Chapter Text
When Clark Kent went to Metropolis for college interviews, he looked for silvered-blue eyes around every corner. When he traveled to Boston’s annual flower and garden show with his mother, he seemed to see that familiar face everywhere. In Washington for his senior trip, he followed a dark-haired young man in a suit for three blocks before realizing, with a visceral wrench of disappointment, that it was a stranger.
When he almost tripped over Bruce Wayne lying on a sidewalk in Gotham, he didn’t even recognize him for a moment.
“I’m sorry!” he blurted at the huddled figure on the ground, stepping back to give some space. He was in the middle of turning away, still focused on his scathing expose of building code violations for the school paper, when he froze in place. Slowly, his breath congealing in his throat, he looked back at the person curled in a fetal position on the damp sidewalk.
Then he was at Bruce’s side, more falling to his knees than kneeling, to touch his friend’s shoulder, turn his face to the weak morning light.
Bruce’s eyes were closed, his face hollow and hunger-chiseled to something sharp and predatory, framed by shaggy, unkempt hair. He was shivering, his legs jerking spasmodically as if he were trying to run from something, and his forehead was beaded with sweat.
When Clark went to grab his hands, he saw bruising scabs on the inside of his arms, over dark-blue veins.
The breath hissed out of Clark as if he’d been struck and he rocked backwards for a moment. He looked up and down the street. The he leaned over and gathered Bruce up into his arms with infinite care. His friend was practically light enough to carry without exerting any extra power, and Clark could feel his ribs through the thin cotton t-shirt. Bruce’s hands jerked and twitched against him, but he didn’t open his eyes.
His chest tight with helplessness, Clark carried him to his beat-up car and laid him in the back seat. “We’re going home,” he muttered to the shuddering figure. As the car started forward with a jolt, Bruce groaned as if stabbed, and the steering wheel creaked alarmingly under Clark’s fingers.
Forcing himself to breathe deeply and not jam the gas pedal through the floor of the car, Clark sped through the streets of Gotham back to Wayne Manor.
When Alfred Pennyworth opened the door and saw what Clark was holding in his arms, he put a hand on the doorframe as if to steady himself, his face suddenly much older. His lips moved without sound: “Bruce.” Then he nodded. “Bring him upstairs,” he said, his voice calm.
Alfred led him to a guest room facing the gardens and turned down the sheets. Clark put Bruce down on the bed, arranging his thin, trembling limbs. Bruce rolled onto his side, curling inward with a sharp, retching noise. He still seemed to be unaware of his surroundings. “Ah,” he groaned. “No.”
Alfred materialized at Clark’s side with a washcloth. “Rub his legs,” he said to Clark. “It helps with the cramps.” He put the cloth to Bruce’s forehead while Clark hesitantly touched Bruce’s bony, shaking legs in their filthy jeans. His own hands were trembling as he tried to gently knead the spasming muscles, nausea at his own uselessness making him grit his teeth.
And then his Legion ring beeped at its special ultrasonic frequency.
For the first time ever, Clark was miserable to be summoned by the Legion of Superheroes arrive. “I’ll...I’ll be right back,” he stammered to a surprised Alfred and fled the room.
He hurried to the meeting place, although even his urgency couldn’t make him break into more-than-human speed. Living so near Alfred Pennyworth’s vigilant eye had quickly broken him of any temptation to use his powers casually on the Manor grounds. Karate Kid and Saturn Girl were waiting for him in the bubble, their smiles turning puzzled as he raced up to them. “Is this an emergency?”
Saturn Girl raised an eyebrow at his curtness. “No. It’s the opening ceremony of the Legion library, so--”
“--I can’t go.”
“--But you’ll be back almost before you’re gone!” Karate Kid blurted.
Clark had already turned to go. “I don’t care, I can’t leave my friend. I’m sorry,” he added ungraciously.
“Your...friend?” Karate Kid’s eyes widened, and Clark felt an extra jab of annoyance.
“Believe it or not, I do have friends in this time.”
“I didn’t mean--it’s just that--” Saturn Girl shot him a look and Karate Kid stopped talking, looking flustered.
“I know I could be right back, but I couldn’t enjoy myself with Bruce sick. Please send my regards,” he said, and started to run back to the Manor.
He was halfway there when he heard Saturn Girl’s familiar voice in his mind. ”We understand, Superboy. But remember...” A sense of hesitation and uncertainty seeped through the link. ”...remember you can’t tell anyone about us, or the future.”
”Don’t worry,” Clark sent back as he hurried up the stairs to Bruce’s sick room, ”I’m the one who insisted you put that mental block in, remember? I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to.”
”Maybe you should give us the ring back,” she thought cautiously.
Clark projected vehement rejection at her. ”You told me it was safe to keep it once Brainiac 5 disabled the flight power!”
She didn’t respond in discrete thoughts, but with a complicated melange of reactions: uncertainty, sympathy, and an odd undercurrent of something like anticipation mixed with anxiety. ”We’ll see you next time” she thought over the emotions, and was gone.
Clark rubbed the Legion ring like a talisman as he hurried back to Bruce’s room, where Bruce was still curled up, but shaking a little less.
Alfred looked up as he came in. “I believe he is asleep.” He stood up, looking carefully at Clark, as if wondering if he would bolt again. “I’m going to start making some food. Will you stay here with him, Master Clark?”
Clark nodded, unable to speak, unable to take his eyes off his friend.
“Bruce,” he whispered when Alfred was gone. “What happened?” Bruce made a lorn whimpering sound in his sleep that seemed to tear Clark’s heart into shreds. Clark stroked the cool cloth across his hot, parched skin and felt fury choking him. According to the Legion, he was supposed to become the world’s greatest hero, some kind of mighty savior. And his best friend had been starving, despairing, right in the same town and he hadn’t done anything, hadn’t even known. “Why didn't you come home?"
The room was growing dark. Bruce shuddered again, his eyes flickering wildly under pale eyelids as if caught in some nightmare. His hands clutched at the cool sheets. “I’m not--” he choked. “I can’t--” Fresh sweat started on his face, and Clark was horrified to see tears leaking from his closed eyes. Bruce took a deep breath that shook his emaciated chest. ”Clark,” he whispered hoarsely through gritted teeth, as a man in a desert would whisper for water.
As if a hook had been planted in his heart, Clark jolted forward from his chair, taking Bruce’s flailing hands in his. “I’m here, Bruce,” he gasped. “I’m right here. You’re home. You’re safe.”
Bruce’s eyes opened, filled with shock and confusion. For a moment he merely stared at Clark’s face in disbelief and something like wonder. And then his expression darkened, dawning joy fleeing into anger. He pulled his hands from Clark’s, his pain-whetted face sharp with fury. “Not here," he groaned, looking up at the ceiling. "Why am I here?” He snapped his gaze back to Clark, glaring. “What the--" He broke off, dragging in a breath as though his own vehemence hurt him.
"--What the hell have you done, Clark?”