Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Art by the talented: flipdebeer0x0

Chapter Text

*Superman's suit.* Bruce glanced at the eerie image again. Waterlogged, but otherwise pristine. No tears, no blood, no body. *Dredged up in a Queensland fishing net.* The rest of the article was nothing; rushed filler, describing the water, the net, what the fishermen were out in search of, the last known sighting of Big Blue, as if he were some majestic migrating whale. 

“No new messages.” Bruce switched from the article to his voicemail. He'd called Clark's cell, he'd called the Fortress, he'd called the Watchtower, he'd called the Kents, more of the same, nothing at best, and speculation at worst. Barda warned him last week about Darkseid being up to no good, but when was it ever not the case? 

“He’ll snark at me for henning him.” Bruce tried to keep himself from jumping from one worse-case scenario to the next. Clark was fine; he was always fine. He’d used the med bay, what? Twice this year? One of those times was just to keep Bruce company, or just to keep the Bat from breaking out of bed rest. 

He’d thought it sweet at first, a little reward for all his efforts, Clark holding his hand as his body desperately tried to fill back up with all the blood he’d lost. Until the hand holding only broke off for bathroom breaks, and with a squint-punctuated hesitancy at that. Clark raced to the restroom each time, blurring back to Bruce's bedside just as fast. Bruce told him to take his time, that he wasn’t going anywhere. “I know.” Clark would reply with a small worried smile, taking Bruce’s hand again. “I've got you.” Clark had handcuffed him to that bed with a lock that could not be picked. Bruce was a hell of an escape artist, but Kryptonian fingers would not be jiggled, shimmed, or brute-forced out from. Clark was strong, and he was determined, even when playing nurse. 

Bruce frowned as his mind wandered back to the sort of situations that would present the opportunity to repay the ‘favor.’ “When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.” That’s what Clark would say about Bruce's intrusive thoughts. He’d used those exact words, crouching down to Robin's eye level, when Dick had been bored with looking into the siphoning of Gotham tax dollars into lobbyists’ pockets, desperately trying to link it to Killer Croc in some way so they could go splashing about the sewers. 

“Last horse that comes to mind.” Bruce rang the Daily Planet, Clark's desk. He squeezed his phone in excitement when it was picked up on the third ring. His ears perked, waiting to hear what, only in Clark’s world, passed as an excuse for ditching his suit over open water. His excitement was short-lived.

“Daily Planet. When we know, you'll know!” It was Olsen who’d picked up the phone.

“Some might think being in the know is what I pay you for. How am I to gossip about what Superman does when I don't get the latest news, Clarkie? What's the word on the street?” A splash of ditzy never hurt anyone. “By the way, Kent, you sound a little light off bass, down with a cold or something?” 

It should have brought Bruce at least a little mirth, dropping ‘Clarkie’ at one of Kent’s colleagues, he always turned the most interesting shade of red, really made his eyes punch up and appear even bluer, when Bruce had done it before. Knowing Clark wasn’t on the other side of the phone, blushing at his endearments, just made the moment all the more sour. 

“Mister Wayne! It’s Olsen, Jimmy—James, James Bartholomew Olsen, editorial photographer, Sir.” 

“Photographer? And are you freelancing as a receptionist?”

“No, I—”

“Is Kent out chasing one of those leads of his? You two and Lane seem to practically trip over Superman! It’d be best if you were all out there looking.”

“They are out there, sir! In spades!” Jimmy assured. “No one will get that scoop before us.”

“In spades. You know, I don't even really know what that phrase means!” Bruce knew what a false assurance, a white lie, sounded like. He couldn’t call Jimmy out directly. He had to be patient. “All I know is I'd hate for Lex to beat me to any juicy tidbits. If I see him calling for another press conference this week, Honestly Jamesy I can't be held responsible for what I might do.”

“Uh-” Jimmy stuttered, not knowing how to respond. Even Brucie could render men frozen with vague promises of vengeance.

“C'mon give me a sneak peek. Have they called with any updates?” Bruce nudged Jimmy back into the conversation with a bubbly voiced question.

“So, um, our theory right now: apes.”

“Define ‘our’.” Bruce paused, replaying the claim in his head. “And ‘theory’.” He rewound the tape a second time. “While we’re at it, how are we defining ‘apes’?”

“Genetically modified apes.” Jimmy answered with a ‘I’m so glad you asked’ sort of enthusiasm. “I’ve linked hyper-intelligent apes to forty percent of Metropolis’ unsolved missing persons. They cover their tracks well, but there are calling cards if you know where to look.”

‘That cannot possibly be correct—' Bruce squinted at the seat in front of him, pondering the math. ‘Can it?’ 

“Weirder things have happened.” Jimmy spouted, sensing Bruce’s skepticism. 

“So—Sea monkeys? Stripped down and abducted Superman, that is what you are telling me?”

“Sea apes .” Jimmy corrected. “It’s a working theory. We’ll let you know as the story develops. I can call you every hour if you want.”

“Jamesy, when were Kent and Lane last in the office?” 

The fact that Jimmy had plucked such an absurd yet specific theory and stuck to it like glue made Bruce believe this was some sort of autopilot response. Instead of Perry hearing that his reporters were up to things they definitely shouldn’t be, at some point, they’d just settled on ‘ape’ as a don’t ask, don’t tell sort of blanket deniability response. 

“Miss Lane ran through here around four.” Which checked out, ‘Superstreaker’ hadn’t started trending as a buzz phrase till about eight in the morning. “Clark, uh—he hasn’t checked in yet, but that might be a good thing. Like you said, he’s got a beat on Superman like no other. He’s probably right on his tail.”

‘Something like that.’ 

It was surreal that Jimmy was playing defense, not because he knew Clark’s secret, but because he was so sure there was no secret there. Jimmy, Lois, and everyone in Metropolis staunchly believed Clark Kent was a messenger boy for Superman, his mouthpiece and closest friend. 

It was no secret, it was a relationship people revered. Clark garnered extra credibility for it; there wasn't a stamp of approval more substantial than Superman's trust. It was also a relationship people didn’t prod too hard at. Superman had soft spots; his comfort companions were often referred to as his ‘anchors.’ Most of Metropolis didn’t want to chance what would happen if anyone shook or, god forbid, severed the chains that kept the Kryptonian tethered. 

“Hasn't checked in, not at all? Is he supposed to be on vacation?” Bruce tried to get ahead of any other cover stories he knew to be false. “A long weekend, maybe? It’s wonderful yachting weather, but that’s no excuse during an all-hands situation like this one.”

Bruce tried to fill his thoughts with pleasant things to keep his voice casual and chipper. Clark in boat shorts twisting his tongue over the straw of some cocktail, the sea sweeping his hair a little, would usually more than suffice, but it did nothing but make Bruce’s need to see him grow more desperate. 

“No, he wouldn’t ignore this. He’s working this story. I'd bet anything on it.”

“Alright.” Bruce had rattled the Daily Planet’s bullpen enough. They’d call him if anything came their way. “Just keep this priority, will you? I bought this paper for the Superman stories.”

“Understood, we’re going to find him, Mister Wayne. Don’t you worry.”

“I can’t help it. I bought the Superman stories because I like them, wholesome, uplifting, happy endings, and all that. He’s missing. I am worried.”

“Me—Me too,” Jimmy admitted, which reassured Bruce he wasn’t in a tizzy over nothing, though that was the extent of the comfort he got from that statement. “But I’m sure he’s fine. It would take a lot to ki—” Bruce wasn’t one for hanging up on people, especially when he was the one who made the call; it was immeasurably rude, but he couldn’t hear that word, not in reference to Clark. 

“344 Clinton Street.” Bruce updated his driver, who’d been instructed to take him across the bridge to Metropolis but had not been given any exact address. 

“What’s there?” His driver, Lily, inquired, curious as everyone else, about where Superman had disappeared to. 

‘I’m out of horses, it’s time to check the stables.’ 

Clark was going to have to forgive Bruce for breaking into his apartment again; he wouldn’t leave listening devices this time. It was Tuesday, Superman hadn’t been seen since last Wednesday, or at the very least, he hadn’t made news since then. Clark, as far as Bruce could track from his Daily Planet network sign-in logs, had been active up until 8 PM on Friday. That’s where the trail went cold.

 “I don’t like that one of my reporters is dodging my calls. I want to do a quick wellness check.”  

When Bruce walked into a crime scene, he tried to keep an open mind. He tried not to be ‘looking for something’ because that’s how you miss clues.

That served him well in Clark’s apartment because it was frustratingly tidy. There was nothing out of order. There was no sign of a struggle. Bruce hadn’t been hoping there was, but it would have been something to work with.

Bruce appraised the space. The, some would say, abrasive number of photographs hung up. The bare bones grocery list on his fridge: garlic bread, eggs, and Cool Ranch Doritos. The tape keeping hinges and handles in place on cabinets and drawers. The vein of blue pulling the spacious rooms together, from lamps, to oven mittens, the mug left out on the coffee table next to a half-done letter to a young Superman fan.

‘That he will do loud and proud.’ Bruce chuckled as he read over the note, recalling how he’d, on multiple occasions, asked Clark to come with him to Gotham’s children’s hospital. Bruce would dress up as Batman, and Clark as Superman, it would tickle the kids pink. Clark always turned it down, joking to Bruce, wearing a fond smile, how the Bat knew how Superman hated being upstaged. 

Bruce would continue to ask, and Clark would continue to refuse. The Bat, who saw all and had the peripheral vision of a hawk, pretended not to notice when the children gasped and pointed at the window; he’d feign absolute bafflement when he would glance over to see nothing but clouds.

That letter gave him the slightest bit of context. ‘Whenever he left, he hadn’t expected to be gone long. He wouldn't have left that out if he was going to ask someone to fetch his mail for a week.’

Bruce, with a twinge of misplaced guilt, moved on to Clark’s bedroom. It was large for an apartment for one. It, of all the rooms, was the least decorated, a single pillow, a single flannel throw. ‘Spacious but sterile.’ 

Bruce had no tangible evidence to suggest that Clark had bought the apartment for the bedroom measurements and intentionally didn’t decorate the space, so that one-night guests wouldn't dare feel at home. Still, his intuition told him it was a calculated move. He could vividly picture Clark scooping some woman who had caught his eye, bridal-style with those tree-trunk arms of his, and carrying them into this anonymous room, dropping them on the bed for a night of fun.  Someone, Clark was a popular fellow, maybe multiple someones had been welcomed in here—a very small, very jealous, and ultimately unhelpful part of himself-needled, ‘just not you.’ 

“Where are you, Clark?” Bruce spoke aloud to regain his focus. 

He sat down on Clark’s bed. It was comfortable; the mattress was on the firm side, which Bruce, a mattress connoisseur of sorts, did not see enough of. He liked that it fought back a little. He liked it so much he laid back. That’s when he saw it, the wear on the ceiling from pacing. 

“Guess you mean it, huh?” 

Clark told him never to be afraid to call him. He spent hours waiting for his city to wake up, hours thinking, and occasionally hours with his ears drifting to catch the goings-on of the rest of the world. He wasn't bored; from the sounds of it he just had a tough time finding that elusive off switch and would gladly let that be beneficial to the Bat. 

“I just want—” Bruce broke off into a sigh. He just wanted to skip this part.

Bruce recalled when Clark and a good chunk of the Justice League had disappeared to, and thankfully returned from, an alternate Vandal Savage tweaked timeline. His mind stuck hard on the exact moment of their return, of Clark sweeping him up in a big hug. ‘Batman, it’s really you!’ The joy, the relief in that hug, was what Bruce was after right now, the contentment of knowing his friend was alright.

He imagined Clark’s face if he’d encircled him in a big, bold, unapologetic embrace; it’d be priceless. 

“So you gotta give me something, Kent.”

Bruce didn’t lounge on Clark’s bed long. He had to find something, anything—a hint.

Looking in Clark’s bathroom brought him no information, other than the confirmation that Clark hated perfumed—anything; his soap, his floss, his shampoo, it was all scentless.

“Something, Kent. I’m a detective, not a miracle worker.” He went back to the kitchen. It clashed a bit with his scentless existence; the man liked processed foods, canned soups, boxed noodles, and doughnut holes seemed vital to his life.

“I’ve been here before.” Bruce knew something was missing. He stood in the den and closed his eyes, opening them quickly, trying to spot the difference from the last time he was here, and something smiled at him. He saw it. “You left with your umbrella.” 

His umbrella, the one Bruce had noticed before because it had a bat signal on it, was missing; By the door, Clark’s sneakers were also gone, the combination meant he went out for an informal walk, narrowing his search radius.

 It didn’t rain every day in Metropolis; it was a rarity. Bruce checked his phone; it had rained on Sunday. Clark left his apartment on Sunday for something; that was the new last verifiable moment. 

“Sunday, he—” It somewhat took Bruce by surprise that he knew exactly what Clark was up to on Sundays. The Pelham Square market was a Sunday event, a highlight of Clark’s week.

He’d swapped Bruce Watchtower days just so he could spend the day ogling produce, crafts, and other assorted table sales. Bruce never turned him down, even if it meant rearranging his own schedule. He did so because Clark trusted him to know why he needed that day. He wouldn’t go to other league members, unwilling to lie and not wanting to give away even the slimmest sliver of his secret identity. 

Bruce taking those rare mis-scheduled slots wasn't a thankless endeavor. Every swap got him some baked goods, a wood carving, or botanical soap. Some small token that always brightened up his day when it mysteriously found its way onto his balcony. He'd only caught the man in the act once, luckily for him Clark had been bringing Bruce’s favorite market sourced thank you. 

‘Another bat-themed gadget?’ Bruce had cringed fondly if such a thing was possible when he caught Clark laying down his offering. “More Kryptonite Clark? Darling I'm flattered but I'm simply running out of places to put it,” he had quipped. The box in the Kryptonian's hands was made of iron, featuring an ornate floral design embossed into its surface.

“Oh.” Clark's shoulders had jumped up like a startled cat. “See the thing of it is-” He started a bit nervously over being caught. “I saw this and thought of you.” He paused, waiting for and receiving an intrigued smile. “I thought, Clark? No one deserves this-” His grin grew with each word. “Not a person on earth would appreciate it more than my dearest darling-” Having the word thrown back at Bruce made him roll his eyes and cover his cheeks to hide the blush there. “Eye for finery work-wife.” Clark ended strong, laying it on thick as he held up the box with a mischievous smirk. A simple thanks for covering would do, but nothing about Clark was simple. 

“Oh, thought of little ole me, did you?” Bruce stepped out onto the balcony. Popping the lid. “A Bat—” He looked down at the gift and then back up at Clark, blinking absently, asking patiently for an explanation.

“—portable egg peeler!” Clark beamed with palpably sarcastic pride.

“Of course! How have I gone this long without one?” Sitting nestled in the velvet interior of the box that likely cost more than the ‘gadget’ itself, was a seafoam plastic cylinder with a tin hinge and a glittery Batman sticker on what was probably its lid.

One of the booths must have sold ‘as seen on TV’ products. Clark had bought three such abominations on separate occasions, slapped a sticker on each, and packaged them as priceless. It had gotten a laugh each time. 

“Who knows when you'll be out on patrol and have a hankering for a hard-boiled egg?”

“Who knows!” Bruce nodded, proving he was playing along.

“Pre-shelled always got that little slime to it.”

“Best be prepared for any emergency, that is my motto.” Bruce snickered into his fist as he took the gift. “Very thoughtful, always looking out for me. Thank you, Clark.”

He had wanted to lean over the balcony and kiss Clark for being so silly and sweet, making him laugh after a day that had been the definition of droll. He thought about whether he could get away with a friendly kiss on the cheek, but before he could decide, Clark was already floating out of reach.

“You're welcome. Markets have plenty of finds like that, you know? You should come with me sometime.” He gave a very friendly, pointedly platonic wave. Inwardly, Bruce cringed. 

“That would ruin the surprise. I look forward to the spoils of your little treasure hunts almost as much as you enjoy hunting them down.” 

Bruce waved back, wondering if it would be cruel to orchestrate more schedule swaps to increase these visits purposefully. He truly enjoyed seeing Clark like this: floating on a high from a relaxing shopping day. He seemed outwardly not too different from always, but there was something special about this look, something secret, something he shared with Bruce and very few others, if anyone.

 “You should take Lois. She's got an eye for hidden gems.” As Clark drifted further, Bruce tried to be a good friend, trying to encourage Clark to share more of his time with the woman who stood a chance of being upgraded from ‘work wife.’ a title Clark had given Bruce ages ago but he knew to mean, in his case, little more than preferred company who had permission to fuss over the man of steel in ways the rest of the team didn’t. 

It was a two way street, usually. They fussed over each other, it was part of their partnership. Bruce found far less comfort in the action when doing it in Clark’s absence. “The booths are all currently closed.” There was a problem with this new bread crumb-sized clue. 

Bruce couldn’t afford to wait for the vendors to return next Sunday. He could obtain a list of names and addresses, he could probably have the blood type of each table runner at the market three generations back if he returned to the cave and dug deep, but that seemed a slow slog of overinformation. 

“The market’s close to Ace's, Clark probably stops there for lunch.” Finally, Bruce had a person of interest; this investigation was not dead in the water.

He'd find Clark in no time.

“Kent? This Sunday? That's a no-go, Mr. Wingtips.” Bibbo, at first glance, had nothing. It wasn’t doing Bruce many favors that he, an outsider, on his first visit to this establishment, had almost immediately called over the owner. 

“He didn’t stop by? Not even for—Good Lord!” Bruce scanned the menu and had to laugh a little at the ‘Superman special’. “Two root beer floats, two servings of onion rings, two buttered corn muffins, but—one burger? Is it meant for one person?”

“Sure is, Superman’s big on moderation when it comes to red meat, but the same can’t be said about the Ace’s floats.” 

Bruce was in an edgy mood, but Bibbo’s chest puffing out with pride over owning Superman’s favorite eatery cut through that slightly. It was also reassuring how unfazed the sea dog was. He knew Superman was missing, but he wasn’t sweating it. He had all the confidence that his hero would be back soon enough.

“He must’ve gotten sidetracked. Clark normally does come here before heading home, has that very order, and shows off his spoils.”

‘His spoils.’ That might help narrow things down: where Clark went, who he spoke to, and when he broke off to save the day. “You seem to know a lot about your customers. Is it possible you remember what sort of spoils Clark normally gets?” Bruce was desperate for a pattern, a path to follow. 

“Not to seem rude—” No, Bibbo was being loyal, Bruce knew the question that was coming, it was a fair one. “But what’s it to you?”

“He’s a friend, and while I admire him following in Superman’s footsteps—that space can be dangerous. I try to keep up with him—keep an eye on him, but it is hard, a city away. Everyone is scouring the planet in search of Superman. Who is looking for Clark Kent?”

“I getcha.” Bibbo nodded. “Well, he’s mentioned you as a stand-up guy. No use giving you guff just to feel taller. He sees most of the market, knows everyone by name, but one that is a staple? Something I’m sure of?” Bibbo fiddled with his cap as he thought about the self-posed question. “Oh!” he snapped his finger. “Nuts!”

“Something wrong?”

“No, No. Clark gets his dry cleaning done at ‘Sunflower’s’ down by the pier. He goes on Sunday so he can bring Miss Saejima apple rings and peanuts for her pigeons.”

“Thank you, I’ll start there then.”

Miss Saejima was somewhat difficult to speak to. She spent the entire start to their conversation dragging a lint roller over Bruce’s suit. At one point, he got in a bit of a tug of war when she tried to peel his jacket off him. “Miss—” He wrestled a sleeve back out of the woman’s inhumanly firm grip. “Sunday?!” He staggered a few steps back and nearly got into a grapple stance, but opted just to put up his hands in defense. “Did Clark come here?”

“Of course, only one shirt this week, I’m proud of him. He’s keeping his promise to be more careful with them.”

“More careful?” Bruce knew Clark was not careful with his shirts. He asked anyway, because there was such a thing as being over-eager in an interrogation. 

“His buttons.” Miss Saejima, a fan of visual aids apparently, undid one of Bruce’s buttons.

“You should make me buy you a drink first.” Bruce blushed as she peeled back the button a bit further. 

“Clark’s shirts are second-hand, not custom-made like yours; button threads are the first to go. I tell him not to be rough with them. He promises to try. Always promises, and yet—sometimes it is four or five shirts in a week. What does that boy get up to?! Does he have a side job?”

“A side job?”

“One that requires shirts off quickly?” She was not hinting at Clark hopping into phone booths to thwart jewel heists. Her eyebrows implied more of a Chip and Dale sort of side hustle.

“I doubt it.” Bruce had to glance up and away just to make sure the very vivid thought bubble of Clark in wrist cuffs and leather pants hadn’t actually materialized over his head. “If I had to guess, the buttons are casualties of his pacing. Man’s always on the go, always rushing.” Clark had three speeds: Super, Smallville, and sleep. Even when he wasn’t breaking the sound barrier, he was moving with minimal waste. 

“You aren’t here to pick up his shirts. Why are you here?” Clothing care explained, it was Miss Saejima who moved on to more crucial information. Just like Bibbo, she felt a loyalty to Clark and a hesitancy to talk about him behind his back.

“Following a lead, Clark might be proud.” Bruce smiled, but it wasn’t quite charming enough. Miss Saejima folded her arms over her chest. “Bibbo, from the Ace O’clubs, he told me Clark feeds your birds with you, after he did that—”

“He used to meet me up there.” Miss Saejima glanced up at the ceiling towards her roof. “Shows how long he’s been coming to me.” She patted her hip, implying that up there was a bit more elusive nowadays. “Places closer to him say they do double stitches, but they don’t hold like mine! Worth traveling halfway across the city.” Her chin rose up in pride, similar in a way to how Bibbo’s chest had risen. It was good to see that Clark’s stamp of approval elicited a similar reaction to Superman’s. 

“Clark appreciates quality work.” Bruce nodded. 

“Some days, if I let him, he carries me up, like I’m nothing! Lets me see my birds.” She smiled for a second, then it flipped into a frown. “Sunday was rainy, though, I didn’t want to be outside and risk a cold.”

“So he fed your birds for you, then—Did he happen to mention where he was headed next?”

“No.” All this for a dead end. “Odd.” Or maybe not. “Clark always says goodbye, he must’ve had somewhere to go in a rush. I don’t remember him leaving.”

That was odd indeed, odd enough. Clark would not leave without saying goodbye unless something demanded quick action. Whatever it was, Clark had seen it from that roof. If Bruce got his vantage point, he could see which areas might be targets for attack, or at the very least identify buildings that might have working CCTV—a frustrating rarity in Metropolis. This city just operated under some Superman-enforced honor code.

“Would it be possible to see your roof?” 

“Are you Clark’s boyfriend?” Miss Saejima tilted her head to the side. This was Metropolis, not all doors opened for Bruce Wayne just because he asked. Everyone knew the name Wayne, but not everyone cared, and there were even those who didn’t recognize his face. 

“No, I—why would—Has Clark had boyfriends?”

“Oh!” The woman covered her mouth, worried she’d spoken too far out of turn.

“Please.” Bruce clasped his hands in a quick plea. “I might not be his boyfriend,  but I'm a close friend. We’re in the same boat here. I haven’t heard from him since Friday, and I’m just—”

“And you come here to his laundromat? Not his place?” Miss Saejima pointed out the awkward route his concerned friend routine had taken him. 

‘I’ve already been there!’ Bruce bit his lip, unsure if he fessed up to that, it wouldn't come off as obsessed instead of concerned. Miss Saejima might just think Clark was avoiding him, and Bruce was some man who couldn’t take a hint. He ultimately decided to take the risk. “I’ve been by, but he wasn’t there. As far as I can tell, he has vanished.” And no one knew. Superman’s face would be printed on milk cartons by the day's end if that was still a practice, but not a soul was looking for Clark. 

If Bruce disappeared, Gotham might notice the Bat’s absence first, while assuming Bruce to be out on some bender or spur-of-the-moment vacation, but Alfred would know he was gone, Dick, Tim, Lucious. There was a list of people he met almost every day who would know that Bruce didn’t return home when he should have. Clark was more solitary than most people realized. Bruce was possibly the only person on the East Coast who noticed Clark was gone and knew something was wrong. 

“He does that sometimes. Disappears for a week or a month; the paper sends him out on important stories. He’s a bit of a big shot here.” Miss Sageima patted Bruce on the chest, slipping her business card into his lapel pocket as she did so. “I wouldn’t get too worked up about it. Your friend will call you back, there’s no need to start climbing walls.”

The Daily Planet was used to, depending on the headline, might even encourage Clark to chase a lead off the grid. The Kents recalled an entire summer during Clark’s college years that he'd spent chasing what he thought was an old radio signal from Krypton. They mentioned that postcards traveled slowly once you left the solar system, and it was better to wait than to worry.

“Not walls, just a—flight of stairs? Seeing as I’m already here? Please.”

“I’m not hiding him up there.” The laundress held firm. “I think it’d be best if you go home.”

“Sure.” Bruce had pushed too hard. “I’m sorry for bothering you. I’ll be sure to call if I need mending.” Pushing harder wouldn’t bear any better results, so he backed out towards the door. 

“I will let Clark know you were worried about him.” She didn’t seem to hold any sort of grudge against him, which was a relief; her wave was good-natured enough. 

Bruce didn’t go home with his tail between his legs. Being told he couldn’t see this roof made it nothing short of his sole purpose once he left the dry cleaner. He walked not to his car, but down the street and around the block.

The folded compact grapple in his wallet, which looked, and on more than one occasion, functioned as a bottle opener, wouldn’t stand the strain of swinging him from one skyscraper to another. Still, it did have the integrity to allow Bruce, after a quick glance to make sure no one was around to see, to skip the stairs and get up to the roof of the two-story building where Clark had last been seen. 

“What’s that?” Unlike Clark’s apartment, once Bruce got over the back ledge of the roof, there was something that immediately stood out as out of place. He had to put a hand in front of his face, glare hitting him in the eye. “His glasses!” Bruce scrambled to the other end of the roof to confirm that he was seeing those unmistakable wire rim frames. “An herb?”

To reach the eyewear, Bruce had to lift the potted basil plant they were crushed beneath. The fact that Miss Saejima did not go up to the roof alone, and did so weekly, if that, led Bruce to believe it was more likely Kent had brought the herb to the rooftop than her having a scant and difficult to access garden of one. 

Glasses in one palm and the plant in the other, Bruce glanced at the horizon. If Clark had lost his suit here, the winds accompanying the weekend shower could have taken the aerodynamic fabric all the way to the sea. His civilian clothes might not have traveled as far, but they also wouldn't be front-page news when found.

“But that doesn’t explain why it wasn’t on him.” 

Bruce studied the broken eyewear again. Even if Clark ditched the plant in haste, he wouldn't have flung his glasses to the cement roof. Clark might be able to afford weekly button triage, but he wasn’t getting new frames every time he suited up. He was always careful to put them in his pocket. 

The very first time Clark had felt safe to transition from reporter to Superman in front of Bruce, an interview was cut short is just such a way. Clark had gone from nodding with rapt attention at Bruce as he gave a boastful review to how smooth Wayne Enterprise’s solar-powered motorcycle rode, to gone.

Clark Kent had disappeared in an instant.

Those glasses were dragged down over the bridge of his nose, placed in a case likely made of some Kryptonian stress tested alloy, tucked carefully in his breast pocket, patted twice, and Bruce could see Clark no longer.

“I’m sorry, Mister Wayne.” When he started tugging at his tie, Bruce felt a blush creep up and had to hope Clark was too distracted to notice. “I really am, but I’ve got to cut this short.”

It was polite that Clark continued to play interested in the conversation, but his eyes, his ears, and his intent were all already elsewhere. When he stood, his gait got a little squarer, his chin angled up just a little higher. Bruce swore he could see the Superman curl fighting its way free. He was bracing himself for whatever was ahead; he was beautiful, that was what he was. The shift was both startling and effortless at the same time, seeing it never got old. 

“He was here, dressed, holding this plant.” He tried to picture the scene playing out. “Feeding the birds.” Those were all the facts he had. “Then, without time to change his clothes, he had nothing—he was—“ Transformed! It had to be a transformation for Clark to be here one second and gone the next. That's what made sense. It best explained why his clothes were left behind; whatever hit him was meant to attack the body, not its dressings. Portaled was a viable option, however Bruce had been through enough portals, of varying quality and sources, personally to know that their mechanics were generally vacuum-like, took you suit and all. 

“Ok—Ok.” Bruce’s lungs felt wrong; his breath was short, as if he were panicking, but this was good news—a transformation could be undone. He knew magic users who spanned every specialty. He could fix this. Clark wasn’t home yet, but it was just a matter of time and tenacity; Bruce had both. He would get him back.

Bruce tried not to think too hard about a motive right away. Clark was somewhere, out of reach, stripped of both his identities. The list of people who craved a Kryptonian knocked down a peg or two was far too long—puzzling over who and why, without a more definite how, wasn’t helpful.

 Bruce held the basil plant up to his face, glaring as if he could get the vegetation to crack. “You’re holding out on me, likely have traces of the magic source on you.” Curses and hexes tended to leave traces of ingredients, grave dirt, the blood of an innocent, newt eyes, among other things. Spells, on the other hand, had more of an energy trail—a cloud that lingered in the blast radius, holding a hum of power. 

A pigeon landed on the potted plant and started to peck at its stem. ‘This isn’t good.’ As he pulled the plant away from it's assailants, Bruce swore he saw one of the petals fight back, swat the bird in the beak. “Clark? Is that—What did they do to you?!” No response.

Bruce shook his head. It was just the plant being jostled, it was just Bruce wanting to know where exactly Clark was yesterday ago, and jumping to zebra-like conclusions. If Clark were here, he’d scoff Bruce right off this roof.

“I’m getting ahead of myself.” Bruce tucked the potted plant under his arm, doing one last scan of the roof looking for scorch patterns or chalk lines that might verify his hunch, followed by a quick upward glance in some long-shot hope that Superman would be up there reclining against a cloud, having a good chuckle. “Study first, speculate second.” He needed to return to the cave, make some calls, and dust off some books. “He’s counting on me to be on my A–game.” Clark always counted on him, always believed in him, now was not the time to drop the ball. 

He kept catching it, out of the corner of his eye, while reading up on alchemical matter displacement. Just a wiggle of the stem here or the stir of a leaf there. Only ever caught a glance, though. Every time he stared at it directly, the plant was stone still.

 ‘It’s the wind.’ The cave was high-tech, but it was also high draft. The plant might have been moving, but there were explanations for that. Bruce would bury his nose deeper in his book, only for ten or twenty minutes later, when the plant had entirely faded into his peripheral vision, his eye would snap after another stray movement. 

“Tim! Hold on!” Bruce had burned through the entirety of the afternoon doing research. He couldn’t go to Zatanna and just say, 'Magic Clark back,' he needed some proof, maybe a suspect. Hours, half a day, and he didn’t have either. 

“Bruce.” Tim’s voice wasn’t as energetic as usual. Nor was it tired, as it was on those rare days when his day job as a teenager took a big chunk of energy. Tim sounded coached quiet.

‘Alfred told him to go easy on me.’ Bruce’s pride prickled a little that he needed to be treated with kid gloves by an adolescent, but he could hardly fault his family for trying not to make his bad day worse. 

“Can you spot anything odd about this plant?”

“Uh—” Tim squared up face to foliage, gave it a deep, long stare, but just as before, when Bruce looked at the plant—it did nothing but sit and photosynthesize. “No? Whatcha thinkin'?”

‘I think Clark is a Supermandrake.’ Bruce didn’t have anything to back that up yet. He didn’t want to pass on a bad habit of being tunnel-visioned on a hunch with no backing. “Magic.”

“Oh—so what is it? Belladonna? Wolfsbane? Amaranth?”

“It’s Basil.” Bruce poked the plant with the back end of the pen he was using to take down notes. 

“Basil?” Tim tried his best not to sound underwhelmed. “That was my next guess.” 

“Dark Opal Basil, from what I can tell, if that’s more exciting.”

“Sure.” Tim nodded. “You think Superman—” Tim was coming up empty. He knew Bruce was searching for his friend, but had no context to tie it to this plant. “What exactly?”

“Right now, transmutation, but I can’t be sure—and I’m trying to figure out how it happened.”

“Anything I can do to help?” 

“Yes. I’d like you to run a rooftop circuit on your own. The path can be of your choosing, but you must not engage with or be seen by anyone. If there’s a crime in progress, or something of note, reach out.” 

“Bruce. I want to help you find Superman, don’t give me busy work.”

“I’m glad you think sixty percent of my job is busy work.”

“I—” Tim put his hands on his hips and thought for a moment. “Ok, yeah, we do a lot of lurking.” 

“Try to beat your time, and if you’re back before two, you can help me look for herbology transference references in my books.” There was a bit of a test to that phrase. He didn't want Tim actually to prioritize time; vigilantism wasn't a race. Giving Tim the choice between beating his personal best and being thorough would be a low-risk assessment of how Bruce was doing as a mentor to Robin.

“Oh—kay.” Tim still didn’t understand Bruce’s basil obsession, but he trusted the Bat's intuition. He was eager to assist, and Timothy was gifted with deciphering texts, so he didn’t immediately write off the offer as ‘busy work.’

“If something needs our hand, just give me a call before stepping in, alright?” Bruce reiterated so there could be no claim of misinterpretation later on. 

“Even if I can handle it?”

“Yes.” Police chatter had been his background noise as Bruce studied. The day had been docile, and Bruce wasn’t expecting the night to be raucous, anything beyond Tim's capability. All the same, he didn’t want Tim to think Bruce was not to be disturbed.

“Ditto! Call me if you need—” Tim glanced over Bruce's shoulder down at the page he'd been rereading for twenty minutes now. “‘—Zarphatic’ translated, ok? Want me to pick some snacks up on my way back? I can grab that old people liquorice you like."

"You mean regular liquorice?" Bruce quirked a brow. "Strawberry pull and peel, what will they think of next?" It helped, thinking about something else, even just for second, but the tension came back almost as soon as it eased. “Ask me again when that time comes. For now, I'm fine.”

“B?” Tim put a hand on the shoulder he'd been peeking over. 

“I'll be alright, Tim. Nothing I can't handle.”

“Ok. I'll check in when I’m at the Belfry.”

“Good.” Bruce watched Tim grab his modified skateboard off his workbench. The wheels became thrusters, and he was off.

Maybe it was the street opening up, funneling in fresh air, or maybe Bruce's eyes were just getting tired from staring at the same recipe for ‘vines of blood’ for twenty minutes, but once Tim left, Bruce swore the pot of the basil plant rattled back and forth a little bit. “Stop mocking me. I'm doing my best.”

Chapter Text

“I need to borrow Mr. Drake for a moment.” Principal Fritch’s presence made Tim’s heart sink. This wasn’t going to be good news. It was never good news. 

“Oooooooh!” His classmates chorused that sentiment.  

“Is it Mr. Wayne?” Tim scooped up his project, the poster board under one arm, the potted plant cradled in the other.

“I thought Mr. Wayne was barred from school grounds?” Mrs. Pomeline, whose mood had been sour since Tim stood up for his presentation, fought back just a bit at the interruption. “He can’t just keep coming in and snatching these kids up from their studies.” This was not the first Wayne-whim that had derailed one of her classes. She’d also been Richard’s biology teacher, and she’d been very upfront that she felt Bruce was a ‘hindrance to bright children.’ 

“Don’t be silly, Mr. Wayne’s interest in the academy is greatly encouraged.” Principal Fritch laughed out loud, eyes scanning the classroom, assuring himself that everyone heard him say that. “So long as it isn't a spelling bee, and that was ages ago, water under the bridge. Mr. Drake, can you come with me?”

“Is he alright?” Tim asked just as the door clicked behind him. 

It had to be about Superman.

He’d been gone just shy of two weeks now. It wasn’t good news. If he had come back safe and sound, it’d be trending on the internet by now. Superman would want to ease everyone’s mind. It had to be bad news. Tim had to be there for Bruce.

The man took bad news well, or he took it standing; he never let it knock him down. However, not being knocked down also sometimes kept him from processing it fully. Things burned Bruce up from the inside until they manifested as a burnt Bat on the outside.

For instance this wasn’t the first time Superman had been missing in action. The universe was a vast place, and appeared to be expanding. The Justice League had cutting-edge technology, but sometimes action takes you beyond that edge. A year or so prior, Superman went on a retrieval mission into deep space in search of Radion, a material the new gods were vulnerable to. Rare as it is powerful, it took Superman beyond the capabilities of the Justice League's communication tech. 

While Batman outwardly took it on the chin, “these things happen,” “Superman is a big boy, he can take care of himself,” “the risk-to-reward ratio makes the mission worthwhile,” that was for show, for the team.

During that radio silence, Bruce had worked hard, too hard, on what was within his control. He burned through the league's stockpile of backup communicators, tinkering at odd hours, even for him, trying to improve strength, battery life, and durability. It was claimed to be so that ‘this sort of thing doesn’t happen again,’ but really it was in what was ultimately a vain attempt to pick up Superman’s call. 

He’d also enacted a somewhat unpopular buddy system amongst the league for anyone traveling outside of their designated field of coverage, putting himself on call for anyone who needed a hall pass. He didn't want to lose anyone; he didn't want to be alone. 

Tim had caught Alfred trying to talk Bruce out of traveling to Egypt with Shayera to deal with Nth metal weapon manufacturers, citing that Bruce had just returned from Nova Scotia with Jon Stewart that morning. He overheard Bruce reject the idea, claiming that the team all knew if the Bat had gone with Superman, things would be different; that he couldn’t afford to repeat mistakes like that. Shayera, when she showed up and was asked to be a tie breaker of sorts, called Bruce clingy but took the Bat along, knowing he’d tail her if she didn’t.

Everybody was relieved when, after two weeks, Superman’s communicator finally returned into range. 

“Alright?” Fritch gave Tim an apologetic look for being so vague in the classroom. “Sorry, yes, he’s fine.” He patted Tim on the back. “He is on his way to work, but said that you might have accidentally taken some of his work files. Homework at the dinner table is a bad habit Mister Wayne has passed onto you?” The question was half curious and half complimentary. 

‘Files?’ Tim hadn’t swiped any spreadsheets. “Oh, some mix-up. Ok.” Tim wasn’t sure why he thought Fritch would know more about the situation than he did, or more than Bruce wanted him to.

Bruce let out a sigh of relief when Tim entered the office he’d been waiting in. His eyes were glued right to the basil plant under Tim’s arm. ‘Oh, no! We’re still on this?’  

“Mind if we have the room for a second. The files are sensitive; it’s not that I think you’d sell me out to the competition, Principal Fritch-" Bruce winked at the man. Whatever Bruce wanted was his, he could buy small cities with a well timed wink. "but I need to treat all outside eyes the same, that’s just good business.” 

“Sure.” Fritch nodded, backing out of the room, feeling flattered or intimidated, maybe both.

“So—we still care about the plant then?” Tim wasn’t sure how much trouble he was in, so he quickly presented the herb as a peace offering. “I thought Catwoman recovered his suit?” She’d stolen it from the MCPD evidence locker before Luthor could buy its way into his lab. “I figured you were done with—”

“If you found a knife at a murder scene, would the footprint you found become less important?”

“No.” Tim shrugged. “But if I found an eyewitness , I’d probably stop trying to lift every suspect's heel.”

Bruce sighed and tiredly rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t brief you on last night’s development. That’s my fault.”

“Development?” Tim had not gone out on patrol the night prior; he was only allowed two weeknight shifts, much to his chagrin, that wasn’t up for negotiation, even with Superman missing. 

“Penguin was sending vans full of his cronies across the Metro-Narrows bridge.” They had predicted that organized crime would be the first group to try and get a foothold in the noticeably more vulnerable Metropolis. “I intercepted them, and as I was doing that, it happened again.”

“Again?”

“When I leave the cave, the bats swarm the plant; they sense an atypical presence. They are defending the area while I’m gone. Here, look at Carl and Sagan swoop in for the kill.” Bruce took out his phone and pulled up video footage from the cave at one thirty in the morning, two bats squeaking and circling the plant. 

“I see it.” Tim nodded softly before proposing another theory. “Or, they’re just being bats; they probably smell a worm or rolly polly bug in the dirt.”

”I've searched the basil.” There was a scoff of insult from Bruce, that his ward would think him some armature. Tim couldn’t remember the last time Bruce had interrogated a plant for weeks on end, but he’d long since reconciled that Bruce’s ‘been there done that’ list shouldn’t be underestimated. “I didn't find any evidence of animal life. It must be the plant itself. I’ll just have to keep it in protective glass while it’s unsupervised from this point on.”

“B, why don’t I check it, while you work on his suit? There’s got to be more to go with on tha—”

“Kelex is examining the suit. The minds at the Fortress are better equipped to notice if something’s off. My equipment— everything is not to scale. The fiber itself is otherworldly. For me, it would be looking for a needle in a stack of needles.” Bruce gave a mean grimace, too many teeth, over at the window of the office, probably trying to stare all the way to the Arctic. “As of now, the suit appears to be in full standard operating quality, with no sign of tampering or damage.” 

‘Oh.’ Now, this made sense. Very little sent Bruce up a wall more than having nothing to go on, because that was impossible. There wasn’t a crime that didn't produce any clues. If Bruce was empty-handed, it was because he missed something. He’d been over Metropolis with a fine-tooth comb; it was as if Superman had just vanished, which couldn’t be.

From Tim's point of view, just like with the communicators, Bruce was using this basil plant to keep himself busy. It was something to work on until he had a new angle to explore, evidence to dissect, or a suspect to interrogate. The basil would be his Rubik's cube, something to fiddle around and solve for nothing more than the mental stimulation. 

“I have a few more experiments I want to run on him.”

‘Him. Don’t love that.’ Tim pouted at the plant. He didn’t have the psych degree necessary to evaluate if this coping mechanism was going too far. 

“Were you actually giving a presentation on photosynthesis, Tim? You’re taking advanced senior biology.” Bruce took a look at Tim’s poster, which was overloaded with stickers and Post-it Notes; a proportionally oversized sun scribbled in the far left corner to mask semi-visible cheeto fingerprints.

“I uh—yeah, I kinda of forgot today was Monday.” Tim was supposed to be giving an essay on Thermotolerance and Intrinsic Resistance, but time had sort of gotten away from him.

“It’s Thursday.” Or had really gotten away from him. 

“I am more of an extra credit sort of guy.” Tim nodded confidently as he tried to save face. 

“Don’t make a habit of taking things from the cave and using them as school work. We both remembered what happened with the starfish.”

“Got it. Last time, promise.”

“Hm,” Bruce smirked with a twinge of skepticism. “Then that’s what you’ll be working on when you get home. Right?”

“You sure you don’t want help with your experiments?”

“Why does everyone keep asking that?”

“Who else is asking? Kelex?” From what Tim had heard from Dick, Bruce had the league focusing on the movements of Superman’s rogues. If any of them even knew about Bruce’s herb hunch, they probably didn’t have the time to play good cop bad cop with a potted plant. 

“Nothing. Never mind. Get back to class, Tim. I’ll see you when you get home.”

“Gotta ask, sir.” Bruce’s driver, Lily, peered at him through the rearview mirror. “Is the seatbelt really necessary?” Her eyes moved over to the plant, which, as observed, was strapped in.

“With how traffic’s been today? Absolutely.” Gotham drivers abhor even the inkling of merging, which led to choppy travel, abrupt stops, and starts. Bruce didn’t want to risk losing some soil to the floor mat during their drive. 

“Precious cargo, huh?” 

“You could say that.”

“To the office?” Lily had pouted a little bit at Bruce’s secrecy, but it wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last time, so she changed the subject. 

“No, I’m beat. I was up late again last night.” Bruce scrubbed his chin, only then realizing the two days' worth of stubble built up there. “Let's head home.”

“Another late one? Who's keeping you up, Mr. Wayne?” The subject now something a little more ‘normal’ Lily’s curiosity dared a bit further.

“A friend from out of town. I keep meaning to show them the sights, but uh—roadblocks.”

“I bet, lucky lady.”

“I don’t know about lucky.” Bruce didn’t feel the need to mention it wasn’t a lady who kept Bruce from catching that mythical eight hours everyone touted.

‘I should call him that next time, my lady luck.’ Bruce smirked. ‘Get back at him for all that ‘Sweet-B’ nonsense.’ 

It wasn’t quite a competition, but maybe it was, sometime after Bruce had first breathed ‘Clarkie’ into existence, Superman started dropping ‘Sweet-B’ on the Bat.

‘Side with me, Sweet-B! Say it's my turn to pick the playlist!’ Blinking big, fatigued, and needy on a return flight in the Batjet from an hour-long slug fest, pleading with Bruce to defend him from the Flash's taste in victory music. 

‘Pass me that report, Sweet-B! I think I saw a similar pattern of robberies in my neck of the woods.’ It wasn’t a one-off induced by Kryptonian concussion; the next time it happened, he had his hand out, not even looking up from his tablet during a league briefing. 

‘Sweet-B, I know you’re a smart dresser, but for the last time, bullet-resistant isn’t the same thing as bulletproof. Let’s not chance it.’ As Clark snapped in front of Bruce to shield him from a sweep of gunfire.

‘Come with me to the mess hall, Sweet-B! You need to get your eyes off that screen before you mind meld to it,’ wheeling the chair, Batman and all, out of the monitor room. ‘They’ve got banana bread, you can have my slice.’ 

Bruce had asked if it was payback for the whole ‘Clarkie’ thing, but Superman just scoffed, hand to chest, pretending to be wounded. 'I am not a revenge sort of guy. Just a loving husband,' He teased. The whole team had hopped on them being work married, so he felt Bruce was owed a pet name or two for playing along. 

Bruce knew Clark would stop if he asked, but they were such a ‘cute couple,’ and who would get the kids in the event of a work divorce? Plus, Bruce had to admit, when he saw tape with ‘Sweet-B’ on it, stuck over his Javelin locker's name tag, even though it wasn’t in Clark’s handwriting, it had sort of made his day. So he never mentioned it again, hoping Clark wouldn’t grow tired of the joke. 

“You don’t think half the city wishes they could catch your eye?” Clark was not his husband, not really, and Lily did bring up a valid point; if that’s what he wanted, a real partner, a romantic one, it was not as if he was optionless. 

“Flattery, Lilly. They just don’t know any better.” Bruce leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Thinking about who he could have instead of Clark would merely remind him how irreplaceable Clark was, so he didn’t bother. There was nothing he could do for his currently and uncharacteristically unlucky friend as they drove. The time would be best spent recharging.

“Bruce? C’mon, Sweet-B, are you going to take your shot or what?”

“Huh?” When had Bruce gotten home? When had he started a game of billiards? When had Clark come over?

“If you think you’re getting the four-ball from this angle.” Clark’s chin hovered over Bruce’s shoulder. “Then I’ve gotta agree. You’re good from every angle.”

As Bruce took in the whole scene, he came to a quick conclusion. ‘I’m dreaming.’

“You didn’t know I bought this." Bruce had, for a brief moment, considered purchasing the entire Stacked Deck billiards hall, where he and Clark occasionally met for a game, an excuse to swap information or let off steam. Unfortunately, he didn’t think he had the time for another pet project of that size, so he settled for purchasing and rehoming their favorite table, the one that sat in the farthest corner, with a slightly wonky leg, which they both enjoyed, finding it brought variety to the game. “I was going to tell you that, I thought you’d admire the moderation.”

“I would have.” Clark’s hand went to Bruce’s hip. “After all I married you for your astounding self-control, among other astounding attributes of yours.” Clark’s thumb rounded the back of the held hip, venturing lower. 

“I’m not in my bed, Clark. I can’t be having this sort of dream.” 

“Fine.” Dream Clark snuck a kiss to the back of Bruce’s neck before giving the Bat space to shoot. “Why didn’t you tell me? It was delivered the day I disappeared. If I had come over for a game instead, maybe—”

“You would have asked me if I was sure I didn’t want to invite Shazam. And I didn't want to argue.” Bruce took his shot; it skimmed his target but ended up being a scratch, with the cue ball falling into the right corner pocket. “That's the last thing we talked about. Something so pointless.” Bruce frowned, feeling a little numb over this realization. 

“Pointless? Not to me. How many missions have you picked him over me? Didn’t used to be that way.” Clark huffed as he fixed his glasses, his head cocked to the side a bit as he figured out where he wanted to place the cue. That’s when Bruce saw it: Clark’s eyes were green, not blue. 

“He’s new, and there’s something off about him. Like he isn’t— He reminds me of Dick when he first moved in, I feel like he needs the extra— Wait, picked him? You know it had nothing to do with preference? Were you actually jealous?” Bruce’s next shot sank, but he didn’t even watch the ball. Instead, he watched Clark’s ear blush up, not pink but green.

“I’m not perfect.” The blush, that green, spread from his ears, into his cheeks, down his neck. “I get that way with you.”

‘With me.’ Bruce hadn’t noticed it at the time, but Clark didn’t huff at every mission Shazam’s magic resistance made him the smarter heavy hitter to bring into play, only the ones that Bruce was a part of. “You weren’t trying to hog the spotlight. You were—I wasn’t going to replace you, Clark! You're my best friend. You mean the world to me.”

“Day late and a dollar short, aren’t you?” Dream Clark’s shot was calm, calculated, it hit its mark. “Maybe if you valued our relationship a little more, you wouldn’t have to dream me alive.” 

From under Clark’s collar, thin vines threaded out, coiling around his neck, down his arms, waist, and legs. Clark didn’t react when the vines constricted, as the remaining amount of bare skin turned green. 

“It’s not my fault.” Clark would agree with him; his subconscious was not as kind, using hindsight to hit him where it hurt. “And he’s not de—” Clark disappeared, in a plum of leaves, the air of the room flooded with the smell of—basil? But only briefly, then it changed to—bacon?

“See? No need to bring out the dolly. Work smarter, not harder.” Alfred had a single strip of bacon dangling into the half-open window of the car. “There’s a full breakfast inside for you, Master Bruce. Mere steps away; if you can be cajoled.”

“Mmmm.” Bruce rubbed his face roughly, then grabbed for the bacon strip. “I was that out?” He gave an apologetic look to Lily, who stood behind Alfred, as he chewed.

“Maybe you’re the lucky one ? If she’s running you this ragged.”

“Remember that line, Lilly, word for word.” Bruce undid the seat belt to the plant and then, with one big yawn to get his blood pumping again and knock the cobwebs from his head, he opened the car door. “Next time you see Clark, tell him how lucky I am to have him to run me ragged.” Bruce winked and smiled, replacing that horrid dream scenario with the mental image of Clark blushing a proper red. 

“Better than the emergency rations you had for dinner last night?” Alfred waited till Bruce started in on the large plate of bacon, fried egg, sausage, mushrooms, baked beans, hash browns, and grilled tomatoes. 

“I didn’t want to miss the readout.”

“Bruce, you hooked up a house plant to an EEG machine. I need you to tell me you knew there wouldn’t be a reading.”

“CIA reports are stating Cleve Backster received spikes when hooking up a Dracaena plant to a polygraph machine. I figured an EEG would help me with bioelectrical potential mapping.” He saw Alfred’s brow rise in question. “I didn’t get any results. Though —” He lifted his fork in protest. “— I wouldn’t have learned that if I didn’t try!”

“Bruce, my boy, you’ve studied that plant from stem to cell.”

“You saw the tape the same as I did, Alfred! I’m not onto nothing.” 

“The tape.” Bruce frowned when Alfred sighed, conveying the same unconvinced aura Tim had exuded when Bruce mentioned it earlier. “You don’t think there are other things that deserve your attention? For instance, you can’t keep asking Richard to attend League meetings in your stead.”

“It’s good training. That seat will be his one day. He’ll deal with crises like this.”

“Yes, but this is your team. Wouldn't you agree they need you right now? Given the circumstances.”

Bruce considered his words while pouring himself a glass of orange juice. “Penguin started encroaching on Metropolis a week into Superman being gone. How long before ambitious Apokolips residents come for Earth? We are down one of our biggest intergalactic deterrents.” Bruce had seen as much stated in the meeting transcripts. Green Lantern contacted the Guardians of the Universe about the implications.

The Justice League needed to defend Earth from internal and external forces; that's what the group was assembled for. They needed to focus on threats, unrest, animosity, and panic. They would feel the gap left by Superman and what would crawl out of said gap, sooner rather than later.

“I think given the current circumstances, Richard is perfect for the team.” People trusted him almost implicitly. Richard had experience leading a team whose members' rotations were in a constant state of flux. “He can keep morale high. The stability and confidence Richard will give them is exactly what they're missing. It's what they will need now until—" Bruce didn't dare jinx himself "This is resolved.”

“And you, sir? What do you need?” Alfred asked with a concerned glance. “You aren’t reaching out to your league. You’ve been delegating Robin and Nightwing off this case. You’ve run out of legitimate tests in favor of science that is fringe even by your standards. Do you not need help?”

“If I stay single-minded and uninterrupted—” Bruce paused on that word, because that aspect had met a Tim-shaped speed bump today. “I know Clark’s weaknesses. I know his enemies. I know what he would do with his back to the wall. I have all the context to figure this out, so that things go back to normal. I just need a little more time.” 

The league had its hands full, its priorities rightfully spread over different facets of global stability. It was work that could not be sidelined, but Bruce needed to be removed from all that interference.

“And I did ask for help. Selina was able to get his suit back to us. That was a huge win.”

“Bruce, I know it is early,” Alfred’s hesitation caused Bruce to become hyper-aware of that not-enough-air feeling in his lungs again, “but have you considered what you will do if—despite your best efforts, things do not go back to normal?” 

“Cart before the horse, Alfred. I need to have him back first.” Perhaps Clark would require physical and or mental rehab, but Bruce would see him through anything; he'd sit at his bedside through the entirety of the healing process. 

“Bruce.” Alfred’s hands went to his hips. He didn’t think Bruce was fully listening. 

“I was waiting to confirm before calling in the cavalry. I know how odd it sounds and how—less than definitive my video proof is. People rally around proof. I need to be able to give them hope.” Alfred’s brow was digging a deeper frown into his forehead. “What?”

“Is that why, Bruce? Genuinely consider why you’re not letting anyone else near your theories.”

“It’s not a glory thing, Alfred. It’s not that I need to find him. I’m not gatekeeping, I just think I have the best chance at—”

“You can believe you're right so long as you're not proven wrong. I think you are afraid to be told that what you are clinging to has no weight to it.” 

“But it does.” That weight was why Bruce couldn’t breathe right; it was pressing right against his chest. Bruce was sure Clark was alive. He couldn't prove it; the weight was nothing tangible, nothing he could stick under a slide or point to on a map, but he'd know, he'd feel it in his bones if Clark had died. “The reason I’ve been—stalling is it's in bad taste to stroll up to a woman's door empty-handed.”

“Woman?”

“I’ve already called Zatanna. I'm to meet her at the house of mystery after supper. I hate to make her play twenty questions with her magic. I had hoped to have narrowed it down, but—I admit I am getting nowhere alone. I could keep banging my head against the wall, or I could reach out.”

“I will take that.” In a very olive-branch-like gesture, Alfred took the basil plant and placed it on the windowsill to give it more sun. “And I will watch over this while you bathe and take a proper nap. Much like the rations, the surgical gurney is meant for emergencies, not comfort.”

“Can I switch the order? I hate sleeping with damp—Look! Alfred, now! Turn around!” This plant certainly had Clark's sense of humor. Just as Alfred turned to the window, the stem, which had been wagging back and forth vigorously, stilled. “I—” Bruce rubbed his eyes. Had the plant moved this time? Or had his eyes been playing tricks on him? “—will take that nap now.”

“I think that’d be wise.” Alfred agreed with a little shooing motion to make sure actions backed words.

The trouble with magic fixes was the amount of trial and error.

Attempt one: Zatanna spoke the words ‘erotser eht deppart uh—’ She had to pause, restart.  ‘erotser eht deppart nainotpyk mrof,’ caused the plant to grow into the shape of a Kryptonian.

The pot, thankfully, rose to cover the being’s unmentionables. While the shape was spot on, that was all. It was a sculpted shrub; no movement, no life outside of the green leaves.

“At least he's pretty to look at. You could keep him around as decoration if the plant doesn't turn out to be Superman,” Zatanna grinned. Bruce gave her an unimpressed stare.

Attempt two: Zatanna tried a simple ‘Odnu.’ The spell only managed to undo her magic, reverting the plant back to its basil shape. She tried it a second time, but nothing changed.

Attempt three: to get more information out of the stubborn herb, she tried to give Bruce the ability to communicate with it, which led Bruce to spew out dirt. He tried to reach out to Clark in between coughs but got no response.

Attempt four: She tried ‘Esaeler tnemenifnoc’, which led the pot to burst. The explosion caused Bruce to yelp in panic, which he will deny till his twice independently confirmed death. Zatanna was luckily able to conjure up a new home for the plant straight away. That it, because of the spell, ended up wearing one of her trademark white bowties, was adorable, but not enough so to boost Bruce’s mood, which was dropping with each failed try. 

Attempt five: Zatanna went too broad. “tfil desserper sluos” led to Bruce and Zatanna fighting the nearly twenty now awoken, formerly slumbering ghosts within the House of Mystery. “Is it too late to hire Constantine?” Zatanna hit his arm. Hard.

Attempts six through nineteen did not go much better. The closest they came to achieving their goal was Zatanna turning Bruce into a cactus for what felt like a suspiciously long minute. His suspicions were confirmed when he was shown the picture she snapped with her phone, showing a bat eared cactus sitting within a $30,000 suit. That at least confirmed Bruce’s theory that clothing did not go along for the ride in transformations. 

For the twentieth attempt, the basil plant sat atop a mirror, next to a black candle. “Kcalb Sa tghin. Eldnac nrub thgirb. Nrub yawa eht cigam nworht ym yaw. Nruter ti ot sti rednes thginot.” 

“Anything?” Bruce felt bad for asking so quickly, just as the last syllable left her lips. Zatanna was tired; she’d tried nine reversal spells in a row, each one older than the last. Before that, she had endeavored three revealing spells to find the source of any magic laid. None that had worked at anything but taxing the sorceress. “What happened? Is it working?” A leaf fell from the plant as the purple hue of Zatanna’s power subsided. “Kal! Is it weakening its hold? Or—This is a good sign, right?” Bruce scooped up the plant. The fourth clay pot, they’d broken two more after the exploded one, was a little hot to the touch. A second leaf fell. “Zatanna?”

“If it’s magic,” Zatanna scowled at the plant, which had seemingly stumped her, “it’s nothing I’ve seen, Bruce.” Her voice had a little bit of a pant to it as she rubbed at her throat. It wasn’t that she was bested, but usually, in battle, she would be allowed a breather in between so many varying spells. 

“Could it be magic from a different planet?” Metropolis was a hub for aliens; it wasn’t a reach that an alien mage had caught Clark.

“I guess, but if it was an alien spell turning Clark into a plant, it should most likely be an alien plant. We should be looking at Audrey II, not—pesto fodder.”

“Kal appears more human than most men I know. If he didn't fly or fight as he does, I’d have no clue he wasn’t.” 

Clark obliged to a once-a-year physical at the cave, letting Bruce study him any way he could think of, but Bruce was convinced he’d die without even scratching the surface of all the mysteries of Kryptonian biology. The same logic applied in this situation. Just because it looked like basil, smelled like basil, and reacted to stimulants such as light water and temperature as basil would, what if its differences simply couldn’t be picked up by Bruce’s near-infrared spectrometer? 

“Sure.” Zatanna winced that agreement out.

‘Can believe I’m right because I can’t be proven wrong.’ Bruce heard Alfred’s criticism in the back of his head, and Zatanna’s body language seemed to echo sentiment.

“I need to think about what my next step will be.” Bruce picked up two bottles he had brought along as a thank you for her help: Belvoir Elderflower Cordial and Beluga vodka. “Would you like me to put on some chamomile tea before I go?” He gave a small laugh when Zatanna pulled a kettle from her hat.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Alec is, would you?” Bruce took a sip of his tea, smirking when Zatanna took the opportunity of his cup hitting the saucer to top the drink up with more Vodka. 

“Here and there, nowhere and everywhere.” Zatanna shrugged as she gave Bruce the answer he was dreading. Swamp Thing unavailable, Bruce would have to visit Gotham’s resident green expert.  

“Happen to have any exotic plants lying around that you wouldn’t mind parting with?” 

“Ivy is not a fan of vodka?” Zatanna gave a small cough as she reaped the result of her heavy hand.

“No.” Bruce had fought Ivy drunk on mead once. It wasn’t something he’d like to enable happening twice. 

“Maybe I do. What do you plan to get from her?”

“I need to know if this plant has sentience. I can’t keep chasing this theory if I’m off base. That’s a waste of time. If Superman isn’t in here—” Bruce cupped the potted plant, frowning at the spots where leaves had fallen from. “—I need to stop torturing the poor thing and figure out where Kal could be.” Bruce’s secondary theory was that Clark was displaced in time, but that would be even harder to prove, and this plant just seemed too out of place not to have a stake in the situation. 

“What do I get if I part with one of my Raskovnik plants? They’re not easy to dig up, you know?” She nodded her head backward to a shelve of rare ingredients. 

“You want something?” This wasn’t a game; this wasn’t a scavenger hunt. This was Clark, missing—vanished—gone. Bruce, Earth, the life Clark needed to be leading, left out in the cold. 

“I’ll give it to you, Bruce. Sorry, I just—things are tense right now, that’s all.” Zatanna’s eyes were fixed on Bruce’s hand, which was white-knuckled around his teacup.

“Sorry.”  Bruce’s ability to temper or, at the very least, conceal his emotions while on the job was slipping. “Tell me what you’d like, and it’s yours once I have the time.” 

“Well, I strained my voice for you.” Zatanna sat up and walked over to Bruce, patting her friend on the cheek. “When you’re up to it, maybe you’ll give me a little personal concert, huh?”

“That I can do.” Bruce took his time with his tea, hoping the warm, boozy beverage would calm his nerves and maybe even ease the tightness in his lungs.

Ivy was sitting on a couch of blooming cotton, and at first didn't find entertaining the uninvited Bat worth standing for. She didn’t even put down the book she was reading, simply letting a vine snake out through a curtain of wisteria to reach out and take the Raskovnik plant from Batman, which thankfully did get a tiny approving hum. “And the other one? The one you're hiding, is that not for me? Has it grown on you?” 

“This one’s not up for adoption, but I do need care advice.” Bruce hadn’t noticed that he’d gripped his cape in such a way to shield the basil from Ivy. He let go of the fabric, revealing the plant, his grip on the pot reflexively tightened when the vines came out to take it from him, but he did gingerly pass it over. 

“You’ve been mistreating him.” Ivy shook her head before stroking the rim of the plant’s pot, cooing soothingly. “Yes, yes, the big bad bat was far too rough on you, I agree.” She glanced up briefly to shoot Batman a pointed glare. “Mocking us with modesty we have never needed.” A finger dug into the loop of the basil’s bow tie, tugging but ultimately not undoing it. “Dioxiders! Can't expect much. You did come to an expert, I suppose. The barest thought must count for something.”

“What can you tell me about him? Where is he from?”

“Since when do you give my family the autonomy they deserve?” Ivy’s eyes narrowed. 

‘Damnit. Too desperate.’ Batman inadvertently gave this information more value. “Even dioxiders can try to turn over a new leaf.”

“Hmph.” Ivy stepped out from behind her floral blind. “Gotham plants tend to grow a little crooked, something in the water, so you are an out-of-towner.” She held the pot to her face, speaking to her preferred company. “You don’t feed on peat moss. Very conscientious diet.”

“Peat moss is a nonrenewable aerator for soil. The bogs take thousands of years to mature.” Bruce nodded hurriedly. 

“Knowledgeable. Are you turning a new leaf or looking for a gold star?”

“This plant is at the center of a current investigation. I’ve been brushing up on my botany knowledge.” Batman was anxious, spouting facts he knew gave him a momentary illusion of control over this interaction. 

“Superman?” Ivy inquired with a peaked curiosity. “Looking for the apple of your eye?” 

“A Metropolis crime. I’m picking up his slack while he’s on vacation.” Batman couldn’t chance Ivy putting a Superman-sized price tag on her assistance. What she might ask for, how eager Batman would be to oblige, could all end up dicey.

“Ask me to spill this little cherub's beans, and you lie to me.” Ivy scoffed. “But I don’t like the thought of you without your emotional support alien. North Carolina was where he budded. Though he’s lived in Metropolis air for a few weeks before—where have you been keeping him? Don’t tell me he’s been locked away in one of your coffins, has—” Ivy stopped when she heard Batman’s fists clench. “Not the answer you wanted to hear?”

“Ocimum basilicum?”

“Yes.” Ivy’s body language changed to a less relaxed one as she stepped back. She was expecting Batman to shoot the messenger.  

“Always?”

“Always?” Ivy asked back, confused.

“Nothing seems augmented about this plant?”

“As I said, it seems stressed, but it doesn’t seem— super, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Not last Sunday, but the one before. What did they see?”

“Light, it was overcast most of the day, but there was one surge of—unnatural glow, a tasty red wavelength, high concentration, just for a second though.”

“Red radiation.” It wouldn’t kill Clark, but in a high enough dose, it could make Clark mortal. “Anything else?” That catching in Batman’s lungs had changed; it was a burning sensation. Bruce felt like he was in a burning building, breathing in smoke and soot. 

“My siblings are more pure in priority than you and me. It was a damp day? The air was a bit salty? Does that—” Ivy sighed again. She wasn’t going to console Batman, but he must have looked broken enough, even with the cowl and armor crafted to make him look like a sculpted gargoyle, that beating him down further held no sport. “This doesn’t make me happy, you know? He was not connected to the Green, but his love for it, his understanding of it will be—”

“—Thank you for your help.” ‘Was,’ that word was premature. “I'd appreciate it if you forgot this conversation.” Batman looked towards the exit. He wanted to escape before the phrase 'will be missed’ could coil around him. 

Clark was already missed. Bruce was doing everything he could to rectify the situation. All his work so far had led to a dead end. Clark was missed—Missing, hurt, and depowered. And Bruce wasn’t any closer to finding him! Clark didn't have time for Bruce to be this wrong. 

“We'll be going.” Batman held his hand out for the plant. 

Ivy's brow rose in confusion. This plant had no more information to give the Bat; she’d been fairly clear on that. 

“I don't abandon witnesses just because they don’t tell me what I want to hear.” This plant couldn't help Bruce find Clark, but it still held value. It made Bruce feel connected to Clark's last—“We really should be going.”

Bruce had let clenched fists give him away twice in one night. When he returned to the cave, he gave in to them.

He flipped his evidence table, beat a dent into the Batmobile, pulled down lighting, and toppled over every piece of equipment that had failed him. He bloodied his knuckles on the UV bed kept in the medical wing of the cave. He swung at everything that cast a shadow, kicking at anything that got in the way of livid pacing that eventually tired into a sorrowful stagger. “I know this isn’t productive, Alfred. I just—” Bruce didn’t know when the other man had come down, but he wasn’t surprised, with the racket he was making. “—I just—I was so sure I had him.”

“You were sure you’d always have him,” Alfred spoke quietly as he followed behind Bruce until the Bat collapsed into the chair in front of his computer. “And now you can’t be sure.”

“I feel lopsided, Alfred, like the world is on a tilt? Do you feel it? Is it just me? Am I losing it?” Bruce buried his face down into his arms, sighing hard to keep from screaming. 

“I feel his absence, but not as you do, Bruce. I know we never spoke of it—” A hand rested on Bruce’s shoulder. “I know you did not just admire him. I know you loved him.”

“No. You’re wrong!”

“Bruce—”

“Please, let me just have my mess for a bit?”

“Alright.” Alfred agreed hesitantly. “But I won’t let you sleep down here! It’s not healthy for you.” He lifted the basil plant, wanting to remove the temptation of being swept up in it’s sway again. Bruce nodded, giving a defeated sigh. 

“Right. Yes, of course.” Bruce would do anything for Alfred to leave, taking the word ‘loved’ with him. ‘I still love him, Alfred. I won’t stop. I can’t.’

Minutes after Alfred left, Bruce was trying to meditate, letting his mind span out to the cool stone edges of the cave, his thoughts quieting under the stream of the waterfall. His desire to be out of his body far beyond his head made the sensation of a light weight over his left hand jarring. He straightened up, coffee mug in hand, to strike whatever had startled him, but stopped when he couldn’t identify the small creature wrapping itself around his ring finger.

“Clark?”

Bruce truly was losing it. 

Chapter Text

Day 0 

He’d been sitting on the rooftop tossing a peanut in the air when he heard someone running at him. He turned his head to see who else could have been up there, but was flooded with a beam of red light. The next conscious thought he had, he was buried alive.

‘Muffled.’ When he was powered down, that’s how the world felt, that’s how his body felt, like he was listening through a wall, seeing through stained glass, moving through molasses.

‘Do they think I’m dead?’ Clark couldn’t move much, only squirm, dirt as far as his limited vision could see. 

‘Who was it that got the jump on me?’

He’d been out as Clark. Did someone figure him out? Or was he buried as a human? Had he been sent to Smallville? Was Pa waiting for him to dig himself out? Clark tried, but this was more than just powered down. He was tapped out of even base human strength; he couldn’t feel his hands. He was trapped.

‘Don’t panic.’ He opened his mouth to try to shout for help, but that only got him a mouthful of dirt; even his vocal cords were not responsive.

‘Don’t push the earth, Clark! Let the earth push you.’ He tried to customize his father’s advice on flying to keep dread from overtaking him. 

‘Put on your marathon boots, Boyscout.’ Clark tuned out the dirt and the lack of feeling in his limbs; he focused on the skill that had served him from birth—enduring, outlasting. There were some battles he won from being stronger, smarter, faster, having more tricks than a threat could handle, but with threats of true measure, it was Clark’s endurance that saw him through. Not staying down, not giving up, biding through the pain and anguish to get that one moment he and his team needed to win, that was when he really shined.  When it became apparent that was the sort of fight on their horizon, Batman would elbow him, say those words, and strap in for whatever was ahead. 

Day 1

Something was wrong! More wrong than being buried alive. Clark wasn’t feeling the disorienting fatigue that he had at first coming to. He was more aware of his body, or rather, the body he was in. It wasn’t that he couldn’t feel his fingers and toes; it was that he didn’t have any. Any time he tried to claw up from this grave, he felt his torso writhe. Every time he tried to blink, he felt something above his head wiggle. 

‘No!’

 A personal nightmare of Clark’s was growing antennas. Feeling the springy little nodes move around finally elicited pure intense distress in him. He didn’t know what he’d become, where he was, if anyone knew he was here. He suddenly felt claustrophobic; he thrashed, trying to get out, trying to wake up from this nightmare. All this hapless struggling did was make him sink deeper. The dirt had become mud; it felt like the air he was getting wasn’t enough, the sun was too far away, everything was working against him. 

‘Fear is anger you can’t put a face to,’ Clark stilled eventually, to the voice of Bruce playing in his head again. ‘Neither is your strong suit, Clark. Don’t let either grip you. Uncurl your fist, one finger at a time.’ 

Superman had been hit with a fear toxin containing red Kryptonite in the mix one October a few years back. Batman had, once the league was able to contain him, talked him through it. Clark remembered the stupid amount of gratification he felt when his palm lay flat but shaky, how soothed he was when he was told to focus just on Bruce’s breath. If Batman was calm, Superman could be too. 

He tried to imagine he wasn’t caked in mud, transformed into some alien body horror; no, he instead had overcome that silly fear toxin again. As a sign of a job well done, Bruce was wrapping him in a cozy weighted blanket. If he held out a bit longer, Bruce would offer to bring him some of Gotham’s best warm cider. Perhaps later, he could risk pulling Bruce closer, keeping the Bat in his lap to hold and caress. That would feel nice, Bruce just felt safe, his body was firm and warm, his voice was silky and soothing, his presence was filling but not stifling, Clark could go for six helpings of that right now. 

Day 3

It took Clark hours, with breaks for rest, to achieve fluid motion. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought a whole day maybe more had passed when he hit something hard—the bottom of his tomb, which was less depressing to him than it might have seemed. It finally gave him bearings; he knew where the bottom was, which meant he could probably find the top. What he’d do when he got there, he wasn’t sure, but he’d take even momentary wins. If he got some sun, he was sure motion wouldn’t be so taxing, so he began waving the thin, fin-like appendages he felt at his sides, to help him swim upstream through the mud. 

‘Is there a sun?’

Clark wasn’t sure he hadn’t been teleported to another dimension, or maybe this was all in his head, some mental prison. Above him, he heard sorrowful cries or harrowing shrieks; it was hard to tell which, but either way, it wasn’t reassuring. While blind faith wasn’t something he liked to lean on, he decided sulking that things were hopeless was even less efficient. So he tried, inch by inch, to reach a sun he was trying to will into existence. 

Day 4

“Ws tat?” A voice? Clark heard a voice above him, but ‘heard’ wasn’t even right. It was more like he felt it reverberate through his skin. “His Lasses.” Clark had spent his entire life learning to pool and delegate focus and energy to body parts, first to maintain human existence, and later in life to amplify his extra gifts. It made ‘feeling’ the words less of a hurdle to overcome; Clark was confident it would soon be easy to tunnel in on that sensation, allowing the words to come in a little more crisp. 

Clark swam up and up, hurrying as fast as his belly dance and breast stroke combo would carry him. Whoever had found his resting spot wasn’t speaking to him, didn’t know he was here, and that had to change. 

“He was here, dressed, holding this plant.” Clark had bought some basil the day the strange red light hit him. Basil for pasta he was planning on making. His stomach growled a little at the recollection, but he had no time to be hungry; he had to keep moving. “Feeding the birds.” 

‘Yes!’ Someone was looking for him, someone had found him. 

“Then his clothes had nothing—”

Two of Clark’s senses were overloaded when he came to the surface. His eyes were flooded with daylight. It was good for him; he stretched into it, but he hadn’t learned to control these eyes yet, and it stung, going from dark mud to bright light. The other flooded sense was apparently this forms strongest, smell. It was a familiar scent combination, rosemary, pine, amber, and vanilla; it was Bruce’s Ermenegildo aftershave. Bruce had come to find him!

“He was—” Bruce kept saying was, he couldn’t see Clark? He sounded close, he sounded—big.

‘Dirt, feelers—fins—am I a buried alien or a buuuuuoooooh, crap! I’m a creepy crawly!’

Clark’s ability to calibrate his senses kicked in. His vision wasn’t great, no matter how he strained; he seemed to be a bit far-sighted, but the blurry landscape above him was still visible. He could see the basil leaves, bigger than his head, with an elegant chin the size of a moon. He was shrunk down, he was no longer a Kryptonian, he’d been reduced to some sort of worm.

“Ok—Ok.” Clark’s whole world moved as Bruce lifted the basil. “This is probably my best clue right now.”

Bruce didn’t see Clark’s head poking up through the mud. To fix that, he tried to fully unearth and wrap himself around the stem of the plant, but wrapping was a new challenge for his muscle groups, and it was taking some trial and error to master the skill.

While Bruce didn’t see him trying his best, Ms. Seigima’s pigeons did; they swooped in with pinpoint accuracy. Clark must have inherited some worm instincts because despite how hard Clark had worked to burrow up, his lower fins pulled him back down beneath the soil. 

‘That will take some overcoming.’ Clark, once burrowed down, had frozen still; his body not listening to his mental drive to move back up and wave Bruce down. 

Clark was not used to having a strong fight-or-flight response. He hadn’t grown up with one, nothing ever registered as a threat, the stove didn’t burn him, dogs couldn’t bite him, he’d been kicked in the eye by one of Miss Louise’s dairy cows, and it hadn’t left a scratch.  Even as an adult, there were so few things above him on the proverbial food chain that when he did feel fear, it was more of a sympathetic than instinctual response. He feared that he couldn’t protect more than he feared he couldn’t withstand. 

He'd learned that distinction when he started surrounding himself with humans who stood in harm's way willingly without want or need of his help, leaving his pulse to rise and his breath to catch on the sidelines. Jimmy hanging from lampposts, crumbling bridges and alien space ships, to get the shot he was after. Lois chasing stories into increasingly undercover and overarmed military labs. Bruce tested how afraid Clark could be almost daily, doing things like breaking into a well-gooned mob safe house on a broken ankle, manually piloting a ship directly towards an earthbound meteor, or staring down interplanetary dictators like Darkseid alone.

He’d learn biologically dictated fear, just as he had the equally new sensation of squirming through dirt, but it would take longer, maybe a day or two. 

‘Sorry, B. You came through, just keep your marathon boots on. I’m coming!’

Day 5 

Having his tunnel already cored out made it easier for Clark to reach the surface once he had built up his energy. His vision was better, which was both a gift and a curse. When he came up for air, that’s when he saw them. ‘Parademons?’ Clark could feel those new antennas at the top of his head quiver, but he mustered up a spine he didn’t physically have and forced himself to really assess the situation. 

‘No—’ Clark knew that smell. ‘That’s no parademon.’ He could actually feel the shifts in the air, the flapping of wings. ‘That’s a bat!’ As the creature grew closer, Clark could make out the shape of its face, its spitting fangs, and its beady, ravenous eyes. 

For a brief moment of overconfidence, Clark considered letting the bat scoop him up. He’d done bull riding in high school to impress Lana. Sure, he didn’t have a worm-sized cowboy hat, but how much more difficult could this be?

‘You don’t have a saddle.’ One or two bats were becoming three to ten.

‘You don’t have stirrups.’ They went from being hungry but unsure, to being confident that Clark was the most delicious gummy worm in Jersey.

‘You don’t have hands, Clark! Funny idea but not a good one.’ Clark chose flight over fight, ducking back down under the soil.

‘Marathon boots, Blue.’ Clark sulked against the clay bottom of the planter, annoyed when the bats tackled his home and screeched at his sky; all he could do was coil small and hope the pot didn’t topple. He wasn’t against biding his time; he hated feeling helpless. 

Day 6

Fight or flight wasn’t the only strong worm instinct Clark learned. As Kryptonians basked in the yellow sunlight, worms apparently found a similar attraction to water, or more specifically, rain.

 When Clark felt the vibration of a heavy downpour, his fins and torso, now working together, rocketed him up to the surface. He hated his body moving without his direction, hated being so primal, he couldn’t stop his antenna from feeling out for the water source. 

His long torso took him out from the safety of his soil, down to the floor of the cave. The Bats were keeping their distance only because the cave was lit up, but Clark had no idea how long it would last, and yet his body didn’t care; all it wanted was water. 

Clark did end up forgiving this reckless march when he felt the moisture in the air get steamy. ‘Good lord.’ Clark pulled his antenna down over his eyes when he found himself outside the door to the cave’s shower. He scootched one antenna to the side when the door opened, a palm fumbling out for a towel. 

“Hate the sewers by the casino, smells like bad fish and stale smoke.” Bruce grumbled to no one in particular, as he stepped out fully. He held onto that towel far too loosely as he tussled some water from his hair. 

‘You are a bad friend.’ Clark wasn’t sure how much of his rolling around in the drip left behind from Bruce’s footsteps was the worm in him getting the enrichment it needed and how much of it was his desire to see Bruce’s hip bones and shoulder blades from every viable angle. 

“Did it move again?!” Clark’s fun was spoiled a little bit by hearing the concern in Bruce’s voice as he scrambled up to the basil plant. “Clark?” 

‘I’m here!’

Clark could move fast for a worm, or at least he assumed; you never really appreciate knowledge gaps until you're floundering through them. No matter how quick or average his squirming had become, he couldn’t get back to the bat computer fast enough. Bruce had whisked off the basil to the area of his cave kept sterile for science experiments, a place Clark couldn’t wiggle his way into.

Locked out, Clark slithered into one of Bruce’s old school filing cabinets, sharpening his vision up to what he was beginning to suspect to be the best a possibly nocturnal worm could ever hope to achieve. He trained his ability to remain in peak focus by looking at mug shots in the dark, trying to make out features and names. 

Day 7

‘I smell food.’ Clark woke up to something tickling his olfactory bulb. He did have a mouth, but it hadn’t done much until now. Just then, he felt a pincer-like appendage thrust out, trying to grab onto a meal. 

Crawling out of the cabinet, moving carefully and slowly so as not to make himself a bat snack, he found his way back up to the monitor area of the Batcomputer. He was able to read that Bruce had a slew of missed messages; he wished he could reply to the six from Diana, the two from Martian Manhunter, or the one-hundred-and-thirty-six-minute message from Green Arrow, but he couldn’t speak, and worse yet, he was still a slave to his instincts. 

Clark’s body compelled him to squirm over to a silver tray left out with an untouched glass of grapefruit juice, a small plate of crumbs, and, most appealing to the rumbling stomach that took up most of Clark’s insides, a tepid bowl of oatmeal. He more or less swan-dived into the bowl. Clark learned to use the single pincer as a sort of spade, to shovel morsels into his mouth as he swam around. He found moving in a torpedo sort of spiral was more ‘natural’ a movement, a tip he would take into traversing his plant’s soil if he ever got back. He felt a little guilty that he was ruining Bruce’s breakfast, but the temperature had him fairly certain it had long since been abandoned. 

‘What am I doing here?’ Clark floated lazily on top of the sea of oats once he got his fill, trying to think of a plan; surviving wasn’t a good goal. Clark had decided when taking on the mantle of Superman that surviving wasn’t what was meant for him. It was doable, it was even acceptable, but he could and would do more.

He just kept missing Bruce. The man had a whole cave, but he kept shutting himself into that tiny, air-tight, soundproof, bulletproof, superproof, wormproof lab, with that useless basil plant. No amount of Clark weathering the bats’ hunting ground to press his pudgy little face at the glass, wagging fins and feelers in silent S.O.S. was doing him any good. He wanted to simply lie down on the keyboard of the Batcomputer and wait for Bruce, but he had to be either moving or hidden, as the cave was simply not worm-friendly. 

A possible solution walked up to Clark while he was getting his oatmeal bath. “Such a child. Ate the biscuits, left the meal.” 

‘Alfred!’ The tray was being lifted and carried, Clark and all. Clark had all intentions of trying to signal Alfred, but the butler placed the small plate atop the bowl, extensively lidding Clark up for transport.

Despite no immediate rescue, and perhaps in ill proportion due to the boost in energy from a full stomach, Clark’s hopes remained high. More people were moving around the manor proper, Bruce was no longer the only option to flag down, Alfred or Tim would do. The manor was better lit; Clark’s royal blue skin would shine, stick out, and call attention, and he didn’t have to time it around the hunting hours of hungry bats. 

It took Clark hours, including a break for lunch, to muscle the plate off the bowl, and an additional hour to worm his way out of the sink and into the kitchen proper, using every utensil and dish at his disposal. Clark was exhausted; he ended up crawling behind a cookie jar and sleeping off the soreness of his harrowing journey upstairs. 

Day 8 

Hanging out around the cookie jar seemed like a brilliant idea; it was a hub of the household, where everyone stopped. Bruce, Tim, Alfred, even Dick when he stopped by. Clark thought climbing onto the lid would be his ticket to discovery, and it was eventually. Unfortunately, it was not by a Batfamily member, but by Bruce’s driver, Lily, who had grabbed herself a glass of lemonade at Alfred’s behest.

"Ahhhh! Oh! Shit! Kill it!" She saw Clark and took off her driver's cap and promptly tried to beat him to death. Tossing Clark into the trash with a napkin when he finally wised up and played dead. 

“Everything alright, Lilly?” Of course, when Clark was at his lowest, covered in banana peels, coffee grounds, and Gogurt tubes, Bruce entered the equation with rapt attention.

“Saw this huge bug! It was a monster!”

“Fool me once.” Bruce chuckled.

“That thing on the hood of my car was a mutant, a freak of nature! All those legs and eyes! There’s something in the water way up here, I tell ya.”

“It was a ladybug,” Bruce remarked flatly. 

“That was no lady!” Lily huffed. “You really should bring in a contractor to check out the walls, I know they're antique, but it’s got to—sir?”

“Yes?”

“Is that a fashion statement?”

“It is fashionable, isn’t it?” Bruce gave a bubbly little nothing answer. “Green is the most relaxing color on the eye, or so I’ve read.”

“I think you’re taking it a bit far.” Lily had a snicker in her voice. 

‘What?’

Clark wanted out of the trash, he wanted Bruce to see him and deworm him, he didn’t need extra motivation, but hearing that Bruce was making a fashion statement made Clark wiggle just a little harder, green wasn’t a lot to go on but Clark did remember a see-through clover striped linen shirt Bruce was photographed in while out on a cruise that left nothing to the imagination. Clark may be a worm, but some instincts, urges, and interests apparently must transcend species. 

‘Damnit!’ Clark was lidded yet again, push as he might, every little muscle of his straining, the bin lid wouldn’t budge. He’d have to waddle through trash till someone else had something to toss. At least this time, he had something pleasant to think about. 

Thankfully, Clark didn’t have to wait all that long to be freed. The can’s lid was opened about an hour or two later. He had to dodge a root beer can, then free-fall from a height that, a day or so ago, his worm instincts would have blocked him from risking. He was getting better at being the boldest, most agile worm he could be.

Down on the ground was an improvement compared to being in the rubbish, but it didn’t help him get the attention of his unwilling accomplice.‘Dick!’ Craning his head up, Clark saw Bruce's oldest crack open a second soda, pounding it back like it might actually give him a buzz.

“I’m not having a hard go, Alfred. It’s—we’re fine right now.” He knocked his fist against something wooden on the kitchen island, maybe a cutting board, Clark couldn’t see, only hear from his vantage point. “But they’re distracted by him, and I don’t blame them.”

“You need to keep them focused on finding Superman. He won’t be convinced by anything less than that, that he needs to stop. It might not seem it, but this is not him spiraling, this is him clinging.” 

‘I’m right here!’ Clark tried to shout despite knowing he couldn’t. He did it sporadically throughout each day, expecting something to change, expecting some spell to finally break or for him to surpass his biological expectations, he’d done both before, multiple times. Why not now? 

“He’s carrying it around town in a terrarium tote, Alfred. Like it’s some purse dog.”

“He’s put a decent spin on it, promoting reintroducing nature to a world dominated by industry. He looks eccentric, not deranged.”

“To normal people, not to the people who know what he’s going through. Everyone’s worried about what will happen if we find Uncle Clark—and he isn’t ok.”

“You need to keep them focused.” Alfred reiterated. 

“If he’d just answer their calls, that’d go a long way. I know he’s going to find Clark, but I don’t think trying to solve it in a vacuum is—he’s better when he’s got someone to bounce ideas off of. It’s why he doesn’t work alone, the loner detective is a good look, but it’s not his best speed.”

“He’s not irrational, just wishing to be.” Alfred sighed. “He will talk to them when he can face what they have to say.”

“You think Clark, Superman, is dead?” 

‘Really, Alfred?’ Clark wished he had a foot to stamp; fluffing around his fins didn’t have the same impact.

“I need to,” Alfred replies. “We have to assume the worst. He is missing, and Darkseid sent at least one of his assassins off world, that’s been confirmed. It could be a coincidence, but that possible reality cannot catch this home off guard. Someone must be prepared for it. I’ve seen Bruce mourn more times than I’d care to recall, but this would be different; it'd not simply be losing someone he loves, but someone who is—part of how Bruce views the world is contingent on Clark being there. To remove the man is akin to shifting the earth on its axis.”

“But deep down? Just between the two of us?” Dick pressed; he wanted to hear that Clark was alive.

‘I’m here!’ Worming around on the tile floor was much more difficult than on the soil or the porous stone of the cave, yet Clark tried. ‘Dick, Alfred, I’m right here!’ Clark used every muscle he had; he wouldn’t be a second too late again. He was faster than that, sharper than that, more determined; he was Superman. ‘Look down here! The worm, it’s me! It’s Clark! It’s Superman.’ 

“I’m a pragmatist, not an optimist, but Superman—both sorts can safely bet on him.” This was a superstitious house, much like Dick’s knock on wood, Alfred seemed to find it bad luck to declare Clark dead, alive, or anything too definitive, as fate might change at being outed. 

‘I’m here!’ Record time, Clark could practically hear his cape snapping behind him as he finally made it to Dick’s pant leg. ‘Sorry about this, bud.’ Using his feeding pincer as a tiny climbing axe, Clark dug into the denim of Dick’s jeans and began his summit of Mount Nightwing. ‘I’m coming!’ 

“He asked me to bring recordings of the meetings. The question has some theories. Booster Gold and Gangbuster have been poking at Luthor’s underlings and getting some interesting leads, some sort of mass shredding going on. Has he been listening to them?”

‘It helps him think, he likes the company.’  On a flight to Halus XII ages ago, Clark asked what Bruce was listening to as he piloted, noticing the micro expressions on the Bat’s face shift despite the scenery being bare and their small talk non-existent. Bruce had admitted that he enjoyed hearing voices while performing repetitive or prolonged solo tasks. He felt he worked best when the language centers of his brain were being engaged. He liked playing recordings of league meetings, zoning in and out of conversations. 

“He’s a bit backlogged, but he will listen to them; it’s not a hollow ask.”

“I know he should be able to do things his way, I don’t mean to rush him, but—"

“Others need him. I know. He knows.”

“It’s not that. I just worry about him, I know he’s hurting and I know he somehow feels like this is his fault, like he should have been in front of this, but it wasn’t and he couldn’t! I want to tell him that, but I don’t think he’ll listen.”

‘People think he's omnipotent. He knows he isn't, but he holds himself to that standard anyway.’  Clark knew that Bruce leaned heavily into his expectations. People thought Batman was emotionless; he buried them deep down. People thought Batman was bulletproof; he shrugged off wounds. People thought Batman was a loner; he gave off a standoffish air. People thought Batman was an all-knowing, cowl-clad specter in pursuit of vengeance; he spoke as if he were ever two steps ahead of the Earth’s rotation. It was sometimes odd what people over the years attributed to Bruce’s success, but whatever garnered him faith that Batman could grasp victory no matter the odds, Bruce would allow it to define him, to the point he felt pressured to back up the myth with reality. 

“He will listen, Richard. Bruce is an excellent listener. It will just take him longer to accept it. He was raised with Gotham in his blood after all. Accepting what is not fashionable, profitable, or timeless—takes much longer for him and his ilk. Guilt? As timeless an emotion as there is.”

“Gotham is as Gotham does. I can’t just buy into that like Bruce does Alfred.” Dick polished off his second soda. “I don’t know how to help anymore.” He tossed the can and started to leave the kitchen. “I’m going to wait for him down in the cave, try to talk some sense to him.”

“And that will be a great help, even if it does not bear immediate results,” Alfred assured.

‘Slow and steady is the pits, Alfred.’ Clark could currently sympathize with Dick’s dislike for chipping away at a problem, in a way too literal for his own taste. Each hook and pull took Clark micrometers up Dick’s jeans. He’d barely made it past Dick’s ankle in the time it had taken for Alfred and Dick to have their little debate. 

He was still mid-calf when Dick got on the elevator, taking him down to the cave. Clark could have hopped off, stayed up in the relatively safe manor, but he’d already come so far, no risk, no reward. 

He was at Dick’s knee by the time the man was placing down the USB by Bruce’s monitor.  

“Bruce. I love the effort, you’re pulling out all the stops but—" Dick only got the first few words of his rehearsal pep talk when a chirp went off on his wrist. “No.”

‘What?’ Clark had made it to the top of Dick’s thigh, but he was almost flung off when Dick collapsed into Bruce’s chair.‘Dick, you’re too young to slouch like that.’ Clark propped up the front half of his body, trying to wave Dick down. ‘What’s going on? It’s nothing we can’t handle.’ It was frightening to see the young man go so pale, gripping his head, the news he’d just received seemed to have shot him straight in the temple. 

“There’s no way he knows something we don’t. The bastard’s bluffing.”

‘Who?’ Clark didn’t dare hike higher because Dick was sprinting back to the elevator. ‘What did they say?’ Another chime went off. Dick had suddenly become very popular, which was a bad sign, unless one of his team members was calling to tell dick to check his kneecap. 

“I’m on my way. Do not let anyone in, or a single paper clip out of that morgue, before I get there. Did he have a short list of names, or did he ask for all the files?”

‘Morgue?’ This was odd news. Clark wasn’t dead. Who was? Sadly, more importantly, who was rifling through the toe tags? ‘Lex?’ Was a fair go to for stabs in the dark.

“Ok. I’ll be there in twenty.” Dick circled back to the computer, sat down, took a pen from a drawer, and started writing a note. He wasn’t going to be sticking around for a pep talk. “Metropolis morgue. John Does—Shit, I—I can’t just leave that as a post-it, can I? Last thing I need is Bruce doordashing dead bodies to the cave.” Dick tossed out his message almost as quickly as he finished writing it. “B, call me. Urgent.” His revised message was vague enough not to give Bruce an undo heart attack. “Clark isn’t there. If he kicked it—there’d be nothing left.” 

‘I guess that’s a compliment?’  Clark knew he wasn’t going to get Dick’s attention. He was busy bracing himself for a task he never expected to have, confirming or denying Superman’s corpse. ‘If Dick rode his motorcycle here, I can't hang on all the way to Metropolis.’ ‘Can’t’ was a sour word to Clark; it poked and prodded at his brain. ‘Can’t’ made his antenna shrink back in displeasure. Part of him wouldn’t accept the concept, part of him tried to say. ‘Of course you can, you should at least try.’ ‘Can’t’ is quitting without taking responsibility. ‘I’m a worm, though—there are things worms can’t do.’

Clark had learned and accepted that there were things humans couldn’t do. The nimbleness of his fingers and thought processing allowed for six hundred words per minute. But Clark Kent can’t break any typing records; he has to keep it at a comfortable twenty to thirty words per minute when on a tear. Clark just had to apply that logic here; he had to accept that being Worm Kent had its own set of rules, ranks below Superman and Clark Kent, respectively. Clark, still bitter over the choice, half fell, half rolled off of Dick’s trousers as he stood, landing on Bruce’s chair when the man got up. 

‘Bruce is wearing something fashionable, possibly see through. Just keep positive.’ He snuck behind the back massager mat to the seat’s back in hopes of keeping hidden from the bats, he curled up atop the power source to keep warm, and he waited. There were two things that, as a worm, Clark was better at doing than Superman or Clark combined: swimming and waiting. 

Day 9

‘Of all the ways to die—it’d make a hell of a tombstone.’ Clark squeezed out of his hiding spot just as Bruce sat down. ‘Here lies Clark, crushed to death by Batman’s caboose.’

“They were wrong about you, Clark.”

‘I never thought I’d be jealous of a patch of dirt.’ Upon the desk area, there was a portable terrarium. Dick’s comparison to a tote wasn’t that far off; it had suede straps for fashionable transport of about six pounds of soil and a useless basil plant. 

“They’ll keep being wrong about you until you prove them wrong.” Bruce opened the terrarium more like a briefcase than a tote, glass walls folding open to let the plant breathe. 

‘When Bruce needs something, he builds it.’ 

Bruce needed Clark back and wasn’t willing to wait. Call it a coping mechanism, call it a hunch gone haywire, but Bruce gave himself something to work with—a partner to talk to who wouldn’t cast doubt on what he knew to be true. The plant wasn’t going to give him the answers he wanted, but it was going to buy Bruce some time until Clark got his act together and showed him some of that proof of life he was requesting. 

“I know how much you like that.” Bruce yawned as he stared across his screens, doing a preliminary pulse check of Gotham. “Proving people wrong.”

‘I’ve got a few minutes before he dips back to the greenhouse of horrors.’ Clark shot from the chair arm to Bruce’s bicep. ‘And they call me the Man of Steel.’ Clark’s little pincer went through Bruce’s business suit and hit his skin, but the muscle beneath was so packed it shook Clark a little; he had to adjust. 

“Right? You still lord over me, how I got you wrong when we first met.” Bruce’s hand lifted up to stroke one of the basil leaves. “I’m not—not wrong again, am I?” 

‘No, Bruce, you’re not. Well, a little, but mostly right! I’m alive!’

“I forgot you know?” Bruce yawned again. “How tiring this is, without you.”

‘Without me? I need airspace clearance and my visa stamped before I help you out in Gotham.’

“The days, they just blend into one another, and it doesn’t feel like I’ve seen the sun set or rise properly.” A third yawn. “I don’t think someone’s circadian rhythm can tune itself to a phone call, but—Your schedule—I liked it, made the days blur less.” Bruce’s fourth yawn was bigger than the others combined. 

‘Oh, you used to hate that.’  Clark, before he knew Bruce was Batman, would call Wayne Enterprises once a week, generally on Wednesdays, and ask to be transferred to Mr. Wayne, speaking with a different employee each time. For weeks, he was promptly hung up on or laughed at, but eventually he got through and pried the playboy for something newsworthy. Even now, despite having each one of Bruce's twelve phone numbers, he’d still call a random employee weekly as his go-between. 

“You never told me how you kept getting their numbers. Did you really just keep trying different combinations until you got someone?”

‘It was a good way to spend my lunch break.’

“Did it feel like this?” Bruce’s yawn was more like a sigh this time. “I feel like—you’re just a few digits away from me and—" His fist crashed into his keyboard. “But a few digits are everything in problem solving.” Bruce folded his forearms down on his desk, his face landing on top of them. “You were tenacious, I need to be ten—at—ti—oh, shit! I’m tired.”

‘I could’ Bruce’s shoulders were pressed up against his cheekbones. Clark could pull a Wrath of Khan earwig move and try to wiggle well into Bruce’s personal space.‘But should I?’ After striking out time and time again, Clark was finally beginning to think Bruce wasn’t the only one off by a few digits. Flagging people down as a worm wasn’t working. Everyone was distracted, busy, tired, and stressed, searching for a Kryptonian. Even if Clark learned how to shoot thermal radiation out of his tiny eyes, he could see it being swatted away and ignored as some stray itch. ‘They won’t notice me, but what if I—change the world?’

Clark scrunched off Bruce’s shoulder and spent the better part of the next hour doing some strength training, pushing Bruce’s coffee mug nudge by nudge, though by the time he got the mug to hit Bruce’s palm, the man was snoring softly. Clark wasn’t as annoyed as he should have been. Taking Bruce’s cue, and a bit tuckered from his workout, he crept under Bruce’s mousepad and got some shut-eye too.

He woke up before Bruce did, that part of their relationship hadn't changed. He scooted over Bruce's hand on the way to the home the Bat had built for him. It was such a kind gesture, Bruce trying to make him as comfortable as possible, but it was another grand expenditure of effort  on Clark's part just to get inside. Fins were not great for scaling glass and it took a bit of worm parkour over Bruce's office supplies to gain entrance. 'How do you do this every night B?' Bruce made vaulting and swinging his full body weight look like an elegant dance. Clark when he collapsed, hitting several basil leaves on his way down, felt like a battered rodeo clown. 'I need some tips, and some ice, maybe some of that coffee.'  When Bruce got up to properly go to bed, Clark was too sort to move. 

Day 10

'Moving like a Bat is killing me. I need to think like one.' Clark decided. If Bruce’s focus was solely on the plant, Clark should use that, venturing out of the Bat’s preferred eyeline was a waste of time and effort. It took him an embarrassing amount of time to get to that conclusion. To be fair, every time Clark caught his own reflection, blue bumpy skin, expressive antenna, fragile little fins meant only for the softest of soil by how they ached at the end of every day, a tail that veered opposite to his head's direction like a rutter, it all looked pretty darn eye catching to him! 

Clark was accustomed to being nearly human in appearance and had worked hard through his teenage years to conceal the worry that people would see through that. He was aware that his iris’ darkness changed depending on his level of focus, that his step was too heavily weighted on his sesamoid bones, and that his fingerprints were all identical tented arches. Clark had spent years thinking miniscule things would give him away, so when he went full bite-sized body horror, he thought it’d be some big red flag that drew attention, but that hadn’t been the case.

This morning, he was going to enact his new game plan, and become a plant poltergeist. When he heard the gears of the elevator dropping Bruce down, Clark coiled around the trunk of the basil plant. When the doors opened, Clark was supposed to shake the plant like crazy to draw Bruce in. Except he froze, because Bruce had beaten him on the eye-catching scale.

Bruce waltzed into the cave, not in Kevlar body armor, not in a worsted wool suit, but a fuchsia robe left fully open, revealing the Superman boxers, judging by the wrinkles, he’d slept in. Bruce had a satin eye mask pulled up far on his forehead, making his bed head look all the more pronounced. On Bruce’s feet were the Batman slippers Clark had gotten him for his birthday four years ago; they looked well worn in, some might say on their last legs. 

 It wasn’t the skin or the brand loyalty that made Clark forget his mission; it was just how—at home Bruce looked, a newspaper under the crook of his arm, a smoothie tumbler in one hand. Clark had been over Bruce’s house plenty of times, but he’d never seen Bruce so unwound, or rather prewound, as he had come here to put more hours of work in. Clark felt conflicted about seeing Bruce in this state. He liked seeing this homebody, off-the-clock look. He found it attractive in a very cozy way.  It made him want to wrap the shorter man in his arms and never let go. The conflict was he was a voyeur, getting a peek at a private man in his soft and sleepy state, it felt like stealing, and Clark felt a little guilty, but not enough to bury himself under the soil and avert his gaze. 

“You can’t sleep either, huh, Clark?” Bruce sat in his chair, putting the paper and drink down to pet the plant, which made Clark feel less like a peeper. “I saw your apartment. You’ve been having trouble again. Why didn’t you tell me?”

‘How did you get that from my apartment?’ Clark began to shake the plant, rocking his body back and forth, hoping the movement would be noticeable under Bruce’s palm. 

“When you’re back, we’ll talk about it, yeah? I got some techniques you could try, and—if you’re ever up—and—I guess it never gets too quiet for you, does it? Probably too loud if anything,”  Bruce continued to stroke the plant as if it were some house cat. Clark couldn’t feel it, as he was not the basil plant, but just knowing that comforting touch was meant for him, did the job, and he felt tended to. “I’m a light sleeper, you could—" Bruce cleared his throat. “You’ll call me when you can’t sleep, we’ll talk, we don’t talk enough. It will help, I think, righ—holy hell, Clark!” Bruce shot to his feet.

“Bruce?! You finally see me?!” 

“Clark, you’re alive! I knew it. I—" Bruce let out a relieved flurry of laughter, raking his hands through his hair, pushing that forgotten eye mask fluttering to the floor. “You had me worried!”

'Yes! Sorry B!'  Clark waited patiently for Bruce to scoop him up. 

“I couldn’t prove it, but you’re here. You’re right here!” Bruce lifted Clark’s terrarium, rushing them to his lab. 

‘Right here! I don’t know what exactly happened, but I’m sure you’ll figure it—’

“I couldn’t be sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. They thought I was losing it when I said you were taking your photosynthesis to the next level, but you still had your glasses on! It was too coincidental, I knew it was crazy but not insane.”

‘Darn.’ Clark let go of the basil trunk. Glancing up, Clark could see the issue: Bruce had been taking too good care of this basil plant; it was thriving, its foliage dense, and Clark might be bright in color, but unless Bruce trimmed down the leaves, he wouldn’t be able to see him. ‘Ok, maybe I can just climb—’

“So I have a theory, it might be magic, I have a jar of Aeëtes’ bull breath, it’s a cleaning fire. It won’t burn you, it’s meant to singe away curses. I’m not sure if you can smell in your current state. If so, I do apologize, I’ll lend you some shampoo when we get you supersized, I have scent free and even no tears! You'll be fine.” Bruce took the lid off a small vial and placed it within Clark’s terrarium, then closed the top. 

‘Why do you have this? Where do you get this? I and magic don’t exactly—’ The smell was, as alluded to, pungent and unpleasant. Clark's sense of smell was stronger than ever; he caught the scent with his skin, a mix of smoke and wet cattle that choked him. Clark had never thought a smell could really be painful, but this had been a week of firsts. 

‘Back to the drawing board, Bruce.’ Clark toughed it out as long as he could, hoping that the searing sensation he felt from tail to antenna was the magic coming undone, but eventually it became too much; he found himself burrowing deep to escape the sensory overload. 

‘How concerned should I be that I appreciate the upgraded wiggle room?’ Bruce’s terrarium was deeper, the soil was less coarse, and even the perlite was silky. He felt more comfortable than he had been in the cramped pot. Cozy as a worm was not something Clark ever thought he would be. It wasn’t something he should be, but this was a week of firsts. 

Day 11

“Clark?” There was a frantic tap on the glass of his terrarium. 

‘What time is it?’

“Clark, are you alright?” 

‘What day is it?’ He remembered tucking away from awful magic pesticide, but he didn’t remember blacking out. 

“Clark, listen I’m sorry I didn’t catch it earlier. Going through the tapes, I saw you were calling out to me the first night. I’m not ignoring you.” Bruce sounded concerned. “So don’t ignore me, ok? I need you to keep trying to communicate with me.”

‘I’m tired.’ Clark hadn’t been outside in days; he was sure Bruce was watering the plant, giving it the recommended amount of indirect sunlight. Clark wasn’t even Kryptonian right now, so he probably didn’t even need as much sun as he usually did, but still.

“You gotta talk to me, Clark. Please.”

‘It’s not talking, that’s getting to me.’ Clark’s days were blending together, mind-numbing fatigue setting into both his brain and brawn. The isolation was making Clark lethargic; he was accustomed to hearing hundreds to a thousand different voices in a day, and he spoke to at least a dozen; going cold turkey was truly getting to him. 'Maybe if I get to his keyboard, I can type a message to him?!’ Worm-sized feats of strength were just as ineffective and misinterpreted as trying to stand out. Clark had to use his words, even if he couldn’t speak; he had to channel his inner reporter. 

'Annnnnd of course.’ Clark torpedoed up to the surface, plan in mind, only to find himself what might as well have been miles away from the nearest keyboard. ‘I’ve always wanted to see what the bedroom of the Bat looks like.’ Clark was somewhat expecting a bit of a man cave or a love den, but there was no plasma screen TV, and there were no mirrors on the ceiling. The room was large and tasteful, very of a bygone era. The most notable feature was the wall of windows, which framed the open doors to the balcony, allowing fresh air to enter the room, while the cave had a draft; true fresh air felt wonderful.

The second thing Clark noticed, by inching over to the edge of the terrarium, was the area rug beneath them. Bruce had sat them in the center of the room. Surprisingly, the rug design made Clark feel even more homesick, with rose-colored rectangles emerging from each corner, sky-blue orbs surrounding each one, on a cream-colored background. It reminded Clark of drifting around skyscrapers on cloudy days, and he was very tempted to jump out and just roll around just to forget for a single second that he was trapped in this form. He was about to go for another dive when Bruce spoke again.

“I—" He laughed, hand over his eyes as he did so. “I pictured this differently, you know? Bringing you up to my room? I certainly didn’t expect such a cold shoulder.”

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Clark didn’t think it could be taken any other way than the obvious, could it? Bruce had wanted, at some point in their lives, to invite him up to see his bedroom. Maybe to test the mattress? Clark couldn’t help but glance back at the rug. Now he wanted to roll around on it for entirely different reasons. Bruce would look lovely against clouds, cream, and rose-tinted buildings. 

“I shouldn’t have brought you up here now. I just—don’t feel like being alone, I guess. I—heh—" Eyes back to Bruce, whose own were now hidden by his entire forearm. “Don’t make fun of me, but I had a nightmare last night. You were buried alive—I thought—”

‘—thought what?’ Clark was a little confused. If Bruce genuinely thought and believed wholeheartedly that Clark was in the room with him, would he be admitting his feelings and venting about his fears?

“I dug you up, fast as I could, but—either I wasn’t fast enough or—it had never been a race to begin with.”

‘He’s doubting.’ Clark was noticing it in Bruce’s words and actions more and more as the days without results grew in number. ‘No—he knows he’s wrong, he’s just not sure about what.’  Bruce’s detective intuition sometimes outpaced his rational brain. He would come to Clark now and again with little more than a ‘something is going to happen’ or ‘this is a ruse’ sort of hunch, and they would follow it, never to an empty conclusion. Currently, his gut was telling him he was barking up the wrong basil, but he just wasn’t sure what that meant for the situation. 

‘If I jump down now, will Bruce see me? ’

It was likely that Bruce had to pull his arm down eventually, and Clark didn’t have to duck out of the way of hungry bats. Though there was also the chance Bruce wouldn’t be willing to take the leap, unwilling to be wrong again while he felt against the clock. Lily had mentioned bugs crawling around the home, monstrosities crawling in through the walls. He might think Clark an intruder, something attacking his one link to Superman, not the man he was trying to rescue. What Bruce needed more than another theory in the moment was reassurance that he was not as wrong as he thought.

Clark was sure it wasn’t audible, but he tried to sigh as he wrapped his body around the basil plant again, wringing his muscles to give it a shake. 

“Clark?” Bruce’s hands fell to the rug, and he leaned forward. “You—don’t scare me like that again.”

‘What I won’t do to make a Bat smile.’  This was objectively, if not a step backwards, moving quite literally in place. It wasn’t helping Clark to be found, but Clark could see the energy spark up in Bruce’s eyes; the manic laughter of earlier had been replaced with genuine relief and joy. No one did their best work morose, miserable, and at their wits' end. Silly as he felt, Clark also felt a little invigorated; he was talking to Bruce, comforting his friend. 

“Are you tired? I—Shit, you probably miss the sun. I’ll take you out tomorrow, alright? We’ll sit in the garden before work, I can go over my notes, and—Clark, I hope you know I’m doing everything I can.” Bruce scooped up Clark’s terrarium and placed it on his nightstand before heading to the bathroom to get changed. “I’ll get you back! Just stick with me, ok?”

‘You and me are going to have quite the chat once I get my vocal cords back, B.’ Clark hadn’t forgotten Bruce’s bedroom comment earlier, and it kept Clark from burrowing down and resting properly. He stayed on the top layer of dirt, face pressed up against the glass, watching Bruce, wondering if he actually meant what he said or if his friend just knew how to get his attention and rile him into action. 

Day 12

Clark appreciated that Bruce didn’t lock him in his science bunker when he headed out for patrol. Instead, he left him by the monitors, next to a familiar lamp. It was one of the few pieces of furniture from Clark’s apartment that wasn’t a hand-me-down or an Ikea shelf model; it was a miniature sun crafted by the cosmic anvil, hovering within a vase of Krytonian calming crystals which emitted a soothing hum.

‘He was in my place to give me a creature comfort.’ Clark thought that was sweet, until he thought a bit harder.  ‘Oh no, I didn’t clean up! Were there donut boxes everywhere? Did he check my internet history?’ 

What was done was done. Clark would cross that bridge when he got to it. He had a mission in front of him: type. He would have to leap from key to key. He’d also have to figure out how to operate the Batcomputer—it probably wasn’t as simple as opening a notes document; he couldn’t be sure that the keys would even respond without a retina scan, or that hitting the tab button too many times in sequences wouldn’t send the cave into a deep lockdown. This was military grade tech, and Clark had to wing it—as a worm—with no fingers. 

It took twenty or so minutes of just practicing, turns out jumping wasn’t the way to go. Hit a key, then turn on his side and shimmy to the next was the ticket. He had been able to open a file on a crime in process, or rather just a person of interest, Phantasm. Hopefully, Bruce wouldn’t be too upset that Clark put in some notes. He had gotten out ‘S alive, wor-’ That’s when a call came in, one Clark accidentally accepted. 

“Batman?” It was Diana. “Batman, look at me! You owe me that.”

‘He can’t come to the phone right now.’ Clark winced at the annoyance in Diana’s voice.

“I am not saying we declare him dead. Nightwing seconded your dispute on the identification. I am just saying his chair cannot be empty. We need to fill it.”

‘Fill my spot? With who?’ Clark was not egoless; it did hurt his pride to hear that substitution was not just an option but a requirement. 

“It’s been over a week, Batman. We look vulnerable. Someone will capitalize on it. There are already murmurs. We need you to analyze which are viable and which are vipers without teeth.”

‘Bruce still has his ear to the ground, Diana, it never stops.’

“Nightwing is doing well, but he doesn’t—we—I would like my friend here, through this. There’s a silence here without him, you know what to say—when it’s quiet.”

‘He does.' Clark was a rambler, but when there was a gap, a lingering, uncomfortable silence, Bruce could do wonders with a pregnant pause. 

“Batman—why did you pick up if you’re not even going to face me. Why are you being such a coward!”

‘You don’t mean that.’  Diana was in pain, she was—mourning, and she did not want to be sad; she’d rather be angry. Clark could sympathize, sadness was a—scary, solitary emotion, not something he faced head on if he could avoid it by feeling urgency, command, sometimes even rage. He’d witnessed Supermen, who refused to face loss, tried to prevent it en mass by taking charge of their world within vice-like control. 

“I—Batman, even if you can’t come to the Watchtower. I get not wanting to see his chair, I know—Will you just call me?”

‘Uh—uh—’ Clark flailed over to the K button and hit Enter.

“Batman, he wouldn’t want you to hurt alone. He always—he—Kal would want us well. He’d want—I feel like Kal would want us to be there for you if he can't.”

‘I appreciate it Dian—-’ The light deterred the bats, but they, like their landlord, were persistent even against deterrents. He’d been out in the open too long and, unfortunately, had to cut this call short when a swarm came for him. 

“Batman? Are you there?” Clark had to flee back to the safety of his dirt, hearing Diana call out for aid. He wanted to be able to stick it out, to have her back as she would have his. Unfortunately, his back right now was soft, squishy Batnip. “Batman—call me back when you can. I know I am not Kal, but I am here.” That hurt Clark; he was here, but not here enough, not vocal enough, not what Bruce needed when he truly needed someone. This was a nightmare. It was a nightmare that turned into a car crash. 

“How did you get through?” Clark hadn’t heard the elevator, nor Bruce stomping towards the computer in his haste to flee. 

“What are you talking about? You answered my call.” All he could do was eavesdrop on the miscommunication he caused. 

“No, I didn't. I’ve been working.” 

“Batman—are you—have you stopped working?”

“Yes, sleep, eat, I even took a bubble bath the other day.” Clark, nor Dianana, could tell if Bruce was kidding. “How did you get through?” He repeated his question. “Who accepted this call?” Clark was below the soil, but he could feel Bruce’s eyes scanning the cave for an intruder. He didn’t need his super hearing to tell Bruce’s pulse was racing. His sanctuary had a snake in the grass, or a worm rather.

“Batman?” Diana was worried because Bruce was worried, which was a fair cue to take. 

“Dirt.”

“Dirt?”

“On the keyboard. It must be him. I’ll check the tapes.”

‘You notice that! I’ve been belly dancing under your nose for a week, but you notice that I didn’t wipe my feet before typing?’ Clark steamed under the soil. ‘You’re brilliant, you’re passionate, but boy, you're bull-headed when you’re onto something.’

“Must be him?! How? You’re not explaining yourself, Batman. If someone has breached your cave, you need back-”

“I will explain when I can. Let me get back to you, Diana. I’m not ignoring you, I’m trying to—fix this.”

“Batman, this isn’t a fix-it problem nor is it a solo mission. Let us help each other—"

“Everyone is helping. I’m just doing my part.”

“I don’t like this gatekeeping Batman. Do you know what I do to gates?”

“I think Clark was turned into a basil plant while out feeding the pigeons.”

There was a silence of maybe a full minute before Diana spoke. “What proof do you have?” As radical and ultimately wrong as Bruce’s theory was, it showed how much this team trusted each other that she didn’t stomp the theory into the ground outright. 

“Can I get back to you on that? I see—a message in my—file on Phantasm? What do they have to do with anything?” Bruce had finally seen Clark’s message when he moved Diana’s call from the center of the screen. “Wor—Wor—Did he mean Worsting? That warlock from the Caymens? Diana, I have to call you back. I’m right on the edge. I have a new test I want to run.”

‘Fuck!’ Clark’s best laid plan had—done a whole bunch of nothing. 

“Will you get back to me?” Diana pushed. “I miss our banter.”

“Was this banter?”

“It was something.”

“Something’s better than nothing.” Bruce sounded agreeable. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I have some experts lined up who should be able to shed some light on this.”

“Tomorrow then.”

‘Tomorrow,’ Clark scrunched to the corner of the terrarium that had become his bed . ‘Tomorrow will be different, tomorrow will be better.’ 

Day 13

Magic. The word of the day was ‘magic.’ Tons of it, bushels, heavy, hard, powerful magic, and there was not enough dirt for Clark to hide from it! He and the plant had been rehomed to the pot, just in case it was the source or binding of what had been done to him. 

Magic sucked, magic hurt, magic stuck to Clark like tar; it lingered on him even in instances like this when he wasn’t the main target. Clark could hear Bruce and Zatanna go through a laundry list of spells, counterspells, rituals, summonings, anything, everything, and the kitchen cauldron to make the basil their boyscout. Each layer of magic, Clark felt heavier, more stuck, a little mentally stretched; he’d had very few concussions in his life, but it was the sensation that he could best compare it to. Clark would have cried tears of relief when they finally called it off, if he had the ducts for it. 

Clark had not recovered by the time Bruce visited Ivy. He was still out of it, feeling lethargic, his thoughts thin and fluid like a weak broth. He couldn’t make out true words, only intent. He could hear Bruce putting on his best behavior; he didn’t want to fight Ivy for information, he didn’t want a battle of ideals, he just wanted answers—any answers. There was some desperation in there. His questions had a little lead to them, a little please to them; he was tossing out ideas, hoping not to strike out. 

The conversation took a turn at some point. Bruce no longer wanted to be here. It wasn’t panic, it was haste. He had to be somewhere, not here, and he needed to be there yesterday. ‘Did she sense a pest in your plant?’ Clark hoped, but that hope wasn’t very high, not with the way Ivy’s voice had changed as well. Ivy had gone from her normal confidence, which skirted the line of snide, to cautious. Bruce had become a landmine she didn’t want to trip over. Whatever she had said had not pleased Bruce, which Clark could have predicted, but it made Bruce’s urgency and Ivy’s caution all the more confusing. ‘Are you going to do something stupid without me, B? Rude.’

What Bruce ended up doing wasn’t really stupid, it wasn’t sad, it was angry and wasteful. Bruce returned to the cave to break anything that had the audacity to share his space. That Superproof lab was not bat-proof; Clark could hear equipment being picked up and bounced off the bulletproof glass, only to bust open against the floor. Clark heard a monitor to the Batcomputer shatter and fizzle. Bruce lifted and lobbed the filing cabinet Clark had nested in earlier in the week far enough to startle the bats into a shrieking sympathetic frenzy. 

There was a false end to this destruction, Bruce stripping down, the huff of big breaths when the cowl came off, the skip of the scallops of Bruce’s gauntlets against stone as he chucked them god knows where, it sounded like Bruce was winding down, trying to get to some level of comfortable, but he was only winding up. The sound of Bruce’s bare knuckles against the unforgiving metal of the Batmobile’s chassis was sobering; that chime of repeated pain hit Clark in the heart. He could just lie there in worm drool, doing nothing. He didn’t know what he could do; he’d failed time and time again to reach out to Bruce. His failure had pushed Bruce to this point, but Clark would continue to try and fail for a century rather than passively listen to Bruce suffer for another second. 

“You were sure you’d always have him.” It was only as Clark popped to the surface that he even noticed Alfred was there. “And now you can’t be sure.”

“I feel lopsided, Alfred. Like the world is on a tilt? Do you feel it? Is it just me? Am I losing it?” Clark then noticed across the room, his terrarium had been a casualty of Bruce’s rage, a fist-sized hole through the glass. 

‘You’re not losing it, B. This is just—my life is weird like this.’ Clark tried not to be distracted by the carnage or the guilt that he had been the cause of it. He had a small window of time to be effective and needed to put all his mind and might into this contact attempt. All that plant shaking had given Clark the knowledge of which basil branches were flimsy and which could support his weight, so he slithered up as quickly as he could while still feeling some of that magical hangover. 

“I feel his absence, but not as you do, Bruce. I know we never spoke of it—" Clark was jealous when he saw Alfred rest a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, it was so easy for him. Clark would never take tactile gestures for granted ever again. “I know you did not just admire him. I know you loved him.”

‘Love?’ Alfred had timing, dropping that bomb just as Clark let go of the basil plant, flinging himself in the direction of the Batcomputer’s control panel. 

“No. You’re wrong!” And Clark ran out of air, hit the console hard as Bruce gave his reply. 

“Bruce.” Alfred wasn’t cautious in the same way as Ivy; he wasn’t afraid of Bruce, but for him. It was a tone the man used sparingly, but it was one Clark had unfortunately learned to pick out. 

“Please, let me just have my mess for a bit?”

‘No, this isn’t your mess, B.’ Clark squirmed with purpose, maybe he was imagining it, but he thought he could hear the squeak of his body scrunching its way to Bruce’s elbow. ‘I’m here.’ 

“Alright. But I won’t let you sleep down here! It’s not healthy for you.” Alfred took the Basil plant with him as he left. Bruce’s distraction was being taken from him. Bruce would start looking farther and farther for proof Clark, the odds of catching his attention were growing more and more slim. 

“Right. Yes, of course.” Bruce didn’t notice, not when Clark got on his elbow, his forearm, his wrist. It wasn’t till Clark found his way to Bruce’s fingers that he stirred his face up from where he’d buried it. “Wha—"

‘I’m fucking right here! See me, Bruce! Bruce, you don't gotta love me, but see me? You always see me!’ Clark coiled around Bruce’s finger, he squeezed, trying to show sentience, strength, anything that would keep Bruce from flicking him away for the bats to eat, to see him for what he was, what he always was, more than meets the eye.

“Clark?” 

‘Finally!’ Clark did an honest to god victory lap when Bruce turned his hand over slowly, letting Clark skim across the inside of his palm. 

Chapter Text

‘Is it—?’ Bruce’s hand was shaking, the dull pain in his knuckles from his outburst fading behind the adrenaline he felt at possibly having Clark within his grasp. ‘—Or am I losing it?’ He opened and closed his mouth a few times, swept back his hair, giving it a sharp tug at the tail end, trying to decide whether or not he could commit to talking to a worm. ‘You were all in on him being an herb an hour ago.’ Bruce sighed, swallowed, then lifted the worm to eye level. It felt ridiculous asking, “If you’re Clark, can you give me a sign?”

Bruce’s eyes went wide as the worm reared back, hoisting its front half up, the odd feather-like fins bending in toward the creature’s middle, its best attempt at hands on hips. He could see it, tie on a little cape, place a curl in between those antennas, he’d be a spitting image of a four-inch Superman.

“Hey ,” Bruce gave a relieved smile as the greeting cracked its way past his lips, pounds of stress leaving his shoulders. “Ha. Look at you.”

It was quite adorable watching the worm gently move side to side in an attempt to wave.

‘Isn’t this just—me seeing what I want?’ The worm was answering him—but he’d thought the same about the plant. Was he hallucinating tells that weren’t there? “You were moving it? The basil?”

Up and down, up and down. ‘Yes .’ The worm could answer yes-or-no questions!

“Do you know what happened, Clark? How did this happen?”

Left to right. ‘ No .’ Of course not, why would this situation suddenly become easy? 

“Do you—are you in pain?”

‘No.’ The worm shook before going back for Bruce’s fingers, looping around a knuckle that was red and a little swollen.

“Don’t worry about it.” He quickly pulled his palm to his chest to get a closer look. “Hey—Hey, back off, he’s mine! Shoo!” He covered the worm with his other hand right as one of the bats dove for him. “Let's get you upstairs. I uh—" Bruce regretted busting the carrying case. There were shards of glass littered amongst the bed of dirt. Bruce also did not think it wise to go asking Alfred for the basil plant right away either. “I have a Jasmine plant in my office. I’ll place you there? More room is good right?” Bruce peeled back his hand only for it to be empty. “Clar—stop that! No more disappearing acts.” He gingerly plucked the worm off his chest, turning his palm again, this time with the other hand cupped above as a cover. “How’d you even—" That’s when he saw the worm jut forward a fang of sorts, that with the blue skin, the fragile fins, Clark’s current form was bizarre. “What sort of worm are you?”

Left to right, ‘no.’ Clark had no idea what he was. 

“In the morning.” Bruce shook his head. He had gone through too many highs and lows back to back; he needed to cool down some before grinding his gears again. “We’ll figure it out then. Are you alright sleeping in the office?” 

The worm flattened out onto Bruce’s palm. 

“Is that a—shrug?” Bruce took a stab at being a worm whisperer. 

A small up and down of the antenna. 

“I know it’s not ideal. You won’t be stuck like this for long, Clark. I promise.” It felt very surreal, watching the worm inch up his arm as he headed for the elevator. “Just to be clear, you were responsible for the message on my computer, weren’t you?” He asked when the worm took a break on his shoulder. 

Up and down, Clark had been trying to communicate with him all this time. 

“Sorry.” Reaching up a single finger, Bruce stroked the back of the worm’s head again. “Is that a scale?” Bruce felt something flaky snag on his finger. “No, it’s an—oat—where—what have you been up to, Clark?”

In somewhat dramatic fashion, the worm rolled over onto his back, flailing his appendages. 

“I'm not sure what you're trying to say, but we’ll work out a system.” Bruce couldn’t comprehend every wiggle the worm gave; he didn’t know if Clark would appreciate a bath, if he was hungry, thirsty, nor if how to undo this was on the tip of his tiny little tongue and he was steaming over the fact Bruce wanted to shelve this for the night. What Bruce did know was that getting to the bottom of this would go a lot smoother if they could communicate . Now that he knew it was an animal transformation, he had a new list of experts to consult come morning. 

He did end up placing the worm in the Jasmine planter on his office desk, but he found himself hesitant to leave the room, even more reluctant to get into sleepwear and his bed. Bruce was worried this was one of those dreams that seemed real. He was afraid he’d wake up with nothing but a trashed cave and a wormless office space.

Once his eyes did stay closed for more than twelve seconds, he tossed and turned, thinking. ‘Clark’s been down there how long? What did he see? What did I say?’ His reputation with Clark should have been, and logistically was, low on his list of priorities, but it was going to nag during quiet moments like this. 

“Don’t burst anything.”

Bruce had been watching B’wana Beast stare at the worm with an alarming amount of intensity. The Tarzan-resembling superhero wasn't only an excellent tracker with enhanced senses, a park ranger of the Zambezi's nature preserves and an expert on the animal kingdom, in addition to that skill set, he possessed a mystical helmet that enabled him to communicate with animals, although now that he was desperate to impress Batman, all his powers seemed to fail him.

“I forgot how determined he can be.” Bruce glanced over to Vixen to see if he should be concerned. The mighty Zambesi warrior watched the whole situation with one eyebrow raised. “Really, it’s ok if the voice is too small or—simple to really make sense—" The worm turned his head, his antenna bent downwards in what Bruce could only assume to be a scowl. “No offense.” 

“I can do this.” B’wana was sweating by the time the worm turned back around to ‘talk’ to him. “Slow down, little guy.” Veins that Bruce wasn’t sure anatomically could bulge as they were, popped from B’wana's jaw to his chin.

“Take a break, Beast, do you really want to waste your monthly Vixen-carry-me-up-to-bed coupon on trying to talk to a worm?” She gave B’wana’s shoulders an encouraging squeeze, trying to get him to calm down just a smidgen. 

“He is trying—So can I.” B’wana  attempted in vain to wipe sweat from his brow, his mask very much getting in the way. “He is crying out to me, the poor thing. I hate to see a creature in need, I can’t—Wait! Are you sure this thing is a worm ?” B’wana stopped abruptly, chest panting as he stared across the coffee table at the Bat.

“Am I sure—it’s a worm?” There were many unknowns within the current situation; he had not considered the worm’s tangible presence to be one. “You—see it, don’t you?” Bruce felt a small bead of sweat going down his own neck. ‘You didn’t snap—you photographed him this morning, he’s real. This is not a beautiful mind moment.’

“I see him, but—he’s got flippers, fangs—he’s blue. Not your average earthworm .”

“I believe him to be an Onychophora, better known as a velvet worm.” Bruce had tweaked his face identification software, which was usually used to pull up rap sheets of perps in a crowd to identify the likeliest Protostome. “Its mandible is a bit unique, as are the—flippers. I haven’t found an exact match genus-wise, but that—"

“Batman, this isn’t of the Red.” Vixen cut him off, concern in her voice. “It’s not part of the animal kingdom.”

“ What ?” 

“I can’t speak to animals like B’wana, but I can harness their abilities, I can tap into their life force—but I can’t connect to this—where did you find this thing?” 

“Metropolis.” Bruce didn’t play coy. Vixen, B’wana, everyone on this dimensional plain knew the Bat wouldn’t be leaving Gotham right now for anything not Superman -related.

“You think—the worm is Superman?” Vixen scoffed, then covered her mouth, her eyes a bit apologetic.

“It’s not impossible. I am—" Batman’s jaw clenched over his next words. “—open to other suggestions as to what it may be.”

“It’s just as possible this is what took down Superman. It could be alien, it could be demonic, some sort of shapeshifter from another dimension, it could be—all I’m saying is we don’t know.”

‘It answers to Clark. It is—friendly’ Neither of these observations were enough. Vixen could argue it was waiting, lulling him into some false sense of security before it struck. 

“They found his suit in the sea, Batman. You didn’t fish this thing out of the bay, did you?” 

“His suit could have traveled, if his body was shrunk down to this size.” Bruce pointed down at the body that had no shoulders to bear the weight of Superman’s cape. “Look, he’s nodding.” 

“The worm’s nodding.” Vixen wasn’t looking down at the worm, but up at the ceiling, seemingly reassessing all her life choices up to this point. 

“I mean, he is.” B’wana concurred. “I see it. The little guy is nodding. I think he might be right, Vix.” B’wana was rubbing his chin.

“You do?” Vixen and the Bat stated in tandem. 

“What I got from him sounded like ‘S—mn.’ It could be anything, but it could also be an attempt to say ‘Superman’. The rest was just gibberish. ‘Kep nen zshrd’ or something like that.

Bruce shot to his feet. “Perhaps, you just can’t understand him—! Does it sound anything like ‘khahp non zhiushod’?”

“Er—Maybe. What is that, Polish?”

“ Why would that be Polish?”

“Sounded kinda Polish.” B’wana  shrugged. 

“It’s Kryptonian.” Batman clarified.

“The little guy seems to—like the Bat speaking Kryptonian? That’s another win right?”

“Likes it? How can you tell?” Vixen gave B’wana a warning look. She was worried B’wana was getting Batman’s hopes up; she was right to do so. 

 “Can’t understand him much, but he made a happy sound which—Superman would like hearing his tongue, right?”

“Voi?” Bruce picked up the worm’s newest plant, turning it so that the worm was facing him. 

Up down. ‘Yes.’ Bruce had gotten the worm’s approval on his attempt at Kryptonian.  

“I guess.” Vixen sighed sympathetically. She wanted to believe the men, but it just seemed—not enough. 

“Well, if it turns out you are Clark, you’ll have to teach me how relative clauses work. I’ve struggled with that.” Bruce cradled the plant at his hip, starting for the door of Vixen and B’wana’s apartment. 

“Look, I don’t want to be the bad guy here. I’m not arguing that this is the most clever little worm I’ve ever seen. I’d love for it to be Superman, but I just don’t—didn’t you already go to Zatanna? If this were some curse, he would have been cured by now. I think it’s more likely a wolf in worm’s clothing.” 

Subjectively happy sounds and movements in response to being addressed. If this were a random alien creature, they could just be attributing intellect to familiarity and patterns. If Bruce were on the outside looking in, he’d be even more critical than Vixen was being.

 “Understood.” He grabbed the plant and stood. “I appreciate your insight.” Bruce didn’t regret exploring the plant theory when it was the best one going, but it did have repercussions. His team thought he was grasping at straws; they were worried about his judgment and observational skills.

“You’re taking it back to the cave.” Vixen frowned. “Batman, come to the Watchtower, get a closer look at the team’s evidence, compare notes, we can all go over it together. I know you don’t want to look at-"

“Not without Superman. That place was built to hold us both.” He just couldn’t; it would be admitting defeat. “For now, I’m going to an expert on Kal.” The league was still running tests against Batman’s theory, he didn’t discourage it, he encouraged the notion that his word was not absolute and should be scrutinized, but he still believed he was right and had focused on proving that. He was going to work his angle until he got results one way or the other. 

“Batman?” Vixen called out after him. 

“Yes.”

“If the League asks why you were here? The Batmobile isn’t the most low-key ride. If you want me to keep this worm idea—"

“Tell them why I came, it would seem even more suspicious if you didn’t. Which is the leading theory? That I’m next? Or that I’ve snapped?” 

“Dead even,” Vixen replied bluntly. 

“There’s no one making big plays yet.” Crime was up, heroes were busy, but it was a scramble in a vacuum no one saw coming. “So I’m going to keep at bringing back our big player. If that changes, I will reach out.”

“You’re not psychic, Batman. If you’re next and you’re off chasing worms—they might get to you before you can let out a distress call.” B’wana sided with Vixen on Batman going solo, playing into some unknown hand. 

“Who said I wasn’t psychic?” Batman wasn’t really interested in winning an argument, so he left the couple with a mystery to puzzle over. 

“Alfred?” Bruce answered his phone as he made his way to the roof of the bank near Vixen’s apartment. 

“There are many boxes at the door.”

“Yes, I did some late-night shopping, express shipping.” It had actually been early morning; Bruce had only slept about two hours before waking up to check that the worm was where he had left him. Instead of catching a few more winks, he went about filling his online cart. 

“From Hobby Lobby, Little shop of miniatures? And Home Depot? Are you very sure you’re not covering for Tim again? I told him last spring, just because they release new Star Trek figurines does not mean he has to buy the line all in one go, if you undermine me by being the cool da—"

“They’re my impulse purchases, Alfred. And sadly, the moderation ship has sailed when it comes to me, don’t you think?”

“Quite the understatement.” Alfred chuckled dryly.  “You’re taking up a hobby? I didn’t think you were much in the mood.” 

“I—recently recalled the Fallbrooks had a scale version of their home set in their foyer; the attention to detail was impeccable. As a child, it annoyed me; if it looked like a toy, why couldn’t I play with it? But I’ve grown an appreciation.”

“And you are, now—" Alfred emphasised the timing again. “Taking up model making?”

“Yes. Of all my hobbies, this one is fairly risk-free. You should be happy.”

“Its lack of risk is what concerns me, if I’m being honest, Master Bruce. It is very unlike you.” Everyone thought Bruce was spiraling, all desperately trying to figure out where he’d land so they could cushion the blow. 

“Sometimes the world seems too big, Alfred. Right now I’d like something small.” After the less-than-enthused feedback from Vixen and B’wana, recalling Diana’s concern earlier, Bruce was hesitant to let his ‘Clark is a worm’ flag wave high and proud.

The worm seemed to respond to being called Clark, but he’d been sure that the plant had too. He had to be sure he wasn’t just—seeing things, seeing what he needed to see to keep things together. He couldn’t be the boy who cried Superman; that would do no one any favors.

“Would you like some help, Sir?” Alfred’s if you can’t beat him, join him tactic was not surprising, nor was it unappreciated. “I have very steady hands and know the layout of the manor likely better than you do.”

“Yes.” Bruce didn’t want to shut people out, no matter how his recent actions gave off that vibe. “Would you mind opening everything up? We can get started once I get home.” Bruce left out that he hadn’t ordered the manor’s likeness scaled down, but a recreation of 344 Clinton Street. He’d have that conversation when he got home, an incentive to have proof one way or the other by day’s end. 

“Understood, I’ll set up the walls if I find the time.” Alfred was at least relieved by Bruce’s acceptance of company. “And the Monterey dark imperial potting mix? I should put that aside?” This wasn’t just a check of Bruce’s newest obsession, but how he was handling that his last one had run its course.

“Just have someone place it in the garage for the time being.”

Bruce’s plan was to layer the floors and fill the basement of the small apartment complex with soil, allowing the worm to move around comfortably. Even when they did figure out how this happened, undoing it might—take some doing. Having Clark live day in and day out in a potted plant seemed both cramped and cruel. 

“Bruce?”

“Yes?”

“I went to Tim first.” Alfred was speaking slowly, giving Bruce the chance to come clean.

“Oh, well, you had a hunch. I can’t fault you for following it.”

“You asked about his friend, Gar?”

“Yes, I did. It turns out he wasn’t able to help in the way I needed.” He would have preferred going to Beast Boy over B’wana, but he’d been informed Gar’s powers were similar to those of Vixen’s, more embodiment than two-way communication. 

“Bruce. Are you out trying to talk to the pigeons?” Alfred knew Bruce was hiding his newest hunch, and not in his usual seamless, social-chameleon sort of way. He’d been shooting Bruce concerned, not again sort of glances when he caught Bruce lying about doing dishes, admittedly an odd thing for a grown man to lie about. However, at the time, neither of them was awake enough to hear Bruce explain that he’d been giving the worm a sponge bath. 

“I hadn’t thought to.” Clark or his assailant, Bruce, had the best witness possible with the worm; there was no need to revisit the scene of the crime, as far as he was concerned. 

“Let me guess, you’ll tell me when you get home?”

“It’s for the best.” After the whole ‘A plant is sending me messages on my computer! Look at this dirt, it’s practically a footprint!’  No proof outside of Clark transforming back into his Kryptonian form would be enough for Alfred. 

When Bruce had brought up the typed-out message, the closest thing to a smoking gun he had after days of investigations, Alfred had noted Bruce had that case file open for several tireless nights before. The Phantasm file was one he tended to crack open when he was stumped on others, like one of those wooden block puzzles you take apart and reassemble, a way to distract himself until his mind cleared. Alfred thought it was just as possible he’d absently written that message himself when in a more bleary moment. 

“When should we expect you home? I hear open air.”

“I’m headed west, I’d—I’m going to speak with the Kents.” Bruce smiled, a little reassured by how the worm he believed to be Clark perked up, attempting to dust himself off with his flippers. 

Some space worm assassin could pretend to be friendly, odder things had happened, Trickers weaponising praise to cause the Flash's head to swell to the point of near combustion came to mind. The love Clark showed his parents, even just over the phone or while speaking of them while on monitor duty, Bruce was fairly confident that it could not be emulated as easily. 

“That’s good, Bruce. I think you will be able to help one another.”

“I hope so.” If Bruce was being honest, he wasn’t going to the Kents for irrefutable proof; he just wanted a reprieve from the doubt, from the fear, from the pressure. If Clark, a man who claimed to be able to hear a deer tick yawn three continents over, could unplug at the Kent farm, what excuse would Bruce have not to be able to? “I’ll be home shortly. Take some chili from the freezer?”

“Oh, you must be down to want Oliver’s chilli.” Alfred chuckled. “I’ll see you when you return. Give the Kents my well wishes.”

Bruce was fastening a seatbelt around the worm’s planter, frowning at how ultimately useless the action was. “Don’t worry, I’ll fly responsibly.” The worm’s head tilted a little off center. “What’s that supposed to mean? You have a problem with how I fly?” the worm was really giving it all to his body contour conversation, finding a way to dramatically fall on his back.

“If I didn’t crash now and again, you’d have a hard time looking busy. Now just—hold onto the plant or something. I can’t be introduced to your parents after scraping you off my windshield.”

“What are you doing here?” Jonathan’s face dropped immediately at seeing who was at his door, his jaw clenched. He was bracing for bad news. Bruce kept putting off invites to meet Clark’s parents, and now he regretted it.

He’d put it off, waiting for just the right circumstance to properly charm them - no bruises, properly rested, and some rehearsed topic of conversation. Hell, he even considered baking something; it was very important to him that they like him. This first impression left nearly everything to be desired. 

“Your son, I think I’ve found him.” Bruce rushed out to put the man out of suspense. 

“Alive?”

“Yes—but it’s complicated.”

“It’s Clark.” Jonathan’s arms crossed across his chest, and let out a labored sigh. “If it was simple—well, we wouldn’t be talking about it, would we?”

“I need your opinion on something.”

“Opinion? My expertise is yours if it helps get our boy back. What do you need?” 

“On Clark.” Bruce, with a bit of hesitancy, lifted the worm’s planter. “A father knows his son, no matter what he becomes. He—He’s been trying to communicate with me, I think—but I—I’m pretty much the only one who sees it and I just—"

“I never thought you’d ever be small enough for me to hold you again Clark.” Bruce was a little awestruck at how simply Jonathan put out his palm for the worm to crawl into. For the worm’s part, he was a little blue blur, moving as fast as the minimal traction would allow him.  

“You believe me.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. Bruce could see a mix of relief and concern in Jonathan’s face as the worm straightened up as tall as he could in front of his father. 

“Marhta, come down ‘ere, Clark and Bruce need our help!” 

“Clark?” Some door upstairs whipped open, and the woman stampeded down to the men still half in the doorway. “Where?” She looked at her husband and then over to Bruce, confused. 

“Here.” Jonathan held up the worm to her.

“A—caterpillar?” Martha again glanced between the men, waiting for just a sprinkle of more context. 

“A worm, I think. I believe he was attacked, Clark is someone easier to—trick than topple.”

“If you can’t beat 'em, worm 'em? Sounds like how Clark’s bullies think.” Jonathan was still on board with the idea. 

‘His bullies,’ Bruce chuckled. Watching the worm bounce around in Jonathan’s palm, he wondered if that’s how he downplayed the danger he put himself in to his parents. Luthor, Brianiac, Darksied, they were—maybe it wasn’t downplaying. Maybe that’s really how Clark saw them, big bullies that just needed someone who wasn’t going to stand down. 

“Oh, Clark! What’ve ya gone and done now?” Martha wasn’t thrilled by her son’s current appearance. Only daring a finger out for the worm to plop his antenna over and shivering a little bit when they touched. The worm’s face nudged up against the pad of his mother’s finger, and it almost looked like a little kiss. “He seems so small.”

“Buttercup, he's a worm! They tend to be on the small side.” Jonathan put an arm over his wife’s shoulder. 

“All the fishing trips my Pa’s dragged us on? We’ve seen some healthy worms, John. He’s gaunt. Clark, are you eating well?” She glanced over to Bruce. “Are you feeding him?”

“I uh—oh well, I’ve only just found him last night.” 

“Right—that was hours ago.” Bruce and Martha’s math did not match up.

“I’ve been trying to—figure out what happened. I need proof of intent more than anything.” If Bruce had ‘why’ Clark had been turned, or who was to blame, it would be easier for others to jump on board, and believe that he wasn’t just projecting.

Barda had warned the team about assassins from Apookolips, did one of Darkseid's sorcerers turn Clark but the little blue blur managed to escape the final stomp? It was a decent speculation, it would explain why no one was taking credit, as no one would brag about a job half done. Though Bruce had to confirm Clark’s worm existence first, skipping that step meant he’d be deducting half blind. 

”I'm thrilled that you do—” Bruce needed someone to trust him on this. “But I'm surprised you both believe me so easily.” It stood to reason that they were the people Clark got it from, but there was something to seeing it in person—in stereo. The Kents' hope was so pure that you could almost bottle it. 

Kent-hope was fuel, it was gasoline, a propellant. Bruce had seen Clark defy facts, cold, hard, even applied to him, facts by hoping that if he held out a little longer, fought a little harder, dug a little deeper, he’d come out the other side. He had to learn it somewhere; hope was not something you soaked in from the sun, it was something taught and nurtured. 

They believed Bruce not because he had persuaded them with cool, hard, undeniable facts, but because the hope that their son was alive compensated for their absence. They were used to hoping.

The Kents were more practiced at this; they had to hope for Clark weekly, daily, sometimes by the hour. Hope, if you asked Clark, is what brought his family together in the first place, and it was what always worked for them, was far more productive than worrying.

“Clark has told us all about you, Bruce.” Martha smiled. “On and on about what a clever, considerate, tenacious—what was the word you used, Clark? Suave?” She teased gently while just as softly scratching under what could be considered the worm’s chin. “Suave is a high compliment, mind you. The line between charming and cocky to him is mighty thin.” 

‘Can worms blush?’ Bruce swore the worm’s blue skin had a little magenta tint. “You flatter me, Clark.” Bruce smiled, watching that coloring deepen, the worm’s fins flapping a little flustered.

“It's gotten serious from what I heard, something about being ‘work-married’?” It was Bruce's turn to splutter and blush crimson, thinking how his work-crush on his best friend with a clear preference for women got out of hand, taken on a life of it’s own. 

“He never mentioned you being a fan of mean-spirited humor." Martha let out a tired sigh. "You must know we’ve been glued to the TV waiting for—We had to turn it off.” 

“Figure if you’re the type of man Clark says you are, you wouldn’t dare to our porch if you didn’t believe it yourself.” Jonathan finished his wife’s point.

“He’s responding to me in the same way Clark does. I feel rather sure.” Bruce winced. “But I can’t prove it. Clark’s normally the one who can see things through on instinct and a clear sky, I need more than that.”

“He is—really going to town on that peach.” Bruce had meant to have a discussion with the Kents, but they were all a bit captivated and or mortified by how Clark attacked the fruit his mother had laid out for him. “And I just gave him a bath.” Bruce chuckled, poking at a slice of pie as he watched the worm’s head disappear into the sticky meat of the peach. 

“So you found him last night. Where?” Jonathan's eyes were still glued on the worm’s appetite. 

“In a basil plant I found on the roof of his laundromat. He typed a message out—so I’m fairly certain it’s Clark, but I don’t know what he is or how he got to be this way.”

“Son?” Jonathan waited till the worm’s head poked back out of the peach. “Did you see what happened?”

Left, right, ‘no.’

“No, that won’t do either.” Martha got up from the table. “Not my Chatty Cathy.”

“Martha?” Jonathan called after his wife, but she had already left. “She needs to be busy, seeing her baby boy so—It was easy for her to be patient when your powers came in, Clark; she was sort of relieved. He had a way to defend himself, a way to make sure he doesn’t get taken away from us.” He tore off a paper towel and dabbed the worm clean. 

“Understandable.” Bruce's heart melted at watching the fatherly doting. 

“So—" Jonathan, when the worm was spotless, took a big sip of his coffee. “What do we know?”

“What it’s not, earth bound magic, or human tech—unless they have access to alien worm DNA.”

“There are certain types of Kryptonite,” Jonathan looked at his son for permission, and when he got a nod, he continued, “that can change Clark.” 

“Not that either, I drew his blood before we left this morn—" Jonathn’s eyes bugged up as that was the most bizarre thing Bruce had said yet. “What?”

“Guess he didn’t have much of a choice—but Clark doesn’t even let his Fortress friend, Kelex, take blood unless he personally incinerates it afterwards. There was a snafu when he was in high school, I made him swear to be careful bout it.”

“A snafu?” Bruce glanced at the worm. “Can he tell me?” Bruce fought not to touch his own cheek; he had to have blind faith he wasn't so odd that having a man trust you with his blood would make him blush. 

“Here.” Martha returned with some yellow and red key pad. “Clark's ol’ Speak and Spell, and you wanted me to sell it at the yard sale.” She pinched her husband's cheek as she sat. 

“In my defense, I didn't see this coming.” Jonathan waved a hand over the worm's general state. “And I doubt you did either.”

“B—L O O—D,” the aged learning device croaked out as the worm jumped and rolled key to key.

“I'm with Jonathan. I'd have held an exorcism for this thing, buried it off the property.” It was an improvement on yes and no answers, that didn't make it un-creepy.

“D R I V E.”

“That's right!” Jonathan shot up from his seat, a victorious grin on his face. “That's proof, right? The worm, Clark, remembers the blood drive fiasco. It has to be him.”

“It's a good sign.” Clark being turned into a worm by an alien seemed far-fetched, but it was starting to sound less far-fetched than a shape-shifting alien worm that vaporized Superman and had somehow harvested his memories in hopes of snaring others. “Wait, you gave blood at a blood drive? How?! What sort of needle were they using? You didn’t self-dose Kryptonite, did you?”

“He was trying to impress a girl. It was a romantic gesture.” Martha stuck up for Clark. 

“He had to break into a blood bank to get it back. No teen fling is worth that sorta hassle.” Jonathan took another long sip of his coffee. 

“I would have broken into a blood bank for you.” Martha doubled down, acting mildly offended that Jonathan implied he was unwilling to commit a B&E for her. 

“And that is why I hold onto the bail money.” Jonathan peppered a kiss on his wife’s temple. 

“S—O—F—T,” There was a pause for word separation, “S—O M—E—"

“He can soften his skin. He chooses when to be the Man of Steel.” Jonathan cut his son off, not wanting him to burn off that half a peach on one explanation.

“That makes sense.” The only time Bruce had to really concern himself with Superman’s skin density was when some sort of injury was involved, and he was half-conscious, his body trying to mend itself. When Clark was hurt and healing, his skin was cold and hard, like marble leaking blood; it was frightening. ‘‘I suppose I might’ve known that.” When they saw each other off the clock, when Superman shook his hand to greet him, he still felt strong as always, but his skin did seem to have slightly more give to it, a little softer, a little warmer, a little more inviting. 

“But not helpful right now, huh?” Jonathan frowned. “He’s plenty soft.” Then he chuckled when the worm squirmed over to him and gave a headbutt. “Alright, alright! Sorry. You’re a tough guy, just like always. My mistake.”

‘Clark being anything less than super—it really scares them.’ Bruce had remembered that when Clark had been depowered by red radiation, he had received a bad concussion and some pretty dicey gunshot wounds as well. Bruce had sat with him in the med bay, and every half an hour or so, Clark would stir awake and confirm that no one had told his parents he’d been powered down. ‘I didn’t know how important it was to him.’

Bruce had originally thought Clark was determined to learn how to fight as a human because it was a glaring gap in his capabilities. Some of their first ‘downtime’ activities had been Batman giving Superman some personal training under red radiation lighting. Those lessons nearly killed Bruce. Not because Clark actually hurt him, just because the grapple moves that Clark seemed to be most interested in mastering seemed far more erotic when Superman had your head locked between thighs only halfway covered by gym shorts that creeped higher the more Bruce squirmed. It was impossible to show a precise Collar tie clinch hold when Kent, face flush and glistening with sweat would spout “I tap, you've got me good B.” Every time Bruce palmed the back of Clark's neck and brought their foreheads together. So close, so kissable, so tempting. Bruce loved and hated those lessons. 

Now, with this conversation as context, Bruce was beginning to think it was less Clark choosing to coast on tricks, but more a fear his parents had inadvertently passed down to him. It only took one opportunity where he wasn’t at his peak to get plucked. If he were powerless, that’s when they would take him, lock him away, squeeze him of blood, marrow, and any super cell they could weaponize. He needed to safeguard his body to protect himself and the world.

“I have kept this on a need-to-know basis and will continue to do so. None of Clark’s enemies will find out, I swear.” He tried to reassure the Kents.

“He needs you right now, Mister Wayne. I don’t doubt you’ve been working your hardest to get him back, but I need you to—"

“‘—Time to push up my sleeves and dig a little deeper?’” Bruce ventured. It was a phrase Clark muttered to himself when he was on the losing end of a fight, a self pep talk to never let up forward momentum. 

“Z—O O,” the worm typed out. 

“No, sweetie! No one's putting you in a zoo.” Martha went to go pick the worm up, gasping a bit, surprised when he scooted out of reach.

“F—O—R T—"

“The Fortress. Do you have a lot of worms there?” Bruce was catching on to the worm’s plan. The Fortress of Solitude’s zoo was sheltering species that were beyond exotic, from all corners of the known universe.

“F E E D—V—E—N—D—"

“You have to import food for them.” Clark had to replicate, irrigate, and provide nourishment for a variety of biomes. He had to have a network of contacts to achieve that; it’s not as if he could forage planets with enough consistency to keep the impressively large zoo functioning. “That’s a great idea, Clark. If we leave now, we should get there by—"

“B.”

“Hm?”

“S U—N.”

“Do you need it? Do you think you are going through photosynthesis as you do when you’re—"

“NO.”

“Oh, you just—right. You’re— you .” Even if the worm didn’t need the sun as sustenance, Clark simply enjoyed it. Bruce couldn’t list the number of times Clark had opted to sunbathe on top of the javelin, just because he liked the unfiltered sunbeams and tranquil quiet. 

“G—OO—D F—O—R—U.”

“ Me ? I just want to get you back, Clark. That’s what’s best for everybody.”

“T R U S T—M—E.”

“What could it hurt? God knows when you boys will have time for a break again.” Martha offered. “Ten—fifteen minutes out in the back? I need to find something for Clark to wear anyway, and that’ll take me a minute.”

“To wear ?”

“Have you ever been to the Fortress, Bruce?” Jonathan asked. “‘Nippy’ doesn’t begin to describe it. Ever move an animal into a new environment without prep? That’s no good.” 

“Ah.” The Kents were more perceptive when it came to animal care beyond the standard house pet; if they said some sun and preparation were needed, he was going to heed them. “You’re not going to crochet  a worm-sized sweater and cap, are you?” Bruce was a fan of prep time as much as the next guy, but even he had his limits. 

“Don’t be silly, I’d knit that. A sock takes about seven hours, but I wouldn’t need to make a full sock. If I ask Andrea Richardson for a favor, it will be done in no time! She’s the fastest knitter I know.” Martha turned to her husband for confirmation.

“Ask her for what? A pencil cozy?” A sign of a long-term married couple, Jonathan’s blind guess was in line enough with his wife’s mindset to get the gears turning. 

“And a little topper for the eraser! Clark’s a reporter, his pencils need flair!”

“Do they?” Jonathan chuckled. “She was probably just gonna hand you our cleanest oven mitt, but I had to give her a challenge!” Clark's father sighed and put his face into his hands in defeat.

“Give me an hour?” Martha looked at Bruce with eyes that were so familiar. “Clark, she’ll be over the moon helping out a world-famous reporter! A pencil cozy emergency! She’s been training her whole life for this day.”

“So, since they invented yarn?” Jonathan’s comment got him a swift elbow to the ribs. 

‘You learned it from her, huh?’ Clark was hard to turn down when he was set on something, determined, demanding, with just enough earnest care and a sweet little sparkle that, unless it was absolutely reckless or absurd, whatever he wanted just could not be denied. At least not by Bruce.

“Make it red? He does look underdressed.” Martha’s eyes had a similar shine to them. Bruce was up the creek without a paddle. ‘No’ was just not in him.

“You’ve got it. Oh—if you gave me two hours, she could probably put his emblem—"

“I don’t think we need that level of realism.”

“T—H—A—N—K—S—M—A.”

‘He’s doing better,’ seeing his parents and being able to communicate. Not that worm-Clark had seemed ill or sluggish, and it’s not as if Bruce had become wormlingual in six hours, but he could just tell the worm was in a better mood. And it was infectious. Even Bruce was feeling better. “C’mon! I didn’t bring sunscreen, so forty-five minutes tops.” Bruce scooped the worm up and took him outside.

Clark had been right. This was good for him. It was good for both of them. Bruce had found a nice patch of lawn, deciding to give sunbathing his full gusto he ditched his shirt and spread out, letting the worm rest on his stomach—and they just rested, without trying to solve anything, trying to save the world, training, conversing. They were just relaxing, and it felt—great!

“You did something stupid to impress a girl?” Bruce was so relaxed that he just started chatting. He had to crane up to see the worm’s reaction as he didn’t bring the cursed Speak and Spell with him. 

A slow up and down, a hesitant ‘yes.’

“Don’t feel embarrassed. When I was—fourteen, fifteen maybe, I snuck all my friends down into my parents' wine cellar. I really just wanted to get Harvey alone so I could—we all ended up getting trashed. Just the worst sort of drunk. Sea sick. Alfred threatened to come down with a hose to clean up the mess we made. Funny thing is—I blacked out, I don’t even know if I told Harvey how I felt at the time. I—think about that occasionally. Did you—at least get to tell her?”

Up down. ‘Yes.’ Of course, Clark did. Bruce shouldn't get his hopes up just because Clark’s laundromat owner claimed he was bisexual. When the Kryptonian wanted to tell someone he liked them, he did, with some sort of gesture attached, like a pint of alien blood. Clark was not an idle man, he was a man of passionate action. He was likely just waiting for the right opportunity to tell Lois with a level of grandeur he felt she deserved. 

Bruce felt his chest constrict as the worm curled up like a cat and lay down right above his heart, growing sleepy as he listened to the steady beat. “Just for a few minutes. Fortress. We need to go.”  Bruce let his eyes close for five, ten, fifteen—he slept out on the Kents' back lawn for an embarrassing three and a half hours.

“Trying to find some shade in there?” Clark chuckled as Bruce started to wake up. 

“Few mor-” Bruce’s eyes bolted open, though he couldn’t see much, or rather he saw plenty of just one thing: Clark’s bare chest. Bruce’s chin planted right between Clark’s pecks, they had that sometimes softness to them, felt better than any pillow Bruce had ever graced, the hair there tickling him in the most distracting of ways. “What’s happening?”

“It’s called a nap. It’s all the rage. Is this your first time? You’re doing swell. Pro tip? keeping your eyes closed helps.” They were on their sides, arms overlapping, hugging each other close. Clark’s leg was hitched over Bruce’s, Bruce could see Clark’s hip, all of it.

“You’re naked. Am I-” Bruce squirmed a little, trying to get a look at his current situation. “No, I’m not naked.” His shirt was laying off to the side, but he did still have his slacks. “You’re naked Clark.”

“Yeah, I think we covered that.” Clark smiled at Bruce’s fluster. “I’ve sort of been naked this whole time, Ma’s working on something, but I think I hit a heck of a growth spurt. She’s used to that sorta thing so hopefully she won’t be too mad.”

“You’re back! How?! Actually, forget that, forget-”

“If you’re ok with it, I’d just like to soak it all in a little while longer, you can wait on the dossier right?”

“Soak, right you need the sun now more than ever, of course.” Bruce nodded hastily, knowing he should, but not really wanting to give Clark space. 

“Wasn’t really talkin about soaking in the sun Sweet-B.” Clark rolled them over so he was laying atop Bruce, letting one forearm sit above Bruce’s head so he could be tilted just enough to smile and stare at Bruce with open fondness. 

“Clark.” Bruce gasped at feeling all of Clark’s gorgeous body, all it’s strength, all it’s curves, all it’s warmth pinning him down. Clark was heavy, a lot of man, but Bruce paradoxically felt light as a feather, he might just float away with all the effort he was putting into craning up to feel even more of Clark. 

“I miss you.” Clark kissed Bruce on the forehead, which seemed grossly unfair when the man was sprawled out over Bruce like he’d been pulled from an erotic oil painting. Though somehow that wasn’t the most upsetting part of that embrace.

“Miss me?” Clark wasn’t speaking like it was over.

“Shh just soak it in a little while longer Sweet-B, we deserve it right?” This time Clark kissed him on the lips.

“Yes, we deserve this.” Bruce kissed Clark back, kissed him deeper, but no matter how much hunger, passion and tongue he tried to give this kiss, Clark’s lips seemed further away with each second, they became faint, hazy dreamlike. “We deserve-” Bruce kept chasing that dream. “It’s not about deserving, I want this Clark.” He cupped Clark’s cheeks to keep the moment from slipping through his fingers. 

“Stop drooling on your guest, Clark.” Jonathan approached loudly enough to wake Bruce from his racy rest. “You two should get going.” Thankfully if Bruce had been mumbling aloud Jonathan didn’t mention it. “Ma packed you both some winter wear, and I picked up some brain food from the store.” 

“You know I have a suit, don't you?” 

“Then have a suit and a coat, what’ll it hurt?” 

In one hand, Jonathan had a sage green parka with a mouton-lined hood, one of those fluorescent orange hunting beanies, and wool socks, all of which were probably Jonathan’s own gear. Bruce would be quite rude to refuse a man, essentially giving him the shirt off his back. In the other hand he held a basket of peaches, with a bag of jerky wedged in, and on top of the fruit was three hours, and possibly more than two women’s worth of yarn work. The worm didn’t just have one sweater, but ten, with matching hats and one swatch of red felt with tassels that looked suspiciously like a cape, all bustling from within a sewn, what was likely meant to be a pencil case, but would work as a sleeping bag or a travel igloo, far more discreet than the tote Bruce had built for the basil. 

Bruce could feel the worm start to stir, stretching wide across Bruce’s chest before inching all the way up into his hair. “Jonathan, might I make an odd request?” Bruce did some stretches of his own as he fully awoke from his catnap.

“My son is spooled up in the hair of a billionaire. I don’t think you can ask me for something that on this particular day I’d find odd.”

“Do you have some spare soil? I bought some online, but I know he’d probably prefer a little slice of home.” 

“Got some loamy mix left over from spring.” Jonathan sighed. "Spent all that money getting you into college, Clark, so you wouldn’t have to be elbow deep in fertilizer.” Jonathan planted down their going away gifts, shouting at the sky a little bit. “And yet here we are! Neck deep!” His shout became a bit of a laugh as he made his way to the barn. “Get used to the life, Wayne! It draws you back in! It never lets us Kents go!” 

“Is he mad?” Bruce glanced upwards as the worm dangled over his brow. 

The worm just wiggled his antenna a little bit. Maybe equally unsure where his Jonathan’s mind was at. 

“Worried, probably. Huh? Parents like to think—that their kids are going to be better off, safer, happier, and have to work less hard—Do you—We’re not disappointments, but we aren’t living the lives our parents wanted for us.” Bruce felt like the worm may have been commiserating, his soft, eraser-sized head pressing against Bruce’s own. “Yeah, you get me.”

The pencil case actually turned out to be a minor reassurance to Bruce. He filled it in a little with the Kent farm soil, fastened it shut, and tucked it within his parka, the seatbelt going over them both, keeping the worm secure on their ride to the Arctic.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Bruce frowned when Kelex denied him access to the Fortress’s archives. 

“If you believe this is Kal-EL, we will take the creature and extract him.” The robot reached for the pencil case, but Bruce closed it back up and tucked it right back into his jacket. 

“How?” Extract sounded like a really harsh word. 

“The healing Matrix acid will dissolve any foreign or discorporated tissue and rebuild whatever shares the genetic markers unique to Kal-EL. If his molecular structure has been augmented but his mind remains, as you say, some of his cortex must have remained structurally intact.”

“You want to melt him down to his brain stem? Make him into soup and push him through a sieve,” Bruce scoffed. “Absolutely not!” He lifted the worm’s pouch up to eye level. “Is that—how the Matrix works? Every time?” 

The worm didn’t answer him, just looking around, pretending he didn’t know he was being talked to. 

“Here I thought you preferred being stitched up at the med bay because I sneak you donuts.” Bruce thought back to those moments where Clark gave push back about retreating to the Fortress for treatment. He was always ‘fine’, always ‘good to go a few more rounds,’ he always touted, ‘there’s no time for band-aids.’ Bruce wondered now if part of that push back wasn’t pride but aversion to a medical procedure that bottled him up and drowned him in pain.

“This is efficient, Batman. If it turns out this is not Kal-EL but a deceiver, the Matrix will eliminate them.” That was surely meant to make Bruce feel better than it did. Yet Bruce was less of a fan of the word 'eliminate' than he was of the word 'extract'. 

“And what if, Kelex, it is a mind swap? What then? His memories and will passed into some creature, while my son’s body is being used by another. ‘Efficient’ and ‘without risk’ are not the same.”

“Jor-EL,” Bruce smirked, the hologram was larger than last time by about five feet, give or take. It had taken Bruce’s tenth or eleventh visit to the Fortress for the man to show himself, and each time since he’d grown taller, to the point he was now close to twenty feet. Bruce wasn’t sure if this was some inside joke between the two of them or if Jor-EL was trying to be intimidating in a tangible way, while being the definition of intangible.

“You switched out the cape for a coat! Did you just realize we are at the North Pole?” Jor-EL teased with a large smile. 

“I can withhold using the Matrix under your direction, Jor-EL—but without proof that the Protostome is Kal, I will not approve access to the archives to it nor the Bat doing its legwork. I must remain loyal to the objective of keeping humanity safe at all costs.” Kelex nipped the small talk in the bud. 

“That’s fair.” Bruce was actually quite impressed by the sentient machinations of the Fortress. In the wrong hands, a Kryptonian letter opener could probably be some harbinger of doom; the information and advancement Clark sat on was world-altering, and it was important to be guarded fiercely, especially in his absence. “But how about some compromise. I don’t need access to the files. Can you just forward me the contact information of the individuals who distribute live feed to Clark’s Zoo?”

“You seem to think it's a compromise situation, Batman. It is not. I do not require your assistance or even your cooperation. I will take what is needed to ensure the house EL remains.” Kelex crowded Bruce’s space, making the man backstep a few paces, practically phasing through the imposing light construct of Jor-EL. 

 “You must be a hit at parties.” Bruce’s eyebrow rose at the domineering bravado coming from Clark’s robot. ‘I can't wait for Kelex to tell me to bend over and call them ‘Daddy.’’

“I attended a few parties at Kal’s request. They all seemed unproductive. Much like this conversation.”

“Kelex, there is no need to take out your frustration on Batman,” Jor-EL interjected fairly passively, as if this back and forth bored him. 

As Bruce craned his face back again to get a good look at the hologram, he recognised that expression; it was the same one he gave Dick and Tim when they squabbled at the dinner table over something that did not require that level of passion.

“Batman is my son's partner. There is no need to withhold information from him that he could obtain by other albeit more tedious means, such as asking the his Lantern friend. Give it to him.” Bruce recognised the olive branch being waved in his face. “Batman, even our non-invasive instruments are more adept than your own at reverse-engineering activity from other solar systems. You should leave the worm with us. I will make sure he won't get harmed in the process.”

“I —" Jor-EL might have been Clark's best option, but Bruce, plain and simple, didn’t want to leave him at the Fortress. Even if he wouldn’t be ‘alone’, even if he would be surrounded by those who prioritize his return more so than anything else on Earth, it still didn’t agree with Bruce. He was being stubborn and possessive; he was aware. “I think we’re all forgetting something rather important. No one knows what’s better for Clark than Clark himself.”

Bruce knelt down on the Fortress floor, first placing down the Speak and Spell, then leaning Clark’s pouch over it. “Clark? I can take the vendor information and study it at the cave. Do you want me to leave you here? Or did you want to come back stateside with me?”

“Oh, delightful! An Air-Bud moment.” Jor-EL loomed over Bruce’s shoulder. 

“You’ve seen Air Bud?” Bruce couldn’t help but ask, not able to fathom a reason that reference would be artificially coded into Jor-EL’s memories. 

“Kal comes over for a movie night once a month. Air Bud is my third favorite film.” Bruce blinked owlish at Jor-EL as he tried to gauge if the Kryptonian truly thought a film about a golden retriever who could play basketball was among the peak of what human cinema had to offer. 

“Third fav—no time for this. Clark, what are we doing?” Towards the end of said movie the talented dog had to choose between his long-time owner who taught him his tricks and a boy he had recently befriended. While Jor-EL didn't fit the role of an abusive traveling clown, Bruce would know, he also could acknowledge the decision presented to the worm did have some similarities. 

The worm hesitated, taking in the vastness of the Fortress, which in his current small state must have been quite the trip. If the statuesque size of Jor-El was daunting to Bruce, he couldn’t imagine how imposing he felt to Clark.

As Bruce waited for the worm to make his choice, he glanced over his shoulder very quickly. “Third favorite, of all time? Really?”

“M—E W—I—T B.” 

“So you chose your partner over blood.” Jor-El sighed but he didn’t sound offended, more amused. “I apologize, Kal, but our necessity to protect you overrides your desire for quality time with the Bat.” It seemed Jor-EL was more interested in seeing the choice than respecting it. “Kelex will turn over the contact—"

“D—O—U—B —L—E E—S—P—R—E—S S—O.”

“I’m sorry, but you want caffeine right now?” Bruce was outnumbered here unless Clark was both focused and persuasive, which usually wasn’t a problem, making it all the more odd to decide it was time for a coffee break. 

“You haven’t told him of that protocol at all, have you? Interesting.” Jor-EL mused from his spot at Bruce’s back. 

“What is—’the double espresso protocol’?” Bruce continued to be confused.

“It gives you ‘the—keys to the castle,’ is the correct phrase, is it not?” Jor-EL clarified. “The Fortress runs on the ideal of protecting all that is dear to Krypton and, by extension, Kal. As you just experienced, the priorities of the dead or never quite alive do not always align with those of the living.”

That was a trust bombshell. “If he died or left Earth for an extended time—he didn’t want his goals and allegiances to become antiquated; they’d need to stay with the times."

 “He—you—" Bruce scooped Clark up in his hands, which the worm seemed to be grateful for, shivering for a moment, then nuzzling into the warmth of Bruce’s gloves. 

“Keep in mind, while you now have access to the Fortress in its entirety, it does not mean we will quiet any criticism we may have of your utilization. For instance, I would still implore you to allow us to take skin samples, Bruce.” The tired of the dog and pony show tone of Jor-EL had left, maybe at getting proof enough that he was in the presence of his son. 

“You know my name.” 

Bruce knew the Kents were aware that Bruce was the Bat, Clark told them nearly everything. For some reason, Bruce had not thought Clark would share that information with Jor-EL, not that he didn’t trust his blood father, but more so that Bruce thought Jor-EL would find that information inconsequential. Who was Bruce Wayne within the last standing halls of an entire planet? No one. Did it matter that Bruce Wayne was Batman? Not really. 

“Of course, I’d be a poor father if I did not. Kal, if you do not tell people of their importance while you are alive—you will die regretting it. Why bother with a protocol when its beneficiary is none the wiser?”

“Well?” Bruce looked down at the worm. “Were you just banking, I’d stroll in like I owned the place, asking Kelex to brew me a double shot?” Bruce picked up the Speak and Spell and held it over to Clark. 

“W—O—R—K—T—O—D—O.” 

“Fine! Come on, Air Bud! Let Kelex swab your cheeks, and we’ll ask your vendors if they serve anything like you on the menu. Seeing as you blew my cover, I might as well bundle up and get comfortable.” 

“No.” Bruce was scrolling through another inventory list. “No.” Clark only ordered from reputable humane vendors, which was the right way to do business, but Bruce wasn’t doing business; he was investigating a crime, he was trying to get Clark back, and he had to rub shoulders with the underbelly. “No.”

He’d chatted up Clark’s squeaky clean suppliers, bent their ear to get the names of those that were less than reputable, those that had everything’s got a price tag mentality. From that list, he got a more varied catalog of species as well as a list of places he reported to the Lantern Corp to investigate. Clark seemed a little perturbed that they weren’t going to handle them personally, but they were striking out on their current mission; it would be irresponsible and time-wasting to take on more. 

“No, not even close, nope, N—" Bruce stopped when a flickering caught his eye, glancing to the side, the worm was buried up to his head in dirt, looking quite adorable with that tiny knit cap over his antenna. “Are you cold?” Bruce turned over his palm. “You’re not warm-blooded right now, but I am.” Clark peeked out a bit further. “It doesn’t have to be weird unless you make it weird. We’re going to be here till sundown at this rate.” 

The worm took Bruce up on his offer. It took a little extra effort with his fins swaddled up in his worm-appropriate cardigan. He had to hook and ladder his way up, crawling up Bruce’s jacket sleeve, over Bruce’s shoulder and with a slight, but by worm standards herculean, tug pull his way into Bruce’s hair again, Once in it Clark didn’t use his pincer anymore, wiggling left and right, swimming against his scalp, eventually popping out from his bangs.  “Give a worm an inch, and he takes a mile.”

Bruce buried his face in his palm. His mind had protected his instincts in this interaction; it hadn’t been a worm slinking up against his skin, he’d have wanted to swat the intruder away, instead it had been Clark’s hand skimming up his shoulder, riding up his neck, poking out from under Bruce’s cap. Clark was tactile, the definition of a hugger, but he’d never sort of just touched Bruce in the way the man wanted him to, so this self-manifested hallucination worked both to neutralize knee jerk reactions, as well as wish fulfillment. 

“This one seems close, but they appear aquatic.” Bruce pointed to the screen. The worm was much longer than Clark. It was fuchsia in color, moving around in dark, silty water, but the antenna, the fins, and the slightly bumpy skin all seemed in line with Clark’s body. “Perhaps you’re from a similar family?” Bruce did a quick scan of the animal’s description. “It’s a good thing my bats didn’t eat you. It appears this worm is poisonous.” That got Bruce a prick with Clark’s pincer. “I didn’t mean that it wasn’t good that they didn’t eat you, regardless. No need to be so defensive. This species is found—” All this sleuthing, and he’d narrowed down their search to anywhere within Sector 2814 to Sector 3493. 

“Not finding what you are looking for?” Jor-El’s voice echoed against the crystal walls of the Fortress. 

“Progress is—forward but not fa—You do this on purpose, don’t you?”

“We do not spend much time together. I need to be memorable to the man who has such sway over my son.” Jor-EL had grown again; this time, he was thirty, maybe forty feet tall. “Memorable, yes?”

“Very. The ELs have a flair for being memorable.” Bruce nodded. “How about you and Kelex? Did you find anything helpful?”

“In fact, we did. There is good news and bad news. Which would you like first?”

“Bad news.”

“Kal’s cells were scrambled and reorganized in a flash; they are currently in a compressed and unstable state.”

“I didn’t notice cellular degradation.”

“It is not progressing at a rapid rate. Under a microscope, they would appear fully intact. We measured molecular vibration. In short, Kal’s cells are sound now, but they won’t remain as such indefinitely. Kal was not meant to be a worm, and his cells are not taking to their new alignment.”

“How long do we have?”

“Without precedent, I can only guess a month or so.”

‘More time than I thought.’ Bruce was expecting Jor-EL to say they had days or hours to crack this; he was used to ticking bombs sort of time frames, he could work with this level of grace period. “What is the good news?”

“You have, without a doubt, found my son. While his cells were repurposed, the elemental composition shows traces of Vaxxium, a heavy metal only found on Krypton. I worked with it frequently for its anti-gravity capabilities.”

“Proof!” Finally. “You’re alive.” Bruce took off his cap so he could fish Clark out of his hair. “Your best disguise yet.” He laughed, and the worm seemed pleased as well, crawling in a speedy little circle in his palm. “I’m—happy too.” Happy didn’t begin to cover it, but Bruce didn’t like how his voice cracked on those few words, so he took a few moments to collect himself. 

There was a difference between clinging to hope and being confident you’re right. Having facts to back you up? Indisputable, printable, proof? That was the sort of difference that let you breathe. Bruce felt the burning in his lungs finally extinguish, and he could finally let in a deep gust of the crisp arctic air. Clark was alive! Clark was in his hands. With Clark at his side, there was nothing they could not overcome. 

“It’s a bit too early for the ‘Superman Lives!’ billboards, huh?” The validation had Bruce flying high, but not off from reality. Proof of life was grand, but restoring it to its larger-than-life existence before long-term damage set in was still a substantial hurdle. “Clark, do you have an archive of alien weaponry?”

“I will have Kelex organize the crystals chronologically. I think you will be impressed with how encompassing Kal’s record-keeping is. My son not only fastidiously documents all of his encounters, but he has also tuned the Fortress’s radio receptors to reach far beyond your planet. The Fortress archives news from several solar systems. On any given day, we—" Jor-El, boasting about his son building a modern-day library of Alexandria, was interrupted by Bruce’s ringtone. 

“I'm sorry—" Bruce never just ignored calls; he was the most on-call leisure playboy you could ever imagine. “It’s—"

“—the in-law.” Jor-EL smiled and nodded in understanding. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The—In law?” Jor-EL repeated, looking at the worm with confusion on his face.

Left right, ‘no.’ Jor-EL must have misunderstood Bruce and Clark’s friendship. 

“Is he not your guardian in law? As the Kents are for Kal?”

“I uh—oh—that’s not what that means.”

“Ah! Silly me.” 

‘He watches movies—he knows English words.’ Bruce squinted at Jor-EL for a moment, then down at the worm. “What are you telling him? Is this another work wife thing?” Bruce would have to get an answer to that when the call was over. He’d been gone all day, and he was sure Alfred had some very valid questions. “Sorry, Alfred. Time got away from me.”

“So it is a day that ends in Y then.” Alfred quipped dryly. “Sir, about the model you are building—"

“It’s for Clark. He’s a worm. I have readouts that substantiate it as well as confirmation from his relatives.” Bruce was going to have to tell this unbelievable story a handful of times, no one better than Alfred to try the dry run on. “It’s somewhere for him to live while we figure out how to fix him.” There was a lengthy pause as Alfred digested the information. 

“That is wonderful news, sir. It does not explain why I am surrounded by your building supplies, a bowl of bone-cold chilli, and not a helping hand in sight. I fear I don’t know Master Kent’s apartment building from memory. I’ve pulled up some blueprints, however—"

Bruce pulled the phone away from his face, covering the mic. “Is there any way we could get those files to go?”

Chapter Text

“Thank you all for coming. I called this meeting because we are not unified on how we are handling Batman’s reaction to the recovery of a body that genetically matches Kal’s.” Wonder Woman addressed the assembled members of the League. 

“You mean how we’re not?” Green Arrow raised his hand. “First, he’s parading a plant through Gotham—"

“—And the House of Mystery,” Zatanna confirmed. 

“Now he’s dragging a worm to Vixen’s door!” Arrow gestured across the table to his secondary source. “All while keeping us at a distance. He’s drowning and we’re enabeling—he’s Batman, he'll learn to swim, it's what he does. I’m—" Arrow sighed. “We’re all worried about him, but that’s not enough, we’ve got to do something.” 

“Hey, he’s working through it, and he’s got a support group.” Nightwing was quick to defend his former mentor. “I don’t appreciate you saying we left him out to dry.”

“Look, I’m not saying that. What I’m saying is— he’s part of a team and if he can't lean on us, if we can't face this with him— we're not doing our job. He needs saving, that's what we do. You think Superman would just watch and wait?”

“He’s getting better—he went to the Fortress the other day, I think—he just needs a little bit more time. He's reaching out more, is it the way you want? No, but it's a process. Gotham is as— Batman needs to see this through." Nightwing was protecting Batman from the League, which was to be expected. 

“He's throwing his weight around hard and heavy over this." Lantern interjected. "He had you request my leave, even though he knew full well what the Corp was doing and why.”

The Green Lanterns had all been called in for a summit of sorts shortly after Superman’s disappearance. Wonder Woman had already expressed her concerns over Nightwing forgoing the League and directly appealing to the Guardians to get Stewart a hall pass.

“He doesn’t really put much faith in the power of the strongly worded email. He’s all about in-person meetings when possible." Nightwing shrugged, thinking this point less a concern and more a clash of style.

“To me? It doesn’t sound like he’s letting this, there’s still a chance, go. It sounds to me like he's letting it take over.” John wasn’t upset to leave one think tank for another, but he saw the Bat’s move as blatant disregard for what was widely believed to be true. 

"Is he still investigating? Of course. He’s not going to give up until he finds out what happened to Supes." Nightwing stood his ground. "And none of us should. It’d be more dangerous if we just cut our losses and hope it’s a one-off.” 

"Is that what Batman thinks? That we've cut our losses and moved on?" Wonder Woman jumped in. That's what this meeting was truly about, not what Batman had and had not done, but how he was fairing, what he was trying to achieve alone and why. Before they could explore that theory, a new one sprouted. 

“I agree with Nightwing. We should assume this was an attack on all of us! I don’t want to sleep on it.” Hawkgirl let her fingers fall to and drum over her mace. “But we can’t protect ourselves or avenge our friend without answers. He’s keeping us on some bizarre need-to-know basis. How do we know this worm thing isn’t just to distract us so he can go after the real threat alone? If Batman thinks he is onto something, fine! I buy it. But if it took out Superman, Batman should be calling all hands on deck; instead, he benches the entire League.”  

“He’s not—trying to ‘blaze of glory’ this.” Nightwing sighed. “He wouldn’t do that. Especially not over Superman.” Nightwing didn’t stand up from his seat, but there was a twitch to him as if he wanted to. “If he was going off the deep end, I’d be the first one to notice. I’d be the first one to stop him.” 

“This is not a trial!” Wonder Woman thought this meeting was getting off on the wrong foot; they were supposed to unify, not pick sides. “Batman has agreed to come to the Watchtower later this afternoon. He is—bringing the worm with him. We must find where the middle ground is, between support and constructive grounding; there is no one without the other.” 

“He’s coming here?” Nightwing did get out of his chair at that, skimming a ring finger down the left side of his mask, he stood frozen for a few moments, likely reading for some sort of heads up. 

“Wonder Woman, did he say ‘the worm’ or did he say ‘Kal’?” Green Arrow arched a brow, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair a little bit as if all this parcel-fed information was proving his point, they were using selective hearing when it came to how far the Bat had let this hunch go. 

“Once he is here, we will discuss our next steps. I— we need him to work with us, and if he feels like we are only here to attack him, or pry justice out of his hands, he will just recoil.” 

“So we buy into his conspiracy theories? For how long? What if there’s a funeral? Public confirmation can only be put off so long. Do we just misplace the invitation?” Aquaman raised a finger in agreement with Arrow’s sentiment. “I pray for an outcome that sees Kal back with us, for the body to be anything but my friend’s, but I will not disrespect the magnitude of his loss by pretending he is a land eel when I know otherwise.”

“A land eel would be a snake.” Vixen corrected. “There are sea worms, Aquaman. I would expect you, of all people, to know this.”

“Yes, but eels are nobler creatures. So even in description, I am unable to commit to this farce.” 

“Count me with the king of the sea cows. Even if we tried to play along—The Bat’s pretty good at reading people.” Plastic man wrapped his torso around Nightwing’s arm. “When I told him I read the JL’s policy on taking paid security gigs, he knew I was lying. Truly, the world’s greatest detective. He’d know we don’t believe Superman has been eeled.”

“This is still a briefing room, right?” The Question entered, pushing a cart with a desktop computer from the late eighties connected to a slide show projector. “One of the main questions today is what Batman's motivation could be to deny that the body is real. Not all conspiracy theories are worth understanding; most are just slander set on fire to create a smokescreen. However, some, a few, like the Bat’s current alternative truths, should be approached as Batman handles his cases: from the ground up to see how things came to be. Let me brief you on them. So when he comes in, as a team we can work out from under it, instead of scorching the earth and picking him up cape first from the ashes.”

“A bit dramatic,” Arrow grumbled.

“Guilt is a great attention grabber, and I have one hundred sixty-four slides. I needed something to keep you all along for the ride.”

“You can’t be serious!” Plastic man deflated in his chair, a puddle of boneless noodles. 

“I have been tailing Batman on and off since September fifth.” The Question didn’t acknowledge Plastic man’s reaction, nor the general shifting of concerned eyes from the group.

“Why are you blurring out his face—? He’s wearing a cowl.” The Flash raised his hand, tilting his head to the side at the edited picture of Batman on the top of the Gotham PD.

“Please hold all feedback till the end of the briefing.” The Question clicked for the next slide. “The year is nineteen ninety-five—” 

“September fifth of— You’ve been trailing Batman for decades?” Nightwing blinked at the second slide, seeing himself as Robin, he and Batman perched atop a marquee of the movie Death Becomes Her. 

“And they say I stretch things out.” Plastic Man voiced his displeasure again, chin hitting the table with a splat, smoothing out across it’s surface.

“Q, a little less ambiance and a little more present day.” Wonder Woman pinched the bridge of her nose. Maybe this wasn’t her best idea. Though, in her defense, she was spread a little thin, handling table briefings, team logistics, public relations, in addition to her front-line duties. Delegations had to be made. 

“Fine.” Some aggressive clicks of the projector sped through a blurry snapshot of Batman’s many victories and losses. His progression from a round table of rouges into his attempts to save worlds, not just Gotham, not just Earth, but galaxies and realities. 

It was a lot of rooftops and raindrops, a lot of gang wars and hostage situations. It was a lot of blacks, grays and yellows, with the occasional splatters of red and green, but more often than the team was expecting, there were pops of blue.

How many of these images were taken in Metropolis was slightly unexpected. How many photos were of the pair in the med bay, or mess hall, tinkering on the Bat jet, or laughing at something while on monitor duty, how many images it was just the two of them—It didn’t take the team by surprise exactly, the Titans had thrown the pair a joke wedding anniversary party just last April. Still, as Wonder Woman scanned the room, she noted the eyes of those around her soften in empathy as they watched the relationship between Batman and Superman put into a more tangible perspective. 

They were not casual workplace acquaintances, they were not friends, they were each other’s constant. Kal was always there for Batman, in a way no one else in the League was. Half of the images that blurred past were candid rooftop conversations, or the two of them teaming up on something either too personal or too small-scale to bring in the cavalry. Kal was the Bat’s rock, and that rock had just vanished. Not eroded, it had not been moved in great spectacle; it simply was gone. 

“In my passive tailing of Batman and Superman over the years I came to the conclusion I’m sure most of you have.” The slide the Question finally settled on was of a binder covered in stickers, some of which featured varying editions of Superman and Batman emblems layered over one another, while others depicted hearts, stars, rainbows, and one spelled out ‘Superbat’. “They’re in love.”

“Damn.” Constantine who’d been fiddling with a lighter for the better part of this meeting, stopped toying around and pulled out his wallet. “Don’t spend it all in one place luv.” He handed Zatanna a hundred-dollar bill. Which she subtly held to the light to confirm it’s legitimacy. 

“You are saying they are a couple?” Aquaman stroked his beard for a few seconds. “It makes sense. I attempted to set Kal up with Lori Lemaris, and it went nowhere, at the time it baffled and insulted me. If his heart belonged to the Bat, it is almost excusable to turn down such a catch.”

“Why would they not tell me?” Wonder Woman should have said ‘us’, but she felt personally betrayed. She loved these men as if they were her brothers. How could they not trust her with their happiness? 

“None of you have ever been in love with someone you’re not in a relationship with?” The Question posed. “Must be nice.” 

“We know he abandoned the Plant theory.” The next slide showed an image of Batman outside Ivy's safe house, holding a plant under his arm. “But what's interesting isn’t that he did, but why?”

“Because the plant isn’t—Superman?” Zatanna hazarded a guess.

“I can’t imagine he had the time to prove that beyond all doubt, and all he needed was a little doubt to keep the dream alive. He’d commissioned a carrying case to be made for it, and the two were inseparable.” The following image was of an unnecessarily close close-up of a very confused man in what appeared to be a handbag boutique. “Something else had to come along that was a better, more viable dream.”

“A worm?” Wonder Woman didn’t fully see the uptick in value.

“It—is cute, as far as worms go. Wavy little flippers, antenna—a face.” Vixen didn’t know where Question was going any more than the rest of the group, but she would admit the worm was charming.

“A worm with a face. Nope. We need to kill it.” Hawkgirl shivered.

“I'm not describing it right.” Vixen shook her head. “It wasn't terrifying, it was—"

“Did the face look like Kal? Tell me that.” Hawkgirl squinted across the table.  

“I mean not a spitting image but—The more I think about it, the little guy had the big guy’s spunk.” 

“So what you're saying is he’s gonna fight me for it eh?” Constantine chewed on an unlit cigarette. 

The worm's sudden appearance in combination with Vixen’s declaration that it wasn’t an animal she could connect to, had some of the team thinking, if it wasn't a Darkseid assassin biding it's time then it was a demonic force manifested to feed off the Bat's desperation. Constantine had been called in to assess and contain the creature if needed, as exorcisms, magical restraints and cross realm imprisonment were his strong suits. 

“Look I can cage it and send it off without having it's proper mailing address, I just need to know we got enough muscle to keep the Bat at bay while I do. Can tell ya right now.” He removed his smoke and waved at the assembled leauge members. “This ain’t enough.” 

“Are we entirely sure Batman doesn't have the technology to grow worm clones?” Hawkgirl was still very much of the camp that Batman was up to something, which wasn’t a bad high ground to hold yourself on. 

“Worm clones are not a thing.” Green Lantern was covering his eyes, blocking the image from his mind.

“We've seen full Kryptonian clones. It would be easier to clone a worm and work your way up. Let's not count the Bat out on that front.” Question patted Lantern on the shoulder, providing no actual consolement. “Points for thinking outside the box, Hawkgirl, but let's not skip ahead.” The reminder warning of more slides had Plastic Man’s puddled form slip to the floor. “We still have to go over what we know before treading into the unknown. Batman has gone beyond the verification stage with the worm. He is in for the long haul. This is an escalation.”

“He's open to other ideas.” Nightwing protested. “They've just got to be right.”

“After his trip north to conference with the Fortress’ inhabitants, he has had three focuses first of which is worm room and board. He’s been importing miniature furniture.”

The next slide showed a garbage dump, featuring some tattered boxes with the image of a tiny bed, a small sink, and a bookcase that was just right for a worm.

“Uh-Oh.” Flash grimaced. “All in is a scary color on the Bat.” 

“He’s also been importing soil from the American Midwest as well as very pricey fruit, specifically Okayama Yume White Peaches and Satonishiki Cherries from Japan.” 

“So it’s a vegetarian? C'mom that’s good news.” Nightwing gave an uneasy smile as he tried to force any small upside into this conversation.

“His second focus is alien weaponry, which is why you were sent out to retrieve Lantern.” Question nodded at the young hero, making that tenuous smile drop. “No one has a further reach or understanding of armament across the stars than the Corp. That and the limitless potential that lies in constructs.” 

"Weapons for?" Arrow asked the obvious question.

“He—must be looking for what was used on Superman. He’s not looking to stockade if that’s what you’re saying. Guns a blazing is the opposite of what Batman stands for!” Nightwing was frowning now.

“What I worry about, from my observations, isn't a fire fight." Question nodded at Nightwing. "He does seem to be focused primarily on weaponry that relies on molecule manipulation which does agree with your theroy. What I worry about is the next dream."

"Next dream?" Wonder Woman was disheartened how dream had become a quasi threatening term.

"When this house crumbles, whether the worm is a true threat sitting on his shoulder, a creature he created to cope or something in between— when he can no longer see it as viable, if we are not capable of cushioning the blow— Batman will escalate again. It is not entirely out of the realm of possibility that he may build a Superman.” Question nodded at Hawkgirl, who did not look validated, only pensive. 

“Wait, wait, don't you think this all a bit out there?” Wonder Woman knew Batman was willing to go to extremes for those that he cared about, but suggesting cloned worm partners seemed science fiction even for them. Amassing a small army to peel the worm off the bat seemed like exessive force against their emotionally fragile friend. “He's coming in to talk, that's not a man who is unwilling to be reasoned with."

“If not for his third point of focus, I might agree with you. We're at a tipping point.” Question responded quickly, not allowing much hope to take root. 

“Tipping point?” Arrow didn't like the sound of that. Wonder Woman felt a pit begin to grow in her stomach. 

“The worm, I think it’s not doing too hot, all the cherries and fresh dirt aren’t enough. If handled incorrectly, if we can't get him to understand here and now I feel he will take the loss of the worm— It may become a ‘with me or against me’ moment.”

“Are you sure? The worm seemed fine when I saw him.” Vixen, who had the most one-on-one time with the worm of the hour, was genuinely concerned for the creature. 

“A large amount of the cryogenic tools used by Doctor Freeze to slow his wife’s deterioration have gone missing from the Gotham evidence holding.” Another slide showed off the inside of some warehouse, large empty spaces outlined by dust and spiderwebs. “Batman is keeping Kal alive—anyway he can. Logic is at play, but it is trailing behind his— he won’t lose Superman, he can’t, not with all their history, all they have left to do.” 

The next slide was as chilling as office furniture could be; it was the very room they were in, framed from behind were Superman and Batman’s empty chairs.

“They are not here and that’s the simplest definition of the problem. They are alone, separate which makes it worse. If the situation was flipped, I think it would be a similar set of escalations. They are meant to be together, and when that’s not the case, they fix it. I believe Batman believes he is doing the right thing, because to him, getting Superman back isn’t wrong. His theory might seem out there, but we can’t strand him hopeless, he’ll just persevere and push the envelope further.” 

There were no questions, no quips; it seemed as though no one could challenge this, and no one was willing to break the silence. 

“Why is this room never this quiet when I talk?” The doors opened for Batman, on his shoulder was a bright blue worm, with a red triangle of felt tied beneath its head. “What’s with all the long faces? Did someone die?”

“B!” Nightwing slapped his hands over his eyes. “For the love of Gotham, read the room!” He slumped a bit, sliding down into his chair. Though there was a smile there. 

“I apologize for my absence, and will make it up to the team—but right now, Kal and I need your help.” 

Chapter Text

“Batman, thank you for joining us. Please take a seat.” Diana had the voice of a person trying to coax a large cat into not mauling.

She was not afraid of Batman. Clark, as Dick had put it, could read the room. The team was worried Bruce would snap or storm off. In high-stress situations, the Dark Knight did not have a short fuse, but rather an inability to stand still; if he had a channel to explore or a plan of attack to execute. He was from a fast-paced city; ten minutes was a lifetime. He’d rather be in motion than in deliberation. It sometimes came across as tenacity, but at other times as pushy or incorrigible. 

This was a high-stress situation. Not to toot his own horn, but Superman was the lumbar support of the League; he could be anywhere in a minute, he could battle most anything, he could scope out most situations, he could slot into any grouping and be of use.

His absence did not cripple the League, but its range of motion and fluidity—they were having to work harder to do the same job because Clark had let something get the upper hand on him, and he was clueless about how to resolve it. 

“I asked him nicely to leave the cape at home. I told you they’d think I was crazy.” Bruce turned to look at Clark with a smirk. “Though who am I to complain about being overdressed?” 

It’s not that Bruce didn’t care that the League thought he was going full tinfoil-hat. Bruce cared deeply about his image and what others, especially those he respected, thought of him. He’d built the Bat to portray a very specific sort of mystique; he chose words oh so carefully at meetings to seem near omnipitantly calculative. 

Even as Brucie, what he wore, who he sat with, and what time of day he decided to show up at the office was on purpose, all in pursuit of the image he’d lovingly crafted. So his smirking at Clark, playing the team's doubt and dismay as something he got a kick out of, was a lie, a lie for Clark’s benefit, because he didn’t want Clark to feel guilty. 

“Also, to be fair, his mother made it, and I think we can all agree given his current predicament—" Bruce kept referring to it as that, current predicament, he had been avoiding the word worm very carefully over the last few days. Clark wasn’t sure why; maybe he was trying to reaffirm his identity by not drawing attention to the loss of nearly everything that made Clark who he was. “He should not be denied any familiar creature comforts we can afford him.”

“Is that why you’re buying the worm—" Arrow had no qualms about calling things as he saw them. Clark supposed it comes with being an archer, shooting straight. “—ten thousand dollar cherries?”

‘What?!’ 

Clark might have blacked out for a second, when he came to, he was in Bruce’s palm, being held up to the glossy white unscrupulous eyes of his cowl. That thing was lead-lined, even at his best, he couldn’t actually see through it, but still, he could always tell when Bruce had a scowl etched in behind that mask. 

‘I’m fine. Just surprised. I thought my parents were sending you fruit from the market.’ Clark didn’t have the ability to say any of that, so he just straightened up, wagged his fins, hoping that portrayed health. ‘Cherries and peaches aren’t Kansas fruit. I should have known something was up.’

“Do you need water?” Bruce hadn’t fully understood; he couldn’t. The Speak and Spell helped, but it somewhat slowed a lot of their conversations down, so it was used sparingly. “Are you in pain? Lightheaded?”

‘No.’ That at least remained the same, a simple shake of the head still meant ‘no,’ even when Clark was just one long neck. 

When Bruce was content Clark was in fair health he explained himself to the group. “High-end Japanese fruit is notoriously prized for its high sugar content, and that seems to keep Kal’s skin tone bright and energy consistent throughout the day,” 

‘It does?’ 

Clark wasn’t surprised Bruce would note details like that, it was that he hadn’t told Clark that was a little shocking. Not mentioning it, likely due to the sticker shock, was clearly another attempt by Bruce to ensure  Clark didn't feel guilty over his ‘current condition.’ 

Clark would have to remember to be less annoyed when he looked up from his breakfast to see Bruce smiling down at him, near smugly. He was happy Kal was healthy, likely monitoring that his appetite wasn’t dropping. Bruce still gaped a little over Clark’s table manners or lack there of, but a small price to pay for a well fruited friend.  

“Could be worse.” Plastic Man dipped his shades down over his nose to get a better look at Clark. “He could have put the thing in a worm wig. Little thread curl or something?”

“This is Kal, I assure you.” Bruce had an uphill battle; firm and repetitive was going to be his angel. “And I’d ask that none of you call him a ‘thing’.”

“That wouldn’t have happened if I had gotten to my sensitivity slides.” Question muttered, gesturing at the screen behind him. “We were still discussing where your head is at, Batman.”

“Kal is not at his best, but he is still—one of us. He needs us.” Bruce took the time to look everyone at the table in the eyes. “That is where my head’s been since I found him.”

“Batman, it’s not that we don’t want to believe you.” Zatanna waited not only for Bruce to sit down, but for him to gingerly place his palm down on the table for Clark to nudge his way off. “But you were sure about the basil plant.” 

‘We knew this was coming.’ Clark nestled against Bruce in solidarity. 

 Bruce hadn’t rehearsed himself per se, but during his morning swim he’d paused mid lap, paddled over to the pool’s edge and told Clark, who had been placed on one of the beach chairs, that the team wasn’t going to believe him, that he had panicked and it was going to come back to bite them. 

He assured Clark that he would sway them, that he was good at that; he’d tackle it as he did in boardroom meetings when he wanted a project pushed, and he was the only one who saw his vision. He told Clark not to worry. Clark wasn’t worried, ‘could sell honey to a bee’ was what he had tripped over spelling, not wanting to take his eyes off Bruce. 

There weren’t many upsides to being a worm, but joining Bruce in his day-to-day activities was one of them. Maybe it was easy to forget Clark was there in his compact form, or maybe Bruce refused to lose sight of him again after a week of radio silence, but they were spending a lot of their downtime together. 

Bruce could have very easily plopped Clark in that air-tight lab of his with a sun lamp, fruit salad, and TV for enrichment, but instead, as if it was second nature, he toted Clark around and included Clark in his daily routine, which was something Clark was growing quite fond of. Pool time in particular, because Clark might have been a worm, but he was still a man in there somewhere, and Bruce Wayne half-dressed and dripping wet, especially after a few laps to get his breath a little labored, would never not be attractive. 

Clark’s head was in the clouds, picturing Bruce’s breast stroke, when the Bat replied to Zatanna’s concern. “I was certain he was alive, and I had very little to go on. I’d found evidence that—I got overzealous, but I had my reasons to believe Kal had been turned into a plant.”

“Evidence like?” Lantern questioned. 

“I followed up on Superman’s most recent sightings, and it took me to that roof. The plant was out of place up there and was situated beneath a pair of glasses that matched his civilian identity’s prescription.” 

“You know his civilian identity?” Flash’s eyes widened in shock. “Did he tell you?”

“No. I found out on my own. Unless it becomes absolutely pertinent to disclose, that is the extent to which I’ll be speaking of his civilian life, I—know, and that needs to be enough.”

Bruce had asked Clark if he was comfortable sharing with the class who Superman was during off hours or not. He’d asked it fairly flippantly, while he was brushing his teeth with one hand and holding a toothbrush above Clark’s antenna with the other. Clark had lain down flat and shifted from side to side, as close as one could get to shrugging without shoulders. 

Bruce was unwilling to promise he’d keep the information from the League indefinitely, but he did state he’d do his best not to needlessly out him. 

Clark had no idea whether or when he wanted the other League members to know who Superman was. It wasn’t that he was worried word would get out, while not impossible, it was improbable. It was that people looked at Clark differently when they knew and thought of him in a different way. They were often of the opinion that Clark Kent was the mask, that he was masquerading around as a human to get by. 

Only a few people had ever found out his secret, most of them before he’d become Superman, but he hated being looked at like he was a fraud when he was living his everyday life. It stung, it made him question himself. So he did his best to keep his two lives distinct and separated, so he never had to see a friend look through Clark in an attempt to see the ‘real’ man underneath. 

“I wasn’t entirely wrong.” Bruce moved on to his next point. “That plant was out of place, and did factor into Superman’s disappearance. I misjudged, and while Kal is fast to learn new tricks, a new body meant it took him a little longer to start doing cartwheels and setting off fireworks. I didn’t notice him until—"

“Batman, this may sound out there, but the worm was in the soil of that plant, yes? You didn’t—" Diana was struggling for words, which was very unlike her. Clark couldn’t imagine what unfathomable thing she was hesitant to accuse him of.

“This isn’t Bat’s first clone, is it?” Hawkgirl had fewer qualms, it seemed.

“I’m sorry?”  Bruce planned for a lot of things, but not everything, not this. 

‘That wasn’t on the bingo card.’ Clark wasn’t sure if Bruce should be flattered that they thought he was competent enough to drum up sentient life as a side project. Or insulted that he was just a loss or two away from being a mad scientist. 

“You think I made Kal? You think I’d—make myself an emotional support worm?”

“We know the worm is deteriorating in integrity. Something known to happen in clones.” The Question clicked back to the cryogenic equipment slide. “We also know that Superman's DNA has been mapped successfully before, though all samples from Project Cadmus were destroyed.” A slide of the burnt-down lab Clark never wanted to see again popped up on screen. “So you might not be able to create something one for one, starting with something that is genetically less complex would make sense.” The following slide was a progression chart: worm, sheep, chimp, Superman. 

“If I were attempting to play god incrementally, why would I have brought the worm to B’wana?” Bruce countered. There was a hint of anger in his voice; he didn’t shout, he didn’t sneer, but there was a punch to his words that read as displeased by this line of thought. 

“It was not my leading theory, just one of them.” The Question shrugged. “I was just tackling concerns as they came.” 

“Well, move on to the next concern. I will discredit them one by one if it will get you on board.”

“Is his civilian identity dating your civilian identity?” Plastic Man stretched to raise his hand comically high. It was commendable in a way, he was trying to breathe some levity into the discussion.

“No. I am not compromised.” 

‘Compromised is a bit harsh. I’m not contagious.’ Clark tried not to make a move. Bruce was always good at reading body language, but with Clark unable to speak freely, it had become imperative for communication that Bruce learn what even the smallest movements meant. If Clark sagged onto the table or let his antenna droop, Bruce would undoubtedly catch how Clark was disappointed to hear that dating him was comparable to catching mono. 

“Have you tried—” Arthur stroked his beard in contemplation. 

‘That’s a good sign.’ If Arthur was contemplating solutions, it meant he must have some faith in Bruce’s hunch. 

“—kissing it?”

“Kissing Kal? Why?” 

“Ew.” Dick recoiled. “Dude he’s a worm.”

‘Ouch.’ Clark did shrink a little at how quickly Bruce reacted to and Dick’s revulsion over  Arthur’s statement. ‘But also, yeah, why?’

“I am not a mage by any means, but I am a parent, I have had to read and watch many a fish tale, for instance, have any of you heard of the Princess and the Octopi?”

“I didn’t sense any magic when I was looking at the plant.” Zatanna shook her head. “Even if I didn’t know about the worm, it was—I was feeling around, there wasn't any spellwork.”

“Earth magic.” The Question clicked rapidly through slides, one of which showed a grotesque scene from John Carpenter's the thing, a film featuring an alien microorganism that assimilated with and corrupted its hosts, which Clark assumed was in line with Vixen’s theory of a worm with nefarious motives. 

‘We are going to be here a while.’ The Question had been asked to explore every possible option, and he had not skimped. 

“As Vixen pointed out, the worm is not earthly in origin, and Batman is denying that it is artificially created. If both those things are true, this worm is an alien species. If it is some curse, it would make sense that the magic used was also alien. Is it possible, Zatanna, that magic used on other planets could escape detection?”

“Like I told Batman the chances are pretty low, but—" She glanced over at Bruce. “—but not impossible?”

“It would have to be a very nifty trick.” Constsntine peppered some extra doubt into the air.

“Pulling a rabbit out of a hat is the same trick wherever you go.” Zatanna agreed hesitantly.

“Did you check the Bat for magic?” Arrow had been very quiet since the Bat first arrived. He didn’t want to debate this; he didn’t want to give Bruce any benefit of the doubt here. “Or mind control?”

‘Why do you want me dead so bad?’ Clark scooted across the table to look at the Arrow. ‘Do you think it’s impossible I didn’t croak?’

“Bat, buddy, whatever that thing is—"

“I told you not to call him that.”

“They think they’re dancing around your feelings, and that’s the right thing to do, Q's got them scared. I know you’re hurting, and I want you to rip the band-aid off, ok?”

“You haven’t spent time with him.” Bruce placed down the Speak and Spell. “I’ve talked with him. He’s—”

“It’s a weird worm, yeah, but Kal would have reached out if he were fighting a sorcerer. Did you ever think he just left? What about that? Where’s that slide Q?!” 

“Here.” The Question clicked through slides again, this time it was an image of Clark on planet Almerac, being escorted by Maxima. 

“Supes wouldn’t do that.” Dick turned away from the screen, offended, which was really for the better. 

‘Where did he even get that picture?’ Clark was a little mortified that the ‘warlord look’ was blown up; his chest hair did not need to be scrutinized so attentively. Though that concern was secondary to the insult he felt from Arrow. “NO.” Clark tried to press the buttons with inflection, but despite Bruce ‘getting his weight up,’ Clark was so little that just getting the pressure to recognize a letter being pressed took all his might. 

“Why couldn't you say that? Maybe I'd buy that.” Arrow's frustration was turning a corner. Less mad that Bruce had a theory, more mad that it was one he couldn't get behind.

“There wasn’t anything you could have done, Arrow. From the witness statement I got from the plant—" That really was a sentence only Batman could pull off. “—I believe it was a blitz attack.”

“Anything I could have done? We won’t know, he can’t tell—"

“You truly believe Kal just left us? That’s the type of man you think he is. That is the relationship with Earth you’ve seen him have? We know him better than that.”

‘Thanks B.’ Clark felt some bruise leave his ego.

“Sometimes people aren’t who you think they are.” Arrow huffed. “But refusing to accept—”

“Sometimes we forget our friends are not immortal, and sometimes we are reminded. You’re not a bad friend or a bad hero for not being there. We’d all like to think that if one of our friends were in danger, we’d step in, they’d call, and we’d be there. We all like to think we—all make it home every time. We believe that—despite it not necessarily being the constant we want it to be. Having the rug pulled out—I know you’re trying to help me, worried the longer I prolong a fantasy, the harder the fall, I appreciate that, but that’s not what this is, Arrow.”

“So you’re really going to pucker up and kiss that worm? That’s the next step that makes sense to you? Not what's right in front of us?”

“Kal is right in front of you Arrow and if I thought a kiss-”

“Oh, my followers are going to love this.” Plastic Man pulled his phone out.

“Put it away before I use it as target practice.” Arrow warned, not breaking eye contact with the Bat. 

“Arrow, we can't let this dissolve into violence.” Diana tried to reign this conversation back to civility.

“Batman, I’m going to be blunt, what about the body that was recovered when they combed the bay?” Arrow set an unflinching stare on Bruce, waiting to see how he’d talk his way out of that one. “If you’re so anchored to reality, we’re the ones out of the know, tell me about how that figures into things.” Though his tone was a little less unrelenting, he didn’t want to berate Bruce, he wanted answers. “You told us it’s not him, but you gotta admit it's more believable than he’s a worm. The timing Bats, the body.”

“I have examined the corpse, I had my reasons to ask Nightwing to veto the confirmation and appreciate that you all respected it. Although it was a partial genetic match, I could also confirm that it had never been alive. It’s lungs and eyestems are undersized in comparison to Kal’s. It is a remnant of one of Luthor's unsuccessful science experiments.” 

“Why didn't you say that?” Diana asked. “Why didn't you talk to us?”

“By the time the body surfaced, I was already looking into the basil on little more than inference. I wasn't fully sure I could trust myself, but I could trust my team. I didn’t want to cloud your judgement. I waited until Kal had my back to show up and speak my mind.” 

That statement seemed to change the air in the room, Clark could feel it. The team had seen his face, cold and lifeless looking up from a slab, the body had been found in water shortly after Superman’s disappearance. He couldn’t blame them for not claiming coincidence. 

Objectively Bruce not being convinced, scouring for other options had been less logical, though the pendulum swung back around, Bruce’s logic was sound once he gathered enough of it and could draw lines from point to point.

 All science starts out as science fiction, all mysteries are unsolvable till they are solved. Bruce had put in the detective work and he finally had enough for the team to accept his improbable answer wasn’t impossible. Clark had his back, there wasn't much that could stop him. 

“So the kiss is back on?” Plastic man lifted his phone again. It wasn’t an arrow but one of Nightwing’s wingdings that had it shot from his hands and clattering to the floor. 

“The worm he closest resembles is poisonous, so before testing whether or not my love is enough to break a curse, I’d like a little more to go on. Plus Zatanna has made it pretty clear not to hold my breath on-"

“No worm’s inedible if you want it down bad enough.” Clark was hastily scooped up into Bruce’s hand, held to Bruce’s chest after Stewart’s statement hit the air. “Hold up, you’ve been going to the wrong experts, Bat. Let's take a page out of Q's book, start with what we know—that’s an alien worm.”

“Correct.” Bruce agreed hesitantly. 

“Call Killowog.” Clark was still hidden behind Bruce’s palm; he couldn’t see the Lantern open up a communication line, but he could appreciate that he put his corp mate on speaker.

“Howz my favorite Poozer doin'?”

“A little stumped and figured you might be able to help us out. If I show you a worm, do you think you’d be able to tell me what planet it’s from?”

“That rude lill’ Earth sheriff came an’ scooped up the wrong Lantern, huh?”

“Seems it.”

“Rude?!” Dick huffed. “I was in a rush, but I was—I am polite.”

‘Gotham’s got a different tolerance level for pushy Dick.’ Clark wanted to smirk; he missed being able to make faces—he missed having proper facial muscles. 

“Not mad at being called little?” Arthur chuckled. “You’ve grown since your Titan days.” 

“Not really. Maybe you’ve never been stared down by Kilowog—everyone’s little.” Dick retorted. 

“Let me get these peepers on the morsel an I’ll map 'em for ya.” 

Clark could sense the rumblings of displeasure from Bruce at hearing the word "morsel."

“Batman?” Diana nudged. “OA is lightyears away—he can’t actually eat him.”

“Where there’s a worm, there’s a way,” Bruce muttered sourly, but did relent, lowering his hand into the view of Stewart’s communicator.

“Ah—Rookie, you’ve seen those before, ‘member? I make Grublet hash for all the Poozers, get some real protein in ya before we run ya down.”

“I try to forget most of the meals I was tricked into eating.” John shook his head. 

“Huh?”

“Oh, uh, it was a secret recipe, wasn’t it? I don’t think you told us rookies what gave it that—gelatinous—"

“Yea-Yea, the stick in yer throat on the way down, tricky to nail. That tasty beaut is a Xudarian puddle worm, real social things, move around in groups, from far away kinda look like a moving puddle.”

“So they’re not poisonous? Like hypothetically, if a teammate needed to kiss that worm, he wouldn’t die?” Plastic Man snaked his way into the shot.

“Barflatz! I eat ‘em and everyone shrivels up like an egg sac. You got someone there who wants to play katzmarian footsie with a worm and you’re conference callin’ for the go ahead?”

“It's complicated.” John sighed. “It's possible someone turned Superman into this worm. I know you're a connoisseur, but how common do you think that worm is? Is it only found on Xudar?”

“There are worm farms on mos civilized planets, but puddle worms don't mature right without their native soil, turns 'em soft, lose their sticky chew. I only ever have ‘em when Tomar returns from a home visit.”

“Ugh.” Flash covered his mouth with his hands.

“Kilowog, Batman here. Thank you for your insight. If you can put us in contact with Tomar, it would be a great help. We are likely looking for an Xudarian on Earth, and he might be able to help drum up some leads.”

“I’ll patch ‘em through, give me a sec. So yer sayin—Heya Supey, lookin good.”

Clark perked up; it had been too long since someone had referred to him as Superman directly. 

“And Kilowog?” Bruce being Bruce, had more questions. “Keeping puddle worms—fresh, alive, do you have any tips?”

“Feed them carbs, oh! and they also need sound. Keep 'em in the quiet too long, like a fridge or somethin and they lose their wiggle, will get pale and thin.”

“We can manage that.” 

Clark again wanted to laugh, or maybe just smile. He knew Bruce would take him home and try to find the most optimal puddle worm soundtrack, he’d observe, measure, and demand viable feedback. When Bruce cared for someone, he pulled no punches, went all in. Batman might get a lot of credit for saving the day, but Bruce Wayne did a lot to make people’s day. 

“Oh, an’ Batman?”

“Yes?”

“It ain’t too poisonous, if you want to kiss ‘em, I don’t get it, but I don’t care much either, so knock yerself out.”

“I never said I was going to kiss him. Just that if it needed to be done-”

“Poozer.” A surprisingly poppy hold song took over the communicator after that. 

Chapter Text

As it turns out, ‘our culprit is a Xudarian’ was not exactly a smoking gun. Xudarians were not a race that isolated itself; it was essential to be cultured. Most Xudarians spent a minimum of six years off-planet, some choosing to not to return. That being the case, there were healthy Xudarian populations scattered across the universe, and it made narrowing down travel routes, or even approximating the total number of Xudarians within a space taxi ride of Earth, nearly impossible. 

The Lantern Corp was reviewing its databases for any known criminals who might fit the bill. Mister Terrific and Blue Beetle were tasked with reaching out to intergalactic scientific communities to determine which star systems possessed the necessary hardware to competently rematerialize one complex organism into another. With the whole team on board, Clark had all the faith in the world that he was not destined to live out the rest of his days as a worm, but for the here and now, it was a waiting game. 

Waiting wasn’t typically one of Clark’s strongest suits; even as a kid, he’d open his cereal boxes upside down so he’d get to the prize at the bottom fast. He could be patient when a situation called for it, but not easily; it was a struggle, an annoyance, and it made him irritable. 

So Clark was pleasantly surprised with himself that as the second week post Bruce’s intervention crept in, he wasn’t finding himself cross, not quite content either, but—agreeable, things could be worse. Waiting was a little easier when you weren’t doing it alone. Clark was slipping into a routine that had him spending most of the day with Bruce, and that wasn’t so bad. 

First thing in the morning, Bruce would pick Clark up. It wasn’t quite a Gotham to Metropolis commute, but the effort was there in other ways. Bruce and Alfred had built a frankly, eerily accurate replica of Clark’s apartment building. Upon being given the tip about puddle worms needing audio enrichment, Bruce had moved the replica from the library to a room Clark had never seen before. Somewhere on the second floor was a music room chosen for its acoustics; his replica was nestled on a table between the grand piano and a free-standing harp. 

Even Tim had worked his own sort of magic to make Clark feel at home. He’d gone out and both recorded and mixed the sounds of Metropolis from dusk to dawn. The soundtrack was so authentic that Clark forgot where he was and what had happened while he slept, only being reminded when Bruce knocked gently on the wall of his building, and rolling out of his bed was done sans arms and legs. 

Their first activity was the morning swim. Clark couldn’t join in; that water was far too deep, but while Bruce took his post-dip shower, Clark was placed in a bowl of water with lilac soap, which allowed him to shake off old dirt and dry skin. It also helped him work those little fins, keeping his strength up as he rolled himself around and lapped the edges. 

Next, Bruce would bring Clark back upstairs so they could get fresh for the day. Clark would never have learned that those trademarkable Batman scowls and Brucie-winks were not as instinctual as they appeared if that wasn’t the case. Watching Bruce practice them as he applied moisturizer was a gift that Clark would treasure forever. Bruce caught himself doing it the first day, swore Clark to secrecy, and then went right back into his facial exercises. 

After getting spruced up, they’d get dressed; Bruce spending almost as much time trying to decide what pencil cozy and eraser topper combo would be best for Clark, as he did on which custom-sewn suit he was going to wear. Bruce was probably just worried that Clark would lose his will and thus his strength if he stopped feeling like a person. This doting and making it a group choice was just an act to keep Clark’s morale up, but that didn’t make it less adorable when Bruce always opted for a tie that matched Clark’s ‘outfit’. 

Then it was breakfast. Clark tried very hard not to think about how expensive his daily fruit salad was. That was made a little easier by listening to Bruce hum and huff over his morning papers. Whether or not Bruce read the Daily Planet when Clark wasn’t around, he couldn’t be sure, but he could hope. Clark didn’t get to see people react to the stories he and his partners fought tooth and nail to bring to light. Not that he was doing it for praise, but it was nice to hear Bruce remark on scandals and breakthroughs, that the news still moved people.

Most people would not like being told how to do their job, but Clark took it as a compliment when Bruce would glance over at him and spout ‘when you’ve got fingers again you’re going to need to do a story on—’ Bruce Wayne does not delegate to people he doesn’t believe will do the job right. Clark saw that firsthand at Wayne Enterprises. 

“I hope you don’t mind that I took a page out of your book, Kent,” Bruce mentioned one Monday in between business meetings. “You have dinner with a different League member each week. I started doing that here. It’s good—where’d you learn it?” Bruce knew he wasn’t going to get a response, but his voice had gone a little hoarse after his fifth back-to-back conference call, and he was trying to loosen up his vocal cords over a cup of tea. 

‘I didn’t know who Booster Gold’s whole deal was, but he’d been on the team too long for me to ask. Easiest way not to make it weird, sort of took off from there.’ Clark, of course, didn’t say any of that, but simply shrugged from his spot under Bruce’s desk cactus. 

“I have lunch with a different employee every day. It’s nice. Sometimes if all you’re getting is a corporate game of telephone, concerns prettied up and played down by management, you don’t really know what’s going on.”

Clark nodded. ‘I’m trying to keep up with you, Bruce. I’m good for a pep talk, but sometimes I feel like that’s all I am. You’re—able to manage Bruce, you lead and make it look like second nature. I’m still making it up as I go. I was born for a lot of things, but being a leader wasn’t one of them.’ 

It was easy to assume Batman put the names and skills of League members into his computer, ran simulations, and had it churn out match-ups for missions, but Bruce considered so much more than surface-level strengths and weaknesses. He considered everyone’s temperament, their motivations, their responsibilities, and connections. None of that would matter if he couldn’t instill trust. If Bruce Wayne came up with a plan, he could sell it, and you would buy it. 

Some of it was Bruce’s education; he’d been groomed for the chair he was sitting in from a young age, having taken numerous classes and seminars on leadership. However, there is a distinction between retention and results. Anything Bruce learned, he was not satisfied until he improved upon it. He never settled on a method; he was constantly tweaking his leadership methods, as if they were one of his gadgets, honing them to peak performance. 

“You make them feel valued, not just heard.” Bruce continued. “I don’t know if it’s my inflection, or my reach—I know that people feel expendable around me. I spend half of these lunches convincing people it’s not some sneak performance review or ambush firing. The same thing happens when I try to water-cooler with the League.”

‘Do you use water cooler as a verb?’ Clark would have joked, but even with his keyboard there, the lack of inflection would have had the remark fall flat. ‘It’s that you are—seldom wrong, B. People feel that if they failed, it couldn’t have been due to your plan; it was their execution. They feel like there’s nowhere to hide. With me, I don’t know, maybe I’ve made more big mistakes or—"

“You talk to people like—if you could, you’d wrap them up in your cape and carry them around. You just—cherish people in every little interaction. It’s written all over your face, it’s in your voice. You glow with it, Kent. I’m tough love and you’re love that’s tough, must say I’m jealous.” Bruce finished the last bit of his tea. “And waiting. Where is my dinner?”

‘Bruce, we eat dinner together every Friday!’ Their pool night was often the highlight of Clark’s week; it stung a little that it seemed to underwhelm Bruce. ‘I mean draft beer and fried pickles might not be your idea of dinner, but—’

“Starting to think you don’t cherish me.” Bruce put his face in his palm and batted his lashes. “Am I that unlovable?” 

Clark shook himself left to right, that was pretty much the opposite of the issue. ‘Pool and beers, that’s two guys hanging out. Me taking you out to dinner—Dangerous, B. You’d get advances you wouldn't want.’ Clark would want it to be a date, even if it was just ‘team building’.

“Hm. Then, when this is all over, you owe me a nice—" Bruce was cut off by his phone ringing. “You owe me dinner, Kent, no worming your way out of it.” He picked up the receiver. “Oh, come now, it wasn’t that bad.” He accepted the call, chuckling as Clark rolled around in false pain over that pun. 

Tuesdays, Bruce was less in the office, more public-facing. Where Mondays were spent on board meetings and conference calls, Tuesdays were reserved for press releases, photo ops, and the like. One of Bruce’s favorite ‘play to the public’ activities was—honest to goodness, one of the cutest things Clark had ever seen. 

Bruce and a few of his fellow Gotham movers and shakers would once a month meet up at Gotham General, dress up as superheroes and visit the children’s ward. What was cute and sort of hilarious about it was that Bruce was not de facto Batman; they apparently took turns being the ‘best’ hero. 

Clark was lucky that he did get to experience Bruce’s turn, because it was not nearly as ‘uncanny’ as it could be. Or at least Clark personally couldn’t recall a time Batman had kicked in a door and shouted, ‘It is I! The Batman!’ Dedicating nearly every single pouch in his utility belt to candy and stickers like some sort of walking piñata did seem excessive, but the kids had almost no notes. 

“You studying for a test, Batman?” Adults struggled to question Bruce Wayne, but children had no such qualms. Even as the Bat, he was just a man; legacy, estates, clout, mystique, that was all, either too abstract, unrelatable, or frankly irrelevant for them to care about. So when Batman made his grand entrance with a pencil case under his arm, a young girl, Hana, went right up to him to call him out. 

“I am not.” He sat with her as they waited their turn at the Astro Bot video game ‘Wild Cat’ had brought along for the children to play. “I brought a friend. Though he’s a little—shy and a little squirmy, so I let him ride along somewhere safe.”

“It’s a bug?!” Her shriek made Clark dig to the bottom of his carrying case. It never felt good when people were afraid of him, especially children, whom he never wanted to be a nightmare to kids. “Eddy! Eddy! Batman brought a bug.”

“Really?! What kind? Can I see?”

“Eddy’s going to be a bug guy when he grows up,” Hana explained. “He’s got lotsa books on 'em.”

“Is that so?” Bruce moved Clark’s case from the floor at his side, into what Clark assumed was his lap. “Well then, he might correct you. In your books, Eddy, what phylum do most bugs fall under?”

“Uh—I know.” Eddy mulled it over a bit, but eventually it came to him. “Arthropod.”

“Correct!” Bruce beamed. “My friend, he’s a Protostome. Does anyone want to guess what that is?”

“Proto is first.” An older child must have joined in the conversation. “What’s stome mean?”

“Proto is first, and stome means mouth.” 

‘Did you ever want to be a teacher, B? It suits you.’ It was another trait of Bruce’s that made him predestined to be at the helm of a group. He explained himself often, which some felt was narcissistic  monologuing, but Clark saw it for what it was. His knowledge wasn’t just his to flaunt; he enjoyed passing it on. Bruce broke down what he did so that people could understand it and learn from it. 

“First mouth.” Hana put the words together. “I don’t get it.”

“Well, it technically means mouth first, as when—"

“He’s got a slug!” Eddy announced. “Right? It's a slug? Or a snail?”

“Close. Clark is a worm.”

“Clark.” Hana sounded far more excited to hear a name than she did the breakdown of the zoological term. “Is he your support animal? I have Misty at home, she reminds me to take my medicine, and gets help if I have a seizure outside.”

“Uh—something like that. He’s there when I need him, and I feel safer when he is around. He is a very skilled observer, so he knows when I’m not doing well sometimes before I do. He doesn’t judge me, just—is a comfort and a dear friend. I wouldn’t call him a support animal since he prides himself on being as human as possible, so using the word ‘animal’ would hurt his feelings, and I don’t want to do that.”

“Ohhhh. Sorry, Clark.” Hana sweetly apologized. “Can we see him?”

“Batman—going a bit off script today? I didn’t know we were bringing pets.” Clark could hear a murmur of children around Bruce; he’d stolen the show, and one of his fellow heroes must’ve felt a little slighted. Batman was already the most popular hero without stickers and sidekicks. 

“Let’s ask him! But if he does come up, please don’t touch him. He—"

“No one touches Clark! He’s working!” Hana took over as Clark’s bouncer, much to Bruce’s delight. 

“Clark? Would you be willing to come up and say ‘hi’ to some of my friends?” Bruce unzipped the case.

“Shhhh, don’t scare Batman’s buddy, I wanna see 'em.” Eddy hushed a friend. 

Clark hesitantly unearthed himself and was met by a half dozen faces hovering in close in anticipation. ‘Huh—never thought I’d get this reaction as ‘Clark.’’

Part of having a secret identity was that you didn’t get to connect with people the same way as when you were a hero. Clark was a reporter by day. He’d met a few college interns who were starstruck by him, he’d interviewed some people who were grateful that they found more than just someone who would listen, but someone who would act, but no one looked at Clark awestruck, as something unbelievable or larger than life, the way they did Superman.

“He is the cutest thing in the whole wide world!” Hana had her hands cupped around Clark as close as she could without touching him. “Ahhhh! Look at him!”

“He is quite handsome, isn’t he? You should see him when he bothers to dress up for one of Bruce Wayne’s fundraisers.” Bruce stuck out his palm for Clark to crawl into. While Clark couldn’t fly donuts or lift an ice cream truck up to the third floor, as he had the times he'd flown under the Bat's radar, he did try to be as entertaining as a worm could be: rolling over, wiggling his antenna back and forth. “The most dashing—What was the phylum again?”

‘Smooth Bruce.’ Clark hadn’t bothered to fall for this compliment. Brucie often buttered people up, then hit them with a punchline; this was much the same. 

“Protostome!” The children nearly climbed over each other to answer. 

It felt good to work together again. Bruce had been bending over backwards to fix Clark. In turn, Clark had come up with one or two ideas, let Bruce use the Fortress, but they hadn’t been the even partners as they usually were. This was what Clark missed: being the follow-through to Bruce’s setup. He wasn’t shoulder to shoulder or back to back with Bruce as used to feel natural, but sitting in his palm was fine so long as they were making a difference together. 

Wednesday, Bruce met with lawyers and insurance adjusters, who pleaded with him to relocate factories, labs, and shipment containers away from Gotham. It was surreal listening to the men and women tell Bruce that while his family’s company did employ up to forty percent of Gotham. It was a double-edged sword; gangs regularly targeted his warehouses, the think tanks in his research and development labs had a bad track record with Gotham’s rogues, and when his stock declined, the city became even more on edge than it already was. 

More noteworthy was how Bruce reacted. If the speech he gave to every suit who tried to sway him was delivered with a cape and cowl on it, it would not seem out of place; it was as Bat as Bruce could get during his nine-to-five. ‘That is the price of working in Gotham. I am not looking for greener pastures or an easier way to go about business. Gotham did not abandon me, and I will not abandon it, not for any amount of money. Wayne Enterprises will enhance security, and we will work harder than we did last week. There’s always more to improve; never such a thing as we’ve done enough.’

Clark could empathize to some extent with Bruce’s position here. They both worked in jobs where, in a very non-passive way, they were reminded of what their hero counterpart was doing well and where there were gaps. The feedback was near instantaneous and often unfiltered. 

Clark had to write on Superman’s successes and failures, occasionally pleading his case, but more often than not, he was objectively laying out the cold, hard facts. How safe the Bat kept the city impacted the health of his business, his ability to provide for his city. It was tough to hear at times, but it was also a vital tool that kept them ever aware, ever accountable, and ever striving. 

Though lighter in actual workload than his front-loaded Mondays, Thursdays started impossibly early for Bruce, so much so that the most recent Thursday saw Bruce forgoing even returning home to the manor. He snuck into his own office with the dawn, wiping down his eye paint and fixing his cowl hair in the executive bathroom. Changing was no big hardship as his office impressively had a closet with three freshly pressed options to choose from. He shared a Luna bar with Clark before seizing the day. 

The cause for such an early start was the difference in time zones. All of his video chats and phone calls were with business people from across the globe. Bruce breezed between talks with a Karnatakan security company to pick their brains on their crackdown on counterfeit pharmaceuticals, to negotiations with the CEO of Urialla Port ship building over the price per pound of imported Gotham steel, and how it was worth every złoty. The morning was rounded off by contacting Kirk Langstrom, who Bruce had sent to Andorra to co-research blood-based biomarker testing for non-communicable diseases.

Clark was not at a loss for things to find attractive about Bruce, but listening to him hop from language to language, and sound just as if not more charming in each, made him really want to give Bruce those Kryptonian lessons he’d mentioned. He wanted to hear Bruce read the phone book in it; that’d be quite the treat.

‘You’ve got it bad, Kent—and even if you could say anything about it, say Selina was out of the picture again, would you?’

While Bruce juggled economics, innovations, and time zones, Clark found himself wading in uncertainty, between deep, relentless pining and pragmatism . ‘I like seeing him like this—’ Spending all this time together had just made Bruce more relatable, more lovable, more of a dream partner. ‘—but I’d rather go back to how things were over losing him altogether.’ 

Bruce was a creature of habit; he had a routine, but he was never stagnant - he was constantly evolving, even when it came to his love life. Cat Grant had done a piece on it, ‘The eight-month shelf life of Bruce Wayne’s squeeze.’

Clark would rather fall for Bruce harder and harder and just keep it to himself than have Bruce catch him briefly, only to brush him off to the side when things weren’t ‘new’ anymore. If they dated, Clark was sure he couldn’t go back to the friendship they had cultivated, so this pining purgatory was where he’d resigned himself to live out his days.

“Clark? Tout va bien?” Bruce, apparently amidst some French connection, must’ve noticed something was off. “Donne-moi une seconde.” He put his contact on hold. “Hey, Clark? You look, I don’t know, droopy?” 

‘What every man wants to hear.’ Clark did his best to perk up; he didn’t mean to make Bruce worry again. 

“You must be tired, the Wayne Crunch is not for everyone. I could call Alfred to come pick you up, but for now I’ll tint the windows and lower the lights, is that ok?” Pressing some buttons on his laptop had the room dip into near darkness. “If I keep my voice down, do you think you could get some rest?”

Up Down. Clark was fine , but a cat nap never killed anyone, and if he played at decent sleep, maybe Bruce wouldn’t feel compelled to have Alfred drive all the way to the office and back to the manor to tuck in a tuckered-out worm.

“Bien.” Bruce put the receiver back to his ear and resumed his call.

‘You’re not making this—easy for me, are you, B?’ As Clark curled up and listened to Bruce smooth-talk someone in a hushed romance language, he felt the slightly calloused pad of one of Bruce’s fingers stroking gently at his head. ‘That’s ok, I guess. I’ve been tortured plenty of ways—’ Clark didn’t yawn, but he did feel his antenna fall over his eyes. ‘—This has got to be the best.’

Fridays were by far Bruce's shortest workdays when it came to proper business; he would go to his home office to check some emails, make a phone call or two, and tweak his schedule for the following week with his assistant.  When he was finished, he went below the manor to clock in early for his second job.

Bruce patrolled most, if not all, nights, but the weekends were when Gotham cut loose, got more congested, and more dangerous; it was when Bruce had to put in overtime. He spent the early afternoon fixing up his suit, the Batmobile, replenishing his utility belt, and restocking the first aid kits while reviewing current crime prediction analysis and open case files.

“Clark, I think you need some exercise.” Bruce blurted around four while squinting at his cowl, making sure the lock mechanism that had been compromised the night prior was working correctly. “I know you’re not in peak condition—"

‘I know I’ve always offered to lend a hand, but please don’t let this be my trial run.’ Clark was suddenly picturing himself, mask and cape flapping in the wind, perched atop a gargoyle, as lightning crashed in the distance. It just really didn’t have the same effect when you’re a worm that might drown under the weight of a particularly hefty raindrop. ‘Please don’t put me in a domino mask.’

“I’ll rack them, then, do you think you could call a shot? I think it would help your circulation to stretch a bit.” 

‘Rack 'em?’ Clark briefly pictured Bruce running a clinic on a horde of goons, Clark directing traffic with his antenna, but then he thought on it a beat longer. ’Friday—he’s talking about our pool game.’  

Clark had always found it odd that Bruce picked Friday, a day when either persona of Bruce’s should be double-booked, as the one for their meet-up. At first, he’d reasoned it was because the meeting was expendable; if he had time, he’d squeeze it in, and if not, it was no real loss. He knew Clark would understand. That theory went out the door about a year or two back when Bruce had shown up to their pool hall with his arm in a sling.

Clark now thought maybe Bruce saw it as a calm before the storm; he didn’t need to worry about much while they horsed around. If a meteor hit the pool hall, Bruce didn’t have to put down his beer mug; Clark had it covered. Bruce could relax for two hours before being under high pressure for eight to forty-eight hours. 

It made the current moment not quite ruined, but a little bittersweet. Bruce couldn’t take his break; he couldn’t stop worrying, not while Clark was like this. It was becoming increasingly difficult for Clark to ignore the fact that he was a burden like this. 

‘Feeling sorry isn’t gonna do anything but make him fret more. Buck up, be a bud.’ Clark rolled out of the safety of his plant and onto Bruce’s hand, tapping on the back of his palm.

“Alright—Alright. Glad to see you’re still excited about something.” Bruce placed down the cowl.

When Bruce took his breaking shot, the table wobbled a bit. It wobbled in a way that seemed familiar to Clark. ‘Is this our table?’ Clark lowered his nose down to the felt; it smelled like chalk, beer, and cigars, but most pool tables did. He looked over to Bruce for some confirmation.

“It is.” Bruce shrugged. “I was—I kept having to cut our time short to get started on my rounds. I thought if I cut down the commute, maybe I would be able to beat you four full times in one night."

‘You flew in a pro from the Philippines to teach you trick shots.’

Clark remembered the slosh of emotions he’d felt when he’d seen the Gazette expose on Bruce’s newest whim. The image of Bruce completing a behind-the-back shot—the dip of Bruce’s shoulders, the arch of his arms, the whole pose—was art worthy of a museum. But Clark was also jealous; pool was their thing. He was jealous that Bruce was getting good without him. 

“Oh, come on now, let me have something I do better than you.” Bruce sank the shot.

‘When did you become so afraid of losing, Kent?’ Clark looked up at Bruce, who was smiling down at him, and Clark was reminded for the hundred thousandth time that this was the man he wanted to be with, for a hundred thousand different reasons. ‘I love him.’

“What’s my next shot, Clark? You’re not winded, I know I’ve been swaddling you from space to space, but that’s no excuse to get lazy.”

‘No excuse.’ Was that what Clark was doing? Making excuses?

 He wanted to be a reporter in the big city, despite having to leave the farm, and he took the risk. He wanted to save lives despite it putting his alien heritage out in the open, so he took the risk. He wanted Bruce, despite the man having a fine taste and his attention being fickle. Why not take the risk? If he truly wanted Bruce, if he genuinely believed that was what he was meant to do, why was he accepting excuses as an out?

‘Oh, who am I kidding?’ Clark couldn't break up a relationship, even if it was a casual one. Bruce was perennially on and off with Selina, and that wouldn't change anytime soon.

“I know it’s not your favorite, but tomorrow I’m going to up the duration of the cryogenic treatment, from a half hour to a full hour.” Bruce went on speaking as Clark dawdled to the next shot for him to take. “Is there anything I can do to make it—better for you? It doesn’t remind you of the Healing Matrix, does it?”

Right to left, ‘no.’ ‘I don’t remember the Matrix—I’m just learning I’m a little claustrophobic, is all.’ It wasn’t the cold that bothered him; it was the sealed-in aspect that had Clark frantic to get out once the timer went off. Clark had never been in a place he could not get out of, when everything was going his way.

“I—Clark, you won’t quit on me, will you?” Bruce paced a little bit as he waited for something to do.

‘No, B. I won’t quit on you.’ 

“Your cells—" Bruce trailed off, which, even if Clark wasn’t an investigative reporter, he would have known meant nothing good. “We’re doing everything we can; the cryogenics are helping. We are doing everything we can.” He repeated the phrase as if he were trying to convince himself. “I need you to do the same, alright? I want your word. You are not allowed to leave me here alone. You heard me—saw what a mess I was. That won’t do. You owe it to everybody, not to—We have a lot more work to do, the two of us. You don’t get to quit.”

‘To ‘everybody’— Remember Clark, that’s why you’re not risking it.’ Wanting, trying, never saying ‘die,’ that was all well and good. Clark had been stuck in his own head for a little too long. Perhaps the cell degradation was affecting his memory. ‘He doesn’t love you. You just work well together. There’s no shot to take.’

Being unable to right himself, barely able to even assist in the investigation, unbalanced Clark. Being entirely dependent on Bruce to survive—it was messing with his perception of Bruce’s effort and kindness despite rationalizing each one as they came.Clark had lapsed, allowing himself to feel like they were getting close in a way that Bruce had no interest in.

 Clark had heard it with his own ears, or whatever constituted for ears, Bruce had told Alfred he cared for Clark, but stopped short of love. That wasn’t an excuse; that was a fact. 

Clark could love Bruce alone, but to be with him, no way around it, that was a two-person job. ‘He’s taking care of you because—that’s the sort of man he is.’ It was Bruce being a good friend, a compassionate and hands-on sort of man, that’s just who Bruce Wayne was.

Bruce laughed when Clark nudged the nine ball out of the way just before Bruce could hit it. “Hey, Clark, you can’t go around playing defense! That’s—I’m sure there’s a rule against this!” 

‘It’s ok to slip, just don’t stay stuck.’ Clark went scrambling over to the corner left pocket and stretched himself over it, extensively cutting it off from Bruce’s next shot. 

Bruce had asked him to do something, to stay healthy. Bruce did need him for something, to be a friend, and there was nothing about being a worm that kept Clark from doing that. He may be weak and small—a shadow of himself, but he was not powerless, he was not useless. It might twist up his stomach a bit, spending all this quality time together, literally being handled and held by Bruce, seeing him in his full light and not just glimpses, but ‘sturdy’ was a state of mind. Clark could handle it a little while longer. 

Saturday, from six till six, Bruce took his first shift at the Watchtower since the incident. What should have been just Batman and Aquaman keeping an eye on the globe with some mild chit-chat turned into a bit of an office party.

Quite a few League members just ‘happened to be walking by’ and came in to see how Batman and worm-Superman were doing, filling them in on what they’d been up to in their neck of the woods. 

Seeing familiar faces and hearing about non-worm-related  both Bruce and Clark’s spirits. It didn’t hurt that seemingly everyone who walked by had brought fruit or some alternative plant housing option for Clark. It was touching that they all wanted a hand in helping him out.

What was a treat that terrified Bruce, but genuinely got Clark’s blood pumping with thrill, was Booster’s sidekick Skeets giving him a ride around the Watchtower. There was something about flying that just energized Clark, third to standing and talking, Clark probably missed that ability most. 

Even when the parade of well-wishers died down and things returned as much to business as usual as possible, there was still some entertainment to be found. Arthur was sitting, squinting at the sea, waiting for something to happen in his brief time topside, occasionally scratching his beard with his trident that he brought along to monitor duty for reasons unknown, when he started up a conversation that almost made this month-long worm stint worth it. “So—did you?”

“Did I what?” Bruce switched the screen for Metropolis, which was not presenting any potential crisis to a smaller screen, while moving Clark’s plant so he could keep an eye on it all the same. 

“Head my advice? Did you kiss the worm?”

“I did.” Bruce shrugged.

“That’s it?”

“What?” Bruce took his eyes off the screen for a split second to tilt his head to the side. “Are you writing worm erotica, Arthur? That’s it. Nothing happened. It didn't work.”

“Kal,” the king of Atlantis peered past Bruce to get the worm’s attention, “you should be flattered; his love for you is boundless and unselfish.”

“I didn’t french him, it was a peck. Crossing my Ts, dotting my Is. It wasn’t anything other than clinical.” Clark had already known the kiss Bruce had quickly pressed to his head was just a theory being tested, so it didn’t hurt to hear it explained as such.

“It did not need to be sensual to be—” Arthur twirled his trident above his head, searching for a word. “— devoted ! You have a devoted partner, Kal.”

“Arthur, cut it—"

“After our last meeting, I sat and thought: Other than my wife, who would I kiss if they were turned into a sea worm—on the only off chance it may save them from that fate? The list is short. Some of my strongest warriors, or fairest sirens—granted, I am a king, so I have the luxury to delegate such a task to someone else. I am not so cruel to leave any of my subjects as worms.” 

“Put some thought into it. Slow week in Atlantis then?” Bruce chuckled when he was sure Arthur was done misinterpreting the moment. 

“My brother is in prison again—so yes.” Arthur sighed, staring back at a still Pacific with a look of wistful longing.

“It wasn’t so bad.” Bruce wanted and would have the last word. “Falls within the top ten kisses I’ve had with a being without conventional lips.”

“Top ten, meaning there’s been more than ten?”

“I’m going to get another cup of coffee. I’ll grab you a seltzer from the fridge and Kal, I’ll slice up one of the apples Diana brought. Superman's in charge while I’m gone.”

“Batman? What did you mean by conventional lips?” Arthur shouted just as the door opened, J’onn passing by.

“I think—it might be wise if the three of you played the quiet game for a little while.”

When they returned to the manor, it was another passionate yet amusing conversation. “No, you’ve been gone too long. Mr. Brandon got the cataract surgery, and the first thing he did was replace those puke yellow curtains!” Tim was in the den, shouting with the volume and adamancy of someone pushing for a stay of execution. 

“He did? Good for him. I’m still putting up the yellow ones.” Dick replied coolly. 

“But B will notice! He cares about details, Dick.”

“He also respects initiative and taste, plus what does my shirt say, Drake?” Dicks retort elicited a large sigh.

“Future City Planner of America. When did you get that shirt? When you were twelve?”

“Fourteen! Why? What are you saying? I’ll have you know, I was personally recommended to take an industrial design—"

“Relax, baby Einstein, I’m just saying that it fits you like you're wearing a shirt made for preteens.”

“Oh.” Dick rescinded his offended tone. “Too much midriff, you think?”

‘How anyone disputes that Dick is your son, I have no idea.’ Clark could easily imagine Bruce saying that same exact phrase, with that same genuine curiosity.

“What is all this?” Bruce entered the den to see the boys and Alfred all crowded around the bones of a small-scale Gotham. 

“We thought it might cheer you up.” Tim was tinkering with wires, which seemed to affect Dick’s decision to toss a small brick wall at him, not in the slightest. “What?”

“Not cheer up, just family time. Everyone’s fine. No one is accusing you of not being fine, B.” Dick rushed out. “We can just hang out.”

“We can, and I am glad to spend time with you all by any means, but we don’t have to pretend everyone’s fine. Clark, for one, is in his current condition. I for two—am at my wits' end. There’s no shame in admitting things are less than ideal.” 

“It’s not that, I just didn’t want you to think I came out of pity.” Dick shrugged. “I mean I might’ve—"

“You’re busy, Richard, and you’re young. You just got off of substitute-Bat duty with the League. I can understand wanting to be elsewhere. I can accept that sometimes, just sometimes, I’m not the center of your universe,” Bruce teased. “I’ve been—stressed, Clark is a worm, and our leads aren’t bearing as much fruit as I’d like. I’m sorry, boys, Alfred, if that’s been rubbing off on you. Concern is an alright reason to stop by, I just hope I don’t make that a habit for you.”

‘I’m sorry too.’ Clark wiggled in some attempt at quick camaraderie. It wasn’t Clark’s fault he was a worm, but he was sorry that the day-to-day burden of his squishy existence had fallen squarely on the Bat and his brood. 

“It was meant to be a relaxing affair, this project. You and I had quite a good time building Master Kent’s home away from home.” Alfred piped up, seemingly done with everyone tripping over each other to apologize. “I didn't know I'd have to hide all the Exacto-knives, but these, what was it? Elite gold star champion architects of tomorrow—?” Alfred was nursing a drink in one hand, dabbing graffiti on a tiny corner store with the other. “—Have been quite the handful.”

“It's not relaxing because you're down a set of hands.” Bruce quickly joined his family at the table. “Clark, consider yourself lucky. I never thought I'd invite a reporter to family night.” He placed Clark's plant on the city's border.

Clark felt less like he was lucky and more like he was overstepping; he wished he could excuse himself, go for a walk somewhere so the family could decompress and hot-glue gargoyles to the top of skyscrapers, but he couldn’t. He didn’t even have the stamina to stay guilty all too long. He was feeling exhausted, due in no small part to the near silence coating the room.

 There had been jokes among peers that the Batclan had some trained in, or spell sewn ESP between them, but those jests were mostly to explain how eerily in sync the family was mid-battle. Silently coordinated attacks, finishing each other’s sentences mid-planning stage, blind-flicking projectiles to cover each other’s blind spots, that could be explained off as intensive training. 

Clark doubted heavily that they had ‘intense crafting’ drills. Watching them pass off tools without prompting, or one of them holding up a miniature dumpster for them all to laugh at some shared memory, felt intimate. They did talk about their weeks, Gotham, even Clark, though the stretches of silence were just as long and comfortable as their bouts of conversation.

Clark was afraid to move, afraid to ruin it, the feeling of ‘I shouldn’t be here’ getting stronger and stronger. Yet staying still, in moderate silence, as nine PM passed, turned out to be too much for him; he nodded off. By the time Clark woke up, he was in his mini apartment building, while Bruce was out saving a life-sized Gotham. 

‘Tired. I’m growing tired of this.’ 

It had been fun, getting to take a peek into Bruce’s world, from big business to his general kindness, to the small moments he got to spend with his family, but these weren’t moments given to Clark out of choice, but out of sheer logistics. 

Bruce wanted Clark close, either to waste not a second once they had the clue that cracked this, or out of a fear that left alone, Clark would somehow wind up in worse condition than he was currently. He wanted to stop freeloading moments, he wanted to stop looking at the world from the dirt, he wanted his life back.

Chapter Text

“Did something happen?” Alfred greeted Bruce as he returned to the cave, dawn at his back.

“Doesn’t it always?” Bruce took off the cowl and tossed it to the floor. 

“Illuminating.” Alfred frowned. “You don’t patrol in the daylight, so you must have been working on something specific to be out so late. Was there news on—"

“No.” Bruce wouldn’t shout at Alfred, but truly, he felt like a decent scream might do him good. Tearing the hair out of his scalp wouldn’t make finding a worm wizard in a haystack any easier but his waning patience needed some outlet. “I just needed to feel useful.” Bruce sat in his chair, scrubbing his face. “Did he wake up at all?”

“It is hard to say, there was some motion in your room, but he gyrates in his sleep.” Bruce had upped the motion sensor in his bedroom to accommodate Clark’s size; it had also alerted Bruce to just how drafty the manor was. 

“I think he flies in his dreams. Who can blame him?” 

Once on a trip to Alstair, Clark had rolled out of his bunk and just hung there. Bruce had found it sort of cute then, watching his arms outstretched, tucking one ankle over the other. He also found it impressive, unsure which parts of his brain had to be awake and which parts were in REM to keep him from torpedoing through the hull of the ship. Now, the thought just depressed Bruce. Clark couldn’t fly, his dreams might be the most exciting part of his day. 

“I can’t help but feel he’d have this figured out by now somehow.” 

“What would he have done differently, do you think?” Alfred, to his credit, was workshopping, knowing full well Bruce was venting.

“I don’t know. Fly from planet to planet to find the culprit? The League is doing that more or less, I just don’t have the luxury of the express lane.” Clark could not do everything, but everything he could do he did faster and more thoroughly than a hundred men. “I took him to work with me like some pet, he must feel so belittled. I know he doesn’t like the cave’s lab, or I’d put him there to—"

“He is frustrated that he’s a worm. I don’t think he is upset at you for taking care of him. Maybe his pride is dented, but that’s not something you should assume blame for.”

“I worry—time will run out and I won’t get to—" 

“To?”

“—see him again! He’s here, and I am—we’re making the best of it, but part of me feels like I’m carrying around a ghost! I—he’s up in my room right now, and I miss him.” Bruce missed Clark’s voice, he missed his smile, his jokes, his confidence, his cleverness, they were all right there, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, but Bruce couldn’t get to them. “I liked having him around. It feels comfortable, but it doesn’t feel real, and—Alfred, I really need him back.”

“Be patient, Bruce. Consider you and your team to be on a stakeout, while it may be a bother to wait, getting out and pacing will do you no good.”

“But his cells are—!"

“—holding out, and if you know Superman, you will have to admit they will hold out as long as they have to.”

“That’s optimistic.”

“That’s battle-tested, sir. You are bracing for the worst, a decent tactical trait, but keep that at the chess board, don’t have it follow you like a shadow.”

“Yes, Alfred.”

“And?”

“Thank you, Alfred?” Bruce cocked a brow.

“What other than the deadline and distance has stuck you like a thorn?”

“No offense, Alfred, but I think that’s between Clark and me.” Distance, being this close yet so far, missing him yet sharing with him—it made Bruce realize he wanted Clark by his side more often, more intimately; he wanted Clark in his life. He liked that Clark was there; he wished he were fully there. 

“Well, the sun is coming up. His favorite time of day, is it not? If there is anything you can unload off your chest to him, now is as good a time as any. If nothing else, it will make you less distracted by words unsaid.”

“A sideways ploy to get me to spill my guts, Alfred,” Bruce smirked, appreciating the effort. “I suppose it’s better before he has legs.”

“Sir?”

“To walk away from me.” Bruce got up with a slight groan and an odd pain between his shoulder blades. “He’s even more disarming in this state. I’ve given myself away.” 

It wasn’t always clear without a voice, or at the very least eyebrows to infer exactly what Clark was thinking as of late. The keyboard helped, but was used in moderation, as it required extra effort on Clark’s part, it was often easier for Bruce to simply angle his side of the conversation to be ‘yes’ or ‘no’ friendly. Despite Clark’s enigmatic headspace, Bruce had to assume that Clark had to be aware of how much Bruce cared for him. He could try and play it off as keeping Superman’s moral high while in his low point, but Bruce hadn’t been able to help himself entirely; he’d doted on Clark when he could, he’d shown off to the man, he’d all but professed how empty his life was without Clark’s boisterous sun fueled aura to occupy it’s earned space. He’d— “Crap.”

“What?”

“I may have, when I bring someone to my room, it just—It’s second nature, it just turns on.”

“Bruce. I am not one to judge, but you did not make a pass at—I know mentally he is not a worm, but—"

“I didn’t make a pass—exactly.”

“And we are splitting this hair which way?” 

“I mentioned that—as a worm is not how I expected to have him in my room.”

“An implied interest in a pass.” Alfred was possibly weighing out if that made it better. 

“Like I said, I know he’s there, but it’s like—mmm, talking to a mirror before an interview. Saying things with confidence because you’re only imagining what you would say if the reporter were really—I should have held my tongue.”

“Talk to him, Bruce. He is there, and you worry he might be gone once he has the legs to do so. Doing nothing at all, saying nothing at all, only betters the chance of that happening. Biting your tongue has its place, but you have bit your tongue on this to the point it slipped right out, it won’t get better.”

“There is also Lois. I don't want to step on any toes.” Which Alfred didn’t reply to audibly, but gave an understanding nod. He would always push Bruce, but understood when a nudge was felt and needed processing. “I think I’ll go to the roof.” 

Bruce stopped at the music room, if Clark was asleep, he could put off the conversation till later, but if he was awake, Alfred was right, he was making things harder on himself, the last thing he needed. “If you’re doing worm-ups, this is your warning that I’m stepping in,” Bruce murmured as he knocked.

Earlier in Clark’s stay, Bruce had entered the music room unannounced and caught Clark in what appeared to be crunches or sit-ups, however it would translate to an animal that’s ninety-four percent core. He had clearly been embarrassed at being caught, and Bruce had vowed to be more conscientious of the fact that just because Clark’s apartment had no south-facing wall, he shouldn’t view that as an open door policy. 

“You’re awake.” Bruce hoped he didn’t sound disappointed. He wasn’t, it honestly made Bruce nervous how much Clark slept lately. It wasn’t disappointment that gave his voice strain, it was nerves. Bruce would work his way up to what he had to say, he could do this. “Clark, I was just discussing your sleeping patterns with Alfred, how you remain semi-conscious, aware of your surroundings at the very least. Is it possible that this uptick in naps might be you catching up on uninterrupted rest?”

Clark, having the ability to do almost anything, meant there was always something he ‘could’ be doing, but not like this; his actions were very limited. He didn’t tend to listen to the world all at once, but he did keep his ears ‘ambiently open’ as he put it; sharp enough that if something jarring like a cry for help, or a bridge collapsing occurred he would catch it. But like this, he could not even hear Bruce coming from a different room. 

Clark wiggled his antenna in a rapid motion, requesting the Speak and Spell. “Here.”

“Q U—I—E—T  L—A—Z Y.” Then he nodded. He was on the same wavelength with Bruce, thought it was at least possible. 

“That’s good!” Clark’s cells were unstable. The deadline was still very much in place, but Clark, being lethargic due to the lack of his normal stimuli, was much better than giving in to exhaustion, as functioning was a labor. 

“G—O O—D,” Clark’s whole body bent as if trying to mime a question mark. 

“Well, no, actually. You need to take better care of yourself, Clark. I get it. Sometimes it’s easy to take for granted that your energy is boundless, but that doesn’t mean you can’t burn out even as Superman.” 

Clark would prefer to be out and about burning sunbeams as fast as he took them in, and Bruce didn’t doubt that. 

Clark shook his head, ‘no.’ 

“You can’t burn out?” Bruce frowned. “Or do you just not want me to know you can? Clark, this is a sign that your brain needs more time to rest. Get noise-cancelling headphones, take a weekend in the Arctic. I think we should do a sleep study when you’re back to your normal state.”

“K—I—N—K—"

“It’s not kinky! I'm not trying to get you in bed—I—” Bruce tried to put as much backbone as he could muster into that statement. “A sleep study, as in I just am curious about how you drea—I came here to talk to you, but I wanted to take you to a thinking spot you might like. Come with me?” Bruce realized this wasn’t a decent segway, he was getting off topic. So he stuck his hand out to Clark for a change of scenery. Thankfully, Clark obliged, giving Bruce time to collect his thoughts and gather his nerve. 

Bruce walked to his bedroom balcony. He held Clark to his chest as he jumped up to grab the outer lip of the ceiling, pulling himself up. He walked till he found his spot, where he could see the glow of Gotham over the property’s tree lines. “Are you cold?” Bruce peeled his hand back to check on Clark. 

Left, right, ‘no.’

“Alright, well, just nip at me if the breeze gets too bad.” Bruce set Clark on his shoulder to give him an equal view. “When I first came home. I spent a lot of time up here. I spent my roaring twenties training to be the Bat, or what would become the Bat. I left home—because I didn’t feel prepared for—I felt it would happen again. If I didn’t change, it would happen again. I had to be able to stop it. I had to be able to fight it.” Loss.

Bruce thought that if he just grew into his inheritance, found some passions, fell in love, and started a family, it would happen again —loss. There were laws, there was the police, but Gotham had grown over those fences; there were too many weeds choking the life out of the city, thorns bleeding the place dry. 

Maybe he could have gotten away with it, lived a safe, happy, fulfilling life, without tragedy striking him again, but if it didn’t strike him, then who? He wanted to stop it. Loss, he couldn’t stop in its entirety; he knew that, but he could make that inevitability work harder for it. He could outsmart it, outmuscle it, case by case, he could protect people from it if he dedicated himself to that cause. 

“Funny thing is—" Bruce chuckled dryly, it was ironic now, but at the time it was painful. “—when I came back, here, to the manor, it didn’t feel like home anymore. It was—the rooms were kept nearly exactly as I left them, and Alfred welcomed me back with open arms. It was me . I wasn’t the kid who left it, I—had become something different , something too raw and radical for such a—life.” 

The manor itself wasn’t the issue; it was just a building at the end of the day, but it was what it represented, its name, Wayne Manor. Bruce wasn’t sure he could just slide back into the life he’d spent years whittling down and sculpting up into something utterly other. “It took me a while to feel like it accepted me back, for it to feel right, for me to realize—that I am all the things I’ve been through, I do not get to pick and choose. Sorry, I’m getting away from my point.” Bruce turned his head, half expecting Clark to have been lulled back to sleep, but Clark was staring at him, beady little eyes fixed on him. 

“I knew I would lose people, but at the very least, I thought I’d see it coming, or I’d be able to know I did everything I could for them. That’s why, one of the reasons why, when you disappeared, just gone, it was—challenging for me. I felt like I had failed you.” 

Bruce chuckled when Clarch inched forward and patted his cheek with his antenna. 

“Yes, I know. I’ve been told I’m being hard on myself before. Who could have anticipated this? Even Batman has limits.” Bruce took in a big breath as he took another step forward towards what he really wanted to tell Clark. “When you first explained how you came to be here, I thought that was it, I thought I had cracked why we—click. I thought we were bonded by tragedy. The loss of your planet, you knew you were spared for a purpose. You knew what it was like to be home, but for that fit to not always be natural. That’s not untrue, but it’s also—outdated, maybe I could relate to you before, but now the connection between us is—"

“BRUCE WAYNE!”

‘I fell in love with you, not your tragedy, not just your heroics or creed. I fell in love with you; your charm, your antics, your style, your passions, your life, Clark, and I had to face losing the man I love. It made me feel like I was lost again.’  Those words were beat by the buzzer. 

As Bruce opened the eyes he hadn’t noticed he’d closed, it became clear that the buzzer had a name; there was an eighty-foot hologram of Jor-EL looming over him.

“Hello.” Bruce had to blink a bit to get past Jor-El’s glow. “I didn’t know you made house calls.”

“Have there been any developments in my son’s condition?”

‘I don’t want to worry him, the last thing I need is an anxious Kaiju-sized Kryptonian hologram.’ Though Bruce respected Jor-El, his concern for his son, lying to him, or being purposefully vague seemed a rude route to take.

“You know, ‘the worm condition?’ That my son is a worm?” Jor-EL either genuinely thought Bruce had let it slip his mind what had happened to Clark, or, more likely, was growing impatient with Bruce’s silence. “I believe I can see him on your shoulder as we speak.”

“I—Not much past what we learned at the team meeting.” Bruce had sent an update to the Fortress about Clark’s worm species and planet of origin. “Clark and I have also discussed the theory that his increase in sleep may be more coincidental than condition—" Bruce paused when he heard a window open.

“What the shit?” Jor-El’s visit had woken up Tim. “What sort of nightmare is this?”

“You’re awake. Tim, say hello to Jor-EL. Clark’s father is just checking in on him.” Bruce leaned over the roof to wave at his half asleep ward. 

“And he needs to be building size because?”

“To be memorable, young one.” Jor-EL squatted down to Tim’s bedroom.

“Yeah—Yeah—I’ll tell my therapist all about you. ‘You’re awake, Tim.’ Good one, nightmare-Bruce. This is the part where you eat me, huh?”

“Kryptonian giants eating naughty children is only a holiday fairytale.” Jor-EL chuckled. “I am sorry to have woken you. The news I discovered had me in a rush to speak with your father.”

‘Not such a rush that you didn’t hit the enlarge tab a couple times.’ Bruce thought to himself. “News?! What news?”

“Ugh, I don’t get paid enough to get mission updates in my sleep. If you eat me, I’m gonna be pissed.” Tim blearily slammed his window shut.

“As I told you during your last visit, Kal’s radio receptors receive news broadcasts from all over the known universe. There was a report from Glirell that came in roughly fourteen minutes ago, accounting for the speed of radio waves 186,000 miles per second and the distance of Glirell—"

“Jor-EL, math later, news first! What did you overhear?”

“A bounty hunter was seen chasing down an Xundarian on the planet of Glirell, causing quite the stir as the hunter created more collateral damage than the individual he was hunting.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Clark?” Bruce was fairly sure Clark did have the same hunch; the pokes at Bruce’s neck with Clark’s antenna could easily be interpreted as an attention-grabbing punch at the arm. 

“If you two are thinking Lobo, you are correct. His name was mentioned in the newscast, which made Kelex and I think it was worth investigating further. The reason the Lantern Corps has not been alerted to this particular Xundarian on the run is that the bounty is not criminal exactly.”

“Exactly?”

“An intergalactic corporation hired Lobo for reasons undisclosed.” 

“A corporation-sanctioned bounty. That’s a good sign, yes? It fits. A prototype being stolen? Some matter-reassignment tech, they don’t want the public to know, but they need it, and the Xundarian who stole it back as soon as possible.” 

“It does not mention anything about Earth, Glirell is not close, and the bounty remains open, so the chase may still be afoot, as is said, so this is not a closed case by any means—"

“Math now, how long ago was that transmission from?”

“I would say three weeks roughly.” Jor-EL mercifully did not do the conversion in real time.

“Ow—ow! Ok, Clark.” Bruce felt the prick of Clark’s pincer scrape at his neck. “Here.” He placed Clark down over his Speak and Spell.

“H—O—L—D—O—U T.” 

“Lobo has the patience for that?”

“N O—O N—E—C—H—E—A—P—S—"

“The main man.” Bruce nodded. That sounded like one of the few rules Lobo lived by. 

“I have Kelex attempting to trace Lobo’s current location. The communicator Kal gave to him was left in an adult club, it is unclear if that is his base of operations, or he may have just left it there.”

“He shouldn’t be hard to trace.” Finally after months of unprecedented hurdles, something Bruce had done before, something Bruce was good at, tracking down a suspect. “The only trouble is him staying in one location long enough for us to make meaningful contact. I may have a faster way. The bounty is open, that means we can put in a bounty of our own.”

“Clark has told me you are very good with money Bruce, but an interplanetary corporation has funds beyond even your—"

“Not me, Clark. Lobo values very little over money, but dust-ups with Superman are a hobby; he has a scrapbook. Superman putting a bounty out for the Xundarian, or Lobo himself, should get us contact.”

“It is worth a try,” Jor-EL nodded. 

“What say you, Superman?” Bruce looked down at their resident Lobo expert. 

“I F—I—G—E—T—S—Q—U—I—S—"

“He won’t squish you, Clark. You have my word. I think this may be it! I think this is almost ov—" Bruce chuckled when Clark curled around his thumb in what was likely a thankful hug. “Don’t mention it.” 

“I will see you two at the Fortress,” Jor-EL dimmed into nothingness. 

“Clark?” Bruce stood up and slung them back down to the balcony. ‘Don’t mention it.’ Those words weren’t only fitting for Clark. “About what I said up there—or was going to say—” It suddenly didn’t feel right to bear his feelings, not when there was work to do, not with the finish line so close. “I’d like—if you’d like—" Even trying to get back onto that topic was not computing with his brain. “I hate being interrupted, let me, once this is over, tell you what I was going to say?”

Maybe for the last time, Clark nodded from the inside of Bruce's palm.

“Who the frag puts a bounty out on the main man?! The stones on ya, Blue! ” To his credit, Lobo made it to the Fortress in record time, headbutting the door in lieu of knocking. “Where the frag are ya? I'll squish ya!”

Clark was smaller than pocket-sized, but the ‘I told you so’ oozing from behind those tiny eyes filled the entire Fortress, only enhanced by the fact that Clark was hovering a little over Bruce’s head, his current plant held within Kelex’s grip.

“Good, he brought the Xundarian.” Under one of Lobo’s arms, in what looked to be an uncomfortable headlock, hung the alien who hopefully had the answer to their problem. “I’m going to let him in now.” 

“I will activate my shields then,” Kelex announced, a yellow construct encasing the robot.

“None to spare for us fragile mortals?” Bruce chuckled as he activated the door. He was quite surprised as he started to walk that a yellow film coated him too. “It was a joke. I don’t need it.”

“You being dead would only cause me exponentially more problems. I have a programmed sense of time, and I would never hear the end of it.” 

“You big tin softy.” Kelex may not have liked Bruce, but this was progress in a way; they cared about Clark’s overall well-being, and they had come to the reluctant acceptance that mopping up an eviscerated Bat would dampen that.

“Focus, Batman. I believe Lobo has entered.”

“What makes you say that?” Bruce joked as they listened to the crashing of crystals, the growl of a motorcycle, and Lobo’s litany of curses as he tried to find Superman. 

“Come out, come out wherever ya are! Ya wanted a dance partner, well, here I am!” 

“Lobo! We’re in here.”

“Ugh, the Blanket,” Lobo grumbled before revving and riding into the Fortress’ main hall. 

“Nothin' personal, Blanket, but we ate big before gettin' here, I don’t need any appetizers, whereze?” Lobo hopped off his bike, headlock still firm on his bounty as he stomped towards Bruce. 

“Blanket?” Bruce hadn’t tangled with Lobo nearly as many times as Clark had, but he was nearly sure Lobo had an understanding of ‘Batman’ as a concept. 

“Yeah, wet as they come.” Once within grabbing distance, that’s precisely what Lobo went to do. His palm went for Bruce’s throat but stopped halfway, all eyes turning to the tiny thud and minor crackle of energy. “The frag is that?”

“Smarter than you look, Kelex,” Bruce smirked. ‘The shield wasn’t to protect Clark, it was to keep him from tagging in. He does get oddly territorial whenever Lobo is around.’

“That a fragging worm?” Lobo tapped a bulky finger against Kelex’s shield. 

“To be entirely honest, Lobo, it’s not you that we’re after.” Bruce smirked.

“Uh?” Lobo grunted. He went from poking to grabbing either side of the shield and squeezing, planning to crack open the defense like a coconut.

“You headed for the door? You won’t get far like that.” Bruce called after the Xundarian, who, head free, but her arms still cuffed behind her back, was making a brazen attempt at an escape.

“Let 'em! I’m gettin' bored jus sittin’ on ‘em, waiting for those suits to cough up more credits! I don’t mind chasin’ ‘em round yer rock when I’m done wit Blue. Reminds me, where’d—" Lobo gave a big toothy grin when Kelex’s shield shorted out under his grip. “—ya say he is? I’d hate to have to scrap his asnwerin’ machine for parts.” He took Kelex’s head into his palm. “Or kill his pet! These are new gloves, ya know! There’s a certain stink I want on ‘em! Worm guts and motor oil aIn’t got the same kick as the Kryptonian ooze.”

“Containment level: intermediate.” 

“The frag you call me?” Kelex wasn’t trying to get a rise out of Lobo; they were very truly just locking up the Fortress on the scale that they analyzed as adequate to keep the Xanthurian from scampering off. But Lobo didn’t care about analytics; he cared about being the biggest, baddest thing on two legs. “Ain’t nothin’ ‘intermediate’ about me.”

Lobo started to squeeze Kelex’s dome, which upset Clark to the point of drastic measures. At a speed Bruce hadn’t really seen this last month or so, Clark was on Lobo’s face, trying a headbutt of his own into Lobo’s eye. “I like this little guy!” Lobo let go of Kelex and plucked Clark off of him. “You ain’t house trained, neither are ya?”

“Lobo, you and your companion—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Ginar.” The Xundarian finally spoke, realizing that escape just wasn’t happening. “Please! You have to help me! If he turns me over to my boss, I’m dead.”

“You stole something from them, am I right?” Bruce kept one eye on Lobo, who was momentarily distracted by Clark continuing to swipe at him.

“I made it! It was mine! They fired me once the prototype was made, so that they could have one of their more prestigious, more—they wanted a male inventor! It was better for optics. They fired me when I wouldn’t agree to step aside.”

“‘Splains the dead-or-alive stip.” Lobo shrugged. “Favorite sort of bounty. But when I saw what that dohickey could do, knew she was worth more kickin’.” 

“I’m sorry that happened, Ginar. And if you'd like, my team and I can help advocate on your behalf. It was difficult to pin you down as no theft has actually been reported, so that works to your favor. I want to undo your restraints, but how do I know you won’t turn me into a pumpkin?”

“A—I don’t know what that is.”

“And your weapon, is it connected to your mind? It can only reconstruct what you’ve already seen?”

“I don’t know that I’d consider it a weapon—"

“Think yer done talkin’ to meal ticket 65287.” Lobo’s attention span had reached its threshold. “An’ I’m done playin’ nice. I don’t appreciate bein’ stood up! So, what gives? Where is he ?” Lobo went to grab Bruce, but Batman dodged. However, that game wouldn’t be his forever. He set off a smoke bomb, but that bought him only a few seconds more, if that. 

“Does your multipurpose tool have a reversal setting?” Bruce called out to Ginar.

“Of course it does!”

“Lobo!” Bruce had jumped over the leg sweep, bent back to avoid the brunt of Lobo’s fist, but even a graze had him tumbling into a far-off wall. Bruce’s back appreciated Kelex’s ‘not needed’ shield. “Let Ginar use the reversal on the worm, or you’ll never get another fight with him.”

“Eh?” The smoke cleared, and Lobo was scratching his head. “Yer sayin’ what? The scrappy worm’s Supes?”

“Yes!”

“When we were on this planet before,” Ginar piped up, “I was trying to manifest a wormhole, like I did when we were on Korugar, but you were right on my heels, and I couldn’t think straight. I panicked, pressed the button before I finished the thought.”

“Ah. That explains it.” Bruce could not believe Clark’s state could be boiled down to a twitchy trigger finger. Though he supposed he should be grateful, it would have been much harder to prove Clark had been turned into a wormhole. 

“Bwah Haaa! Haaaa!” Lobo placed the worm down on the ground and let his boot hover over Clark ominously. “Knew ya were a soft bastich, Blue, but this is a new fragging low.”

“Lobo, this isn’t the fight you want. You don’t want to kill Superman when he can’t even scream, do you?” Bruce wasn’t going to appeal to Lobo’s sense of a fair fight, as that didn’t exist. Instead, he appealed to the Czarnian’s lust for veracity. 

“I do like the screamin’—He’s a scratcher too—One time got ‘em so ornery he bit me.” Lobo had almost a lustful smile. “Fine, yer right, Blanket! A flaccid little worm won’t do it for me, need the man at mast.” Lobo hit a button on his belt. “Deworm ‘em science dweeb, but I ain’t leavin’ without my bounty and my fill of thrashin’, ya hear?”

“That can be arranged!” Bruce nodded.

Bruce had to assume Clark would be in no shape to fight at all. When he was fixed up, Bruce was unsure he’d even be able to stand, but he had accounted for Lobo's unwillingness to be a team player and stubbornness as best he could by enlisting his own team. They were waiting on a lower level of the Fortress for Bruce’s signal. Green Lantern and Martian Manhunter were on Xundarian duty, the Flash was to get Superman away from the fray, while the rest of the group was to give Lobo his fill of ‘thrashing.’ 

“Left saddle bag! Let's get this show on the road! My boot’s itchin’ for a bone to break!”

“You won’t let him take me to the LSE?” Ginar looked to Bruce for reassurance. “Look I appreciate Lobo valuing my worth higher than it is, but still, I don’t want to be sold for—"

“I’m all about equal opportunities!” Lobo smirked.

“I won’t let him. I promise.” With the cards finally laid out in front of him, Bruce saw a solution that worked out for everyone. LSE was a large company, but not the only one of its size; it had competitors. If they convinced Lobo to take Ginar to one of them, demanding more than what LSE was offering, with stipulations of credit where credit was due—there really didn’t seem to be a loser in the lot. Bruce just couldn’t spell that out this very second, as Lobo would balk at anything that ended amicably. “Trust me, I was willing to do almost anything to have my friend turned back; if you are the solution to that, I can put that energy into your protection.”

“He fraggin' pinky-promises! Hit the button!” Lobo urged, his foot lowering closer to Clark, who, to his credit, had not moved; if he’d tried to squirm from under Lobo, it would have dissolved the conversation.

“Alright.” The button press itself was very anticlimactic. 

“Well ain’t that a kick in the lowdown.” Lobo frowned. “Hog gas ain’t cheap ya know. I came here fer a fight an I’ll get it.” 

“I did say this was a prototype; it takes a little while to warm up.” There was a delay of exactly sixty-seven excruciating seconds before anything at all happened. After the delay, the area under Lobo’s boot became a cloud of blinding light. 

When Bruce pulled his arm down from his eyes, his heart dropped to the center of the Earth. The space under Lobo’s boot was empty—no worm, no Superman, no Clark.

“Wouldya look at that sorry sight.” Lobo scoffed, raking his fingers through his hair. Bruce felt a heavy urge to sock that smug look off the bounty hunter’s face, if for no other reason than to make this moment end and for any other moment to start, but then he realized something: Lobo wasn’t scoffing at him, wasn’t looking at the space beneath his boot, he was looking behind Bruce.

“Superman?” Bruce was afraid to turn, scared to be alone. 

“Not many anemones are enamored by an enemy anemone.” That sounded like Clark’s voice, but the words he was saying were nonsensical. 

‘Did he come back wrong?’ Bruce gulped as he spun to see Clark, hair long and unruly, with matching outgrown facial hair. His skin smeared with dirt, he held a potted plant over his privates with one hand, while the other was palming his eyes.

“Oh man, I knew I wuz gonna have fun t'day! Just fraggin' knew it! Nothing like a Supe off his rocker to get the ball rollin’!” Lobo started running at Clark at full speed.

Chapter Text

“Not many anemones are enamored by an enemy anemone,” Clark repeated the phrase, this time a little faster, just like Ma had taught him. ‘Faster and faster, Clark, till everything else falls away!’ He was having trouble seeing, hearing, smelling, and most importantly, dodging. “Ooof!”

The punch to the gut hurt, but Clark's skin was tough now; he had bones again, and he was standing upright, which made this fight his to win. The punch hurt, but it was also validating; he was back.

“Once upon a barren moor. There lived a bear and a boar.” Everything was just too bright, too cold, too sharp, and loud. He was built back up, but the ring rust was heavy. “The bear could not bear the boar. The boar thought the bear a bore.” 

“Superman, what are you trying to say?” Clark heard Bruce’s voice, but his own thoughts were too jumbled to answer, moving much faster than they had in weeks. 

“Bistach’s got worm brain! I’ll smash sense into ‘em!” Lobo went for a kick this time, but Clark jumped back and stayed airborne. He could fly again, albeit shakily. 

“At last, the bear could bear no more.” Clark went in for a punch of his own. “Of that boar that bored him on the moor.” Tongue twisters helped; they had always helped declutter his brain when it got overloaded with static. This, too, was also affirming; Clark had lips again, a voice. He was a man again. Or so he thought for one euphoric moment. 

“Kal?” Bruce was staring at him in fright, which made Clark touch his face, his core, his shoulder, his back, and his heel. He was dirty, soil-snowing from his hair that was now shoulder length, but all things considered, he was anatomical, every body part was the right shape and correct size. 

“Wouldn't have a spare cape somewhere, would ya?” Clark tried to make light of what was clearly causing Bruce distress. ‘Is it that terrifying?’ Bruce’s heart was racing, his mouth agape, his muscles locked up; he was frozen. Clark knew he wasn’t at his best, but he still thought Bruce’s visceral reaction to his figure was a bit much. It's not like he was putting on some striptease. 

“Hey, no time fer fragging costume changes!” Lobo was winding an arm in a windmill motion. “I'll have you red and blue the old-fashioned way.” Lobo went rushing for Clark again. “Hey!” But he stopped mid-stampede. “What's the big idea?” Bruce had thrown his cape over Lobo's head.

‘Bad throw?’ Clark frowned, a bit confused. Bruce's aim was usually near supernatural.

“Never underestimate a wet blanket.” The cape Lobo was peeling away from his face, suddenly lit up with a webbing of high-voltage electricity. 

“Aggggk!” It didn't bring Lobo to his knees, but it did freeze him in place.

“Kal, wrap yourself up! Get decent, get out! We've got this.”

“Right!” Clark dove in, got one good punch in to get Lobo knocked back, grabbing Bruce's cape once the charge ran out. He wrapped the fabric around his waist just as the hall flooded with League members.

“C'mon, jockstrap! This ain't you! I can see you want ta test out those brand new fist’ o’ yers.” Lobo and Diana had each other by the hair, going right for right, but that wasn't enough for him. 

“I can get him settled down for negotiations if you need.” Clark felt it again, not just the desire to help, but the confidence he could.

“So can I!” Diana did not take to being a second-choice spar partner lightly, grabbing Lobo by the ankles and swinging him into a far wall.

“Kal!” Bruce called out for him. “Get to the jet. I'm taking you for a checkup at the Watchtower.”

“We are more than capable of assessing Kal's restoration.” Kelex appeared behind Clark, thankfully with one of his black suits.

“But do you have donuts?” Bruce countered.

“Sorry, K! Fried dough wins every time!” Clark used his heat vision to cut out a piece from the ceiling to drop on Lobo, who had been muscling his way up from Diana's throw, giving his team a little support before grabbing Bruce and Ginar and heading to the Batjet.

“So? How's it looking? Am I fully dewormed?” Clark smirked when Bruce pulled the tongue depressor from his mouth.

“You don’t have to say it like that.” Bruce tossed the depressor in the trash. “But yes. I think so; there doesn’t seem to be any lingering side effects. Your skin’s a little soft to the touch, less rosy than normal—" He pinched Clark’s cheek. “—but you weren’t absorbing sun all this time, so you’re at base levels.”

“Easy fix. Metropolis is pretty sunny this time of year.” Clark reached out and grabbed a third doughnut from the box at his bedside.

“Opposed to?” Bruce scoffed. “I did try my best to make things as—homey as possible, but I’m sure you are looking forward to getting to the full-sized city of tomorrow.”

“I do miss—" He missed his people, he missed his work, he missed his jogging path, he missed Metropolis air, he missed all of it.  “So—It’s over?” He wouldn’t miss much about being a worm, but he did feel a little—sad? A little hesitant. “I think if I agree to one spar now, and three later, Lobo will calm down enough to transport Ginar, as long as he gets paid.”

“One fight upon safe transport, and four at a later date.” Bruce shook his head. “I know you feel better, but you’re not fighting fit, not with Lobo at least.”

“Agree to disagree.”

Clark didn’t like Bruce using the argument that he was out of shape to keep Lobo at bay; he wasn’t entirely reliant on his powers. There was a reason he’d run all those powered-down drills, so he had enough speed, enough punch, enough technique to go toe to toe if need be. But the fact of the matter was he didn’t need to; it was better to be cautious. They just brought back his limbs; he shouldn’t let Lobo test how attached to them he was as his first act, standing on two feet. 

“So—bed rest is what the doctor recommends?” Clark offered Bruce one of his ‘get better’ donuts. “A little sun bath first?”

“That should do it. If you need a sick note for work, I can help get you some cover—"

“Maybe I’ll tell them Batman saved me.” Clark smiled. “Could tell them I was in Gotham the last few weeks and—"

“—was trapped.”

“—in over my head.” Clark gave his own spin to it. 

“Hm.” Bruce nodded. “I never turn down good press.” Bruce smiled, but it seemed a little stiff, somewhat forced.

“Are you ok, B?”

“Yes.” His answer was clipped. 

“Crashing?”

“Huh?” His gaze, which had dipped down slightly, snapped up.

“You’ve had to wait on me—hand and foot. I depended on you for everything, and now I’m—headed home. It—feels a little weird? Not having a pet Superman.”

“I didn’t look at you like a pet, but I see what you’re saying.” Bruce shrugged. “I got used to—having you right there, it will be odd waking up and not—" Bruce lifted the doughnut to his mouth then pulled it away. “The other night I told you I had something to finish saying, do you remember that?”

“Yeah, sorry about my Dad. He likes you.”

“I’ve never met a more sociable hologram,” Bruce smirked. “I see some family resemblance. Clark, I'm just going to say it before I over think. I don’t think we’re friends. I think we’re more than that. I think this last month showed me that you’re—"

“---Family?” Bruce had flirted with Clark, but had also expressly told Alfred he didn’t love Clark. With the ample time to think on where that left him, Clark had landed on the concept that Bruce wanted him to be more than a friend, but not in a romantic sense. He might not have the exact word for it, but Clark thought he might. 

“What?”

“Someone you’re afraid of losing, someone who's just supposed to be a part of your life. Someone you feel comfortable flossing in front of? That’s family—right?” Clark genuinely hoped he wasn’t off the mark; that’d be a pretty big face plant.

“You fit.” Bruce bit into his donut, giving him some time to mull over Clark’s theory. “Let's just leave it at that for now.” He shrugged. 

“I'm getting my spot on the Wayne family Christmas card.” Clark was glad to see the nerves leave Bruce’s jaw with a laugh. “So I owe you what, a dinner, a sleep study, doesn’t really seem enough for all you did for me. Is there anything else I can do to pay you back?” 

“Stand up for me?”

“Oh, are we not done with the check-up? Need me to touch my toes or somethin'?” Clark hopped off the bed. “Bruce?” He wasn’t expecting Bruce to hug him. It wasn’t that they’d never shared a hug before, but Bruce had never gripped into Clark’s suit so tightly, he never rested his cheek against Clark’s chest like this. It made Clark’s heart race.

“I can’t do this.” It made his heart hurt. He didn’t want to be some brother-like figure; he couldn’t be satisfied with it. “It won’t be the same now.”

Clark had been aware of the line he could cross, where if he fell too hard for Bruce, maintaining their friendship would become uncomfortable; he knew of it, but Bruce was just too charming, too lovable, and he was exactly who Clark wanted to be with. Clark could defy gravity, but not Bruce’s magnetic pull. 

“Sorry.” Bruce quickly pulled back and was just as quick to look off anywhere but Clark’s face. 

‘Shit, I said that aloud?’ After weeks of not being able to speak, even when he tried to scream, it seemed Clark had forgotten how to instinctively think his thoughts instead of blurting them out. 

“I didn’t mean to make you—it’s just, I got used to holding you as—when you were pocket-sized is all, wanted one last stab at it.” 

“No, I didn’t mind! I love hugs!” There was a right thing to do here, one right thing to say here. The problem was that Clark took a second too long to find it. 

“We’ll do dinner on Friday, if you’re feeling up to it. I honestly do think you’d benefit from a sleep study. We can knock that out on a weekday.” Bruce had turned his back to Clark, the automatic door opening for him. “As for paying me back? Just—stick around? I don’t have the time to do both our jobs, alright? I said it a couple of times, I know you heard me. I can’t do this without you. Leaving me high and dry is not an option, understood Superman?”

“Aye—Aye, Captain.” Clark winced. Having Bruce call him Superman when it was just the two of them was like his Ma calling him Clark Joseph Kent; he felt put on notice. 

He wanted to call Bruce back and apologize. No, he felt he should apologize. What he wanted to do was grab Bruce by the shoulders, spin him around, and kiss him senseless. To ask what he needed to do to be seen as more than a fling, more than a friend, more than found family, what sort of man would Clark have to be for Bruce to be able to consider loving him back? Unwilling to do what he should, unable to do what he wanted, Clark just gave Bruce’s back a joking little salute. 

“I’ll call you a taxi from the Hall to take you home. I know your impulse will be to run back to work, tie or tights, but take a day or two? Doctor’s orders.” The door swooshed shut behind him.

“Home.” Clark still felt bad about his hug blunder, but he knew chasing down Bruce right now would just get him shut out. So instead of dwelling on the sour note he couldn’t fix, he allowed the excitement of returning to Metropolis to wash over him. “I have to see everyone!”

The first thing Clark did post discharge was take the longest shower he could. When the water ran cold and he wiped the steam from the mirror, he glanced at his own reflection. His hair was long, down to his shoulders; he should cut it. His jaw was hidden under coarse scruff; he should shave it.

He let his eyes heat up for a moment, but then at the last second, he couldn’t go through with it. He had no real reason; he needed to clean up and move on, back to the grind, back to his life, he didn’t need this reminder of lost time literally hanging off his head, but all the same, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get rid of it. So he put it off. 

His second stop was Bibbo’s, for two things: all the root beer floats he could stomach, as well as a dry run of explaining away his absence to someone who had no reason to be angry he was gone. “Lose the address, C.K.?” Bibbo came out from the kitchen to greet Clark, dropping two Superman specials in front of him. 

“No, see the thing of it was, can you keep a secret?” 

“They call me the vault of secrets.” Clark knew he’d never win over Bibbo the same way Superman had, but he did like that the man saw him as a friend. 

“Who are they?” 

“Ah, if I told ya, that’d be a squeak of the vault.”

“Alright, sold.”

Bibbo had let Superman chill in his walk-in freezer when he’d been hit by a spell that made sunlight burn, back when Metropolis was far less ride or die with the Man of Steel, and there’d been a decently effective smear campaign regarding his powers at the time. Bibbo didn't have to prove loyalty, but Clark was in a talkative mood, and found the back and forth fun. 

“I was on the scene when Superman went missing, Batman put me in witness protection more or less, he figured that as the only witness I must have information that would help him recover his—" Clark coughed on a bite of his burger as Bibbo grabbed him by the tie.

“Missing, that’s whatcha said, right? Missin’? And you’re back, so that must mean—"

“Don’t buy the bar a round just yet, but yes, he’s not dead, he’s healing up as we speak. I just got back myself so it'll be a few days for him.”

“He ain’t dead.” Bibbo gave a heartwarming whispered shout. “Alright—Alright, I gotta—Well, I gotta make sure we got onion rings in stock, he’s gonna want—Emily, grab me a Ness Amber?”

“Celebrating something, Boss?” His astute bartender must’ve known Bibbo’s good news beer.

“C.K. here just got back, gotta celebrate our VIPS, yeah? One for you?” He finally let go of Clark’s tie, pressing it down and trying to smooth it out. 

“Sure, why not?” Clark wasn’t in any particular rush to get back to his apartment; now that his sensory control had stabilized, he found himself enjoying the bustling sounds of the bar. 

“One for C.K.!” Bibbo clapped a hand against Clark’s back, nearly knocking his glasses off his face. “So, am I the conductor of the welcome wagon? You know we do take out if there's a special someone waitin on ya.” He then made himself comfortable in Clark’s booth, punctuating how it was somewhat sad that Clark had just returned home and was sitting alone in a bar.

“You’re gonna be my someone special for a while, Bibbo.” Clark clinked the tip of his beer bottle to Bibbo’s.

He was still relearning facial muscles. His poker face needed some work. He knew He had winced a little too brazenly. He tried to cover it up with a light hearted smile but turns out that was over done too.

“Flattered.” Bibbo grinned as he took his first sip, but arched a brow as he swallowed. “But suprised. Yer built outta Mister Metropolis material, got a good job, are a good listener, are you not putting yerself out there?” Maybe Bibbo noticed how his pointed curiosity was striking Clark a little too pointedly. “Not that there’s anything wrong with puttin’ yerself first, suits me just fine.”

“Vault of secrets?” Bibbo had been a good sounding board for Clark’s return; maybe he’d be just as good at getting something else off his chest.

“Even if Supes asked me, I wouldn't tell 'em jack.”

“So I already sort of had a crush on him.” It took Clark an extra breath to let it out completely. “Batman.”

“Guess I could see it, you like stories, and I bet he’s got a few.”

“He’s got hundreds. He’s a detective, a hero, but—also he’s just an interesting guy, brilliant, strong and suave, also a sweet man when you get to know him.”

“If he makes ya smile like that, with those big saucer eyes, guess he’s gotta be.” Bibbo gave an encouraging nod. “Yer not the only one who finds him, what is it? Tall, dark, and handsome? Is there some cape complications?”

“The time I spent with him this last month. I got to know him better, and it didn’t make me like him less, that’s for sure.”  Ironically, at Clark’s smallest was when he felt he had gained an understanding of Bruce, of the big picture. Clark had learned more about what Bruce was like in his downtime, in his work life, his relationship with his family, friends, and rouges, he got to see how one face blended into another. “But I also was told in no uncertain terms that he didn’t love me, not in the way I love—"

“Whoa, whoa, Speedin Bullet! Did you tell him you love him?”

“No.” Clark hadn’t had the chance. “But it came up in a roundabout way.” Alfred had more or less asked on his behalf if there was something there, if Bruce felt the same way Clark did, and the answer was a resounding ‘no.’ It had been a short yet efficient exchange. 

‘I know you did not just admire him. I know you loved him.’

‘No. You’re wrong.’

‘Bruce.’

‘Please, let me just have my mess for a bit?’

Bruce knew things were muddled, knew their feelings were messy, he'd thrown out that at one time he could have seen Clark in his bed, but he ‘knew’ he didn’t love Clark. 

“Well, ‘course he doesn’t love you.” Bibbo scoffed.

“Ouch.” Clark buffed that gut punch by stuffing his face with a handful of onion rings. 

“You haven’t even asked ‘em out, have you? How can you expect someone to choose you if you don’t put yourself on the menu, bud?” 

“Huh?”

“Have you ever loved someone before you went on a date with them?”

“Yes.”

“No.” Bibbo shook his head. “You thought you did, you wanted ‘em, you loved the thought of bein’ with them, but you can’t really love someone without being with them, you know?”

“If you say so.” Bibbo was probably right, but Clark had felt so sure that he truly loved Bruce; it just being an anticipatory daydream didn’t seem to fully cover those feelings. 

“What I’m sayin is—" Bibbo slammed his palms down on the table. “What have you got to lose? If you ask him out and he says no, you’re right where you’re at now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but then—every time I see him, it’ll be awkward. He’ll treat me differently than he did before, not wanting me to get the wrong idea.” Bruce wouldn’t want to lead Clark on, so he’d be less flirty, touch Clark less, he’d distance himself ‘for Clark,’ and that would hurt all the more. 

“Sounds to me like you’re worried about losing the dream.”

“Hm.” Clark kept his eyes down on his plate. Bibbo wasn’t scolding him; this was friendly advice, but valid point after valid point that Clark couldn’t refute, left him feeling a little browbeaten. “If he says ‘no,’ then it’s over, I really don’t have a chance.” If Clark kept his mouth shut, he could keep on with those what-ifs; he could pine untainted. 

“Sure, but he could say ‘yes,’ like I said, you’re a full net catch, ‘specially with that new woodsman look.” Bibbo gave Clark’s beard a playful tug. “I say you go for it. Bring ‘em here, I’ll talk you up, I’ll make it all romantic, candles, a table cloth, I’ll send Emily out to get some flowers, she’s got more of an eye for that sorta thing.” 

“A tablecloth? Pullin’ out all the stops.” Clark brightened up, laughing at the mental image of sitting in a gussied-up dinner across from Bruce, full Bat attire, maybe with a little black bowtie. 

“Sure, I’m all about seein’ my customers happy.”

“I need to sleep on it, make sure I still have a job and all, but I just might take you up on that.” 

 Clark did technically owe Bruce a dinner, but as amusing as the idea of DIY romantic ambiance sounded, and as much as he owed it to Bruce to be honest, he didn’t want to lose any more. He could talk it up in his head all he liked, that he never turned down a sound plan just because it scared him or it might hurt, that he didn’t run from things that had risk, that he was someone who would try anything if there was a chance at success, why should this be any different? But it was. To Clark, this was very different; to Clark, there was no plan B, no 'try again, try better, enlist more help.' It was all or nothing, and Clark didn’t want to live with that later option. 

“Ya will. You’re a cautious cat, C.K., but when somethin’ needs doin’, you do.”

“Thanks for the chat, Bibbo. I missed this.” Clark got up from the table. Bibbo’s unwavering confidence that Clark would do the right thing had him feeling even more conflicted. “Emily, would you mind putting me in another order to go?”

“Really? Where do you put it all?” Emily gawked.

“Yeah, I might regret it later.” Clark smiled, scratching his beard. “But the thing is, I’ve been gone a while, I think I need more than just a taste of home to get back at my best.” He was off his game, rusty, and in no shape to make big decisions while still getting recalibrated. He pushed off deciding what to do about Bruce, till he was really and truly back to form. 

Clark had promised to spend a few days resting and getting readjusted, but when he got home and changed into his PJs for the first time in a month, lying in bed with all the room to stretch and snuggle, sleep was miserable. The bed felt too big; he found his ears perking up when a car drove by,  when the downstairs neighbor’s dog woke just to test that its squeeze toy still had squeeze to it. 

Clark’s mind went back to work, impromptu vacation behind him. He stayed up thinking about what he’d say to Perry in the morning, if he’d take Bibbo up on his offer, and whether he should do a quick glance over Lex Corp just to see what he missed. It didn’t take Clark long to give up on sleep, opting to pace his ceiling until the sun came up. This felt normal to him, but also a bit wrong, like a shirt he’d outgrown. 

While Bruce had been rightfully concerned about how easily and often Clark slept when he wasn’t ‘on’. Clark had to admit that part of him missed getting a good night's sleep, and part of him missed his place in the manor, where he was content enough with what was going on inside, and thus did not seek engagement outside. He by no means wanted to be a worm again, but he could admit that the upsides he’d found in that time would be missed, despite the positives of being Kryptonian again far outweighing the negatives. 

When the sun did come up, Clark again felt surprised by the feeling that normal was not good enough. He’d gotten everything back, but he felt something was missing. He felt an itch in his feet to fly over to the manor and join Bruce for his morning swim. He never thought he’d feel lonely brushing his teeth, but staring at himself, he found himself missing Bruce over his shoulder, moisturizing and making faces.

He felt like he had lost something that was never really his to have; he’d had what, if he wasn’t a worm, could have been a couple of moments, but he wouldn’t have been there to experience them if he hadn’t been in such a state. Clark didn’t know exactly how to deal with the thought that some parts of his life were seemingly worse now that everything was ‘right again.’ 

It wasn’t all pouting and pining for simpler days. Returning to the Daily Planet, Clark was reminded what a lucky, yet busy man he was, that he worked for a publication filled to the rafters with some of the best people on Earth, people who had missed him just as much as he’d missed them. 

“Clark!” Jimmy met him at the elevator, wrapping him up in a big hug. 

“Did you see me from the window?” Clark laughed, patting his pal on the back. 

“Lois made an informant out of the kid who lives in the apartment across from yours. He called last night, said you were home. Where on Earth have you been?!”

“Gotham,” Clark answered, a warm smile on his face as he felt Jimmy squeeze him just a little harder. 

“They don’t have phones in Gotham?” Lois called from her desk. “Things have been piling up without you, Smallville. Could’ve dropped us a line.” She pointed a pen at a comically large pile of papers on Clark’s station. 

“It was a sensitive situ—have you been collecting these while I’ve been gone?” Getting to his desk and leafing through the first few pages from the pile, he noticed a theme: lost pet flyers, thirty at least. “There’s no way there are that many.”

“Superman’s been gone, his work’s piling up too.” Lois gave a slightly suspicious squint at Clark. “Didn’t want you to try poaching my leads when you got back, so I put some aside for you.” 

“And how are these leads? You think he went missing looking for Robinson Crusoe?” Clark lifted his glasses, inspecting the first flyer, getting a good look at the cat deserving of a first and last name. ‘It’s not all that ridiculous compared to what actually happened.’ It was sweet in its own way that Lois was keeping tabs of the days missing her writing partner by dropping busy work on his desk, so sure he’d come back to tackle it. 

“Oh, like you won’t work your magic on it? Go out to write some fluff piece on the lost pet epidemic and come back riding on Superman’s shoulders.” She was so sure both Clark and Superman had simply gone missing, that they weren’t gone full stop.

“I could do that.” Clark scooped up the flyers with the full intention of seeing how many he could find by day's end; a good warm-up for real hero work. “But I think that’d be a waste of my time, Superman’s back already, and we both know out of the two of us, best I get is fly-bys, you’re the one who gets the real quotes.”

“Back? Since when? Where? Kent, what’s going on? Gotham is not an answer, where were you—are you ok? What happened to you?”

“On the record or off?” Clark smirked. 

“Serves me right for missing you.” Lois stood up from her desk and tugged on Clark’s ponytail. “Already sick of you.” She hugged him, just as tight if not tighter than Jimmy had. “If you even think of beating me to some Superman returns headline, you’re out of your—"

“I think you’d be even more mad at me if I didn’t at least try.” Clark grinned ear to ear. This felt like home, more than his apartment, maybe even more than being in his own skin again. This bull pen was filling him with more life than a handful of suns. 

“Perry!” Lois shouted over her shoulder. “Kent’s back!” She gave Clark a quick peck on the cheek as she passed him to grab Jimmy by the arm. “Come on, Olsen, we’re getting that headline.”

“Ok, but where are we going?” Jimmy asked as he was dragged into the elevator. 

“Good luck, Clark! Welcome back!” Lois waved as the doors shut.

“Kent?! My office, now!” Even Perry’s angry and disappointed dad-shout couldn’t wipe the smile off Clark’s face. 

The only dent to his work day came later, at the tail end of his lunch, when he got a phone call from Bruce. “Hey!”

“Hi, how is life on two legs treating you? Noticing any side effects?”

“Everything’s smooth sailing, actually. I was thinking I could pick up some extra shifts?”

“Were you laid off from the Planet?”

“No, but I’m on citation duty until Perry is convinced I won’t wander off into trouble again, so things will be pretty low excitement for a while.”

“And you are already craving more excitement?”

“Almost always.”

“Well, you can probably take my shifts, that’s why I called.”

“Hm?”

“I will be escorting Ginar on her business negotiations, so I was calling to see if we could reschedule dinner.”

“Course.”

Clark was half relieved; he didn’t know how he wanted dinner to go, if he wanted to bite the bullet and pursue Bruce, or reinforce the status quo. This would give him time to think. Though part of him was discouraged, of course, but Bruce had to prioritize the promise made by the Bat. 

He wasn’t hurt by the reason Bruce had to bail, but it was another reminder that the way things had been, how easy having Bruce’s undivided attention was a result of happenstance. Clark had spent a month where being at Bruce’s side was non-negotiable, and that wasn’t the case anymore. It shouldn’t be, but Clark missed it being a given, missed the feeling that he would see Bruce throughout the day. Now it would revert to the ‘see you when I see you’ and ‘We hang out at work’ kind of friendship. It was not bad, but Clark had a glimpse of more and missed it. 

“I’m sorry.” Bruce had probably heard the conflict of enthusiasm in his voice. “It’s just a rain check. Once I get back, we’ll do lunch.”

“Dinner.” Clark chuckled at the very businesslike terminology Bruce had slipped into. “Looking forward to it.”

“Clark?”

“Yes?”

“Was it weird for you? This morning? The crash you were talking about the other day—did you feel it at all?”

“I’m getting used to a lot of things.” Clark started with a very safe answer. “Want to hear something funny?”

“Sure.”

“I couldn’t shave.”

“What is your—hair too strong for—"

“No, I just—it was like a little souvenir of uh the last month, and I just didn’t want to get rid of it.”

“Why?”

‘Why?’ To Bruce, the month had been an ordeal, a mission, a chore. Why would Clark want to hold on to any part of that? “It wasn’t all bad, was it?”

“My swim was a little lonely today.” Bruce acquiesced. “And work was—it was weird. You weren’t exactly a chatterbox, but work felt quiet. It’s different.”

“I uh, it—I can’t sit on your desk and compliment your French all day, but I jog in the morning, I could come over and coach you through your breast stroke.”

“Are you saying there’s something wrong with my breast stroke?” Bruce laughed.

“Coaches can just compliment when compliments are due.” Clark must have gone a bit too far with that statement; the pause before Bruce’s response was palpable. 

“I think you’ll be busier than you think once you really get off your feet. I have some leads I’ve been keeping my eye on. We kept the fires at bay, but your city can’t last without Superman’s style of attention much longer.”

“I wasn’t saying another staycation just—"

“I think a little time apart is important, Clark. I think what we just went through was—not all bad, but not—all good, I don’t want to build off from that, does that make sense?”

“It wasn’t ideal, no.” Clark wouldn’t pretend this was how he ever hoped to get closer to Bruce. “So I can back off a bit, I don’t want to smother you. It was just a suggestion.”

“Not one I hate, but one we just need to table, ok?”

“Sure, maybe—dinner should be shelved? Lonnger than your road trip? There’s no rush.”

“We’ll see when I get back. You focus on yourself for a while. It wasn’t a staycation, Clark. I know you’re back, and that means business. I know your hands will be full, but—Clark, take it slow where you can, recover, please.”

“You worry too much, B.” Clark knew better than Bruce that he couldn’t just pretend like this month hadn’t happened. Not for anything, but despite the battery of tests and theories Bruce had run over Clark’s mind and body during that month, Clark also knew his own recovery rate better. 

“No, I worry just enough. You need to let people worry about you, Clark. Worry is not as dirty a word as you think. Worry for you doesn’t mean you’re failing, it means you're worth it.”

“I get that.” Clark nodded. “I’ll see you when you’re ready. How’s that sound?”

“Like my words bounced off of you.” Bruce gave a bit of a sigh. “But, it also sounds like you, so I’ll take it for now. Oh, before I go, fruit salad, do you want some?”

“Huh?”

“I have backstock. We’re going to have fruit salad for weeks. I was wondering if you’d mind if I sent some over?”

“My fridge had to be purged, so I’ve got some room.”  Clark smiled. It was these little threads of legitimately casual small talk in between the concern and coordination that felt as familiar as the Daily Planet’s break room chatter. “Will the fruit be cut into Bat shapes?” 

“It wasn’t, but I may not be able to help myself now that you planted that seed.” 

He was glad that it was still there, the weightless ease, not too much or not enough, just right. It was silly, seemed so small, but this was a big part of what he was unwilling to risk, because while he liked talking to most people, he had plenty of friends to shoot the shit with, but it just felt different with Bruce, in a way that Clark couldn’t and had no genuine desire to define.

“Well, I’ll let you go.”

“Right, my breaks are almost over. Keep me updated on Ginar?”

“Of course.” There was an inhale for something else on Bruce’s mind wanting its way out, but it didn’t come. 

“Later then?”

“Later.”

Clark would have said more, found anything to talk about if he had known when hitting the end button how much later Bruce was comfortable with that offer being taken up. 

Chapter Text

“Wow, everything sounds so unbelievably great.” Oliver either wasn’t impressed or wasn’t buying how everything was coming up roses in Gotham. “Almost like you’re trying too hard.” 

“Not at all. I would have thrown myself another parade if I were trying too hard,” Bruce smiled. 

“Oh god, that paper mache bust! You've got to retire that thing, it’s seen better days.” 

Bruce had declined to join the parade organised by the founding families of Gotham for years, then, a decade back, he threw a competing one he named ‘The Future Faces of Gotham’. He claimed that having a float that encapsulated his likeness was imperative to send a good message that you can be a relic of the past, so long as you are putting that legacy towards something forward-moving.

 Most interpreted it as a giant middle finger aimed at the conservative elites that, out of greed, sabotaged a charity project of the Martha Wayne Foundation that year. In reality, it wasn’t nearly as philosophical or ego-stroking; it just so happened that parade floats moved at the perfect speed for ground-penetrating radar, which allowed Bruce to obtain a yearly, detailed, and, more importantly, up-to-date map of Gotham's ever-evolving, labyrinthine underground.

“I think it’s very tasteful, it truly captures my jawline.” 

“No, you don't.” 

“The kids love it!” Bruce waved off Oliver’s squint, calling him out. “Alright, alright, get to it! Invite me to your Halloween party! Sadly, the answer’s the same as last time you did, I’ve got a date.” Gotham on Halloween deserved and demanded his full attention. 

Every year, despite his mailed invitation being already regretfully declined, Oliver would ask Bruce out to brunch in an attempt to convince him to come to his party. That and maybe filling his friend up with carbohydrates and gossip was the least he could do to offset the night the Bat was bound to have. 

“Speaking of tasteful jawlines.” Oliver would not be rushed into being refused; he had his own agenda. “Have you seen the new fad in Metropolis?”

“The blue beards, yes.” When Superman returned sporting facial hair, it sparked a bit of a phenomenon; many men in Metropolis were growing out beards, and it seemed that the bushier, the better, all trying to emulate their hero's new look. “It’s actually two trends. One is just growing the beard, and two is finding its memorable match.” Superman had added fuel to the fire by taking a selfie alongside Jor-El with a simple #memorable, which gave the trend a second wind, with the likely undesired side effect of stirring up complicated feelings over how Kryptonian men just looked better bearded. 

“And? Don't say you have no thoughts. I know you have thoughts.” 

Boy, did Bruce have thoughts, far too many, over something so trivial. “I’ve seen worse fads. Did you know I almost wore a shredded denim suit to an award ceremony in the 90s?”

“Did it come with a denim newsboy hat?”

“No, don’t be insane. It came with a denim scarf,” Bruce recalled looking at himself in the mirror and thinking, those were sane choices made by a reasonable man. “Alfred let me leave the house with the scarf, but talked me down from going all in head to toe.”

“I could spend all day listening to the fashion mistakes Alfred saved you from, but that’s not really what I asked.”

“You asked what I thought about the trend.”

Bruce stood his ground at first. It sounded pathetic to say he felt like Metropolis and its overnight sea of beards was mocking him personally. Though that’s how it felt, Bruce had a hard enough time not being haunted by the thought of how miraculously more attractive Clark looked with that touch of ruggedness; now it was a hashtag, a sensation. It was—hard to be Bruce right now. 

“Once he shaves that thing, it’ll be easier.” Bruce sighed into his mimosa. “I just want to—" —run his fingers through it, tug on it to demand a kiss, feel it scratch at his own cheeks, his neck, his chest, his thighs. “It’s tempting, but he’s always been tempting; that's not what’s getting to me.”

“Sure.” Oliver didn’t quite believe him, but nodded for him to continue. “Not everyone’s noticed just yet—" The cowl did its job, disguising Bruce’s line of sight, or in the case of the last few months, forced aversion of eye contact. “But we’re your friends. We see things haven’t returned to normal. What is it about the beard that makes him impossible to look at?”

“He told me he couldn’t shave it, because it reminds him of the time we spent together, when he was a worm.” Bruce laughed at the absurdity of that sentence. “He’s keeping it as a reminder, and—Olie, he wants to remember it! For as awful as that time was for him, for as many times as I overstepped, it still must've been good enough to be sentimental about.”

Bruce wouldn’t go so far as to say he saw hope in that beard; it was a good look, but it wasn’t prophetic. He would say it was tempting in more than just a physical way; they could, they had made each other happy, and in theory, it would have to be possible, maybe even easier when they were both bipedal and had faces capable of speech.

“Now it really sounds like you’re trying too hard.” Oliver shook his head. “I know you don’t actually hate being happy. So tell me, if the guy you’re into is clinging to the good times you had together, why are you—"

“I can't remember the last time I was friend-zoned, Olie. I—Really, not in a vain way, I'm just usually forward with my romantic feelings and take my shots at—arguably obtainable targets.” 

“This one seems more obtainable than some others.”

Bruce was attracted to attractive people, so sue him. He was drawn to passionate individuals, which was a healthy trait. Bruce was attracted to people with a code, that’s where, on occasion, things got fuzzy.

The world was full of hypocrites, people who said one thing and did another, or those who demanded change but did nothing. People who had a view of themselves and their place in the world that was iron clad, whose actions reflected their beliefs, even when they disagreed with the beliefs of others, he often had a good deal of respect for them. If their actions clashed with his own code, so be it; they would clash. The downside was that it had on more than one occasion led to Bruce being caught in loops of ‘friends to enemies to lovers,’ not necessarily in that order. 

“I wanted to believe that, too. He’s my type, I knew that the moment I met him, and he just got better the more I got to know him.” Clark wasn’t Selina or Harvey, or Talia, but he did have that it factor, that extra level to their personality that made them all the more exciting to engage with; he was a man of principle. “But you know what's a deeper hole than being friend-zoned, I found out? Family-zoned. I told him I didn’t want to be friends, and he dove away from that, Oliver. He said ‘More than friends? Of course, obviously! We're family!’” Bruce took a long gulp of his drink to try to cool the rant coming from his chest. “So, yes! You're right. I’m attracted to him. He's kind and smart, strong, handsome, stubborn, and considerate. I could list a million things I like about him, but it doesn’t matter—Oliver, I'm a man, and the deepest sort of love he has for men is family. I'm ok with it, really, or will be once he gets rid of that damn beard.”

“I’m not so sure, maybe you can’t see the forest for the trees? Bruce, you don’t see it? How he looks at you, how he talks to you, how he acts around you?”

“Do you know what I see?” Bruce pulled out his phone, and it was a post from the Daily Planet’s Mastodon account. It was Clark Kent’s beard, it was Clark Kent being kissed on the cheek by Lois Lane and Cat Grant, both wearing fuzzy blue beards, #BlueBeards. It was Clark Kent looking blushed to the heavens about it, #Memorable. “And this.” Clark didn’t have any personal social media accounts, but Lois did, and Kent was featured pretty heavily. Scroll down for a second, you find a picture of them at Kay’s Daily Grind getting coffee, a second more you see them on floats at Eagle Lake, another you have them at a Mighty Crab Joys concert. “How he acts around me—if she wore a cape, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Battle of the work wives? Maybe if you—" 

“Then you ask him out!” Bruce scoffed. Oliver had no real argument; no proof that Clark wasn’t in love with Lois, that he was interested in dating men, that Bruce wasn’t just a stand-in during the work hours he put in without his true partner. “Tell me, Olie, out of curiosity, who is Clark taking to your party this year? Same date as last?” 

“Fine.” Oliver did look a little humbled by Bruce’s question, because the answer was Lois, and always had been. “Even if he doesn’t love you like you love him—" Skepticism had not left the man’s voice. “—he doesn’t want to lose what you had either; he doesn’t want you to be miserable. You can give me that right?”

“Yes. He still is my best friend. That hasn’t changed. I just—"

“—Tell him you’re sick of it! That you’re going to head over there and lop it off.” Oliver combed his fingers through his beard to explain what he was talking about. “Worst case scenario, he keeps his mouth shut, lets you shave it, and you’ll be rid of the reminder.” 

“Best case scenario?” 

“One of you mans up and shares how you truly feel, a close shave—it can be very intimate. Things can get out of hand, and honestly, that’s what you two need, to stop white knuckle choking the life out of this thing and just let something happen.” 

“You’re right.” 

“Oh, come on, admitting that couldn’t have hurt that much.” Oliver rolled his eyes as Bruce feigned a pained smile while massaging his throat. 

‘Things can be easy and hurt.’

It was easy and effortless to love Clark, but it hurt the longer Bruce kept it up, with the constant reminder that he wasn’t loved back. It would be easy to tell Clark that he needed to stop calling him Sweet-B, shave the beard, and treat him a bit more like the rest of their friends. There’d be no push back. Clark would do whatever was needed for their friendship to thrive, but it would hurt. 

“Hey, if you do it tonight, you can come over afterwards and help Dinah and me finish off the party booze.” Oliver patted Bruce on the shoulder.

“From what I’ve heard of your parties, I doubt there will be much left but artichoke dip and fresca.” Bruce laughed as he sat up. “I’ll talk to him, I promise.” He hugged Oliver. “I’ll even go home and practice right now, how’s that?”

“Very like you. Charismatic, my ass! I bet you’ve got cue cards in your pocket for this conversation.”

“Have a fun Halloween, Olie.” 

“You’re coming next year! I can feel it.” Oliver slung an arm over Bruce’s shoulder as they made their way to the exit of the restaurant. 

“Never say never.”

“Bruce!” Clark was waiting for him in the gardens, waving vigorously once he came into view. 

“Hey, mind if I sit here?” Bruce didn’t really ask for an answer, parking himself on the little marble bench.

“I missed you.”

“Did you?” Bruce chuckled, scratching over his heart, which itched slightly over what he was going to say. “It’s been a little while, huh?”

“Too long.” Clark nodded, then a frown set in his face. “What’s wrong?”

“We need to talk.”

“Ok. I like your voice, you start.”

‘This was a bad idea.’ Bruce took a long moment to let it sink in how far he’d fallen, how deep a hole he dug himself. “I don’t want to be your family.” He shook his head after saying that. “No, I don’t want to be your friend.” That still didn’t sound right. “I’ll be both, either, but you need to tell me that’s it. That’s as much as we’ll ever be. Just for my own sanity.”

“It?” Clark pondered that little word. 

“I just need you, in very simple, straightforward words, to say you’re not in love with me.”

“I do love you.” 

“No, listen to me, Clark! Just help me out here. ‘I don’t love you, Bruce,’ that’s all I need you to say. It will help me so much.”

“But I do.” 

“I—never mind. I don’t know why I thought this would—" Bruce was about to head back into the manor, but Clark did something alarming, he unrooted and started walking towards him. That had never happened before. “Clark?! What are you doing?”

Funny story. When the actual Clark was sized and shaped back up into his Kryptonian form, he no longer needed the basil plant. Bruce had offered it to him, but understandably, he’d grown a little sick of the smell and look of the plant. Bruce, the pack rat and sentimental man that he was, couldn’t just get rid of it; he refused to send it off to Ivy, so he kept it, planting it in his botanical garden.

What no one, not even Bruce, could have expected was that some of those back-to-back ‘made this plant into Superman’ spells Zatanna had barraged that basil with had lingered in those leaves, continuously working to complete that goal. 

Bruce started to notice something was odd mid-July, when the plant grew to a little over six feet, taller than the herb had any right to be. 

As July gave way to August, the plant began to take shape; a leaf resembled an ear here, a branch resembled a shoulder there. It encouraged him to go out for garden walks: The longer Bruce let it go, because it wasn’t hurting anyone, the more and more detailed the outline became, until it was plain to see as a shrub sculpted to look like Superman.

It wasn’t until September that it started to talk and move in place, smiling, waving, and even performing what looked like a wink. Bruce didn’t second-guess his senses this time; he called Zatanna, and she offered to undo the spells one by one, but Bruce instead asked if there was a way just to stop further progression. Bruce found the plant harmless, and while not a dynamic conversationalist, basil-Clark was pleasant company. He seemed very comfortable where he was, and he didn’t seem to act up around the manor staff, only when Bruce came to visit, so he saw no real need to evict him.

Zatanna acquiesced, a mix of being charmed by the friendly foliage and an unspoken understanding that Batman and Superman were giving each other as much space as was feasible after the whole worm situation, but quitting cold turkey was hard. She placed a few wards over the plant and its surrounding area, and that was that—until now.

“Bruce, don't be scared of me.” The plant wasn’t attacking him, the opposite, if anything, it had plucked a single Dahlia flower on its slow trot over and was now nestling it behind Bruce’s ear.

“I’m not, but this shouldn’t be possible. How did you overpower Zatanna’s wards?” Bruce tried not to make any sudden movements, but was slowly reaching into his pocket to call up the sorceress.

“I’m Superman.” The plant grinned, leaves giving way to show rows of bleached white twigs. 

“We agreed you could stay if you didn’t move around guests and you kept to yourself, this isn’t—" arms wrapped around Bruce’s biceps, a face moved in towards the crook of Bruce’s neck, the leaves were much softer than they appeared, the herby scent was tickling at Bruce’s nose. “—keeping to yourself.”

“We don’t have to go anywhere.” Bruce was lifted off his feet. “I’ll stay right here, as long as you’re here.” He was twirled a little bit, his heels rising in tandem with the sensation of weightlessness. “We can be more than just friends all night.”

‘What?’ Bruce didn’t fully understand what the plant was trying to explain to him until he was carefully seated back down on the bench. “All night? Because it’s Halloween? That’s why you can move?”

“I’m Superman.” Basil-Clark sat down next to him and wrapped an arm over Bruce’s shoulder, pulling him into his chest. “That’s enough right?”

‘Something in the air, something in the soil, ups natural magic here.’ Bruce speculated mostly and very offhandedly. It really wasn’t important in the moment. Bruce had his hand in his pocket, and he could easily contact Zatanna, but he didn’t follow through. “Let’s just sit here for a minute.”

“Course! You took care of me, I’ll take care of you.” 

“Clark—" Bruce decided to try and practice again, but going at it from a different angle. “—would you shave your beard off for me?”

“Yes,” said the basil stand-in, stroking a hand over Bruce’s arm.

“Because when I look at it, I get reminded of you, you know? Of what happened.”

“Sure.”

“And I know it was no picnic for you, but—I just want to put all that behind us if we can.” The plant didn’t respond, it didn’t say anything, it didn’t move. Which, if it was trying to be on its best behavior, meant someone was nearby. Bruce turned, and he went completely pale. It was Clark. “You, uh—headed to Olie’s party?” Bruce asked to break the palpable silence. “Let me guess the brawny man?”

“Good guess.” Clark’s tone was flatter than it usually was, neither energetic nor interested, nor angry or intense. Bruce might have broken him with this stunt. 

“I can explain. This isn’t what it looks like, I didn’—residual mag—"

“You’ve been avoiding me because you want me to get rid of the beard.” Clark could break the sound barrier, but he was walking so god damn slow, from the roses over to where Bruce and the basil plant were sitting. “Because—it reminded you of when I was missing?”

“Not exactly, you weren’t missing for all that long. It’s the time—it was us living together, that it reminded me of.”

“Oh.” Clark was at the bench, he reached out his hand and thumbed at the Dahlia flower still tucked behind Bruce’s ear. “Sorry. I—need it for the costume, but tomorrow I’ll—Bruce—" Clark grabbed Bruce’s wrist, not hard, just enough to lift him standing. His head tilted to the side as he looked for something in Bruce’s eyes. He let out a tired sigh. “—I miss you.”

“Please, don’t say that.” Bruce winced. “You say things without thinking of how other people take them and—" Bruce couldn’t speak another word, his lips caught up in Clarks. His hands folded around Bruce's waist as he leaned into this kiss.

“—I mean what I say.” Clark's voice finally got some spine to it. “I think long and hard before I say something I might regret with you. Now, I'm sorry for kissing you like that, especially after—" Bruce didn’t cut Clark off with a kiss, but a shove to the chest.

“Then why did you? This is what I'm talking about. If you don't mean it, then I need you to stop!”

“Me? What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You flirted with me first!” Clark tossed his hand up in the air. He would have sounded like a child picking a fight if it weren't for his eyes; his brow was set seriously, and his irises had darkened a shade, as they did when he was set for a battle. “Calling me ‘Clarkie,’ the winks, the double entendres, the blown kisses during one-on-one training? You made it impossible to toe the line, Bruce! I thought I could dance this dance with you, but—"

“—I meant every compliment, every invite, every glance!” Bruce turned away from Clark, feeling a mix of anger and embarrassment over how this was all coming out. “I was doing my best to be respectful of the fact that your interests lie elsewhere.” 

“My interests?!” Clark was done giving him space, though; he turned Bruce by the shoulders so they were face-to-face again. “I heard you tell Alfred you don't love me, Bruce. You don’t get less interested than—"

“What?”

“And yeah, maybe Bibbo's right, you can't really love someone without being together a bit, but I felt differently. I was in love with you, I’ve fallen in love with you—being at your side all this time. Sure, I haven’t taken you to dinner, or held your hand in a movie, we haven’t kissed or—I didn’t need that to know I loved you, because every moment we did spend together, I was always happy it was you. Every moment I was alone, the person I wanted to be with was you. My big highs and low lows, you were the one I wanted to share them with. That’s love to me. So no, my interests weren’t elsewhere.” 

‘You went to Bibbo with this?’ Bruce stared at Clark for a few seconds. ‘You love me?’ Why were they still fighting? What was this argument even about anymore if they both wanted this, both desired each other? Kiss and make up, that’s what they should be doing right now, but Bruce’s lips did not attempt to do either. “You overheard that as a worm! If it was every moment, why didn’t you ask me out before that? What about Lois?” 

“Lois? I’m not interested in Lois like that, Bruce! I love her, but I love her the way I love Jimmy or Diana. She’s my partner, and our schedules are nearly the same. We both like going out. So yeah, we spend a lot of our free time together, but it’s nothing more than that.” 

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“You’ve asked if I was seeing anyone before, but I never said I was dating Lois.”

‘I took you looking dodgy about the question as guarding your crush on her.’ Bruce frowned. “If you were so interested, why did you never ask me?” Bruce racked his brain, but he couldn’t recall a single time when Clark asked Bruce if he was in a relationship. After a breakup or at the start of something new, Clark would offer appropriate support, but it was always to be there for Bruce; it never seemed to stem from genuine curiosity. 

“I don’t have to ask.” Clark shrugged. “I don’t want to be one of—" He huffed a breath out of his nose as he figured out exactly what he wanted to say.

“—A trist.” Bruce took a guess at what Clark was tiptoeing around. 

“Even if I thought I had a chance, your interests, Julie, Selina, Linda, Vicki, Talia—"

“I get your point, more proof in my pudding.” Bruce cut Clark off before he listed every girlfriend he’d ever had. “I have a bad reputation for short relationships, but other than cover coupling, I never want my relationships to be as short as they are. I try. I want to be—It doesn’t last because—" Bruce’s fists clenched up at his side. Clark didn’t want to be with him because he thought he was bad at relationships. “—I’m not perfect, my life is chaotic, I put people in danger the closer they get, I have to abandon obligations when—"

“I know, Bruce, I knew you wanted them to last. Look I’m not perfect either. I also can’t read minds. I was so frightened of losing you, because what we do have means so much to me, it made me overprotective. It made me—I was scared and I don’t, uh—scared isn’t something I have a lot of experience with. Normally, I figure it’s not worth it to be afraid, because I’ll lose more quivering in my boots than going for it. But with you, I just didn’t see things balancing out that way.”

“Well, that’s insulting.” Bruce scoffed.

“Insulting?” Clark paled. “Bruce, I’m saying that you mean so much to me that I can’t lose you.”

“But you’re also saying that you’re losing nothing by not giving us a shot. I’d like to think I have a lot to offer relationship-wise! It’s not all being ditched for patrol and kidnapping attempts. I do dinner and dancing, I’ve been told I give excellent massages, and I never forget a birthday! I was pissed that you retracted that kiss, because I want more of them, and now I think you do too. Being a couple is on the other side of that line, and we need to cross it. I think we need to cross it now. Are you willing to take that leap with me?”

“Can I ask you a question first?” Clark had the audacity to ask for more words as he leaned forward, when all Bruce wanted to do was kiss him until both their heads were empty of thought. 

“If you absolutely have to.”

“Should I be worried about him?” Clark’s brow quirked. 

“Him? Who?” Bruce watched Clark’s eyes drift over to the plant that was still sitting on the bench. “I can explain: that’s the basil you were living under. Zatanna’s magic has a stronger shelf life than we thought, and Halloween—"

“Halloween.” Clark nodded with a chuckle, but his eyes still narrowed a little at the plant. 

“Are you jealous?”

“If I hadn’t shown up, would you have taken him to Queen’s party?” Clark plucked the flower from behind Bruce’s ear. “If I kiss you now, am I going to get a branch to the back of the head?”

“You are jealous!” Bruce laughed. 

“We’ll go to the market tomorrow.” Clark put his arms around the small of Bruce’s back. “Get another basil plant.” He lifted off the ground softly. “Ask Zatanna nicely to spell him up a Batfriend.” Bruce was swept not a few inches, but six or seven solid feet off the ground. 

“Can we iron out their love life after ours, Clark? Or is that too much to ask?”

“I was asking you out on a date, Bruce. Come out with me tomorrow? We’ll walk around, there’s local music.” Clark’s second kiss wasn’t as rushed as the first; it was soft, just a teasing brush of lips on lips. “We could test out all these dance moves you claim to have.”

“Claim? I have moves, Clarkie. Don’t you worry.” Bruce grinned as Clark dipped him a little bit, feeling Clark trail kisses down his throat. “The market, huh?” Bruce didn’t fight the shiver that ran down his spine, but he did try to muster a little more conversation. “I simply have to go, make sure you don’t get turned into a wheel of cheese. That, and I need you to tell your laundry buddy that we’re dating. I might have left her with the impression that I’m a stalker.”

“A visit to my laundromat, you really are a party animal.” Clark grabbed the back of Bruce’s thighs, hiking Bruce a little higher, holding him a little closer. “I’ll tell everyone you want that you’re mine.” His tease ended with a promise; this wasn’t just banter, this was real. They were crossing that line with both feet. “Market means you need to let me find you some more of those Batgadgets you need, maybe something that matches your eyes.” Clark’s voice was so playful Bruce couldn’t tell if he meant, jewelry, neglige or a bat sham-wow towel in blue. 

“Hm. I’m not used to being the one showered with priceless gifts.” Bruce chuckled as he took the initiative on their third kiss, enjoying how Clark let him explore the line of his smile with his tongue, dipping in and getting an excited little grumble.

 “I’ll make us dinner, you can pick the ingredients. That might be fun.” Clark broke the kiss when Bruce needed air, the Bat was probably willing to push it a little longer. 

“The beard would look good alongside an apron,” Bruce muttered as he put his hands into Clark’s hair and kissed up from Clark’s cheek to his ear, giving it a little nibble. 

“Sure, I’ll wear an apron for you, but if that’s the case, we should definitely do dinner at my place.”

“Just an apron?” Bruce couldn’t contain his hips, rocking forward at the mental image of Clark’s nearly bare body moving around the kitchen, for his pleasure, for his eyes only, maybe allowing him to cop a feel or two. 

“After we eat, we can clean up together. I don’t know if you have a blue Kryptonite straight razor on standby, but we get rid of this—" Clark paused when Bruce’s hand moved from the back of his head into the fluff of his beard, giving it a possessive little tug. “—or keep it. We’ll play it by ear. That’s all tomorrow, though.”

“I’ve never heard you so disappointed over that word.” Bruce wasn’t sure where Clark was taking them, but as Clark turned them, laying horizontal in the air, Bruce sprawled out on his chest, he could tell they had gone from hovering to flight. “Isn’t tomorrow your favorite day of the week?” 

“I look forward to tomorrows, but right now, I’m just thinking of how much of tonight I get with you, Sweet-B.” Clark grinned immeasurably fond at how he could use that term and mean it with his whole chest. 

“Halloween.” Bruce certainly wished it was tomorrow already. “I usually head out a little before sundown.” But he still had a job to do, and maybe it was best for their relationship that Clark got used to scheduling their time together around Gotham’s moods. 

“When do you come back?” Clark brought them down on Bruce’s balcony. 

“Depends, anywhere between two and four.”

“Is it alright if I wait?” Clark had to step aside and let Bruce go to open the window, but he did keep a thumb looped over the back of Bruce’s trousers; it was a cute little continued contact.

“Instead of the party? You should still go. It’d be a pity to waste all this effort.” Bruce teased open one of the buttons on the heavy red and black flannel. 

“What sort of boyfriend goes to a party stag? I’d spend the whole night just staring at the clock anyway.”

“Hm—what if—I go to this party for one drink?” Bruce set about undoing the rest of Clark’s buttons, then tugged Clark into the bedroom. “Then you can spend the rest of the night telling all our friends and acquaintances how you’re finally taken.” The party started at six; sundown wasn’t until eight. A single drink, maybe a lap around the party, if Clark flew him home, their plans sounded good.

Bruce would still have time to prep for the long patrol. “Oh wait! Lois! I forgot, you should be on a plane right—" Bruce wasn’t tackled to the floor, but Clark had scooped up a thigh and pushed him back-first against the rug. 

“Betty and Wilma have already flown out, no one is waiting on me. Can we iron out their love life after ours, Bruce? Or is that too much to ask?” Clark went back to kissing Bruce’s neck, his beard scratching at his skin, his fingers undoing the buttons to Bruce’s shirt. 

“Betty and Wilma?” Bruce didn’t actually care who Betty and Wilma were, if he did, if he thought for a single second he could have figured it out, but his curious mind just spilled out the question to make room for soaking in the feeling of Clark’s curious hands feeling up his chest and torso. 

“That’s Lois’ and Vicki’s costumes this ye—Bruce? Am I moving too fast?” Clark who had ventured all the way down to Bruce’s naval, thumb flicking and fiddling around with the top of Bruce’s belt buckle, stilled to a complete halt stop when Bruce’s eyes had gone from half lidded in a pleased smile, to a suddenly hyper aware and clearly thinking sort of face that Clark knew well but was concerned to see in this situation. 

“No.” Bruce pulled Clark’s hands back to their task. “I was just thinking how much I like couple costumes.”

“Got something in mind, Sweet-B?” Bruce’s pants were gone, and Clark was kissing his thighs. 

“I did.” That moment of clear thought disappeared when the kisses sort of dissolved into licks and bites. “You know I’ve got a bed, right? A perfectly good bed? Firm mattress, sturdy headboard?”

“I’ve sort of had strong feelings about you on this rug, ever since you let me see your room. If you want the bed, I’ll move us, but—"

“I’m pro all the strong feelings you’re having right now, just remember I need to be able to walk, run, and jump in a couple of hours.” Bruce cautioned half heartedly as his ankles were brought up over Clark’s shoulders, the man leaning in a bit heavier to get his mouth where it wanted to be. “Clark, we could have been doing this for a decade. How dare you make me wait this long?” It was the last complete sentence Bruce could manage without moaning. 

“I’ll make it up to you, B, for decades,” Clark swore on a quick upward bob before showing Bruce what a man with no gag reflex or need for air was truly capable of. 

“Sweet-B, walking, talking, jumping, remember, I’d love to give you another round but that’s what’s so great about tomorrows.” They had eventually found their way to Bruce’s bed. Bruce was currently curled up on Clark’s chest, being peppered with kisses to the crown of his head, as Clark's fingers gently traced his muscles.

“Paper towels,” Bruce mumbled. Laying a bite into Clark’s chest, no teeth marks appeared, but it was a satisfying claiming feeling all the same. 

“Babe, paper towels aren’t gonna cut it. We’re gonna need a quick shower at least.” 

“No, for my costume. You’re the brawny guy, I’ll be paper towels, wrap me up in a couple sheets and we’re good to go.” 

“I don’t know.” Clark wrapped Bruce up in a big hug. “You just decided you were going to let me be the lucky guy who gets to love you. Do you want to stir up competition for me on day one? Not that I’m not up for it, but I thought maybe I’d get a grace period of a couple of days.”

“Well, look at it this way: you get to show off how lucky you are, and I get to show off how lucky I am to have you run me ragged. I might be going out on patrol tonight, but you made sure I’m bringing you with me.” Bruce rolled his shoulders and wiggled his hips; both spots had been held between strong hands and an apparently ravenous mouth and bore the residual marks of Clark’s attention. “I think giving a tasteful peek while out at a party sends exactly the right message: that we’re together, we crossed that line, we’re in love.”

“They say all that?” Clark had a very adoring look on his face as he ran a thumb over a hickey on Bruce’s neck. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“It’s funny, Clark, how we got here. Frustrating, sadly prolonged, but you know, funny?”

“Yeah?” Clark sat them up, started to rub at Bruce’s shoulders, getting him ready to leave the bed he was very sure he’d be content living in. “It’s funny that I love you so much, it scared me?”

“No, it’s—the question is, would you love me if I were a worm, right? It’s a test of how much you love someone.”

“I’d love you if you were a worm, Bruce.” Clark kissed Bruce on the back of the neck.

“But that wasn’t the test for us; it was the breaking point. We couldn’t get away from how much we loved each other. You being a worm, it left me thinking, how can I pretend I’m not in love with him? How can I deal with loving him as much as I do? Life moves so fast for us, we could put it off, we could pretend it didn’t bother me as much as it did, but when you were with me and neither of us could go a full day—it was, ‘Why am I spending my life without him?’”

“So you loved me more as a worm?” Clark teased. “My undivided attention and need for you? It’s still there, B, just bigger, thought we just explored that.”

“I didn’t love you more.” Bruce tossed a pillow over his shoulder to hit Clark in the face. “It was just—having you there was—not a reminder, I never forgot it, just—"

“It was just funny.” Clark kissed Bruce on the cheek. “It was just—bizarre, and unprecedented, and tough, but we got through it, and we came out on top. Ít’s what we do when we work together.” Clark gave a warm chuckle. 

“‘How did you two end up together: the team building exercise from hell.’” Bruce laughed as he got up out of bed, dragging all the covers with him. “A romance for the ages.”

“I think so.” Clark got up; that moment, apart, was a moment too many. He scooped Bruce and his bedding up bridal-style, walking them towards the bathroom. “And if this is just the beginning, imagine what sort of wild ride we’ve got to look forward to?” He struggled a bit to juggle the bat and the doorknob. 

“I wouldn’t want to ride this sort of life with anyone else, Clark, it’s always been you.”

“Don’t get too sweet on me, Bruce. Keep talking like that and I’ll never get us cleaned up in time for the party.” Clark kissed Bruce as he set the man down on his feet. “Now help me figure out how your space-age defcon five shower works.”

“That is not the threat you think it is.” Bruce kissed Clark on the shoulder as he hit the preset and let the bathroom start to fill with steam. 

Chapter Text

Crocheted Clark worm by the talented  Nomer. They made worm Clark a cute reality. Checkout the rest of Crocheted Clark's photo shoot Here!