Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

People always think heroes are born ready.
Capes pressed. Morals unshakable. Hair—perfect.

But the truth? Sometimes heroes miss their alarm, fight with their hairbrush, and show up to work ten minutes late with coffee stains on their shirt and hope clinging to their collar like lint.

This isn’t the story of the perfect superhero.

This is the story of Clark Kent—the boy who fell out of the sky, grew up with a heart too big for his chest, and still believed in goodness.
Even in a world where that belief could get you killed.

Clark Kent woke up late. Again.

He jolted upright with a yelp, hair a disaster and socks still on from the night before.
“Shoot—what time is it?” he mumbled, tripping over a pile of laundry and yesterday’s regrets.

In under ten minutes, he’d half-brushed his teeth, thrown on the cleanest shirt he could find (only two buttons wrong), and lost a battle with his cowlick in the mirror.

“Stay down,” he hissed, flattening his hair. “Please just—cooperate. For once.”

He fed his plants with one hand while tying his shoes with the other.

“Alright, boys,” he said to the tiny jungle on his windowsill. “Watered and thriving. Can’t relate.”

With his bag over one shoulder, coffee in hand, and heart thudding against his ribs, Clark burst out the door and into the chaos of Metropolis.

The city was already buzzing—horns, chatter, the scent of hot dog carts, and perfume-drenched suits brushing by in clouds of urgency. Clark weaved through it all like a salmon swimming upstream, muttering apologies every time he bumped someone.

“Sorry—!”
“Excuse me!”
“That was my fault—no, you’re fine, go ahead—!”

A woman shot him a glare as he clipped her shoulder. He flashed her a sheepish grin that usually worked better in Kansas.

By some miracle, he made it to the Daily Planet building just as the elevator doors dinged open. He bolted through the lobby, raced past the security desk, and slid into the newsroom like a man on fire.

“Kent!”
The roar came from Perry White, editor-in-chief and harbinger of doom.
“You better be at your desk before I count to three or I swear to God—”

Clark launched himself into his rolling chair. “Made it!” he said, panting. “Totally on time. Chronologically.”

Perry narrowed his eyes over a manila folder. “The Keller piece. It was due yesterday. You remember yesterday, Kent? Tall guy, full of disappointment?”

“I’m almost done,” Clark lied, fingers flying across his keyboard. “Just adding… adjectives.”

A familiar smirk appeared over the edge of the adjacent cubicle.

Lois Lane, ace reporter and general menace, sipped her coffee like it was spiked with amusement.

“You know he’s gonna fire you one day, Smallville,” she said.

Clark shot her a crooked smile. “Not if I finish this paragraph before he circles back.”

“Good luck. He’s got blood in his eye.”

Jimmy Olsen popped his head into their aisle, holding a stack of photos.

“Did you guys see that save this morning? Homelander and Queen Maeve—whole school bus full of kids. Just—bam—outta nowhere.”

Lois scoffed. “Yeah, right after the bridge collapsed. Feels more like damage control than heroism.”

“Still,” Jimmy said, wide-eyed. “The footage is insane. Homelander caught the whole bus with one hand.”

Clark paused, hands hovering over the keyboard.

“What I wouldn’t give to be part of something like that,” he murmured.

Lois grinned. “What, you wanna join The Seven now?”

“I meant… to help people. Like that.”

Jimmy nudged him. “Write faster, hero.

That evening, Clark walked home alone.

The sun had already dipped below the skyline, casting long shadows between glass towers. The city pulsed with neon signs, sirens in the distance, voices rising and fading like waves.

Clark pulled his coat tighter and crossed the street, boots echoing on pavement.

And then—chaos.

Screeching tires. Shouts. Gasps.

A bus roared past him, veering off-course. Sparks flew as the metal scraped the curb. Through the windshield, Clark saw the driver slump forward, unconscious.

Someone yelled, “Heart attack! He’s having a heart attack!”

The bus barreled toward the sidewalk. A little girl stood frozen in its path, pink backpack clutched to her chest.

Clark’s body moved on instinct.

One second he was running, the next he was flying—though not literally. Not yet. Not like that.

He skidded onto the sidewalk, arms flung wide, just as the front of the bus collided with him.

The impact thundered through the street. Metal shrieked. Concrete cracked. The world tilted and groaned.

And then—stillness.

The bus sat inches away from the storefront, crumpled and smoking. Passengers stared through the windows in stunned silence.

Clark opened his eyes. The girl was in his arms, trembling but unharmed.

He set her down gently.

“You okay?” he asked, breath shaky.

She nodded, eyes huge. “Are you a superhero?”

Clark blinked. “I…”

Then came the sound: click, click, click .

Phones. Dozens of them. Recording. Capturing.

People surrounded him in a wide circle. First silent. Then cheering. Applauding.

Clark looked up, heart hammering, his name already trending—and had no idea that someone, far above, was watching.

That’s how Clark Kent found himself sitting in a too-fancy chair in the Vought Tower waiting room, knees bouncing like a wind-up toy with anxiety issues.

He stared at the towering glass walls, the view of the city stretching out like a painting someone forgot to frame. Sleek floors. Gilded elevators. Everyone in the building looked like they’d been styled by a fashion robot from the future. He was suddenly very aware that his socks didn’t match.

Okay. Breathe. You’re fine. It’s just a skyscraper run by the most powerful corporation on Earth and you’re maybe about to become the first-ever farm-raised superhero with zero branding experience.

Totally chill.

The receptionist offered him a polite smile. Clark tried to return it and ended up giving her a full-blown grimace. “Thanks,” he croaked.

A week ago, he’d saved a little girl from being ste amrolled by a bus. Now he was here—at the actual headquarters of Vought International.

When they first reached out, he thought it was a prank. But then the email was followed by a call, and another call, and suddenly he was FaceTiming his mom, who had burst into tears on the spot.

“Oh honey, I told you those powers were good for more than baling hay! I knew it! Wait 'til your father gets home—CLARK’S JOINING THE SEVEN!”

Pa had shouted something triumphant in the background about not embarrassing the family.

It was all happening so fast. Too fast. And now that he was actually here, all that earlier confidence had completely disintegrated. His palms were sweaty. His shirt collar felt like a noose. What if they changed their minds? What if he forgot how to talk?

Oh God, what if I say “moisture” out loud for some reason?

Then the door opened.

“Mr. Kent?” the assistant called. “They’re ready for you.”

Clark rose like he’d just been drafted into the military, clutched his bag to his chest, and stepped through the door into a room that smelled like wealth and air conditioning.

The office was massive—floor-to-ceiling windows, sharp lines, soft lighting, and at the center of it all: Madelyn Stillwell .

She rose from behind her desk like a queen stepping off a throne. Hair smooth as a commercial. Lipstick red as a threat.

“Clark,” she said, voice like velvet dipped in honey. “Welcome to Vought. We’ve been dying to meet you.”

“I—I’m Clark. Which you… knew. Obviously. That’s—uh. Hi.”

She smiled as if he’d said something charming. “Please, sit. Can I get you water? Coffee? Tea? Almond milk cold brew?”

He blinked. “Just… water’s fine.”

She nodded to the assistant, who vanished like smoke.

Stillwell crossed the room gracefully and took the seat beside him, not across from him. That felt significant.

“I have to say,” she continued, “your rescue video? Phenomenal. Heartwarming. Absolutely viral. You stopped a speeding bus like it was nothing, and then you hugged a child . Clark—may I call you Clark?”

“Y-yes. Please.”

“Clark, you’re exactly what this country needs right now. Real power. Real heart. It’s rare.”

Clark turned beet red.

“I wasn’t even thinking,” he said. “I just… moved. There was this little girl, and she looked so scared, and I thought if I could help—”

“And that’s what sets you apart,” she cut in smoothly. “You helped because you wanted to. Not because the cameras were rolling. That’s why we want you, Clark.”

She reached into a sleek black folder and slid a document across the table toward him. A Vought contract. Thick. Polished. Heavy.

“After the tragic loss of Translucent, we’ve been looking for a fresh face—someone with raw potential and moral clarity. You’re perfect. You’d be joining The Seven. You’d be… America’s Superman.”

Clark stared at the paper. His name was already printed on the top. The words swam in front of his eyes.

His heart was doing flips. His stomach was doing the worm . His brain? Completely fried.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“I…”

Was he sweating? He was definitely sweating.

Stillwell leaned in, voice dropping to something soft and maternal.

“You don’t have to decide right now, sweetheart. But we believe in you. We believe you can change everything.”

Oh God, he thought. I’m gonna cry. I can’t cry. I’ll explode.

Then, just as Clark was about to stammer something—anything—the office door swung open behind him.

Clark flinched like he’d been caught sneaking candy. He stood up out of pure instinct and awkward politeness.

And then he saw him.

Homelander.

Blond. Towering. Smiling like a god who’d just granted someone immortality.

“Well, well,” he said, stepping into the room like he owned it—and everything in it. “So this is the famous new recruit.”

Stillwell beamed, standing beside him. “Clark Kent, meet Homelander.”

Clark’s brain short-circuited. That’s Homelander. That’s THE Homelander. He’s looking at me. Oh no he’s—

Homelander crossed the room in two strides and clapped Clark on the shoulder hard enough to rattle his ribs.

“I’ve seen the footage,” he said, eyes glinting. “You’ve got real potential, kid. The way you moved? Natural instinct. And that smile for the camera? That’s money.”

Clark grinned so wide it almost hurt. “I—I’m honored. I mean—I’ve admired you for years. I grew up watching your interviews.”

Homelander chuckled. “You hear that, Madelyn? We’ve got a fan.”

Stillwell’s eyes twinkled. “I told you he was special.”

Clark couldn’t stop smiling. Couldn’t stop his heart from thundering.

He looked between them, dizzy with hope.

“I’d… I’d love to be part of the team,” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “It’d be a dream come true.”

Homelander winked. “Welcome to the big leagues, Superman.”

Clark didn’t even hear the nickname. He was too busy floating.

Figuratively. For now.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t long after signing the contract that Clark Kent found himself living in a luxury apartment inside Vought Tower.

Correction: not an apartment. A whole floor.

A floor.

His own elevator keycard. A private gym. A personal chef named Marco who made quinoa taste like sin. A housekeeper named Elena who folded his socks like origami. And a chauffeur with a name Clark kept forgetting because—well, because he could fly. Not that anyone at Vought needed to know that yet.

His few belongings were already unpacked when he arrived—family photos, a handmade quilt from Ma, some books with cracked spines. It made the cold modern space feel a little less like a high-tech prison and more like... well, a very fancy glass box with sentimental clutter.

He sat stiffly on the leather sectional in the center of his new living room, which was large enough to echo. The couch creaked beneath him like it didn’t want to be touched. Clark didn’t either. His hands kept fidgeting, his heart wouldn’t calm down, and every time he looked out at the New York skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he felt like the stars were watching him.

Relax, he told himself. You're here. You're in.

Then the double doors burst open.

Clark flinched so hard he nearly slid off the couch.

A small stampede of people entered the room—stylists, assistants, two men pushing clothing racks, a cart loaded with trays of makeup and skincare, a woman with a headset muttering about lighting options.

And at the center of it all: Madelyn Stillwell , in heels sharp enough to kill and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Clark!” she greeted like they were old friends. “I hope you’re settling in all right. I know the floor’s a little big, but we wanted you to feel special.”

“Oh—uh, it’s great,” he said, standing awkwardly. “Really, I don’t need this much space. Or a driver. Or a gym with four treadmills. I mean, I don’t even—tread.”

Stillwell laughed like he was adorable. “Nonsense. You deserve it.”

Ashley followed close behind her, carrying a tablet and looking five seconds from a breakdown. “Okay, so we’ve got to finalize your debut schedule—costume shoot, press release, video intro reel, and then the gala tonight—”

Clark blinked. “Wait—what gala?”

Stillwell turned back toward him smoothly. “Oh, didn’t I mention? There’s a small event tonight. Internal, really. Just Vought executives, sponsors, a few of the Supes. Think of it as your soft launch.”

“My... what?”

“A pre-debut,” Ashley explained, flipping her tablet around. “You’ll be introduced to some of the higher-ups. No press yet, just mingling. Casual, but polished. Controlled.” She frowned. “You didn’t pack formalwear, did you?”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “I packed... flannel.”

One of the stylists clucked their tongue. “We’ll fix that.”

Stillwell gestured to the men rolling in a mannequin. “Speaking of—your suit.”

Clark turned. The air left his lungs.

The suit was a work of art—deep navy blues, crimson cape, golden accents, and on the chest, in bold raised stitching, a familiar shape: an S . Stylized. Sleek. Majestic.

He stepped toward it like he was approaching a stained-glass window. Reached out. Touched the insignia lightly.

Stillwell joined him, her voice low and warm. “We did our research. We wanted something timeless. Something that spoke to who you are.”

Clark smiled faintly, still staring at it. “It’s... perfect.”

“It’s you,” she said. “You’re going to be the face of hope, Clark. The one people believe in . They’re going to look at that S and feel safe again.”

His chest ached with something he couldn’t name.

She squeezed his shoulder. “Get ready. You’re going to change the world.”

After Stillwell left, Ashley took the lead like someone who hadn't slept in three days.

“Okay, I need you to focus now, Clark,” she said, pulling up an endless spreadsheet. “Tonight’s gala may not be public, but the room is full of sharks. Be charming. Shake hands. Smile like you're running for office.”

“Right, right, I can do that—probably,” Clark said. “But... I thought this was about helping people.”

Ashley barely looked up. “It is. Eventually. But helping people requires funding, and funding requires smiling at billionaires until your cheeks hurt.”

Clark furrowed his brow. “So it’s... politics first?”

She sighed. “It’s brand first. Always brand. You want to save lives? Great. Sell yourself first.”

He fell silent, chastened. This isn’t what I thought it’d be, he didn’t say.

The rest of the day was a blur of rehearsals and wardrobe fittings and etiquette crash courses.

How to hold a champagne flute. How to shake hands firmly but not aggressively. What topics to avoid. What phrases to repeat. How to say nothing while sounding impressive.

Clark stood in the mirror in a loaned tux, tugging at his collar.

“I feel like a magician’s assistant,” he muttered.

Ashley gave him a once-over. “You look like a star.”

He didn’t feel like one.

He felt like a small-town kid in a too-shiny suit being prepped for a role he didn’t audition for.

He glanced back at the suit on the mannequin in the corner—the one with the S. The one that was supposed to mean something.

You wanted this, he reminded himself. You dreamed about this.

And yet, as the sun dipped low over the city and the sky turned molten gold, Clark Kent had never felt more unsure.

The gala was everything Clark feared it would be.

The limo was already too much. Polished to a mirror finish, stocked with champagne he didn’t drink and leather seats he couldn’t stop sliding around in. Stillwell sat across from him, radiant in silver and smiling like a shark in moonlight.

“You’re going to be brilliant,” she said, crossing one leg over the other. “Just shake hands, smile, and say how honored you are to be part of the Vought family.”

Clark gave a tight smile. “Right. Honored. Got it.”

“You look great, by the way. That tux? Perfect fit. Strong jaw, soft eyes... America’s new sweetheart.”

“I feel like a teenager on prom night,” he muttered, tugging at his sleeve.

She laughed and patted his knee. “Good. The people love awkward.”

The event was... breathtaking.

Golden lights dripped from the ceiling like stars that had given up. Chandeliers larger than Clark’s apartment spun lazy halos over polished marble. Waiters weaved through crowds with trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres that looked too expensive to eat.

Clark’s smile didn’t leave his face for a full thirty minutes. Not when he was introduced to senators. Not when he shook hands with CEOs. Not even when someone tried to pitch him a superhero cologne line called “Kent: Scent of Hope.”

Stillwell stayed glued to his side, guiding him like a show dog on a leash.

Eventually, Clark slipped away.

He needed air. Or silence. Or just a break from trying to remember everyone’s name and not say something dumb.

He found a staircase and climbed it, loosening his tie as he went. The second floor was quieter, dimmer. He stepped onto a balcony that overlooked the glowing chaos below and leaned on the railing, exhaling for what felt like the first time all night.

The city glittered through the glass beyond. Clark stared out, watching the reflections of people he didn’t know laugh and drink and pretend they weren’t all just playing a very expensive game.

Is this what being a hero feels like? he thought. Because it doesn’t feel like saving lives. It feels like selling something.

“I’d kill for a cigarette,” a voice said beside him.

Clark startled—actually jumped —and turned to find someone already leaning beside him on the railing.

He was tall. Dark hair. Black suit tailored like sin. Eyes the color of bourbon and just as dangerous. A smirk curled on his lips, lazy and amused, like he’d seen through Clark in the first second.

Clark stared.

The man raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Should I have jingled?”

“I—uh—no, it’s okay, I just—uh,” Clark stumbled, cheeks coloring. “I thought I was alone.”

“Well, that makes two of us. But I guess we both failed at hiding.”

Clark blinked. “You were hiding too?”

The man’s smile widened, devilish. “Obviously. Have you seen the dance floor down there? I barely survived a conversation with the head of Vought’s finance committee. Man smells like despair and expensive whiskey.”

Clark chuckled, a little breathless. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so relaxed at one of these things.”

Though it is not like you have ever been to one of these Clark thought to himself.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the man said, “I’m never relaxed. I just fake it well.”

Clark laughed, eyes bright. “You’re really good at it.”

The man tilted his head. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“Uh—no. Kansas.”

“Thought so.” He nudged him playfully. “You’ve got that ‘aw shucks’ charm. People eat that up around here.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks... I think.”

A pause.

Then, softly: “What’s your name?”

Clark smiled. “Clark.”

“Well, Clark,” the man said, leaning a little closer, “I’m not sure what you’re doing here, but I hope you stick around.”

Then—he giggled.

And Clark? Clark’s heart might’ve actually flipped.

It wasn’t the kind of laugh you hear at black tie galas. It was real. Unapologetic. The kind that sneaks into your bloodstream and rewires you from the inside out.

Clark didn’t know what to say. He just stared. Maybe smiled. Maybe floated half an inch off the ground—emotionally.

But before he could gather his scrambled thoughts, a voice cut through the haze.

“There you are.”

Clark turned. His smile widened instantly. “Homelander!”

Homelander approached like a golden idol come to life—perfect hair, perfect teeth, suit gleaming. His gaze flicked between the two of them, lingering a little too long on the man beside Clark.

“Didn’t know you were making friends already,” he said, voice light but... something under it. Something cold.

Clark stepped toward him instinctively, eager. “Yeah! We were just talking. I didn’t catch your name, though—”

The man straightened, smile fading into something polished.

“Bruce. Bruce Wayne.”

Clark blinked. “ The Bruce Wayne?”

Bruce winked. “Don’t hold it against me.”

And then he was gone, slipping into the shadows with the grace of someone used to disappearing.

Clark stared after him, stunned.

Homelander clapped a hand on his back, firm.

“Come on, rookie. Let me show you how the real heroes party.”

They moved through the crowd. Homelander handed Clark a drink he didn’t sip, and kept talking—about legacy, image, how great Clark was going to look in red and blue on camera.

Clark nodded, mostly. His thoughts were somewhere else.

Bruce Wayne.

That laugh.

Those eyes.

He didn’t remember much of the rest of the evening. Just flashes of hands, cameras, laughter that didn’t reach his heart.

And then, blessedly, the limo again.

He sat in silence beside Stillwell, staring out at the dark skyline.

“Everything went perfectly,” she said.

Clark smiled politely.

But all he could think about was a balcony, a smirk, and a laugh that sounded like freedom.

Chapter Text

Clark woke up smiling.

Which was becoming a problem.

Because he was supposed to be adjusting to superhero life, media training, high-tech security, and a penthouse apartment with water pressure that could knock over a horse. But instead, his thoughts kept looping back to one thing.

One person , technically.

Bruce Wayne.

“Stop smiling,” Clark muttered at his reflection as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “You look like a twelve-year-old who just got noticed by the high school quarterback.”

He shuffled into his kitchen—still barely furnished except for his army of plants—and reached for the coffee pot, only to yelp when the door burst open.

“Clark!” Ashley snapped, barging in like a caffeinated tornado. “Why aren’t you dressed?!”

“Why don’t people knock anymore?!” Clark cried, nearly dropping the mug.

Ashley ignored him. “You’re meeting the Seven this morning! First full team sync, full costume, full face—hair and makeup in fifteen, let’s go!”

“I was gonna have breakfast first—”

“No time for food! We’ll pump you full of protein bars later!”

Ten minutes later, Clark stood awkwardly in front of a mirror, someone dabbing concealer under his eyes and another person slicking back his hair. He watched himself in the reflection—the suit was still surreal, bold red and blue, the “S” gleaming like it had been forged from sunlight.

“You look good,” Ashley said from behind him, managing sincerity for once. “Powerful. Trustworthy. Not too threatening. Farm boy charm with a jawline that could sell toothpaste.”

Clark blinked. “...Thanks?”

“And glasses are out ,” she added, snatching them from the counter. “They tested badly. You’re contact-only from now on.”

“I liked my glasses.”

“They made you look like you were still writing for a high school newspaper.”

“I was writing for a high school newspaper.”

Ashley didn’t respond. Just shoved him toward the elevator.

The Seven’s meeting room looked like it had been ripped out of a Marvel movie and dipped in testosterone. Glossy black floors. A long table made of some ridiculous metal. Giant screens showing newsfeeds and PR stats.

Clark stepped inside, and all conversation stopped.

Homelander turned first, grinning with blinding teeth. “There he is! Our golden boy.”

Clark gave a shy wave. “Uh. Hi.”

“A little late,” Queen Maeve muttered, swirling her coffee.

“He’s early, actually,” Homelander corrected smoothly. “Clark, take a seat—right next to Starlight. You two are the future.”

Clark slid into the chair beside her, heart thudding. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Annie whispered back, offering a warm smile. “Nervous?”

“Terrified.”

“Same.”

Across the table, A-Train smirked. “So this is the new guy. You got powers or is the smile your only weapon?”

Clark tried to laugh. “Mostly the smile. And I can fly. Sometimes. If I really believe in myself.”

Even The Deep chuckled at that.

Black Noir said nothing. Just stared. Clark waved politely. Noir blinked once. Or at least Clark thinks he did.

The meeting kicked off in earnest. Ashley passed out tablets, stats, upcoming appearances. Clark tried to follow along, but there were acronyms he didn’t know and dates he didn’t remember agreeing to.

Halfway through, Ashley said, “Superman, Starlight—you two are skipping patrol rotations this week. PR training takes priority.”

Clark frowned. “But—what about helping people?”

“You’ll help them with your brand , sweetie,” Ashley said sweetly. “That smile could win elections.”

Annie reached under the table and gave Clark’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. “It’s okay. It’s not forever. Just part of the hazing.”

“...There’s hazing?”

“Oh, yeah. They made me eat shrimp off a naked sushi model my first week.”

“Is that even legal?”

“Doesn’t matter. They sold the rights to the footage.”

Clark gaped. “You’re kidding.”

Annie winked. “Welcome to the team.”

Later, after an exhausting hour of being told how to stand, smile, and say nothing of substance, Clark and Annie collapsed onto a bench outside the PR suite with identical sighs.

“I think I lost brain cells,” Clark groaned.

“I’m pretty sure they just told you to ‘stand like justice.’”

“Is justice a posture?”

“If it is, it definitely comes with a wedgie.”

They laughed, and for a moment it felt easy. Real. Annie’s laugh was less giggly than Bruce’s, but no less comforting. Clark already knew he’d go to hell and back for her.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

“For what?”

“Not making me feel like the world’s biggest idiot.”

She smiled at him, brushing her hair back. “You’re not an idiot. You’re... just not like them yet.”

“Yet?”

“Give it time.”

Clark made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the tower’s gold-trimmed kitchen, then went searching for a quiet spot to eat it in peace.

He ended up on a tucked-away balcony, mid-level, overlooking the river. Cool breeze. Birds. Not a PR rep in sight.

And then—

“Let me guess,” came a familiar voice behind him. “The PR bootcamp made you crave carbs and existential silence?”

Clark nearly choked on his sandwich. “Oh my God.”

Bruce Wayne stepped out from the shadows, sunglasses tucked into his shirt, casual and gorgeous in a way that should’ve been criminal.

“You really gotta stop sneaking up on me.”

Bruce smirked. “And you really need to stop jumping like I’m a mugger.”

“Last time you did that, you were wearing cologne that probably cost more than my apartment.”

“That’s a low bar,” Bruce teased, leaning on the railing beside him.

Clark flushed. “...Fair.”

Bruce looked at the sandwich in his hands. “Is that... peanut butter and jelly?”

“It’s comfort food.”

“It’s kindergarten food.”

Clark grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Bruce tilted his head, amused. “You are... aggressively wholesome.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Bruce studied him for a moment. “You like the suit?”

Clark looked down at himself. “I do. It’s... still weird. Like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.”

Bruce hummed. “You’ll grow into it.”

There was a beat.

Clark asked, “Do you think I’m doing okay?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He looked out over the water, thoughtful.

Then: “You’re doing better than most. And you haven’t even had your first scandal yet.”

“That’s... comforting?”

Bruce smirked. “It’s the nicest thing I’ve said all week.”

They stood in silence a moment longer.

Then Bruce’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and sighed.

“Duty calls,” he said, tucking it away. “Investor drama. Someone threatened to pull out unless we send them more Vought water bottles.”

Clark blinked. “...That’s a thing?”

“Everything’s a thing if it sells.”

Bruce straightened, fixing his jacket.

“Good luck, Superman.”

Clark smiled. “Thanks, Batman.”

Bruce paused. Looked back over his shoulder with a spark in his eye.

“Don’t call me that.”

Then he was gone.

And Clark stood there, clutching half a sandwich and a full heart.

The next morning, Clark found himself pacing in circles around his penthouse, cape fluttering behind him like it had stage fright too.

“Okay,” he mumbled to himself, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. Just a crowd. Just... millions of people. And cameras. And drones. And probably screaming children.”

He stopped in front of the mirror, looked himself over—bright suit, buffed boots, ridiculous red cape.

“You look like a patriotic action figure,” he whispered. “In a good way. Maybe.”

A knock pulled him from his spiraling, and Annie peeked her head in.

“Clark? You okay?”

“No,” he blurted, then winced. “Sorry. That was... too honest.”

She smiled and walked in, hands in her jacket pockets. “Big day, huh?”

Clark flopped onto the couch. “Why do people even have public debuts? I’m not a product.”

Annie raised her eyebrows.

“Oh God, I am a product.”

She laughed and sat beside him. “You’re more than that. But yeah, this part sucks. The crowd. The speeches. The fireworks. It’s... a lot.”

“How’d you get through yours?”

She paused, then shrugged. “I didn’t. I smiled and waved and tried not to vomit.”

“That’s comforting,” Clark muttered.

Annie reached over and took his hand. “You’re gonna be great. Just be yourself.”

“I don’t know if ‘self’ is enough.”

“It is,” she said firmly. “The world’s about to meet someone real. Not just another branded puppet. That matters.”

Clark looked down at their hands, then smiled—small and shy. “Thanks, Annie.”

She squeezed once. “Let’s go knock ’em dead, Superman.”

The stage was enormous.

A full city block had been cleared for the event, a towering platform built in front of Vought Tower, draped in red, white, and gold. Reporters swarmed the press pit. Drones buzzed overhead. Giant screens displayed Clark’s symbol on a loop, flashing "WELCOME TO THE SEVEN: SUPERMAN" in bold letters.

He stood backstage, heart pounding like a jackhammer inside his ribs. Someone dabbed powder on his face. Someone else adjusted his cape. Ashley hovered nearby, barking into a headset like a general about to launch a nuke.

Then the music kicked in—triumphant horns and choral synths—and the crowd roared .

Homelander stepped onstage first, arms wide, soaking in the spotlight.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, “today we welcome a new protector to our skies—a beacon of hope, strength, and good ol’ American values!”

The cheers swelled. Clark’s stomach flipped.

Homelander turned toward him and gave a small nod. “Come on out, Superman.”

Clark took a breath.

Then another.

And then he stepped into the light.

The sound hit him like a wave—cheering, screaming, chanting his name.

“SUPERMAN! SUPERMAN!”

Cameras flashed like lightning. People held up signs with his face. Fireworks cracked in the sky.

Clark smiled, the nerves evaporating for a moment. He floated into the air effortlessly, cape billowing, sunlight glinting off the S on his chest.

He felt invincible.

This, he thought, is what I was meant to do.

He landed beside Homelander, who clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Well done,” he said, voice low but warm. “Told you they’d love you.”

Clark grinned. “Feels kinda nice.”

Then—

Screams.

Sharp. Real.

From the crowd below.

Clark turned sharply, scanning—his vision zooming instinctively.

Down the block, a delivery truck had veered off course. Smoke billowed from under the hood. A man stumbled out, shouting. The back doors of the truck burst open—and masked men with rifles spilled out, pushing through the panicked crowd.

“They’ve got hostages!” someone yelled.

Clark didn’t hesitate.

He launched off the stage, a sonic boom cracking behind him.

In a blur, he reached the chaos. One of the attackers aimed his weapon at a crying woman—but Clark landed between them like a comet. The bullet bounced off his chest. He didn’t flinch.

“Hi,” he said politely, and then flicked the gun in half with a single touch.

The crowd gasped.

Clark moved fast—disarming, shielding, redirecting debris. He caught a falling sign with one hand. Lifted a crushed car to free trapped civilians. And when one of the attackers tried to take a child hostage, Clark knocked him out cold with one well-placed shove.

It was over in seconds.

Sirens wailed in the distance. The SWAT team arrived late.

Clark stood in the middle of the street, soot on his suit, hair windswept, breathing hard.

Then—

Applause.

It started small.

Then grew.

The cheers thundered again, louder than before.

Phones pointed skyward. People chanted his name. Tears. Smiles. Relief.

Clark floated upward, rising slowly above the crowd, cape flaring like a flag in the breeze.

He looked toward the stage.

Homelander stood there, watching. A soft, slow smile on his face.

He gave Clark a single nod—proud. Almost... paternal.

Clark beamed.

In that moment, everything felt perfect.

He didn’t notice Annie watching from the wings, concern in her eyes.

He didn’t see Bruce standing beside a senator, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

And he didn’t hear the way Homelander whispered to Stillwell:

“I told you he’d shine. Like looking in a mirror.”

But Clark didn’t know any of that.

All he knew was this:
The world was cheering.
He had saved the day.
And maybe—just maybe—everything was going to be okay.

Chapter Text

The manor doors slammed shut behind him like the gates of a cathedral.

Bruce didn’t break stride. His coat trailed behind him like a shadow, his steps sharp, silent, surgical. Through the echoing hallways of Wayne Manor, past oil paintings and old-world chandeliers, he moved like a man with blood on his teeth.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred called from down the hall, walking swiftly to keep up. “Might I remind you, you have a board meeting in—”

“Cancel it.”

“I already rescheduled the last two.”

“Then cancel that one too.”

They reached the study, and Bruce pushed open the double doors, stepping inside the dim-lit office that smelled of mahogany and war plans.

Alfred sighed, closing the doors behind them. “You’ve been brooding since the gala. And no, I’m not just saying that to be poetic.”

Bruce didn’t answer. He sat behind the desk, fingers flying across the sleek keyboard as the monitor came to life with Vought security feeds, government reports, and satellite data.

“Clark Kent,” Alfred read aloud, peering at the screen. “Kansas farm boy turned reporter turned public phenomenon. America’s newest sweetheart.”

“He’s dangerous,” Bruce muttered, scrolling through file after file.

“Oh dear. Not this again.”

Bruce’s jaw flexed. “You didn’t see it, Alfred. That crowd. That power . The world would’ve handed him the keys to the planet right then and there.”

“Yes, he did save a bus full of civilians, if I recall correctly.”

“So did Homelander—once. Before the body count started.”

Alfred gave him a pointed look. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m preparing.”

“You’re spiraling.”

Bruce’s fingers stopped typing.

Alfred watched him, the bite in his voice softening. “Why him? This one. You never dig this hard unless there’s a reason.”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Instead, he pulled up video footage from the gala—the moment Superman descended in front of the stage, arms out, light bouncing off him like he was heaven-sent.

Bruce stared at the screen. His jaw set. Eyes narrowing.

Then, a beat.

“I don’t trust what makes the crowd cheer.”

Alfred arched a brow. “And yet you dated Homelander.”

Bruce’s head whipped around. “That wasn’t—”

“Love? Lust? Mutual trauma? You’re welcome to fill in the blank, sir, I’ve given up guessing.”

Bruce didn’t respond.

He just clenched the bridge of his nose and sat back in the chair, eyes still flicking toward the glowing image of Clark mid-flight.

“You see a bright-eyed boy from Kansas,” Bruce murmured. “I see a loaded weapon waiting to go off.”

Alfred crossed his arms. “And you think digging through his school records is going to tell you what he’ll do next?”

“No,” Bruce said quietly. “But I need to know if there’s anyone left in this world who does the right thing because it’s right ... or if that’s just another mask Vought sells us.”

There was a long silence.

Then, gently, Alfred asked, “Shall I tell Master Dick you’ll be working through dinner again?”

Bruce’s gaze flicked up.

Alfred smiled—knowingly. “He’s in his room. Something about fractions and an exploding volcano.”

Bruce let out a long breath, one that rattled at the edges.

He stood up.

He knocked gently before stepping into Dick’s room, though the boy didn’t hear it—he was too focused, sprawled on his stomach across a mess of coloring sheets, math homework, and glitter glue.

“Hey, bud,” Bruce said softly.

Dick’s head snapped up, face lighting up instantly. “Dad!”

Bruce’s heart squeezed.

He crossed the room, sitting beside him on the bed, careful not to squash a paper volcano erupting in marker-red lava.

“Thought I’d come check on the smartest kid in the house.”

“I’m the only kid in the house.”

“Still counts.”

Dick grinned and leaned against him, and Bruce wrapped an arm around his small shoulders without hesitation. That tight, perfect warmth grounded him faster than anything else in the world.

Dick pointed to a crude drawing on the desk. “Look! I made a poster of Superman!”

Bruce blinked.

It was, in fairness, a pretty good drawing—bright red cape, huge S, big smile.

“He saved all those people from the bad guys, right?” Dick asked, bouncing with excitement. “And he caught a whole bus!”

Bruce hesitated.

Then smiled, soft and practiced. “He did.”

Dick beamed. “Do you think I can be like him when I grow up?”

Bruce looked at his son. This tiny, bright light he’d sworn to protect from everything— everything —Vought, Homelander, even himself.

He tucked a lock of Dick’s hair behind his ear and said, “You can be better.”

Dick didn’t quite get it—but he liked the sound of it.

Bruce stayed there a while, letting the warmth of his son drive the dark out of his bones. And somewhere deep inside, he swore— no matter what happens, his son would grow up believing that heroes were real.

Even if Bruce had to lie through his teeth to make it true.

By noon, Bruce had already sat through three boardroom m eetings, five media briefings, one forced photoshoot, and exactly two minutes of actual silence.

He loathed it.

Wayne Enterprises was one of Vought’s largest stakeholders—so his face, his name, his presence were all expected. Required. Marketed.

He stood now at the head of a long glass conference table, the skyline of New York stretching behind him like a crown of metal thorns. Executives laughed too loudly. PR heads smoothed imaginary wrinkles. PowerPoint slides buzzed by with meaningless phrases like Brand Synergy and Moral Capital .

Across from him, Madelyn Stillwell leaned back in her chair, legs crossed, calm as ever. “We’ve already seen a twenty-four percent uptick in consumer approval since Superman’s debut. The boy’s a gold mine.”

Bruce didn’t respond. He sipped his coffee and said nothing.

Another exec chimed in. “We’re thinking lunchboxes, back-to-school promos, limited edition cereals—”

“Cereals?” Bruce cut in, voice flat. “He’s not a cartoon.”

“Exactly,” Stillwell said smoothly, shooting the exec a sharp glance. “We want legacy , not merchandise. Superman is not just another hero. He’s hope made flesh.”

Bruce’s eye twitched.

Hope.

That word had long since turned sour in his mouth.

When the meeting finally adjourned, he stepped out into the corridor, nodding politely to the assistant who opened the door, and walked fast—shoulders tense, fists buried in the pockets of his suit.

This tower felt like a prison. Chrome. Cold. Clean. But it was filled with monsters.

And then—

Clark.

Across the hall.

The man was bent awkwardly near a vending machine, poking it like he expected it to talk back. His cape was slightly crooked. His hair was sticking up at the crown.

Bruce stopped.

He watched.

It was stupid, really, how normal Clark looked.

How good .

Too good.

His curiosity had become a slow-burn obsession. He'd read the reports, the medical tests. No Compound V markers. No known origin. No paper trail before the Kents.

And yet—Clark was genuine. Warm. Soft-spoken. Powerful enough to end a war in minutes, but kind enough to apologize to a vending machine.

Bruce didn’t trust it.

But he couldn’t ignore it either.

He found himself walking toward him.

Clark didn’t notice until Bruce cleared his throat gently.

Clark spun around, startled, a crinkled bag of chips in one hand. “Oh—hi! Bruce! I didn’t see you there.”

Bruce smiled without meaning to. “You were busy interrogating the Cheetos.”

Clark looked down at the bag, embarrassed. “It ate my dollar. I was trying to negotiate.”

Bruce chuckled— actually chuckled. “Did it offer terms?”

Clark’s ears turned pink. “Not favorable ones.”

Bruce leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You always this charming, or is it just around malfunctioning snacks?”

Clark shrugged, grinning. “Depends. You usually this sarcastic, or just around flustered guys in capes?”

Bruce blinked. That was... bolder than he expected.

He found himself amused. “Touché.”

A silence stretched between them. Not awkward. Just… full.

Clark scratched the back of his neck. “So. You come here often?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “To the vending machine?”

“Sorry. That sounded way cooler in my head.”

“You’re terrible at flirting,” Bruce said bluntly.

Clark looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “Was I—? I mean—uh—”

Bruce smirked. “Relax. I’m not offended.”

Clark laughed, shoulders easing a bit. “Good. Because I wasn’t trying to flirt. Probably.”

Bruce tilted his head. “Probably?”

“Okay, maybe a little.”

That made Bruce pause.

Something flickered in his chest—sharp, unfamiliar. He looked away for a beat, then back.

“You’re not like the others,” he said quietly.

Clark blinked. “What do you mean?”

Bruce studied him. “They all walk like gods. You walk like someone afraid to step on toes.”

Clark didn’t quite know what to say to that. “Should I be more godlike?”

“No,” Bruce said. “Gods don’t worry about who they hurt.”

Another silence.

Clark shifted, voice softer. “You don’t like supe stuff much, do you?”

Bruce smiled faintly. “I invest in it. I don’t believe in it.”

Clark leaned against the wall beside him. “You think I’m going to turn into something bad.”

“I think power does things to people. Ugly things.”

Clark frowned. “But... that doesn’t have to be true for everyone.”

“Maybe not,” Bruce said, looking at him again. “But I’ve been wrong before.”

There was a long pause.

Clark asked quietly, “What made you believe in them the first time?”

Bruce’s mouth tightened. “I didn’t say I ever did.”

Clark looked at him. Really looked.

And Bruce—just for a moment— let him.

No masks. No charm. Just a man, tired and guarded, curious and cold, cracking slightly in the warmth of something real.

Then Clark smiled—small and sincere.

“I don’t know what you’ve been through. But... I’m not here to hurt anyone. I mean that.”

Bruce believed him.

He hated that he believed him.

Before he could answer, someone called from down the hall—Stillwell’s assistant, probably.

Bruce stepped back. “Duty calls.”

Clark nodded, but didn’t move.

Bruce hesitated, then added softly, “You’re a good man, Clark.”

Clark looked surprised.

Bruce started to walk away.

But not before he heard Clark say, almost under his breath—

“So are you.”

Bruce stopped.

Didn’t turn around.

But he smiled.

Just a little.

Chapter Text

Being Superman was… everything Clark had ever wanted.

The world loved him. Kids wore his symbol on backpacks. Talk shows argued about who was stronger: him or Homelander. People smiled when they saw him fly overhead. Smiled.

He was on cereal boxes.

He had his own candle scent. “Super Breeze.” Whatever that meant.

He’d never been more miserable.

Well, not miserable. Just… lonely.

Because even with all that love, all that attention—Clark still felt like he was floating in space. Untethered. Watching everyone else breathe the same air while he pretended not to choke on it.

And worse?

He couldn’t stop thinking about Bruce Wayne.

His voice. His laugh. The way his eyes crinkled when Clark made a joke that wasn’t even that funny. The way his suit fit like a sin Clark couldn’t stop committing—in his thoughts, in his dreams, in moments Ma Kent would absolutely faint over.

Clark tried to be a gentleman. He really did.

But there were nights when he stared at the ceiling, heart racing, and thought: What would Bruce’s mouth taste like?

If Clark had a church, he’d have to burn it down and start over.

Today, he sat in another meeting with The Seven, posture straight, smile polished, trying not to flinch every time someone raised their voice.

It was chaos.

Again.

A-Train was complaining about the media's coverage of his last mission. Queen Maeve was sipping something suspicious from a flask in her boot. Black Noir just... existed in the corner like a ninja cryptid.

And Homelander? He stood at the head of the table, smiling like a lion among sheep.

“Let’s keep our eyes on the real threat,” he was saying, voice syrupy-smooth. “We’ve lost The Deep, but we gained something better— hope. ”

His hand gestured to Clark like a spotlight.

Clark smiled, awkward. “Uh, thank you… John.”

Homelander winked.

Clark’s stomach twisted.

He tried to speak up—something about disaster protocols in rural zones—but A-Train cut him off, scoffing.

“Farm boy wants to talk strategy. That’s cute.”

Clark’s jaw clenched. “It’s not about being cute. It’s about helping people who don’t live in cities.”

“Y’all have tornado shelters,” A-Train muttered. “You’ll be fine.”

“Enough,” Maeve sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Can we just vote on the damn assignments?”

Clark sat back, trying not to look as wounded as he felt. It never got easier—feeling other. Not just from The Seven, but from everyone.

Too human to be a god. Too alien to be a man.

Even in a room full of freaks, he still felt like the only one wearing a mask.

Afterward, he found Annie in the cafeteria, eating fries like they insulted her personally.

She brightened when she saw him. “Hey, Smallville.”

“Hey, Sparkplug.”

They always met like this after meetings. Same table. Same vending machine that never worked. It had become their space.

Clark bit into his PB&J—yes, again—and asked, “How’s it going?”

Annie practically melted into her tray. “There’s this guy.”

Clark grinned. “Oh?”

She sighed. “Hughie. He’s… sweet. Awkward. Completely not my type, and yet somehow exactly my type?”

Clark chuckled. “You’ve got the crush bad.”

“Shut up.” She nudged his arm. “It’s weird. I don’t know where it’s going, but… it feels real. Honest.”

“I’m happy for you,” Clark said genuinely. “You deserve real.”

They ate in silence for a moment.

Then Annie turned to him, sly. “So. What’s the deal with you and Bruce Wayne?”

Clark choked on his sandwich.

“I—what? Me? Bruce? I—we don’t—I mean, he’s—”

Annie smirked. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not .”

“You’re actually glowing, Clark. Is that another power you have? Bioluminescent horniness?”

Clark groaned. “Please stop talking.”

“I won’t until you admit you’re in love with the billionaire.”

“I’m not—” He paused. Thought. “Okay maybe I have a tiny crush.”

Annie sipped her soda. “Uh huh.”

Clark sighed. “It’s just… he makes me feel like me. Not Superman. Clark Kent. Just… Me.”

She nodded, serious now. “That’s rare.”

He looked down. “I don’t even know if he’d ever want someone like me. Before all this, I was just a guy from a farm. Now I’m—this.”

“Well, ‘this’ is hot,” Annie said. “And kind. And awkward in a charming way.”

Clark smiled.

“I say,” she continued, “if you want him—go get him.”

He blinked. “You think I should try?”

“You’re Superman,” she said. “You’ve saved cities. You’ve stared down missiles. You’ve stopped moving trains. You can definitely ask out a billionaire with commitment issues.”

Clark laughed, heart full.

And in that moment, he made a decision.

Superman was going to get Bruce Wayne’s attention.

And Clark Kent was going to make him fall in love.

Clark had a plan .
If charm didn’t work, maybe confidence would.
If confidence didn’t work, maybe heroism.
And if that didn’t work—well, there was always his backup strategy: just keep showing up until Bruce fell in love out of sheer exposure.

Attempt One: The Coffee Drop-In

Clark “casually” showed up at Wayne Tower at 9:15 AM, holding two coffees from the most exclusive bean-roasting artisan hellhole in Brooklyn.

Bruce looked up from behind his desk, perfectly groomed, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Clark’s apartment.

Clark beamed. “Brought coffee! Hope you like pretentious beans.”

Bruce blinked. “You flew here, didn’t you?”

“…Yeah.”

“I have an assistant, you know.”

Clark held out the coffee like an offering. “Yeah, but does she have laser vision and puppy eyes ?”

Bruce didn’t move.

Clark coughed. “It’s Ethiopian blend? From a guy who only speaks in jazz metaphors?”

Bruce: “Leave it on the desk.”

Clark did. Slowly.

Bruce didn’t look up again.

Clark walked out muttering, “Nailed it.”

Attempt Two: The Suit Incident

At a Vought charity dinner, Clark wore a tuxedo tailored within an inch of his life. He made sure to pose within Bruce’s line of sight—shoulders back, smile practiced, thighs doing the Lord’s work.

He found Bruce talking to a senator.

Clark walked up, interrupting with a grin. “Evening, Bruce.”

Bruce eyed him, expression unreadable. “You look like you’re auditioning for a cologne commercial.”

Clark's smile dimmed slightly. “That’s a good thing… right?”

Bruce turned back to the senator. “He’s new. Doesn’t know when to leave.”

Clark just stood there awkwardly until Queen Maeve mercifully dragged him away by the lapel.

Attempt Three: The Accidental Flex

Clark had “just happened” to be shirtless in the Vought Tower gym when Bruce came in for a rare investor tour. Totally coincidence.

Clark did some unnecessarily aggressive pull-ups. Sweaty. Glowy. Muscles rippling like a CGI scene from 300 .

Bruce barely glanced his way.

Clark: “Oh hey. Didn’t see you there.”

Bruce, dry as sandpaper: “Mm.”

Clark dropped from the bar, wiping his brow. “You work out?”

Bruce stared at him for three long seconds. “Clark.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re being insufferable. ”

Clark blinked, mouth slightly open. “Oh.”

The chandeliers glittered overhead like constellations made of gold. The room pulsed with music and wealth—Vought’s signature brand of carefully curated glamour.

Clark stood by the champagne fountain, tugging at the collar of his designer suit. His smile was tired. Tight. Tonight was supposed to be another opportunity to show the world Superman was the future of heroism.

But all he could think about was Bruce.

When Bruce entered the room, all sleek lines and stormy eyes, Clark forgot how to breathe. Again.

He made his way through the crowd, determined.

“Bruce!” Clark called, weaving past influencers and senators.

Bruce turned, sharp as a blade. “Clark.”

Clark grinned, bashful but trying. “I was hoping I’d see you here.”

Bruce gave a clipped nod. “Of course. These galas are impossible to avoid.”

“Right,” Clark said. “I just… I never got the chance to apologize for the other night. I was trying too hard. I get it now.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked to the photographers nearby. “We shouldn’t do this here.”

Clark blinked. “Do what?”

“Talk like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like this, Clark,” Bruce snapped quietly, stepping closer. “Like we’re flirting. Like this is a game.”

Clark’s smile faltered. “It’s not a game to me.”

Bruce laughed once, bitter. “That’s what makes it worse.”

“Bruce—”

“I told you to stop. And you don’t listen.”

Clark bristled. “I’m just trying to understand what you want from me.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“That’s a lie.”

Bruce's expression shifted—something cold and cracked.

“Don’t tell me what I feel.”

Clark’s voice rose without meaning to. “Then say it . Say why you hate me so much.”

Bruce took a half-step back. His jaw clenched. The lights flickered off the whiskey in his glass.

“I don’t hate you,” Bruce said. “I hate what you represent. ”

Clark stared at him, stunned.

“You walk around like you're untouchable. You want to save the world and be adored while doing it. But the world isn’t saved by gods in capes, Clark. It’s held together by people bleeding in the dark, and you’ll never understand that. ”

People nearby had started to glance their way.

Clark’s chest tightened. “And what… You do?.”

Bruce turned, ready to walk away.

Clark’s hand shot out—instinct, not aggression—just a gentle grab of Bruce’s wrist.

“Wait—”

Bruce froze .

And then everything stopped.

Bruce yanked his arm back like Clark had burned him. His face went white, his breathing shallow. The sound of the gala dimmed under the tension suddenly crashing over them.

The air cracked with something unspoken and ugly.

Everyone was watching.

Bruce stepped back, his voice trembling—but cold. “Don’t. Touch me. ”

Clark’s stomach dropped. “I—I didn’t mean—”

But Bruce was already walking away, fast, his long coat sweeping behind him.

The crowd whispered.

Cameras clicked.

Clark stood there, arm still halfway raised, looking like someone who’d just destroyed the thing he cared most for and didn’t understand how.

He’d never felt more visible.

Or more alone.

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor was too quiet.
Even the birds outside knew not to sing that morning.

Bruce stormed through the front doors like he’d just been set on fire, suit jacket crumpled in one hand, jaw clenched so hard it could’ve cracked titanium. Alfred, waiting in the foyer with a familiar look of fatherly disdain, raised a single brow.

“I take it the gala was a rousing success.”

Bruce didn’t answer. He just kept walking.

“Ah,” Alfred continued, following like a well-dressed shadow, “you’re in the post-social event stage of emotional repression. Excellent. Shall I prepare the brooding room?”

Bruce yanked his office door open and snapped, “Not now, Alfred.”

But Alfred was already inside behind him.

“Are we doing this, then?” Alfred asked. “The silent spiral? The old ‘lock myself in the study and pretend emotions are beneath me’ routine? Shall I fetch the scotch and your darkest playlist?”

Bruce slammed the door, then slumped into the desk chair.

His laptop screen still glowed with open tabs.
One showed a paused video of Clark—no, Superman —hovering above the city, beaming at a crowd that worshipped him.

Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose.

“You touched him,” Alfred said softly after a beat.

Bruce didn’t look up.

“It was a reflex,” he muttered.

Alfred tilted his head. “But it wasn’t just that. Was it?”

Bruce’s throat tightened.

“I panicked, Alfred.”

There it was.

“I panicked because for one second—one goddamn second—I forgot that he wasn’t safe.”

Alfred crossed his arms. “You mean you forgot that you weren’t safe.”

Bruce’s hands clenched on the desk. “He doesn’t know what he’s capable of. None of them do.”

There was silence.

“Then why do you keep letting him close?” Alfred asked, not unkindly.

Bruce closed his eyes. “Because when he smiles, I believe it too. I want to believe it.”

A knock pulled Bruce back to himself.

“Dad?”

Bruce straightened, voice softening. “Come in, bud.”

Dick poked his head in, his little feet bare on the hardwood. He padded across the room and held up a drawing. “Look! It’s you and Superman! I made you best friends.”

Bruce looked at the childish crayon sketch—him and Clark, holding hands, flying through the sky. His throat closed.

Alfred smiled faintly. “He has an eye for the impossible.”

Bruce reached out and ruffled Dick’s hair. “You think Superman’s cool?”

Dick nodded eagerly. “He saved a plane and a cat! You gotta be friends. Then I’ll be friends with him too.”

Bruce forced a smile. “We’ll see.”

Bruce stepped out of the glass conference room, running a hand through his hair. The board meeting had been exhausting. Too much praise for Clark, not enough sense. He was already halfway to the elevator when—

"Bruce."

The voice wasn’t loud, but it sliced .

Bruce froze. Turned.

Homelander stood at the end of the hallway, backlit by the too-bright fluorescents, casting a long shadow across the marble. His posture was casual. Too casual. Arms folded, head tilted like a curious animal.

“I was starting to think you were avoiding me,” he said, lips stretched into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Bruce’s jaw tensed. “Maybe I am.”

Homelander’s smile widened. He strolled forward—slow, predatory, like he had all the time in the world to ruin your life.

“Funny,” he said, “I remember when you used to hang on my every word.”

“That was before I knew what they were worth.”

“Ouch.” Homelander placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Still mad about… everything?”

Bruce didn’t reply.

“Come on, Brucie,” Homelander murmured, voice dipping into something dark. “We go way back. You, me, long hallways like this one… I thought we had an understanding.”

Bruce’s fingers curled into fists. “We don’t.”

Homelander stopped barely a foot away. His gaze flicked to Bruce’s chest, then his face. His head tilted just slightly. Like he was trying to figure out the best place to make something break.

"Clark," he said, almost lovingly. “He’s really something, huh?”

Bruce said nothing.

"All that power… and he still flinches when you say his name. Delicious. "

“Don’t touch him,” Bruce said flatly. “I mean it.”

Homelander’s eyes gleamed. “ Or what? You gonna write me a sternly worded letter, Mr. Wayne?”

There was a pause.

Then his smile dropped. Just for a second. The skin around his eyes didn’t move when he smiled again.

“I could kill everyone in this building in under thirty seconds,” he said, conversational. “But not you. You? I’d take my time. "

Bruce didn’t blink.

Homelander leaned in, close enough for Bruce to smell the ozone buzz of his skin.

“Watch where you put your hands,” he whispered. “You’ve already broken one toy. Don’t think I won’t break the next.”

Bruce exhaled slowly, even though his heart felt like it was trying to claw out of his chest.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Homelander smiled with teeth. “You should be.”

Then he turned and walked away, whistling something off-key and saccharine.

The hallway felt colder after he left.

He spotted Clark on the upper balcony of Vought Tower, alone, soaking in the late afternoon light. His cape fluttered faintly in the wind. He looked like something out of a myth—serene, golden, unreachable.

But Bruce didn’t believe in gods.

He approached quietly, shoes silent on the marble. Clark turned at the sound of his footsteps, his face brightening with a crooked grin.

“Bruce,” he said, surprised and pleased. “Didn’t think I’d see you today.”

Bruce gave a lazy shrug. “I tend to show up when people least expect me.”

Clark chuckled. “You say that like you’re a vampire.”

“More like an unfortunate habit.”

Clark leaned back against the railing, glancing out at the skyline. “It’s been... a good day. They finally announced me on socials. My follower count quadrupled overnight.”

Bruce raised a brow. “Congratulations. You’re famous now. I’m sure your plants will be very proud.”

Clark laughed, eyes shining. “Hey, don’t knock the boys. They’re loyal.”

There was a pause, softer now.

“I’m sorry again,” Clark said, more serious. “For the gala. I know I embarrassed you. I got... too caught up in being something.”

Bruce looked at him, long and quiet. “You were being someone.”

Clark tilted his head. “What’s the difference?”

“You were trying too hard to be Superman.” Bruce let the words linger. “But I like Clark.”

Clark looked stunned. That look again—hopeful and boyish and disarming.

“I won’t stop trying,” he admitted quietly.

Bruce smirked, lips curving just enough. “That’s fine. Just don’t wear another tuxedo with a red cape. It’s too much.”

Clark groaned. “You noticed that?”

“Everyone noticed.”

They shared a laugh, something real and warm blooming in the space between them. Then Clark sighed and checked his phone.

“I should head out. Got to get ready.”

“For?”

“Big religious convention thing,” Clark said. “Annie invited me. Homelander’s giving the keynote. I get to stand onstage behind him like a very shiny backup dancer.”

Bruce’s face didn’t change, but something in his chest pulled tight.

Clark went on, eyes bright. “I mean, it’s crazy, right? Standing next to Homelander. I grew up watching him on TV.”

Bruce nodded slowly. “Yeah. Crazy.”

Clark smiled again, oblivious. “See you later?”

Bruce hesitated. Then: “Sure.”

Clark gave him a small, earnest wave and headed back toward the elevators, cape trailing behind him like a banner.

Bruce stood there long after the doors closed.

The wind on the balcony felt colder now.

Chapter Text

It was a carnival.
An actual, full-blown, bounce-house-meets-biblical-quotes carnival.

There were praise bands playing popified worship songs, booths giving away branded purity rings, and teens in Superman T-shirts that already had his face on them—even though he’d only been in The Seven for a month. Somewhere, a youth pastor in skinny jeans was giving a sermon on TikTok responsibility.

Clark Kent, aka Superman, stood in the middle of it all—sweating through his supersuit, cape flapping limply in the humid breeze, and very much regretting his life choices.

“This is… definitely not what I imagined when you said ‘Faith Expo,’” he mumbled.

Annie stood beside him in her white-and-gold Starlight suit, looking equally dead behind the eyes.

“It gets worse,” she said, managing a tired smile. “Just wait for the prayer mosh pit.”

“I’m sorry—the what?”

Before she could answer, she lit up. “Oh! Clark, come meet someone.”

Clark turned—and immediately felt a prickle in the back of his neck.

A young man with a stiff posture and nervous eyes stood awkwardly behind Annie, like someone who’d wandered into the wrong family reunion.

“This is Hughie,” she said. “We’ve been seeing each other.”

Clark extended a hand automatically. “Nice to meet you.”

Hughie shook it—quick, limp, clammy. “You’re, uh. Big.”

Clark raised a brow. “I’ve been told.”

Hughie laughed, a little too loud. “Sorry. That was weird. You’re just, like, really tall. And the suit… wow.”

Clark smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Something about this guy…it didn’t sit right. His heartbeat was fast—not in a “meeting-a-celebrity” way. More like a guilt kind of fast.

And Clark didn’t miss the way Hughie avoided eye contact. Or how he kept glancing around like he was being watched. Or how he flinched every time someone said “Homelander” over the loudspeakers.

“Do you work with Annie?” Clark asked, watching closely.

“Uh—no,” Hughie said too quickly. “I’m just a civilian. Regular guy.”

“Right,” Clark said slowly. “That’s nice. Regular’s rare these days.”

Annie looked between them. “Everything okay?”

Clark plastered on a smile. “Just peachy.”

They didn’t talk long—thankfully. Hughie mumbled something about needing water and disappeared into the crowd like he was trying to escape a crime scene.

Clark turned to Annie. “Where’d you meet him again?”

“Long story. Complicated. Why?”

Clark shrugged. “No reason. Just a feeling.”

The prayer tent was large, striped, and sweltering. Folding chairs were set up in a semi-circle beneath a banner that read “Let Your Light Shine™.”

Clark sat stiffly in his supersuit, cape sticking to the back of his chair, trying not to overheat or overthink. Neither attempt was successful.

“Thank you for joining us,” the overly cheerful youth pastor said, clipboard in hand. “This is a safe space to talk about our journeys with God—and with ourselves.”

Clark waved politely. “Hi. I’m Clark. Um. Superman.”

Cue giggling. A girl near the front whispered, “He’s hotter in person.” Clark pretended not to hear, but his ears turned red.

They went around the circle, each teen sharing their relationship with faith. Some stories were tender. Others were raw. Annie shared hers too—calm, vulnerable.

“I was raised to believe God had a plan for me,” she said. “But I’ve learned it’s okay to ask questions. Even if it means breaking away from what people expect.”

Clark found himself listening closely.

Then it was his turn.

“I was raised Christian,” he said slowly. “Went to church every Sunday. Did youth group, communion, got confirmed. I even played Jesus in our Easter play once.”

Someone in the circle gasped. “Typecast much?”

Clark laughed. “I was eight, and the wig itched.”

A few chuckles. Annie smiled.

“But…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “When I moved to the city, it got harder. Not to believe, but to feel connected. I was different. Stronger. Quieter. And I didn’t know if God made me like this, or if I just… happened.”

There was a thoughtful silence.

“I still believe something’s up there,” Clark added. “Maybe not someone with a clipboard. But something. And I just try to live like someone’s watching. Someone kind.”

A hand shot up.

“Superman,” a teen boy asked, “have you ever been tempted?”

Clark blinked. “Like… by evil?”

“No. Like—sexually.”

Clark turned a shade of red not found in nature. “I—I think that’s—”

“I mean, God made you hot,” the kid shrugged. “It’s a fair question.”

Annie doubled over laughing.

Clark took a breath. “Let’s just say my Ma taught me manners, and we’re going to leave it at that.”

Someone clapped.

He grinned, flustered but proud. “This suit may be fireproof, but it’s not embarrassment-proof.”

The sun had dipped low in the sky, casting gold over the carnival-style tents. The stage had been set. Loudspeakers buzzed. Thousands gathered in front of the main platform, many clutching little American flags or plastic crosses.

The crowd was electric, buzzing like a hive. The air smelled of popcorn, sunscreen, and idol worship. Clark stood beside Annie, who looked sick to her stomach. Homelander strode toward the mic, the golden light of sunset painting his shoulders like a divine spotlight.

And then, the speech began—word-for-word, no notes, no hesitation.

“I’m done apologizing. I am done being persecuted for my strength. You people should be thanking Christ that I am who and what I am, because you need me. You need me to save you.”

He took a breath. Smiled.

“You do. I am the only one who possibly can. You’re not the real heroes. I’m the real hero.”

Silence fell like a dropped curtain. Then came the roar—cheering, clapping, crying. Clark stood still, his jaw tight, hands sweating inside his gloves.

That wasn’t strength. That was domination.

Cheers. Applause. Frenzied, blind adoration.

Clark watched, stunned, as the people below wept for him—worshipped him. There was no humility. No kindness. Just power wrapped in a smile.

And the worst part?

It worked.

Annie leaned over to Clark. “I told you,” she muttered. “This is his church.”

Clark stepped up to the mic slowly. The audience stared. Many were still reeling from Homelander’s words. Some looked confused. Some euphoric. Others… afraid.

Clark cleared his throat.

“Hi. I’m Clark. Uh, Superman. But honestly, that name still feels a little too big for me.”

A ripple of laughter. A good start.

He exhaled through his nose. Thought of the farm. Of his Ma’s steady hands.

“I grew up in a small town. Population just over a thousand. We had one grocery store, one school, and a whole lotta corn. And even there, even where the skies were wide and the roads were empty, I used to look up and wonder if I was meant for something bigger. Something better.”

He paused.

“But here’s the thing: wanting to help people—that’s not about being better. It’s about showing up. Listening. Trying. Every day. Even when no one claps. Even when it’s hard.”

A stillness settled over the crowd.

“I’m not Homelander.”

Gasps. He held up his hand quickly.

“And that’s not a bad thing. Homelander’s... well, he’s incredible. He’s done so much. But I’m not here to be a god. I’m not here to be feared, or worshipped. I’m here because I believe in something else.”

He looked out across the sea of eyes.

“I believe in the good we do when no one’s looking. I believe in the power of kindness, of mercy. Of second chances. I believe real strength doesn’t come from being bulletproof—it comes from caring when it hurts. From standing up for people who can’t. From loving the world, even when it doesn’t love you back.”

A long silence followed.

“I’ve made mistakes. I’ve doubted myself. I’ve struggled with who I am and why I’m here. But every time I fell, someone helped me back up. My parents. My friends. Even strangers. And now... I want to be that person for someone else.”

He smiled, softly.

“You don’t need powers to be a hero. You just need to keep showing up. And I promise—I will, too.”

The mic popped as he stepped back. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then—someone clapped.

Then a second.

Then the whole tent burst into thunderous applause.

Clark blinked fast. His chest hurt, in the best way.

Annie grinned beside him. “You’re a natural, Smallville.”

Clark smiled. But deep down, something had shifted. The cheers didn’t sound the same as Homelander’s. They felt… earned .

The applause was still ringing in Clark’s ears when he stepped off the stage. The world beyond the curtain felt quieter, dimmer—like stepping into a confession booth. He exhaled, tugging at the collar of his suit. That had gone… well, he thought.

Until he turned the corner—and froze.

Homelander was waiting for him.

Leaning against a concrete wall, arms crossed, cape draped like blood silk. Eyes already on Clark. Watching.

Clark straightened his back and tried not to look like he was sweating.

“Hey,” he said, too casual. “Didn’t see you there.”

Homelander didn’t smile. Not right away.

“You’ve got a way with words,” he said slowly. “Very heartfelt .”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “Just… speaking from experience, I guess.”

A long beat. Then, Homelander’s expression shifted—cracking into a grin, charming and terrifying all at once.

“You remind me of myself, you know. Back when I actually cared about what people thought.”

Clark blinked. “Is that… a compliment?”

Homelander chuckled. He pushed off the wall and walked closer—too close, always too close. He clapped a hand on Clark’s shoulder, heavy and deliberate.

“It is. You did good out there. Real good. You showed them who you are. Soft, clean, righteous. They eat that stuff up.”

Clark smiled, uncertain. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.”

“You’re the real deal, Clark. You’ve got heart. That’s rare these days.” His voice dropped. “But you’ll learn fast: heart doesn’t always keep you alive in this job.”

Clark swallowed. “I can handle it.”

Homelander nodded slowly, like he was sizing Clark up like meat at a butcher shop. “You’ve got the look. The shine. And that whole… ‘farmboy honesty’ thing? It’s golden.”

He stepped back just a little, eyes raking over Clark’s suit.

“They’re going to love you. Which means Vought loves you. And that means I love you.”

Clark let out a nervous chuckle, unsure if it was a joke. “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

Homelander’s smile tightened.

“You will. Because I’m here to help you. Guide you. You ever feel unsure? You come to me. Not Stillwell. Not PR. Me. Got it?”

Clark nodded, slowly. “Got it.”

“Good.” Homelander’s hand lingered a little too long on Clark’s shoulder before he finally let go.

Then, just before turning to leave, he leaned in close—mouth near Clark’s ear.

“You’re special, Clark. Don’t let anyone try to make you small.”

And with that, he disappeared into the shadows of the corridor, leaving Clark alone. Breathing shallow. Shoulders tense.

A part of him felt proud—validated, even.

Another part?

Felt like a dog being trained.