his gaze sharpened—not in anger, but in understanding.
“You’re right. But that doesn’t mean you should make the same mistake I did.” His voice was quieter now, almost knowing.
Clark exhaled harshly, frustration creeping in.
“I didn’t ask for this, Bruce. I didn’t ask to be the guy everyone relies on. But that’s the way it is. And I’ve been handling it all these years—until now.” His voice cracked slightly, betraying the weight he’d been carrying all this time.
Bruce’s frown deepened, but he didn’t argue.
“You don’t have to handle it alone,” he said quietly. “You have your parents, Kara, Kon, Lois, the League, me… we’re all here to help. You don’t have to be Superman every second of every day.”
Clark felt his chest tighten, a mixture of guilt and pride fighting inside him.
“I know that. I’m also Clark Kent at least one third of the time,” he muttered, turning his gaze away, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Bruce cupped Clark’s cheek with a warm, calloused hand, trying to meet his eyes. His voice softened now, almost tender.
“Clark,” he said, his tone far less sharp, “you’re human. You’re allowed to have limits. Even Superman has them. You’re not perfect.”
Clark pulled in a breath, biting back the frustration that surged again.
“But that’s just the thing, Bruce—I’m not. I’m a superpowered alien that could take over the world if I chose to,” he replied, the petulance clear in his voice.
Bruce’s gaze didn’t waver, his eyes steady.
“And yet you choose to save it every single day, despite all the horrors you see. You still haven’t lost faith in humanity. You’re still the kindest, and genuinely the best person I’ve ever met.”
Clark’s vision flickered again—shifting quickly between normal and micro mode—and he could feel the world start to close in around him. Overwhelmed, he closed his eyes, focusing all his attention on Bruce’s steady heartbeat, the only thing that still felt grounding.
Bruce’s voice continued, a calming presence against the chaotic swirl in Clark’s mind.
“You care. You feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and you still want to make it better. That’s what makes you human. Not the powers you were born with, but the way you use them for others. And that... that’s where your strength really lies.”
Clark’s breath hitched in his throat. His eyes stung with unshed tears, and he couldn’t stop the emotion rising up.
“That’s not enough,” he whispered, still refusing to open his eyes. He could feel the tears threatening to spill, but he held them back with everything he had. “I can’t… I can’t afford to be weak. People depend on me.”
Bruce shook his head slowly, his voice firm but gentle, reaching out to Clark with that rare, protective tenderness.
“Clark, you're not weak for having limits. You’re not weak for needing help. You’re strong because you know when to ask for it. And you’re not failing anyone by taking a step back. You’re only human.”
The words hung in the air between them, and for the first time, Clark let himself truly listen to them.
“I’m just so tired, Bruce…” Clark finally said, his voice small, the weight of everything he had been holding in for so long pouring out all at once.
He hadn’t realized he’d started crying until Bruce gently pulled him into his arms. It happened without hesitation, as if Bruce had always known this was the next step, the unspoken comfort that Clark needed. For a moment, all Clark could feel was the warmth of Bruce’s body and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, still so grounding amidst the chaos in his own mind.
Clark was acutely aware of how awkward the position must be—he was a giant of a man, and Bruce was still kneeling in front of him, holding him close as if he weighed nothing. It shouldn’t have worked. But it did. Bruce’s hands were steady, and one of them was gently running through Clark’s messy curls, scraping his scalp in a way that made Clark feel boneless, as if all the tension in his body was slowly draining away with each pass of Bruce’s fingers.
“I’m here, Clark,” Bruce murmured softly, his voice low and steady. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
The words were simple, but in that moment, they meant everything.
Clark’s shoulders trembled with each quiet breath he took, the weight of the world still heavy on him, but the pressure seemed less suffocating in Bruce’s arms. The exhaustion that had been gnawing at him for months finally took its toll. His breathing slowed, his body sinking into the comforting steadiness of Bruce’s presence.
For the first time in months, Clark didn’t need to be anything but Clark. And in that moment, he finally let go, the pull of sleep too strong to resist.
And if, in those last few moments just before sleep took him, he felt someone kiss his temple, he couldn’t quite tell if it had been real or just something out of his imagination.
Clark woke up slowly, a gentle pull from the depths of restful sleep. For a moment, he let himself luxuriate in the soft cocoon of high-thread-count sheets and the dreamlike comfort of the mattress beneath him. It was the kind of decadence he imagined rich people enjoyed daily—definitely not his reality.
Then it hit him.
This wasn’t his bed.
His heart jolted as his mind raced to catch up. He sat up too fast, the remnants of sleep scattering as his surroundings came into sharper focus. Morning sunlight streamed through massive floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the room in golden light. Beyond the glass, the greenery of Centennial Park stretched into the horizon, and a balcony overlooked the view.
The room was massive, elegant, and unfamiliar. Clark looked down at himself. He was still wearing his undershirt, trousers, and socks, but his jacket, shirt, tie and shoes were gone. He was definitely not at home.
Bruce’s penthouse suite at the Continental.
The realization clicked, and with it came the blurry fragments of last night. His head ached faintly, but it was more of an afterthought than the splitting migraines he had yesterday. He’d slept—really slept—for the first time in what felt like months. But it didn’t matter now. His stomach dropped as the rest of the pieces fell into place.
He had an article he hadn’t written. A deadline he’d definitely missed. It was clearly past 9 a.m., and he wasn’t at work. Perry was going to kill him and then fire him.
“Good morning.”
Clark flinched at the unexpected voice and turned sharply. Bruce was sitting on a plush sofa to his right, comfortably draped in a silk robe over what had to be designer loungewear. A folded copy of The Daily Planet rested in his lap, as though everything were perfectly ordinary.
Bruce had been there the whole time, completely unnoticed. Clark’s powers had been dialed down to their lowest setting since last night—an instinctive response to how overwhelmed he’d been. He wasn’t ready to turn the dial back up yet, even if it meant missing obvious things like Bruce being two feet away.
“Mornin’,” Clark muttered, his voice rough from disuse. How long had he slept?
“Do you want me to call for room service?” Bruce asked casually, like Clark wasn’t two seconds from panicking. “You must be hungry.”
Clark’s cheeks flushed at the reminder of the previous night—of breaking down in Bruce’s arms like his entire world had collapsed. He shoved the memory aside as quickly as it surfaced.
“I…” Clark’s mind scrambled for footing as he threw off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I need to get to work.”
His eyes darted around the room, searching for his shirt and jacket. The trousers he still wore looked slept in, but otherwise passable. The Planet was only two blocks away. Maybe if he begged Perry—
“Clark, slow down,” Bruce said, his voice calm but firm. “Your job is safe.”
Clark froze, looking up at him suspiciously. Bruce sometimes had a way of knowing things no one should, but not even he could control Perry White.
“You don’t know that—”
“Yes, I do.” Bruce closed the newspaper with deliberate precision. “Lois was worried when you disappeared, so she called me. She told me about your assignment.”
Clark’s stomach churned. “An assignment I didn’t do,” he muttered.
“You did.”
The words gave Clark pause. He blinked at Bruce. “What?”
“I took care of it,” Bruce admitted, a hint of sheepishness creeping into his usually unflappable tone.
Clark narrowed his eyes. “What did you do?”
“I’m not a writer, and I don’t pretend to be. You’re certainly leagues above me,” Bruce began, carefully measured as if confessing to a minor crime. “But I’ve read your work for years. I can mimic your voice well enough to pass for an online piece. Lois gave me her notes on Luthor’s announcement, and I sent the article.”
“You wrote my article,” Clark said, incredulous.
“I did.”
Clark stared at him, dumbfounded.
“I also hacked your email to submit it,” Bruce added with a faint shrug.
Of course he did.
Clark ran a hand through his hair, torn between gratitude and disbelief. “Bruce…”
“I also requested PTO for you,” Bruce said, seamlessly moving on.
Clark blinked. “I don’t have any PTO left. I used it all earlier this year during that off-world mission—”
“I took care of that too,” Bruce interrupted.
Clark hesitated, his frown deepening. “Please tell me you didn’t hack the Planet ’s intranet to add more PTO to my file.”
“I didn’t need to,” Bruce said simply. “I own the Daily Planet. I can authorize as much PTO as I want.”
Right. Clark tended to forget about that part, mostly because Bruce never threw his weight around. Well, except for now, apparently.
“Jesus, Bruce,” Clark muttered, though his tone was more exasperated than angry. “I don’t know if I should be furious or impressed.”
Bruce’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Be grateful.”
Clark huffed, shaking his head. “I’ll work on it,” he said, though there was no real bite in his tone.
Bruce crossed his arms and leaned casually against the back of the sofa. “Do you want me to call for room service now? You should eat something.”
Clark opened his mouth to argue but stopped as his stomach growled—loudly. He sighed in defeat. “Fine. But nothing fancy. I’m just...hungry, not looking for a five-star dining experience.”
Bruce tilted his head, his expression bordering on amused. “They do a great brunch here. Pancakes, eggs, fresh fruit—basic but satisfying.”
“Brunch?” Clark repeated, frowning. “It’s not... Oh.” He glanced toward the balcony and the angle of the light flooding in. “What time is it?”
“Closer to noon,” Bruce replied nonchalantly, already picking up the phone to place the order.
Clark blinked, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed. “Noon?”
Bruce gave a soft hum of confirmation as he spoke into the receiver, listing off their selections with practiced ease. By the time he hung up, Clark was still trying to wrap his head around it.
“I don’t think I’ve ever slept this long,” Clark admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You clearly needed it,” Bruce said simply. “And judging by the state of you last night, I’d say you needed more than just sleep. Brunch should be up in twenty minutes, by the way.”
Clark gave a noncommittal grunt, still feeling a little sheepish. He ran a hand through his hair, noting just how disheveled it felt. “I probably look like a disaster.”
“There’s an excellent shower here. Best water pressure in the city. I highly recommend it.”
The suggestion caught Clark off guard, but it wasn’t a bad idea. A shower might help shake the lingering fog from his head. “You’re a fan of water pressure, huh?” he teased lightly, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy.
Bruce didn’t rise to the bait, merely arching an eyebrow. “I appreciate quality,” he said simply.
Clark rolled his eyes but stood up, already heading for the ensuite bathroom. “Alright, fine. I’ll shower. But if the water pressure isn’t as life-changing as you say, I’m blaming you.”
“I’m confident you’ll survive the experience,” Bruce said, his tone dry.
Clark couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips as he closed the door behind him. Stepping into the luxurious bathroom, he marveled—not for the first time—at how absurd Bruce’s life could be. But, as always, he had to admit that absurd or not, Bruce was annoyingly good at taking care of people—just not himself.
The water pressure, as it turned out, was impressive.
“Did you leave me here passed out while you went on patrol?” Clark asked curiously as they shared the more-than-generous brunch. While very good by Metropolis standards, it didn’t hold a candle to Ma Kent’s cooking.
He was now sitting next to Bruce on the balcony of Metropolis’ most luxurious hotel, wearing his own loungewear—because, of course, Bruce would break into his apartment to fetch his favorite joggers and T-shirt. The sun was warm on his skin, pancakes were on his plate, and for the first time in weeks, Clark felt... calm. His powers were still dialed down to the bare minimum, and his phone was left inside so no one could bother him.
“I didn’t go on patrol,” Bruce said simply, taking a sip of his tea.
Clark gaped at him. “Bruce!”
“Clark,” Bruce replied in a tone that was both patient and unyielding.
“I was passed out. You didn’t have to stay with me,” Clark insisted, frowning as if trying to make sense of the man sitting across from him.
Bruce cleared his throat, his eyes briefly flickering away. “Well,” he began, his tone uncharacteristically hesitant, “I had an article to write, some Daily Planet PTO to take care of, and some League scheduling to rearrange to give you actual time off.” He took another sip of tea before adding, “And as Alfred usually says, why did I adopt and train all those children in primary colors if not to have the occasional night off? I also… slept for a while.”
Clark stared at him, momentarily at a loss for words. The thought of Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s tireless guardian, choosing to stay instead of rushing back to his city—for him—stirred something inside Clark he couldn’t quite put into words.
It wasn’t the first time they’d shared a bed, and he knew the one in this room was big enough for them to sleep comfortably without so much as brushing against each other. Not that Clark would’ve minded if they had.
Clark shook his head slightly, trying to shake off the weight of his thoughts. “Then how did you get a change of clothes for me?” His voice was quieter now, more curious than anything else.
Bruce’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Like I said, Lois was worried and wanted to help. She offered.”
Clark raised an eyebrow, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “Lois? You told Lois I was passed out in your hotel room?”
“She wanted to know why you weren’t answering your phone,” Bruce said with a shrug, as if that explanation covered everything.
Clark groaned, running a hand down his face. “I’m never going to hear the end of this.”
He was so glad he hadn’t checked his texts that morning because he was certain Lois had sent him several—and he knew her well enough to predict what they’d be and in which order. First, there’d be the worried ones: Where are you? Are you okay? What happened? After she spoke with Bruce and got some reassurance that he wasn’t dead or dying, it’d switch gears—Well, well, well, Clark Kent finally in Bruce Wayne’s bed, but passed out? I thought that’d be under much different circumstances. Then, this morning, she'd follow up with texts full of innuendo, wishing him good luck with Bruce in ways only Lois could. And somewhere in between those, Clark was hoping she’d mention if he’d been fired or not. The thought of Lois’ texts made his cheeks burn. He didn’t even want to imagine what she'd come up with.
Bruce didn’t seem fazed by Clark’s mortification. “Probably not,” he admitted, his tone dry but not unkind. “But she’s relieved you’re taking a break. So is Alfred, by the way. I’m pretty sure he’s going to bake you something the next time you visit.”
Clark couldn’t help but laugh at that, the sound light and unguarded. “Great. Alfred and Lois teaming up to keep me in check. That’s terrifying.”
Bruce smirked, his sharp gaze softening just slightly. “I find it comforting.”
“As long as they don’t rope my parents into this care team, I think I can handle it…” Clark trailed off, though the thought of Martha Kent joining forces with Lois and Alfred to ensure his well-being was enough to send a shiver of both amusement and dread through him.
Bruce’s lips quirked. “I wouldn’t put it past Lois to make that happen. She’s very persuasive.”
Clark groaned once more, though his grin remained. “Of course she is. Remind me to avoid any ‘family intervention’ dinners she tries to set up in the near future.”
“I’ll make a note,” Bruce said with mock seriousness, though the faint twinkle in his eyes betrayed his amusement.
The conversation between them naturally dwindled, the weight of words giving way to a peaceful silence. The sunlight danced across the balcony, warming Clark’s skin and making him feel, for once, entirely human. Clark leaned back in his chair, letting himself soak in the moment. From this high up, the city seemed quieter, its usual chaos muted. The view of Centennial Park stretched out before them, its green and yellowish trees a calming contrast to the steel and glass of Metropolis.
It was rare for Clark to feel so at ease. Even now, with his powers still dampened, the ever-present background noise of the city was more manageable. But what truly anchored him was the steady rhythm of Bruce’s heartbeat.
Last night, it had been the only thing that kept him grounded, its unwavering cadence a lifeline when everything else felt too overwhelming. Tentatively, Clark let himself loosen the leash on his senses just enough to tune in again. The familiarity of it—a strong, deliberate rhythm—made him smile faintly.
He felt Bruce’s gaze on him before he saw it. Turning his head, he caught Bruce studying him, an expression on his face that Clark couldn’t quite place.
“What is it?” Clark asked softly, his smile warm.
For the briefest moment, Bruce’s heartbeat faltered, then quickened. Clark’s brow furrowed, startled by the reaction.
“Bruce?” he pressed gently. “Are you alright?”
Bruce’s eyes flickered, a rare hint of vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his carefully maintained composure. He seemed to steel himself, his shoulders straightening, before answering.
“Yes,” Bruce said quietly. “Now, I am.”
Clark tilted his head, confused but patient.
Bruce sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yesterday… when I found you in that state, Clark, I—” He hesitated, his jaw tightening as if the words were physically difficult to say. “I thought Luthor had finally done it. That he’d managed to create a weapon capable of hurting you and I had no way of stopping it. And for a moment, I—”
His voice caught, and Clark’s chest tightened at the uncharacteristic crack in Bruce’s calm demeanor.
“When I realized it wasn’t some outside threat,” Bruce continued, his tone sharper now, “when I understood that it was you doing this to yourself, I was furious. At you, for letting yourself get to that point.” He paused, his gaze dropping to the table before meeting Clark’s again. “But mostly at myself. For not noticing sooner. For not being there.”
“Bruce…” Clark began, but Bruce raised a hand, cutting him off.
“I’ve faced a lot of things, Clark. Seen things most people would consider nightmares. But seeing you like that? Seeing you in that much pain because you had overworked yourself way past your limits?” He shook his head, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “That scared me more than I thought possible.”
The admission hung in the air, heavy and raw.
Bruce exhaled slowly, his hand curling into a loose fist on the table. “I’m not good at this, Clark. I’ve always been better at keeping people at arm’s length. But you—” He stopped again, his lips pressing into a thin line before he forced himself to continue. “You matter to me. More than I know how to say.”
Clark’s breath hitched, his heart skipping in response to the unguarded honesty in Bruce’s words. He rested his hand lightly over Bruce’s.
“You matter to me too, Bruce,” Clark said softly, his voice steady and sure. “More than you know.”
For a moment, they simply sat there, the world beyond the balcony fading away. The city, the noise, the chaos—none of it mattered. All that did was the quiet connection between them, fragile yet unshakable.
Bruce’s hand turned under Clark’s, their fingers brushing. It was a small gesture, tentative but meaningful, and when their eyes met again, there was no need for further words.
Clark’s gaze lingered on Bruce’s face, his sharp features softened by the rare vulnerability he was allowing himself to show. It was a side of Bruce that Clark had seen glimpses of before, but now, here, it felt like he was being allowed into a space no one else had.
“Bruce,” Clark murmured, his voice carrying a mix of gratitude and something deeper.
Bruce’s lips parted as if to reply, but no words came. Instead, his hand shifted, fingers now fully entwined with Clark’s. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken things, and then Bruce moved—just slightly, just enough for Clark to notice.
The shift was subtle, hesitant, but Clark’s heightened senses picked up on the way Bruce’s heart raced, the way his breath quickened in a way that had nothing to do with fear or exertion.
For a long moment, neither of them moved, as if both were waiting for the other to take the first step. But in the quiet, Clark knew something: Bruce had been the braver one, and had confessed first. This time, it was his turn.
Slowly, he leaned forward, his movements deliberate but not rushed. His hand, still holding Bruce's, tightened just enough, and his other hand brushed lightly against Bruce's arm.
The gap closed between them without a word spoken. Clark tilted his head slightly, his lips finding Bruce's in a kiss that felt natural, unhurried, the world outside fading away as they sank into the moment together.
When they finally parted, their foreheads rested against each other, breaths mingling in the quiet air. Bruce’s lips quirked into a faint smile, his eyes searching Clark’s.
“So,” Bruce began, the word stretching awkwardly as he cleared his throat, stepping back slightly. “I, uh… I put a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door last night.”
Clark tilted his head, his brow lifting slightly. “Yeah?”
Bruce scratched at the back of his neck, clearly uncharacteristically out of his depth. “And… I still haven’t taken it down.”
Clark blinked at him, his lips curving into a slow smile. “Oh?”
Bruce nodded, his expression torn between his usual stoicism and something that looked almost… sheepish. “I thought, since you’re officially on vacation, maybe you could, uh… rest a little more. On that… very big bed.”
Clark stared at him for a moment, trying and failing to suppress the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Bruce, are you trying to ask me to stay or is this your subtle way of saying I should let you keep an eye on me for a little longer?”
Bruce’s gaze flicked away for a fraction of a second before snapping back, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Maybe both,” he admitted, his voice low but steady.
Clark’s grin widened, a soft laugh rumbling in his chest. “You’re really bad at this, you know that?”
Bruce huffed, his jaw tightening in mock indignation. “And yet, you seem to find it endearing,” he shot back, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward despite himself.
“I do,” Clark said simply, his tone warm and sincere.
Bruce’s shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension melting away as he let out a quiet breath. “So… is that a yes?”
Clark pretended to think for a moment, his head tilting as if weighing his options. “Well, since you went to all the trouble of putting up the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign and everything…” He took a deliberate step closer, his hand brushing lightly against Bruce’s. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”
Bruce’s lips quirked again, this time into a real smile—small but genuine. “Good.”
Clark leaned in, closing the remaining distance between them to press another kiss to Bruce’s lips, this one slower, lingering. When they pulled back, his voice dropped to a soft murmur. “Lead the way, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce didn’t need to be told twice. He turned toward the door, but Clark’s fingers caught his, threading through them as they walked back inside together.
And as the city buzzed on far below, Clark allowed himself to let go of the weight of the world—if only for a little while longer.