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batfamscreaming · 3 years

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Winter Break in Kansas [80s AU] 1/2

Bruce bade goodbye to Tommy and Harvey without telling them anything of his own plans for the holiday break.

(....both of them looked gaunt. Holidays hadn’t even begun. They didn’t muster much enthusiasm for the goodbye, and Bruce didn’t make them.)

He didn’t put on the hat or scarf until they were a good distance out of the building, where the other two wouldn’t see, and bundled himself up unrecognizably as best he could.

Nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Clark slung his backpack over his shoulder and started down the stairs where they could get a cab to the bus stop.

“Have you ever been to Kansas before?”

Bruce shook his head.

“No,” he said, tugging out a few dollars from his pocket and shoving them towards Clark.

He’d pay.

Clark took them without argument after seeing how that worked during Halloween.

Into the cab they went.

“Don’t blame you. Nothin’ there.” He joked, and away they went.

A cab to the bus station.

Then the bus to Kansas.

It would be a day’s ride.

Bruce had packed books.

...they had agreed, even if silently and grudgingly, that they would just have to give up on their research for the duration of the break.

...on the up side, they would finally have a little time to read what they wanted to, at least.

He tugged out two crime thrillers, passing one to Clark, along with one of the lunches-to-go he’d bought at the cafeteria for the trip.

For the first hour or so, he sat up primly, despite his disguise.

And then, as the bus ride kept going…

He tugged his legs up under himself and curled up in the seat with his book, letting himself lean a little into Clark’s shoulder when the seat was cramped, finally looking content.

Clark let him lean into him as much as he wanted, especially considering the crampedness of the seats.

He read a little and ate some of their packed lunch, and then for a lot of the ride he dozed. Riding in a bus or car had that constant hum that drowned a lot out that was easy to focus on and sleep to. It was better than the erratic noise of the city, that was for sure.

As they went on, the bus taking occasional breaks at rest stops, the hills died down and things became increasingly flat.

And then, early the next morning, they pulled in to their stop.

“Here we are.” Clark mumbled, grabbing their bags from overhead and passing Bruce his as they climbed off.

...it was surreal.

Absolutely surreal.

For someone like Bruce who had grown up with always something blocking the horizon, the sheer flatness of the world around him left him feeling a little… disoriented.

Vulnerable, even.

But he kept the hat and scarf on, holding his bags and exhausted from the bumpy ride, and followed Clark closely as he climbed off the bus.

Clark barely had to even look around before he motioned for Bruce to follow, ducking around the other people climbing off the bus. He went right to an old station wagon with a man stood leaning on the hood, arms crossed to keep in the warmth and an old truckers cap on his head. When he saw them he stood and waved.

“Hey Pa.” Clark smiled, and hugged him as a woman with dirty blonde hair opened the door and stepped out of the passenger side.

“There’s my baby boy.” She cooed, already grabbing Clark and kissing his cheeks while he groaned and protested.

“You must be Bruce?” Jon said, extending a rough hand towards him. “You can call me Jon. Clark’s father.”

His face was sun scorned and wrinkled less from age and more from working outside every day of his life, his hair cut short and dark brown.

He had that feeling again. Like he was floating, somewhere else entirely, only partly aware of what was happening in front of him. Only sort-of involved.

It was a familiar one, even if school sometimes lessened it. Sometimes.

He was hoping it would leave if he left Gotham. But here it was. Right away. Watching Clark run to his mother or her run to him, and his dad, and hugging--

He took the father’s hand, shook it, and said, “Bruce Wayne,” in the voice that was bigger than he felt in his head.

“So Clark tells me. Quite the name back out East.” He said, giving Bruce a firm handshake.

When Martha was finished embarrassing her son she walked over to Bruce. “I'm Martha, now let's get you boys where it's warm.” She put an arm around Bruce and gestured for him to get into the back where Clark was already piling in.

Oh.

He felt dizzy. And tight. His jaw tightened the smile onto his face to keep it there, even as his heartbeat rocketed up, until it was pounding in his ears.

(Waking nightmare)

He stumbled forward over his own feet, but followed where the arm took him, same as he did when Alfred started trying to guide him away from paparazzi anytime they glimpsed him. Anytime they got an excuse.

He held his bag tight and piled in beside Clark, regretting every step that took him to this conclusion.

While his parents got back in Clark looked over at Bruce with concern. His heart was like a drum suddenly.

“You okay?” he whispered.

Bruce’s face had fallen into a brutal neutrality once the eyes weren’t on him anymore. Blank and stiff.

But he nodded faintly, lying.

“... Okay.” Clark said, not believing it at all, but not prying further.

“So is it just as cold out there as it is here?” His dad asked.

Typical banter.

Him. It was him. He was being talked to.

Talk.

“Haven’t been here long enough to say,” Bruce said, lost somewhere over the horizon with no buildings to stop him.

“It’s colder in Gotham.” Clark added as they started to move once everyone was buckled up.

“We’re pretty tired from the trip though. Is the guest room ready?”

“Oh yeah it’s all waiting for you. Will you two want breakfast or you gonna collapse into bed?” Martha asked.

“Bed,” Bruce managed, even though he knew he should’ve said more than that.

But in his head he was already at a family breakfast. Staring at them over a meal. Having to talk more before he could think or control his heart or breathe and actually feel it filling his lungs, not just faintly keeping him conscious by a thread.

“Yeah we’re beat.” Clark said, although he wasn’t very tired. This was mostly for Bruce’s sake.

“We’ll just get some rest and then we can have lunch and stuff, okay?”

“Okay, that sounds good. I still need to run out and grab a few things anyway.” Martha said, and with that the conversation would taper off and away from the boys.

Clark did pass a look over to Bruce though, just to check on him.

...gradually, Bruce’s heartbeat started to slow again as the conversation moved away, and he didn’t have to drag himself to pay attention to it. Didn’t live scared of the response he missed. He could just stare blankly forwards and hover for a while.

But that was it, too.

He just… hovered.

The usual awareness wasn’t in his eyes. And he knew it wasn’t there.

And the part of him that wasn’t in front, that wasn’t keeping them in society, breathing, not being kicked out of the car of the only people he knew for miles and miles--

That part of him was screaming. A sound not even Clark could hear.

Wake up. Pay attention. It’ll happen while you’re not paying attention. It’s going to go wrong. If you don’t pay attention everything will go wrong.

But he couldn’t drag himself to the front yet.

He couldn’t do it that fast.

They drive for awhile before turning into a tiny little town that was just starting to wake up, and then they even drove away from that and down long barren roads onto a long dirt driveway, the farmhouse soon coming into view.

“Home sweet home.” Jon said as he pulled up to a stop.

“We’re here, Bruce.” Clark said quietly, trying to get his attention so they could climb out of the car.

It helped. His name. Instruction.

He shuffled out of the car, pulling his backpack back on, and at the very least managed to glance at the small farmhouse and and and

(he counted exits)

Before following Clark inside, looking dazed.

Like he did definitely need the bed.

“I’ll show Bruce to his room, he’s pretty wiped.” Clark said, leading his friend up the steps and… maybe putting an arm around his shoulders to guide him a little better.

“It’s up the steps. C’mon.”

He made a small confirming sound at his name, and

Arm.

Followed the arm. Pressed into it.

(Tommy guided him like this, sometimes. Alfred did. Away from the worst of things. Back to the manor, or their room, or--)

He was lost in three places at once. The farmhouse here, and the manor, and the academy and coming out of the alleyway under a policeman’s coat.

But he could make it up the stairs, and be guided to the guest room, at the very least.

Clark got him up the steps, paused only for a moment to point at the bathroom. “Bathroom is here. And this is the guest room.”

He opened it up to reveal a very old, dated looking bed with an empty dresser and bedside table with a lamp. Floral comforter and frilled pillow cover.

“Sorry it’s… very grandma.” He huffed. “But, uh, you get comfortable. You want something to drink?”

Looked fine. Normal, even.

He shook his head.

“...how long?” he asked.

“... How long what?”

...fuck. The word. Didn’t she say lunch?

“Til lunch,” he said.

How long to recover.

“Oh, like, uh… you still got awhile. It’s only eight right now so four hours? Ish? And if you need to chill in here longer you can.” Clark said, looking at an old clock over the door.

Four hours sounded like both an eternity and no time at all.

Bruce set down his bag and nodded, not sure what to say.

Not sure how to ask to start.

Alone.

Rest.

Privacy.

Please.

“I'm gonna bring you something to drink and then you can sleep or whatever.” Clark said, turning away and heading downstairs.

He came back a moment later with a cup of warm tea.

“Here. Just yell if you need anything.”

And then he would leave Bruce to recover.

“Okay. Thanks,” he said, letting the hot tea sit.

...he held it in his hands.

….the heat helped.

He could smell it.

...once he was alone, he closed his eyes and sat on the floor, holding the cup between his hands and just… breathing it in deeply.

He took a drink. Followed the heat as it traveled down his throat.

….

It was sort of like Alfred’s tea.

Two places, now. Only lost in two. That was manageable.

A little more color came back to him. He finished the tea. The cup cooled and it didn’t help anymore. But he was a little better.

...he didn’t have the energy to do much, though.

So he kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the unfamiliar bed, biting down on his hand as hard as he could, and once all he could think about was his hand, he closed his eyes on the pillow and let go.

And he would go to sleep.

And in four hours, he would be fine again.

In four hours or so, Clark would knock on his door.

“Bruce? You awake? We're gonna have some lunch now.”

There was a jump in heartrate as Bruce jerked awake, but he still understood well enough what had been said to him.

“Y-yeah-- just let me get to the bathroom.”

“Okay, just come down to the kitchen when you're ready.” Clark said, leaving him be. His footsteps could be heard going down the stairs.

...Bruce waited until the footsteps were down the stairs and a little fainter before crawling out of bed.

His clothing was wrinkled from sleeping in it.

He grabbed a new shirt and set of pants, and folded the two he’d been wearing on the bus. Grabbed his comb.

Bathroom.

He washed his face and combed his hair back, the way he always wore it, unless he ended up shoved under a John Deere hat. Made sure his shirt was flat and his clothing straight. Tied his shoes back on.

He hurried down the stairs.

This time, he was Braced for It.

Now that he was more aware of his surroundings he could take in the details.

Worn furniture. Warm. Lived in. Family pictures on the mantle over the TV that was playing The Price Is Right. Noises from the kitchen.

Clark and Martha were there, Clark over a bowl of soup and Martha watching the TV from her position in front of the stove.

“Well don't you look nice.” she grinned. “You hungry?”

Maybe ironically, Bruce wasn’t used to being complimented on his appearance.

Maybe because he grew up with Alfred, and he was wearing the bare minimum to please Alfred.

“Thanks,” he said, voice a little steadier than it had been that morning. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You like chicken corn soup?” She asked.

Clark was eating the same thing that was on the stove in a large pot; a homemade soup with bits of chicken, corn, and other things to make a hearty, white soup.

Without being asked Clark got up and started to get Bruce something to drink.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had it before,” he said honestly, watching Clark out of the corner of his eye.

“Well if you don't like it you don't have to eat it, okay?” Martha said, getting out a bowl and filling it with soup. She set it down in front of him with a spoon.

“We got tea, milk, or OJ.” Clark said, looking over at Bruce.

“Thank you,” he said again, sitting where she set it, and glanced back at Clark. “Tea?”

“...oh. I forgot the cup upstairs--”

“That's okay, just bring it down later.” Martha said.

“This is iced tea, but if you want more hot tea I can make that too.” Clark said, pulling out the jug to show Bruce.

Bruce blinked blankly at him, as if just confronted with something he had no idea about.

“Iced tea?”

The two looked at each other like Bruce was the alien.

Clark poured him a glass of iced tea and set it in front of him.

“Wondered why I didn't see it anywhere at school.”

Bruce looked down at the cup like it was a challenge.

“...”

He kept eye contact with Clark as he sipped it.

It didn't taste anything like hot tea. It was sweet with a tiny hint of lemon.

Clark stared him right back.

“... Well?”

…

Bruce stared down at it.

“...I think I felt one of Alfred’s ancestors disown me just now,” he said, and took another sip.

Clark laughed, “But do you like it?”

Bruce nodded.

“It’s good.”

It was a little like a flat soda, almost?

“Good.” Clark grinned and sat back down to finish eating. Martha looked to be scooping the soup that was left over into freezing containers and labeling them.

“You gonna give Bruce a tour of the farm when you're done?”

Clark looked over at him, “You want one?”

“Sure?” Bruce said, “Whatever the plan is.”

He had no idea if there even was a plan. He’d focused so hard on getting here he wasn’t really sure what to do otherwise.

Even Clark had admitted there wasn’t much to do besides bowling.

So his only plan right now was to run with manners and hope it got him somewhere.

He ate the soup and drank the tea, not finding it quite his taste, but eating and finishing it all the same.

Clark didn't really have a plan either. He had just heard his friend had what sounded like a really lonely holiday and invited him along.

So they finished their soup and set the dishes in the sink before bundling up to take the tour.

“You ever been on a farm?” He asked while walking down the front steps. The third one creaked.

He followed Clark’s lead. Ran upstairs to bring down the cup and wrap his own scarf (thick and dark) around his neck as they headed out.

“Gardens don’t count?” he asked rhetorically. “Then no.”

Clark chuckled, “No. Gardens don’t count.”

A man was pulled up in their driveway in a tractor with a plow hooked to the front talking to his dad, and Clark waved but didn’t go over. Instead he lead Bruce towards the barn.

“All the corn is down now since it’s winter, but we still got the cows I can show ya.”

Bruce nodded, following along behind him.

“Okay?”

He’d never seen a cow before.

...the sight and smell of them stopped him dead.

“...that’s huge.”

“How big did you think cows were, Bruce?” Clark laughed, closing the barn door behind them.

The cows were in their stalls for the winter, some laying down to sleep while others had their heads stuck through the bars to feed from their trough.

It did smell pretty bad, but Clark didn’t seem to mind. He walked over to one and pet between its eyes.

Bruce honestly didn’t know how the cows stood the smell.

...he followed up behind Clark, watching him pet the cow, though his curiosity was focused a bit more on the petter than the pet-ee.

“They’re nice once you know how to act around them.” Clark said, looking at Bruce. “Just, y’know, gotta be aware they can break your foot. Here-” He reached out to take the other boy’s hand and place it gently on the cow’s head where he had been petting it.

The fur was course almost. Rough. Not really soft but not really wiry either.

Bruce was honestly not even really thinking about petting the cows--

...but Clark’s hand was warm, and it startled him into complacency, hand being pulled out of his pocket like that and held, even just for a moment.

…

The fur was coarse. But she was warm. The cow. And even though the fur was coarse, the skin under it was soft as Clark’s hand on top of his.

… “Wow,” he said, knowing he had to say something.

“See? They’re nice.” Clark said, oblivious to what was going on in Bruce’s head right now.

“C’mon.” He said, leading him out of the barn and towards the backyard.

“That’s our own little garden even though it’s just a patch of frozen mud right now. We grow tomatoes, zucchini, strawberries, tons of stuff. Mom makes jam. I’ll have her give you a jar to take back if you want. It’s really good.”

He lead him into a smaller barn after that. It had a four-wheeler and a few tractors inside.

“This is where we keep some of the equipment.”

Bruce followed Clark around the farm, feeling a little dumb and dumbfounded, and not sure what to feel the rest of the time. The farm life was… very different from the world he knew. And he respected it, he was pretty sure--but he didn’t really know much about it.

So he followed politely, looking around.

He pretty readily agreed to the jam.

“Alfred will like it,” he said.

“Cool. Y’know you gotta show me around your mansion or whatever sometime.”

A dog barked and soon a dog with black and white splotches was running up to them.

“Oh, and that’s Daisy.”

She tried to jump up at Bruce in excitement, tag wagging.

“Woah--” Bruce took a step back as Daisy jumped up at him, but--

...it was a dog.

Bruce bent down a moment later and was scratching her behind the ears.

Daisy put on that ‘thats the spot’ face and leaned into it, grumbling happily.

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked, do you have any pets?”

Bruce… made a bit of a face. And shook his head.

“No. Not anymore.”

...he was content to keep scratching the dog behind the ear as long as she’d lean in.

Clark stood and just sort’ve… watched him for a moment.

It was nice to see him content like this. Away from pressure.

“You feeling better than you were earlier?” He asked, as though he somehow knew.

…

“Yeah. ...sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”

He’d bite it back as often as he had to.

“It’s okay, dude.” Clark shrugged. “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay when you’re around me. It happens.”

Bruce just… focused on the dog.

Clicked his fingers at her.

“I am fine, though,” he said, not even fooling himself. “...you didn’t tell me that’s what your mom’s name was.”

… It took him a moment. He looked confused, then his eyes went big.

“Oh. Oh, damn. I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about it.” He looked ashamed and ran a hand through the curls in his hair.

Bruce shook his head, not… looking at him, for that. “It’s fine. You shouldn’t have to.”

He should’ve been able to handle this on his own. It had been years. (six years.) He should be fine.

But his throat was dry, even after draining the whole glass of ice tea, and his fingers were getting cold, even in the warmth of Daisy’s fur.

Why was he still talking?

“Dad didn’t die first,” he said. “He kept calling her name.”

Daisy tried to lick his face, tail wagging.

“... I’m sorry, Bruce.” Clark said quietly. “Must be hard.”

He had never lost someone before.

He didn’t know how it felt.

He’d said it wouldn’t happen again, but he felt that creeping chill on the edge of his consciousness, threatening to drag him out of Smallville again. It wasn’t there yet. It hadn’t yanked him in violently like back at the bus station. But he could feel the prickle of it; the threat.

He sat down crosslegged in the field, and let the dog lick him.

When she stopped he just… shook his head.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” ‘it must be hard’ wasn’t… something he was used to hearing. “I’ve got money and Alfred to take care of me. I’m fine.”

Clark sat down with him on the cold, frozen dirt.

“Yeah but that’s just money and Alfred ain’t your dad. You might have what you need but not what you want. ‘N money can’t buy that.”

“So, like… are you fine?”

He looked over at him and tried to meet his eyes with his own bright blue gaze that somehow stood out even more than Bruce’s. The sun was high in the sky and there weren’t as many clouds to hide him like their were in Gotham, and you could see how much his skin almost glowed in the sunlight.

That wasn’t what people were supposed to say, and the urge to argue Kent down made a thousand things meant to be kept secret bubble up on his tongue.

But he swallowed them down.

...he seemed much smaller out here, under the big, clear sky. In Gotham, in its narrow streets and foggy skies, he stretched up and could fill a room. Here he was just a small, lost shadow: dark clothes, pale skin.

And when Clark tried to meet his eyes, they were glazed wet, and in the process of being blinked away, even as Bruce’s voice said, steadily, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

…

“When I’m eighteen,” he said, guiding Daisy down to lie in his lap for a belly rub, “I inherit everything they left behind. And I’m going to take it and run away, until not even you’d be able to find me.”

Daisy rolled into him and was very happy for the belly rub.

“... Why?” Clark asked, sounding sad. “Just to get away?”

...at least someone understood.

Bruce nodded.

Clark nodded too.

…

“Where you gonna go?”

Bruce shrugged.

He didn't know. He didn't care much.

“Okay.”

…

“Well-” Clark nudged him a little. “-I’d like it if ya kept in touch at least a little.”

He gave him an award-winning smile.

...Bruce found himself looking at that smile, and… it was hard not to feel some guilt.

“We’ll see,” he compromised.

Clark went quiet and just sat with him then.

…

After a few minutes though he blinked and stood up, looking down at his driveway.

Bruce looked up.

Glanced down the driveway. Saw nothing.

But he looked back up at Clark without any doubt. “What do you see?”

“It’s Pete ‘n Kenny.” Clark said just as you could start to hear the car. He offered a hand down to help Bruce to his feet.

“Friends of mine. Guess mom told ‘em I was coming home.”

Bruce didn't need the help, but he took the hand anyway, pushing Daisy off his lap carefully as he went.

“Yeah…?”

He was a little anxious about meeting Clark’s friends.

He was bad with people. And caring about Clark made things suddenly infinitely more complicated if he failed to make a good impression.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about ‘em, they’re good people.”

Clark lead him over to the car as it slid to a stop, two boys sat in the front.

“You’re back!” The passenger shouted.

“Yeah, for winter break.” Clark said, then gestured to them. “Kenny, Pete. Pete, Kenny, this is Bruce. Friend of mine from school.”

“Yo.” Kenny waved from the driver’s seat, Pete from the passenger’s side.

Bruce waved back with a “nice to meet you,” and hung back, not willing to overstep. He was already looking at Pete and Kenny’s haircuts and their clothes, and starting to get an idea how Clark must've felt, standing out in school.

They dressed a lot like Clark did. Layers. Worn clothes. Mud around the ankles and hand-me-down jackets.

“Get in, both of ya, we’re heading down to the tracks.” Kenny said, pointing to the back seat.

“Uh.” Clark looked at Bruce. “You cool with tagging along?”

He looked hopeful.

Bruce shrugged and--well. He had no reason not to?

“Sure.”

He climbed into the back with Clark.

“Nice.” Pete grinned, and once they were in, Kenny started to back up and turn around to head out.

…

At first they didn’t really talk to Bruce. They just filled Clark in on all the town gossip. Who was boning who, who was getting knocked up, who had fallen out or gotten in trouble.

But soon that did come around as they pulled into a gravel spot by some train tracks. Pete leaned back and looked at Bruce. “He tell ya why he ran off to Gotham?”

Clark might’ve gone a little pale. “Pete.”

“Said he was layin’ low,” Bruce said, picking up Pete’s accent a little bit from being surrounded by it for a little. He crossed his arms on the seat in front of him and leaned forward, asking for more without saying anything.

“I’ll kill you, Pete.” Clark warned.

“Yeah. Layin’ low after blastin’ a guys arms off with his eyes.” Pete grinned.

Clark threatened to climb over the seat and smack him, and Pete just kept laughing.

“Pete you fuckin’ dumbass, you know he can actually kill you, right?” Kenny huffed.

Bruce just… looked sort of confused for a bit at that.

What did that mean? If it was an in-joke would Clark be that upset, but if it was leaning closer to real, what did that even mean?

He knew Clark… was different.

But he didn't realize he hadn't seen half of it yet.

“...what?”

“You didn’t tell him?” Kenny said, a little surprised.

Clark stopped smacking Pete, who was laughing his ass off. “Kenny! What do you think laying low means?!”

“Well I mean, c’mon man, you brought him here. Damn near everyone knows you’re an alien.” Kenny said, unintimidated.

Clark just… slumped back into the seat, as far away from everyone as possible, and shoved his face in his hands.

…

You know what?

Bruce was going to unpack all of this later.

Right now, all he could do was turn, look Clark dead in the eye, and say, “suddenly I understand why you had such a hard time with ‘snitches get stitches’ with friends like these.”

Clark was rubbing his eyes. “God.”

“Ah c’mon Clark. We gotta embarrass our buddy in front of his new friend.” Pete grinned.

Clark glared at him. “You’re honestly lucky I trust Bruce not to say anything. You know how much shit I could get in if everyone in Gotham knew? Area 51??” He gestured wildly to himself.

“If it makes you feel better people are starting to say those three were just tripping on something and imagined the whole thing.” Kenny said.

Bruce was still just… running with this. As it happened.

Unpack later. Survive right now.

(From his position, he could get an arm around Kenny’s neck and choke him as payback for Clark’s trust being violated)

(There was a red mark against Kenny from this, against Pete. Snitches get stitches. Silence was golden. Loose lips sank ships.

Trust no one.)

(‘You’re honestly lucky I trust Bruce not to say anything.’ When-- when had that-- when had he earned that?)

“What did happen?” Bruce asked instead.

He was ten places in his head, and lost in none of them.

They all looked at Clark.

…

Clark sighed and rubbed his head.

“Some assholes shot up the gas station last year. Killed like five people. I knew where he’d gone, I could hear the yelling, so I tracked them down. One guy shot me in the face with a revolver. I tossed him through the front of the house. Next guy shot me in the chest with a shotgun. I ended up burning his arms off. Then Pete came around and ended up clocking the last one with a shovel.”

He said it all so… numbly. Like he had unpacked in awhile ago and could now just… recite it.

“They lived?” he said, deciding not to question the… burning. The being followed. The shotgun.

“... Yeah.” Clark said quietly.

Bruce had gone back to his Gotham accent. His voice had been falling into his harder, more serious tone.

Pete and Kenny called this story embarrassing to Clark.

“But you did it?”

Kenny and Pete were looking at one another, watching this unfold after they had set it into motion.

“... Yeah?” Clark said again. “I can do… a lot of weird shit.”

Maybe the new fragile city kid going hard and cold wasn't what they'd expected when they started talking about small town maiming.

“Yeah, no shit, you beat my mile,” Bruce said. “...but you burnt their arms off.”

…he waited for one more confirmation, looking Clark in the eye just as Clark had done with him half an hour earlier.

But once he got it--even just a flash of a ‘yes’ in a look between them, Bruce said, “Good.”

And Clark did say ‘yes’.

But then he looked confused.

“Good?”

That was the first time anyone had said that.

And Bruce said it again.

Firmer.

“Good.”

Clark blinked and stared at him, like a whole other option had opened up to him.

…

“Damn,” Kenny said. “Hardass Gotham.”

Kenny still had a mark against him, and he wasn't helping himself, so Bruce didn't feel bad when he turned the full weight of a glare on him.

Maybe his eyes couldn't ‘burn off’ anyone’s arms, but that just meant that his blue eyes were cold and hard as ice.

“They shot five people? They deserve what's coming to them.”

… Kenny backed up and put his hands up. “Not sayin’ they didn’t.”

“Yeah, no one is saying that.” Pete added. “I mean, if he hadn’t showed up then they were gonna kill like their whole family.”

Clark still didn’t say anything. He was looking down, like he had never been told that what he had done was good. Not really. Whenever they had mentioned how he had done well it was also interlaced with ‘but what could have happened to you’.

They were going to kill their whole family.

They were going to kill their whole family?

That part hadn't been said. Just: Clark tracked them down. Clark fought them. Clark got shot.

Clark lived.

(They were going to kill a family, and Bruce, already mentally exhausted from the morning, from bracing himself against names, from coping, found himself seeing it happen in an alleyway unlike anything he'd seen in Smallville, and he was so tired of spending the day in that place.)

“Cool. Cool, so… fuck this,” he said, and turned to Clark, seeing him spaced out. “Hey. Kent. Snap out of it. You said you guys got out more than us, right? Time to prove it.”

Find somewhere else to go.

Somewhere to lose this conversation entirely, before they got lost in it.

“Uhhhh fine.” Clark groaned and sat up. “Let’s go.”

Pete put the car in reverse. “Where to?”

“... Bowling?” Clark shrugged and looked at Bruce.

“I'll pay,” Bruce said, fine with that.

“See you throw every single ball down the gutter again.”

“You were last!” Clark pointed out.

“Yeah. I have nothing to prove,” he said, straight faced.

“But I might try harder out of revenge now that I know I wasn't wrong about my mile.”

“I was gonna apologize but I thought that would be saying too much!” Clark pleaded with him.

“They makin’ you take gym, Clark?” Kenny asked as they drove.

“Yes.”

“Oof.”

Bruce-- Bruce wasn't angry at Clark for it, not really. He'd been the one playing mediator at the time. Half of him just… needed something to keep going. To be huffy about--something that didn't matter--so he wouldn't be huffy about things that did.

“Tommy and Harv aren't gonna say anything even if they’ve figured something out,” he said, finally leaning back some and trying to uncoil the tight knot in his shoulders. “I told them not to that day.”

And no matter how loud Tommy was, no matter how much the teachers liked Harvey-- at the end of the day, Bruce was the one in charge. He didn't say much, but when he told them to not pry or talk, neither of the other boys would.

That weight didn't transfer to Kansas well, but after that conversation-- it lingered on him, some, in the back of the car, in his nice dark clothes, and the cold exhaustion in his eyes.

“They've been letting him skip for asthma, but running a four minute mile blew that out of the water some.”

“... Thanks.” Clark said, looking over at him.

“Guess since no one is in on it over there things are kinda hard.” Pete said.

“You have no idea.” Clark mumbled.

…

“This is kinda a relief. You knowing now.”

...he relaxed a little more.

“...I'm gonna be processing this for a while still,” he said. “...but I guess it at least makes sense now why you didn't think I was insane about the Talons being real.”

….somehow, the thought that Clark hadn't just been humoring him the last few months took precedence.

Clark huffed a laugh.

“Talons?” One in the front asked.

“Nah we’re not talking about that shit with you two.” Clark said firmly.

No way.

…

Bruce found himself smiling a little.

Mentioning it had been a kind-of permission, but… he was glad it wasn't taken.

Clark kept their secrets.

“So,” he leaned forward onto the front chair again. “Clark said something about corn demons?”

“What?” Kenny said.

“What?” Clark said too, then paused. “Oh, there's uh, that hell gateway over in Stull I think I mentioned.” Clark said.

“Eh, people just like to bullshit about angry ghosts that come out around Halloween.” Pete said.

“Our murder rate just spikes on Halloween,” Bruce said. “Why’s it a hell gateway?”

Said the Jewish boy.

“I have no idea.” Clark admitted.

“Isn't Gotham like one of the biggest crime places in the US?” Pete asked.

“Recently, yeah,” Bruce said, keeping it steady.

“What's it like there?” Pete asked.

“Ever been stabbed?” Kenny followed.

“Jesus, guys.” Clark sighed.

“I would probably not be walking around so great if I'd been stabbed,” Bruce said flatly, thinking of the caning in school, and the dread Tommy and Harv had of going home, and grisly pictures on the front page.

“You two sound like you watch way too much tv.”

“They do.” Clark said flatly.

They pulled into the bowling alley.

It was… very empty. The inside only had two people in staff with the radio playing and an arcade tucked in the corner.

“Same show that told you we were supposed to be out partying when we just snuck out for ice cream?”

Bruce pulled out a handful of bills and handed them to Clark mostly out of habit.

He could probably actually… buy things here without being recognized, maybe. But habit still won this round.

Clark didn't mind, walking up and paying. “Absolutely.”

“Snuck out for ice cream?”

“Didn't think you could get any lamer, Clark.” Kenny chuckled.

...it did make him think, though. A connection he hadn't been able to make, but that he'd made sure to hold onto the pieces, just in case.

“...what they said earlier doesn't happen to have anything to with how easy scaling the wall was for you, right?”

Clark waited until they were away from other prying ears to answer.

“Um, yeah. I might've been kinda… flying. For that.”

Bruce turned and stared at him again.

“What?” He whispered back.

Clark cleared his throat as if embarrassed. “I can fly.”

Bruce is going to need a long time to work through all this.

But right now, he's compartmentalizing like a pro.

“...what else can you do?”

“Uh,” Clark mumbled as he tied his bowling shoes. “I can see through things. Like x-ray vision? And can hear really far. Like--”

He looked up and his eyes glowed blue. “I can see one of the employees back behind the counter picking his nose. And he's humming that really annoying country song that won't stop playing on the radio.”

There was something in that which nagged Bruce. Being watched without being able to tell. Being heard. But--

But he had something to soothe it, a little bit. And confirm.

“I can hear the humming, too,” he said.

Not as a challenge.

But.

He believed Clark.

This was something most people couldn't hear.

And if he could hear that, Bruce would also believe the sight.

Clark looked a little surprised, happy even.

“Really?” He smiled a little, like he suddenly felt less alone.

“And, uh, I try hard to not listen in on private conversations and stuff if it makes you feel better. I don't want to hear everything. It just happens. I have to focus to pay attention to what close.”

...the apology was fine, but the second part still kept him a little on guard.

“Like the teachers meeting with students after class,” he said, and trying to not think of how close some private discussions had been to Clark. “...how far away?”

Clark made a face as though the answer pained him.

“Miles. Like… three miles? More if I focus.”

...not even Bruce’s razor hearing did that.

He felt the knot in his chest tighten almost imperceptibly.

“...but you don't.”

“No. I try to ground myself and focus on what's next to me.” He got up to get a bowling ball. Picked out the heaviest one and twirled it in his hands idly like it didn't weigh a thing.

“I try to keep it to like… a few rooms away sort of hearing. That's the smallest I can get without having to strain myself.”

A few rooms away.

(Kisses don't make sounds, Bruce told himself, but all the same, felt his heart speed up a bit at the memory.)

“A few rooms clearly?” he said, watching how Clark spun the bowling ball as if it were just a basket ball, meant to be tossed around in the air.

He picked up his own ball to wait his turn. It was lighter. But it was still heavy in his lap.

Clark made a face again. Guilty.

“I… I can hear your heartbeat through walls, so. Yeah. Clearly.”

He looked at Bruce, apologetic.

“I'm-- I'm sorry.”

...that.

That was… too much.

He could only hear his own heartbeat in his ears and thundering in his chest, and it was too much for him.

But he couldn't have this conversation here.

He couldn't have it anywhere, maybe.

He couldn't think too hard on that, on his very heartbeat always being listened to, on the illusion of privacy, and the thought of--

He picked up his bowling ball, numb and dead to the world, and with no distractions and a mechanicalness to his movements, he rolled a strike.

They weren't talking about this anymore.

… Clark looked down, not saying a word as Kenny and Pete 'oooed’ over the strike and wrote it down.

They wouldn't bring it up again, talking about random things and trying to nudge Clark back into the conversation. But he didn't say much. He just… rolled his ball a little too fast a little too hard until he got the hang of it again.

And when it was over, no matter who won, they would drive the two back out to the farm.

Bruce kept up what amounted to polite conversation if he was pulled in.

He didn't remember who won.

He didn't remember what they said, or if he shook anyone’s hands as they dropped them off back at the Kent farm.

He wasn't as cold and detached as he'd been that morning, but he knew he was wading further from shore, and that he should pull himself back.

But he didn't want to do that around Clark right now.

Hot tea wouldn't pull back this.

When they pulled back into the farm Clark hung back at the car, if only for a minute.

…

“Thanks assholes, now he hates me.” He hissed and slammed the door a little too hard. It rocked the car and they yelled, but he didn't care.

He walked in behind Bruce and tried to tell his parents yes, they had fun, went bowling, tired now.

Up to his room.

….

Bruce followed.

Up to his room. Guest room. It wasn’t lavish or high quality, but it smelled a little dusty, like the manor, and he could choke on that a little and feel a bit better in the familiar prison of old and carefully preserved items.

‘Granny’ Clark had called it.

(Bruce’s grandparents had died by the time he was born. Parents married late by parents who married late by parents who married late.)

…

He managed to sit on the bed for a full five minutes, hands held carefully in each other and breathing slowly, heart steadying, before he locked it in place.

And he left the room, footsteps quiet as he could make them on the carpet, and went back downstairs.

#aka bruce dissociates in kansas #if i hear a single martha joke i snipe on sight #batman #superman #superbat #80s gay superbat #rp logs #the total visit is like 70 pages lol

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batfamscreaming · 3 years

Text

The Last Night [highschool au]

warnings: long post. Canon-compliant body horror/mutilation, threats of suicide, threats to make it look like a suicide, things that don't die when they should, young Bruce enacting a stupid plan.

masterpost

000

Bruce didn’t come back from the library.

Despite how aware of his surroundings he might have been, he couldn't stop a hand going over his mouth.

A blindfold over his eyes.

Something that made him feel sleepy.

And he was pulled away.

Bruce woke disoriented.

Cold.

He groaned before he thought he should've hidden it, but the thought was far away in the back of his mind as he slowly regained consciousness.

“The prodigal son awakens.” Someone said above him. In front. Their voice echoed.

Bruce was on a slab in the middle of a large room. A circular theatre.

It was filled with people. Staring at him.

… And all of them wore the same white mask off an owl.

...ah.

Here it was.

A cold fog of clarity, instead of a haze to get lost in.

Once he was awake enough to see, he was awake enough to glare, and he set his icy blue eyes on them as he pushed himself up to sit.

“...you guys just sit around and stare at unconscious kids all day?” he asked.

“Only the special ones, Bruce. And you're very special.” The man said, one stood out from the rest in a white suit and black cape.

Bruce could probably feel someone behind him too. Closer than the rest.

Behind him was a man in black and gold, spectacles over his eyes and mask designed like an owl, but different from the rest.

He did feel him, once he'd sat up-- he jerked away, unable to stop himself from showing that weakness once he realized how close that one was standing. Different from the rest. Gloves like claws.

(Talon, his mind told him, with a trickle of ice down his spine, remembering how months ago, the business mongle had been found in his apartment, cut to ribbons.)

...but still, he forced his voice to not shake as he dragged his gaze back to the vacant masks and faces of the Court, and looked up at what he could only assume was the ‘judge’--

And he must've been standing trial.

“So, what?” Bruce asked, wetting his lips. “You going to kill me?”

“Oh no, no, Bruce Wayne. We’re going to recruit you.” The Judge said, his voice as jovial as it had been since the beginning.

The crowd around him was near motionless save for the occasional lean from one to whisper to the other. They were all clearly real people, and all of them well dressed.

Gotham’s Elite.

Just like him.

His throat tightened.

They were nothing like him. Nothing like him, or Tommy, who had suffered, and--

He found his voice loud, even in his own ears, shoving himself off the slab and ready to fight the entire room if he fucking had to. Assassin, no assassin, if it killed him, he didn’t care. He had no friends, and no future, and-- “You killed my parents,” he howled. “As if I would ever let you recruit me!”

As soon as he lunged forward, even if he was nowhere near the Judge, a taloned hand reached down and grabbed his shoulder with enough force to hold him in place, to keep him from running.

“Now who told you that?” The Judge asked. “Why would we ever kill one of our own?”

That stopped him almost as sharply as the hand on his shoulder did. His breath hitched.

He was normally so good at spotting liars, but he couldn’t see their faces. Couldn’t see their eyes. Didn’t even know what their regular voices were like to compare.

But they would have to be lying.

His parents would never work with them.

“You’re lying.”

He grabbed the Talon’s arm, and tried not to think of the knives on their fingers, and tried to throw him over his shoulder in a judo flip.

The Talon hadn’t been ready for the flip initially, but still had more training than Bruce.

Their feet landed before they pulled Bruce with them into a bear hug to keep him still.

“Surely you don’t think even your parents passed up this opportunity?” The Judge asked. “We are Gotham’s richest, just as you are. We decide what happens to our city, not the common riff raff crawling the streets. Your parents worked with us to make Gotham what it is today.”

It wasn’t like being held tight by Clark. The armored body around him moved when he struggled, but still-- still, he couldn’t do anything more than twist in the hold, but not break it, as he started to shake.

“Then how come it all fell apart when they died!?” he said, voice cracking.

His eyes felt hot.

“Even the Court couldn’t hold it together without them!?”

“I’m afraid that’s just another case of correlation not equalling causation.” The Judge said. “Perhaps with your help, you could bring Gotham back to something your parents would be proud of? We can help you. That’s what we do; offer a network of aid to bring Gotham to her full potential.”

“Talon,” the Judge turned his head to address the man bear-hugging Bruce into submission. “Take our guest to his lodgings. Give him time to think.”

The man said nothing as he set Bruce on his feet and shoved him forward.

…

Bruce stopped struggling, watching the Judge with barely-restrained tears. Shaking.

He wobbled on his feet when he was set down and stumbled with the shove.

...but he walked. He walked like he’d gone and drunk a bar dry, but he did it, still feeling the Talon’s arms around him through his clothes and suddenly feeling even colder and more exposed now that his arms were free.

“...you kill people,” he said to the Talon. “Why…”

“To maintain order.” The Talon said, leading Bruce down a series of corridors that became increasingly less lavish as they went.

They came to a steel door and the Talon opened it, but didn’t shove Bruce inside, expecting him to go in willingly.

The interior was nice for what it was. A comfortable bed. A desk with a light.

He was still one of Gotham’s Elite, after all.

“What about their families?” he asked, though he thought he knew the answer.

He was lightheaded.

Dizzy.

He went in, and stood just on the inside, feeling cold and empty.

If he was waiting on an answer he wouldn’t get one.

The Talon closed the door and it clicked heavily as it locked, and then he walked away.

…

Bruce couldn’t even hear his footsteps leaving.

...he wanted to throw up. But he just stood there. Dazed and shaking, and throat dry. No one knew where he was. He didn’t know where he was. No one knew the court, or would give Alfred closure, or be able to do anything if he disappeared down here.

No one would find his body if they wanted to get rid of him. A hole in his neck, just like mom’s.

“...Clark,” he croaked.

“Clark. Clark. Clark…”

… Clark would hear him.

Clark would hear him walking back to their dorm and stop dead in his tracks.

He knew the voice and it sounded so desperate, and suddenly he had forgotten the stabbing in his heart and was turning to run in the direction of it.

Ignoring whoever it was that just yelled at him for running.

He ran to where he thought it was coming from, but-- but that couldn’t be it. It was a dead end. So he circled back.

Another dead end.

It didn’t make sense.

How the fu-...

He started to look harder.

At some point, Bruce found himself on the floor, curled over his knees and pressing his palms into his eyes.

Were there cameras in here? Were there microphones? Would it matter right now?

“Clark, please, I don’t know where I am… I need help, please don’t have your hearing aids in right now, oh, fuck…”

Clark might have looked a little insane staring at the floor and seeing his friend miles down and sort of… throwing up his hands.

Okay.

Uh.

…

Clark snuck out of the school and found his way into the sewers.

Ew.

It was as far down as he could get.

And then his eyes glowed red.

...at some point, Bruce stopped calling for help.

At some point, he just started talking.

Talking into his hands.

“I’m sorry about the bathroom. I was trying to scare you. I don’t know if you can hear but if you can I’m so sorry if you don’t hear from me again--”

He was going to do something stupid.

“--I might join them.”

Clark had no idea what Bruce was talking about. The Court of Owls was so far from his mind right now, he assumed maybe Bruce had been snooping around somewhere and got stuck or something and--

And soon the walls around him shook.

Clark didn’t drill down right over Bruce. He didn’t want to hurt him or have anything collapse around him, but that meant he didn’t really know what he was getting into. He couldn’t use heat vision and x-ray at the same time. So he just… guessed and then blew downward.

He landed somewhere with carpet and a loud thud, breathing heavily.

He had taken off his uniform and wrapped a bandana around his face to help with the smell and dust.

And he knew he had seen other skeletons down here before digging downward, but he didn’t know what that meant.

...Bruce felt it.

Felt the slight tremor in the walls. In the floor.

His head jerked upwards.

Oh no.

Clark had heard him.

“Shit-- shit, Clark!” he said, a little louder, still scared of being heard outside the door, now actually looking for cameras, he’d said the name too many times, though-- “Clark, don’t let them see you! They can take you away!”

There was really no way he hadn’t been heard, but--

He still tripped and stumbled over the rubble before giving up and just flying over it.

(Hide your face when you do it. Be so alien they can’t guess it’s you.)

Clark made sure the bandana over his face was still there and flew to where he could hear Bruce’s voice.

Fuck. Shit. Bruce didn’t know what to do, but the daze in his head had been replaced by the knowledge that Clark was coming, and he needed to find some way to help keep him safe.

He started trying the door, trying to shove it open or tug it that way, and when it didn’t budge, he banged on it. “Hey. Talon! Where the fuck are you!”

Talon is here, Clark, Talon is here, you heard the name, you know, okay--

Talon?? What??

Clark was just starting to wrap his head around what this place was, red carpets and tall pillars, when he saw Talon.

And Talon saw him. Floating.

They were both pretty unprepared.

But Talon was trained.

Bruce wouldn't see it, but he would hear it.

Clark yelling, startled. A scuffle. Something big and heavy being thrown into a wall.

…

And then Clark's face in front of the window of the door, his hair full of dust and face covered.

“Bruce! What the crap!”

Bruce stared back at him, eyes wide and afraid.

“Clark! Open the door!”

Clark tried the handle and pulled.

But the handle just ripped off.

… Okay.

Clark took a breath and shoved his hands through the sides where the door connected to the wall and pulled the whole thing off.

Good.

Bruce was already shoving himself against the floating alien, hugging him tight.

“Oh, God, oh, shit. Are you okay?!” he hissed, eyes flicking over Clark’s shoulder, looking for Talon--

Clark's shirt was torn up, but he looked fine as his arms wrapped around Bruce.

“Y-yeah, I'm--”

His head snapped back as he heard Talon get up with a groan behind him, body slumped in front of a massive dent in the wall.

At the groan, Bruce shoved out of Clark’s arms, and--

And shoved Clark behind him.

“Stay down,” he hissed, voice sharp and strong again, now that-- now that his friend was here. “If you try to touch him again I’ll bite through my tongue and you’ll lose a recruit just like that.”

“What?” Clark breathed, because-- because there was so much going on right now.

“We're leaving!” He yelled, grabbing Bruce again and pulling him close with a grip that said he didn't have a choice.

Talon was getting to his feet.

Bruce sucked in a breath as he was grabbed.

“No-- no! I need to know who..”

But he wouldn’t have a choice. Not with Clark’s iron grip on him. And not with his life not even enough to dissuade Talon.

Clark grabbed him tight and they were flying. Flying past startled court members with masks, away from Talon. Away from all of it.

When they got to the hole Clark made he said “take a breath!”

And they shot up.

It was like a rollercoaster in reverse, enough to take his breath away.

Bruce clung tight, sucking in a breath when Clark told him to and squeezing his eyes shut.

He pressed himself as hard as he could against the only solid thing he knew, and hid his face in Clark’s torn collar as they went.

“North,” Bruce told him, croaking. “Not school. School’s not safe--”

Clark heard him.

They shot out of the hole in the sewer and then up and out the manhole before anyone would tell who, or what, it was.

And then he leveled out and slowed down. They were too high for prying eyes to be able to tell what they were.

Headed North.

“Bruce, what the hell was that?” Clark asked, his bandanna long fallen off his face to hang around his neck.

Bruce still clung around Clark, shivering in the high altitude.

“The Owls,” he finally croaked. “Someone drugged me.”

His expression softened.

“... It’s okay. I’ve got you now.”

Clark hoped that was comforting.

Bruce nodded against Clark.

“...I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

…

“I know. I heard you.”

…

“You were right though. I was jealous of Tommy. So I’m sorry too.”

A shudder he couldn’t control ran through Bruce’s body.

“...don’t be. It’s fine. I didn’t…”

Everything was so wound up inside him. Or maybe that was lightheadedness.

“You don’t have to be jealous of people I don’t like like that.”

“I know. Just--”

…

He sighed. “It’s okay.”

(I know you don’t feel that way about me.)

“I understand.”

Bruce nodded against Clark again, and tried to hold in a sniff.

Arms still wrapped around Clark and suspended so far up they would barely be specks from the ground, Bruce pulled himself up a little in Clark’s grip. And kissed him.

(Everyone wanted something from him. His money, or status, or looks, or… or for Tommy, all three. All three and his dead parents.

And Clark had still come for him, even when Bruce had ripped all of those away and chased him far away.

And he was alive.)

Just like before Clark was a deer in headlights, eyes wide as Bruce put his lips on his. His grip stayed true, growing a little tighter around him, holding him close.

And like last time he closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss as they slowed down in the sky.

Bruce didn’t pull back this time.

...not that there was anywhere to pull back to, and he was very keenly aware of this, his legs dangling down with nothing to support him but the arms tight around his waist and his own grip around Clark’s shoulders.

….this kiss was gentler than the last one Bruce had given Clark. Slower. Like an apology. It was sweet.

When Clark pressed in he opened his mouth a little and tried to guide him through it.

Clark had never kissed someone like this before. It was nothing like sneaking a kiss from a girl break home when he was younger, hoping you did it right and having to take the lead.

… It was nice following for once.

He opened his mouth and followed along, slowly coming to a stop and bringing his legs down so Bruce could use him to lay on rather than hang over the city. And with Bruce's body supported by him underneath he could allow one hand to wander a little.

To feel his black hair.

Bruce could lead. He'd--

...he'd done a lot of kissing, the last two months, trying to forget the softness of Clark’s mouth.

He was still very, very aware of the fall below him, and the fact that even though his weight now fell a little more on Clark's waist, one of the arms holding him had still moved away.

His breathing grew a little deeper as he felt the hand reemerge in his hair, and pulled away just to get a deeper breath from the thin air.

Clark pulled away when Bruce did still looking a little dazed. Happy, but dazed. His hand slipped down, feeling the back of Bruce's neck.

Gentle.

“Okay,” he breathed, “Guess I don't understand.” He smirked.

Bruce frowned at him, though it wasn't an angry one. He swallowed. Clark would feel it under his hand.

“What don't you understand?”

“Thought you didn't like me like that.” He said quietly.

...Bruce finally grimaces, and tries to look away, but there's nowhere to look to but sky.

“...said you didn't have to be jealous of people I didn't like like that.”

“I know, but-- I didn't know that meant-- that meant I meant anything.” He looked down at the world below.

“That's ‘cause you're an idiot,” Bruce said, and leaned up to give him a tentative kiss again

Clark laughed into the second kiss, taking the jab in stride.

...as nice as it was, it would all have to end soon.

He was slowly growing colder in the sky, even when they weren't moving, and even with Clark under him. He was starting to shiver more, even though he refused to complain.

And they… they needed to get down, somehow, and find somewhere safe.

They couldn't go back to school. Not when Bruce had been kidnapped right in the library, in a bastion of the Gotham Elite.

The manor was nearby, but…

...but he didn't know if he could trust Alfred, after this.

But… for right now…

“Come on,” he whispered. “I think I know somewhere we can hide.”

He could feel Bruce shivering even if he didn't complain.

“Okay,” Clark said, grabbing Bruce with both arms again and starting to fly.

“Just tell me where.”

Bruce nodded and sniffed a bit, and told him.

...he told him how to find the little cave entrance, on the side of a hill, with a brick ring built around it to try and stop wandering children from falling in anymore.

It was too small to fly in together, so Bruce slid down first, into the cool, dark cave.

“No one else knows about it down here. Alfred only saw it once. He doesn't know I come back. It should be safe…”

He hoped it was.

Clark flew in behind him.

“... So what happened? I just heard you calling me and you were way down under even the sewers.”

Under the sewers? They must've been underwater almost, at that depth so near the shore.

“...” the cave was dark, despite the stream of sunlight coming down the hole. Bruce had left a box of things down here, though; an oil lantern among them.

He lit it, and relaxed when the wick wasn't too wet to work.

“...I was drugged,” he said again. “...I woke up in the court. And we talked.”

“... What did they say?”

...Bruce remembered the familiar tailor of the suits. The expense of the hideout.

He swallowed.

“...they said my family was one of them. They didn't kill them.”

“... What?” Clark breathed. “Wh-why?”

“...” Bruce knew very well why. But he also was very aware that it was something Kent had previously been defensive about. “...because the rich control the city. Not the ‘riff-raff’. And they want to keep it that way.”

“...and my family's one of the oldest in Gotham.”

(I might join them.)

Clark found himself flying around to hover beside Bruce, eyes catching the light of the lantern in the dark.

“You’re not going to join them, right? They kill people.”

“I know,” Bruce said right away, trying to look up at Clark, but not able to really meet his eyes. “...but if I'm in charge, maybe I can control them.”

The way he'd controlled Tommy. The way he'd held him back.

“Yeah? And how long will that take? To get to the top? Bruce that’d take years. Years of killing people just because they aren’t building things where you want or putting their money where you don’t agree with!”

He bit his cheek. “And what's my other option, Kent?”

“Even if I don't join, people are still going to die-- and I won't be a step closer to stopping it.”

“You’ve got so much you could use to help people, to keep them from dying.” Clark said. “Maybe you can’t fly or shoot fire from your eyes, but you have a name. You have money. Don’t be like every other rich person and throw that money towards your friends. You know that’s what they’re doing. They just pat each other on the back and kill anyone trying to make a difference!”

“You can make a bigger difference then even someone like me can, Bruce.”

“You think I don't know?”

God. He didn't mean for his voice to get so angry it cracked.

“That's what my mother was doing when she died.”

He flung his arm out, out towards the ceiling. “Why do you think we’re in this cave? Because they have names, they have money, and if they don't see me as a threat, maybe I can use what they throw away to fix this stupid city.”

His face was wet.

“You don’t know if they were even telling the truth, Bruce!” Clark said, still floating in front of him. “You know they’re the type of people to say anything that will make you want to join them. And then what? You join them and wade in the blood they spill right along beside them trying to soak it up with a paper towel?”

“You would still be responsible!”

Bruce flinched.

“...I know…” he said softly, head falling down again. “...I'm prepared for that. I just…”

His voice cracked again.

“I knew some of them, Clark. They're my neighbors. They can't… they won't go to jail, even if I find proof, I can't…”

“...I can't think of how to get rid of them..”

… Clark finally landed in front of him.

He started to grasp at straws.

“Can’t you just tell them you’ll stay out of their way? Even though you won’t join them?”

Bruce looked up at him, exhausted. “...if I can't trust them to tell the truth about my parents, why should I trust them with my life when I know I'll be getting in their way?”

“I won't stop getting in their way.”

Control.

Clark was rubbing his hands together.

Nervous.

“I’ll protect you. I’ll be your bodyguard. Not even that Talon guy could scratch me, see?” He smiled, forced, and held out his arms.

Torn shirt and not a scratch underneath.

Bruce reached up and pulled Clark’s hand away from his stomach. Furious.

“He could've disemboweled you!”

“He didn’t!” Clark said. “I felt his claws and they were a little sharp but-- look!”

He tugged off his shirt and pointed at the barely visible red lines.

“It was nothing! I’ve been shot and it’s hurt more! I’ll be fine!”

He was getting desperate.

Begging his friend and pulling at straws to keep Bruce from joining them.

Bruce was staring at the lines, shaking.

“Clark,” he whispered. “I don't even know if I can trust Alfred’s not one of them right now, okay?”

… Clark gripped his shirt, holding it against his chest as he looked down at Bruce.

He had no other excuses.

“Don’t.” Is all he could manage, barely a whisper.

...Bruce felt like the bathroom all over again. Staring up at Clark. Doing something dumb and heart-pounding to try and feel like it made a difference.

“...are you worried about their victims?” he asked, voice soft. “Or about me?”

“Both.” Clark said, then quieter; “You.”

...Bruce lifted his hands and ran his shaking fingers across Clark’s cheek.

“...save the bias for journalism,” he murmured, leaning in for another kiss. “I'm not going right now.”

Clark leaned into Bruce’s hand, reaching up to cup it under his own against his face while leaning down into the kiss.

“I don’t want you to go at all.” He whispered, sounding like he was about to cry. “Don’t do it.”

… But he had no alternatives to suggest.

...Bruce didn't, either. Not if he wanted to stay in Gotham.

He could run, but he was under aged, without access to his parents’ fortune. Underage and famous. He wouldn't get far like that.

He could stay and make Clark be his bodyguard, but he didn't want to be responsible for the pain when one day Clark failed.

And god, he couldn't believe the Owls would let them walk away after that exit. That Bruce could lie and say he wouldn't get in the way would ultimately just buy temporary time.

If he wanted to stay in Gotham right now with Clark, he had to try to appease them somehow.

And they'd only wanted one thing.

(Always. Always, someone wanted something from him.)

So Bruce kissed back. Harder. Hands betraying his nerves as he gripped onto Clark’s unyielding arms.

“They could lock you up,” Bruce said, shaky. “I won't let them…”

Clark breathed heavier into the kiss, trying not to cry as his hands found Bruce's hips and gripped them with a gentleness that betrayed his strength.

“They don't have to know it's me. You said I could hide my face. They-- they don't need to know--”

Begging.

“I was calling your name….” Bruce whispered. “Please, Clark, I can’t lose someone again…”

Clark finally choked out a sob and wrapped his arms around Bruce, pulling him closer and shoving his face into Bruce's neck.

“I can deal with them, I--”

He had nothing left to offer.

…

Bruce just held him. Tight.

...he felt cold and empty inside. But he didn’t let go.

“...I found them. I have to try and control them…”

He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince anymore.

Clark cried. He cried into Bruce's neck and held him tight and didn't know what else to say. He didn't know what to do.

So while he had him, he just held onto Bruce and didn't let go.

…

Bruce didn’t know how long they were down there. Or how long Clark cried.

He was numb again. And all he knew was the arms were around him, and he was holding Clark tight as the sun went down, and soon, the only light was his lamplight, without even the flicker of stars.

“...it’s late…” he said, quiet. Tired and getting hungry and sore.

Clark had barely stopped holding him since they got down in the cave.

“... What do you wanna do?” He asked quietly.

Where were they supposed to go?

…

He didn’t know.

“...let’s get food,” he said, “and something to hide your face with. ...And then we should go.”

… Clark sniffed and nodded, finally peeling himself from Bruce as he tugged his tattered shirt back on.

“I'm not leaving you tonight.” He said, wanting to be sure Bruce knew that.

… “Thanks,” Bruce said, voice a little hoarse.

“...I’m going to need your help getting back up the well…”

...he stepped in close again, for a different sort of hug as they got up.

Clark nodded again and put his arms around Bruce, flying him up out of the well and setting him on his feet in the dying grass around it.

...it was still dark out, but not as dark as the cave.

In the far distance, there was a silhouette. Taller than the trees or fields around them. A house: massive and spired.

In front of it were flashing lights. Police cars.

...Bruce watched on with trepidation.

“...they reported me missing,” he said.

“... If Alfred were part of the Owls do you think he would’ve reported you?” Clark asked.

“Why wouldn't he?” Bruce asked, not sure. “There's not a clean cop in Gotham.”

Clark just sighed and took Bruce’s word for it. “... Whaddya wanna do?”

“...interstate gas station?” he suggested.

Food. Something to hide Clark’s face. New shirt.

They didn't need much.

“Okay,” he said. “Want me to fly us there or…?”

He nodded.

“....can't get out of the manor grounds, otherwise…”

Fenced in. Worse than school.

Fenced in everywhere but Kansas.

Clark offered his arms. “Just tell me what direction to go in.”

He would.

It was easy to spot the interstate at night, and the little clusters of buildings that sprung up along it. And--

And it was so different from the daytime flight. Bruce found his breath catching as they flew over the lights of outskirts and the rivers below.

Even Clark looked around as they flew.

“... Never been over a city before.”

But he didn’t linger, not like he had on their way there when Bruce kissed him.

He landed somewhere they wouldn’t be seen by the gas station.

Bruce stripped off his coat once they landed and handed it to Clark, to help cover his torn shirt.

“Can you see okay without your glasses?” he asked.

“I’m a little far-sighted.” Clark said, tugging on the jacket.

It was kinda tight.

He pulled off his glasses and held them out to Bruce, assuming he wanted them for a disguise.

Yeah, he did.

He put on the glasses and relaxed a little.

… “It’ll do, hopefully.”

They looked at least sort of different, and he didn’t think the Court would look at this one random gas station, of all places, right?

Right.

Hopefully.

Clark followed him into the gas station.

The attendant didn’t even look up.

Good.

Bruce grabbed some food and a shirt, and a ski mask (bad winters) and gestured for Clark to pick something to eat out, too.

Clark grabbed a gross gas station hotdog and a soda for himself.

He would pay too with the money Bruce gave him, just in case the guy behind the counter did recognize Bruce.

That was fine.

Routine. Habit.

Bruce just stood behind people while they operated for him.

He wondered if owls did that.

“...wanna eat on the curb?” he asked as they left.

“Sure,” Clark said, walking out with him.

He found a spot that didn’t look as dirty and sat down. Pulled out his hotdog to start eating.

…

“You feelin’ okay?”

…

Bruce opened the sandwich he’d taken from the freezer section and took a bite.

“...I dunno if I’m feeling anything really right now.”

… Clark nodded and took a bite from his hotdog.

“Yeah. I dunno what I’m feelin’ either right now.”

…

Bruce reached over and tried to find Clark's hand. To squeeze it.

“...I'm sorry. Please don't hate me for this.”

Clark looked down at their hands and gave Bruce’s a squeeze back. “I won’t-- I--”

He felt his eyes get hot again and tried not to cry.

“... Just promise me you’ll get out. If you find a chance. Just get out.”

...Bruce nodded.

“...I will. I just…”

…

He curled up a bit again, like he'd done on the bus.

“...All I can think of is leaving Gotham. And I don't want to.”

He'd told Clark he did.

That he was going to run.

But he wasn't going to be chased.

“You can’t do that until you’re 18 anyway, right?” Clark said, still holding his hand.

… “not without permission,” Bruce said, swallowing hard, and glancing back at the way they'd come.

Clark sighed and looked down at his hotdog.

He wasn’t hungry despite everything.

…

“What’d we do after this? Are you going back to them?”

...Bruce nodded.

“...see if I have something they want,” he said.

Just think of it like economics.

“... Do you want me to be there with you? Or do you not think…”

Would they not accept him if the guy who plowed into their court was beside him?

Bruce tried to smile reassuringly, but it fell flat, and he let it wilt.

“...I want you there, yeah, but… I don't think it'll be a good idea.”

… “I’ll be close.” Clark said, face turning serious.

“I’ll be close and if they do anything I’ll see it and come.” His eyes looked over to meet Bruce’s.

…he'd see it, there.

The fear that never left Bruce, dragged to the surface.

The relief that he wouldn't be alone.

He nodded.

“...okay. I trust you.”

Clark smiled, even if it didn't last very long.

He held Bruce's hand while they ate and wondered if his friend would be able to stay himself even after joining the Owls.

(It wouldn't be so bad to stay someone else, as long as no one else died.)

Bruce finished his sandwich. Threw the wrapper away from where they sat.

And he waited, quietly, for Clark to finish, too, watching the stars out here that came out more than in middle Gotham.

...why did it feel like his last night?

He wasn't going to get himself locked in that little holding room forever--

It really did feel like Bruce’s last night, even if in theory they would accept him and… little would change in their day-to-day lives.

When they were both done eating it would take a lot of strength to stand up.

But they both had to. If this was going to have an end. They had to both stand up.

And Clark would have to watch Bruce walk into the fire.

It wasn't Aristotle who said it, but Bruce couldn't remember anyone else right now.

Bravery isn't the lack of fear, but the confrontation of it.

...but all the same, he wished he'd been a little bolder-feeling as Clark brought him back to the entrance of the shaft, and he made his slow descent down, leaving the upperworld behind.

He dusted himself off without much thought once he slid from the broken wall into the spacious chamber of red carpet and pillars, and looked around slowly.

“...hello? Is anyone still here?”

There was no one there when he arrived. The hole hadn’t been cleaned up from Clark’s entrance, but Bruce would know he was being watched.

Bruce could feel it. Prickles on his skin.

Familiar. Being watched.

Bluff. Hands on his sides. Impatient.

“I can hear you breathing. You may as well come out.”

… His bluff went unanswered.

It would be another minute before he would hear footsteps.

Talon walked around the corner to face him.

“Follow me.”

...at least it got him in the light.

...he didn't let himself look back at the hole he'd crawled down through.

He followed Talon.

Talon lead him to a smaller room. Opened the door to a lavish office with wood and soft red carpet that matched the rest of their underground facility. The Judge was sat behind a large desk.

“Ah, he returns.” He said, standing up.

“What, can't use the prodigal son line twice?” Bruce asked, strolling in with his head held higher than before. Eyes sharp again.

He was so fucking aware of the Talon at his back.

“...what you said about my parents. Was it true?”

“Oh I think the prodigal son title is only saved for those who are… eligible in joining our little organization.” The Judge said, and as soon as he was finished the Talon was grabbing Bruce’s neck.

Bruce lunged forward for the Judge’s mask as the word ‘eligible’ died, but was caught mid-air, choking.

One hand tried to pry the fingers off his windpipe in animal desperation.

The other grabbed for the Talon’s mask instead.

The Talon’s mask was cloth, attached to the rest of his suit. Bruce could feel it ripping a little at the clasps by his neck. He pushed Bruce down on the floor and grabbed for one of the sharp throwing knives strapped to his sides.

“I don’t know what it was you had come grab you the first time, but you’re really a fool for coming here again. I’m afraid our offer has expired.” The Judge said, rounding the desk so he could get closer.

But not too close.

Bruce didn't let go.

He needed at least one face.

One way for it to not be everyone he knew--

But he still glared up at the Judge, choking and struggling on the floor.

“Can't negotiate-- if it's fair--huh?” he choked out.

Clark was watching for him.

“You'll wish you had me--”

He’d get one face, the fabric eventually tearing off to reveal… no one he knew.

A nobody, their face generic and plain save for a scar across their lip. They weren’t a part of The Elite.

“Won’t it be a shame when your butler finds you tomorrow morning, bled out in your bathtub from slit wrists?” The Judge said, and Talon pinned down one of Bruce’s arms with his leg.

His heart started to pound a little faster.

The pinned arm was shaking. He'd given his jacket over at the gas station, and though he'd returned the glasses he hadn't taken the jacket back--

The Judge could see the scars on his arm.

Where was Clark?

“That doesn't even make sense for him to find me in the manor--” he said, not sure why. Adrenaline? Fear?

Clark said he'd be watching--

“No? It doesn’t make sense that Bruce Wayne, overwhelmed with all that has happened to him, would run home and--”

The Judge never finished his sentence.

The wall exploded in pieces of wood and drywall and the weight on Bruce was yanked off him.

Oh god. Oh god.

Bruce was up on his feet and running, tackling into the Judge with every one of his 150 pounds, ripping the mask off his face.

The Judge was trying to fight him off, but it was clear he was no fighter, and soon enough Bruce had the mask ripped off.

He would recognize the face behind it. A Galavan, teeth grit and hands reaching to grab Bruce by the throat and get him off or choke him to death himself.

Behind him, through yet another wall Clark had crashed through, there was heat.

And screaming.

He had a face.

And he reeled back and hit Galavan as hard as he could across the face, until his knuckles hurt.

But the screaming stopped him from--

From keeping it up.

He shoved away, still gripping the mask, suddenly thinking of he burnt off their arms.

The Judge wasn’t moving. Alive, but unconscious from Bruce’s onslaught.

But behind him, through another wall into a whole separate room, Clark stood heaving with his hands over his eyes, and a smoking Talon at his feet, unmoving.

Bruce ran towards him. Shaking.

“Clark..?” he whispered, too quiet to even hear himself, scared that there might still be someone around.

He knelt beside Clark, rubbing his back, trying to wrap an arm around him.

Trying to pull his eyes from the Talon’s body.

He suddenly wished he hadn't removed the mask.

Maybe he wouldn't have to see the dead eyes. The same glassy gaze.

The--

The…

Oh god.

“Get up,” Bruce said, voice speaking into a break. “Get up, there's something wrong--”

Clark wore the ski mask Bruce had gotten him. The ski mask and the bandana around his mouth. Around the eyes was burning and still red with cinders as he tried to breathe and get to his feet.

“He won’t-- he won’t hurt you again--” Clark mumbled out.

Rationalizing it in his brain.

Bruce knew what dead bodies looked like.

He grabbed Clark by the shoulder, trying to haul him upright faster. “Shut up, get up, shh--”

The hand was moving.

“He's not dead!”

Clark’s eyes went down to the body.

Moving.

When it looked like that.

His eyes went wide and he felt himself stop breathing.

Before he knew it he was grabbing Bruce again to fly them out.

Bruce didn't protest.

Not at all.

He was already clinging tight to Clark, shaking, with the mask still clutched in one hand against his chest.

“M-manor,” Bruce said. “K-keep your hat on.”

He had to know now, now that plan A was spent.

If Alfred was with them, he needed to know, before Alfred got word of what had happened.

Clark flew.

He flew out of the hole he had made into the room and towards the massive hole he had made from the sewers.

But then he paused.

“I- I should destroy this place…”

Even if he didn’t know how.

Bruce turned, shaking, though not with cold.

“We don't kill,” he breathed, gripping Clark tighter. “We’re not killers.”

Clark looked at him, mouth tight, and nodded.

He flew them out of the hole.

Out of the sewer.

They went to the Manor.

...Bruce had stopped shaking by the time they touched down.

The police cars were gone, now.

It was late in the night.

Everything inside him had gotten carved out and scooped from him, leaving a bare shell that didn't even feel scared anymore as he rang the manor doorbell.

“Don't let him see you right away. Not until we know,” he said numbly, still holding the smooth mask between his fingers.

“Okay.” Clark said quietly, dropping Bruce on his feet and then flying away and off to the side.

Bruce would tell him if it was fine to come down. And if things started going south… he would be there.

Bruce took a deep breath and waited.

...a few moments later, the door opened.

An older man with a thin layer of hair on the top of his head and a thinning mustache opened the door--

--and nearly fell to his knees, pulling Bruce into a hug, to complete shock on Bruce's face.

“Master Bruce! You've had me worried sick!”

Clark waited where he was, hovering up and to the right out of immediate sight.

(No one ever looked up.)

He wanted to believe Alfred was genuine, if not because that sounded very sincere but also… he didn’t want Bruce to lose his guardian too.

Bruce didn't think he could handle losing another person.

He held stiff in the hug until Alfred pulled away, asking, “where have you been?”

“...I needed to get out,” Bruce says, exhaustion in his voice despite everything. “...and I found something. Do you know what it is…?”

Alfred seemed a little taken aback by the question, but was listening. “That isn't… an explanation, Master Bruce, for what caused this wild goose chase…”

But Bruce ignored him and stretched his arm out first.

Letting Alfred see the cracked mask.

… Clark wasn’t sure if this was a safe way to tell. Alfred could lie. He could lie and say he didn’t have any idea what it was.

Even so Clark paid attention to Alfred heartbeat.

It sometimes sounded different when people lied, and sometimes he could tell.

Only sometimes.

Maybe it wasn't. But at least Bruce could see Alfred’s face. Could watch his pupils dilate and the sternness of his mouth.

(And Alfred’s heart rate would not change.

It was already beating like Bruce’s. Like it was already in a waking nightmare.)

“It-- it appears to be a replica of one of your father’s artifacts, Master Bruce, but what does that have to do with--”

(Bruce lost his grip on the mask.)

Oh no.

Oh no oh no oh no.

Despite being told to stay out of sight Clark found himself starting to lower down whether he caught Alfred’s attention or not.

“Bruce…”

He did catch Alfred’s attention.

And Alfred caugh Bruce’s arm, tugging him behind himself defensively and his other arm reaching for something in his suit.

“Who’s there?!”

Bruce grabbed the elbow of the arm in Alfred’s suit, trying to not let him pull it out.

“It's fine! He's a friend!”

Clark stopped where he was, putting his hands up in a show of surrender.

Not that flying eight feet off the ground really helped him appear harmless.

Or the ski mask.

...Alfred was indeed staring right at him, floating eight feet off the ground in a ski mask.

...but somehow, his heartbeat slowed a little at Bruce’s insistence, and he released whatever he'd been trying to take from inside his suit.

“...you always did have the most interesting taste in friends,” Alfred said, straight-faced.

“...” he looked back at the sixteen year old still grabbing onto his arm.

Even with something like this, it seemed like a long time since Bruce let himself be touched.

“...very well. Both of you. Inside. I want some kind of explanation before bed tonight, but we can't very well do it out here.”

… Clark hovered a little lower.

“Is-- is this okay?” He asked uneasily.

Did he trust Alfred?

Bruce still looked like he might shake apart.

But he nodded.

He hadn't seen anything but confusion in Alfred’s eyes at the mask.

The only other way to tell would be hard evidence that was surely hidden away or-- or mind reading, maybe.

But right now he just wanted to fall over.

“... Okay.”

Clark reached up to pull off the ski mask and bandana.

“Sorry for the startle, sir.”

Alfred’s eyes softened a little when he saw the youth under the mask.

“...nothing worse than what I've already been through tonight, young man. Now get inside, the both of you.”

He ushered them in, and locked the door behind them.

Clark finally touched down beside Bruce as they walked inside and looked around.

Even the entrance was huge and ridiculous and nothing he had ever seen before.

“Wow.”

There was a chandelier in the entryway, flanked by two large split-section marble staircases. There were bright, long carpets and healthy plants on podiums, growing long and beginning to blossom for spring.

This was where Bruce lived, whenever he went home for a long, lonely break.

But Alfred ushered them off to the side, rather than up the split staircase, into a little wooden side door that led to a modest kitchen. It was more modern than the entryway, with industrial sinks and stoves, but Alfred simply used one small burner to put a kettle of water on it, and gestured for Clark and Bruce to take a seat at a small wooden table in the side of the room, where Alfred usually ate.

There were only two chairs. Never any guests to fill them.

“Now,” Alfred said, starting to prepare two mugs for tea. “What is going on? Why aren't you at school?”

Clark glanced over at Bruce, then to Alfred.

They were trusting him, right?

“He-- I don’t think he can go back to school, sir.”

Alfred’s face grew a little more grave, and Bruce knew what he was thinking, and it curled inside him.

“I didn't fight anyone,” he mumbled, indignant. Hands clenched. “I found the Court of Owls.”

The graveness left Alfred’s face for the concern of someone who thought an argument had been long, long over, and who'd just had it opened up again at the worst possible moment. “Master Bruce, we’ve been over this, the court isn't real.”

Clark jumped to his friend's defense.

“They are! We've been digging into it and then they popped out of nowhere and kidnapped him! They threatened him! Tried to kill him!”

Alfred watched him, on one hand accepting that this boy had been flying a few minutes ago. On the other hand…

“Master Bruce?”

…

Without making eye contact, Bruce started to tug up his shirt sleeves.

Tug down his collar.

He had freshly-formed bruises ringing around the outside of his arms from where Talon had grappled him and held him still-- and two distinct finger marks on his neck, from where he'd been grabbed and shoved down on the floor, when they'd wanted to cut his wrists.

“Gracious--” Alfred was already leaning in to hover and get a closer look.

“... He's not making it up.” Clark said, quieter this time. He watched as Alfred inspected the bruises on Bruce's body.

“I heard him calling for help. They have a huge thing--” he gestured with his hands, “--under Gotham. Like a big underground mansion, and they tried to recruit him, and, so, I busted him out but we knew they'd just come back for him so--” He was rambling now.

“Please,” Alfred said, looking away from Bruce, holding a gentle hand to Clark. “Calm yourself. You’ve both had a long night.”

...he slips up and away to fill the two mugs with hot water, and sets them before the two boys steep.

He has no chair to sit on, but so he leans forward on the table, frowning, and looks between them both.

“Tell me everything, from the beginning.”

...and so Bruce does.

How they'd picked up looking for the owls again after the murder in fall. How Bruce had been on his way to the library when he was knocked unconscious. How he woke in a room with people wearing those masks, inviting him to culminate his interest, that they'd locked him away to ‘think about it’ and he'd called for Clark, who came--

But that's where his ability to keep his voice steady stops.

“They said… they said my parents were one of them.”

And he looks at the mask, still lying on the kitchen table between him and Clark, where Alfred had set it after picking it up and ushering them in.

Clark fell quiet and let Bruce do all the talking. When his voice started to shake Clark moved a hand out and…

… and he wanted to take Bruce’s hand and squeeze it, but he didn’t want to do that in front of someone he didn’t know. Boys didn’t do that with one another.

So instead he put his hand gently on Bruce’s shoulder.

He didn’t think to ask if Alfred knew if Bruce’s parents were or not, he didn’t know how long he had been around, but he wished someone could tell Bruce they weren’t at least for his friend’s peace of mind.

Under Alfred’s gaze, Bruce--

Bruce tugged away from Clark’s hand. Like he'd been burnt.

Alfred didn't find anything strange about that, even though he wished he could.

But he didn't try to touch Bruce either as he knelt down in front of him, face stern.

“Your parents would have loathed any sort of group such as that.”

“You recognized the mask.”

“And I can think of a million reasons why it is a coincidence,” Alfred said. “And surely you could as well, if you weren't exhausted and strung-out right now. So we will forgive that, won't we?”

Ah. Okay. Even that was too much, he guessed.

Clark pulled his hand away and set it in his lap, his chest feeling tight and his stomach turning.

“They probably said it so you’d join.” Clark offered, hoping it helped some.

Alfred gave Clark a small, approving nod in thanks.

Bruce was just trying to keep the knot down in his chest.

“...right,” he said, as if it hurt to say anything. The doubt had still been put in his mind. “...We hid to find out what to do. And we went back after a while.”

“Why in the world would you do that?” Alfred asked, voice soft, but accepting the continuation of the story.

“... Didn’t… think they’d stop trying to recruit him.” Clark added, his hands folded and resting in his lap.

“And?” Alfred said.

“...they stopped,” Bruce said softly. “But they might be coming after us, now.”

...Alfred could be a target too, if he wasn't with the owls.

Even if all they really wanted was to make him find Bruce and I looked like a suicide.

“We might’ve made them kinda mad.” Clark admitted, then cleared his throat.

He had, really. Bruce had just called for him, it was his fault they had multiple huge holes in their hideout now. And… whatever it was that had happened to Talon.

He thought he had killed him, and he went into the situation being okay with that if it meant saving his friend, but after what he saw…

…

(Bruce wondered if it was the first time Clark saw a human body)

(If he knew what it smelled like)

Alfred watched them with a grim face, and said, “I see.”

He sighed stood again, placing his hands on their shoulders. One on Clark’s, and the other on Bruce's, who twitched but didn't pull away.

“I'll be making some phone calls,” Alfred said. “Master Kent, I can't thank you enough for saving Bruce, but you've also put yourself in danger, unfortunately, in the process--”

“They don't know it was him,” Bruce said softly, and Alfred stopped speaking to look at him again. “...Galavan called him a ‘thing.’ A thing I summoned. They don't know.”

It still hurt. Being called a ‘thing’.

“Flying ‘n smashing through walls will do that. Heh.” Clark said, and he could feel a piece of himself die.

“I covered my face up so they didn’t know it was me.”

Alfred still wore a bit of a frown. Concerned. “Are you certain you could not be identified?”

“...we haven't even talked for two months,” Bruce admitted quietly. “...they don't have a reason to think he'd suddenly help me.”

Ah. Yeah. There was that too.

“... Yeah,” he admitted too. “I haven’t been working on the Court of Owls research for a long time now. Haven’t been talkin’ or… anythin’. Don’t think they would think I’d help, maybe. ‘N I tried to be as weird as possible so they didn’t think it was--”

Ugh.

Shit.

He rubbed the back of his head.

“So they wouldn’t think a boring kid from Kansas could do any ‘a that.”

….

Alfred gave him a nod of approval.

“That was wise of you. Ignorance is often the best defense,” he said.

He removed his hand from Bruce and clapped Clark’s shoulders instead. “You've done more than could have ever been expected of you, tonight. Thank you for that. You can leave the rest to me.”

And there was something steely and familiar--like Bruce’s--in Alfred's eyes.

A butler, but still someone with a hard will, ready to defend his ward. And confident of doing it.

“For now, what may be best is if you continue to play on their ignorance, and make it seem as if nothing has changed. Do you understand?”

“It was Bruce’s idea…” Clark said with a little smile.

(Hide your face. Be so alien they don’t look for a human.)

“Um, yeah, but--”

He looked at Bruce.

“I said I’d stay with him.”

Bruce’s eyes fell down, and he couldn't meet Clark’s gaze again, like he knew what was coming.

“That's very noble,” Alfred said. “But it may place you at greater risk, which I'm sure is the last thing Master Bruce wants. Go back to school. Pretend you've just gotten locked out of your dorm and came back late. Bruce and I will spend the night in the safe room and be out of Gotham by morning.”

“O-Out of Gotham?”

Clark felt something hard in his throat.

Like he was just told he would never see Bruce again.

Bruce said nothing.

“There has just been an attempt on his life,” Alfred said, still calm. Like this was normal. Like it made sense. “It is only prudent we go lie low a while where another cannot be easily made.”

Clark’s bright blue eyes were bouncing between the two of them.

“But… you’ll be back?”

Alfred looked like he wanted to say no--

“Yes,” Bruce said. Not looking up. His voice was still firm. Hands clasped tightly together in his lap. “...if nothing else, I’ll come see you in Kansas. Okay?”

Clark looked at him like he was about to cry again.

“D-Do you know when?”

Alfred had stepped back, looking between the two of them, unsure.

“...sometime in summer?” Bruce asked.

...he looked up at Alfred.

Alfred looked back, eyes dark and sad again.

“I’m sure that can be made possible, Master Bruce,” he said softly.

Clark wiped at his eyes even though he hadn’t started crying yet.

“... Guess you can’t tell me where it is you’re plannin’ to go, huh?”

“We will be in contact with your parents at least, if it seems safe,” Alfred reassured him.

Clark took a deep breath.

“Okay.”

He sounded like he was trying to gear himself up for something, and he was.

Gearing himself up to leave.

He pushed off the counter to stand out of his chair.

Hovered there a moment before looking at Bruce.

“You’ll yell if something happens?”

Bruce snorted, head still hung.

“Yeah. I will.”

….he was still being protected.

“...take care of Harvey. He’s not going to be doing okay.”

“... What should I tell him?”

“...you don’t know what happened with me. You were taking a break from studying and fell asleep. Lost track of time,” Bruce said. “...the news will pick up the rest.”

Clark always got the news.

Another deep breath.

“Okay.”

…

He wanted to hug him, but judging how he reacted from just the touch with Alfred around he figured that wouldn’t work out well.

“G-... Good luck.” Was all he could manage before starting to walk out of the kitchen.

...Alfred glanced back at Bruce, still quiet and head-hung, and said, softly, “I’ll show you to the doorway.”

He followed Clark out of the kitchen.

Clark stopped a little so Bruce could catch up, but still didn’t touch him as they walked out of the kitchen and back towards the front door.

And even then he didn’t reach for him, even if he wanted to.

“... You’d better call.” He managed, voice shaking.

That was fine.

Clark wasn’t Bruce.

Alfred had seen the boy reach for physical comfort.

So he reached out, instead, placing a gentle hand on Clark’s back.

“We will,” he said. “And he will be fine. And he wouldn’t have gotten this far without your help. So please: take care of yourself a while, now.”

“What you can do is very impressive. But you can’t be older than Bruce. Be careful out there.”

Clark cleared his throat and nodded.

He would try.

…

He didn’t look at Alfred or the manor as he stepped forward and pushed off, a burst of air being the only thing that broke the silence as he flew back to school.

Clark listened to Bruce’s heartbeat get quieter and quieter.

...it would finally, fully fade as he returned to Gotham Academy, far out of the three-mile limit of his hearing.

…

Alfred would shuffle Bruce into the saferoom. Phone the police. Inform them that Bruce had been located. That there had, indeed, been another kidnapping and it seemed, this time, a threat on his life. That he was taking matters now on his own.

He gave a description of a man matching Galavan, but expected nothing to come out of it.

He called the school to berate them shortly of letting Bruce be kidnapped on their grounds. That Bruce would not be returning after such incompetence.

...he called the airport, and purchased two tickets, and packed their bags.

By morning, as promised, they would be gone, leaving behind everything in Bruce’s dorm room and a sweep of press activity come the breaking day.

The hardest part was trying to act like nothing had happened.

He had to lie to Harvey, spin the story he had fallen asleep and got locked out like Bruce had suggested, but had no idea what happened to him.

Lying to the press was somehow… harder.

Maybe it was because of peer pressure, or maybe because he wanted to be a journalist someday, but having to pretend he didn’t know and even telling them he hadn’t spoken much to Bruce in over two months was hard.

He was crying less about a broken heart and more through worry over what might have happened to his friend. Clark knew that if he yelled now, wherever he was, he wouldn’t be able to hear him.

But that didn’t stop him from listening anyway.

…

He helped Harvey as much as he could, tried to be some sort of support for him and at least help him academically. It was just them now. The room was empty. And quiet. And he hated it.

But he just had to breathe and get through it. Get to summer.

Look forward to that phone call or visit.

Harvey wasn’t doing great in the aftermath. Bruce hadn’t been wrong.

He’d been… happy, earlier in the year. Reserved as it was. He’d been doing okay with Bruce, and Tommy, and getting to know Clark-- and having three whole friends.

Now, the two he he’d had for almost three years were both stripped away in just a few months time, and summer was coming.

And he had no time to let himself break down.

Where Clark cried, Harvey grew distant and shut down anything that wasn’t the polite tour guide who showed new students their rooms and introduced families to a place that would beat their children for making noise after-hours.

…

It was a good two weeks before the media attention died down.

…

He’d go back to Kansas without hearing a word from either Bruce or Alfred, and start the summer alone.

#let me know if i need more warnings #i don't BELIEVE i need a tommy warning but... every time he's even momentarily remembered i feel like I need one otl #superbat #80s gay superbat #i was going through some stuff sorry for disappearing #rp logs

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