Chapter Text
~ Disclosures ~
1
Ducking into a quiet corner, Clark responded to the call that had come over his commlink. “This isn’t a good time, Batman.”
“Why?”
“I…” Clark shook his head, not sure he was ready to put it into words. “You know, most people begin a conversation with something like hello, how are you.” It was a blatant stall but there was a kind of fleeting comfort in bantering with Batman.
“This isn’t a conversation.”
No, of course not; heaven forbid Batman would ever call him just to talk. “Yeah, I know,” Clark said, and just like that the fear crept back. Maybe going out to divert a comet on a collision course with Earth, or something equally catastrophic would provide a momentary respite from the much more intimate devastation he was helpless to prevent. “What’s the emergency?”
“There’s no emergency. I just wanted…” Uncharacteristically, Batman sounded unsure, as if he had stumbled upon something unexpected. In the time they had been working together with the Justice League, Clark could count the number of times he had witnessed that on one hand, and he’d have at least a thumb left over. Maybe a pinky, too. “What’s wrong?”
Clark knew if he was holding an actual telephone he would be staring at the receiver in disbelief at this point. Was it too much to hope Batman’s interest really was personal? Probably; yet every now and then he got the sense that, whoever lurked behind that cowl, Batman wasn’t as cold and indifferent as everyone thought. Scary, yes; aggravating beyond belief, absolutely; but a lot of the rest of it might just be another kind of protective armor. Wishful thinking, Clark supposed, but he wanted it to be true.
“It’s my father. He,” his voice caught for a moment as images of Jonathan Kent collapsing in his arms, gasping for breath, overwhelmed him, “he’s dying.” No, actually saying it out loud didn’t help a bit.
“Your father?”
“Yes, I have a father,” Clark snapped back. “Is that so hard to believe?” He didn’t know why he lashed out at Batman. None of this was his fault. Batman didn’t know about Smallville; he didn’t even know about Clark Kent. “I’m sorry, I—”
Batman ignored his outburst. “What happened?”
Absurdly grateful for Batman’s no-nonsense manner, Clark said, “It’s his heart. Ma says he hadn’t been feeling well for quite awhile. She wanted him to go see a doctor but he told her he’d be all right, and then today he just…” Clark could feel his throat closing up and had to pause for a second and had to swallow to clear it. “I’m sorry, I’m babbling.”
“You’re not. Go on.”
Clark blinked rapidly, as much to keep any tears at bay as in surprise at Batman’s downright concerned tone of voice. “The doctors here, they’re doing all they can, but he needs some kind of heart valve that they say is just in the experimental stage. And I can’t do anything. All my powers, Batman, and I can’t do one thing to help the man who…” Damn it, he was choking up again. “Look, I need to get back to him. I don’t think,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t think he has much longer.”
“Where are you? Metropolis General?”
Surprised again, Clark said, “Yes. How did you—”
“Your father will have that valve, Superman. Don’t worry about it.”
Don’t worry? “What are you talking about? Batman?” He tapped the commlink, hard, but there was only silence.
He took a minute to compose himself, to brace himself before he went back to his father’s hospital room. It had helped to share some of what he was feeling, even with Batman of all people—maybe especially with Batman. He didn’t understand that last promise, though. It wasn’t like Batman to make a pledge he couldn’t possibly keep, not unless he had some pull with Wayne Bio-Tech that Clark didn’t know about. The doctors had said that was the only place this valve existed but that it had not yet been approved and made available for use. Not even Batman could cut through that kind of red tape.
Ready as he would ever be, Clark let himself back into the room. Nothing had changed. Tubes and wires still connected his father to an array of machines that were the only thing keeping him alive. His father still looked incredibly frail, helpless in a way Clark could not have imagined as he struggled for every breath even with the machines to help him. His mother still looked numb. At a glance, Martha Kent appeared remote, detached from everything. It was only when you looked into her eyes and saw the fear that lurked there that you realized she was using every ounce of strength she possessed not to fall apart.
Clark pulled up another chair to sit beside her. He carefully patted her hand where it rested on the bed near Jonathan’s. “Can I get you anything?”
Martha shook her head. “I’m fine. Do you have to leave?”
“No. It was a false alarm.”
Martha nodded and clasped his hand, tight. She might have been holding on for dear life.
~*~
“…and if you need anything, anything at all, Smallville,” Lois said, “you call me. Okay?”
Clark nodded. “I will. I promise.”
She nodded back and tried to put on her usual brave face but couldn’t quite manage it this time. “God,” she swiped at a tear, “I can’t believe this is happening. I always thought he’d live forever.”
“Me, too,” Clark said, unashamed of the tremble in his voice. He and Lois hadn’t worked out as lovers but their friendship was rock solid. One of the things he treasured about that was that he didn’t have to hide anything from her anymore.
She rubbed his shoulder and looked lost for a moment. She found her balance in practicalities and told him, “Oh, I got hold of Chloe and Oliver. They’re in Hawaii, but Ollie was getting the plane ready while we were talking, and Perry says—“
“They don’t have to do that.”
“—that you’re to take as much time as you need,” she ploughed on, “and even Cat Grant said,” here her voice cracked and her expression began to crumple, “said to tell you she was sorry. Damn it, Clark…”
“Shh, shh.” He reached out to gather her close, glad he could comfort someone--and steal a little bit for himself.
After awhile Lois pushed back, a look of endearing vexation on her face as she brushed more tears away and then smacked him on the shoulder. “I’m supposed to be comforting you.”
Somehow he managed a smile. “You are,” he assured her. He handed her a handkerchief. “Here, your face is a mess.”
A more familiar spark back in her eyes, she said, “Wow, knock my socks off with the compliments.” But she managed a tiny smile, too, albeit one that trembled around the edges.
The elevator doors opened and they jumped out of the way as a team of grim-faced professionals got out, some of them in surgical scrubs as they pushed a gurney down the hallway. Lois put a hand to her mouth and shot a look at Clark, but he didn’t have any better idea than her what was going on. He wasn’t even sure what to feel although dread was high in the running. They hurried back down the hall just as Martha was politely but firmly bustled out of Jonathan’s room.
“Ma, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Who are those people?”
Clark started to say that he didn’t know, either, but then one of the team turned and he caught a glimpse of a logo on their jacket. WAYNE BIOTECH. Wayne Biotech? “No, it couldn’t be,” he whispered.
His mother and Lois both stared at him, alight with curiosity. “What couldn’t be?” Lois asked first.
“I—I’m not sure.” It might just be a wild coincidence, he thought. Yet he knew it wasn’t. He didn’t know how he could be so certain, he just was.
Before they could press him with anymore questions, Dr. Ortega, the cardiologist who had been treating Jonathan, came out to speak to them. “Mrs. Kent, Clark, I don’t want to give you false hopes.” Her expression was as sober as before but Clark thought the grimness had lightened somewhat and that there was a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. “Do you remember the experimental heart valve we told you about?”
Martha nodded. “Yes. You said it wasn’t available.”
“I didn’t think it was. It turns out it has just been approved for use and,” now she let herself smile, “we have it.”
Looking like she wanted to believe but was afraid to, Martha said, “Will it save him?”
Solemn once more, Dr. Ortega said, “We don’t know, Mrs. Kent. He has a better chance than he did ten minutes ago, that’s all we can tell you.”
“Are you going to operate now?” Clark asked.
“Yes. I will be assisting Dr. Jack Doyle. He’s the top cardiac surgeon in the country and handpicked by Wayne Biotech to perform the operation. Mr. Kent could not be in better hands.”
As she spoke, there was a flurry of activity in the room and then the gurney was wheeled out, this time carrying Jonathan. Clark was glad of Dr. Ortega’s assurances. Without them, he would have thought it was already too late, his father looked that bad.
Martha clutched at Jonathan’s hand as the gurney passed on it way to the elevator, and then started to sag against Lois as the doors closed. Lois eased her down on a chair, murmuring comforts to her. “Clark, get her some water.”
“No, no, I’m all right. I just…” Martha sighed deeply and sat up straight. “It was just a moment.”
“You’re allowed to have more than a moment, Mrs. K,” Lois said. She looked fiercely certain of that.
“It’s all right,” Martha insisted, and patted her hand. “I think I’d like to go to the chapel for a little while.” She started to get up but faltered a moment and leaned heavily on Clark for a second as he got an arm around her. “Oh, Clark,” she looked at him clearly for the first time in hours, the fear in her eyes painfully raw, “what will we do without him?”
“We’re not going to have to find out, Ma. He’s going to be all right.”
“That’s right,” Lois chipped in. “You heard Dr. Ortega. Mr. K’s in the best hands possible. Now come on, let’s get you to that chapel. Somewhere peaceful and quiet is just what you need right now.”
Clark lingered for a moment, tempted to look in on the operation. What if his x-ray vision interfered with something, though? What if the sight of his father being cut open was more than even a Man of Steel could take?
“Clark,” Lois called back to him, “are you coming?”
“Right behind you,” he said, and easily caught up. Somewhere peaceful would do him some good, too.
~*~
As the bats skreeked by overhead, Bruce pulled off his cowl and sank back in his chair with a weary sigh. He felt like he’d just taken on his entire rogue’s gallery, plus Darkseid. He would rather take on his entire rogue’s gallery, plus Darkseid, than have to call in all the favors required to cut through the maddening tangle of red-tape necessary to free up the heart valve. Still, he had to admit this was one of those rare times it actually felt good to wield the power and influence at the disposal of Bruce Wayne.
Alfred materialized at his side bearing a tray with hot coffee and sandwiches. “Were we successful, sir?” he asked as he poured out a cup of strong, black coffee and passed it to Bruce.
“The valve is en route to Metropolis. Anything else is out of my hands.” He didn’t like that feeling of helplessness anymore than Superman did. At least he was accustomed to his abilities being finite, he thought, remembering the frustration and pain in Superman’s voice at the knowledge that all of his vast powers could not save his father.
“Alfred?”
“Sir?”
He took a sip of coffee as he looked at the computer screen, an array of photographs and newspaper articles on display there. All of them to do with the Kents and Smallvile, Kansas. He studied a photo of Jonathan Kent, robust and bursting with pride for the teenage boy beside him—his adoptive son, Clark, age sixteen and already as tall as his father. That would have been about fifteen years ago. “Do you think it’s any easier to lose a parent when you’re thirty?”
“There are some blows, I fear, which land hard no matter our age,” Alfred said quietly as he looked at the screen. “I suspect that a friend who has intimate knowledge of such a loss is of tremendous help, however.”
Bruce shrugged, uncomfortable with the idea of Superman—Clark Kent—turning to him for any kind of comfort. He wasn’t at all sure he had any to give. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“We shall, yes,” Alfred said, and gave his shoulder a light pat. “You are quite certain this young man is Superman?” he asked as he peered intently at the photographs.
“Judge for yourself.” Bruce put down his sandwich and pulled up a picture of Clark Kent and another of Superman, in almost identical poses, and put them side by side.
“My word,” Alfred murmured as he watched Bruce superimpose Clark Kent onto Superman, the thick-rimmed glasses the only incongruity. “Most remarkable. To think he’s been among us all this time, in this…Smallville, is it?”
Bruce nodded. “I’m not sure he’d be Superman if he hadn’t grown up in Smallville.”
“The Kents must be almost as remarkable as their son, sir.”
Bruce glanced at him, then back at the screen. “Yes, I think they must be.” There were a score of things he would have liked to ask them. How had Superman come into their care, for instance? He had formed several hypotheses but wouldn’t be surprised to learn they were all incorrect. Surely the future Man of Steel hadn’t simply turned up in their cabbage patch one morning, though.
“One would scarcely know what question to ask them first, sir, if one were so fortunate as to meet them.”
Bruce looked at Alfred with a slight smile. “I doubt they’re in the habit of disclosing information like that to just anyone who happens to ask.”
“With all due modesty, sir, you are hardly ‘just anyone.’ Will you go?” Alfred asked, tapping straight into the raging turmoil in Bruce.
“I…” He shook his head. “I doubt that would be wise.” The fact he wanted to go to Metropolis, wanted to meet Clark Kent, meant it had to be a bad idea. A self-indulgent one, at least. “He has enough to deal with.”
“Yes,” Alfred said in a brisk tone of voice that didn’t fool Bruce for a moment, “I’m sure the very last thing the young gentleman would want at such a time is a supportive friend as a confidant.”
Bruce didn’t roll his eyes—he had to set an example for Dick and Tim, after all—but he wanted to. “He doesn’t even know I’m Bruce Wayne.”
“Is there a better occasion to tell him?”
“Maybe not.” He sighed, annoyed with his indecision. Annoyed he had initiated this secrecy in the first place. He suspected the Martian Manhunter already knew the truth, and Green Arrow, in particular, had called him out on it on several times. “You want us to trust you but you won’t show us your face?” “I need to think about it, Alfred.”
“Very good, sir. I would caution that you not take too long, however.” Alfred aimed a significant look at the screen. “Even supermen cannot stop time.”
No, no they couldn’t, Bruce thought as he took in the moments frozen there on film; captured for an instant even as time inexorably rolled on.
“Something amusing, sir?” Alfred asked as Bruce let out a soft, rueful laugh.
“I was just thinking how this all started because I wanted to ask Superman if he knew why Wonder Woman had swapped monitor duty with The Flash.” Decision made, he stood up. “Tell Dick and Tim what’s going on when they get back from patrol,” he said, already on his way up the stairs to the mansion.
“With pleasure, Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice trailed after him.
~*~
The chapel had worked some kind of magic. Martha had drawn an easy breath at last and seemed to take some comfort in talking about Jonathan. Lois was a willing audience as Martha told stories that Clark had heard many times before—stories that he was amazingly pleased to listen to again. The familiar reminiscences, details he could have repeated word for word, brought a sense of calm and balance that was wonderfully soothing.
As his mother finally ran out of steam, dozing against Lois’s shoulder, Clark quietly stood up and whispered, “I need to go make a call. I’ll be right back.”
Lois nodded and gave him a thumbs up.
Clark smiled and let himself out of the chapel and headed outside. Time had blurred so badly he was surprised to find it was full dark now. The hot, sultry day had been washed away by a rainstorm at some point and he hadn’t even noticed. He stood there and breathed deeply of the cool, damp air, sorely tempted to take to the sky for a few minutes. There was something about flying that always helped clear his mind like nothing else could.
He remained grounded for now, however, and found a secluded spot to activate the commlink. “Batman? Are you there?” There was no response. “If you are there, I want to say thank you. I don’t know how you did it, but…it means more than you can know.” He sighed, not knowing what to make of his mysterious friend.
As he started back to the hospital entrance he stopped and looked around. He’d just had the oddest sensation that someone was staring at him. A quick scan of the area revealed no one lurking in the shadows. With a slight shrug, he rubbed the back of his neck and went back inside. As he reached the door of the chapel, he experienced the same sensation and this time caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. This time he pursued it and was positive he was about to catch up with whoever it was, only to just barely catch himself in time before crashing into, and through, a window. In fact, it was a dead end, he realized as he looked around. The only way out was that window and—he pushed it open and leaned out to look at the area below, just as an ambulance pulled in—that seemed pretty unlikely. Maybe he had imagined it; glimpsed a shadow and magnified it into the return of Zod.
He smiled ruefully at himself, closed the window, and retraced his steps. As he drew near to the chapel once more, he spotted another man there in the corridor, thoroughly engrossed in a poster that explained the importance of annual flu shots. Something about the man, as he briefly glanced Clark’s way, did spark a flash of recognition although there was certainly nothing suspicious about him. About Clark’s age and height, the stranger wore an expensive-looking suit that had been cut to emphasize broad shoulders and slim hips. His hair was black, a denser shade than Clark’s, and perfectly styled with not a strand out of place. The eyes that warily observed him approach were a lighter shade of blue than his own and set in an aristocratic, handsome face. It was that patrician quality that made everything click into place.
“You’re Bruce Wayne.” The Prince of Gotham in the flesh. “I’m Clark Kent,” he said and stepped forward now, hand held out. “It’s my father you’re helping. Well, your medical team, that is.”
Bruce Wayne hesitated briefly before he clasped Clark’s hand. “Really? I’m afraid I’m only here for the press conference.”
Disappointed, and not sure why, Clark nodded. He supposed it didn’t really matter if the notorious playboy was here for some self-serving purpose. The important thing was that he had funded the research that made this heart valve a reality. “Well, I just want to say…” He faltered a moment, the usual words striking him as horribly inadequate. “Thank you doesn’t seem enough for what you’ve made possible, Mr. Wayne, but—thank you.”
Wayne replied with a brisk nod. He turned away and then glanced back, some storm of indecision playing out in his eyes. After another moment he sighed and nodded to himself again as though he had reached some momentous decision. The next words he spoke were uttered in a different voice, but one that Clark would know anywhere in the universe. “You never have to thank me, Clark. I told you not to worry.”
Clark’s world promptly turned upside down for the second time in twenty-four hours.
=======
2
Bruce frowned as Clark raised a large hand and held it an inch from his upper face. “What are you doing?”
“Just making sure,” Clark said, grinning as he lowered his hand. “It’s really you.”
Bruce glowered back at him. Feeling oddly self-conscious, naked in a way he wasn’t used to, Bruce said, “It shouldn’t be that astonishing, all things considered.” He looked Clark up and down and found it was one thing to know in the abstract but something else again to see it in person. The combination of slouch-shouldered posture and cheap suit, black hair brushed back severely, and a pair of black-rimmed dorky glasses that dialed down the brilliance of unearthly blue eyes shouldn’t have worked. It should have had the look of an obvious deception. It didn’t. “It’s like a magic act, misdirecting the eye with smoke and mirrors,” he murmured as he took it all in.
“Something like. People see what they expect to,” Clark said. He frowned as Bruce reached over to slide off the glasses and examine them. “Excuse me?”
“What happens if someone else tries them on and discovers they’re just clear glass?”
Clark took the glasses back from him. “Most people,” he gave Bruce a dubious look, “understand this concept of personal space.”
Bruce took that mean he shouldn’t reach over and tug the S-curl into place. Not that he’d planned to. “I imagine you have questions,” he said with studied diffidence.
Clark nodded. “I imagine I do.”
As he appeared inclined to take his time asking them, however, Bruce opted for the Band-Aid approach: rip it off and get it over with. “You and Smallville have been on my radar for a long time. I suspected who you were before we met. I have been reasonably certain since then.”
Clark alternated between surprise, suspicion, and disbelief. Bruce made a note to leave him off Justice League missions that might require a good poker face. “Am I the only you’ve stalked?”
“It wasn’t necessary to gather intel on the rest of them, not on that level.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.” Bruce shrugged, uncomfortable with the conversation. He had known things would go this way. “You’re, shall we say, an unusual case.”
“I’m still not sure that’s a compliment.” Behind the glib-sounding words was a thoughtful look as Clark rapidly reviewed and added things up. “You compiled an extensive, shall we say, dossier because you thought I might be a threat?”
Since he’d already figured it out, Bruce only replied with a slight shrug.
“Do you still think I could be a threat?”
“Of your own free will?” Bruce shook his head. “No, I don’t.” He would hardly be here otherwise.
Clark faced him squarely then, searching his face. “And if my will was ever subverted—what would you do?”
Bruce met him just as directly. “Lay my hands on the nearest chunk of green Kryptonite.”
Those blue eyes widened in surprise and Bruce braced himself for any range of predicted reactions. Or, almost. The broad, delighted grin that Clark beamed at him was somewhat unexpected. “I’ll count on it,” Clark said, and there was a grim and haunted look behind the smile that told Bruce those words were not spoken lightly.
And if he had still had any doubts about this man, Bruce knew this odd exchange would have erased them for once and for all.
“I guess you have questions, too,” Clark said.
“A few. There’s no rush.”
Clark gave him a skeptical look, as if he was having some trouble matching up Bruce Wayne with Batman. “You’re going easy on me?”
“Did you think I’d dangle you off a building until you coughed up all your secrets?”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“You think I couldn’t?” Bruce said, returning the challenge and raising it.
Right on the edge of a laugh, Clark just as suddenly grew somber. Bruce understood immediately. Here Clark was, bantering with Batman, while his father’s life hung in the balance. What kind of a son was he?
“Clark…” Tentative, positive it should be anyone but him in this position, Bruce reached over to touch Clark’s elbow. “You’ve done all you can possibly can. I don’t know your father, but I don’t think the man who raised you would want you beating yourself up for things beyond your control.”
Clark bit his lip and nodded. “He wouldn’t. It’s just…” He shrugged and looked vulnerable in a way Bruce had never seen him. “It scares me sometimes, how fragile you all are; defenseless against things I can’t get my hands on.”
Bruce hesitated a moment, not sure it would really help to put things in perspective just now. There were events that defied statistics. Still, it was worth a shot. “Between the years 1348 and 1350 it is estimated that the Black Death killed thirty to sixty percent of Europe’s population. The Spanish Influenza pandemic of 1918 killed upwards of one hundred million people. That’s not even getting into catastrophic events further back that nearly brought about our extinction. Yet we’re still here.”
Clark stared at him, a faint glimmer of disbelief in his eyes. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
Bruce folded his arms across his chest, longing for the folds of his cape, and frowned back at him. “It was meant to demonstrate that while we may not be invulnerable neither are we delicate flowers apt to wilt at the first stiff breeze.” He sat down on the small sofa, hyperaware as Clark sat beside him, turned to face him so that their knees were touching. He rested a hand on his knee, as if to push Clark away, but didn’t actually complete the move. “My father was a doctor. He explained to me once that the hardest part of his job was learning to accept that, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t save every patient.”
“Your father. Bruce…” Clark looked at him with entirely too much understanding. Bruce Wayne was a famous public figure; of course Clark Kent, ace reporter, would have heard the bare bones story.
“What kept him going,” Bruce continued as if Clark hadn’t interrupted, “was what he called the marvel of our resiliency. The worst thing possible happens and we think we can’t cope, can’t go on, life will never be the same again. And it isn’t, Clark, it never is the same again, but,” he faltered a moment, dearly wanting to be anywhere else right now, “but we do go on, we do rise above it. It becomes something that defines us, but not the only thing that does.”
Still watching him so carefully, Clark asked, “How long did it take you to learn that?”
A wry and rueful twist to his lips, Bruce said, “It’s a work in progress.”
Clark reached over to lay a hand over Bruce’s where it still rested on his knee. “Thank you.”
Bruce looked at that hand. “For what?” He should pull away, get some distance between them. He was far too close to the edge of some event with the potential to be truly calamitous.
Just as Bruce would have pulled away, however, Clark squeezed his hand and smiled at him—honest, sweet, and hopeful—and said, “For being here. For being you.” And Bruce knew he had already tumbled over the edge to his doom.
As cataclysms went, it was remarkably pleasant.
~*~
“What on earth could be keeping Clark?” Martha fretted. “Did he say where he was going?”
Lois shook her head. “Just that he had to make a call.” That had been almost half an hour ago, though. “Do you want me to go look for him?”
“Would you, dear? He should be here when,” Martha bit her lip and faltered, the brave face she had tried to put on starting to crumble, “when we find out.”
Lois hugged her tight. “Everything’s going to come out right, Mrs. K. I know it.”
Martha nodded and tried to smile. The fear gnawing at her wasn’t far off, though. Lois wished she had more than words to offer, that she could do something to make it right. Even though she and Clark hadn’t worked out, she would always feel a powerful connection to this family and fight tooth and nail for them in any way she could.
“I’ll be right back,” she said and hurried up the aisle. If Clark was just out rescuing kittens… Maybe that’s what he needed to do, though. If she was frustrated at not being able to do anything, Clark had to be out of his mind at being so helpless at a time like this.
There was something else going on with him, though. Or at least, he had a secret he hadn’t shared with her yet, and that hadn’t happened in a long time. His reaction to the Wayne Biotech people turning up had been, well, strange. If the General was in Jonathan Kent’s place and this medical miracle device suddenly turned up out of the blue, after the doctors had told her it wasn’t available, Lois would have been knocked for a loop. Clark had been surprised, but not like that. No, Clark had acted as if he had been told the cavalry was coming but he hadn’t believed it would get there in time.
Lois knew how the world worked. The clout it would take to free up that heart valve, the strings that had to be pulled and backs scratched, not just anyone could do that. Doors like that only opened to someone right at the top. Also, and she didn’t mean to be cold-blooded about it, but if those doors opened it would more usually be for someone like the General, not a farmer in Smallville, Kansas.
Unless, of course, the person wielding all of that clout happened to know that the farmer in Smallville was Superman’s dad. Insider information like that could elevate Jonathan Kent above popes and presidents. Which was exactly as it should be as far as Lois was concerned. Although if she knew Jonathan at all, he’d be all aw shucks and embarrassed about it. Just like Clark.
So, what resident of Gotham City had the power to make Wayne Enterprises and other institutions jump at a snap of his fingers and was in a position to know that mild-mannered Clark Kent was Superman? The list of candidates who met all the criteria was a narrow one. In fact, there was exactly one name she put on it. Well, technically two.
As she rounded a corner and spotted a sitting area, Lois ducked back, moved to take a couple of seconds for observation. There were two men over there, seated close together on a small sofa, heads bent towards each other as they whispered. She instantly recognized Clark even though his back was to her. As for the other one, well, she would have given herself a high five if her attention hadn’t become fixated on how they were holding hands.
All right, that was unexpected. Good to know she could still be surprised, though.
It took her another half second to work out how she wanted to play this, then she blew around the corner, calling, “Clark! Where have you been? Do you really think this is the right time to be out rescuing kittens? Who’s this?”
Then she had to fight to keep a straight face at how quickly they jumped apart. Oh yeah, nothing going on here.
“Ah, umm,” Clark was on his feet, flustered and fumbling as he made the introductions, “Lois Lane, Bruce Wayne. Bruce – Lois,” he waved back and forth between them.
“Enchanted, I’m sure,” Bruce said, no indication he was even slightly ruffled. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, the very embodiment of debonair charm.
Caught between amusement and disbelief, Lois threw Clark a smug look. “See, Smallville? This is how you impress a lady.” It was a lot of hot air, of course, but she had to admit that Gotham’s Prince did have a way about him.
Then Bruce gave her an apologetic look and said, “Oh, sorry, I meant you must be overcome meeting me. Most people are.”
Lois fixed him with a hard stare. “Are they really?” Either her guesswork was way off the mark or this guy was the world’s most consummate actor. Right at the moment, she wasn’t ready to call it either way.
As if he was anxious to bridge an uncomfortable moment, Clark said, “Bruce— I mean, Mr. Wayne’s company is responsible for the heart valve, Lois. He’s here to see how everything goes.”
“Racking up points for another humanitarian of the year award, Mr. Wayne?” Lois asked, the picture of innocence. She scored herself another win when, just for a split second, she caught a flash of annoyed suspicion behind Bruce Wayne’s blandly polished veneer.
“One does what one can, Ms. Blaine.”
“Lane.”
“Of course. May I call you Chloris?”
Tempted to kick him, Lois settled for looking daggers at him. It was right on the tip of her tongue to ask if she could call him Batman, but she bit down on it and smiled sweetly as Clark got a panicky look on his face.“It’s Lois, Mr. Wayne. Lois Lane. And I’d just be thrilled to pieces if you would give me an exclusive interview.” She fluttered her eyelashes for extra effect.
She had the satisfaction of watching him shoot a look at Clark then, silently imploring, A little help here? She definitely didn’t imagine the look of relief as his phone went off. “Excuse me, Ms. Lane, Clark,” he said as he looked at the number, “but I have to take this. Call my office, Ms. Lane, we’ll set something up,” he said as he got out of there as fast as he courteously could.
“What was that about?” Clark asked.
“Just following my instincts.” Lois linked her arm through Clark’s and steered him back to the chapel. “So how do you know Bruce Wayne?”
“I don’t. We just now met.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Really? You didn’t look like you’ve just met each other.”
“I don’t even know what that means, Lois.”
“It means if you had been any closer to him you would have been in his lap.”
“Lois—”
“You know his reputation, right?”
Clark blinked. “His reputation?”
“Shallow, vain, the attention span of a gnat?”
“Based on what?” Clark said, a rumble of irritation in his voice that Lois found extremely interesting. “Idle gossip by people who don’t have anything better to do?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, and drew it out thoughtfully. “Pretty defensive there, given you just met the guy.”
“His company’s research is saving my father’s life. Isn’t that reason enough to defend him?”
“Sure it is,” Lois said as they reached the chapel. She leaned close and whispered, “Too bad you never mentioned you were into black leather and Kevlar when we were together. Something might have been arranged.” She patted him on the shoulder as she breezed on by him.
Stopped dead in his tracks, Clark stared after her. “Lois.”
She glanced back at his scandalized whisper and replied with a cheeky wink and a smile.
===
3
Clark looked over as the elevator doors opened and felt a startled zing of pleasure as Bruce Wayne stepped out, carrying a carton with four cups of coffee. He quickly dropped the pre-millennium issue of Popular Science he’d been looking through and stepped over to meet him.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming back.”
“I had considered it,” Bruce admitted. He glanced around the waiting area. “Where is Ms. Lane?”
Clark grinned. “Perry White called her back to the Planet.” He leaned closer to whisper, “She thinks she knows.”
Bruce shot him a sharp look. “And?”
Clark shrugged. “It’s guesswork, but really good guesswork. She can be trusted,” he hastened to add at the dark look that came into Bruce’s eyes.
Bruce’s noncommittal, “Hmm,” was not entirely reassuring. Still, he took a seat in the waiting area and held out one of the coffee cups. “Isn’t your mother here?”
“She’s freshening up,” Clark said as he took the cup. He started to sit beside Bruce but hesitated a moment as he remembered Lois’s ridiculous teasing. Bruce looked at him then, one elegant eyebrow raised, and Clark sat down before he felt anymore foolish. “Thank you for the coffee,” he said and took a sip of the still-warm vanilla latte.
Bruce inclined his head and sipped at his own coffee, a stronger brew from the aroma Clark detected. “How’s she holding up?”
“She’s…holding.” He took another sip, savored the milk-and-vanilla flavor. “She doesn’t want me to worry.”
“But you do anyway.”
He nodded. “If Pa doesn’t make it…” He bit his lip and looked away as that fear loomed up again.
Bruce reached over to touch his arm, letting the touch linger. “It’s okay to be afraid, Clark. I promise you, Jack Doyle is the best heart surgeon there is, and the heart valve is state of the art. I just managed to get its release date bumped up a little.”
If Clark had still had any doubts that this man really was the Dark Knight, that quiet and unassuming statement would have cleared them away. No matter the death-defying feat Batman had just pulled off, there was never any grandstanding, Hey, Look At Me Be a Hero posturing out of him.
This was Batman; strange-yet-familiar, and pretty much everything Clark had imagined he would be. Well, the shyness was a surprise. Not Clark Kent’s bumbling awkwardness, but the wary watchfulness of a wolf as it circled the campfire; tempted to come close to the warmth and the light but ready to bolt back into the shadows at the first sign of danger. A lot of people might want to coax the wolf closer so they could tame him. Clark only wanted to share that warmth and light with him. He realized he had wanted to do that for a really long time.
“Was the urgent phone call about the valve?” he asked.
Bruce shook his head. “No; my kids needed my input on something.”
His kids…His boys who were Nightwing and Robin. Just one of the million things Clark wanted to know about. “Are they okay?”
“Yes. Gotham’s fairly quiet right now.”
“How you deal with it, the danger they face every time they go out?”
There was a troubled look in Bruce’s eyes and Clark suspected this was an issue that Bruce frequently confronted. Although clearly reluctant to answer the question, Bruce had his mouth open to say something but then stood up and composed his features into the playboy’s laissez-faire persona. The transformation was as startling as it was subtle and Clark experienced a mild pang of envy at the absence of props.
“Mrs. Kent?” Bruce said, and Clark looked around to see his mother approach them, a guarded look in her eyes as she glanced between Clark and Bruce.
“Ma,” Clark put down his coffee and got to his feet, “it’s okay, this is Bruce Wayne. Bruce, my mother, Martha Kent. Bruce’s company are the ones behind the heart valve.”
“Oh! Oh my!” Martha stepped forward then, shaking Bruce’s outstretched hand. “I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Wayne.”
“Bruce, please, and there’s no need to thank me, Mrs. Kent. I’m glad to be able to help.”
Clark stared some more as the playboy guise shifted slightly and Bruce allowed Martha to see the man Clark had been talking with. He had a feeling Bruce didn’t do that often. He could tell she was concerned, though, as Bruce’s questions started to get a little personal. He was about to tell her it was all right, that Bruce knew everything, when cries of distress reached him from across town.
“Oh no…”
His mother and Bruce looked at him, Bruce tense as he asked, “What is it?”
“A fire in a high-rise. There’s some children trapped in an elevator.”
Bruce touched his arm. “Go. I’ll stay with your mother.”
Clark nodded, grateful for him. At his mother’s puzzled look, he said, “It’s okay, Ma, Bruce knows.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he said, already running for the elevator and praying he could reach the high-rise and those kids in time.
~*~
He was in time; he delivered the frightened children into their parent’s arms and then made short work of the fire with a blast of cold breath that put out every ember. Anxious to get back to the hospital, he hovered over the children, glad to see more smiles than tears now. He waved and smiled back at them before taking to the skies once more. As he approached, he reached out with his hearing and discovered Bruce distracting his mother with a comical story about a garden party, a croquet match with someone named Ronnie, and a killer swan on the loose. Apparently a butler named Alfred had saved the day.
“…well I hope those two little scamps of yours apologized to Miss Vreeland,” Martha was saying as Clark returned.
“They did, profusely.” Bruce looked over at Clark. “Everything all right?”
Clark nodded. “Everyone’s safe.”
Martha gave him a fond smile. “We were lucky with Clark. He hardly ever got into trouble. Some of it was because of, you know, having to keep secrets, but Jonathan always said,” her voice wobbled and broke--
“Ma.” Clark squeezed her shoulders gently.
She nodded and patted one of his hands. “Jonathan always said it wasn’t that at all, that it just wasn’t in Clark to do bad things.”
Bruce looked at him, unreadable as he said, “Your husband sounds like a wise man, Mrs. Kent.”
Clark made a face and looked away, embarrassed. He was no saint and they both knew it. He was about to tell them so when he heard something that made him stand up straight, braced for anything. “Ma, the doctors are coming.”
She looked at him, anxious. “All right,” she nodded to herself as Clark and Bruce helped her to her feet. She gripped both their hands, barely breathing as Dr. Ortega approached.
Clark looked at the man with Dr. Ortega whom he presumed was Jack Doyle. Doyle was…not tall, red haired and freckled, and barely looked old enough to drive much less perform surgery. Clark looked over at Bruce. Bruce shrugged slightly and murmured, “Don’t judge books by their covers.”
Guilty, Clark looked back at the doctors and tried to anticipate their news. He thought he could detect a positive vibe about them but he wanted, he needed to hear the words.
“Clark, Mrs. Kent,” Dr. Ortega smiled, “Jonathan came through the surgery with flying colors.”
Clark nodded, not sure what to say, and glanced at his mother. She was still holding onto him and Bruce for dear life. “Ma, he’s okay. Pa’s okay.”
She nodded, lips compressed into a thin line as tears welled up in her eyes. “Oh, Clark…” She turned into him as Clark put his arms around her, relief coming out in the tears she had fought off until now. “Oh, Clark.” She drew back and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief Bruce produced. “He’s all right?” she asked, looking from Clark and Bruce and back to the doctors.
Dr. Ortega nodded. “He’s doing great, Mrs. Kent. He’s got a long recovery ahead but it’s looking really good.” She indicated Dr. Doyle and introduced him. “This man is a wizard, Mrs. Kent. He can answer all your questions.”
Martha looked intently at Jack Doyle, they were about the same height, and said, simple but heartfelt, “Thank you. May we see him?”
Jack Doyle said, “In a little while. We’re moving him to recovery. He’ll be groggy, but you can visit for a couple of minutes.”
Clark watched her go off with the doctors, listening in for a minute as Martha pressed them with questions. Once she was out of sight—and earshot, if he was anyone else—he suddenly felt like a popped balloon and sank down into a chair, legs stretched out before him. He rolled his head against the backrest to look at Bruce, standing there with a curious look on his face. “You remember that time we were trapped in the live action video game and I was dodging Kryptonite-laced bullets?”
Bruce nodded. “Little hard to forget.”
“I wasn’t half as worn out by that as I am by this.”
Bruce quirked a smile. “Yeah, but at least I don’t have to dig a Kryptonite bullet out of your butt this time.”
“Oh, thanks for that memory…”
~*~
As Clark approached his father’s bedside he could already tell that Jonathan was better. Not all the way back. That would take time and things might not ever be exactly the same, just as Bruce had said, but there was every reason to believe his father’s new chapter would be a good one.
“Hey,” Jonathan said. His voice was weak, a little hoarse, but it was the best sound Clark had heard all day.
Clark stepped closer and clasped his father’s hand. “Hey.”
“Your ma okay as she claims to be?”
Clark smiled. “She will be. How do you feel?”
“Like a draft horse kicked me in the chest.”
Clark laughed, then sighed and sat down in the empty chair. “The farm’s okay,” he said before Jonathan could start to fret about that. “Mr. Ingalls and his kids are looking after things until Bruce and I get out there.”
Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “Who’s this Bruce?”
“Didn’t Ma tell you?”
“Told me a little. Said I should tell him thank you.”
Clark grinned. “You should.” More seriously, he said, “He’s a good man, Pa. The best.”
“He know much about farming?”
“He’ll learn,” Clark promised. “You should rest now,” he added as he saw his father wilt a little. Just tired this time, just a little tired.
“’Spose I should.” Jonathan squinted up at him. “How’re you?”
Clark nodded, eyes starting to burn. “Pretty good now,” he said and squeezed his father’s hand. He bent down and kissed his father’s forehead, and felt the tears escape as Jonathan reached to ruffle his hair and pat the back of his head. “I love you,” he said as he drew back.
“Love you, too. Now get out of here and go take care of the farm.”
Clark smiled, nodded again. “Yes, sir.” He passed Dr. Doyle on the way out and paused in the doorway to watch as the doctor examined Jonathan. As if the doctor sensed him, he looked over after a moment and gave Clark a nod and a thumbs up.
Bruce was waiting for him in the corridor. “Lois is back; she took your mother to the cafeteria.”
“That’s good. Maybe she can get her to rest a little.” He was interested to note it was Lois now, not Ms. Lane, and hoped that was a good sign. “Do you have to get back to Gotham right away?”
“Not necessarily. Why?”
Clark smiled and steered him toward the elevator. “I’ll explain on the way.
**end episode one**