#like you’re coming down to sit in a deck in the Kansas july heat

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Follow Me Home (Part 4)

Summary: Dean and the reader head to a private cabin to have a chat with her father and start to discover some of the answers they’ve been searching for..

Pairing: Cop!Dean x reader

Masterlist

Word Count: 3,700ish

Warnings: language, kidnapping

A/N: Enjoy!…

______

“Where the hell are we,” you whispered to Dean an hour later as you followed your dad inside a pretty looking cabin further up on the bay.

“We’re closer to the border,” he said, looking back at the two of you when you kept your coats on. “Jane-”

“My name is Y/N,” you said. He nodded, closing his eyes.

“I know, honey,” he said. “I’m sorry. I did what I had to.”

“Who the hell even are you?” you growled, stepping across the foyer, watching his face scrunch up.

“You’re dripping water-”

“I don’t give a shit,” you said, Dean’s hand on your shoulder. “What the hell is going on?”

“Y/N…” your father trailed off, spotting the bandage on your head. “What happened to you?”

“Exactly! What happened?” you asked, your father tilting his head. 

“Mr. Jones-” started Dean, getting a headshake.

“Call me Jim,” he said.

“Jim, Y/N...doesn’t recollect certain things right now. Most things,” said Dean, a flash of concern on Jim’s face surprising you. 

“What do you mean? What happened? Why isn’t she in a hospital?” he said, grabbing your hand before you shook away. “Y/N, you need to get looked at by a doctor.”

“Jim,” said Dean, your hand getting grabbed again.

“Did he hurt you?” asked Jim, tugging on you.

“No. Let go,” you said, ripping yourself away, standing behind Dean. “Do that again and I’ll kick you in the nuts.”

“Y/N! I know you’re angry but that’s highly inappropriate,” he said, Dean cocking his head.

“...Okay,” said Dean. “Let’s all just take a beat. Jim, I’m gonna take a little look around this place with you while Y/N here calms down, alright? Good plan? Let’s go.”

“Listen, son-”

“Listen. Jim. My gut, for some reason, is saying you got something to say. Now why on earth you would kidnap your own daughter is beyond me but you did so, we’re gonna look around, make sure everything here looks up to snuff, and then us three are going to sit down and talk, got it?” said Dean. “We can do this with you in cuffs or not, the choice is yours.”

“Are you serious?” asked Jim. Dean stepped up to his face, his jaw clenching. 

“I said move.”

Jim turned away after a moment, Dean following him down a hall as you made your way into a family room, pictures covering the mantle. Most of them had you in them. Some from when you were young, others looked recent. You picked up one on the end, you and Jim on a boat holding up a large fish.

“We took the boat out on the 4th of July. You caught that one all by yourself,” said Jim, Dean nodding as he walked around, Jim taking a seat on the couch. You set the photo down, Dean wandering around and taking a seat in a chair close by. “How much did you forget?”

“Almost everything. I remember when I was very small, in Lawrence, when I was six. I remember everything past Tuesday morning. The rest is mostly empty but I’m filling in the gaps,” you said, taking a seat next to Dean. “You’re going to start from the beginning and I mean the beginning. You, my mother. Everything. Then, then, you will explain why you aren’t dead and why you don’t look like you have cancer and then maybe, we can start to figure out what the fuck is going on.”

“You don’t talk like this,” said Jim.

“I’m not whatever naive little girl you think I am. You wanted to talk. Now talk,” you said. Jim sighed, pursing his lips before he nodded.

“I work in technology, always have. I traveled often for work when I was young. One of these business trips, I was in Kansas City. I was out at a bar when I met a woman who looked a bit sad. She had driven all the way out there from Lawrence apparently for a job interview but they laughed in her face when she had no degree. We just...talked. We talked for a long time, until closing time. It was late and we were both tipsy and she went back to my hotel room. Things got...heated...and in the morning, she left and we went our separate ways,” he said.

“Ever hear of a condom?” you said, rolling your eyes.

“So...I head home from my trip, life goes on. About five years go by. I branched out on my own with a business partner, we’re starting to make big boy money. A lot of money. We end up doing a little piece on Sixty Minutes. The next day, I get a call from Lawrence. Your mother had seen me on TV the night before. She didn’t bring you up at first. Then she asked for some money, told me it was for her daughter. Our daughter. Of course I gave it. I went down the next day and delivered it in person,” he said. “You were four or so. Always had your hair done up in a pretty braid.”

“We met?” you asked.

“A few times. I don’t imagine you’d remember me. You were always playing with the neighborhood kids or outside. Your mother told you I was your dad but we weren’t close. She barely let me see you. Maybe twice a year. It was...difficult,” he said.

“Why wouldn’t she let you stay?” you asked.

“She had a boyfriend, didn’t she,” said Dean. Jim nodded.

“I understood her reasoning. It was one night years earlier. We had very different lives. You barely wanted anything to do with me. But I loved you. I told her I’d move you two up to me or I could go down there but she wanted us to go our separate ways and I respected it. So I gave her money when she asked for it and that was that. Until one night when you were six. She asked if I would take full custody of you. I know how much your mom loved you. She sounded scared. I eventually got it out of her what was going on. After I hung up with her, we started our plan,” he said.

“What did you two talk about?” asked Dean.

“An old boyfriend of hers. A very, very, bad old boyfriend. The boyfriend she never wanted to see me around,” he said.

“How bad,” you asked.

“Bad enough that your own parents faked your own kidnapping to keep you safe,” he said. Dean ran his hands over his face, pulling out his phone.

“What’s his name,” said Dean.

“Johnathon Hawkins. He should be about late fifties,” said Jim. Dean typed on his phone for a moment, flipping through it before he was rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you find him?”

“Well if I see this piece of shit, I’m gonna shoot him whether he’s doing something wrong or not,” said Dean, quickly texting Sam before putting his phone away.

“What’d he do?” you asked, Dean flicking his gaze your direction.

“He hurts children,” said Dean, looking back to Jim. “And he is not any old sack of shit. He’s ex-military. He’s smart.”

“I’m not following. Why didn’t you two just call the police back then?” you asked.

“He’s never been convicted of a thing. There’s never been enough to try him. It’s obvious from his file he’s done these things. But he’s clean,” said Dean.

“He’s smart,” you said.

“Your mother and I came to the determination that he had picked you out as a form of personal payback possibly for her ending things with him when he started to show his true colors. Or possibly you were his intention all along. Whatever it was, she found out who he was and we knew...Y/N Y/L/N had to go missing,” said Jim.

“I wouldn’t have fought my own dad,” you said quietly, looking at Dean. “That’s what you said. It makes sense.”

“It took a few days to get you new documents, to create Jane Jones. I had an assload of money so it was possible. We got the documents and your mother shipped a few of your favorite books and your teddy bear here but we had to leave the rest or it looked suspicious. October 8th, I flew down to Lawrence, rented a car and met you and your mom at the park. You said goodbye to her and we headed home. You cried all the way to Washington. You cried for days while we hid out in this cabin. Then, we went to our big house in Seattle and you went to the elementary school and we started here,” he said. 

“Shit,” said Dean, taking his phone out again, already pulling it to his ear.

“What?” you asked, Dean closing his eyes.

“Why the fuck would your mom have killed herself if she knew you were safe with your dad?” said Dean. 

“Like I said,” said Jim, out of his seat and grabbing Dean’s phone, ending the call before it could start, “...Hawkins is a bad guy.”

“Did you know it was murder?” asked Dean, your head tilting back. “Jim?”

“...It would have exposed Y/N. I know you’re a police officer and you can think what you want. I made a call, the same call we made together as parents. Our daughter’s safety comes first,” said Jim. “Always.”

“I thought you said he likes children,” you said.

“I think he’s making an exception for you at the moment,” said Dean, trying to steal his phone back, Jim holding it away.

“What good will bringing up the past do? He was never convicted when he actually committed crimes. You think you’ll suddenly find enough evidence on a twenty year old murder?” he asked. 

“Fine. We just kill him ourselves,” you said. You felt Dean’s gaze on you, your own turning to meet his. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No. It’s one thing to say it. It’s another to do it,” said Dean. “Before we plan a murder, there’s still another part of this we need to understand. The present day part.”

“Yeah. Jim,” you said, crossing your arms as you sat back, Dean taking his phone again.

“About three months ago, you came over for dinner on Saturday night. You’d only been in your new apartment a week. You hated it but you felt like you were too old to be staying at home with me anymore. You liked your privacy. It was the being alone part you weren’t a fan of. You were thinking of getting a dog, have a companion. But then I found out you were having some problems at work on a project and people you work with so we grabbed a bottle of bourbon and took it out on the deck and had a bitch fest. Normally we stick to wine but you wanted something harder. So we drank...and I don’t know how we got talking about it but I let it slip that your mom didn’t kill herself. I didn’t think much of it at first. But I messed up in saying that because you started to dig and you are a very, very smart person, Y/N. I made up the cancer scare to distract you, hoping you’d drop the other stuff and forget about it.”

“Didn’t work,” you said.

“You started to have a cold shoulder with me. I went over your apartment one day while you were at work. I found your DAD notebook. You were going down a different trail. You questioned whether I was your father. I hoped after I left some DNA around for you to test you’d get the answers you wanted but you just didn’t stop. It’s probably my own fault for raising you that way. You started another notebook,” he said, standing and going over to a kitchen table. He picked it up, bringing it back and handing it to you.

“Mom,” you said, flipping it open, Dean reading over your shoulder.

“I stole it from you on Sunday while you were at the store. I don’t think you ever knew it went missing,” he said.

“You regularly lurk around my house when I’m not home?” you said.

“You were digging in places that should have been left alone,” said Jim. “I love you. I have waited for the day I could call you Y/N again. But you weren’t finding out the truth like that. I wanted us to talk.”

“Why fake your death?” asked Dean.

“I paid a few doctors to lie to Y/N. I didn’t fake anything,” he said. “I knew she was planning to go to Lawrence this week. I needed her to think I was gone so...so I could get her documents.”

“Documents?” you asked.

“That notebook, the Mom one, there’s information in there that you could have only gotten by digging and poking and there was a chance that Hawkins knew someone was poking, that a young woman was poking. Jane Jones was supposed to go missing this week,” he said. “Never to be heard from again. I got them for us both.”

“You let me go all the way to Lawrence on my own when you thought a psychopath was on my ass!” you shouted, shoving the book in Dean’s hands as you stood up. “You’re a pathological liar. You…”

“I tried stopping you. But you went around me, made sure to use a different card. I tried calling even but you refused to answer,” he said. “I had to go for a few hours to talk to the documents guy. You snuck past me. I was going to tell you the truth, I was going to tell you all of it. But you never picked up the phone because you didn’t trust me anymore. You never came home. Today when I saw you at the park, I thought you were willing to give me a chance. You don’t even remember me, do you.”

“No. I don’t. I’m not six years old. I deserved the truth long before this. You could have...I would remember if you had told me all of it. I wouldn’t have this Hawkins guy on me if you’d told me,” you said. You pursed your lips and wandered over to the back window, feeling both their eyes on you. “Do you have cancer?”

“No.”

“You have a lot of money, right?” you said.

“Yes, I do.”

“Y/N,” said Dean, standing up and walking beside you. “You’re not killing anyone.”

“We both know how you found me in those woods. I got out of there before he started whatever he was up to. I probably fell and hit my head running away. He’s not going to leave me alone until either I’m dead or he is, Dean. I’m not Jane Jones. I’m not whatever new name you bought for me. I’m Y/N,” you said, turning towards your dad. “What about you?”

“I’m going to do what I should have a long time ago,” he said as he stood up. “I’m your father. I should have gotten rid of him years ago.”

“Neither one of you is killing anyone,” said Dean.

“No offense, son, but she’s right. We need to kill him,” said Jim.

“I am a police chief,” said Dean, looking between the two of you and then past you. “I’ll do it.”

“Dean,” you said. 

“I’m not putting that on you,” he said to you, looking at Jim for a moment. “You’re not winning any father of the year awards...but you’re not equipped for this. You’ve never even held a gun I bet. I am our best bet against Hawkins. Plus I’m chief. I can cover up a murder like that.”

“What did you mean when you said you know how Dean found you,” asked Jim. 

“I wasn’t wearing a lot of clothes,” you said quietly. Jim cocked his head at Dean.

“Yeah, I so kill him,” said Jim.

“Jim-”

“You can help but I do it, alright?” he said. Dean nodded, Jim frowning at you. “Did he…”

“No. I think I got out of there before he could do anything. I was clean at the hospital,” you said.

“I’m going to call Sammy, give him the info,” said Dean, grabbing his phone from the couch. 

“You’re not hurt are you?” asked Jim, looking you over.

“No,” you said. “We were close, weren’t we.”

“Once,” he said. “I’d settle for you staying safe.”

“What’d you tell me when I had to come live with you? When I was little?” you asked.

“‘I know you don’t know me but I’ll take care of you because I’m your dad and I love you,’” he said.

“Still works,” you said, looking out the window again. “Is this house in your name?”

“No. Hawkins won’t find it,” he said. You nodded, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry I lied.”

“I can understand lying when I was six years old. But three months ago? You should never have lied about a thing as horrible as being sick. You should have told me the truth,” you said.

“I know,” he said. “I was afraid.”

“I hate to break up this touching moment but my guy in Lawrence wants to talk to you, Jim,” said Dean, holding out his phone.

“Do you trust him?” asked Jim.

“He’s my little brother so yeah, I trust him,” said Dean. Jim took the phone and headed into a small den off the front of the cabin. Dean sighed as you took a seat on the window bench, Dean sitting beside you as you watched the rain come down. “Y/N...I know you’re angry with him. Hell, I’m angry with him. But I don’t think Jim wants to do anything other than try to keep you safe right now.”

“I’m having a hell of a week aren’t I,” you said, tucking your knees into your chest. Dean smiled and rubbed the top of your head, Jim returning after a few minutes.

“Are you...dating my daughter?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” said Dean, your eyes flickering over to his. “But only recently.”

“Jim…” you said.

“Not gonna dig my hole any deeper,” he said, heading into the kitchen.

“Smart move,” you said, closing your eyes, Dean returning to the soothing motion. The cabin was quiet aside from Jim working in the kitchen, Dean saying something quietly before you heard something be set down nearby. You lifted your head up, Dean now holding a cup of coffee, another on the bookshelf beside you. Jim wandered back into the den, Dean smiling as you rested your chin on your knees. “That feels nice.”

“Touch helps when a person is in shock,” he said. You titled your head as Dean shrugged out of his flannel and threw it over your shoulders. “Blankets do too.”

“I didn’t realize I was in shock,” you said. “Again.”

“Not the life threatening kind. More of the what the hell kind,” he said. “It’s why you feel so exhausted.”

“They teach you that in super cop school,” you teased. Dean shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee.

“No. Some cop told me that the day you went missing. Nobody knew what had happened. My parents...they were pretty scared something could have happened to Sammy or me. The cops even talked to us. I don’t remember a whole lot but I remember that. I was the oldest. It was always my job to make sure you two dorks didn’t wander off,” he said.

“You were ten,” you said.

“Yeah, well, Sammy slept in my room for a month after that. It freaked us out. Freaked the whole town out,” said Dean, taking another sip, watching as you reached around and picked up your own. You took a long drink, smiling when you pulled it away. “S’good?”

“Mhm. Just how I like it,” you said. You wrapped your hands around the mug and enjoyed the warmth, Dean watching out the back window when you shut your eyes. 

“Y/N,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Do you feel tired?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said, giving him a smile as you opened your eyes. It took more effort than you thought it would, Dean’s mug now set aside as he grabbed your hand. “Dean?”

“He drugged us,” said Dean, trying to stand but he fell back on the bench. You saw Jim walk out from the den, both you and Dean watching him just stand there. “Who are you?”

“Jim Jones. I’m sorry officer. I’m sure you are very good at your job and all but I’m not risking her,” he said. 

“Jim,” you said, blinking a few times as you started to get more tired. “I don’t want to run.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N but we have to,” he said.

“I’m not a little girl,” you said, forcing yourself to your feet. “Don’t do this. Don’t...I remember around Dean. Don’t-”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he said again. 

“Y/N,” said Dean, grabbing his watch and slapping it on your wrist. “I’ll find you again, okay? Try to convince your dad in the mean...meanti…”

He knocked his head back against the wall, passed out on the bench as you caught yourself on a chair.

“Dad. We have to stop running,” you said, his hands on you helping you sit down.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I really am.”

_____

A/N: Read Part 5 here!

#supernatural #spn #dean x reader #dean winchester #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean #winchester #dean spn #au #series #cop!dean x reader

[riley1cannon]

Presently Untitled Superbat Fic

Yes, so, I have been wrestling with this thing since July, with many starts and stops, and no title to be found (at this rate it really may end up being called “2 Idiots Sitting Around Figuring Stuff Out”), but there is a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, for this first half, Clark’s POV, anyway. 

Anyway... It’s DCEU, post-Justice League, and really is just Clark and Bruce sitting around talking--about Harvey Dent, about how Smallville celebrates the 4th of July, with side trips into Alfred headcanon and references to recent JL undercover missions, and there will be a special cameo appearance at the end of part two. But this is part one, so it’s only Clark, Bruce, and Martha Kent. I don’t even want to contemplate the Bruce POV half right now...

“Clark: Chapter One”

He might not feel the heat and humidity like everyone else, but Clark could still enjoy a nice cool shower that sluiced it all away at the end of a long day. Now, if he could have a quiet night with no emergencies, no crisis anywhere, he would chalk that up as a small blessing. He knew better than to count on that, however.

He had changed into cargo shorts and a white t-shirt, and was weighing the pros and cons of rocky road versus Chunky Monkey, when his mom called.

“Clark! Clark! Turn on the Weather Channel!” she told him before he could even say hello.

“What?” He found the remote and scrolled through the channels, wondering what was up with the note of hilarity in her voice.

“Just turn it on, sweetie. You’ll see.”

He found the channel, tuning in just as a woman standing by a fountain in downtown Metropolis was saying, “Couldn’t he, like, tilt the axis of the Earth, or something?”

What? “Ma, what is this?”

“They’re asking people on the street what they think Superman should do about this heat wave.”

Oh for… Now a guy was saying he’d heard Superman had some kind of freeze breath, so why didn’t he just fly around and blow on everybody. Another was saying, “How about if he fixed the Moon so we always had a total eclipse going? That bleep’s bleeping cool.”

“Is this real life?”

“Guess it is, sweetie,” Martha said, laughter still running through her voice. “Guess you can’t blame folks too much. It’s a bad summer.”

Growing up on a Kansas farm, Clark was only too familiar with the weather as adversary. If it wasn’t too hot, it was too cold. There was either too much rain, or not enough. And if, for one rare moment everything was exactly right, ten minutes later a thunderstorm would come roaring out of Colorado to send tornadoes tearing across the landscape.

“Yeah, I don’t blame them,” he said. He did press the mute button before he got too boggled by the suggestions people had. “You know I’d do something if I could.”

“I do know, Clark. Don’t fret about it now.” She sounded like she was rethinking calling him. “I just thought you’d get a kick out of it.”

“Mom, it’s okay. It is funny. It’s just,” he shook his head, “I’m not sure how much good it would really do if I flew around blowing on everyone.”

Now she had a smile back in her voice. “Yeah, that does call up an interesting picture. So,” she let out a breath, “how was your day?”

He told her about it, the highs and the lows, most of it pretty routine. “Just a one thing after another kind of day,” he finished up.

“Uh-huh.” His mother had a note of skepticism in her voice now. “Bet those folks you rescued off that roller coaster didn’t think it was no big whoop. We watched it down at the diner. There were some mighty big smiles when you got everybody back down on the ground.”

“Yeah, that was pretty good,” he admitted, remembering the looks of fear that had given way to relief when he arrived on the scene. Moments like that were a joy. They were a huge  help whenever he longed for the days he could help people and not have it be breaking news. There was no turning back time, though, and things probably never had been as simple as he liked to remember them. “Did you have a busy day at the diner?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Oh, smooth,” his mother teased, a smile still in her voice. He could hear her moving around, the creak of the screen door that told him she’d gone out on the porch, and a soft patter that sounded like rain. “Well, Pete Ross came in and said he felt like changing things up, so he ordered a club sandwich instead of his usual BLT.”

He laughed now and shifted the phone to his other hand as he went back into the kitchen. “Sounds like exciting times.”

“Oh, yeah, things are hopping here all right.”

“Is it raining?”

“Little bit. Supposed to be a cold front coming down from Canada. That’ll help.”

And it would soon be August, with the end of summer looming not too far off, and harvest time coming up fast. Clark already had time scheduled to get back home and help out with that.

“So,” she was patting the porch swing, calling the dog to her, “have you talked to Bruce?”

Oh boy. “I have talked to Bruce,” he confirmed as he opened the fridge. A BLT sounded pretty good, actually, and he checked to see if he had all the fixings on hand.

Infinite patience in her voice, his mother prompted, “About?”

“About…three days ago.” He got out the bacon, checked the lettuce and tomato was fresh. “He wanted some input on the Justice League logo. The headquarters is going to look pretty snazzy when he gets it all pulled together.” Ah, there was the mayonnaise, way at the back.

“Clark Joseph Kent, you know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Mom…” He sat down at his small kitchen table, white Formica trimmed in red, and wondered how hard he could bang his head against it without breaking it. “It’s not that easy.”

The pattern of rain sounded louder in the background as his mother said “Looked pretty easy when he was visiting us. Ask me, you two already went out on a couple of dates. You just need to make it official.”

Clark doubted Bruce would share that viewpoint. Then again, Bruce had been known to surprise him--on a pretty regular basis, actually. After all he hadn’t expected him to show up in Smallville to celebrate the Fourth of July with them. That had been one of a hundred things they had talked about during a stakeout on a rainy Gotham night back in March. He’d never thought Bruce would remember, let alone actually follow up.

He thought about that night a lot. He had been surprised at the invitation to join Bruce, and had been ruthless about clamping down on the thrill of excitement that shot through him. It was because his x-ray vision and super hearing made him useful, he reminded himself. Nothing more. If Bruce had occasion to stakeout an aquarium, he’d call in Arthur.

Although why Bruce would ever put an aquarium under surveillance Clark could not have said. Nor had he expected anything but the most cursory information and instructions about the current job. Sit, watch, listen, report what he picked up. He’d been proved wrong as soon as he located Bruce, parked across the street from the Iceberg Lounge.

Bruce popped the passenger door and waved him over. As always, decked out in designer duds, Bruce looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ. Even the top buttons of his shirt were artfully undone. Clark, in jeans and a plaid shirt from the Tractor Supply store in Smallville, had a brief thought of being that thing that wasn’t like the other. It was there and gone in and instant, though. All Bruce had ever said was to once inquire if he’d die if he didn’t wear plaid. When Clark quipped back, “Don’t know, maybe,” he’d heard no more about it--but he had glimpsed Bruce biting down on a smile.

“Don’t tell me: you’re thinking of buying it,” he said, looking over at the night club. Until recently the place had been the hottest spot in Gotham, and you had to be a Bruce Wayne or part of his entourage to get inside. Now, with Oswald Cobblepot locked up in Arkham--again--it was shut up and dark.

“Funny,” Bruce grumbled. “Is anything going on over there?”

As Clark checked, Bruce told him about information he’d turned up that Two-Face--Harvey Dent--might surface at the club to muscle in on what was left of the Penguin’s operation. That was unexpected. He had gathered Harvey Dent was an especially sensitive subject, and one that Bruce didn’t share easily. He wanted to read volumes into Bruce letting him in on this. Best to pare that down to Cliff Notes, though, he suspected.

“It’s quiet,” he reported, completing a scan of the club. “No signs of life to speak of.”

Bruce canted him a look, eyebrows raised. “To speak of?”

Clark shrugged, “Couple of rats in the kitchens.”

“Four-legged variety?”

 “Yep.”

“Hhn. Health Department gave it a passing score on its last inspection.”

“And of course there’s no corruption in Gotham.”

Bruce’s only comeback was a grumpy look. He relaxed back into the driver’s seat and reached for one of two cups of coffee. He jerked his chin at the other one. “That’s yours, if you want it.”

Clark nodded his thanks and reached for it. He took a sip, savoring the flavor. Smooth and rich, not as sweet as he usually took it, but with plenty of cream. “It’s good.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

Clark smiled and took another drink, skewed in his seat so he could watch Bruce and keep on the eye on the club. “Do you do this a lot? Just sit and watch?”

“That is the definition of a stakeout.” Bruce took a long drink of his coffee, to all appearances relishing every drop like an elixir of life. Every drop that was likely strong enough to peel paint, and untouched by any taint of cream or sugar. Clark didn’t know how he did it.

He also didn’t understand his sudden fixation with that glimpse of Bruce’s throat, with watching the muscles work as he swallowed. Well, that was the story he was sticking with anyway.

There wasn’t anything sudden about it, either, if he was being honest. Clark had been struck by him that first night, at the library gala. Perry had meant the red carpet assignment to be a reprimand, and Clark had felt it. Bored out of his mind and chafing to be anywhere else, he had been ready to provoke more wrath from Perry when a sleek Aston Martin pulled up. Everything changed the instant Bruce got out of that car. Clark’s attention had perked right up and been riveted on the newcomer, the other man’s charisma sparking the atmosphere. It had called to Clark so strongly that, even without the Gotham connection, he felt he still would have sought Bruce out in the crowd.

He thought about that night sometimes. Now and then. Wondered about the what-ifs. Impossible to know if anything could have played out differently, let alone if it would have changed anything. What mattered was they were here, now, on this rainy night in Gotham, and this second chance eclipsed all the what-ifs. He wouldn’t trade this for a Pulitzer.

“Something funny?”

Clark dialed down his smile and shook his head. “Nope.”

“Hhn.” Bruce eyed him with a flicker of suspicion and set his cup back in its holder “It’s a longshot Harvey will show up,” he said, shifting in his seat. “The last solid intel on him was that he’d gone to ground over in Bludhaven.”

Clark nodded, careful not to betray any surprise that conversation had come back to Harvey Dent. Maybe he wasn’t meant to contribute anything, just be a sounding board. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, he decided. “You’ve known him awhile.” 

Bruce’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel. Nothing else betrayed any sign of tension. Seconds ticked by and Clark was ready to accept that there would be no reply, when Bruce’s shoulders relaxed a fraction and he eased back in his seat. “We go back,” he admitted. “Used to paint the town together.”

Nostalgia whispered across Bruce’s face, caught in a wistful smile as he spoke. Clark knew the facts. How Handsome Harvey Dent, Gotham’s dynamic, young district attorney brought mob boss Sal Maroni to trial, and how Maroni retaliated by splashing acid in Dent’s face, scarring him physically. How the scars went much deeper, his mind turning on him so that he emerged as Two-Face, flipping a coin to decide if someone lived or died today.

Those were the facts, stark and brutal. Clark doubted they came close to conveying the impact of the tragedy on those had cared for Harvey Dent.

Offering his sympathy was feeble, he knew, but he had to say something. “I’m sorry.”

Bruce shrugged it off, tried to anyway. “It’s a long time ago now.”

“And you’re supposed to be over it?”

“So I’m told.”

Not by anyone who really knew him, Clark would bet. Not by anyone who had experienced the loss of a loved one. Almost twenty years had passed and he still felt the ache of his father’s death at unexpected time--while working on their old tractor, or watching Patrick Mahomes throw a game-winning touchdown for the Chiefs. He didn’t know how to begin to mourn for Krypton, for the mother and father he’d never know. One of his secrets was that he even grieved for Zod, for lost chances and what could have been if only Zod hadn’t been hellbent on annihilating all life on Earth.

Time did heal, but the memories were never far from the surface. 

“Could you have saved him?”

Bruce sighed, fingers tapping on the steering as he aimed a pensive stare through the windshield. “Maybe not. I’ll never know for certain.”

Since he’d made it this far, Clark edged out a bit further. “Could you have guessed he’d become Two-Face?”

Bruce shook his head. “I knew he had some...anxieties, that he had that coin flipping fixation.” His hands flexed on the steering wheel. “Nothing that prepared me for Two-Face.”

“But you beat yourself up about it anyway.”

Bruce offered him a wry smile. “He’s my friend.”

Clark nodded. He didn’t miss the present tense wording, nor was he surprised by it. Not anymore. The contrast between when they believed the worst of each other and now, when they could sit and talk like this, verged on the surreal at times. 

He shifted around in his seat and took another drink of coffee, starting to feel a buzz of his own anxiety. It had been there since he came back, a creeping unease that whispered the walls were too close and confining even in the middle of the Daily Planet bullpen. Distractions helped, and he reached over to scrub at the fogged up windshield, scanning up and down the street.

“Something?” Bruce asked, tensing as if ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

“No.” Clark shook his head, relaxed back into his seat. “Everything’s still quiet.”

Bruce gave a sharp nod, as if confirming something to himself. “I don’t think he’ll show,” he said, half to himself. Difficult to be sure if relief or disappointment threaded through the words. “We’ll give it a few more minutes.”

“Okay.” Clark watched drizzling drops of rain slither down the windshield, that random twinge of claustrophobia easing away as he concentrated on absorbing the cozy intimacy of the setting. Something else it would be best not to dwell on, and he scrambled for a new topic, prompted by a comment Barry had made in passing the other day. “So did Diana and Alfred really do the tango when you took down the Jade Jaguars?”

Bruce scootched around, eyeing him. “Someone’s been telling tales, I see.”

“Was it meant to be a secret?”

“Apparently not.” Bruce took another sip of coffee, pulled a face and put the cup down. “It was the foxtrot, not the tango, and it was part of their cover, not a celebration of the takedown…”

to be continued

Note: The idea that, in the wake of being dead, Clark might suffer bouts of claustrophobia was the inspired idea of @oneiroteuthis.

#superbat #superbat fic