Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bruce woke up disoriented—but strangely, he felt better than he had in years. That alone was alarming.

The last thing he remembered was Bat-Mite and Mister Mxyzptlk arguing—again—about who was better: Batman or Superman. It had started as the usual absurd, ego-driven debate between two overpowered, interdimensional imps. But their bickering escalated quickly into something more volatile. When they started crackling with reality-warping energy, Clark had stepped in to mediate, trying to calm them down before things turned destructive.

They didn’t listen.

Instead, they both lashed out—aiming at each other, but with little regard for where anyone else was standing. Bruce had acted on instinct, shoving Clark out of the blast zone just as the two imps released whatever chaotic nonsense they’d built up between them.

Then everything went white.

Now… this.

The dull ache in his knee—the one he’d long accepted as permanent after too many crush injuries—was gone. His ribs, bruised from a rough landing three weeks ago, expanded without a whisper of pain. He rotated his shoulder, expecting the familiar pop from old dislocations, but it moved smooth as silk. Like a machine freshly oiled.

He wasn’t in the Batsuit either, which was its own problem. Bruce could survive without it—he’d trained for worse—but he’d rather have the utility belt. Instead, he was wearing something unsettlingly familiar: khakis, a tucked-in polo over a button-down shirt, and loafers. His old “uniform”. The kind Alfred used to insist on during his prep school years.

Also: he was definitely shorter. At least half a foot. Narrower, too—lean muscle, not bulk. He flexed his fingers. Less calloused. The body of a teenager, maybe fifteen—sixteen at most.

So he’d been de-aged. Or displaced. Most likely both.

It would explain the sudden absence of pain—but not the setting.

He wasn’t in Gotham, where the confrontation with the interdimensional menaces had taken place. That much was immediately obvious. He stood on the side of a quiet road flanked by endless fields—green, golden, stretching as far as he could see. There were no skyline shadows, no distant hum of traffic. Just a breeze. Birds. The occasional chirp of insects.

Definitely rural.

At least he wasn’t in the middle of one of the fields. That would’ve made things… complicated. There were no signs nearby, and no obvious landmarks to triangulate from. Judging by the sun’s position, it was early morning.

He exhaled slowly. “Right. Standing still won’t help.”

Something in him—an instinct, maybe something deeper—tugged in a certain direction of the road. Not fear. Not confusion. Just a quiet certainty.

So he started walking.

He had no idea where he was going, but somehow, he knew it was where he needed to be.

After almost an hour of walking, he finally saw it:

Welcome to Smallville, Kansas — the Meteor Capital of the World!

Well. At least he knew for sure where he was now.

Hopefully, he could get help. He just hoped he’d been sent back in time and not shunted into an alternate dimension. Getting lost in the timeline was already a pain. Getting lost in another reality ? That was a whole different nightmare—especially if he had to find a fifth-dimensional exit strategy without any help.

He’d been to Smallville plenty of times over the years, but even so, it looked more quaint than he remembered. Maybe two decades did make a difference for a small town. Fewer buildings. No major chain stores. Everything was a little quieter, a little slower.

The Kent farm was still about a forty-minute walk from town. Under normal circumstances, that would’ve been nothing. But teenage Bruce—pre-peak conditioning, pre-Batman—was already flagging. His stamina didn’t hold a candle to his adult self, or even his kids. He wasn’t exhausted , exactly, but the sun had been beating down relentlessly the whole walk. Kansas heat was no joke, even if it was still early fall. There was no real shade out here either—just wide open sky and endless road flanked by fields.

At some point, he gave in. He tugged off the polo and tied it loosely around his shoulders to shield his neck from the sun. The button-up beneath was already damp with sweat. As he walked, he rolled up his sleeves and fanned himself absently. The air was thick, humid, and still. His mouth was dry. His hair—a bit too long, and too dark for this sun—felt like it was cooking his scalp.

He checked his pockets. No wallet. Of course the chaotic interdimensional beam that hit him hadn’t been generous enough to teleport that along. He hoped Smallville hospitality hadn’t changed in twenty years—surely no one would deny a kid a glass of water.

Bruce entered the first café he saw, grateful for the shade and the faint breeze from an ancient ceiling fan. The place was cool, quiet, and smelled like fresh pie and old wood. There were a few other patrons scattered around, most of them older men nursing coffee or reading newspapers.

The woman at the counter—white hair swept up in a no-nonsense bun, floral apron, bright eyes that didn’t miss a thing—took one look at him and raised her eyebrows.

“You look half-baked,” the woman behind the counter said, already reaching for a glass. “Water?”

“Yes, please,” Bruce managed. His throat was dry, and he downed the tall glass of water she slid across the counter in record time. Only after did he remember his manners. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you. Sorry—I’ve been walking a while.”

She waved him off like that was nothing and refilled his glass without missing a beat.

“You’re not from around here, are you, boy?” she asked, her tone softening as she got a better look at him.

Bruce offered a faint smile. “No, ma’am. Just visiting family. The Kents—do you know them?”

Well… it wasn’t exactly a lie. At the name, her face lit up.

“Oh! Lovely people. They’ve got a boy about your age—Clark. Sweetest thing. Polite, helpful, always carries the produce out to my truck at the market without being asked. Quiet, though.”

Bruce couldn’t help the warm, helpless smile that tugged at his lips. “That’s them. I’m a cousin on Mrs. Kent’s side—the Clarks.”

Now that was a lie.

She studied him a little more closely now, as if trying to place the name. “Metropolis folks, right?”

He gave a hopeful nod and hoped he didn’t look too much like a purebred Gothamite.

“And how exactly were you planning to get to their farm from here?”

“I was just going to walk,” Bruce said. “It’s about forty minutes, right?”

“Walk?” she repeated, scandalized. “In this heat? You already look like you’ve been through it—and you want to walk another forty minutes down an open road with no shade? What are you trying to do, drop dead in front of the Kents’ mailbox?”

“I’ll be fine,” Bruce tried. “It’s not—”

“Rogers!” she called, completely ignoring him now as she turned to one of the men finishing his coffee in the corner.

The guy—mid-twenties, maybe around Dick’s age—looked up. “Yeah?”

“You done?”

“Just about—”

“Good. You’ll take this young man out to the Kent farm.”

Bruce blinked. “Ma’am, I really don’t want to impose—”

“You’re not. He’s already headed that way for his mama’s book club delivery, and I’m not about to let you melt into the pavement like a popsicle just because you’re too polite to ask for a ride. Rogers!”

“Coming, Mrs. Henderson,” the man sighed, like this wasn’t the first time she’d ‘voluntold’ him something. He stood and walked to the counter to pick up a brown paper package.

She turned back to Bruce, all kindness again. “What was your name, sweetheart?”

“Bruce.”

“Well, Bruce, you tell Martha and Jonathan I say hello—and that they owe me a lunch date. It’s been too long. And drink more water, would you? You’re not built for Kansas roads. Not in those loafers.”

Rogers was waiting awkwardly by the door, clearly expecting him to follow. Once Bruce caught up, the man gave him a nod and led him out to a rusted blue pickup truck.

Bruce appreciated the lack of small talk—and the fact that his forty-minute hike had turned into a ten-minute ride.

As they neared the familiar fenceposts of the Kent property, Bruce spoke up. “You can drop me at the entrance. No need to drive all the way in.”

“You sure?”

“You already saved me a lot of walking. I can handle it from here.” He added one of his more polished, public-facing smiles for good measure.

Rogers huffed a quiet laugh and pulled over. “Suit yourself. See you around, Bruce. Nice meeting ya.”

“Likewise.”

Bruce watched as the rusted pickup rattled down the road and disappeared behind a swell of golden corn.

Well… He was finally here.

Mrs. Henderson had more or less confirmed what he already suspected—he was in the past. She’d talked about Clark like he was a teenager. Said he was about his age. That left only one question: was Clark here too? Had they both been pulled back? That was the best case scenario.

He shaded his eyes and looked out toward the Kent farmhouse in the distance. The logical thing would be to go straight to Jonathan and Martha. Tell them everything. Hope they believed him.

And maybe they would. Clark had told him stories— a lot of stories—about Smallville and all the bizarre things that happened here thanks to the meteor rocks. If there was anyone who might take a time travel story seriously, it was the Kents.

Besides, Bruce knew things no fifteen-year-old kid from Gotham should know. About Clark. About their farm. About the day he landed here in a spaceship. If that wasn’t proof, he didn’t know what was.

Still... he exhaled slowly. He just hoped they believed him.

Bruce felt a bit ridiculous ringing the doorbell when he knew perfectly well where the spare key was hidden. Still, it felt wrong to just let himself in—especially when it might not even be his timeline. Besides, it was still late morning; odds were both Kents were out in the fields.

The heat pressed down on him like a hand. His shirt stuck to his back, and he was fairly sure he’d gotten a sunburn on the back of his neck despite the polo on his shoulders. God , he missed Gotham. The fog, the chill, the way the city always felt like it might rain. This unfiltered Kansas sun was unforgiving.

To his surprise, the front door opened a minute later. Martha Kent stood in the doorway, a bit breathless, a dish towel in one hand. She looked him over with a hint of confusion, though her expression remained warm—kind, just like Clark’s.

“Oh—hello,” she said with that gentle smile Clark had clearly inherited. “Are you a friend of Clark’s? He’s still at school.”

Bruce hesitated. She didn’t recognize him. Of course she didn’t. He wasn’t himself here—not the man she might know from years down the line. He searched her face for anything familiar, and found only kindness.

He debated for a heartbeat: direct, or softer approach?

Softer. Definitely softer.

“I guess you could say that,” he said, forcing a small smile. “Would you mind if I came in?”

Martha hesitated—just a flicker of it—but then stepped back and opened the door wider.

“Come on in,” she said cautiously. “It’s hot enough to bake bread on the porch.”

Bruce stepped inside gratefully, the cool air of the house a relief after the relentless sun. The familiar farmhouse smelled like lemons and flour and sun-warmed wood. He paused just inside, not wanting to make himself too comfortable.

Martha closed the door gently behind him but didn’t move far, watching him with the kind of polite alertness only someone used to small-town living—and strangers—could manage.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” she said, folding the towel over her arm, “but I know just about every boy in this town by name, and I don’t think we’ve met before. You said you were a friend of Clark’s?”

Bruce nodded, heart pounding just a little. It was strange to see her like this—not much older than his own mother had been when she died. Kind, calm, but clearly wary.

“I understand why you’d be suspicious,” he said, carefully. “And I’m about to say something that’s going to sound... completely surreal. But I promise, I’m telling the truth.”

He took a breath, trying to find the right balance of honesty and restraint.

“I’m from the future.”

Martha blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“I know how that sounds,” Bruce said quickly. “But I swear I’m not making it up. I know Clark. I’ve known him for years. We work together. We’re... very close.”

He saw her hands tighten slightly around the dish towel. She wasn’t panicking, but she wasn’t exactly relaxing either.

“I can’t tell you everything,” he added gently. “I don’t want to mess up the timeline. But Clark—your Clark—he becomes someone incredible. A hero. And I—well, I got caught in a bit of a mess trying to help him.”

Her brow furrowed. “What kind of mess?”

“Two interdimensional imps,” Bruce said, deadpan. “They get bored sometimes. Like to play games with us. This time, they sent me back here. And I don’t currently know how to get back to my own time.”

Martha just stared at him for a moment. Then, as calmly as if he’d just told her he was from out of state instead of out of time, she said, “Well. That would explain the loafers.”

Bruce blinked.

“And the sunburn,” she added. “You don’t look like you’re used to Kansas.”

A small laugh escaped him. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but no. I’m more of a fog-and-gargoyles type.”

She nodded slowly, her face still a little uncertain but thoughtful now.

“You’re from Gotham?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, you’re clearly not dangerous,” she said, mostly to herself. “Just sunburnt and strangely well-mannered.”

She gestured toward the kitchen. “Sit down. You look like you need food and a glass of water. Or maybe some lemonade.”

Bruce didn’t argue and followed her. He took a seat at the small table by the window, the wooden chair familiar beneath him in a way that made his chest ache a little.

She opened the fridge and reached for a pitcher. “What did you say your name was again?”

Bruce hesitated—then figured there was no point lying.

“Bruce. Bruce Wayne.”

There was a stillness. Martha froze for just a second, her hand on the lemonade. She turned back to look at him more closely now, truly seeing him. The weariness behind the poise. The faint bruising under his eyes. The grief that never quite left.

“Oh,” she said, quietly. “Oh, sweetheart.”

She pressed her lips together, clearly about to say more—but stopped herself. Her expression softened into something deeply maternal, almost instinctive.

“I’m so sorry. That’s not—I shouldn’t have reacted so strongly,” she murmured. “It’s just... I saw it on the news. A few years ago. It was everywhere. I never forgot your name.”

“It’s okay. I’m used to it,” Bruce said honestly. “While it might’ve been only a few years ago for you , for me—despite how I currently look—it’s been almost three decades. I’ve had time to come to terms with it. The grief isn’t as sharp as it was back then.”

He doesn’t say that Martha and Jonathan helped fill some of those gaps—that alongside Alfred, they’d become the closest thing he’d had to parental figures. He keeps that to himself for now. But he makes a mental note to tell his version of Martha Kent once he’s back in the correct timeline.

Martha set the lemonade down in front of him without another word, her movements gentler now. Bruce murmured a thank you and took a sip—cool, tart, and instantly familiar.

She sat across from him. “So you said you knew Clark. That you’re close.”

Bruce nodded. “He’s... my best friend.”

There was a soft scrape of boots on the porch, then the screen door creaked open.

“Martha?” came Jonathan’s voice, rough with exertion from the fields. “Everything okay?”

“In here,” she called, standing up.

Jonathan Kent stepped into the kitchen, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. He slowed slightly when he spotted Bruce, eyes narrowing just a fraction in that protective way fathers have.

“And who’s this?” he asked, glancing at Martha.

She nodded. “Bruce Wayne.”

Jonathan’s brows lifted, just slightly. He stepped closer, eyes quietly calculating but not unkind. “And who’s Bruce Wayne?”

“Your son’s best friend from the future.”

Jonathan blinked. His brow furrowed. Bruce—never one to let his composure slip—stood and offered his hand.

“Nice to meet you again, sir.”

Jonathan took it, his grip firm. “Well. Smallville’s not exactly normal, but people from the future? That’s a new one.”

“I’ve been having an equally weird day, if that makes you feel better, Mr. Kent,” Bruce offered.

Jonathan gave him a look—half skeptical, half sizing him up. “You mean to tell me that in the future, my son is friends with a teenager?”

“I assure you I’m the same age as Clark in the future. My current state is... a setback,” Bruce replied.

“He was attacked by interdimensional imps saving Clark,” Martha added gently. “Now he’s stuck here and doesn’t know how to get back to the future.”

Jonathan folded his arms. “What, no DeLoreans?” he muttered. The joke didn’t quite hide the edge in his voice.

Bruce didn’t flinch. He knew Jonathan would be the harder one to convince—he always was, in every universe. He was fiercely protective of Clark.

“I can’t tell you much about the future,” Bruce said carefully, “but I can prove I know Clark. You love telling stories about his childhood—and so does he.”

Jonathan arched an eyebrow. “All right. Let’s hear it.”

Bruce nodded once. “You named him Clark because you panicked. The day of the meteor shower, you were still wondering what to do with the baby when the sheriff knocked on your door. He’d seen your truck wrecked. Clark ran away from Martha and stood right in front of the sheriff, so she told him you'd adopted him that day. Said his name was Clark—after her maiden name.”

Jonathan stilled. His expression didn’t change much, but Martha’s hand came up to her mouth, just briefly. That detail hit home.

Bruce pressed on. “Clark once took a literal bite out of a wrench,” he said, pointing to the right side of the kitchen sink. “He was four. You were fixing the plumbing. He just sank his teeth right into it like it was an apple. You panicked, didn’t know whether to take him to the ER, but he seemed fine. Two days later, he nearly broke the toilet when he went to the bathroom.”

A short, startled breath escaped Martha—half laugh, half memory. Jonathan didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“When he was six, he had a favorite cow—Clara. He was absolutely besotted with her. Wouldn’t sleep anywhere but the barn. You had to carry him back to his bed more than once. Then came the day you had to explain why you kept cows and what they were for.” Bruce gave a small, sympathetic smile. “He was inconsolable. Weeks of tears. You couldn’t take it anymore. That’s when you switched to dairy cows. Clara stayed.”

Jonathan's arms slowly dropped to his sides. He looked at Martha, and for just a second, Bruce saw it—the silent confirmation shared between long-time partners: He’s telling the truth.

“Do you want me to keep going?” Bruce asked quietly. “I have more. I can do this all day. And if you really want to test me, point to any cupboard in this kitchen—I can tell you what’s inside.”

A long pause stretched across the room. Jonathan looked at Bruce, really looked at him this time. Then he exhaled through his nose and said, “Tell me one more.”

Bruce nodded. “Clark once accidentally broke your tractor axle just by leaning on it. I think he was nine. You pretended you didn’t know it was him. Told him it must’ve been rust, even though you’d replaced it the week before.”

That got him. Jonathan’s shoulders relaxed. “Damn kid,” he muttered, and for the first time, his tone was warm.

Martha sat back down, her eyes misted. “He really is your best friend, isn’t he?”

Bruce looked down into the lemonade glass. “He’s everything.”

After finally gaining their trust, Martha left Bruce alone with Jonathan for a few minutes and reappeared not much later carrying a clean change of clothes—most likely Clark’s.

“Go take a shower, and for the love of god, please put on some sneakers,” she said, wrinkling her nose at his shoes. “I know the brand of your loafers, and it’s killing me how ragged they’re looking.”

Bruce didn’t argue. He hadn’t realized how much the grit of travel and stress had sunk into his skin until the cool water hit his shoulders and nearly made him sag. By the time he stepped out—clean, dressed, and very aware that Clark’s jeans were just a little too long and a little baggy on him—he already felt a thousand times better. Refreshed, yes, but also acutely aware of how tired he truly was.

And then came lunch.

Martha had made something warm and heavy—casserole, he thought, though it was hard to focus with the rate she kept piling food onto his plate. Bruce tried to pace himself, but she was relentless. When she brought out the peach pie and wouldn’t take no for an answer, he remembered Stephanie’s voice in his head: “There’s always room for dessert. There’s a separate stomach just for that.”

It turned out she was right.

He offered to help with the dishes, but Martha waved him off with a brisk shake of her head. “You’ve done enough for today,” she said. “Go sit before you fall over.”

So he did. Full, warm, and drifting steadily toward a post-lunch haze, Bruce settled into the living room couch. The early afternoon sun streamed lazily through the curtains, softening the world around him. It was disarming, in a way. Too peaceful.

Jonathan followed him in with a glass of water in one hand, wiping his palms on his jeans.

“So, Bruce,” he said casually, “is it true you really know how to bring old Betsy back to life, or were you just trying to impress me?”

Bruce glanced up, smiling faintly. “Well, in my time ‘old Betsy’ has had so many parts replaced that she might technically be a ship of Theseus situation. But I can give it a try. Is she giving you trouble?”

“Won’t start without a prayer and a gentle kick,” Jonathan grunted.

“I’ll take a look later. Least I can do.”

It was the bare minimum—he had nothing to offer them, no gift to thank them for their kindness, no further explanation that wouldn’t risk the timeline. He didn’t even know how long he’d be stuck here. Helping with the tractor felt like the most solid thing he could do.

“Jonathan, stop bothering the boy,” Martha called from the kitchen. “Can’t you see he can barely keep his eyes open? Let him have a nap—he’s had a long day.”

Bruce flushed. “I’m not that tired,” he protested weakly.

Jonathan raised a brow. “Son, I’ve seen calves look sturdier on their feet than you do right now.”

Bruce opened his mouth to respond—but yawned instead. Which didn’t help his case.

Truth was, he hadn’t realized how deeply the day had drained him and it was barely past noon. He wasn’t really a teenager, not mentally anyway, but right now—with a full belly and nowhere to be—he felt stripped down to something far simpler. Just a boy who’d been through too much, sitting in a warm house where someone had made his favourite pie.

He closed his eyes.

There wasn’t much he could do at the moment. No way to return to his timeline. No tools, no resources, no Clark—unless Clark had come through too, and just hadn’t arrived yet.

His last thought, as the quiet hum of the farmhouse wrapped around him, was that the couch smelled the same as it did in his own time. That somehow, the old worn fabric hadn’t changed. That the Kents had always left one of the windows open on warm afternoons, letting the scent of hay and lilacs drift through the house like a lullaby.

Then, without even realizing, he was fast asleep.

One thing that had never changed—long before training or trauma—was how lightly Bruce slept.

The soft click of the front door pulled him out of slumber instantly, his senses sharpening before his eyes even opened. But instead of danger, what greeted him was a voice—more youthful, lighter in tone, but still unmistakably familiar.

“Hey Ma, hey Pa! I’m home!”

Clark’s voice. So familiar it tugged at something deep in Bruce’s chest.

He blinked awake just as Clark stepped into view—jeans, white t-shirt, open red overshirt catching the breeze. And that smile. Bright, unguarded, devastating in a way Bruce hadn’t been prepared for.

God, he was beautiful.

That wasn’t news. Bruce had known Clark for years. He’d seen him in every light—sweaty from battle, grinning after press conferences, quiet and soft in their home. But this version was something else. Something radiant and golden and heartbreakingly young , like a living snapshot of an era Bruce had missed entirely.

His stomach fluttered. Stupid hormones. Stupid teenage body. He found himself absently reaching for his ring finger—for something that wasn’t there—and felt a sudden, aching sense of absence. Something he prayed he’d find again once he returned.

With neither of his parents home to answer, Clark turned to him.

“Hey there... who are you?”

Bruce opened his mouth.

No sound came out.

He was just... looking at him. Not saying anything. Just sitting there like an idiot, staring at Clark like he’d never seen him before. Which, technically, he hadn’t—not like this. Not in this version of the red shirt, soft jaw, and eyes so open and unguarded.

His gaze dropped to Clark’s hands—broad and capable-looking, but somehow still gentle—then flicked up to deep blue eyes, drifted down to his throat, where the shirt hung open to expose its curve, and finally to his collarbone, which caught the light like it had no business doing that—

Jesus Christ. Stop it. Get a grip!

Bruce blinked hard, suddenly aware that he’d just let several seconds stretch out in dead silence. Clark’s brows had furrowed, confusion giving way to concern.

He sat up straighter and coughed into his fist, trying to clear both his throat and the hormonal swarm currently hijacking his nervous system.

“Oh—uh. Right. Sorry,” Bruce said too quickly, his voice lower than usual. “I’m... your best friend. From the future?”

Why did he make it sound like a question?

Clark blinked, taking a cautious step forward. “...Come again?”

There was a beat of silence. Bruce resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, no, I know how that sounds,” he said, already regretting his delivery.

Clark tilted his head slightly. “Is this a joke? Did Pete put you up to this?”

“While I know who Pete Ross is because you’ve told me about him,” Bruce said truthfully, “I can confidently say he doesn’t have the resources to send someone backwards in time.”

Clark raised a brow, skeptical. “Right. So... you’re saying we’re friends. In the future.”

“Best friends,” Bruce said, without hesitation. “Have been for years.”

Clark stared at him, trying to gauge sincerity. Bruce held his gaze, willing himself not to look away—or worse, to start scanning Clark’s stupidly attractive face again like a hormonal idiot.

“And you’re crashing on our couch because…?”

“Because I convinced your parents I was telling the truth and your mom fed me enough food to induce a coma,” Bruce replied, the dryness returning to his tone now that the worst of his fluster had been shoved back under control.

That earned him a grin. That smile. The one that felt like sunlight—open and easy and completely disarming. The one he’d clearly inherited from Martha Kent, despite not sharing a single strand of DNA.

Bruce’s brain short-circuited again for a fraction of a second. Clark Kent was going to be the death of him—at any age apparently.

“Well, that I believe,” Clark chuckled.

After that small icebreaker, Clark kicked his shoes off and sat on the other side of the couch, studying Bruce with open curiosity. He dropped his backpack onto the floor, and this time it was father instincts Bruce had to fight—he was one second away from telling Clark to pick it up and put it where it belonged.

“So, best friend from the future,” Clark said, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “Do you come with a name, or does knowing that break the space-time continuum?”

Bruce considered it. He thought back to the first time they’d met—really met—as Batman and Superman. How they’d clashed instantly, played dirty, and used every resource at their disposal—trackers and powers—to uncover each other’s identities.

It’s not like knowing his name early would help Clark figure out his identity faster in the future..

“Bruce Wayne,” he said simply.

Clark’s eyebrows lifted. “Sounds fancy.”

“Well, I am rich,” Bruce deadpanned.

Clark grinned again, that effortless, knock-the-wind-out-of-you grin.

“And my parents actually believed you?”

“Do you think I’d be napping on your couch right now if they hadn’t?”

Clark bit his lip, like he was trying not to smile, then leaned in a little and lowered his voice—even though they were the only two in the room.

“Do you have any… powers?”

“No.”

“Then how…?”

“How did I end up in the past?” Bruce finished for him. Clark nodded.

“Well… let’s just say there are some interdimensional imps who like messing with us from time to time and really don't get along. They had a bit of a magical brawl, and I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Next thing I know I’m a teenager again and I’m in Smallville, Kansas. I don’t know how to explain more without revealing too much, and honestly, I have no idea how to get back without help from our friends in my timeline.”

He paused. Something thick had risen in his chest—too raw, too honest—and before he could stop it, more words followed.

“And I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. Definitely hadn’t planned to admit it. But between his heightened teenage emotions, the stress, and the way Clark was looking at him—not his Clark, but close enough—it had just slipped out.

Clark’s expression softened instantly, the smile fading into something gentler, more open. His eyes went a little sad, like he might actually get up and hug him. And Bruce knew, with certainty, that he would not survive that.

“So you’re technically old , right?” Clark asked, breaking the tension with a grin.

Bruce shot him a deadpan look. No wonder he and Dick got along so well. That same awful sense of humor. That same ability to mock Bruce in moments of emotional distress.

Clark tilted his head. “Can you help me with my trig homework? I think I get it, but I kinda spent the whole class distracted and didn’t really pay much attention.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess… Lana Lang is in your class?”

Clark blinked, caught off guard. “How’d you—?”

Bruce smirked faintly. “Best friend from the future, remember? I know things.”

Clark flushed, ears turning slightly red. “Yeah. She was wearing this pastel pink blouse today. I guess I wasn’t paying attention to much else.”

Bruce inhaled slowly through his nose, pushing down the unwelcome flicker of jealousy tightening in his chest. Of course it was Lana. Sweet, pretty, Smallville’s golden girl. He knew this part of Clark’s story, had heard about it more than once over late nights and quiet conversations. But seeing it first hand was something else entirely. A reminder that this Clark was still figuring things out—still soft, and open, and painfully unaware of how easily he could wreck Bruce without even meaning to.

Bruce exhaled slowly, leaning back against the couch, trying to sound casual. “Trig, huh? Sure. I can help.”

Clark gave him a grateful smile and reached down to unzip his backpack. “Thanks. It’s trig identities and radians,” he said, flipping the textbook open on the coffee table. “Honors track. I need to keep my GPA high if I want a shot at scholarships. Full ride, ideally.”

Bruce nodded, already scanning the page. He knew this about Clark—how he balanced invisibility and excellence like it was second nature. “You just need to understand the concept. Once you’ve got that, it’ll click.”

Clark smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I usually do. Just… zoned out today for reasons you already mentioned.”

“Right,” Bruce said, tapping the textbook to pull both their attention back to the page. “Well, future best friend duty means I help you pass honors math and keep you from failing because of a girl in a blouse.”

Clark snorted. “You make it sound like I’ve never seen a blouse before.”

Bruce muttered, “Apparently not one that’s worn at a forty-five-degree angle across the sine curve of your attention span.”

Clark blinked, then laughed. “Was that a math joke?”

Bruce smirked faintly. “You’re welcome.”

Martha found them about an hour later, homework long finished and forgotten, Clark’s books spread out between them on the coffee table as they debated The Great Gatsby . Clark sat cross-legged on the floor, gesturing animatedly with a pencil, while Bruce leaned back on the couch, unusually relaxed for someone supposedly out of place in time.

“I’m just saying,” Clark insisted, “you don’t describe another man’s smile as ‘rare and full of eternal reassurance’ unless you’re kind of in love with him.”

Bruce smirked faintly, flipping a page in the paperback. “Or Fitzgerald was projecting. Wouldn’t be the first time an unreliable narrator slipped into romantic admiration.”

Clark opened his mouth to argue, but that’s when Martha stepped into view, arms crossed, smiling quietly from the doorway.

“Clark, I didn’t realize you’d already come home,” she said, cutting through their discussion like sunlight through a screen door.

“Oh! Hi, Ma,” Clark beamed, jumping to his feet to kiss her cheek. “Yeah, got here a while ago. You and Pa must’ve still been out back. That’s when I met Bruce here. My best pal from the future,” he added, grinning like it was the best secret he’d ever shared.

Bruce gave her a small, polite nod.

“Did you manage to convince him too?” Martha asked, eyes narrowing affectionately as she looked between them.

“I told him I convinced you and Mr. Kent,” Bruce said with a shrug, deadpan. “And he trusted me implicitly.”

Martha sighed and gently swatted her son’s arm. “Clark, you can’t be so trusting, sweetheart.”

Clark pouted. “But Ma, he was napping on the couch, said you’d fed him, and he knew who Pete and Lana were without me mentioning them. Well… Lana at least. He’s even wearing my clothes. I figured it checked out.”

Martha gave him the kind of long-suffering look only a mother can perfect. “That logic’s going to get you in trouble one of these days.”

Bruce nodded solemnly. “It does. A lot.”

Clark gave them both an exaggeratedly betrayed look. “Wow, ganging up on me already?”

“Future best friend privileges,” Bruce said mildly. “I’m obligated to keep you alive, even from your own blind spots.”

“He gets into trouble a lot, doesn’t he?” Martha asked with a sigh, glancing back at Bruce.

“I can’t get into details,” he replied carefully. “But let’s just say it’s never too soon to remind him not everyone’s as nice as his mom.”

Martha gave a knowing nod. “I understand.”

She stepped back toward the kitchen. “Clark, don’t forget your chores if you’re finished with homework. I’m going to start dinner.”

As she moved past, Clark threw his arms around her in a dramatic bear hug that made her laugh despite herself. “Love you, Ma.”

“I love you too, baby. Now let go before you crack my ribs.”

Once she was gone, Clark stretched lazily, arms overhead, his t-shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of sun-kissed skin above his jeans.

Bruce glanced away, his ears flushing. It’s just skin, he told himself. The worst part wasn’t the glimpse of skin—it was the betrayal of his temporary teenage body, reacting without his permission.

“Do you want help with your chores?” Bruce offered, trying to distract himself.

Clark raised an eyebrow. “You know your way around a farm, rich boy?”

“I’ve been here before,” Bruce said, folding his arms. “I know my way around.”

Clark looked skeptical. “Know the difference between hay and straw?”

“Yes.”

“Know how to work a post digger?”

“Yes.”

“Know how to wrestle a chicken without losing an eye?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “I’ve fought alien warlords, Clark.”

Clark grinned. “So that’s a no.”

Bruce sighed. “Lead the way, Kent. Let’s go milk a goat or whatever you people do for fun out here.”

“There is a goat, actually,” Clark said, clearly delighted.

Bruce didn’t flinch. “I’m not afraid of a goat.”

Clark’s smile widened, almost devilish now. “You say that now.”

They headed toward the door, the golden afternoon sun spilling across the kitchen floor behind them, warm and easy like something Bruce might almost believe was real.

“Why don’t you boys go to the football game tonight?” Jonathan asked, passing the cornbread basket down the table.

Bruce paused mid-cut through a generous slice of meatloaf. He blinked once, uncertain he’d heard right.

“Pa…” Clark said in a warning tone, his fork stalled above his plate.

“It was just a suggestion,” Jonathan said, holding up a hand. “Better than being cooped up in the barn all evening. Besides, Bruce will be with you—you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Bruce shot Clark a sidelong glance but didn’t speak. Clark looked tense, like the idea of a Friday night football game was more stressful than a week of powers training.

Bruce turned his confusion to Martha. She gave him a small, knowing smile.

“Clark doesn’t really spend time with other kids his age,” she explained gently.

“Oh,” Bruce said, realization dawning. “Right. Your powers didn’t fully manifest until puberty.”

Clark flushed and focused his attention on pushing a piece of carrot across his plate with his fork.

“I don’t have a full handle on them yet,” he admitted quietly. “It’s just easier to stay out of people’s way. That way no one gets hurt… and no one finds out about me.”

“We worry sometimes,” Jonathan said, glancing between them. “He’s only got a couple friends, and even then, he keeps them at arm’s length. I was hoping maybe, with you around, Bruce, he could just… be a kid for a little while. No secrets. No hiding.”

Bruce gave a faint nod. He hadn’t seen it himself—by the time they met, Clark wasn’t like that anymore—but he’d heard the stories.

“Well,” Bruce said, pushing his plate forward a bit. “I do know how all your powers work. If something goes wrong, I can walk you through it. We can go, if you want.”

It wasn’t something Bruce particularly looked forward to. A loud football game full of teenagers wasn’t his idea of a good time—especially when he’d spent the last hour helping mend fences and load hay bales, running on maybe a third of the strength he was used to. His muscles ached in places he didn’t know could ache.

But if Clark wanted to go—and he clearly did, despite his fear—then Bruce would show up. That’s what you did for people who mattered.

“Really?” Clark asked, eyes bright with cautious hope.

Bruce knew that look. The I-could-kiss-you-right-now look. It probably didn’t mean that. Not right now. But still.

Still, it warmed something in his chest.

“Yeah,” Bruce said with a small smile. “Let’s go.”

Clark grinned and looked down at his plate, cheeks a little pink.

Martha and Jonathan exchanged a look that could only be described as delighted.

“Well then,” Jonathan said, reaching for his drink. “I’ll drive you boys over once you’re ready. Game starts in half an hour.”

Dinner was winding down, forks clinking softly against plates as the conversation slowed.

Clark moved to gather his plate, but Bruce gave him a once-over and said casually, “You’re not planning to wear that to the game, are you?”

Clark looked down at his worn hoodie and jeans. “What’s wrong with this?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I’m just saying, maybe save the barbecue-sauce-stained hoodie for less public occasions.”

Clark blinked, then squinted at him. “You can barely see it.”

“All I’m saying is—you’re going to a school event. Maybe Lana will be there. Don’t you want to look your best?”

Clark rolled his eyes, grinning. “You’re insufferable.”

Bruce leaned back in his chair. “And fashion-conscious.”

Clark snorted, but there was warmth behind it. “Alright, alright—I’ll go change. And I can lend you one of my jackets too. It gets pretty cold after sunset.”

The Smallville bleachers weren’t exactly luxurious, but the fall air had a bite to it that made the warmth of Clark’s oversized hoodie (he tried not to think how it dwarfed him) feel especially welcome. The fabric was soft from a couple years of wear, the sleeves too long, the hem hanging almost halfway down Bruce’s thighs. It didn’t smell like his Clark’s hoodies—no familiar cologne, no ink and paper, no faint ozone from flying. But it still smelled like something distinctly Clark: sunshine, clean wind, a trace of hay from the Kent farm.

Bruce hadn’t expected to feel so… settled.

Clark sat beside him, elbows on his knees, completely absorbed in the game. He cheered when the Smallville Crows made a good play, groaned when they fumbled, and laughed when the marching band accidentally played two fight songs at once. He lit up with every pass, every tackle, grinning like the outcome mattered more than anything—and Bruce, despite himself, found he was watching him more than the field.

There was a lightness to Clark’s expression Bruce hadn’t seen in years. Not the warmth he always carried, but something carefree . Something unburdened. Here was a version of him that hadn’t yet learned what it meant to lose someone, to make the impossible choice, to carry the guilt of not saving everyone.

Sure, Clark had worries—about his GPA, about keeping his powers hidden, about helping the other kids affected by kryptonite—but he wasn’t haunted by the kind of fear Bruce had seen etched into the eyes of the man he knew in the future.

This Clark didn’t yet know what it meant to believe you might fail the world.

Bruce let the thought settle like a stone in his chest.

Clark nudged his shoulder. “You’ve been staring at me for like… a full minute.”

Bruce blinked, caught. “Just wondering when you’re going to start narrating the plays. You’re very invested.”

Clark grinned. “I did consider trying out for the football team.”

Bruce tilted his head. “But your dad didn’t let you. Not just because it wouldn’t be fair with your powers—but because you could lose control. You might hurt someone.”

Clark nodded, smile fading to something quieter. “Right. Best friend from the future. Of course you’d know that.”

There was no resentment in his voice—just quiet acceptance. A flicker of sadness. Bruce glanced away from the field to look at him directly.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, voice low, “I think you would’ve been incredible at it. But what you end up doing instead— who you become—that’s what makes you happy. That’s what matters.”

Clark’s smile returned, softer now. “Thank you, Bruce.”

He turned back to the field, still glowing a little from the praise. Bruce leaned back, letting his gaze follow the game but not really seeing it anymore. A real high school game. Kids sprinting for pride, not survival. No death rays. No alien invasions. No impossible choices.

For the first time in a while, Bruce let himself consider the idea of wanting something again. A moment like this—but with his Clark. The one who hadn’t sat in bleachers or smiled like this in too long.

The Metropolis Meteors were playing the Gotham Knights next month. Clark used to mention them sometimes when he was trying to get Bruce to unwind.

Maybe, once this was all over and they were back where they belonged, Bruce would take him. Just for a night. Just to sit and let themselves be people again.

They were long overdue.

“Do you want something to eat?” Clark asked during intermission, already half-rising from his seat.

Bruce gave him a look. “We ate less than two hours ago. And you, technically, don’t even need to eat.”

Clark blinked at him. “I don’t ? That’s news to me.” He straightened up. “I just felt like getting a candy bar. Maybe a pretzel. And I was feeling generous, so I figured I’d offer. What do you say, rich boy—want anything?”

“I’m good.”

Clark narrowed his eyes. “Fine. I’m getting you a chocolate bar anyway. I don’t know why, but you seem like you have a sweet tooth.”

“I said I was—”

“And I said I’m feeling generous,” Clark said cheerfully, already turning to head down the steps.

Bruce exhaled, resigned. It wasn’t worth the argument. He didn’t have to eat it. Clark wouldn’t push him.

Probably.

He let his shoulders relax, watching the crowd shift and mill around during the break. For once, the noise wasn’t grating. He was content to just sit there in the oversized hoodie, slightly too warm but too comfortable to complain.

Until he wasn’t alone.

Before he even noticed them approaching, two girls had taken the open seats—one settling into Clark’s spot, the other on Bruce’s other side. Teenagers, high schoolers, all glossy hair and bright eyes and bubblegum-sweet perfume.

“Hey there,” the one in Clark’s seat said, flashing a smile that looked like it got her out of a lot of parking tickets in the future. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“I’m Jess,” the other chimed in from Bruce’s right, crossing her legs and leaning just a little too close. “And that’s Carrie.”

Bruce gave a polite nod. “Bruce.”

Carrie tilted her head like it was a photo op. “You new in town?”

“Just visiting,” Bruce said. “I’m Clark’s cousin. In for a few days.”

Jess’s eyebrows rose. “Clark has a cousin?”

“Extended family,” Bruce said quickly. “Last-minute visit.”

“Huh, I guess I can see it. You both have the same dark hair and blue eyes,” Carrie said, smiling. “Well, you’re definitely not from around here.”

Jess grinned. “In a good way. You’ve got this…mysterious outsider vibe.”

Bruce resisted the urge to sigh. “Thanks.”

“You ever think of transferring?” Carrie asked, lightly brushing nonexistent lint from his sleeve. “I bet Smallville High could use someone like you.”

“I’m really just visiting,” Bruce repeated, a little more firmly this time. “Not planning to stay.”

“Shame,” Jess said. “I was just thinking we could show you around. There’s a bonfire after the game.”

“Big tradition,” Carrie added. “And Clark never goes. You should come with us instead.”

Bruce shifted back a little, his posture still calm, but his expression now edged with discomfort. “I appreciate the offer. But I’m mostly here to spend time with Clark.”

Jess leaned in slightly. “Clark wouldn’t mind. It’s just one night.”

“I’m good, really,” Bruce said, a little more pointedly.

But Carrie just smiled wider and tucked her hair behind her ear. “You’re polite,” she said. “That’s cute.”

Bruce blinked, already bracing himself—just as Carrie placed a hand lightly on his arm and leaned in.

It wasn’t subtle.

He turned his head just enough to avoid the kiss she was clearly aiming for and gently pushed her back by the shoulder, keeping it civil but firm. “No, thank you.”

Carrie blinked at him, visibly startled.

Before she could say anything else, a familiar voice cut in from behind.

“There a reason you’re in my seat?”

Bruce looked up, startled—but Clark’s tone was almost casual, just a hint of an edge beneath the warmth. He stood at the foot of the bleacher row, pretzel in one hand, chocolate bar in the other, like he hadn’t just walked in on a bad teen soap scene.

Jess glanced between them. “We were just keeping it warm.”

Clark smiled. “Well, thanks. We’re good now.”

There was something about his tone—easy, friendly, but with an unmistakable finality to it—that made both girls hesitate.

Carrie stood up first. “We’ll see you around, Bruce.”

“Yeah,” Jess said, a little slower. “Nice meeting you.”

They both retreated quickly, Jess tugging Carrie along by the sleeve once they were a few steps down.

Clark climbed up and reclaimed his seat, offering Bruce the chocolate bar.

“You okay?”

Bruce took it, still looking after the girls. “You have a way with people.”

Clark broke off a piece of pretzel. “It’s the Kansas charm.”

“I’m not sure that was charm.”

“I said it nicely.”

Bruce glanced at him sideways. “You sounded like you were about to throw them into the sun, if that’s what you mean by nice.”

Clark turned his eyes to the field, chewing thoughtfully. “They were annoying you.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You could tell that from over there?”

“I have super-hearing.”

“Ah.” Bruce broke off a square of chocolate and popped it into his mouth. He felt like having some candy after all. “So you were eavesdropping.”

Clark shrugged. “I was just keeping an eye on my best friend from the future.”

There was a pause, the kind that felt like it might settle into silence—but didn’t.

Bruce tilted his head slightly. “You know, for someone being so generous, you seemed awfully quick to scare off two girls who were clearly flirting with me.”

Clark didn’t turn his head. “They weren’t flirting. That was ambushing.”

Bruce made a quiet noise of amusement. “Still. You swooped in pretty fast.”

Clark finally looked at him, a corner of his mouth lifting. “Just making sure you weren’t being harassed.”

Bruce studied him for a second, then leaned back with the chocolate bar in his lap.

“Right,” he said lightly. “Just being a good cousin.”

Clark smiled, but didn’t say anything. He went back to his pretzel.

Bruce took another bite of chocolate, his eyes lingering on the field but his mind…not entirely on the game.

Maybe it was nothing.

Or maybe Clark Kent didn’t like sharing. Bruce didn’t really know how to feel about that.

Bruce slept almost twelve hours straight the following day. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept that long without being in a medically induced coma or a similar situation. He was so disoriented when he woke up he almost didn’t remember when and where he was.

“We didn’t want to wake you,” Martha explained, when he finally came downstairs. He had slept in the trundle bed in Clark’s room, but he had been so sound asleep he hadn’t even noticed Clark getting up four hours earlier to do his chores. He had pretty much spent the whole morning sleeping. “Your body clearly needed the rest.”

“Clark is at the Talon with his study group. I can take you there, I was heading to the centre anyway,” Martha told Bruce.

Bruce considered if crashing Clark’s study group was a good idea but staying at the farm waiting for him didn’t seem like the most enticing thing. Besides he needed to get working on a way to get home. Perhaps while they did their homework he could work on his own problem, he’d probably need to contact Alfred soon. He’d need access to his funds if he was to construct a time machine. With current technology, it would take a couple of years to build it. At best. But Bruce had done it before. He could do it again. As long as he got back to his Clark in the end, it would be worth it.

Martha pulled the truck into a spot across from the Talon and shifted into park with a glance toward the café window. “You sure you don’t mind being dropped off here?” she asked, smiling.

Bruce shook his head. “No, it’s fine. Better than sitting around the house.”

“You could probably use something to eat,” Martha added with a small smile. “I gave Clark some money for lunch—he should have enough for both of you.”

“I’ll grab something inside.” He paused. “Thanks for the ride.”

Bruce made a mental note to have Alfred reimburse the Kents for everything. That was probably more urgent than finishing a new time machine. That, and figuring out if he was the only Bruce in this timeline. He had a gut feeling he wasn’t.

Martha reached over and gave his arm a quick, motherly squeeze. “If you need anything, just call. I’ll be back through later.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said—and meant it.

Bruce stepped out of the truck. As she pulled away, he took a moment, standing on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, watching the quiet bustle of the small-town café. Teenagers came and went with drinks in hand, laughter spilling from the open door. It felt like stepping into another life—one he had no business being part of, but couldn’t help watching from the outside.

He walked inside, and the smell of coffee and cinnamon hit him immediately. The space was cozy, loud in a soft way: clinking mugs, murmured conversations, chairs scraping against worn wooden floors. He spotted Clark almost instantly. He was seated at a corner table near the window, surrounded by textbooks, highlighters, and crumpled paper. His hair was a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times.

He looked up—and the second his eyes landed on Bruce, he brightened.

“You finally woke,” Clark said, standing up and waving him over, voice warm with surprised delight.

“You sound like you didn’t expect me to.”

“You were absolutely dead to the world this morning. I thought you’d sleep until tomorrow honestly,” Clark admitted, grinning. “C’mon, I want you to meet everyone.”

Bruce followed, tugging slightly at the hem of his t-shirt. The table was already full, but Clark nudged an empty chair beside him with his foot. Three other teenagers looked up as they approached, curiosity immediately sharpening into interest.

“Guys, this is Bruce,” Clark said. “My cousin.”

The word felt odd in Clark’s mouth, like a borrowed coat. But no one questioned it.

The girl on the end offered a practiced, friendly smile. “I didn’t know you had cousins, Clark. I’m Lana.”

“Pete,” said the boy next to her, eyeing Bruce like he was sizing him up for a race. “Cousin, huh? That’s new.”

“And I’m Chloe,” said the blonde girl brightly. “Editor of the school paper, purveyor of gossip, seeker of truth. Welcome to Smallville’s one and only good coffee shop. You’re now officially under investigation.”

Bruce blinked. “Good to know.”

“We’re just surprised,” Lana said. “Clark doesn’t talk much about his extended family.”

“I don’t talk much in general,” Clark muttered.

Bruce gave a faint, amused snort. “So I’ve been told.”

“So,” Chloe leaned in, chin propped on her hand, eyes gleaming. “How long are you in town?”

“Not sure yet,” Bruce said, careful.

“Where exactly are you from?” Pete asked.

“Up north.”

“Do you and Clark see each other regularly?” Lana added. “Or is this, like... recent reconnection vibes?”

Bruce glanced sideways. Clark looked vaguely alarmed at how quickly things were spiraling. Bruce, however, had been handling press conferences and nosy teenagers masquerading as vigilantes for years.

“We’ve seen each other now and then over the years,” he said vaguely. “Not super often.”

“Oh come on,” Chloe said. “You have to give us something. Clark is like... emotionally Fort Knox. He never tells us anything about himself. This is our chance.”

“Sorry,” Bruce said. “I made a vow.”

Chloe narrowed her eyes. “A what now?”

“A vow,” Bruce repeated, deadpan. “Not to reveal family secrets.”

Clark ducked his head, clearly trying not to laugh.

Pete raised an eyebrow. “Is this a real vow or, like, metaphorical?”

“Unbreakable,” Bruce said.

Lana let out a soft laugh. “You’re just as dramatic as he is.”

“He’s worse,” Clark muttered.

The three groaned in mock disappointment.

“Well, I tried,” Chloe sighed, scribbling something in her notebook. “You’re lucky you’re cute. Otherwise, I’d interrogate you harder.”

Bruce’s brows lifted a fraction. He wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, a challenge, or both. “Thanks?”

Lana tilted her head, still studying him. “So what are you doing while you’re here?”

Bruce hesitated. “Trying to figure out a few things.”

“Like what?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. “Long story.”

That was apparently enough. The conversation shifted back to their group assignment—Kansas state history—and Bruce let himself sink into the background. He flipped open one of Clark’s abandoned notebooks and began to sketch, lines of machinery unfolding from memory. The Watchtower’s time machine wasn’t exactly subtle, but it gave his hands something to do.

He didn’t say much, but he listened. The back-and-forth was easy, casual. The kind of banter that came from shared years and small-town lives. And underneath it all—Clark. Still there. Still him. Quick, dry, and kind, even when he rolled his eyes at Chloe or muttered under his breath at Pete.

What struck Bruce most was Clark’s interaction with Lana. He’d braced himself for that bitter, quiet twist in his gut—jealousy. He’d expected fumbling, mooning eyes, especially after Clark admitted he couldn’t focus during math class yesterday because Lana wore a pink blouse.

But Clark was relaxed. Normal. Friendly, but not flustered. And what was stranger—he kept glancing at Bruce. Not like someone lovesick or subtle. Just quiet checks, like he was making sure Bruce hadn’t vanished.

“I’m not going to disappear,” Bruce murmured during a lull. “If I get up, it’ll be to use the restroom or get something to eat, because I haven’t eaten all day.That reminds me—your mom said she gave you enough for both of us.”

Clark gave a sheepish shrug. “Don’t get the tuna sandwich. We’re a landlocked state, so fish is never a good option. Learned that the hard way.”

Then he handed Bruce his wallet and nudged him away from the table, not-so-subtly sending him off to grab something to eat.

When Bruce came back—having wisely avoided the tuna—Clark didn’t say a word. But when he leaned back in his chair, their shoulders brushed. He didn’t move away.

And Bruce didn’t either.

“Hey,” Clark said, nudging Bruce lightly with his elbow as they waved goodbye to the others outside the Talon. “You wanna go swimming?”

Bruce glanced at him. “Swimming?”

“Mhm.” Clark looked up at the sky, then back at Bruce, that familiar spark in his eyes. “It’s still hot enough. We could head to the lake.”

Bruce gave him a sidelong look. “I’m not exactly wearing a swimsuit.”

Clark shrugged, grinning. “So? We can go in our underwear. Or skinny dip. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Do you fashion-forward rich boys always need a proper outfit for every activity?” Clark teased, bumping shoulders with him again.

Bruce exhaled through his nose. This had bad idea written all over it.

“If we’re going to Crater Lake,” he said, trying to inject some logic into the moment, “won’t it be packed? Like you said—it’s hot. It’s Saturday. I’m sure half of Smallville had the same idea.”

Clark leaned in closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, Brucie. I know a spot.”

Bruce groaned. “Why does that sound like the beginning of every bad decision?”

Clark only grinned wider. “Oh ye of little faith.”

They walked most of the way in comfortable silence, the air thick with heat and grass pollen. The only thing that made this walk better than yesterday’s was the company—and the fact that the last stretch was shaded by trees. Bruce’s shirt was sticking to his back, and he had long since given up pretending he wasn’t sweating. His body wasn’t built for this kind of weather. Gotham had humidity and grime, not direct sunlight and rural charm.

By the time they reached the lake, Bruce was more than ready to throw himself into the nearest body of water.

The trees parted to reveal a small cove tucked into the shoreline. It was secluded, shielded from the main beach by a short bluff and a bend in the land. Soft sand met still water that glittered in the late afternoon light, and across the lake, if they squinted, they could just make out the packed crowds where everyone else had gathered.

Here, though, it was just them.

And Clark hadn’t been lying—he really did know a place.

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” Bruce said, scanning the shaded cove. “This place is actually... decent.”

Clark shot him a grin and dropped his backpack in the grass. “Told you.”

Bruce didn’t answer. He was already reaching for the hem of his shirt.

Clark, apparently, had zero hesitation. He pulled his shirt off in one quick motion, and tossed it into the grass. Bruce turned away automatically, but not before catching the shape of his chest—tanned, solid, and so unfairly effortless he could almost resent it.

Focus.

Bruce toed off his sneakers and socks. He tugged his shirt over his head, folding it once before setting it neatly on top. The air hit his back like a breath of relief, though the humidity still clung to his skin like glue. His belt clicked loose, and he started unbuttoning his jeans.

That’s when he heard the sound.

A sharp, faint hiss —not unlike the sizzle of a match catching—and the unmistakable crackle of dry vegetation burning.

“Shit!”

Bruce’s head snapped up.

Clark was standing a few feet away, stomping frantically on a thin curl of smoke rising from the grass. His hands were raised like he didn’t know what to do with them, and his expression was pure panic—eyes wide, mouth caught halfway between a grimace and a wince. The small scorched patch of grass smoldered quietly beneath his heel.

He looked at Clark, who was now refusing to make eye contact.

“Did you just—” Bruce started, walking over. “Was that your heat vision?”

Clark groaned, still not looking at him. “I didn’t mean to.”

Bruce raised a brow. “Well I figured that .”

“I wasn’t aiming!” Clark practically squeaked. “It just—happened.”

Bruce stood beside the blackened patch of grass and crossed his arms, watching the last curl of smoke dissipate. “You told me you had control over that one yesterday.”

“I do ,” Clark muttered.

“Clearly not complete control.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck and finally looked at Bruce—only to immediately glance away again. His ears were red. “This isn’t helping.”

Bruce tilted his head, amused now. “So what set you off?”

Clark mumbled something.

“What was that?”

“I said I can’t say it,” he groaned, loud enough this time.

Bruce just stared at him, waiting.

Clark took one last look at Bruce—then winced, like the act of looking at him was physically painful—and immediately spun on his heel. 

“Last one in’s a loser!” he shouted, and took off toward the water at full speed.

“Coward,” Bruce muttered, watching him sprint like the lake owed him dignity. He looked back down at his half-unbuttoned jeans and sighed, finishing the job with a wry shake of his head.

He peeled the denim off slowly, stepping out onto the sand and toward the water. Heat be damned—Clark wasn’t the only one desperate to cool off.

And if he caught Clark sneaking a guilty glance back at him as he waded in?

Well, he didn’t comment on it.

“I know you told me yesterday that you’re overwhelmed about not being able to find your way home,” Clark said softly, his eyes fixed on the golden glow of the sun dipping behind the trees across the lake. The water shimmered, reflecting streaks of orange and pink, and a cool breeze rustled the tall grass around them. They were already dry and dressed, the chill of the evening air nudging them closer to their clothes. “And I know you want to go home. I saw you drawing those machine schematics in my spare notebook. But… I’m glad you found us.”

Bruce shifted slightly, his gaze flickering up from the water to Clark’s face. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, the faintest tension in his jaw betraying the weight of those words. “Why’s that?”

Clark shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He nudged a pebble with his foot, watching it roll into the lake with a quiet splash. “I know I have Pete and Chloe—and I guess Lana, when she’s not with her boyfriend—but they don’t know my secret. It’s different with you. I don’t have to hide who I am. You get me. I feel more like myself when I’m with you than with anybody else.”

Bruce’s eyes softened. He let out a quiet breath, the tension easing as he looked down at his hands resting on his knees. “Well, I feel like I’m cheating. I’m from the future, so I think I have a bit of an advantage over all your friends.”

Clark turned to face him, the fading sunlight catching the warmth in his blue eyes. “Even then… do you believe in soulmates?”

Bruce’s lips pressed together for a moment before he nodded slowly. “I guess I do.”

“I know we’ve just met, and please don’t think I’m crazy,” Clark said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned a little closer, “but I think you’re mine.”

Bruce’s breath hitched. He looked down, then back up, meeting Clark’s gaze with a mix of surprise and something tender. “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

If only this Clark knew…

The lake’s surface rippled as a breeze picked up again, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. Bruce’s fingers curled into a loose fist. “I wish you didn’t have to leave.”

“The machine I was drawing will probably take me at least a couple years to build with the current technology, so I probably won’t leave for a while, if I’m being honest,” Bruce said, and watched Clark’s smile brighten with hope.

“Yeah?” His voice held a spark of excitement.

“Yeah. I think you’ll regret saying you like spending time with me. I’m very annoying. I get under your future self’s skin a lot.”

Clark chuckled, the sound light and genuine. He nudged Bruce’s shoulder playfully. “I can take it. As long as you don’t leave.”

Bruce’s smile was small but real. They’d need to leave soon before the temperature dropped further, but for now, they could stay just a little longer.

“So, Bruce,” Martha began gently over dinner, her voice calm and warm like everything else about the house. “I spoke with Jonathan earlier—and we’d like to offer you a place to stay while your situation isn’t fixed. Even if this ends up being long term.”

She smiled at him from across the table, passing the mashed potatoes as if this was the kind of conversation that happened every day.

“That being said,” she continued, with a glance at her husband, “if it does turn into something longer, we might have to enroll you in Smallville High. But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Bruce froze mid-bite, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth.

Oh.

He wasn’t exactly surprised by the Kents’ kindness—he’d experienced it for years now—but it still knocked the wind out of him a little. In this timeline they didn’t just see him as Clark’s strange, stranded friend. They were already thinking of him as someone worth keeping. Someone they’d feed, house, support. Family.

Two days. That’s all it had taken for them to make space in their lives for him like he’d always been here.

Clark, sitting to his right, looked downright radiant. He’d been trying to keep it cool, but Bruce could feel the energy coming off him. Hopeful. Excited.

Jonathan cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly. “That is, if you want to, son. We know you’ve got family in this timeline already, and if you’d rather reach out to them instead of staying here, that’s okay too.”

Bruce blinked, momentarily overwhelmed. He set his fork down carefully, trying to buy time.

He hadn’t even had the chance to check. The Kents didn’t own a computer and Bruce hadn’t worked up to asking Clark to help him borrow one at Smallville High or go to him to the town library. He still was sure if this world already had a Bruce Wayne—and if it did, things could get very complicated, very quickly. There couldn’t be two of him in Gotham. Not without questions. Not without consequences.

He opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say, when—

A violent crack split the air outside, loud enough to rattle the windows. The room lit up with a sharp flash of unnatural light, a ripple of color dancing across the curtains.

Bruce’s instincts kicked in before thought could catch up. He was already half out of his chair, heart hammering in his chest.

He knew that light.

Dimensional breach.

Clark was up too, startled but not panicked. “What the hell—?”

The sound came again—less like thunder, more like reality tearing at the seams—and the air vibrated around them, the way it had the few times Bruce had travelled in time.

Someone was coming.

Someone had found him.

And suddenly, Bruce wasn’t sure if he was relieved—or terrified.

“They came for me,” he said, breath catching in his throat as he stood up, barely aware of his own voice. “Someone came for me!”

Before he could even think, he was sprinting for the door, Clark right behind him.

The sky outside was fractured with light, gold and violet tearing through the evening air like lightning caught in a prism. At the Kent Farm’s front gate stood a surreal, impossible scene: Superman— his Clark—in full regalia, hovering just slightly above the ground, cape flickering with the breeze like a live flame.

He was mid-argument, jaw clenched, voice low and dangerous as he loomed over two clearly intimidated figures: Bat-Mite and Mister Mxyzptlk.

“You just dropped me off at my folks’ place,” Clark was growling, eyes glowing faintly red. “If you brought me to the wrong dimension again, I swear to Rao—”

“Clark!” Bruce called, voice breaking on the name.

Superman turned toward the sound, confused—until Bruce collided with him at full speed.

Suddenly, Bruce’s face was pressed into the familiar warmth of Clark’s chest, smaller arms wrapping around his waist as one of Clark’s hands instinctively slid to cradle the back of his head. His fingers tangled in Bruce’s hair, gentle but searching, and for a moment, all the tension in Superman’s body evaporated.

“Bruce?” he said, voice lower now—shocked, full of unguarded emotion. He gently pushed Bruce back to arm’s length, eyes scanning his face. “You’re… you’re so young.”

Bruce nodded, heart still pounding, cheeks flushed from the sprint and the contact. “Yeah. No idea why. But it’s me.”

Clark’s expression hardened again as he turned back toward the imps. “You messed up again?”

“I swear this is the right timeline!” Mxyzptlk said, holding up his hands like a hostage. “That’s your Bruce, promise! Temporal hiccups happen sometimes—!”

“Think, Big Blue,” Bat-Mite added with a sigh, floating with his arms crossed. “Why would teen Bruce Wayne be here and know who Superman is unless that’s your Batman?”

He was clearly trying to sound smug, but wilted instantly when Bruce shot him a warning glare sharp enough to cut steel.

Clark looked between them again, still shaken. “You really don’t remember how you got younger?”

“Nope. Woke up in this body and found my way to the Kent farm.” Bruce huffed out a half-laugh. “Scared the hell out of them, actually.”

But before he could say more, Clark pulled him into a crushing hug, tighter this time. Bruce let himself melt into it.

“Oh thank Rao,” Clark whispered. “I’ve been looking for you for two straight days . We’ve been timeline and dimension-hopping nonstop— they’ve been no help, by the way—and I was starting to think I’d lost you in the multiverse somewhere. I would’ve kept going. I was going to keep going, but… I was losing it.”

He pressed a kiss to Bruce’s temple, and Bruce closed his eyes briefly.

“I’m glad you didn’t strangle them,” Bruce said wryly. “We still need them to fix this mess.”

Clark chuckled into his hair. “Believe me, I seriously considered it. Only refrained out of love for you.”

But then—

“So… you’re me? From the future?”

Bruce froze.

Shit.

He turned slowly, reluctantly pulling back from the embrace. The guilt hit like a wave.

Teen Clark stood a few feet away, eyes wide with stunned disbelief. Jonathan and Martha were just behind him, wearing identical expressions of shock. They must’ve followed the noise out—and now they were staring like they’d walked in on a cosmic paradox unraveling in real time.

Future Clark had clearly just noticed them too. His posture stiffened as his gaze swept over the younger version of himself and his parents.

“Wait. That’s…” He trailed off, then let out a long breath. “Huh. Okay.”

He looked almost impressed by how composed his teenage self was. Bruce, meanwhile, felt anything but composed.

“Well,” he said lamely, “guess now you have irrefutable proof I’m from the future.”

Teen Clark blinked, eyes still locked on his older counterpart. “I look so cool,” he said, awe flickering across his face—until he noticed the hand Future Clark still had resting on Bruce’s shoulder.

His expression shifted. Mood soured. Something small and sad crept in.

His Clark noticed the change and gave Bruce’s shoulder one last, reassuring squeeze before stepping back. “I’ll give you two a minute,” he said softly, already heading toward the Kents.

Bruce watched him go, grateful—and then turned back to the boy in front of him.

“I need to go now, Clark,” he said gently.

Clark’s frown deepened. “But you’re my best friend.”

“And I still am,” Bruce said. “We’ll meet again—when the time is right.”

Clark’s shoulders tensed. “When is that?”

“You know I can’t tell you...”

“That means it’ll be years, doesn’t it?” he said, dropping his gaze to his sneakers.

Bruce sighed. The sadness in this version of Clark—the isolation, the longing—was all too familiar. “I’m sorry.”

He reached out, hoping to offer some comfort—but the boy pulled back before he could make contact.

“Fuck you, Bruce,” he said, voice quiet but raw. “Just this afternoon, you told me you wouldn’t leave me.”

The words hit harder than any punch Bruce had ever taken. He stood there, silent, hurting.

Eventually, he turned and walked over to the Kents, who were now gently grilling Future Clark and marveling over how tall and broad he’d grown. It reminded Bruce of the older Kents in his own timeline, and he felt a brief flicker of warmth through the ache.

“Mr. and Mrs. Kent,” Bruce said, offering them a soft smile, “thank you. I wish I could’ve stayed longer—like you offered before he showed up.” He gestured toward Clark with the faintest hint of humor. “I’m forever grateful for how you’ve always made me feel like part of the family.”

He looked back toward the boy he was about to leave behind.

“I’m sorry for hurting him by just... leaving,” he said quietly. “That was never what I wanted. But it all ends well—as you can see.”

They both stepped forward and hugged him tightly.

“We’ll handle it from here,” Jonathan said. “Take care of our boy, on your end.”

“We mean it,” Martha added, eyes suspiciously bright. “Take care of him.”

If she started crying, his Clark would start crying too—and that would be a mess Bruce wasn’t prepared to deal with.

Together, he and Future Clark walked toward the still-bright breach, where the interdimensional imps were hovering. Behind them, the Kents moved to stand beside teen Clark. Martha wrapped an arm around his back—he was already too tall for her to reach his shoulders—and murmured something Bruce couldn’t quite hear.

Bruce tried one last time to catch the boy’s eyes, but he was steadfastly glaring at the ground.

This wasn’t how Bruce had wanted to leave things.

“Well… goodbye then,” Clark said in his most composed Superman voice.

Bruce glanced at him, his own voice soft and weary. “Goodbye.”

“We kept our end of the deal, Supes,” Bat-Mite piped up, hovering in a lazy loop. “Promise not to kill us now?”

“Only when we’re back in our proper timeline and Bruce is back to his proper age,” his Clark muttered.

Bruce was two steps from the breach when a voice cracked the air behind him—

“Wait!”

Bruce turned just in time to see teen Clark running toward him, tears already streaking down his cheeks. The next thing he knew, he was pulled into a fierce, trembling hug.

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” Clark choked out. “I didn’t mean it! I was just—sad you were leaving so soon. I just got you. But I can wait. It’ll be worth it.”

Bruce’s own eyes stung. He held him tight, arms locked around the boy who still hadn’t grown into the man standing behind him.

Before he could pull away, he felt a soft kiss pressed to his cheek. Teen Clark stepped back, flushed—not just from crying—and gave him a trembling smile.

“I can’t wait for you to actually meet me,” Bruce said.

Behind him, his Clark snorted. “Oh, he’s a real peach. You’re gonna love him. You two hit it off instantly .”

Bruce gave the younger Clark a final nod.

“Goodbye, Clark.”

“Goodbye, Bruce.”

When Bruce finally stepped off the breach and onto the rooftop, it hit him all at once—

The fog.

The cold Gotham rain.

The sting in his left knee.

He was back.

Back in the Batsuit. Back in his city. And, apparently, back in pain.

Never in his life had he thought he’d miss having knee pain. But here they were.

Then he registered the rest of it.

Mister Mxyzptlk, visibly sweating, muttered his name backwards three times of his own volition, disappearing with a pop before anyone could even glare at him. Bat-Mite didn’t say a word. He just vanished like someone who knew they were on very thin ice.

Bruce didn’t blame them. His husband was pissed.

Clark landed beside him in a quiet blur of red and blue, arms crossed, jaw tight. His cape snapped in the wind like thunder.

Bruce squinted up at him through the rain. “Can we go home?”

Clark arched a brow. “You want to go to the manor, where all the kids are? After you vanished for almost forty-eight hours without a word?”

Bruce hummed. “Good point… Metropolis penthouse?”

Clark hesitated for one pointed beat. Then: “I knew you’d see the genius in my plan.”

He closed the distance between them and kissed Bruce—decidedly not chastely. Gotham might be cold, but Clark was radiating heat in more ways than one.

The flight to Metropolis broke Clark’s personal speed record.

The bedroom was still, quiet in the way only late-night Metropolis could be—cars humming faintly in the distance, the city lights spilling in through floor-to-ceiling windows. The sheets were a mess, tangled around limbs and damp skin, neither of them bothering to straighten anything as the warm haze of exhaustion settled over them.

Bruce was draped half across Clark’s chest, a leg thrown over his hips, one arm folded beneath him while the other lazily traced patterns along his stomach. His face rested against the curve of Clark’s neck, perfectly content.

Clark, for his part, was running a slow hand through Bruce’s hair—scratching lightly at his scalp, the way he knew Bruce liked—while his other hand moved steadily up and down his back, fingers just brushing along his spine.

They hadn’t spoken in a while. Neither had needed to.

“…Since we’re back,” Bruce murmured eventually, his voice low, sleep-soft, “you remember it now, right? What happened back there.”

Clark hummed. “Yeah. Came back in bits after the timeline reset. I remember most of it now.”

Bruce lifted his head just enough to meet his eyes. “Can I ask you something?”

Clark narrowed his eyes warily but nodded. “You can.”

Bruce shifted his weight so he was straddling one of Clark’s thighs, fingers now teasing along his side. “At the lake. When we went swimming. Your heat vision went off.”

Clark made a small choking noise and immediately turned his face toward the ceiling. “ Seriously? It’s been years, Bruce.”

Bruce smirked. “It’s been hours for me. I remember everything. Especially the part where you got all flushed. You’re doing the same thing right now.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” Bruce said smugly, leaning in. “Same stammer, same twitchy fingers, same refusal to make eye contact.”

Clark groaned again and tried to roll away, but Bruce pinned him in place with a leg and dipped his head to kiss the warm line of his neck.

“Come on,” Bruce murmured, lips brushing just beneath his ear. “Tell me what got teenage you so worked up you nearly lit a tree on fire.”

Clark gritted his teeth. “I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“I really do.”

Bruce didn’t say anything. He just kissed lower, down the line of Clark’s throat, then up to the corner of his jaw—and then captured his mouth in a kiss that was deep, slow, and entirely unforgiving.

Clark melted under him within seconds, one hand tangling harder in his hair, the other gripping his waist.

When Bruce finally pulled away, flushed and breathless, he gave Clark a knowing look. “So?”

“Why do you even want to know?”

Bruce shrugged, mouth brushing the edge of his jaw. “Curious.”

Clark muttered something incomprehensible and buried his face in the pillow.

Bruce waited.

Clark let out a resigned breath. “You were shirtless.”

Bruce blinked.

Clark lifted a hand from the pillow to wave vaguely. “ And your jeans were half undone, and you were just so— nice to me. I’d just gotten a handle on that stupid power and then you show up like some kind of—”

“—gay awakening?” Bruce offered, far too pleased.

Clark glared at the ceiling. “Shut up.”

Bruce grinned against his shoulder. “You set the grass on fire because I was shirtless and polite.”

Clark groaned again. “God.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be concerned.”

Bruce chuckled. “So. Not Lana Lang?”

“I had a crush on her, yeah,” Clark admitted. “But she had a boyfriend. It wasn’t going anywhere. Then you show up—all tall and serious and handsome—and suddenly any time a girl flirted with you, I wanted to punch a wall.”

Bruce raised a brow. “You were furious when those girls ambushed me at the football game.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t crush the bleachers,” Clark muttered.

Bruce laughed, open and honest, and Clark felt himself relax completely under the sound.

“…I was even jealous of myself,” Clark added quietly, with a note of embarrassment.

Bruce glanced up, curious. “Of your future self?”

Clark stared at the ceiling again. “You hugged him so tightly. I mean—me. Him-me. Whatever. It was… not my best moment.”

Bruce leaned in, smirking. “You realize that makes you extra possessive.”

Clark turned to meet his gaze. “And you like that.”

Bruce kissed him again—slow and claiming. His hand wandered back up Clark’s side, drawing him in.

When they parted, Clark was flushed and dazed, and Bruce was smiling.

“You’re still kind of a disaster.”

Clark sighed. “And you’re still smug.”

Bruce nestled back into his shoulder. “Match made in heaven.”

Clark chuckled, letting the silence stretch. Their breathing fell into sync again.

Then Bruce murmured, quietly, “Did you really forgive me for leaving?”

“I did,” Clark said honestly. “I knew I’d meet you eventually. I knew we’d end up together. That made it easier.”

“I hope that didn’t mess up any of your past relationships.”

“I didn’t save myself for you, if that’s what you’re asking,” Clark said, amused. “But once you came into my life… that was it.”

“What about Lois?” Bruce asked.

“You mean my best friend-slash-woman I was vaguely interested in until you showed up and asked her out while tracking the Joker, who happened to be working with Lex? Which is how we met and figured out each other’s identities?” Clark teased. “Yeah, I kind of gave up the second my soulmate dropped in. She’s still my best friend, though.”

Bruce made a sound between a scoff and a sigh. “You’re so corny.”

Clark grinned. “I’m sure you remember what happened next.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Bruce rolled his eyes, but eventually relaxed into Clark’s chest again. Clark’s fingers resumed their lazy path through his hair, and Bruce kissed his skin, warm and quiet.

He was glad everything had worked out in the end.