Chapter Text
Year 2
August
The year’s summer was hot. Hot by anyone’s standards, really.
Clark felt more than saw the sun as it beat down on his back, though that could honestly also be do intense strain. Whenever he used his powers excessively and in rapid succession, he was prone to running hot.
And Lord knows he was using his powers a whole lot today.
The entire corner of the building above him groaned like a wounded animal, steel beams bending under the pressure of its own collapse.
Toyman’s robots, brightly colored and grotesquely smiling, had torn through half of downtown Metropolis before the League had been able to contain them. Clark had managed to pin the largest of them into the street below, but not before its missile barrage tore a building in two.
Now he was floating beneath one of the halves, hands pressed to the sagging frame as concrete rained down around him. His muscles didn’t ache the way a human’s would, but he felt the strain all the same. Every vibration, every microfracture of failing support.
“Civilians clear?” he called through the comm.
“Almost,” came Wonder Woman’s voice, calm but tight. “Another thirty seconds.”
Clark nodded to no one, exhaling slowly. The air was thick with dust, the scent of burnt wiring and powdered stone. He listened beneath the noise—the heartbeats, the scrambling of feet, the quick, panicked voices.
And then, one by one, they faded as people reached safety.
He waited another breath before finally shifting his weight and easing the structure down, guiding it into the empty lot like setting a sleeping giant to rest.
The city was quiet again—at least for a moment. Clark straightened, brushing the debris from his shoulders. “Everyone alright?”
There was a pause. Then Diana again, her tone lower. “Mostly.”
Clark turned in time to see her emerge from the haze, supporting Batman by one shoulder. The black of his suit was scorched through at the side, and even from this distance, Clark could see the tremor in his stance. His right leg was bent at an unnatural angle and his heart rate was slightly more elevated than usual. The telltale wetness of his inhalation indicated internal bleeding.
“I told you to stay out of the blast radius,” Wonder Woman said, more exasperated than angry.
“Wasn’t in it when I started,” Batman gritted out.
Clark met them halfway. “You’re hurt.”
“I’ve noticed,” Batman said.
Wonder Woman’s lips pressed thin, but she didn’t argue. “We’re taking him back to the Watchtower. The rest of the League can finish the cleanup.”
Clark nodded, watching as the two of them rose skyward in a shimmer of light. He turned back towards the ravaged town, noting the red and gold blur of Flash’s uniform as he zipped between civilians and failing buildings.
Despite Flash’s speed, Clark could still hear the groans of people trapped in collapsed structures around the streets. Whether they were pinned underneath concrete or unconscious; there was still plenty for Superman to do before heading back up to check on his fallen teammate.
He didn’t waste a breath, shooting upward through the settling dust before dropping back down at the far end of the block where the cries were loudest.
-
It was a strange sight, to see Batman in the Justice League medbay. For someone who had built the thing, it was very unusual for the man to actually use many of the services it offered. Whenever Batman was injured (far too often) he usually disappeared.
The process of the Watchtower’s construction in and of itself had taken the better part of last year, or so Clark had heard. When being given the official tour with the rest of their new League, Clark could tell the planning had been precise and planned down to every shining inch.
It also reeked of money.
Shining, metal surfaces and too many rooms to count. There were massive monitors and state-of-the-art medical equipment that put most hospitals on Earth to shame. The medbay itself was lined with diagnostic panels, scanners, and polished consoles that hummed quietly with restrained efficiency. It was a marvel of technology — of human ingenuity, of Batman’s endless need for control.
And yet, the man himself looked entirely out of place there.
As of now, he sat rigid on the examination table, cape draped across one arm, cowl still on but armplates and leg armor removed. His posture screamed resistance, even though the bandage winding around his forearm said otherwise.
“Hold still,” Wonder Woman muttered, tying off the last of the wrap with practiced care.
“I am still.”
Clark, leaning against the doorway, folded his arms. “You’re glowering at the wall like it owes you money. That doesn’t count as still.” Without meaning to, a slight country twang settled in his words, rounding the constants. He flinched inwardly. Have to be more careful.
Luckily, the other two people in the room seemed distracted enough not to notice.
Batman shot him a look that would’ve been lethal if not for the mild daze painkillers had settled into his voice. His heart was beating sluggishly as well. “Robot exploded. Fell.”
Clark’s expression softened. “I noticed.”
There was a beat of silence, filled with the low hum of the Watchtower’s life-support systems and the faint buzz of monitors keeping track of Batman’s vitals.
He listened back to Metropolis, ensuring the Flash was on his way back to Central City and the law enforcement was handling the last of cleanup
Clark glanced toward the machines, then back at Batman. “You’re lucky Diana got to you when she did. A few more minutes and…” he trailed off.
“I had it handled, Superman.” Silence stretched between the two of them as Diana continued to disinfect the burn on the Bat’s arm.
“Alright, I just need to–” The sound of a small beeping came from Diana’s phone and she immediately straightened. Reading something, her heartbeat ticked upwards in what must have been alarm.
She swears. Frustration, then.
“I apologize but I am needed elsewhere,” She explained, already headed towards the exit. She glanced up at Clark as she passed, looking conflicted.
“Can you help our friend here to the beams after the painkillers have a few more minutes to set in? I don’t walk him walking on that leg, Superman.”
“Of course, Diana,” He said immediately. Without another word, she briskly exited, leaving the two of them in silence.
Surprisingly, it was the man who sat on the edge of the cot who spoke first.
“‘Diana’’?” He asked, voice slightly less gravelly than normal. “Didn’t know you were on a first name basis.”
“She shared her civilian identity with me a few months ago.” Clark explained. “She trusts people the way most of us don’t. I think that’s why she told me.” Batman nodded slowly. He didn’t say anything else.
Clark remembered the conversation with Wonder Woman like it was yesterday. She had approached him after one of their joint missions, voice grave.
She had told him she trusted him. That she wanted him to know who she was, beneath the hero work. Clark had been honored as she told him of her work as a museum director and her life on Themyscira.
She had also told him she didn’t expect to learn his secret identity, if he had one, in return. That had been the greatest relief of the night, honestly. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her (Clark would and had placed his life in her hands before), but it still felt selfish nonetheless.
After breaking up with Lois, the rift between who he was with and without the cape seemed only to grow. Human versus alien. Kindness versus strength.
He kept his life as Clark Kent close to his chest, not wanting to bridge the gap. Not wanting to admit what set him apart from every other person on this planet.
And so, he met Diana Prince. He met her as Superman. With a reaffirming hand on the shoulder, a warm smile, and that everpresent hope.
It was easier that way.
And it was the same way a week later when Hal Jordan, Green Lantern, did the same. Clark didn’t even mean to find out, Hal had simply mentioned it in passing. Like they were discussing the weather, not secret identities.
When he had tried to ask why, Hal just shrugged. “Who are you going to tell Big Blue, E.T? I’m not too worried about it, plus, you’re too nice to go exposing me to the world.”
Superman wasn’t one to agree with his darker counterpart, but in that moment, he truly understood Batman’s annoyance with the man.
And Barry, of course, accidentally showed up in Metropolis in civilian clothes during a stakeout a few months after that all went down. After a flurry of excuses for why some kid in a lab coat and a nametag reading “Barry Allen” had simply appeared out of nowhere, he simply zipped to Central City to put on his uniform and run back. Neither of them mentioned it again.
Others weren’t told outright but Clark was able to figure out simply by powers of observation (not X-ray vision, thank you very much), like Oliver Queen, and others made no effort to hide at all. Like Black Canary or Aquaman.
And that was how he came to know his teammates' identities. Most of them, anyways.
“In the future, don’t use civilian names while in uniform.” Batman grunted, drawing Clark out of his thoughts. He sighed, shaking his head with a tired smile. So much for a sentimental moment.
“The drugs are working fine,” He continued, unfazed by Clark’s reaction, “I’m fine to head back.”
Instead of responding, he opted for a quick once over with X-ray vision, looking for injuries Wonder Woman might’ve missed. Once he confirmed there was nothing to worry about (besides the fractured tibia, which they knew about), he nodded in assent. However, something stopped him from reverting to his standard field of vision.
Maybe it was the hours of nonstop power usage, or the late hour, but Clark couldn’t seem to stop his eyes from scanning. He zoned in even more, now on the burn crawling up Batman's forearm.
He saw the tissue beneath the bandages, the angry red swelling where skin had been seared and the slow, irregular pulsing of damaged cells. The faint hum of life under his super senses—nerves firing, blood struggling to clot—was more vivid than it had any right to be.
Clark’s stomach twisted, a queasy, unwanted reminder that some things even a Kryptonian could react to. He clenched his fists, trying to block out the gory details, but every twitch of muscle, every stuttered pulse echoed through him with unnatural clarity.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe evenly. Normally he could observe, analyze, and compartmentalize, but tonight it felt… wrong. His vision pulsed between the microscopic and the whole, like his body couldn’t decide where to focus.
“You’re pale,” Batman’s gravelly voice cut through the haze.
Clark blinked, forcing himself to look up. Batman was watching him, calm but perceptive, unflinching despite the pain in his own leg and arm. There was no judgment in the dark eyes, just recognition.
“I’m fine,” Clark said, though his voice sounded shaky even to him.
A shift in Batman’s posture, a low exhale, and a faint tilt of his head communicated what words would not: steady yourself.
Clark exhaled slowly, letting the sensation ebb slightly.
“Let’s get moving,” Batman said, voice flat but no longer harsh. He pushed to his good leg, testing his balance. Clark immediately moved to steady him, still feeling the pull of nausea but willing himself to focus.
Ignoring the way he could hear and feel the pulsing muscle fibres, he took most of Batman’s weight onto his shoulder. The vigilante immediately made a sound of annoyance, his lips thinning.
“A major fracture is no joke, especially since I know you’ll be on it again in a matter of days,” Clark said before Batman could complain, “You know this.”
Batman let out a short, gravelly sound, almost like a snort. “If you drop me, it’s on you.” he muttered, voice flat but carrying a sharp edge of dry humor.
Clark froze mid-step for a heartbeat, staring at him in surprise. Then, despite himself, a laugh bubbled up, sharp and unrestrained, echoing in the quiet medbay.
Batman’s eyes didn’t meet his; he didn’t even shift. But the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested he’d noticed. Clark grinned, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
The vigilante made another low sound that could’ve been a grunt or the smallest smirk in human history. Clark had no doubt it was both.
Neither said anything else after that. They made their way silently out of the room and through the common area until finally, Batman was disappearing back towards Gotham in a beam of brilliant light.
Clark stood alone, still reeling with the knowledge that The Batman, Gotham’s fiercest protector, could make a joke.
October
Clark was late.
And not a harmless, running-five-minutes-behind sort of late, but the kind where you fell asleep in a stairwell and missed three alarms and pages. Gosh forbid a guy doesn’t sleep for a couple months, and all of a sudden he’s a narcoleptic.
Superman didn’t pass out in stairwells still wearing his work clothes from the Planet, yet here he was, zipping through the atmosphere, faster than the speed of sound, hoping for a miracle.
Batman was going to kill him.
As he burst through the doorway to the Watchtower’s common area, Clark barely had time to register the pitying glances from a few early arrivals. He ignored them all, weaving around a cluster of chairs like a comet streaking through a crowded sky.
Finally, he skidded to a halt in front of the monitor room. The door slid open with a soft hiss, and there he was—Batman. Standing in the center of the room, cape brushing the floor, arms crossed, posture rigid as ever. Clark’s heart sank slightly; the sheer presence of the man made him feel exposed, as if every misstep, every tardy arrival, every ounce of his fatigue was laid bare.
Batman didn’t move or speak. Just waited, silent and still, eyes scanning Clark with that sharp, calculating glare that somehow felt heavier than any words. Clark swallowed, squared his shoulders, and stepped in.
Clark exhaled, lowering himself into the chair with a long, exaggerated slump. “Sorry, I’m late,” he said hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Something came up. Won’t happen again.” He forced a small, nervous smile and tried to focus on the monitors, willing himself to forget the rush and the judgmental eyes he imagined in the shadows.
Batman said nothing. Clark’s stomach tightened, expecting a verbal grilling any second now. He braced himself for the critique, for the sharpness he had come to anticipate.
Then, instead of a word about tardiness, Batman’s voice cut through the quiet, low and measured. “When was the last time you slept?”
Clark stiffened like he had been struck. God, this was worse than yelling. This was pity. And from Batman of all people.
“Um, I don’t really sleep in the same way most people do,” Clark admitted, voice tight. “A few hours here and there, but… it’s not like I need it.”
Batman’s gaze remained sharp, unyielding. “Obviously.”
Clark flinched.
“Not being careful isn’t just about you,” he continued, voice low and measured. “One mistake and you put yourself or someone else in danger.” He paused, letting it sink in before adding, dryly, “And you’re late. Again.”
Clark let out a quiet, relieved laugh, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly. “Right. Got it. Late, dangerous, don’t get anyone hurt. Check, check, check.”
He was just glad the conversation had moved off the topic of sleep. Seeing Batman care, however begrudgingly, was unnerving, and Clark wasn’t sure he was ready to process it. Instead, he focused on the monitors, pretending to take notes, while his mind quietly cataloged the strange weight of Batman’s words.
About an hour later, the conversation was forgotten anyway.
An alarm blared, red lights flashing across the walls. Clark’s heart rate jumped as he grabbed his gear, already calculating flight paths and possible rescue priorities. Batman was ahead of him, already moving toward the door, cape flowing behind him like a shadow.
“Move out.” He said, the heroes lounging in the common area suddenly at attention, “Poison Ivy is attacking Gotham alongside Scarecrow. Danger level Omega. Full League mobilized.”
Quicker than one would’ve thought possible, each and every member was standing, ready for fight whatever lie ahead.
- - -
If Batman hadn’t been particularly upset when it came to Clark’s tardiness, he was certainly mad now.
“–reckless, irresponsible, idiotic bullshit!” He finished a rant with his finger jabbed right at Superman. They were back at the Watchtower after a successful takedown of Poison Ivy and Scarecrow. After a brief run-in with a new fear toxin, the League had managed to disable a series of bombs and contain the threat. A victory, no doubt.
Or so Clark thought.
He straightened defensively at the insults, taking a step back and hands lifting in a placating gesture. “How many times do we have to tell you? I knew I could take that hit, and far better than any of you at that. If I hadn’t—”
Batman slammed a fist on the table, startling even Clark. “You’re an idiot! Just because you like to act like a meat shield doesn’t mean you need to have the brains of one. You can’t just ‘take hits’, Superman. There has to be a better strategy than that.”
A familiar feeling bubbled up in Clark’s chest at the words. There it was again; the pity. Anger began to slip through his calm demeanor, smile fracturing and his muscles tightening. People’s heart beats were rising. His heart beat was rising.
Red and black swarmed the borders of his vision, and the sound of rushing blood flooding his ears grew louder and louder. He could hear everything: the tapping of feet on metal ground, an itch scratched under the table, maybe even the stars themselves of surrounding space. Take a breath. He tried to steady himself. Tune out. Tune out. Tune–
Batman leaned forward, voice rising even further. “You think throwing yourself in front of every explosion makes you a hero? You think that’s leadership? It’s recklessness, plain and simple.”
That was it.
Clark’s hands slammed down on the table, the sound reverberating through the room. “I saved lives!” he shouted, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “You think I should’ve just stood there and let people die because it’s not part of your plan?”
“Don’t you dare—” Batman started, but Clark didn’t let him finish.
“I can’t just stand by while people die, even if it means getting hurt! That’s the point!” His voice cracked, fury and exhaustion bleeding together.
The words echoed, bouncing off steel and glass. The League froze, wide-eyed. Barry was halfway out of his chair, Diana tense but silent. Most were sitting silently, watching him with a new interest.
For a long moment, neither man moved. The air between them felt electrified, almost humming. Batman’s breathing and heart rate were elevated, probably in alarm. A sick, twisted sort of satisfaction ran through Clark at the notion of the other man’s surprise. His fear.
Then Clark blinked, breath hitching as the adrenaline gave way to sudden, cold awareness of what he’d just done. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, lifting his hands. “I—” His voice came out quieter, hoarse. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
He straightened, forcing himself to meet Batman’s eyes.
Batman didn’t respond. Not at first. The silence stretched unbearably. Then, with a sharp pivot of his cape, he turned and walked out, wordless, the sound of his boots echoing down the corridor.
No one else moved. The only thing Clark could hear was the faint hum of the Watchtower and the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Diana broke the tension a moment later, voice impossibly steady.
“I think that’s enough for today. Thank you all for your hard work and please have your reports in by Friday.” Simple, efficient. People dispersed quietly, glances being thrown left and right. Mostly at Superman.
Had they ever seen him yell like that? Lose the smile? Murmurs slinked around the watchtower as they split into their respective quarters or headed towards the teleoperator.
Clark barely registered any of it. The scrape of chairs, the shuffle of boots, the sounds of fading voices—all of it blurred together into meaningless noise.
His palms still tingled where they’d hit the table. He could see the faint dents in the metal, the fine spiderweb of cracks spreading from the impact point. His stomach twisted. God. He hadn’t even realized how hard he’d struck it.
Super strength was supposed to be second nature by now. A reflex to control, to temper. He’d spent years mastering it. From the cornfields of Kansas to the skies of Metropolis, every movement was calculated, every touch measured. But anger? That was different. Anger made everything sharp and bright and dangerous.
He exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself. He let his shoulders sag only slightly, since he was now alone.
Losing his temper wasn’t just unprofessional, it was unsafe. If one outburst was all it took to rattle him like that, what else could it do? What if it hadn’t been a table in front of him? What if it had been a person?
He ran a hand through his hair and stared down at the floor. Batman had been right—about the recklessness, about the risk. Not in the way he meant it, maybe, but close enough. Clark had always thought he was in control, but tonight had proved how fragile that control really was.
He needed to do better. He had to do better.
Because if Superman ever lost control, even for a second… someone could get hurt. Something would. Something he couldn’t ever take back.
December
Clark flew back home on Christmas Eve, right before the blizzard set it.
The sky was surprisingly clear, stars twinkling in the crisp, crackling cold. A layer of frost had long settled over Smallville’s plowed fields, coating the world in a layer of fuzz.
The crunch of snow beneath his boots as he climbed the porch steps was enough to elicit a smile in and of itself. Clark had decided to wear his civilian clothes, not wanting to track in the cape or the weight that came with it. The flannel felt good, normal, even, and soft against his shoulders.
The porch light flickered on before he even knocked. Martha opened the door, her face framed in the warm yellow glow spilling from inside.
“Clark,” she said, voice soft with surprise but not shock, like she’d been expecting him all the same. The familiar pang of guilt came accompanying the thought that he didn’t visit enough. “You’re freezing. Come in before you catch something you can’t cure.”
He laughed, ducking his head as she ushered him inside, since they both knew there wasn’t anything he could catch from this cold. Not out here, at least.
“Hi, Ma.”
The smell of cinnamon and pine hit him instantly, wrapping around him like a memory. Jonathan was dozing in his recliner by the fireplace, an empty mug balanced precariously on the armrest.
Clark shut the door behind him and stood there for a moment, taking it in. The hum of the heater, the ticking of the old wall clock, the faint static from the radio. The house hadn’t changed. Not one bit.
“Long day?” She asked, eyeing the tired lines around his eyes.
“Long month,” he responded lightly.
She handed him a mug from the kitchen counter. Hot chocolate, still warm. “Then you can rest here for a while. We were setting up for a fashionably late dinner anyhow.”
He smiled faintly, sitting at the old table, mug in hand. “You always know how to fix things.”
“Not everything,” she said gently. “But cocoa helps.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Martha rubbing small circles in his back as he let the richness of the chocolate envelop his senses for a moment before tuning them back down to a normal event.
The natural sound of Smallville, Kansas stretched for miles, blanketing his ears with the familiar background of the wind sweeping over empty fields and the distant hum of a passing truck on the main road. Crickets had long since gone quiet for the winter, leaving only the soft groan of trees shifting under the cold. It was the kind of silence that used to soothe him as a boy—the kind that didn’t ask for anything.
He closed his eyes, listening. No sirens. No heartbeats in distress. No buildings on the verge of collapse. Just the creak of the porch and the pulse of home.
“Jonathon, get yourself over here. Your son is home.” She admonished her husband from the kitchen, to which a simple grunt was given in response. Moments later, his father ambled up from the armchair to stand across from Martha with a long exhale. After a ridiculously large yawn, he placed a warm hand on Clark’s shoulder.
“Good to have you back, son.” The words were like a physical balm, smoothing over the tension wound tight in his chest. Clark hadn’t realized how much of it he’d been carrying until now. The simple weight of his father’s hand—steady, familiar, unshakable—was enough to remind him that there was a world where things didn’t fall apart, where strength didn’t have to mean destruction.
“You too, Pa,” he said softly, his voice catching more than he meant it to.
Jonathan gave a knowing look, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You been eatin’?”
Clark laughed under his breath. “Ma’s already asked.”
“Then I guess I’ll save the lecture for later.”
Martha gave him a mock glare as she set a dish of roast vegetables on the counter. “You’ll do no such thing. Let the boy rest.”
Jonathan only hummed in acknowledgment, retreating to the kitchen table. “Rest, sure. After he helps me shovel the porch tomorrow.”
Clark grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of saying no.”
He took another sip of cocoa, the warmth spreading through him, easing muscles that hadn’t relaxed in weeks. The rhythm of his parents’ voices filled the small kitchen, the clatter of plates and soft hum of the radio weaving through it all like something sacred.
Dinner passed like water slipping through hands, the sound of his father’s quiet humor, his mother’s gentle scolding, filling Clark’s mind until there was room for little else.
After the meal, the air inside grew thick with the kind of warmth that made Clark drowsy. The low crackle of the fireplace, the clink of dishes being washed, Martha humming softly to herself, it would’ve been easy to stay there, to let the night fade into something simple and small.
But his father had other plans.
“Come on,” he said, pulling on his old coat from the rack by the door. “Walk with me a bit. Need to check the fence before the snow gets any worse.”
Martha tutted, glancing out the window. “It’s already seven, dear. Are you sure you want to head out now?” Pa just nodded quietly, gesturing at Clark to follow.
Clark smiled faintly, recognizing the pretense for what it was. “Sure thing, Pa.”
The night met them with a sharp bite. The wind had quieted to a low whistle, sweeping over the frost-covered fields, and the stars hung low enough to touch. Their boots crunched over the fresh snow as they walked past the barn, the whole world bathed in the pale light of the old country’s moon.
For a while, they didn’t talk. Jonathan’s slow, measured steps set the rhythm, his breath visible in short bursts. Clark fell into it easily, the silence sitting between them not as a weight, but as something easy.
When they reached the fence line, Clark finally spoke. “Pa… can I ask you something?”
Jonathan leaned on the top rail, his breath misting in front of him. “Course you can.”
Clark shoved his hands into his coat pockets, staring out over the dark stretch of field. “How do you know when you’re doing the right thing?”
Jonathan’s brows lifted slightly. “Big question for a winter walk.”
Clark gave a faint smile. “Guess it’s been a big kind of year so far.” He toed at the snow with his boot. “Gosh, this was months ago, and I’m pretty sure no one else remembers it, but there was this thing at work—nothing serious, just… an argument. Someone said something, and I lost my temper.”
“Lost it how?” Jonathan asked, his tone calm but measured.
“I yelled,” Clark said. “Louder than I meant to. I scared them, Pa. I could tell.” His voice dropped. “And the worst part is, for a second, I wanted to. I wanted them to back down.”
Jonathan didn’t interrupt, just kept his eyes on his son.
Clark exhaled, the breath coming out as a fog. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since. About how easy it would be to go too far. I keep wondering—if I’m doing the right thing, being where I am, trying to live like everyone else when I’m not.”
Jonathan rested his elbows on the fence. “You’re still a man, son. You’re still allowed to get angry. You just gotta remember what that anger’s for.”
Clark frowned. “And what if I forget?”
“Then you find your way back,” Jonathan said simply. “The right thing’s not a line you stand on, it’s one you keep walking. You step off sometimes. Everyone does. But you get back on it. That’s what matters.”
The wind stirred the snow at their feet, scattering the tracks they’d made. Clark watched them fade, feeling lighter than he had in a long, long while.
“Thanks, Pa.”
“Anytime, son.” He responded easily, turning back towards the house, illuminated in the darkness, “Now let’s head back before your mother worries too much. There’s still Christmas to be had.”
They made their way back inside, the warmth of the house pressing against the cold air clinging to their coats. Jonathan climbed the stairs first, muttering something about old age catching up with him, leaving Clark alone with Martha in the kitchen.
She set down the dish towel she had been folding and leaned against the counter, eyes on him. “So… Lois,” she began casually, but there was a sharpness in her tone. Clark winced inwardly. He hadn’t told his Mother about their current situation quite yet, which was turning out to come back to bite him.
“How’s she, I mean, you two, over there in Metropolis?”
Clark hesitated, his fingers tightening around the mug he was holding. “We–uh, we broke up,” he said, the words leaving a little too easily.
Martha tilted her head, studying him. “Broken up, huh? Was it serious, then?”
“Yeah. Serious,” he admitted softly, looking down into the cup. “We’re still friends, though. Trying to be. It’s… it’s been okay.”
She didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked away, the faint shadow crossing his face. “Clark, you can tell me if it’s not okay. You’ve got to be careful. Don’t let work—or whatever else—eat at you.”
He forced a small smile, nodding. “I’m managing. Really. Metropolis keeps me busy. The Planet, the League, everything. I just… try to keep moving.”
Martha reached out, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “Moving is fine, Clark, but make sure you’re not running from yourself either. Relationships, work, saving the world… you’ve got to take care of yourself too.”
Clark sighed, a mixture of guilt and relief washing over him. “I know, Ma. I just don’t always have the luxury to rest. Things don’t really stop.”
“You need to make the time,” she said firmly. “Promise me you’ll try. Even if it’s just a little. And Clark,” She paused, giving him a long look. “You’re doing a lot of good, but don’t lose yourself in the process.”
“I promise,” he said, voice soft but resolute. “Thank you, Ma.”
She gave a faint smile and turned toward the living room. “All right, all right, you’ve still got Christmas left to enjoy tomorrow. Why don’t you head upstairs for the night.”
Clark nodded, wrapping her in one last hug before retiring. The last thing he heard her mutter was something about “never living to meet her grandchildren” before his head was lying on a soft pillow, holed up in his childhood bedroom.
His feet stuck out the other end of the twin mattress, but it would be the best sleep he had gotten, or would get, for longer than he would ever admit to his mother.
April
The transition from the sunny streets of Metropolis to the frozen, icy terrain of the arctic was never an easy one.
It was still sunny, but the rays of light reflected off the ice structures in the Fortress in a way that felt almost sterile.
Clark stood before the central console, cape brushing the smooth floor, the muted glow of the crystalline pillars casting fractured light across the insignia on his chest. Lines of data shimmered on the screen as he scrolled through them, fingers moving with practiced precision over the console’s surface.
The Fortress hummed a low, resonant sound that filled the emptiness. The occasional pulse of energy from the crystal cores almost felt like a heartbeat.
“Gary,” he said finally, voice breaking the stillness. “Cross-reference the timestamp of these power fluctuations with STAR Labs’ atmospheric logs.”
“Already on it,” came the AI’s calm reply, resonating through the crystalline walls.
Clark exhaled slowly, leaning closer as the holographic display shifted and rearranged. Rows of data cascaded in pale light, reflecting faintly in his eyes. His jaw tightened when he recognized the familiar pattern. A disruption in the city’s magnetic field, centered around the same coordinates he’d already been to three times that week.
“So it wasn’t random,” he murmured. He’d heard the frequency before; an almost imperceptible hum buried under the city’s usual static. Too high for most to notice, but constant enough that it had been gnawing at the edge of his hearing for days.
He couldn’t pinpoint a source, only a general area, a few blocks of downtown Metropolis that seemed to pulse with the faintest dissonance. Every time he got close, it vanished, slipping beneath the threshold like it knew he was listening.
The longer it persisted, the worse it got. A low throb took permanent behind his temples, dull but insistent, like the city itself was vibrating out of tune. A personal noise machine only he could hear.
“Unlikely,” Gary confirmed. “You’re looking at deliberate interference. Someone knew what they were doing.”
Clark nodded once, fingers tapping a command to pull up a new set of schematics. “Let’s see who, then.”
The silence settled again. It was steady, methodical, and punctuated only by the hum of alien machinery and the faint rhythm of Superman’s breathing as he worked.
His eyes scanned line after line of data flickering across the console. Most of it was noise: maintenance reports, falsified invoices, the occasional redacted memo. But beneath all that static, something glimmered. A pattern.
He frowned, zooming in on a string of property records buried in the city registry. The company name repeated: North Ridge Holdings, a shell corporation that seemed to own half the condemned blocks in the southern district.
“Gary,” he called quietly. The robot made a small beeping noise in acknowledgment. “Look for this entity with any other corporate registrations over the last five years. Prioritize real estate and infrastructure.” Journalist mode activated, he flicked over the reports of the area in which he had determined the frequency to originate from.
One of the more low-income neighborhoods, most people living there had been struggling with the cost of living for years. North Ridge Holdings had its hands in nearly every property in the district—apartment complexes, utilities, even the corner grocery. Rent had quietly doubled over the past three years, small businesses shuttered one by one, and public complaints about energy surcharges went nowhere. On paper, it was all legal. In practice, it strangled the neighborhood.
As the computer whirred, Clark rubbed at his temple. The headache had been building all week—ever since he’d picked up that low, thrumming frequency near Ironwood. It wasn’t sound, not exactly. More like a resonance. Subtle, constant. It vibrated at the edge of his hearing until it felt like his skull might split.
He’d thought at first it was machinery—construction, maybe. But when he’d tried to locate the source, there was no single device, no clear origin. Just a cluster of buildings humming like a living thing.
“Results ready,” Gary reported.
Clark leaned forward. The holographic display expanded, connecting the dots one by one. North Ridge Holdings had purchased twelve separate properties in the district over the past eighteen months. Most of them were warehouses or storage facilities—unremarkable, if not for the fact that several of them were heavily shielded. And every single one tied back to a parent company through a dizzying maze of shell corporations.
Clark’s jaw tightened. The parent name flashed at the top of the chart, crisp and unmistakable.
LuthorCorp.
He stared at the word for a long moment. If the Fortress’ cold could seep into his bones, he assumed this is probably what it would feel like. The icy tendrils of dread.
“Looks like we have our culprit,” he murmured. Shutting the computer off decisively, he leaned back. For now, he needed to get back to his day-to-day, but if Clark knew anything, it was that this was far from over.
He stretched as he stood, cape rustling faintly against the floor. For all the peace he’d tried to build since moving to Metropolis, it seemed some things never changed. Wherever Lex Luthor was involved, chaos wasn’t far behind.
The trip back to Metropolis felt much longer than it was, especially if the sonic boom accompanying his take off was any indication.
It was a slow Saturday morning in the city, and Clark hadn’t slept in what felt like years. The exhaustion clung to him like a heavy coat, but he pushed it aside, keeping busy as he always did. He spent the early hours intervening in a break-in, and taking to the skies, patrolling the streets of Metropolis from above, undetected. He allowed his hearing to spread steadily, listening for sounds of alarm. Almost disappointedly, there was little action to be had.
He stopped petty crimes, helped stranded civilians, and moved with a rhythm that had become second nature. Clark even had time to comfort a sixteen-year-old through her first fender bender, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder with a smile while she came down from a panic.
Eventually, though, he found himself drifting towards Ironwood, letting the city’s familiar lines and landmarks guide him. His mind kept returning to the lead he’d found on Northridge Holdings, the unease growing in the back of his mind.
He hovered above the neighborhood, taking a moment to scan the area carefully. He quickly realized that almost every building in the neighborhood stood atop of ridiculously large basements. Rooms the size of gymnasiums spread out underneath humble apartments and run down ware houses.
Even more alarming though was that multiple of the basements were lined in lead, a detail that made his stomach twist with self-reproach. How had he missed it before? His eidetic memory kicked into hypergear, recognizing the lead-lined ones as being owned by Northridge. In other words, owned by Luthorcorp.
He knew the significance immediately; lead-lined basements meant something was being shielded, and specifically from him at that. Something dangerous. Something like Kryptonite.
Just the thought of the glowing mineral was enough to bring a sort of phantom pain to his limbs. Cells destroying and rebuilding themselves in the blink of an eye, skin blistering til it felt like it was on fire–the effects were unsavory at best and fatal at worst.
In what felt far too much like retreat, Clark pulled back from the scan, letting his eyes rest on the streets below.
In the blink of an eye, he was across town, flying through the open window of his apartment in a blur.
The place looked like it had been robbed.
Dying plants lined cheap bookshelves, and notes were scattered across every available space. Dirty dishes and dog-eared books lined the floor when shelf space ran out and there was still a small pool of water next to the sink from a leaky faucet.
Exactly how he left it.
Clark dropped onto the couch, letting out a long, exhausted exhale as he kicked off his boots. The rest of the suit came off easily enough, and he threw it haphazardly into the bedroom closet. Walking across the small apartment, Clark tried to roll the tension out of his shoulders while opening the curtains. A quick change later, and he was wandering into the kitchen in an old college t-shirt and a pair of fleece pajama pants.
He grabbed the nearest bowl from the cluttered counter, poured some cereal, and sat down heavily. A hundred different tracks of thinking seemed to be rooting around his brain all at once, and
How was he going to handle this? His first instinct was always to dive in, fists and heat vision blazing, to get to the source and shut it down. But even he knew that would be reckless. Lead-lined basements meant Kryptonite, and Kryptonite meant vulnerability. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake—not here, not now.
Clark sighed, spoon hovering midair, and reached for his League communicator. He tapped it lightly, debating who to call for backup. Diana? No, she was tied up with a cultural summit for the UN—he couldn’t risk pulling her into a covert operation in Ironwood. Barry? Definitely not. Trying to coordinate him in a sensitive situation would be… well, chaotic, to say the least. Hal? Not ideal. He liked to trust the guy, but Hal’s recklessness was only slightly less than Clark’s own. Arthur? Out of the question. Water and extreme cold were fine, but deep inside a lead-lined basement? Not his element.
He cycled through the members of the league, trying to come up with something viable and leading to the least property damage possible.
He leaned back against the couch, running a hand through his hair, and finally realized who made the most sense. Batman. Reluctant though he might feel about asking, Bruce was methodical, precise, and his tactical mind didn’t get clouded by alien invulnerability. If anyone could assess the threat without walking straight into danger, it was him. And they had saved each other more times than Clark could count over the last two years. If he was going to be yelled at for recklessness, it might as well be by someone who understood why he did it.
Clark tapped the communicator, thumbs idling while he thought about what to say. “Hello” too formal. “How are you?” too casual. “Sorry about yelling at you six months ago, hope you’re not scared of me?” Definitely not.
This was ridiculous. They were both superheroes, surely Batman would understand a need for urgency?
S: We need to talk. Something’s going down in Metropolis and I may need your help - K involved. You busy?
He set the communicator down, spoon hovering in midair, stomach tight with anticipation. He hated asking for help when it came to these matters. Hated showing this type of vulnerability, even when it was strategic.
But this wasn’t about pride. This was about staying alive, keeping the city safe, and making sure the threat wasn’t underestimated. Kryptonite wasn’t something to gamble with. And if anyone could help him, it was Batman.
Who would’ve thought he’d ever say those words.