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Chapter Text

The sun beat down onto Clark’s back as he trudged toward his house. The summer heat felt suffocating, causing sweat to cling Clark’s shirt to his back and his hair to his forehead. He raised his face up to the sun to soak it in, the ray seeming to bring him new life. Of course, Clark chose to walk all the way home, opting out of flying on the off-chance that a neighbor or a passing car would see him. Not that many people tended to pass through this small town in Texas, but Clark’s parents had always stressed precaution when using powers. Not that the walk was a hard one.

Due to Clark’s otherworldly lineage, the several-mile-long walk was light. As his quaint farmhouse came into view, Clark smiled. Home sweet home.

Martha, Clark’s adopted mother, was sweeping off the front porch of the small, light blue home when her son approached. She squinted into the sun, shielding her eyes with her hand to get a better look at him.
“Clark, dear, is that you?” she called out.

“Hey, Ma.” Clark replied, confirming his presence. She smiled warmly as he walked up the steps to the front door.

“Hello, dear. How are the Williams? Did they need much help with the barn?” Martha inquired as she returned to sweeping the front porch. Clark shrugged.

“A bit of damage to the roof, but nothing that Mr. Williams and I couldn’t handle,” Clark stated, making a grandiose show of flexing his arms to his mother. She rolled her eyes. “It’s stable for now but that last storm really did a number, and they only seem to be getting worse. Mr. Williams had me move some of the livestock in case something happened to the barn again.” Martha nodded in acknowledgement.

“And when you helped out, you didn’t…?” She trailed off, her question already known.

“No, Ma, I did not show an unnatural or otherworldly display of strength,” Clark stated, putting a hand over his heart. The answer had been given countless times over his last 23 years with the Kent family, he practically had it rehearsed. Martha’s shoulders relaxed, visibly eased by his answer.

“All right then. Now you go and clean up now. I don’t want your dirty self sitting at my kitchen table.” Clark nodded and heeded her order, heading inside to change.

After changing out of his dirt and sweat-ridden clothes into a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt, Clark headed back downstairs to the kitchen: a small room with a window over the sink, overlooking sprawling fields and the vague shape of a neighbor’s in the distance. The distance between the properties out here made Clark feel at home with his parents as it made it feel more intimate. However, sometimes Clark wondered what it would be like to not be so disconnected from everything, to not walk for miles to see a face other than family.

The rustle of his father’s newspaper jerked Clark from his thoughts as he stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking out the window. Jonathan Kent sat at the kitchen table, reading a copy of the local newspaper, a small scowl on his face. The newspaper, The Pleasantville Post, was often dull in Clark’s eyes, only holding news of the weather for farming, obituaries, and the occasional crossword.

“Anything new, dad?” Clark asked as he sat down across from his father. Jonathan shook his head absent-mindedly as he flipped the page.

“Nothing good,” he cleared his throat. “You know the Jenkins? A couple miles west of us?” Clark nodded as he glanced out the window, the Jenkins house becoming a pinprick on the horizon in front of the setting sun. “Well, Ryan, the father passed away a couple weeks ago. Something about one of the storms causing something to collapse on him. Tragic stuff, really. Anyway, his wife and daughter have been pretty quiet since. And since they can’t afford to keep the farm afloat without him, they put the lot up for sale a few days ago,” Clark’s father leaned in close, lowering his tone as he did when he heard of gossip around town. “Apparently, it’s already been bought by some millionaire. Some guy from all the way out in Gotham, Bruce Wayne I think his name is. I can’t imagine what he’d want with the place, with it being way out here.” Jonathan sat up straight and opened his paper again. “He probably just wants to turn it into some kind of destination spot that will ruin the whole community.” Clark’s dad leaned back in his chair, regarding his paper again.

“You got all this from the paper?” Clark asked, surprised at how much information his father had on the subject.

“Ryan had an obituary in the paper, yes. But the rest was just good-old-fashioned gossip, son.” Jonathan answered, winking at Clark. “Now let’s drop the subject, your mother hates it when I tittle-tattle.” Clark nodded, getting up to get the dinner plates from their cabinet. He turned the name Bruce Wayne over in his head, wondering how much of his perfect life this lone man could ruin.

Chapter Text

The inside of his car was freezing. Bruce had turned the a/c all the way up to contend with the Kansas heat, but now felt as if he were stuck in a tundra. As he turned the knob to the ait, he looked out the window, seemingly endless miles of farmland, all being and brown, spread before him. The only place of color was the cornflower blue sky, entirely cloudless. One thing was for sure: Gotham didn’t get skies like that under its apparent constant state of smog and storm.

Bruce had taken an inconspicuous black sedan for the trip, not wanting to draw too much attention and the closest airstrip being miles away. Small country houses, barns, and fields passed until Bruce’s driver pulled into a long drive-way. The gravel drive went on for a while as Bruce inspected the land that he had just bought. The closest house was a small structure in the distance. A blue house with a front porch, and its color almost indistinguishable in the increasing darkness of dusk.

Looking to the house at the end of the drive, Bruce sighed. It was ugly. And run down. And definitely not the kind of place the Bruce would choose to live in. But for the next few weeks, it was home. Assuming a few weeks was all it took.

Months ago, Bruce’s computer had picked up some strange electromagnetic activity near Pleasantville, Kansas. Being in Kansas and the middle of nowhere, Bruce had ignored it. But when Bruce caught wind of some suspicious LexCore dealings out in Kansas, he started looking into it. Using public records (and a few illegal-ish channels), Bruce found monthly settlements being paid to a Ryan Jenkins, the owner of this plot.

Not that Lex Luthor’s dealings were much of Bruce’s business, but the most recent LexCore Expo had revealed a new initiative to rival Bruce’s own Wayne Technologies, promising more than seemed possible to scientists and inventors looking to sign a working contract. So, following a hunch, Bruce had kept an eye on the farm. When Ryan Jenkins had died and the place went up for sale, Bruce pounced on it, determined to discover what Lex Luthor might be hiding there, trying to find any ammunition to stay on top.
But now, Bruce had no idea what he was looking for. The driver stopped in front of the house and killed the engine, bringing Bruce’s attention to the rustic house in front of him. He frowned. He’d have to make due for the time being.

‘You’d think with all the money Luthor was giving them that the place would be in better shape, huh?’ Bruce thought to himself. Fishing the key from his pocket, Bruce started towards the front door. He unlocked it and stepped inside, bracing for the worst.

The inside was not as bad as the outside. Where the family had neglected the gapped roof tiles and the chipping paint, they had made up for in the cozy interior walls and beautifully kept hardwood floors. Bruce walked in further, allowing his driver to follow him in with his bags. Cleared of all furniture, the house lay bare. It was relatively clean, Bruce noticed, as he swept a finger over the mantle in the living room. There were windows in every room, allowing the last bits of sunlight to illuminate the rooms before it would be night and Bruce would have to find out if the lights in this place worked.
“Where would you like these, sir?” asked the driver from behind Bruce.

“Anywhere upstairs is fine. Just pick a room that looks like it might be a bedroom,” Bruce waved him off as he grabbed his phone and dialed a familiar contact: Alfred, his butler since birth. “Alfred, I’m going to need some furniture. Can you arrange a delivery for tomorrow? Oh, and you might want to throw my bike in that delivery, too. I didn’t realize how far apart everything is out here,” Bruce laughed humorlessly. “Alright, thank you.” Bruce hung up as the driver returned from upstairs. “Any chance you could drive me to one last stop before you head back? I’ve got to meet my new neighbors,” Bruce said, eying the blue house out in the distance.

Chapter Text

A knock at the front door interrupted Clark as he dried the last of dinner’s dishes.

“I’ll get it!” he called as he made his way to the foyer. He swung the front door open, curious to see who would be calling on them this late. In front of him stood a sharp looking business man. He was slightly shorter than Clark, in a black suit and nicely pressed pants. His dark hair was cut close on the sides, but the evening wind had blown the rest of his hair in wild directions. But all of that came secondary to what Clark noticed first, which was the strikingly handsome face of the man, with dark eyes and a square jaw.

Clark gaped slightly, not sure what to say, or why the man was there. The man unclasped his hands and held one out for Clark to shake.
“Bruce Wayne, Wayne Enterprises. How do you do?” he stated in a professional, practiced tone. His voice was deep and rich. Clark felt a squeeze in his stomach. Clark reached out to shake his hand, which held a surprising strength, even for Clark. Remembering to speak, Clark cleared his throat.

"Clark Kent. How can we help you?”

Mr. Wayne gave a polite smile. “I just bought the farm down the road that used to belong to Ryan Jenkens. Since we’re now neighbors, I just thought that I’d introduce myself. I also have a few questions about the area, if you mind?” Right. Clark’s new neighbor. Clark wondered what he wanted with the plot. Maybe these questions would give him some insight.

Ever curious, Clark moved aside and extended his arm, inviting Mr. Wayne in. Before entering, he turned away from Clark and waved to a driver standing beside a car down the drive that Clark hadn’t noticed. “Good night, Charles!” The driver nodded curtly and got in his car, gunning the engine and peeling off into the falling night. Mr. Wayne looked back at Clark and smiled politely before entering. As he drifted past him, Clark inhaled a sharp smell, the smell of expensive cologne and fresh-pressed linen.

Clark cleared his throat again, suddenly acutely aware of his parents playing Scrabble in the living room.

“Mom! Dad! We have a visitor!” he called out.

“Who is it!” Martha called back.

“It’s our new neighbor, Bruce Wayne.” Mr. Wayne raised an eyebrow to Clark in the silence that followed.

“My parents, Martha and Johnathan.” Clark clarified, trying to ease the tension. After a beat too long, Clark’s mother replied:

“Well bring him on in, then. It’s rude to just keep him by the door.” Clark led Mr. Wayne to his living room, where his parents did their best to act natural. Martha stood immediately. “Please, take a seat. Can I offer you anything to drink? Water? Iced tea? Lemonade?” Bruce waved his hand in dismission.

“I’m quite alright, but thank you. I’m not looking to take up too much of your time,” he said as he took a seat on the couch across from Martha and John, leaving the only seat available for Clark on the loveseat next to Mr. Wayne. Clark sat down, careful not to knock his knees with Mr. Wayne’s.

“I just wanted to introduce myself and ask some questions about the area, see if the plot I bought is something to invest greatly into.” John stiffened as Mr. Wayne mentioned investing in the space, his fears over him ruining the area seemingly coming to fruition.

“Of course, anything you need. We are neighbors, after all,” Mr. Kent said, trying to get in Mr. Wayne’s good graces, Clark suspected. The billionaire leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of him.

“Is it true that there’s been some intense storms around here recently?”

Jonathan nodded. “Yeah, a lot of thunder and lightning and wind over the past month or so. Which isn’t abnormal out here in summer but the rate and power of the storms is really what’s been setting them apart. There’s been a lot of damage to some structures around the area because of it. Killed Ryan Jenkens, too.” Martha put a hand on her heart and nodded solemnly, no doubt sending a prayer to the Jenkens family.

“Ah.” Mr. Wayne acknowledged. “That leads to my next question. How well did you know Ryan Jenkens? Did you know anything about his business dealings?” Jonathan leaned back, looking taken by the question.

“Um, well, he and his family ran a farm, just like most of us out here. I don’t know much past that. The Jenkens mostly kept to themselves.”

Mr. Wayne nodded, then stood. “Right, well, that was all I had to ask, I suppose. I should start walking back now. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Martha seemed surprised. “You’re walking?”

“Yes, I sent my driver back home already and I thought that it wouldn’t hurt to get a lay of the land.” Mr. Wayne smiled politely at Clark’s mom.

“Well have Clark walk you back. It’s getting dark, and he knows the land better than anyone,” John said, winking at Clark. Another attempt to get on the billionaire’s good side, surely. Mr. Wayne put his hands in his pockets and regarded Clark. He shrugged.

“Alright, if you insist,” He replied. Martha gave Clark a silent thumbs up as he filed out of the room behind Mr. Wayne, his stomach getting tighter and tighter. What a night it was shaping up to be.

Chapter Text

The Kent Boy seemed nervous. He kept clearing his throat only to say nothing. He was fidgety, pulling on his collar of his shirt or picking at dirt on his pants the whole walk. Eventually, Bruce got tired. “So,” he started, seeming to surprise Clark. “You live with your parents?”

Clark gave a small nod of his head. “Yeah. For 23 years of my life. Except I moved out for a bit to go to a local college. I did a 2 year program before coming back. With them getting older and the farm still needing help it just made sense to come back.”

Bruce admired his loyalty to his family. “That’s noble of you,” Clark looked down bashfully. It was cute. “When you were away, what did you study?”

“Journalism,” his answer was immediate. “It always appealed to me, I guess. Not very useful in farming, though. Unless you’re reporting on the weather,” Clark laughed as he ran a hand through his dark hair. It was longer than Bruce’s and lightened by days and the sun and held a slight curl to it.

Bruce had thought Clark was handsome when he had opened the door, with his blue eyes and broad shoulders, but in the moonlight he looked almost…otherworldly. He looked nothing like his light-haired and dark-eyed parents, Bruce thought.

In Gotham, being into guys was never an issue. There was always too much else going on for people to care about a playboy’s business. And Bruce being rich and a well-known philanthropist let him do pretty much whatever he wanted without question, not that Bruce had much time for that anymore. Taking on the role of the city’s nighttime vigilante barred Bruce from pretty much any relationship where someone would spend the night, male or not.

But this Clark guy was cute. Distractingly so. No, Bruce reminded himself. He was on a mission. And this was Kansas for God’s sake. Clark was probably as straight as the cornstalks he grew. But still, he couldn’t help it if he snuck a few glances at the man. “Do you plan on farming forever? Staying here?” Bruce asked, trying to find some depth to the farmer boy. Clark shrugged.

“I mean, that’s probably how it’ll shake out. I had a thought once of moving to the city and becoming a reporter but –” Clark stopped short, seeming to remember himself. “Sorry, you don’t need to know all of that,” he said, looking down at his feet, starting to pick at his jeans again as he walked towards the house in the distance.

Bruce huffed a laugh. “That’s quite alright. I asked, after all. I’m just trying to get to know you better. You know, I live in Gotham city for most of the year. You should stay with me sometime once I move back, get a feel of the city for yourself. We are neighbors, you know.” Clark looked up at Bruce, giving a small, genuine smile.

“Right. Thank you,” he said. “What about you? Did you always plan on being a heartthrob millionaire philanthropist?” Bruce laughed at this, a real, genuine laugh.

“Billionaire.” He corrected through his laughter. “And where did you get ‘heartthrob’ from?”

Clark shrugged, smiling a lopsided grin. “I don’t know, I thought I’d read it in a paper somewhere. Am I wrong? I mean, look at you,” Clark gestured to Bruce; his hair, his neat shirt. Bruce waved Clark’s hands away, dismissing the idea.

“No, nothing like that. I mean, I’d had my share of scandals in the paper, but that was some years ago,” Bruce defended, putting his hands back into his pockets. With this Clark’s smile seemed to falter, and the conversation fell back into silence. Clark began to fidget again, a ball of nervous energy that annoyed Bruce. They walked in silence for the remainder of the walk, until they finally reached Bruce’s sorry house. Kent slowed when he saw the yard.

“Oh damn.”

Chapter Text

The yard was a mess. The house, too. But that was a different matter entirely. There were patches of dead grass, piles of lumber, car parts, and hay stacks. Clark stretched his collar. His parents would never let a yard like that fly. Clark whistled.

“Hey, if you’re trying to make the place more sellable, you might want to clean up the yard.” Bruce rolled his eyes and removed his crisp jacket, the summer heat finally getting to him. Clark couldn’t help but notice how the sweat had clung to Mr. Wayne’s shirt, sticking to the fine lines of his back, a flaw in the perfectly crafted image of Mr. Wayne.

“Do you know a guy?” Mr. Wayne asked, unbuttoning his sleeves to roll them up.

“Yeah,” Clark said. “Me.”

What the hell was he saying? He didn’t have the time to be Bruce Wayne’s farmhand. Maybe it was the fact that, despite his better judgement, Bruce Wayne intrigued him. Clark couldn’t help but watch as he spoke, how he walked, how he swept his hand through his hair to get it out of his face.

Mr. Wayne took a step back, looking Clark up and down. Clark felt trapped under his dark gaze, ignoring the turning in his stomach “Alright.” he finally said. “Can you start tomorrow? I’ll pay well, of course. I just need this place cleaned quickly.” Clark nodded, thinking how much a tip from Bruce Wayne would be. He thought of how much that would help his family.
“Good. Can you be out here at 9 am tomorrow?”

Clark shook his head. “I’ll be here by 6:30. Gotta start the day before the sun gets too hot.” Bruce huffed in slight exasperation. Clark sensed he wasn’t used to people contending his requests.
“Fine. I won’t be awake, though. You can start on your own. Good night, Clark. Safe travels home.”

“Good night, Mr. Wayne.” Clark responded, turning back to the road to return home. He thought he heard Mr. Wayne laugh at his formality as he moved to enter his own house. Clark rubbed his eyes. What was going on with him? And what was up with this guy? He thought as he picked his pace up to a run, his speed turning a 45 minute trip into a 30 second one.

…

Back home, Clark let the screen door slam behind him. “Clark, is that you, sweetie?” Martha called from the living room. Being late, Jonathan was probably already in bed. But Martha, ever the night owl, remained awake, reading a book by lamplight. She glanced at the clock when Clark walked in, her face turning from welcoming to anxious. “You’re home too early. Did you have to come back that fast? What if someone saw you? What if someone saw you coming here and knows who you are now?” She fussed,

Clark’s shoulders sagged, too tired to get into this argument again. Sensing this Martha pulled back. “Sorry. I know. And I know that you know. I just worry, is all,” She rubbed his arm comfortingly. Clark nodded.

“Yeah, I get it. I should have thought about it more,” Clark’s face brightened when he remembered the news he had to share. “I have a new job tomorrow, working for him, Mr. Wayne, cleaning up his yard. It’s a mess.” Martha stepped back, surprised.

“Well, well, well,” she said, giving him a nudge on the shoulder. “Getting a job from Mr. Fancy-Pants. Aren’t you moving up in the world? You better go to sleep then, so you’re nice and rested for that tomorrow, then,” she ordered, patting him on the back, pushing him towards upstairs.

…

Clark couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t stop thinking about him. So two hours of non-sleep in bed later, Clark was at his bedroom desk, looking him up. He skimmed some articles, mostly business stuff from the Daily Planet of Gotham Gazette, detailing new deals or ground-breaking ceremonies. Clark stopped short when he came across an article from a couple of years ago, the thumbnail showing Mr. Wayne, a younger version of the man who had been sitting on his couch a few hours before, a cocky smile playing on his lips as he put a hand up to unsuccessfully block the camera lens. A man stood next to him, a coat pulled tightly around him and head down. Clark could still see that the mysterious man was gorgeous, he could have been a model. But what stood out to Clark the most was the title of the article: “BRUCE WAYNE SPOTTED TAKING HOME MALE RUSSIAN MODEL.”

The implication surprised Clark, as did Mr. Wayne’s nonchalant attitude in the picture at being spotted taking home a guy. Clark opened the article. The site looked like a cheap tabloid trying to get an easy dig at a popular guy. Clark scoffed at the idea of it. The article detailed a high-society party for young socialites and the presence of one Bruce Wayne. It then went on to detail the scandal of the young Mr. Wayne, the heir to Wayne Enterprises, ushering a young attractive man into his sports car to take home.

Clark closed out of the tab. Huh. That face must have broken a lot of hearts back in Gotham. Clark didn’t know why he thought that. He headed back to his bed and flopped down on top of the covers. He looked at the clock on his nightstand. It read 4:30 AM. Clark groaned as he closed his eyes, trying to get at least an hour of sleep before his new job the next morning.

Chapter Text

Bruce awoke to the sounds of someone moving his yard, the sound of metal being scraped against a gravel ground waking him from rest he might have been getting. Bruce blinked as sunlight streamed through the grimy windows of his new living quarters. He rose slowly and groaned, cuts and bruises from his nighttime crime-fighting hobby still lingering on his skin. He made his way to the window to investigate the noise, only to find he couldn’t see clearly out of it due to the dust.

Bruce wiped away the grime to reveal a strapping farmboy hard at work in his lawn, pushing broken branches and lumber around the yard with some effort. Bruce checked his watch. 6:30, Just like he said. Bruce huffed. He should have expected as much from such an honest person from an honest family.

Saving the moment for himself, Bruce looked down into the yard, observing Clark below. He was moving around a hay bale, his face getting almost comically red with the effort. Turning his back to Bruce’s window, Bruce could see the muscles of Clark’s back move underneath his worn and thin shirt as he worked. Though exerted, Clark looked graceful, the movements of manual labor routine and natural for him at this point. His big hands gripped the hay bale for another attempt.

Obviously distracted, Bruce was slow to notice when Clark turned around, smiled, and waved up at Bruce. Bruce cursed to himself as he resisted his instinct to duck out of sight. He waved back and smiled through clenched teeth, trying to seem natural. And not like he’d been watching Clark at all. Clark turned back to his work, and Bruce’s face turned red. So embarrassing, he thought. When was the last time he had been uncool as that? It had been a while, that was for sure.

Pretending to get a call, Bruce back away from the window and into the middle of his room. Damn it. He needed to get it together. Getting distracted by gorgeous farmhands was no way to solve a mystery. Bruce took a breath, and steeled himself for the day of the research, stealing one last look at the front yard.
…
Bruce groaned and put his head in his hands. Almost noon already and his searching had come to nothing. Apparently, having back door entries into places he shouldn’t be doesn’t always yield results for Bruce. There was nothing in the Lexcore databases in a strange energy source. The trail that Bruce had followed to find the Jenkin’s payments had mysteriously disappeared, making him retrace his steps.

All the hours staring at his laptop screen had started to weigh on Bruce’s resolve. He needed a break.

Standing up to stretch, Bruce’s eye caught on the front door. No, he needed a distraction. He made his way to the front door and opened it. Clark, still in the front yard, stopped his work and looked Bruce’s way, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.

“Hey,” he said.

“Morning,” Bruce replied, leaning on the door frame. “Want a glass of water?”

Chapter Text

Clark was feeling awkward. When Mr. Wayne offered Clark to come in, he thought it would be a perfect break from his dull and easy work of the morning. His parents had told him to take his time and make his work slow. “The longer you’re working, the longer he’s paying,” his father had said. Him hiding his abnormal strength and speed was just a perk, Clark thought.

But now, standing in Mr. Wayne’s grimy kitchen, Clark yearned to get back to the yard. Mr Wayne had no table or chairs (or furniture at all, for that matter. A lack of foresight, on his part), which led him and Clark standing against opposite counters, a silent tension spanning the room between them.

“So,” Bruce started, breaking the silence. “Tell me about yourself, Clark.” Clark blinked. He didn’t know what to do with that prompt. Clark thought that they'd been through all this the night before.

“I don’t know, I told you about myself last night. There’s not too much to me,” forget the superpowers. “What about you, Mr. Wayne? What’s your life like?” The man across the kitchen let out a small laugh. It sounded like honey. Clark pulled at his collar uncomfortably.

“Well, for one thing, most people just call me Bruce. You can, too.” Clark nodded. Duh. Of course. “Other than that, not much. I do business. I network. I attend the galas, the meetings, the works. It’s pretty boring, actually. This has to be the most interesting thing that I’ve done for months.” The slight clandestine smile on Bruce’s face told Clark a different story.

“Are you, uh…” Clark shrugged. He didn’t know how to finish his question. “...married or anything?” He sucked at this whole casual thing. Bruce gave an amused grin. He held up his hand, showing a bare ring finger. “Nope, got no strings on me.” Okay, cool. Clark looked down at his glass. He looked up as Bruce started making his way across the kitchen and over to Clark, his black shirt seeming to fit him just right. It was probably actually tailored to him, the rich bastard. Bruce placed a hand on the counter next to Clark and leaned in, making Clark feel trapped.

“Why do you ask?”

Clark gulped and looked down at his glass again, finding anywhere to look but Bruce’s dark eyes.

“Uh, you know, just, you know, curiosity’s sake and…” Bruce leaned in, and expectant look on his face. Clark could almost feel his breath, Bruce’s chest mere inches away from being on his. Clark could feel a heat rise up the back of his neck. He looked to Bruce, all eyebrows raised and shining eyes and perfectly parted lips. “Because I…” Clark tried to continue as he leaned in. What was he doing? Bruce’s eyes looked to Clark’s lips. His hand grazed Clark’s.

The unexpected touch brought Clark suddenly to his senses. He backed away suddenly, almost spilling his water. “Just curious!” he said, way too loud. He lifted the glass to his lips and guzzled the last of his water. “Thanks!” he called to a surprised looking Bruse as he walked briskly to the door to return to the front yard.

What was that? What was he thinking? That wasn’t Clark in there. That was all Mr. Way– Bruce. That was all Bruce. All his cologne and eyes and funny words. He had trapped him at the counter, even! What was Clark supposed to do? Maybe that was how things rolled in Gotham city but here, that wasn’t how things were done, Clark thought. It wasn’t polite or normal to push yourself onto someone else like Bruce just had. He had, hadn’t he? Clark was the one who had asked about Bruce’s marital status. Why did he do that? What was he hoping for? Maybe that hope was seeded in something buried deep in Clark’s chest that he dared not touch.

Clark huffed and out a breath as he picked up a piece of scrap metal to put in the junk pile, resisting the urge to chuck it three miles into the distance. He threw it onto the pile, then froze. Moving that piece of metal should have taken a lot more effort than he had pretended to use, as he had thrown it in the pile lightly with one hand, and Bruce could have been watching.

Panicked, Clark looked at the house and searched. He looked past the curtains, past the house itself and saw Bruce was standing at the front window, watching Clark. Clark looked down suddenly, embarrassed to be looking through Bruce’s house like that, but mostly frightened at what he’d just unknowingly revealed to Bruce.

Chapter Text

Bruce didn’t think that the day could take any more of a left turn. The moment in the kitchen had been bad enough. Bruce thought that he was just reciprocating Clark’s vibe. That was a severe miscalculation. Clark had leaned in, causing Bruce to think, “This is unexpected, but appreciated.”

But then Clark has started and backed up. He looked…scared. And confused. Bruce should have known the simple farmboy wasn’t so simple.

But Bruce wasn’t expecting this. Bruce had been standing at the front room window, debating on whether or not to go into the yard to clear things up with Clark, when Clark had picked up a piece a piece of scrap metal the size of a park bench with one hand and tossed it to the pile of trash almost 10 yards away. It took Bruce a minute to process what he’d seen. That was impossible.

Clark looked freaked and immediately looked to the house, eyes searching the windows. Bruce stepped back, letting the shadows of the house and the curtains obscure him, sure that Clark wouldn’t see him. Until through the crack of the curtains, Bruce saw Clark looking at him. Clark saw him, through the grime, the curtains, the darkness and all. Their eyes met, and Clark’s went wide before turning to the ground.

Bruce shuddered. This kid was not normal, that was for sure. And more than in just a weird repressed kind of way, but in a way that Bruce might have encountered back in Gotham. The thought set him on edge.

So now Bruce stood at the threshold, flipping through some cash to give to Clark for his day of work. He wouldn’t even meet Bruce’s eyes, even as Bruce handed him the cash. “That was a big piece of metal there. Looks heavy,” Bruce said to break the silence.

Clark finally looked at Bruce then. “Yeah, it was, um, aluminum. So, it was pretty light. It was probably roofing or something.” Clark looked down again, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, looking behind him to the yard. There was still more work to be done.

“Right. Get home safe, then.”

Clark nodded. “Yeah. You too, or– whatever.” He waved the thought away before turning to walk down the drive and back to his house. When he turned on to the main street, Bruce went back inside. He went to his computer, remembering his real reason for staying out in this crappy and honestly depressing house before a small distraction became far more distracting than intended.

Having no furniture, Bruce had to do all of his work on the cot that he had brought to sleep on. It was getting quite uncomfortable. This time, Bruce tried searching up the area itself, seeing if there was anything of interest that Luther would want out here.

After a few dead ends, Bruce dug up an article from nearly 23 years ago saved on to a local library’s database. It read of a “cosmic event”. An object had been suspected to have come from space and land somewhere around the area. Bruce read through several witness testimonies from the article, until two names caught his attention: “Johnathan and Martha Kent”. Clark’s parents. He read theory statements intently. Jonathan’s was first: “To be honest, I barely remember it. I was dead asleep,” then Martha: “Sleep is hard to come by with a new baby, you know? I think John and I were both out cold for the whole ordeal.” Bruce’s eyes narrowed. The other people’s reports thought that the object landed pretty close to the Kent’s land, by their speculations. But they never woke up for it?

Bruce closed his eyes as he tried to recall everything he knew about the Kents. Small farm, quaint house, warm, inviting, 20-something year old son. No, 23. 23-Year-old son. Bruce made note of the event’s date, Feb. 29. A leap year date. He’d have to ask Clark about that the next time he was over, and the next time they were on speaking terms.

And then there was the whole business of the metal sheet. Maybe Bruce was just freaking himself out after a high-emotion situation. Maybe it was just some thin aluminum sheet. Bruce stood up, determined to put his mind at ease. He opened the front door and turned on the floodlight, illuminating the yard in a pale, white light. There were still pieces of trash and junk everywhere, casting ghostly shadows about the yard, but nothing more intimidating than what Bruce was used to.

He trudged to a pile of debris, spotting the metal sheet near the top. After clearing everything off the top of it, Bruce reached out for it, grasped the edge, and pulled. It came out of the pile abruptly, almost sending Bruce to the ground. It was heavy, and thick steel. Bruce was able to move it, but with two hands and some effort. There was no way that he would have been able to throw it. He released the metal, allowing it to clang to the ground. He sank to the ground after it. He put his head into his hands, nursing his growing headache. He had underestimated what he was getting himself into. Bruce had homework.

Chapter Text

Clark walked home as fast as was humanly normal. God, he was an idiot. First, the kitchen, then that? The thought of Bruce’s closeness, his voice, his eyes, sent a creeping heat to Clark’s face. He slowed his walk, giving himself more time to think before reaching home.

There was something about Bruce that Clark couldn’t describe. Clark felt jumpy, sweaty when Bruce was around. Clark sighed. He had an idea of what the feeling Bruce gave him was. But it was something that he didn’t even consider for himself. Being a super-powered being was enough for him as-is. He didn’t need the added questions that liking boys brought up. Clark’s mind went to his abilities: his strength, speed, sight, all of which his parents had tried to convince him was a blessing as he was growing up.

But it seemed more like a curse to him. A constant reminder to act helpless, even in times of need. He could do so much but was constantly held back. Why? Why was he like this, if not for some purpose? If not to help someone? His whole life, he had held back a part of himself to fit in and keep himself and his parents safe. But it seemed useless, sacrificing this much.

Clark saw his house in the distance and picked up speed. Too much speed, actually. Large clouds of dust were picked up behind him as he ran, but he didn’t care. His journey stopped just as soon as it had started. He skidded to a stop in front of the front door, faint yellow lights streaming out of the windows, inviting him into the promise of warmth and his family. The door opened.

“Clark? Honey, what–” Martha stopped when she saw Clark’s face, most likely red and contorted in anguish. Clark was crying. He didn’t know when he had started but now he couldn’t stop.

“Ma,” he said quietly, looking down at his hands, his hands capable of immense destruction and immense restoration. “Why am I like this? What made me this way?” Martha looked at the skid marks on the ground by Clark’s feet and sighed.

“John!” She called back into the house. “Get out here!” as Johnathan appeared in view, looking puzzled out the front door, at Clark. Martha’s voice lowered. “I think he should see what’s in the barn,” Taking in the sight of Clark and Martha’s words, a look of understanding came to Johnathan’s face.

“Right. Follow me, son.”

Jonathan and Martha led Clark around the house towards the barn. They kept exchanging knowing looks, having silent conversations that Clark couldn’t understand. Clark’s father grabbed one of the large barn doors, pulling it open. The inside, which Clark had seen a million times, spending lazy afternoons and early mornings in, looked eerie in the dark. John reached in and flicked on the light, a weak LED coming to light inside. Martha and John walked inside, looking back to Clark, who followed them, becoming more and more confused.

Jonathan brushed off a section of the floor, moving hay and dirt aside to reveal a metal handle next to a keyhole. Clark’s father pulled out his ring of keys and, after a minute of searching, pulled an old, small key from the bundle before sliding it into the keyhole and turning. Lifting the hatch revealed a metal-like figure Clark struggled to understand.

It was curved and sleek, being slightly shorter than a bed and too short for someone to stand in. The outside showed ornate metal detailing, with carvings of unfamiliar symbols etched in. Clark couldn’t place the strange feeling of familiarity he had when he looked upon it, or from the large symbol on the top, a diamond shape with a curved line going through it, almost making an “S”. What Clark thought was the front had a glass window, allowing him to peer inside to a small seat surrounded by a blank panel. Clark turned to his parents, who stood beside each other and watched Clark take it all in.

“What-What is this?” Clark struggled to get out. Martha stepped forward to put a hand on Clark’s shoulder as he continued to stare at the metal instrument.

“We had been wanting a child for so long, but we hadn’t had any luck for years. Then one night, the day we made your birthday, we saw a flash of light in the sky. We went into the yard and there you were, in this. It was like heaven itself had sent you. And it opened up and you were there, cooing smilin’ like the whole world was right. We had to keep you. And we never told a soul. We didn’t know if they would take you away from us, so we kept you a secret. And then you started to show off some of your…abilities, and we knew no one could know where you came from.” Martha finished.

“And where is that, exactly?” Clark replied, having sunk to his knees while trying to process. Jonathan stepped up to Clark.

“We don’t know, exactly. This thing shut itself right up after we took you out and it hasn’t opened up since. I’ve tried everything.” John tried to put a comforting hand on Clark’s shoulder when Clark brushed him off as he grew frustrated.

“And you never told me? Why? You had me thinking my entire life that I was from here, born here, with something wrong with me, but now you’re telling me that I’m, what, from where? Outer space?” Clark had begun to yell. His parents shrunk away from him, then looked at each other, trying to find the words.

“Well, we were going to tell you before you went away to college, but you seemed too worried about that by itself. Anytime before that we thought you were too young for it. And then when you came back, well, we didn’t want to give you a reason to stay here for answers. We wanted you to explore the world, son. We thought that this would keep you here somehow, looking for answers. I know that isn’t enough, but we knew it would upset you. I think selfishly, we wanted to keep it from you to keep you obliviously happy. I’m so sorry, Clark,” John tried to explain. Clark stood up and hopped into the pit that held the strange object. Pointedly not responding to his parents, Clark got a closer look at the object. He put his hand to the cool metal surface.

It began to glow, a pale blue light emulating from the runes carved into it. He gasped in surprise. It continued to get brighter, and brighter, until Clark had to shield his eyes. The object glowed so bright until Clark’s whole vision went white.

Chapter Text

Bruce paced the barren expanse of his living room. Having none of his regular tech and resources, he had resorted to making a mental map of everything he knew.

In the center of his imaginary corkboard was Lex Luthor and his promise of infinite power. An imaginary red line connected him to Mr Jenkins’ and his monthly payments. Another line connected Luther’s mysterious power source to the night of Feb. 29th all those years ago. This led the fictional red line to the Kents. To Clark. Bruce stopped pacing, slowing his body to slow his thoughts.

How was Clark connected to all this? Through his parents? Why did they cover for that strange cosmic event 23 years ago? Is that what Lex is after? Are the Kents helping, receiving some kind of settlement just like the Jenkins? Bruce mentally kicked himself for letting Clark get so close, physically and literally. He had invited him into his house, for god’s sake. He had… done other stuff.

Bruce ran a hand through his hair. And, stupidly, Bruce had let Clark know that he was onto him. Clark saw him through the window, then Bruce had asked not-so-subtly about Clark’s strength. Having no chairs to sit on, Bruce slid down to sit on the ground. Then laid. He flipped on his back and looked at the ceiling, dotted in spots and mildew. Bruce raised his hands against the ceiling and looked at them.

His hands were rough, covered in callouses and scars. His hands were far too rough for a trust-fund billionaire who pushed papers all day. His night-time “hobby” had taken its toll. Bruce thought back to crooks and villains that he had fought in the past. Clark’s display of strength reminded Bruce of some of them, those gifted with supernatural abilities and chose to use them for personal gain and greed.

Despite his better judgements, Bruce found himself envying the people he fought with powers. Hell, it would make his job a hell of a lot easier if he had them himself. But he made do with what he had. If Clark was one of these people, blessed with abilities, but chose to help out people like Lex Luthor in shady business, Bruce had a serious problem with it. Bruce might be able to set him on a better course, he might be able to be reasoned with.

Choosing to think optimistically that Clark could be saved from corruption, Bruce stood up and made his way to the door, opening it to let the warm summer breeze in. At least out here, nothing besides Clark was too abnormal. The wind blew the same and the sky looked as dark as it did on a night in Gotham. But the stars shone a bit brighter here, and the wind smelled cleaner and sweeter. Bruce signed and looked out across the fields, understanding why Clark might have wanted to come back to these plains after all.

Bruce sat down on the front porch steps, happily accepting anything chair-adjacent at this point, and looked up at the sky. Night was beginning to fall, and the stars were beginning to show themselves. Where the sun was setting left a halo of light around it. The sky around it was a cornflower blue, almost the same color of Clark’s eyes, Bruce thought before he could stop himself. This was a problem.

He was a potential suspect. No, he wasn’t potential. He was almost certainly involved. What other reason did the Kents have for their lying? Bruce grasped at straws, still trying to absolve the Kents and think of any theories, hints, or leads. He had Clark, so he’d start there. Tomorrow. Their game of tip-toeing and beating around the bush had just gained a new layer.

As Bruce was thinking of a way to crack open Clark, a small light illuminated from behind the Kent’s house way out in the distance. It started small and blue, but in an instant, grew larger and brighter so the silhouette of the Kent house was a pin-prick against the flash. But just as it had appeared, it was gone. “Tomorrow,” Bruce said, “I’ll deal with that tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Clark blinked his eyes, allowing them to adjust to the light. As his vision cleared, he was able to make out the space around him. One minute, Clark had been standing with his parents in the barn, then the bright flash of light. Now he was here alone. Not in Kansas anymore. Where was he? Not his barn, that was certain.

He looked around. He sat on the ground of a large white room. The room was circular, with walls, made of a smooth, white material, curving into the ceiling leading to a sizable oculus in the middle. The strange runes that had been carved into the pod in the barn appeared here too, covering what looked like desks and control consoles around the middle and outer edges of the room.

Clark stood up, already on high alert should anything threaten him. His rugged jeans and t-shirt, dirty from his day of work, clashed with the pristine and glossy setting that surrounded him. Clark opened and closed his fists, assuring his strength before venturing forward. As he took a step forward, a voice rang out, making him jump.

“Hello, Kal-El.”

Clark whipped around to see a man standing behind him near the middle of the large room. Clark looked him up and down. His hair was white and slicked back, his robes a similar shade, matching everything in the room. His robes, which reached the floor, held a brooch in the middle of his chest, bearing the same symbol that Clark had seen on the pod earlier, the strange “S” in a diamond. His face was calm and serene, his mouth unexpressive through a white beard, and his almost familiar blue eyes revealing no secrets either. The man clasped his hands in front of him, presumably waiting for Clark to respond.

“Uhh…Who?” was all that Clark could manage. The man’s face showed no change.

“Kal-El is the name your mother gave you, though I suppose your caretakers on Earth would have given you a different name after we sent you away. I understand you are accustomed to this name and not the Kryptonian one you were given, correct, Clark?” A million questions ran through Clark’s head, he didn’t know where to start.

“Wh-What? My mother? Send me away? Who are you? Are you…” Clark couldn’t finish the question.

“Yes, I am your father, Kal-El. Or, a mere visage of him, yes. Before your – our – planet, Krypton, was destroyed, I stored all my memories and cerebral data in an info drive in your pod. Unfortunately, I am a mere replication, as your real mother and father died shortly after they sent you here.” Clark stepped closer to the misty version of his supposed father.

“So, I’m from this other planet, Krypton? But it’s destroyed? How?” The visage of his father smiled sadly and flickered.

“All in good time, son. For now, continue to live. You have barely touched the depths of your powers. You have a good heart and the ability to do a lot of good, Kal-El. Use that. Use that. You’ll see me again,” Clark’s father began to fade, and Clark’s vision started to lighten, signaling his return to the real world. Clark reached out desperately to the flickering image.

“Wait! Wait, stop! I need–”. Clark found himself back in his barn, arm still outstretched. John and Matha had been shielding their eyes from the glare. Clark found himself breathing heavy, chest heaving up and down. His parent blinked into the fading light.

Seeing Clark’s distraught nature, Martha rushed to him, putting an arm around his shoulder as she sank to the floor next to him.

“Are you alright, hon? What was that?”

Pausing, Clark sent a wayward glance to his parents before responding: “That was my dad.”

Chapter Text

The sound of rattling windows awoke Bruce. Groaning and rubbing his back, made sore from the cot, he got up and approached the window. Looking into the yard, he saw billows of dust being picked up by the heavy winds. Rubbing his eyes, Bruce checked his phone. The forecast said nothing about the incoming storm that the clouds in the distance seemed to promise. Bruce’s eyes narrowed. Oh. An abnormal storm

Bruce remembered the reports he had read about the strange storms out here from the last couple of months. They had detailed toppled trees, dust clouds, collapsing barns, and more. Springing into action, Bruce bounded downstairs without having time to dress. He was ready to witness the storm head-on. Despite all rational reasoning, Bruce rushed to get all kinds of sensor and analysis equipment that he had thought to bring in order to get a reading on the storm.

Running outside to set up, he saw something in the distance. A twister was forming. Shit. It was a big ugly thing, dark brown and thick. The sight made Bruce’s heart drop into his stomach. The wind was going to push it his way. Bruce set his jaw.

Going one at a time, he began setting up his readers, staking them in the ground to point toward the sky. Switching them on, he grabbed a tablet and made sure all of his readings were coming through. They all measured different schematics such as temperature, wind speed, radioactivity (you never know), and electromagnetivity. Looking up from his tablet, Bruce saw the twister, fully formed, heading straight toward him and his house. Shit again. Bruce looked next to him to the house. The barn didn’t look like it would hold, so somewhere in the house would have to do. There were no basement stairs anywhere inside, Bruce remembered.

He ran around the house to the back, where he had seen cellar doors earlier. They were on the ground and made of old, decaying wood and painted red. He ran to it and, realizing it was locked, yanked at it again. No dice. He pulled with all his force. Of course, the house chose right now to be structurally sound. Deciding he would have to settle for somewhere above round in the house, Bruce ran around the house to the front. He looked out the yard. It was here. Objects in his yard were being picked up and thrown into the spiraling tendril. Shit Shit Shit. Not good, not good. Looking up, Bruce saw that he had failed to notice the large pieces of lumber that had been picked up until one of them slammed into his back, causing him to cry out and fall on his stomach. Bruce glanced to the approaching tornado, then glanced at the house. He wasn’t close enough to the door.

He laced his fingers together and placed them behind his neck, placing his forehead to the ground. He shut his eyes as tight as he could, wishing he could also plug his ears against the deafening sounds of wind and smashing debris. There was a possibility that the tornado would miss him yet, he thought, trying to find some semblance of solace.
Bruce glanced up. It wasn’t going to miss him. Shit. As Bruce was looking to the door to see if he could make a run for it, he felt arms around him, stopping him. He looked up.

Clark.

He looked at Bruce, more stoic than he had ever seen him, and then threw his body over Bruce’s as hell began raining from above.

Chapter Text

Clark had heard the storm before he’d seen it. He had been in the barn, recounting the vision he had of his father to Martha and Johnathan when his hearing picked up something. Off in the distance, he heard rushing winds and the rumbling of thunder. It sounded like the beginnings of all of those terrible storms for the last couple months. But this storm sounded different.

Clark raised his head in alert, putting up a hand to silence his parents’ questions. They quieted, but continued to look at him warily. The storm was getting louder. And closer. Damn. His head snapped to Matha and John. “There’s another storm coming. I think it's worse than the ones before. You guys have to get to safety.”

Martha’s eyes widened as Johnathan nodded solemnly. “Alright, then. Let’s go, dear. To the cellar, then.” Clark’s mother looked back at him, her face showing her default maternal worry. “What about you, Clark? Are you not coming?” The walls began to shake around them, the strong winds picking up speed.

“I’ll be fine, Ma. You know I will be. I’ll stay out here to try to keep some stuff intact,” Clark said with a small smile. Martha nodded as she let John usher her across the yard to the cellar doors. Clark watched them enter and saw the doors close tight before he turned back into the barn. As he turned, a faint light caught his eye.

The space pod, the one that Clark’s parents had found him in, was glowing faintly under the floor of the barn. The runes and accents on it pulsed with a pale blue light. As Clark stepped closer to inspect it, he noticed the pulsing brightened and dimmed in time with the storm. With every crack of thunder or gust of wind, the light got brighter. Clark reached a hand out towards the machine. The storm raged. The light grew brighter.

Clark closed his eyes and listened, trying to hear for any changes in the storm. Instead of wind gusts, his ears picked up a small “shit, shit, shit” coming over the sounds of the storm. Clark backed his hand away from the pod, abandoning his experiment. The only person within Clark’s hearing distance would be his parents or…Bruce. Clark rushed out of the barn and stood in the yard, looking to Bruce’s house in the distance. He tried listening for more but heard nothing over the sounds of wind.

Bruce will be fine, Clark thought. He’s a smart guy. But despite this consolation, Clark continued to stare out. Something to the right of Bruce’s house caught Clark’s eye. Oh no. A twister. Bruce had less of a chance of withstanding that than a few strong gusts of wind and a bit of flying trash. Clark glanced to his cellar door one last time before bounding toward Bruce.

His second-long sprint stopped as Clark saw Bruce on the ground, braced with his legs tucked under him and his hands laced over the back of his neck like they had taught Clark in elementary school drills. Bruce began to look up at the storm when Clark saw something flying towards Bruce, a large piece of stray wood that had been left in the yard earlier. Without a second thought, Clark went to Bruce.

He grabbed Bruce’s shoulders, trying to give a sense of security. Bruce turned his head to look at Clark in the face, looking more scared than Clark ever thought he could. Clark instinctively threw his body over Bruce’s, allowing his back to take the blows that Bruce couldn’t.

Chapter Text

The storm seemed to rage on for hours. Bruce felt none of it. He only felt Clark around him, his arms and torso engulfing Bruce. To the side of him, large debris fell, smashing into the ground before being picked back up by the winds. How was Clark okay? There was too much raining down for nothing to be hitting him.

Bruce tuned into the feeling of Clark on top of him. His heartbeat was strong and fast, Bruce wondered if that was from adrenaline or something else entirely. His breath was heavy, too, and Bruce felt Clark’s chest push in and pull back against Bruce’s back. Clark’s head was behind Bruce’s, and he could feel Clark’s breath tickling his ear every time he exhaled. They both waited. And waited.

Not able to see much around him from his place under Clark, Bruce tried to look up at the storm. “How much longer do–” Clark firmly moved Bruce down to his previous position.

“Stay down,” he said in a voice so low, it sounded more like a growl than words. Bruce huffed out of frustration, but amusement made his lips curl up.

“Whatever you say, pretty boy.” He heard a scoff behind him. It was too easy to torment him. However, Bruce complied. They stayed down.

Eventually, the harsh sounds of wind and storm began to soften. And as it did, so did Clark’s presence over Bruce’s body. There was no way Clark had been taking blows that whole time. He still breathed and moved normally, and he hadn’t collapsed on Bruce, so that was a good sign. The sounds of the storm continued to die down. As they fully dissipated, Bruce felt Clark release his hold and stand up. Bruce rolled over to his back, looking up to the sky.

The green-grey clouds had begun to part, leaving the midnight sky showing behind them. Bruce sat up, looking at Clark. His eyes widened.

The back of Clark’s shirt was shredded. There were obvious tears where debris had been thrown or scraped across his back, leaving gaping holes. But the skin underneath was unscathed. There were no scrapes or cuts. No bruises or blemishes at all. Clark was looking out to the yard and the damage that had been caused as Bruce stared. Clark turned around, about to say something when he saw Bruce gaping.

“Your– your back…” was all Bruce could say. He didn’t quite know what he was trying to ask.

“My what?” Clark reached his arm around him, trying to feel his back. “Oh.” He seemed more disappointed in the shirt being ruined than anything else, Bruce thought. He made his way to his feet, heading towards the sensor machines that had miraculously remained intact during the storm.

“Alright, you should come inside,” Bruce said as he pushed buttons and screens of his machines. “We can get you a new shirt. It’s the least I can do after you saved my life.” He turned and smiled tightly at Clark, not forgetting his previous suspicions of the strange man. Clark’s eyes lowered to the ground as he nodded. Bruce led Clark up the stairs to the house, mentally cursing the thing for staying intact and forcing him to continue living in the damn place.

Bruce brought Clark to his bedroom and ushered him inside. He almost smirked at the optics of it, before remembering everything strange and unknown about Clark that put Bruce on edge. Pulling out his suitcase, Bruce picked a shirt and tossed it to Clark. He looked at Bruce expectantly.

“Oh, right,” Bruce nodded and walked out of the room, giving Clark his privacy. Duh. Bruce waited in the hall with his back to the wall. The storms, Lex Luthor, Clark’s unusualness. It was all connected somehow. Why? Bruce didn’t know, but he had a gut feeling, and those were rarely wrong. But if they’re connected, why did Clark save Bruce? And how? How did he do that? Clark emerged. The shirt was a bit too small on him, hugging around his chest and biceps tightly. Bruce cleared his throat. Clark spun around, noticing him there.

“Um, hey. Thanks for the shirt,” he said, tugging on the bottom of it. Bruce gave a thin-lipped smile, ready to interrogate.

“Of course. Let’s have a seat, I think we should talk.”

Chapter Text

Clark had half a mind to fly out of Bruce’s bedroom window while he was changing into his shirt. Now, he was wishing that he had. Bruce, ever devoid of furniture, had the two of them standing across from each other in the kitchen. Clark was acutely aware of what had happened the last time he had stood in this kitchen.

Clark pulled on the shirt he was wearing nervously. It was slightly too small, and it made Clark feel as if he were suffocating, which wasn’t helped by Bruce’s pinning glare. Why did he look so mad? Clark had practically just saved his life, he could at least look grateful. Bruce stood leaning against the counter opposite Clark, his arms crossed. Clark gulped. Bruce cleared his throat.

“So,” Bruce uncrossed his arms to brace them on the counter behind him. “I’m going to be a straight shooter here with you Clark: what are you?” Clark didn’t expect such a blunt question. He wasn’t quite sure how to answer. He decided to play it off.

“I don’t know what you mean, I’m–” Bruce cut Clark off with a raise of his hand.

“You know what I mean, Clark. How did you get here so fast before the storm? How did you toss that piece of metal earlier, it was way too heavy to be thrown and you knew that, you just didn’t catch yourself in time. And the storm. How did you withstand that? Your shirt was torn to shreds but there wasn’t a scratch on your skin underneath. What are you, Clark? DO NOT play dumb with me.” Bruce raised his voice at the end, saying Clark’s name with a venom that Clark hated. Clark shrugged.

“I – I don’t know,” Clark looked down at the ground.

“That’s not good enough,” Bruce replied, eyes locked on Clark in a way that made him sweat. Clark didn’t know why he felt so compelled to give Bruce what he wanted. He could just as easily burst out of here, leaving a Clark-sized hole in the wall. But something kept him in that kitchen and pushed him to answer. Maybe something in the back of Clark’s mind told him that Bruce could help him figure out who he was. Or maybe it had something to do with the way that Bruce was looking at him at the moment. Either way, Bruce had already seen Clark and what he was capable of, and there was no taking that back.

“Ahem. Right. So, I’m not super sure myself. I was told, recently y’know, that I’m from a planet called, uh – what’s it called – Krypton. Yeah, Krypton. I was sent here as a baby and my parents just kept me, I suppose.” Bruce’s face fell into a blank stare.

“You’re an alien.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Apparently.”

“You’re fucking with me.” Bruce looked unamused.

“I’m really serious. I have a space pod in my barn and everything to prove it.”

Bruce rubbed his tired eyes with his hand. “Clark, when is your birthday?” Clark was a bit taken aback.

“Uh, well, my parents always told me it was February 29th, but now I’m not so sure. I don’t even know if they have birthdays on Krypton.”

“Christ.” Bruce looked tired. “How long have you known this about yourself, Clark?” he asked.

“Well, the abilities have kind of always been there, as long as I remember, but the whole alien thing? I don’t know, a few hours? Right before the storm, kinda.” Clark was running out of things to do with his hands. Bruce regarded Clark.

“You’re awfully calm about this whole new revelation.”

“I haven’t really had time to think about it, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce,” he corrected.

“Bruce.” Clark affirmed.

“Right. And I’m assuming, since you know so little about yourself…” Ouch. “That you also aren’t aware of Lex Luthor’s business here?” Now he had lost Clark.

“No, I’m not. Wait, what business here? Who? What are we talking about?” He asked. Bruce waved Clark’s questions off.

“Don’t worry about it, Clark. Nothing I can’t figure out myself.” Now he had Clark curious. Maybe they could help each other out here.

“Are you sure? I happen to have a very particular set of useful skills,” Clark said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Bruce scoffed. “Well, you’re still under commission, Clark. I’ll call for your help if I ever need it. Which I will, since the yard has been torn to shreds again from the storm. Oh, and I’m supposed to be getting some furniture sometime soon that will need to be moved.

“Sure thing, boss,” Clark said, winking at Bruce. He looked at the ground quickly, immediately feeling heat rush to his cheeks. That was uncharacteristic of him. Bruce nodded, a small smile on his face.

“Thank you, Clark. Will you be here tomorrow? I also don’t think our conversation is fully over yet,” Bruce said as he gestured to the door out of the kitchen, ushering them out.

“Of course,” Clark replied. “I’ll be here first thing tomorrow.” Bruce nodded as they exited to the front porch to say their goodbyes. As they walked out, the night sky filled Clark’s vision. The clouds had fully dissipated, allowing the stars to shine bright above. The fields around them went sprawling into the distance before being shrouded in darkness. And far in the distance, just barely, Clark could see his house, the lights turned on, a sign his parents were safe and sound.

“Can you do anything cool? Like do you teleport or something? Again, you got here pretty fast before the storm.” Bruce said abruptly, breaking the silence of the night.

Clark scratched his cheek. “I can, uh, run? Like, kind of fast. Or I can…” Clark weighed telling Bruce. It seemed worth it. “I can fly.” A grin broke out on Bruce’s face.

“You’re joking.”

Clark shrugged as a smile grew on his own face. Clark backed up into the yard, facing Bruce. “Good night, Bruce,” Clark said as he raised his arms, breathed in the night air, and, for the first time in a while, he flew.

Chapter Text

Bruce couldn’t believe this guy. Well, he had to believe it, because he was seeing it. Bruce had come out to check on the sensors he had placed before the storm the day before. He had stepped out groggily into the sun, shielding his eyes when a chipper Clark greeted him.

“Good morning, Bruce. Late start, huh?”

Bruce checked his watch. It was 8:30 in the morning.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, humoring Clark. Clark nodded and smiled as he picked up a piece of lumber that had been thrown the night before. It looked like something that Bruce could lift one end of with two hands. And here was Clark, tossing it on one shoulder with ease. The memories of the night before came rushing back: the storm, the tornado, Clark, the wind, the kitchen, Clark. Bruce rubbed his eyes, letting it all come back to him. Clark put the lumber down in a pile that he had formed.

Clark turned and noticed Bruce was looking at him, causing him to look down sheepishly. “I thought, you know, no use in hiding it anymore in front of you, Bruce,” he said, putting his hands in his back pockets. The way he said it, the tone he said this to Bruce, made him feel like he was in on a secret with Clark. Which he was, literally, but it felt more intimate. It felt personal, and it made Bruce feel special.

“Right,” Bruce replied, still trying to discern what was reality and what he thought was a dream. “Last night, did you–?” Bruce didn’t know how to ask without sounding insane. “Did you fly home? Last night?” Clark scratched the back of his neck.

“It was a bit dramatic of me, but yeah. Again, no use of hiding, I guess.”

Bruce nodded, mouth slightly agape. What Clark could do, Bruce had never seen anything like it before. Of course, in his years of crime fighting, Bruce had seen a number of metahumans with various abilities and superhuman capabilities, but none to this degree. Clark’s potential struck awe in Bruce. But it couldn’t stop the small voice in the back of his brain that thought it was too good to be true. No one should have all that power, Bruce thought. Clark could cause destruction. With the wrong turn, he was a weapon and Bruce wasn’t even sure how to gauge how destructive he could be. Clark terrified Bruce. He couldn’t help it. But that fear didn’t stop the impulse in Bruce’s chest that pulled him to Clark like a paperclip to a supercharged magnet.

Bruce’s thoughts wandered as he fiddled with his machines that had miraculously stayed intact. He was transferring the data from the sensors to his tablet as Clark tossed around impossibly heavy pieces of yard trash. As the data was being loaded up, Bruce’s eyes wandered. He looked up to Clark’s turned back as he moved. His back was sweaty, Bruce guessed that must be something that stayed the same for humans and kryptonians. His muscles were defined, and moved as Clark did. Is that included with the Kryptonian biology, or is that just Clark?

Bruce looked away. He felt like he was doing some kind of observational study of a new species. He was, in a way, but it still felt wrong.

“How did you know to come here last night?” Bruce asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen between them. Clark looked at Bruce before shrugging.

“I don’t know. I heard you, you know, cursing up a storm, and then I saw the twister in the distance. I also heard your heart beating really fast and I assumed, you know, that it was fear. So, I got here to help.”

Bruce didn’t know what to do with that. “You…heard me? From your house? That’s a thing you can do?” Clark nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

Bruce shook his head. “Is there anything you can’t do, Clark?”

“I’m a pretty lousy cook,” Clark replied. Bruce chuckled.

“That’s alright, Clark. There’s always time to learn.”

Chapter Text

The day had been pretty -going until Bruce’s furniture was delivered. It was almost a relief seeing the delivery truck, Clark thought, knowing it meant the end of conversations that had to take place in that godforsaken kitchen. As the truck approached, Bruce came outside.

After his data had loaded in the morning, Bruce had spent the next hour running between inside and the sensors, mumbling to himself as he kept his nose to his tablet and adjusted the knobs on his machines. When he came out this time, he left his tablet inside. He leaned against the porch banister with his arms crossed, idly watching as the truck pulled up the driveway, kicking up dust as it went. As the semi rolled to a stop, Bruce looked to Clark and tilted his head.

Clark dropped what he was holding and started walking over. He kicked himself for how easily he followed Bruce’s slight command. Clark walked around to the back of the truck and moved to open it as Bruce spoke with the driver and signed for the delivery. Clark stepped back as the door rolled up, taking in the contents inside. An array of beautiful, wooden, furniture lay inside. Chairs, tables, a desk, a bed and various other pieces of ornate and deeply rich colored furniture filled the trailer before Clark. They were all a dark red kind of wood, and looked sturdy and ornate. Expensive, to say the least.

After spending so much time on a rundown property with him, Clark had almost forgotten how wealthy Bruce was. Bruce walked around to the back of the truck and stood beside Clark, peering inside. “You’re kidding me,” Bruce groaned. “This is way too much stuff. I don’t even know if this will all fit in the house,” he said, running a hand through his hair. Clark whistled.

“I think my Ma would appreciate some of this,” he said, nudging Bruce. “You know, if you’re looking to get rid of some stuff.” Clark placed his palms on the bed of the trailer and hoisted himself up. All for show, of course. But Bruce knew that. He smirked at Clark as the delivery man walked around to the back.

“Tempting, but no. All this has to get back to Wayne Manor eventually, so I ought to hold on to it. There was a locked cellar door around the back. If we can get it open, we’ll store some of the less practical items in there.”

“Right,” Clark nodded, only slightly disappointed he couldn’t bring parts of Bruce’s lush living room home with him.

The rest of the day was spent laboriously. Clark worked with the delivery man, moving furniture as Bruce followed empty-handed, telling them where to go. Clark felt bad about making the man help out, Clark could have had it all done in ten minutes flat. But Clark supposed that Bruce got a kick out of watching Clark do work that was trivial to him, considering his abilities. Bruce had a crooked grin on his face anytime he looked at Clark, or maybe that was Clark’s wishful thinking.

The final bit of furniture that they moved they left near the cellar door.

“Well, that should be all of it,” Bruce said, dusting his hands of non-existent dirt. “Let me walk you back,” Bruce said to the truck driver, gesturing towards the front of the house. As he whisked him away, Bruce turned to Clark, giving a pointed look to him, then the door.

It looked old and weak, but as Clark reached down and pulled on the handle, he was surprised by its strength. But another firm yank later, and the doors yielded. Clark huffed as he looked into the darkness below. The cement stairs disappeared the further they went into the dusty basement. Clark made a noise of displeasure as he began to descend, looking for a light. At the base of the stairs, a thin ball chain hung from the ceiling in front of Clark. As he pulled it, a yellow glow filled the room as a few seemingly randomly placed lightbulbs flickered on.

The room was bigger than Clark had expected, and spiderwebs seemed to reach every corner of it. He shuddered. There were planks of wood on the ground for what looked like an unfinished basement project. In front of Clark stood a door. Cellars in houses like this typically didn’t have multiple rooms. Clark’s eyes narrowed as he tried to look through the door. He couldn’t. For some reason, for the first time, he couldn’t look through something. Clark thought that should make him nervous. But it didn’t. It made him excited. Seldom did Clark ever come across something his powers were impervious to (save for Bruce).

Listening for an approaching Bruce, a mischievous smile spread on Clark’s face. Clark approached the door, grabbed the handle, and yanked.

“Holy shit.”

Chapter Text

Bruce couldn’t imagine that breaking into his own cellar could ever be so fruitful. Clark had, as was his way, proven him wrong

Bruce had walked the truck driver back to his truck and tipped him generously. He felt bad making him help when he knew Clark could do it all himself, but it was too entertaining to watch. Bruce guessed that Clark didn’t like being held back like that, by the watchful eyes of others. It became apparent through the spiteful glances that Clark had given Bruce the whole afternoon as Bruce barely lifted a finger. He might have gotten comfortable with Clark, but he still had his “rich bastard” persona he needed to uphold.

Something about messing with Clark brought a bit of intrigue into the monotonous day-to-day out here in the fields. What happened if he pushed too many buttons? Could he even be tipped over the edge like that? How dangerous was making him mad?

Bruce’s thoughts were interrupted as he walked back by the sound of Clark calling for him. Bruce sprinted to the back of the house, turned the corner, down the cellar stairs and– “holy shit”.

Clark nodded in front of him. “That’s what I’m sayin’,” Clark said, standing next to an opened door. Before Bruce stood an opened closet. Inside stood (the source of their exclamations) a machine. It was large, reaching from the floor to Bruce’s chest. It was made of metal in a round cylindrical shape, with spires and buttons and screens sticking out of it at odd angles.

“Huh. What the–” was all Bruce could say as he approached the machine. He kneeled on the ground in front of it and began to inspect it. He ran his hands over it, feeling the metal. He expected it to be cool to the touch, as it looked like it had been sitting for a while. Instead, the surface was warm, like it had been operating recently. “Clark, check this out, does this feel warm to you?” Clark stepped forward, awkwardly squeezing in the closet door next to Bruce. Bruce chuckled and scooted over, letting Clark in.

“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath. Bruce doubted how sorry he really was. Clark reached out a tentative hand to the machine, hesitating before placing his hand on the surface gingerly.
As soon as he made contact, the machine whirred to life. Rings around the mechanism began to spin rapidly as small lights flicked on. Clark’s hand shot back and he clutched it to his chest. “Oh no, not again,” he said, brows knitted as he backed away.

“What do you mean ‘not again’?” Bruce asked over the noise as the machine got louder. The lights flickered above, swinging back and forth as the room began to shake. Bruce cursed under his breath as he began to search the machine for some way to shut it off. He looked around frantically on the machine, squeezing in the closet trying to get behind it. The whirring noise got louder as the machine picked up speed. Bruce wasn’t sure what the machine was for, but he was not too keen on figuring it out the hard way.

He reached around the back and felt a switch. Turning his face away from the fast-moving machine, he flipped it. He waited for a beat. The machine slowed. Across the room, Clark released a breath, still clutching his hand to his chest. Bruce stood up and brushed off his pants as the machine slowed to a stop.

He turned slowly to face Clark straight-on. He looked as guilty as any criminal Bruce had ever encountered. “What the hell was out? What did you mean ‘not again’?” Clark began to wring his hands.

“It just– It just reminded me of during the storm, my pod thing, like, reacted when I got near it.” Bruce blanked.

“You’re what thing?

“My pod? My ship? The thing that I came to Earth in. It’s weird to talk about, it’s still new to me. It sounds kind of silly out loud.” Clark admitted, scratching the back of his neck. Bruce turned back to the machine, examining it.

“Huh. So maybe it has something to do with being, what was it, Krypt– Krypton?”

“Kryptonian,” Clark provided.

“Right,” Bruce said absently as he began searching around the base of the mechanism.

“What are you looking for?” Clark asked.

“Some kind of, emblem of the maker, or…here.” Bruce’s fingers brushed against a logo along the surface. As he got closer to it, the symbol came into focus. “Of course.” Bruce breathed. The Lexcorp logo stood, clear as day, on the warm metal.

“What is it?” Clark asked, preening to get a look over Bruce’s shoulder.

“It’s what I’ve been looking for. Clark, this is the reason I came here. Do you know what this means?” Bruce stood as he grabbed both sides of Clark’s face, caught up in his joy.

“No?”

“It means I’m done here! I’ve got it! I found the link I came here to find. I can study this, get my answers, and I can go home. Probably should have kept the truck here to pack this all back up…” Bruce trailed off as he began to pull away from Clark, the awkwardness of holding his face dawning on him. He stopped short.

Clark’s hand was wrapped around Bruce’s wrist, keeping it in place on his cheek. “Don’t,” he said quietly, eyes down-cast. Bruce leaned in.

“What?”

Clark’s blue eyes raised to meet his. “Don’t go.”

Chapter Text

Maybe Clark needed to find out whatever god Kryptonians prayed to and start using that, because he was having no luck with this one. Clark wasn’t very religious. His experience in the church had never gone past Easter Sundays and the occasional obligatory Sunday mass with Martha. That didn’t stop him from praying now.

Bruce’s hand was still on Clark’s face where he held it, surprisingly rough and calloused for a billionaire living in mansions and penthouses. Clark savored the feeling.

“Don’t go,” he repeated. He didn’t know what compelled him and gave him the confidence in the moment. Maybe the sudden realization that Bruce would be leaving scared Clark, and the reason why scared him even more.

Bruce pulled his hand out of Clark’s grasp. Clark could have kept it there, if he really wanted. He could grip tighter and keep them there forever if he really wanted. But he wouldn’t. And maybe that said something about how bad he really wanted this. Bruce took a step back and looked Clark up and down. Clark hated the feeling of it, it made his skin tingle.

“Why?”

Clark looked to the ground, not being able to meet Bruce’s dark eyes. He didn’t have a good answer. “I don’t know, I like the work, I guess.” Lie. Clark mentally kicked himself for being such a wuss. Bruce scoffed and rolled his eyes, seeming genuinely annoyed, his nonchalant persona cracking.

“Right. I don’t know what I was expecting. Well I’m sorry, Clark, but I don’t belong here, you know this.” Clark nodded. Of course he knew that. Bruce didn’t belong anywhere near near these sprawling fields and dusty roads. But every day Clark had spent with Bruce he wondered how much he belonged here as well.

“Yeah, sorry. That was rude.”

“It’s fine, Clark.” Tension hung in the air between them as dust particles floated around the room, filling the air of the basement. Bruce broke away first, walking towards the stairs to leave. “Let’s get this stuff in here for now,” he called back, referring to the furniture. “I’ll call a truck to get all of this, including the machine, in a few days. In the meantime we should get the house ready to be put back on the market. I won’t be keeping it.”

Clark moved towards the stairs and into the fading sunlight. As Bruce walked off to make a phone call, Clark began to move the leftover furniture.

…

The next few days passed slowly. Clark worked at a normal pace, cleaning the yard and fixing up the house where it needed it. Clark only saw Bruce in passing, moving silently around the already quiet house. Bruce often seemed to be working in his make-shift office at his newly placed desk, catching up on work. Clark also saw the cellar door open from time to time, as Bruce must have been studying the machine. Most days, they never saw each other. He didn’t know why, but it was upsetting Clark more than he’d like. It was starting to show.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Martha asked one day at dinner. Clark had been pushing his food back and forth on his plate, not making any headway. Clark looked up to his mother across the table. He glanced at his father, who was not-so-subtly staring at him from overtop his newspaper. What was this?

“Nothing, why? Why do you ask? Have I been acting weird?” Clark began asking rapid-fire questions. His parents gave a long-ways glance to each other.

“Well, to be honest, hun, you’ve been acting a little down recently. You just go to Mr. Wayne’s, come home, eat dinner, and go to bed. You barely say a word. We’re a bit worried about you, to be frank,” Martha explained.

“Yeah, kiddo,” John chimed in. “Is everything okay?” Clark looked back at his food. Had he been acting differently? He hadn’t noticed. He supposed he had just been so lost in thought about Bruce and his leaving that he hadn’t been talking much. He shrugged.

“I don’t know, I guess I’ve just been a bit tired.” He picked up a bite of food and ate, an excuse to not talk. John closed his newspaper and lay it on top of the table as he sat back in his chair.

“Son, you know you can tell us anything, right? Whatever you need to get off your chest, we’ll listen,” Clark looked to the earnest faces of his parents. He knew what they weren’t asking him. He didn’t want to answer. He swallowed his food.

“I promise, guys, everything is good. Bruce is just really putting me to work, you know? I’ll do the dishes tonight.” Clark stood up from the table, gathering his plate. He ignored his parents’ wayward glances as he went to the kitchen and looked out the window, across the fields, across the earth to Bruce’s house.

Chapter Text

Bruce’s last few days spent in Kansas were as boring and barren as the landscape that they were spent in. Clark and Bruce moved like two ships in the night, not speaking. Bruce barely saw any eye contact from Clark most days. It made Bruce antsy. He hated the indirectness. He liked seeing a problem, and going after it. But apparently Clark didn’t.

After the moment in the basement, Bruce didn’t know what to make of Clark at all. When Clark had grabbed Bruce, Bruce had thought, had hoped, that it might have meant something. For a moment, however small it might have been, Bruce forgot who he was. He forgot the commitments that he had. To his business. To his family, his legacy, his city. To justice. Just for a moment, Bruce had left it all behind. He was just a man, in a room, with another man, looking into each other’s eyes. In very close proximity. Bruce had wanted to lean in. Of course he did. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested.

Clark had looked at him with those eyes. God, those eyes. They were bright even in that dingy basement. But then Clark had drawn back, brisk and unrelenting, and Bruce was brought back to reality. Bruce knew there was tension between them, you couldn’t ignore it. But Clark seemed to be the furthest thing from open to it, Clark’s sexuality was a whole can of worms that Bruce was not interested in opening. Not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t have the time or the bandwidth. At least, that’s what he told himself. And not at all because he was scared at what that would unleash..

Whatever the case was, Bruce was still leaving. He had good reasons. And Clark was staying here. And they would probably never see each other again. No doubt for the best, Bruce thought. He didn’t have time for distractions like Clark back in Gotham. But he was plenty distracted now.

Bruce spared what was an absolutely normal amount of time to watch Clark work in the yard. Every so often, while pacing and thinking, Bruce stopped in front of the curtains and peeked through. Clark looked gloomier these days, in a way that Bruce didn’t want to read into too much. That didn’t stop him from looking good. Bruce looked away out of guilt most times.

Five days after finding the machine in the basement, the tell-tale sounds of wheels on a gravel road came in through Bruce’s open window. Looking out, he saw the delivery truck roll to a stop in front of the house. Bruce watched as the driver got out and began small talk with Clark, a look of bewilderment and annoyance on his face at the idea of being back so soon. Bruce had asked Clark to bring all the furniture to the front yard to expedite the process.

Bruce headed downstairs, almost running into Clark in the threshold. Clark looked slightly down at Bruce.

“The truck is here,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder towards the outside.

“Right,” Bruce breathed. “Let’s, uh, get this done. Can you get the machine from the basement? I’ll distract the driver, we don’t want him getting uncomfortable with what he’s carrying around.”

Clark nodded, steely eyes on Bruce as he walked past him. It was the first bit of eye contact they had had in days. Bruce wasn’t sure whether he loved it or hated it. He walked down his front porch steps, stealing a glance back to Clark. He greeted the driver and apologized for the inconvenience. As Bruce saw Clark in the corner of his vision, carrying the cumbersome mechanism in his arms, Bruce asked the driver if he could get a ride back to town, where a driver would be waiting for him. The delivery driver grumbled something about rich folk and their entitlement until Bruce pulled out his checkbook.

…

After all of the cargo had been loaded in (the machine hiding behind other furniture), Bruce went back in the house to take one last sweep as the driver locked the back. He walked upstairs, checking his makeshift bedroom and office. The sound of the front door opening came from downstairs. Probably Clark.

Finished upstairs, Bruce turned to walk down to the first floor. Clark stood in front of the door at the base of the stairs, expression unreadable. “You’re really leaving, huh?” he said, his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah,” Bruce said, descending the steps, ending up side-by-side with Clark. “Yeah,” he said again, looking up at Clark, not knowing what else to say. They had been standing there too long. Bruce cleared his throat and reached for the door. As he opened it, Clark’s hand came up into view and slammed it shut.

“Wait,” he whispered, sweet as a song. Bruce swallowed thickly. But then, to Bruce’s horror and anticipation, Clark looked down at Bruce, grabbed the back of his head, and kissed him.

Chapter Text

Clark was desperate, that much was obvious. He knew it in the way he looked at Bruce, how he followed him in the house, how he kissed him. Clark didn’t know what gave him the balls. Clark didn’t know anything right now, besides Bruce. He held Bruce, gripping the back of his head like a lifeline as their lips touched. Bruce stiffened under Clark, before softening and reaching his hands up to Clark’s chest.

Clark couldn’t remember the last time he had been kissed, but this definitely beat it. Bruce’s lips were soft against his own, a strange juxtaposition from the rest of Bruce. Clark dared to move his mouth and Bruce moved in time as they found each other. He felt like he was dreaming. He felt Bruce’s warm breath land on Clark’s face. He felt his skin prickle. Clark could have sworn he would have started floating if it didn't mean leaving Bruce on the ground.

Clark raised a hand to Bruce’s face, his palm grazing Bruce’s stubble. He felt a sudden shove against his chest. Clark’s eyes fluttered open as he took a small step back. Bruce stood before him, his gaze simmering and steely. “No.” Bruce drew his hand back, off of Clark’s chest. Clark had barely noticed that it was there. He wished he had paid more attention to it, now feeling its absence.

“No,” Bruce said again, bringing Clark out of his thoughts. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to ignore everything and run away, only to do this–” Bruce gestured between them. “Right before I have to leave.” Clark had no excuse. Fear? Ignorance? He couldn’t find the words that would exonerate him.

“I’ve had…a confusing couple of weeks?” he tested. It was true. Not every day was he told that he was an adopted alien, or that his old neighbors had been harboring some evil weather machine, or that he was very into an unattainable billionaire from Gotham city. But he knew that wasn’t good reasoning.

Bruce crossed his arms. “Not good enough,” he huffed. He looked at Clark for what seemed like an eternity in silence. Clark couldn’t help but hear Bruce’s heartbeat, pounding through his chest. Bruce finally sighed and ran a hand down his face. “What did you think was going to happen, Clark? Honestly? After this…attempt? I was going to stay here, in Kansas? Or—what—you were going to come to Gotham? Start a relationship? It’s unrealistic Clark, and you know it. You’re too late for it to matter. You don’t mess with people like that,” Bruce commanded, sticking a finger at Clark. His posture had become stiff, his shoulders high and his body rigid. It reminded Clark of when they had first met, of the person Bruce had first presented himself to be, before everything else. Clark lowered his head.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could mutter. All of his bravado and gusto had left Clark, leaving him retreating inwards. He heard Bruce release a breath in front of him, though he remained tense.

“I know,” he uttered quietly as he moved towards the door. “Goodbye, Clark,” Bruce said as he opened it. Without another word Clark nodded, stepped through the door, and didn’t look back.

—----------

“Forgive me for asking, but is everything alright, Master Bruce?” Bruce whipped around. He had been standing in front of the fireplace in the main lounge, looking into the fire. He had returned home hours prior, and had been sorting through work for his family enterprise when his mind had begun to wander. He had been pacing in front of the fireplace when his mind had landed on Clark and his warmth. He had stopped in front of the fire and looked into the flames as he reached a hand up to touch his own lips. He didn’t know how long he had been standing there when Alfred called to him. Bruce cleared his throat.

“Yes, Alfred, thank you. Just thinking.” Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets before walking back to his armchair and falling into it. He groaned as he sank into the leather, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Alfred made a skeptical noise.

“Are you quite sure, sir?”

“No, I’m not sure at all.”