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Chapter Text

Wednesday, June 26, 1991.

Gotham State University, Gotham City, New Jersey.

Bruce Wayne

Gotham University’s art gallery was filled with the negligible din of gold-rimmed glasses full to the brim with champagne, clinking against one-another amongst much cheerful laughter and lighthearted conversation. Mighty pillars of silver stretched their lengthy, generously adorned limbs skyward, to meet their similarly decorated sisters atop a lofty ceiling dripping with chandeliers.

At the center of it all stood Bruce Wayne, holding a suspiciously empty glass. He stood tall and proud, his shoulders back, a strangely grim expression on his face. His dark, thick hair was slicked down against his pale, almost pallid skin, and his deeply-set eyes stared straight ahead, a hardened look about them. 

In exactly 12 minutes and 54 seconds, he would stand upon the gallery stage in front of hundreds of people, not to mention everyone watching local, and possibly national television, and give a speech about the death of his parents. Or, specifically, how perfectly okay he was even though they were gone. How his grief had shriveled up and died years ago. 

It was days like this that reminded him that grief doesn’t budge. Ever. And it certainly doesn’t cease to exist once you manage to get up and continue the endless march forward. Grief was like an ocean, in a way. Some days, you could stand right on the shoreline, so close you could feel yesterday’s wet sand beneath your toes, and the water still barely touched you. Other days, it washed over your entire being, drowned the whole city, and put out the sun. Today was one of those days. 

“Mr. Wayne?” came a timid voice.

”Mr. Wayne! There you are!” 

A young man was approaching him, no older than sixteen or seventeen, with rat-like features, wily blond hair, a staff lanyard swinging around his thin, lanky neck, and a clipboard clutched in his shaky hands.

”You’re on in five, Mr. Wayne. You’ve gotta get backstage,” he insisted nervously, as if afraid Bruce would turn on him with a fist.

Bruce Wayne would never turn a fist on anybody, he’d never fought a day in his life.

Batman would, though.

He nodded starkly, and began to push his way through the crowd. Quickly, people shuffled out of his way, staring up at him with wide eyes. 

Backstage, Bruce rubbed his temple. The lights seemed to get brighter every time he blinked, and a splitting headache was beginning to form right in the front of his skull. He hadn’t even had anything to drink.

“..ladies and gentlemen, Bruce Wayne!” came the woman on the microphone’s booming voice.

Bruce snapped to attention, his regular easy smile returning to his face without a hitch as he strolled up onto the platform, waving and winking.

It was as if his body had gone rigid, like a child’s toy you’d place in a dollhouse. From inside the doll’s empty body, Bruce peered out through its eyes, watching the crowd lap up his words with bated breath.

Then, the doll must’ve cracked a joke, because the crowd broke into jolly laughter and applause. He sighed, closing his eyes as he sunk down to sit at the bottom of its hollow legs. He wondered what his father would tell him. 

It occurred to Bruce that he hadn’t the foggiest idea what his father would say, nor his mother. He was only nine when they died, after all, and he was twenty-nine now. The gap that had been severed between them the night they died had grown, slowly, horribly, into a gaping cavern. He couldn’t make out their faces from the other side. 

The doll’s legs began to walk again, and he released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It was over. He could go home.

As soon as Bruce was out of sight, he made a beeline for the nearest door. He’d said his peace, or rather, what his marketing team had decided was his peace, and now he could go. 

He eagerly pushed the gold-plated exit door ajar, and stepped out into the crisp night air. Nights in Gotham were bleak at best, but the smoky darkness was home.

He clambered into his black Rolls Royce— a charming little number he was really quite proud of, and started the engine. 

Bruce didn’t have a quiet mind, it just wasn’t in his nature. He was always coming up with a solution, or a problem, or a plan— all he could ever do was keep creating and erasing new worlds in his brain.

But for just one night a year, he could loosen that binding grip. He could breathe, stop and smell the flowers. (Not that Gotham had flowers.) 

He pulled up to the immense, imposing gates of Wayne Manor, and rolled down the window with the push of a button— an incredibly convenient invention.

“Bruce Wayne,” he breathed out towards his voice recognition software.

The gates swung open with an ear-splitting creak, and the Rolls Royce was soon parked into his great car garage. The smooth black car was parked next to one of his newest additions— a neon green monster truck he’d bought while ‘drunk’. Of course, Bruce didn’t drink, but the billionaire playboy image had to be kept up one way or another.

He yanked open the locker door quietly sitting in a small, shadowy corner of the garage, and swung his body onto the fire-pole. As he landed on the padding below, the locker shut with a comforting snap.

Within moments, Alfred was by his side, fiddling with his mustache as he asked carefully,
”How was the event, Master Bruce?”

“Fine,” he replied, running a hand through his hair to dispel the disgusting amounts of gel he’d determinedly raked through it hours before.

Alfred nodded, answering before Bruce could even ask.

”Dick went to bed hours ago, without complaint.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s new.”

“Good, though,” Alfred shrugged.

He nodded in quiet agreement, but still made his way back up the winding steps into Wayne Manor, and up a few flights more until he reached Dick’s bedroom. 

His hand waited hesitantly above the brass door handle, before he gently took it and pushed the door open.

As he’d suspected, Dick was wide awake, under the covers of his bed with a flashlight, and presumably, a book.

“Hey, kiddo,” he smiled, stepping across the threshold.

Dick let out a panicked whoop, dropping the flashlight to the floor with a clatter.

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. It is late, though. You’ve got things to do in the morning.”

Dick bit his lip.

”I know, I’m sorry,” he replied, his eyes cast downward.

“What are you reading?” Bruce asked, gently prodding him in the side.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, going a little pink.

”Matilda, the one by-“

”-Roald Dahl,” Bruce finished, smiling proudly.

 “Yeah, that one.”

”Where are you in the book?”

“The bit where Miss Honey is telling Matilda about her childhood with The Trunchbull.”

”That’s a heavy bit. You like the book?

Dick nodded eagerly. 

“It’s really neat,” he grinned.

“Well, Matilda will still be there tomorrow morning,” he added slyly, snatching the book from his grasp.

“But, I’m glad you like reading. Don’t let anyone or anything-“

”-Change who I am, I know,” Dick giggled, pulling the covers up to his chin.

He nodded, pride shining in his eyes as he made his way towards the doorframe. 

”Right you are. Goodnight, kiddo. Go to sleep this time.”

”Love you, goodnight!” Dick called, as the door began to close.

“Love you,” Bruce repeated, the door shutting with a final, satisfying click. 

He affectionately placed Matilda down on the little side-table opposite Dick’s door, and strode off down the hall, a new pep in his step.

He didn’t bother getting ready for bed, not after the day he’d had. All he did was click the lights off and flop down face-first onto the bed, landing with a soft thump. He was out cold as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Chapter Text

Monday, July 4, 1991. 8:53 am.

Central Avenue, Metropolis, New York.

Clark Kent

There were 300 cars on the street, all bumper to bumper, all honking like their lives depended on it, and all some dingy shade of grey, except one.

The very last car in the lineup was a bright, sky blue, though covered in mud and dust and dents from who-knows-where. It also happened to be the only car in the lineup that hadn’t honked at all.

Inside that car sat a bright young man of 30, his wily curled hair sticking up every direction as he anxiously bounced his leg up and down. He adjusted his glasses, giving himself a look in the dirty little car mirror. 

He’d spent what felt like hours that morning just talking to his reflection, mentally preparing himself. After all, it was Independence Day, and if that meant anything to him in his ten years of Superman-dom, it meant that someone was going to come along and ruin it.

He checked down his baggy, coffee stained work-shirt, just to be safe, and sure enough, there was the scarlet S, waiting to be revealed to the world come the time. 

And the time would come. It happened every year. 

Last year, the Yellow Lantern Corps had made a special appearance, trapping half of Metropolis in a giant bubble that floated slowly towards space, where it was intended to pop, and send everyone plummeting to Earth in what they’d described as ‘America’s Greatest Firework Show’.

That was a long day. 

But this year, he was ready. No falling buildings, no slime monsters, no aliens, no robots, no supersized cockroaches, and absolutely no bubbles were going to touch the people of Metropolis today.

But before he could do any city-saving, he had to get to work on time. And right now, that seemed even more impossible than stopping a supersized cockroach. 

Monday, July 4, 1991. 9:26 am.

The Daily Planet, Metropolis, New York.

”Kent!”

Clark’s head snapped up, his staggeringly blue eyes going wide with a familiar nervous terror. He’d barely gotten a foot in the door, and his boss already wanted a word with him.

He gulped, shutting his eyes tightly for a moment. This was the fourth time he’d been late this month, and just writing good articles didn’t cut it when his boss was.. well, him.

Him, as in Bruce Wayne, billionaire owner of The Daily Planet, and the only man in the world that was richer than Lex Luthor. But more than that, he was constantly drunk, incredibly impulsive, and very easy to tick off.

A few months ago, Clark had been good buddies with a woman named Terri. She’d been working at The Daily Planet for a solid year or two, and was well-liked among the staff. Lois got her a coffee every morning, just to be nice.

On one particularly hot Thursday last June, Terri had spilled said coffee all over Mr. Wayne’s new shirt, and she was in boxes within an hour. She would’ve had her butt out the door sooner, had he not spent at least 45 minutes giving her the vocal beat-down of the century. 

Safe to say, he was not looking forward to this. Still, he gathered his courage, held his breath, and stepped into Mr. Wayne’s office.

The place was completely old oak, with an utter lack of windows, and an overwhelming smell of whiskey and chocolate. The furniture was all real leather, though ruined and creased, and the walls were lined with books so dusty he couldn’t make out their titles. It was clear he nobody had touched them in years.

Mr. Wayne spun to face him in his tall, green velvet office chair. He was pale, with dark brunette hair that fell messily all over his forehead, and nearly black, deep-set eyes that stared up at him scrutinizingly. He had one leg hanging off over the armrest, and his left hand clutched a half-drunk vodka.

”Why are you in here, Kent?” he asked, his voice rough, like he’d been using it non-stop for hours.

”I’ve been.. I’ve been late. 4 times. 4 sep.. 4 separate times this month,” he stammered back, an awkward smile donning his lips.

”I like you, Kent. You write good stuff. Superman takes your interviews more than any reporter I know,” Mr Wayne began again, taking a swing between each sentence. By the time he finished, the glass was empty. He didn’t even place it down, just let it drop with a shatter to the floor. 
“So! Here’s my deal.”

Clark’s eyes widened eagerly. He was expecting the Terri treatment, so this was a nice surprise.

“Something’s gonna happen today. Something always happens on the fourth. So once Superman swoops in and stops it, you get an interview, and you ask him these questions. In this order. No more, no less. If you get it, you keep your job. Capiche?”

“Capoche!” he agreed excitedly, dashing from the office and back to his cubicle before Mr. Wayne could change his mind.

“What was that all about?” asked Lois from the cubicle across the hall from his.

Lois Lane was, apart from his parents, Clark’s favorite person. She’d worked at the Planet since he’d started 7 years ago, and she’d shown him the ropes. She had pin-straight jet-black hair that was always tucked up in a neat little bun with pencils through it, tanned, freckled skin, and the sort of nimble, quick-witted way of speaking that always got you to spill your guts no matter what you did to stop it. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have a little crush on her, but he did his best to disregard it. After all, they worked well as friends, and Lois was a busy lady working on her career. This didn’t mean that she wouldn’t always have a special place in his heart. 

”No idea,” he shrugged, smiling wryly. 
“I just gotta get another interview with Superman.”

She raised an eyebrow, twirling around in her chair. 

“Another one? It’s like Mr. Wayne thinks you live with the guy!”

Oh, if only you knew.

“I know!” he cried, turning to his computer and opening up a new document. 
“And who knows if Superman’ll even need to turn up any time soon. It could be months.”

As if summoned by some divine force of cruel irony, a tinny, robotic voice boomed through the sea of cubicles.

“SUPERMAN,” it said, the sound reverberating through the walls so loudly paintings fell off the walls.

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE. DON’T MAKE ME SAY YOUR NAME.”