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9 days. It has been 9 days since Bruce Wayne’s weird, kryptonian roommate disappeared from his life forever.
It wasn’t long ago that Bruce would have felt relieved that Superman finally kicked the bucket. If he had been told a month ago that he would be hiding out in a crappy, run down flat with the biggest threat to Gotham city he never would have believed it.
Now, Bruce can’t even walk past the piles of laundry in the flat without thinking about how if Clark were here, there wouldn’t be as much as a sock out of place.
He shouldn’t be thinking about him. This is why he needed to go back home, back to Alfred and the mansion. This place was driving him crazy, and the more he moped around he would surely lose his mind.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Bruce. I may not have to eat breakfast but you certainly shouldn’t skip it!” He’d say like clockwork, with toast and fried eggs already on the table.
“Crime waits for no one.” Bruce would say solemnly before disappearing into the early morning without touching his plate. Seriously, who woke up earlier than Batman? Only a certain kind of psycho.
The routine of seeing Clark only during the early hours of the morning before parting with their own things each day became normal, even though it was anything but that.
In some ways, living with Clark wasn’t too different from living with Alfred. Both men were neat freaks, impossibly patient, and caring individuals.
But other things about Clark were totally alien. And not just because he was one. For instance, his uncanny hearing ability ensured Bruce had not a moment of privacy, even in an empty room. Another strange habit was his diet. Even though he didn’t technically need to eat to live, Bruce would commonly find Clark snacking on dog food or solid metal, surely just to unnerve him.
So with all that in mind, why did it feel like Bruce was being punched in the gut every time he saw Clark’s perfectly made bed, or his unassuming glasses and Daily Planet Press Pass on his desk? The small, insignificant pieces of evidence that proved he had been there, if only for a short time. Even the lingering scent of him, like the soap he used and a faint musk and cedar, things Bruce never would have noticed until he was gone.
Bruce didn’t have an answer to that, but he did have a clue. As much as he didn’t want to open that can of worms, he knew it was the only way to return to a semblance of peace. And so, he turned the cold knob and entered the room.