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I am going to die.
That was the first thought in Clark’s head when he saw the sunlight break through the bricks and trees above him. There was an oppression in his lungs that only came with the meteor rocks, and with them, his single-mindedness.
I am going to die.
The sunlight, usually invigorating, was oppressive, and his breath, labored, as he struggled to think straight.
I… Am going to die.
Echoes of his father's voice rang in his head, calling out to him, his name- Clark. He, Clark Kent, son of Martha and Jonathan Kent, was going to die. He hadn’t even lived that long. He had never told Lana…
He heard a beep above him (a car, maybe?) and it added to the pounding in his head. How far Nixon had dragged him, he wasn’t sure. It was hard to breathe. He was hardly awake anymore, the laborious process of staying alive leaving no room for him to stay conscious. The sunlight- so oppressive. The meteor rocks. He wasn’t underground anymore, so where were they? Everywhere? They always seemed to be. Everywhere.
Nixon was muttering something.
I am going to die.
Clark had barely managed to open his eyes to see Jonathan fly over him, leaping at Nixon with an abandon Clark had never seen before. There was a shout, and agony, and-
We are going to die, Clark corrected, and he almost found it funny. He must really be dying, if he found he and his father’s imminent death funny.
No, Clark realized. He is going to die, I am…
Needles. Wires. Studies. Maybe a vivisection, if they found him particularly interesting. He was going to be tested on, taken apart, and taken away from Lana and Pete and Chloe, from Ma (and his Pa, but, oh, he would be dead by then)-
I want to die.
His eyes were swollen shut now, and his breathing was only becoming more strained. Shouldn’t he be better by now? He was no longer underground, surrounded by that oppressive green glow, and sunlight usually helped. Despite that, everything was only getting worse, blurrier and more dizzying, as the scream and punches continued next to him. Every beat by Jonathan Kent was punctuated by a screamed promise, and, somehow, every punch by Nixon seemed to carry its own.
Clark’s eyes opened a little, and he turned, desperate to get away from the sunlight.
He is going to die.
There was Nixon. He was holding something–Clark was too out of it to tell what, some sort of- crowbar, or metal rod? It was sharp, and had turned red in his hand, red with Pa’s blood, red with blood.
He was spouting something as he beat Jonathan, and Clark did not have the voice to protest, or the ability to move, he was stuck, well and truly stuck, watching the man who raised him be beaten to death.
This is my fault.
He is going to die.
This is my fault.
Clark’s consciousness left him before he could see Jonathan’s mangled body turned into a mangled corpse.
When Clark woke again, there was blood dripping onto his face, and just from the feeling of his body, he could tell it had only been a few minutes, if that. His Pa leaned over him, holding his face, cradling in gently.
“C’mon, Clark-” Jonathan pulled gently at Clark’s jacket, and Clark grunted in confirmation, too weak to be anything but a ragdoll as Jonathan pulled off his jacket (in it, the meteor rock) and threw it aside.
“Pa?” It was a whisper, agonizing to try and speak through his swollen throat, and everything hurt. If this was death, it was awfully painful, but, no, he was alive, and so was his Pa, but- “Nixon? Where’s Nixon?”
“Gone now, Clark, c’mere.” Jonathan pulled Clark into his lap, cradled him gently, and the sunlight broke free from its oppression and shone like it always did, brightly and warmly, until the swelling of Clark’s skin had gone down, the puffiness of his skin had lessened, and the grating in his lungs had dissipated.
Clark groaned in pain as his body healed itself. Everything hurt, and despite everything, he was not good at handling pain.
“Clark. Are you okay?”
Everything was blurry, but the fuzz around the edges was receding, and more importantly, Pa was there against him, his body warm and distinctly not a corpse, so Clark replied, “I’ll survive.” With the receding fuzz came a new blur, as watery tears made it harder for Clark to see.
The thought of having lost his Pa, to Nixon no less, which would have been entirely Clark’s fault, so soon after getting him back, convinced the tornado had torn him to pieces- it was too much for Clark to bear, so he did not, and he pushed aside the thought.
Jonathan was still cradling Clark by the time Martha and Pete arrived, police in tow, and Clark’s tears had not tapered off. Nixon was dead, undoubtedly, and Clark had frankly no interest in finding out if Jonathan had killed him or if it had just been a happy accident.
There was a vague sense of disgust at himself for finding any death to be happy, but more importantly, the accident (or not) meant Jonathan was still alive, so Clark pushed it aside.
The paramedics pried Clark away from his Pa, handed him to Martha, and when they took Jonathan away to patch him up, Martha was holding him instead, letting Clark sob into her shoulder.
Despite how well his parents had raised him, Clark still struggled with feeling like his crying was wrong in some way, weak and unmasculine, even though he made no efforts to be masculine otherwise. He cried in front of Pete and Martha, and all the paramedics and Johnathan, and when he finally was taken back home, all the fuzziness from the meteor rocks was gone, but he did not feel whole again.
They talked.
Clark and his parents, they talked. Clark told them how guilty he felt. He said, “It would have been my fault.” He did not say “I wish I had never come into your life. I’ve brought you so much more trouble than you ever wanted. I wish you could’ve had your own children, rather than dealing with me, an alien, who will never be human, and just as Nixon said, never be your son.”
His parents said, “It was never your fault,” and “I love you,” but because he did not truly open up, they did not reassure him that they wanted him more than they wanted any imaginary biological child, and that they loved him so much that any manner of trouble was worth it, and that the reason Jonathan was willing to die (and kill) for him was because of that love.
Clark knew that, but that didn’t change the fact that he needed to hear it, and he didn’t get to.
He had nightmares about that night. It seemed blackmailing struck a specific cord for him, between Nixon and Phelan, and it didn't go away, even as he aged into adulthood.
By the time Clark had the Justice League, Nixon was a distant memory. Clark was never really good at processing his ordeals (he struggled to call them traumas), but he was excellent at putting them behind him, and put the Nixon ordeal behind him, he did! The nightmares were still persistent, but they always had been since Clark’s teenage years, and they didn’t bother him like they used to.
Clark sometimes had issues opening up. The constant fear of being vilified for his origin, or blackmailed, or hated, was not easy to overcome. Even once he was certain he would not be judged for being an alien, he knew he would be judged for lying about being human, so it was easier to just not tell.
With the Justice League, it was different. Everyone had secret identities. Batman had someone behind the cowl. Flash was someone behind the mask. Superman admitted to them, somewhat reluctantly, that he was someone else besides Kal-El when he was not superheroing. There was shock, first. It seemed the prevailing belief that Metropolis had about Superman made it into the Justice League: as the story went, Superman had no civilian identity, lived in the Fortress of Solitidue, and being a superhero was his day job and not his side hustle. It was convenient for Metropolis to not think he had a secret identity, but it was a lot more unpleasant to tell the Justice League.
Once the shock passed, Clark was actually fairly certain it made the Justice League more comfortable around him. No longer was he the alien disconnected from society, who lived only to watch over and protect the people of Earth by his own judgement. Now, he was one of them, he was humanized.
Clark liked being humanized.
He was one of the first to share his civilian identity. Clark was making a point, setting an example, proving to the League that it was safe to do so. It was a trust-building exercise, one he stressed that no one should feel pressured into following him in.
Bruce was one of the last. Clark didn’t blame him. Despite how open Clark seemed (he was always telling stories, sharing recipes, showing pictures. And he was one of the first to share his identity!), Clark understood. Clark shared what was easy to share. He had nothing to hide when he talked about his Ma’s apple pie or Lois’ obsession with sugar in her coffee. He had things to hide when it came to other details. Details like Nixon, or Phelan, or all the times meteor rocks had infected his childhood.
Clark was under the distinct impression that, like with his secret identity, the Justice League assumed he was not hiding anything. They had assumed Clark had no secret identity, and now, by extension, they assumed he had no secrets, no deeply hidden traumas, no terrifying moments he had never told anyone.
Partly, it was Clark’s intention–not to hide these things, per se, but to create a persona. A persona of hope, unmarred by the memory of being just fourteen, watching his father die next to him, convinced he would be taken away and strapped to an experimenting table.
It helped cultivate the persona when Clark was open about other things most people would consider traumatizing. When Clark openly talked about his other near-death experiences, ones that he had after becoming Superman, it made his teammates think that he was just… Open to talking about near-death experiences. It made them think he was sharing everything there was to share. It made Clark guilty, in some ways, deceiving his teammates like he was. But he had never lied to them, not directly, he was just. Cultivating a persona, cultivating an idea around himself that happened to be trying to trick them. It wasn’t wrong, it was just…
It was wrong.
But Clark, like he had reassured the rest of the Justice League the first time he’d admitted to being Clark Kent, was under no obligation to tell anyone anything. He could hold whatever he wanted however close to his chest as he wanted, and that was perfectly allowed.
Until it affected his teammates.
They were on the battlefield when it happened. It was some low-level threat–robots attacking, built by a new supervillain trying to throw her hat in the ring. It wasn’t all that dangerous, but most of the Justice League had shown up anyway, for they had been in a meeting before everything went down. Rather than argue about who would go, they all joined the fray and agreed to go out to eat after, if nothing went wrong.
Lex Luthor went wrong. He was being particularly obnoxious recently–he had developed a new tactic of butting into fights that weren’t his. With Superman already distracted by the actual threat, Luthor would throw in some other inconvenience in an attempt to incapacitate Superman. It was obnoxiously effective, though less so with Clark’s team around.
Today, his new method was a kryptonite gas, which he released via an inconspicuous bomb. Since Clark had been 14, his resistance to kryptonite had marginally improved. It came with age, and, regretfully, though he had tried, kryptonite was not something he could train himself to resist. When the gas hit, Clark was near to the ground anyway, and he fell like a brick onto the dirt below.
Clark could have sworn he was floating above asphalt a second ago. It didn’t matter, ultimately, as he pushed himself up to move, but the kryptonite in his lungs was so much more oppressive than when it was outside of his body…
Everything was fuzzy.
Clark had learned to live with the meteor rocks. He had faced them so many times since he was a child. But everything felt fuzzy, and golly, he was tired.
I am going to die.
Clark rolled up and looked up at the sun. That couldn’t be true. He wasn’t in any real danger. Kryptonite in his lungs, easily remedied by a decontamination chamber. Fear hit him. His throat was swelling up. His skin- burned. His lungs, strained. His vision, fuzzy.
I am going to die.
He could hear someone in his comm. Calling out his name? He wasn’t sure. He tried to call out a response, tell his Pa- sorry, tell Batman, it must be- that he was fine, but his voice cracked and died in his swollen throat.
I am going to die.
It was hard to breathe and, Rao, everything was fuzzy.
I… I’m going to die.
Clark’s eyes were swollen now, and the sun pierced his eyes, he heard a beep (Phelan’s car- no, no, a robot, just a robot). He groaned and reached for his jacket (no, no, his cape, his cape).
He turned his head to the left, desperate to look away from the piercing sun that stabbed at his eyes, its usual warmth burning him up.
There it was.
It was evil, the memory, the way it echoed and warped itself over what he was looking at.
There it was.
Batman- no, Phelan- had something- a crowbar, some rod of metal- in his hands. He struck down, at the threat- Jonathan Kent- beneath him.
Clark’s voice broke again. The metal was red, with his Pa’s blood, and it was Clark’s fault.
We are going to die…
The echoes of arms dragging him away hit again. Clark felt miserable, staring at Batman, and he struggled to move. Clark could see Bruce’s lips moving- he must be saying something. Something like, “the people have a right to know,” or “I’m going to tell the whole world about your son.” Clark sobbed, and cried out, and his fingers grappled helplessly against the dirt. He hissed against the agony of the meteor rocks.
“Stay still,” Clark heard finally, growled into his ear. Stay still. Clark sobbed again. He passed out against the dirt, and the kryptonite in his lungs, it was so oppressive. It took more energy than he had to stay awake, and he needed that energy so he would stay alive.
When Clark awoke, (it must have only been a few minutes, if that), someone was over him (it was must Pa, it certainly wouldn’t be Nixon with the way he was gently cradling him). There were warm hands on his face, and a beating heart that he could hear. It was familiar, so it must be-
“Pa?” Clark’s eyes were so blurry, and-
My jacket. I need to get my jacket off. My jacket, it has the meteor rock in the pockets, Clark realized belatedly. The man’s lips moved above him, and Clark cried out as he attempted to move his swollen arms, finally reaching up and undoing the mechanism that took off his cape.
He rolled over, face hitting the dirt, to get his cape out from under him, and once he did, he threw it as far as he could. It didn’t get far (he was so weak, so tired, and that took so much energy), but it was far enough, and any second now, the feeling from the meteor rocks should fade.
Jonathan rolled Clark back onto his lap, cradling his face gently again.
“Nixon. Where’s Nixon?” Clark gasped out. It was hard to breathe, getting harder by the second.
“Who’s Nixon?” the voice above him responded, and it didn’t sound like Jonathan at all. Clark was panting, and the blurriness from the kryptonite was not fading, even as the blurriness from his tears started to blend in.
“Pa? Jesus-” Clark’s hands clutched at his father’s flannel, and he sobbed more in earnest now. “Please help,” Clark begged.
I’m going to die.
The meteor rock. It’s not going away.
“The meteor rocks,” Clark gasped. “You-” have to move me, he wanted to say, but it was too difficult to breathe. He passed out again.
He was cradled against someone (Pa? Paramedics? Nixon?) when he came to again. They were carrying him somewhere, hopefully away from the meteor rock, but the feeling wasn’t getting any better.
“Stop it,” Clark begged. “Please. The tapes.” He was delirious. He couldn’t even see, couldn’t look at who was carrying him, for his eyes were well and truly swollen shut down. He cried anyway.
I want to die, Clark thought, even though it wasn’t really true. He had no desire to die (he loved living), he just didn’t want to live a life of cold, metal tables, of IVs and maybe a vivisection, if the doctors were particularly curious.
Clark passed out again, and it was going to be much longer than a few minutes until he awoke again.
Clark’s cape was folded up on his bedside table when he awoke, folded so the house of El’s family crest neatly sat on the top. Clark’s eyes were blurry from sleep, which he rubbed away, and he was no longer in his Superman suit. Upon looking around, Clark confirmed he was in his bedroom at the Justice League headquarters, in his pajamas.
He was beyond grateful, but more so surprised to not see himself in the medbay.
Clark pulled himself out of bed despite the covers and blankets calling for him, and he made a half-effort to tame his hair before going to change. He opened his closet, but his Superman suit wasn’t there, which was… Hmm. Clark’s memories were scrambled. He remembered being hit with kryptonite gas (must have been Lex’s doing), and that was about it. He’d had nightmares (just his typical ones), but they were already fading.
Deducing that his suit must be being cleaned, Clark pulled out the other clothes he kept at his Justice League headquarters closet. A flannel, some jeans, and a pair of socks and shoes later, Clark rejoined the world.
There were voices coming from the meeting room, which is where Clark headed first. It was normal for everyone to be in the meeting room for a debrief following a mission, but there was a feeling of unease in Clark’s stomach. Maybe it was the after-affects of the kryptonite (it did usually make him nausea, and he was really hungry, and for all he knew he threw up while he was sleeping), but more likely, it was how strange everything was. He hadn’t woken up in medbay. There were no red sun lamps so they could give him an IV. There was no one by his side when he regained consciousness.
Clark pushed open the meeting room door, and there was everyone, gathered like they usually would be. He felt underdressed, wearing a flannel instead of a cape, but thankfully, masks and cowls were off, making him feel less exposed. Everyone stared at him (Batman scowled at him, but that felt more normal than not).
Clark smiled and took his seat across from Bruce. “Sorry that I’m late,” Clark apologized, “I just woke up. How long was I asleep?”
“Three hours and eighteen minutes,” Batman responded coolly. It was familiar enough that the unease in Clark’s stomach settled a bit.
“Oh, that’s not bad!” Usually he slept for much longer after kryptonite exposure. “Is medbay down?”
Bruce’s eyes were distracting as they stared back at him. “No.”
“Why did I wake up in my quarters?”
“You requested not to be put in medbay.”
Clark tilted his head. He certainly didn’t remember that. “Huh. I must have been pretty out of it,” he laughed. There was a certain level of silence that followed, beyond what he’d expected, so he glanced around the room, trying to assess what had happened.
“No kidding,” Hal responded dryly.
Clark blinked. “That was pretty routine Luthor stuff.” Surely they’d all be more relieved than freaked out if I had nearly died? “Rao, I didn’t do something embarrassing in my sleep, did I?”
Flash laughed (more anxious than humorous), and Bruce cut in before he could respond. “Who is Nixon?”
Clark stared at him for a moment. His first thought was Richard Nixon, the 37th president, and his second thought was Roger Nixon, from Smallville? Ultimately, he went with his third thought, “I’m not sure. Someone to do with the mission?”
Bruce frowned. “You mentioned a ‘Nixon’ while you were fighting the kryptonite.”
“Did I?” Clark frowned. “I knew a Nixon from my childhood but he wasn’t really- well, I haven’t thought about him in a while. Did I say anything else?” Clark’s ears were heating up, his heart was pounding a bit. Nothing too noticeable, even for Batman.
“You asked not to go to medbay.”
“Anything else?”
“You…” Bruce hesitated. “You asked for your father. And you mentioned ‘the tapes,’ ‘the meteor rocks,’ being an alien, experimentation, and you asked for us to stop a lot.”
“Oh, meteor rocks- that’s what I used to call kryptonite, back in Smallville,” Clark explained easily.
“The tapes?” Batman asked.
“Is that really relevant to our mission?” Clark asked, finally gesturing to the files strewn around the table. It seemed like they were about the new supervillain, of course not about Clark’s childhood.
“You tell me.”
Clark sighed, pushed his hair back. “No, it’s not relevant.”
“It became relevant when you mentioned it during the mission,” Batman pointed out. “I spent the last three hours searching for information on the Nixon you were talking about.”
Oh, Rao… “I was delirious from kryptonite. It’s not really anything that matters now.”
Bruce frowned and stared at him, Clark suddenly remembering the others at the table, watching the duo. Wonder Woman gently interrupted the back-and-forth. “We are worried about you, Kal-El.”
Clark smiled gently. “Thank you, Diana, but it’s really nothing.”
Bruce deepened his glare.
“Can we continue on with the meeting? What did I miss”
Bruce did not continue on with the meeting, nor explain what Clark missed.
Clark groaned. “B, this is childish.”
The silent treatment continued.
“Okay,” Clark broke, “I was talking about someone named Roger Nixon. The tapes were videos of me using my powers.”
Batman grunted in acknowledgement, not-so-subtly asking for more.
Clark’s face heated up with embarrassment. He felt uncomfortably scrutinized, this like, and he wasn’t particularly keen on telling his story in front of the entire Justice League. “Do you want the full story?” Clark reluctantly asked.
“Yes,” Bruce responded.
“Fine. When I was younger- 14 or so?- my family and I were blackmailed by Nixon. He had filmed me using my powers, and he intended to release it to the world. He had also bugged my house, and he heard my father and I talking about my spaceship, which was in the storm cellar at the time. While I was at Smallville’s spring dance, a twister hit the town, and my parents went down to the storm cellar, only to see Nixon looking at the spaceship.”
Clark distracted himself, trying to sort through what was relevant and what was not relevant to tell the story. Saving Lana: not relevant. He moved on.
“My father chased Nixon out of the cellar and into the storm in an attempt to get the footage back from him. They ended up in the woods, where they ended up in the basement of a church that had been destroyed, and this big building landed on top of the entrance.” Clark stretched his arms out, gesticulating to get his point across.
“Pa was missing for over 12 hours, so I went out looking a few times, and eventually Pete Ross–my best friend at the time–saw a map that showed the old church. I hadn’t been able to see my Pa or Nixon underneath it because, uh, it had been made with lead, sorry, that’s not really relevant.”
Clark recentered himself and frowned, trying to shorten his story so they could get on with the things they’d been discussing before he interrupted.
“I went out alone so I could move the building on top of the church without anyone seeing, and when I went down to the basement, there was kryptonite everywhere. My Pa was underneath some sort of structure, I didn’t see what, too much kryptonite, and he must have told Nixon that the meteor rocks made me weak.
“Nixon dragged me up to the forest, and he brought kryptonite with me, to keep me weak so he could turn me in as an alien- to the government, I mean. He said something about how the world had a right to know- or something like that, I was pretty sick from the kryptonite- and then my dad attacked him.”
He was fairly lost in the memory now.
“Sorry, I’ve- never told anyone this story, not really sure on the details- I remember I could hear them fighting, and when I managed to look over Nixon was beating my Pa up pretty bad with- uh-” Clark stopped himself from saying “a crowbar” just before he said it, and instead said, “-some metal piece, long sharp metal thing, and I remember there was a lot of blood. But it was hard to see.” Clark frowned as the memory washed over him.
“When I woke up my Pa was over me- there was a lot of blood, but he was right as rain once the paramedics cleaned him up- and Nixon was dead. Not sure what happened there. The meteor rocks were in my jacket, so we took it off, and then the paramedics came to take care of Nixon’s body and my Pa. He told me later the tapes were destroyed,” Clark tacked on. “No harm, no foul. I got back into the sun and I was right as rain again- oh, new phrase- I was back to normal again. My dad was fine. Didn’t even leave a scar.”
Clark shook himself out of his memory and reminded himself that he was currently surrounded by the Justice League. “Oh. There was harm and foul, since Nixon died.” Clark frowned. “Sorry.” Horrified faces stared back at him. “The, uh, the fear of medbay was just a common thing that scared me. I’m over it now. Nothing actually happened there.
“Anyway,” Clark smiled, “it’s dealt with now so, like I said, not relevant to the mission. Who’s this new supervillain who attacked?”
Silence responded to him, so Clark awkwardly reached for the file closest to him, before Batman said, “Was that the only time you were blackmailed?”
Clark considered this, before responding, “I guess he didn’t blackmail us. He just threatened us. But to answer your question, no, I was blackmailed a few times.”
“Was that the first time?”
He was getting hungrier by the second. “No, it was the second. The first time was with this cop, Phelan. I beat him in the end though,” Clark smiled. “I outsmarted him.” He was still, admittedly, a little proud of how clever he’d been with Phelan.
“Where is he now?” Bruce asked calmly.
Clark sighed. “He also died. Police altercation.” Clark looked down at his twiddling thumbs. Phelan’s death was much more regrettable–it felt so much more preventable than Nixon’s, and he had only ever wanted money. Phelan hadn’t been a murderer, as far as Clark knew. “Nobody who’s blackmailed me is a threat anymore,” Clark continued, assuming that was why Bruce was asking. “You know of everyone who knows that I’m Superman, B.”
Clark knew Bruce enough to tell he was mentally rearranging things. Clark waited patiently for any more questions, knowing that (despite his attempts earlier) it was almost impossible to get Bruce off a topic once he was determined to learn about it.
“Have you had flashbacks on the field before?”
“I don’t think so-? I’m not really sure what constitutes a flashback,” Clark admitted.
“Emotionally or physically feeling as though you are back in a traumatic situation,” Bruce answered clinically.
“I’m not really sure,” Clark responded after thinking for a moment. “It’s hard to say.”
“Do you often have nightmares?”
“Fairly often,” Clark offered, almost certain that Bruce would pick up that “fairly often” meant “all the time.”
Bruce seemed mostly satisfied, so Clark took the opportunity to redirect. “So, new supervillain? Are they a genuine threat?”
“That’s it?” Hal asked. “We’re just moving on from that?”
Clark and Bruce looked at him. “I did interrupt,” Clark pointed out.
“That seems like a really big confession you just gave us that we’re moving on from!” Hal pushed back.
“It wasn’t really-” Clark sighed. This is my fault, I cultivated this idea about myself. “I know you guys have been through worse,” Clark pointed out.
“And?”
“And, it’s normal to go through a lot when you’re a superhero.”
“This seems pretty fuckin’ beyond typical superhero things,” Hal snapped.
Clark leaned back in his chair and resisted the urge to tell Hal to shut up. “B, couldn’t we have had this conversation in private?”
“You didn’t ask,” Bruce told him.
“You didn’t offer,” Clark pointed out.
“Listen, Supes, are you okay?” Flash finally asked.
“Me? I’m fine. The kryptonite is all out of my system. I’m kind of hungry, which is why I keep trying to get us back on track.”
“I mean-” Flash taped his temple- “up here?”
Clark resisted the urge to sigh again. “I’m good,” he smiled.
“There was a lot of crying and screaming for someone who’s ‘good,’” Hal snarked.
“You know what? It seems like I’m distracting you guys, so I’m going to eat something and head home. I have some things I need to finish up for the Planet. Thanks for the assist, B. Have a good day.” Clark got up to leave as he spoke, finally at the end of his rope. He smiled politely as he walked towards the door, and was gone into the hallway by the time he heard anyone call out for him to wait.
The first thing Clark did was pick up his suit, and then go home to Smallville. He knew that his Pa was fine (he could hear his heartbeat), but it was nice to see him in person anyway, working away at the farm. Plus, Clark was getting hungrier by the second, and the sun helped, but a home cooked meal would help more.
Then, Clark flew around Metropolis a few times, helping where he was needed, but mostly just enjoying the still-lingering warmth as the sun set. He loved watching the sunset, and he could see everyone below him on the ground going about their days.
All in all, Clark felt pretty at ease by the time he returned back to his apartment. He sat down at the kitchen table, worked a bit on his article about the increasing pollution in Metropolis, before calling it a night and heading to bed.
Clark was just pulling on his pajama shirt–a faded tee from University–when Batman entered into his living room (through the window), just as Clark expected. Clark straightened himself out and walked to the main part of his apartment, where Bruce was standing, dressed head-to-toe in Kevlar.
“Hey, B,” Clark smiled.
“Superman,” Bruce greeted.
“Done for the night or just starting?”
Bruce grunted in response, which Clark took to mean that he was done. Metropolis was his last stop.
“I’ll grab you some pajamas,” Clark offered, silently asking Bruce to stay the night. Both of them were used to this song and dance, they knew each other’s tells and requests, how to read each other like open books.
Bruce sat down on the couch and started removing his boots, confirming to Clark that he would stay. Clark returned with pajamas as Bruce stripped down to his underclothes.
“Hungry?” Clark asked as Bruce changed, looking through his kitchen to see what he could offer.
“No,” Bruce called back, his voice softer now, somewhere between Batman and Brucie.
Clark smiled as he returned from the kitchen, seeing Bruce now only wearing Clark’s pajamas. “Okay. What’s up?”
Clark followed Bruce to his bedroom silently; the two of them laid down in Clark’s bed. It was a little awkward, the two of them smushed together like they were, but they made it work, as they always did after particularly bad days.
Bruce was silent for longer than usual. “Why didn’t you tell me about Nixon?”
Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce. “I didn’t think you wanted to know.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to know?” Bruce countered.
“It just didn’t seem relevant,” Clark pivoted.
Bruce grunted, and then thought for a bit. The sound of his heartbeat comforted Clark, who tried to stay awake until Bruce responded. “You don’t trust me.”
Clark was only a little bit offended by this. “I do trust you,” he reassured. And you’re one to talk. “I just don’t really talk about it.”
Bruce breathed deeply, both men letting their chests rise and fall in tandem. “Are there other things you aren’t telling me?”
There was a moment, a pause between them, as Clark considered the question. “Nothing I won’t tell you eventually.” Clark shut his eyes softly. “I just need time.”
Bruce gave a non-committal mmm in response, and it sounded a lot like “I’m here for you.”
Clark laughed a little at his thought of saying “It’s not you, it’s me,” and Bruce didn’t ask what was making him laugh. They understood each other. It was easy, when they were together.
“I always want to know,” Bruce whispered.
“For the mission, or for me?” ‘The mission’ was everything the Justice League stood for–not necessarily any specific thing that had or hadn’t happened. Clark’s words were gentle–there wasn’t a wrong answer, but he was curious.
Bruce considered the question, and Clark let him. “For both,” Bruce answered. It wasn’t unkind. “Do you sleep better when I’m here?”
“Who could possibly have nightmares when the Gotham Bat is there to protect them?” Clark whispered-teased in response. “The Gotham Bat” is what Clark had called Bruce before “Batman” was popularized, and the first article Clark had ever written about Batman used that name.
Bruce seemed calmer at that (he smiled a bit against Clark’s chest), and as Clark drifted into sleep, it was true that he did sleep better with Bruce at his side.