Chapter Text
Year 1
August
Kryptonians did not need oxygen or food in the same sense that humans did. Under the yellow sun, most basic functions become obsolete in the face of superior synthesizing of energy.
Clark knew this, yet he still found himself ordering Chinese takeout on a Thursday night.
The familiar aroma of Lao’s Garden stir fry drifted into the humble, two room apartment and Clark was practically salivating when he heard the footsteps of the delivery boy on the stairwell. He glanced through the wall to track the man’s movement from his spot on the couch to make sure he didn’t stand up too early.
The doorbell rang and he bolted upright.
Clark didn’t need to eat, not like humans do, but that didn’t stop his stomach from doing flips as he dug into the styrofoam container.
Some things were deserved.
He didn’t bother turning on the television. The city’s hum filled the silence well enough—the distant sirens, the chatter spilling from the street below, the clinking of dishes in the apartment next door. Life. Moving on without him, with him, around him.
A year ago, he’d stepped into this same apartment with nothing but a duffel bag and a notebook. Back then, the world didn’t know the name Superman. Back then, Clark Kent had been just another new hire at the Daily Planet trying not to stand out.
Now people looked for him in the sky.
He still wasn’t sure which version of himself they saw; the reporter with ink on his sleeves or the figure draped in red and blue light. Both, maybe. Or neither. The line had started to blur somewhere between his first byline and the first time he pulled someone from a burning building.
He poked absently at his food, steam fogging his glasses, and wondered: was this what being human felt like? Wanting, choosing, pretending to need things you didn’t. Not because your body required them, but because your heart did.
As much as it dug at his invulnerable skin, Clark would never know the answer. Namely, because he wasn’t human. He was, after everything, still other.
It was evident in the way he let his hearing drift away from the four walls he was in. He tuned into an orchestra three states away before checking on his parents–all without moving his head an inch. Then he let it fade back out for a moment.
He’d learned, over the past year, not to listen too closely. Not all at once. The world was too loud when you let it be. Every siren a cry for help, every heartbeat a reminder that someone could stop before morning.
Still, sometimes the walls thinned on their own.
A conversation three blocks away drifted through the evening air, clear as if the speakers were in the next room. A woman laughing on her fire escape. A baby crying. Someone cursing the price of gas. He blinked, grounded himself with another bite of stir fry, let the noise settle into the background, all until a sharper note cut through it.
A quick exchange. Nervous voices. The metallic snap of a briefcase clasp.
Clark’s brow furrowed. The sound came from South—one of the more run-down areas, near the river. He could picture it already: the chipped concrete, the flickering neon sign of a pawn shop across the street of a crowded bar.
The voices were in a…he strained his hearing to pick it all out. A parking lot. Ten of them on either side of two main figures, all standing in the empty lot behind a bar. Things were being handed off.
He set the takeout container on the table and exhaled, the breath almost a sigh.
Evenings were supposed to be quiet. They rarely stayed that way.
-
Ten minutes later and Clark had found himself chasing a thug onto a Gotham rooftop.
A drug bust had been, well, busted, and almost ten men had been tied up and set on the street corner before the plastic baggies and crumpled bills could even exchange hands.
As the police had arrived in a cascade of flashing lights and thankful nods, he stuck around only for a moment to answer the basic questions. While talking to one of the newer recruits, however, the unmistakable sound of screeching tires and a frantic heartbeat sounded his internal alarm.
Someone was escaping.
As it turned out, one of the lookouts had been hiding in a nearby parking garage and jumped into a getaway car at the first sign of danger.
It should’ve been an easy grab. Superman was faster than a bullet after all, so a speeding car should be no problem.
The issue arose in the damage he left in his wake. Racing through stoplights, intersections, and narrowly avoiding pedestrians (because Clark had swooped in to grab them), the man was able to stay on the run for much longer than the average criminal would.
Clark was stuck trying to avoid a ten car pileup, hoisting a van above his head and bracing against a semi. By the time he had done a quick scan to make sure everyone was alright, the criminal was already at the border.
When, finally, he was able to track the guy’s hammering heart and strangely squeaky shoes to a rooftop, the sun had firmly set beyond the horizon and they were standing in Gotham.
Which brought him to the present: approaching a shaking man clad in a ski mask as he prepared to jump off the edge. The man’s eyes were flicking from Clark to the next roof, probably calculating if he could make the jump.
“I’d be careful,” Clark warned, voice carefully neutral and sounding too loud in the dark atmosphere, “It’s further than it looks.”
“Like hell.” The man muttered under his breath. Clark heard it as loud as if he had shouted. He repressed the urge to sigh. Superman doesn’t sigh.
“Just come with me and I’ll take you back to Metropolis. I’ll drop you off at the station and you can explain there. That way–”
Before he could finish his placations, a shadow materialized from the darkest corner of the roof without warning.
Shrouded in a cape and a mask, a man almost as tall as Clark himself prowled the short distance between him and the criminal to reel back his fist and strike the man across the temple with a decisive crack.
Clark almost winced as he heard the unignorable sound of a brain hitting a skull and the collapse of a now unconscious body.
“Hello, Batman.”
He had known the mysterious figure was up there as soon as he landed–no one could escape Superman’s notice, after all.
A heartbeat so measured, so precise, that it could have been mistaken for a metronome. Clark had no issue with shadows, seeing as he had supervision, but even he was impressed to measure in which the hero blended into the darkest corners of the city.
Clark would never admit it, but some part of him had almost been excited to meet the famed protector of Gotham. Call it a professional sort of curiosity.
There was no response given to his greeting, the vigilante instead seeming to size Clark up with a single, cursory glance. He felt strangely exposed all of a sudden.
“I’m Superman. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Clark said after another beat of silence, flashing his best ‘Superman smile’.
What an idiot, he chastised himself immediately, Of course he knows who you are.
Instead of responding, Batman crouched low to secure the arms of the collapsed man with zip-ties. He was surgical in his actions, wasting not a single movement. After he was finished, Clark finding himself able to do nothing but watch, he turned away, towards the ledge of the roof.
“No Metas in Gotham,” He grunted with a voice like gravel, “Stay the hell out of my city.”
With that, he jumped off the edge of the roof. Clark heard the telltale whoosh of a grappling gun only a moment later, waiting for a moment with a light frown.
Well that could’ve gone a whole of a lot better.
With that thought, he grabbed the crumpled man still sprawled a few feet away and threw him over his shoulder. He took off with a burst of air. After that interaction, he was sure he wouldn’t be back in Gotham for a long while.
However, even as he flew over the river, he still felt the tell-tale signs of eyes watching him from a few buildings over. Whoever it was, their Bio vitals were deceptively uniform. Breathing like a cadence.
Heartbeat like a metronome.
- - -
Three days later, Superman was approached by Wonder Woman on the outskirts of Metropolis as he was helping the police take down a trafficking ring.
Clark was standing near the edge of the now-empty warehouse by himself.
He should have been relieved. The operation was over; no casualties, minimal damage. But something in him still thrummed.
Maybe it was the encounter with Batman earlier that week, or the looming deadline of his latest article. Or, it might’ve been that he hadn’t slept in almost a month.
Clark didn’t need sleep like most people did, but it was nice to knock out for a few hours every once in a while. To give his senses a rest, if nothing else.
He was about to take off to head back towards his apartment for a quick nap when he felt it.
A presence.
It wasn’t just the sudden displacement of air, or the faint distortion of sunlight off polished armor. It was… pressure, in the way the world itself seemed to hold its breath. Every instinct in him responded before his eyes even found her.
She landed lightly a few yards away from him, the gold of her uniform gleaming in the late sun. She didn’t move like a human either—her balance was too precise, her heartbeat strong and steady, ancient in rhythm. He found himself glad the police were gone.
“Superman,” she greeted, voice calm but carrying the weight of command. “You’ve made quite an impression in your first year.”
He blinked, caught between awe and wariness. “I try to keep busy. It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Wonder Woman.”
She nodded with a serious expression. He waited for a moment, trying to deduce why she had approached him. Clark had been operating out of Metropolis for a year–why now? Was there a threat he didn’t know about?
Clark carefully kept his face in an impassive smile as he tried to listen for nervousness or fear in this woman. He found none; her breathing was relaxed, heartbeat steady, and she didn’t shift her weight once while speaking. Not even the sound of her blood pressure was urgent. He listened to the afferent and efferent nerves with intense focus, trying to find some sort of proof of ill-will. Years of experience, not just as Superman, taught him what to listen for. And yet, she remained steady.
There was a sort of trepidation he felt towards people with this level of comfort, mainly because people like that were powerful enough to not need to worry in the first place.
“What brings you to Metropolis?” He asked after a beat of silence, turning to face fully towards her.
“I come with a proposition.” She said, placing her hands on her hips.
“A… proposition?”
“Yes,” She said, “The heroes of this Earth are forming a league. A group powerful enough to defend the Earth should it need protecting. There are great evils here–you know that yourself.”
Clark didn’t respond, but quick bursts of memories briefly flashed across his mind. The glowing green of kryptonite, and the smile of those who would do anything to see him at their feet.
Yes. Yes, Clark knew evil.
“A team?”
“A league,” She corrected, “The Justice League.”
He nodded slowly, processing. “And you want me to join.”
“I do,” she said. “You’ve proven yourself more than capable. You’ve given people hope. But even symbols need allies.”
Clark tried to hold her gaze, but her eyes, sharp and ageless, reminded him faintly of the sun: something too bright to look at for long. He folded his arms across his chest, more out of instinct than defensiveness.
“Who do you have?”
She looked away for a moment, seeming to think.
“Batman.” She said the name like it carried weight. He almost laughed. Almost. Of course it would be him. “But we have others in mind. Heroes from Central City, the Green Lantern Corp, and Atlantis, among others.”
“You don’t say.” Clark said instead, voice steady but laced with something quieter underneath. Irritation? Amusement? He wasn’t sure. “I met him the other night. He told me to stay out of his city.”
“I’m sure he did.” There was a faint, knowing warmth in her tone, as if she’d expected exactly that. “But he’s just territorial. Batman was the one who approached me, after all. A few months after my battle with Aries. He told me there were worse things than gods. Things I would not be able to face alone.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Clark’s mind whirled, trying to process, to compartmentalize. He nodded slowly, finally coming to a decision.
“I’ll think about it,” he said finally. “Give me a week.”
Wonder Woman regarded him for a long moment, as if she could see the truth in him — that he’d already made up his mind but didn’t want to admit it yet. Then she inclined her head.
“One week,” she agreed, and with a leap that shattered the air, she was gone.
Clark stood there for a moment, listening to the wind ripple through the empty warehouse.
Give me a week, he repeated to himself, though he already knew the answer. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more; the thought of joining this League, or the thought of sharing a table with that man from Gotham.
He lifted into the air, heading east as the sun slipped below the skyline. The city beneath him glowed like a heartbeat.
And Clark, for all his power, still didn’t know whether he belonged to it or only hovered just above.
- - -
One week later, the Justice League announced themselves to the world.
Earth’s protectors, they called themselves.
The words echoed across every channel, every front page, every broadcast Clark could hear. And he could hear all of them. Each voice carried awe, hope, fear, skepticism. Billions of heartbeats quickened at the sound of that promise.
Because that’s exactly what it was: a promise.
November
“Kent!” The booming voice of Perry White echoed across the Daily Planet bullpen, causing an intern to drop a tray of coffees. “Get your sorry ass in here!”
Clark dropped his head into his hands from where he sat at his desk. Lois gave him a sympathetic look from a chair away. Jimmy whistled.
“Someone’s in trouble.” He singsonged.
As Clark gathered himself to walk into the lion’s den, he shot his old college roommate and the Planet’s resident photographer a glare with no real fire behind it.
“Chin up, Clark,” Lois said in between sips of coffee, “It’s just a new assignment.”
He tried not to groan dramatically, instead making the trek towards Perry’s office resignedly.
“Close the door,” Perry barked the moment Clark stepped inside.
The editor-in-chief didn’t look up from the stack of papers in front of him, red pen flashing like a sword. Clark closed the door gently.
“Sir—”
“Don’t sir me. You’ve been dodging anything that even smells like news, Kent. Superman saves the day again, Justice League this, alien that—meanwhile, your bylines are attached to zoning disputes and puff pieces on city parks. You can’t keep giving the interesting stuff to Lane.”
Clark offered a small, abashed smile. “People like city parks and Lois likes danger. It usually works out.”
Perry groaned. “Christ on a copy machine. Look, I’m not asking for another exposé on alien politics. I just need you out of my bullpen before I throw this pen at your head.” He rifled through his desk, then tossed a manila folder lightly.
Clark made the conscious effort to drop it, scattering a few pages on the floor. Perry, used to his clumsiness, didn’t even sigh.
“‘The Lotus Room,’” Clark read aloud from the floor.
“New restaurant opening downtown Gotham,” Perry said. “Local investors, some philanthropic angle. The usual soft launch fluff piece. You’ll be in and out in a day. Get a photo, write a few paragraphs about ambiance and imported lighting fixtures, and call it a weekend.”
Clark blinked. “You’re sending me to Gotham… for a restaurant opening?”
Perry leaned back in his chair. “What, you’d rather interview Lex Luthor again?”
“No, sir,” Clark said quickly.
“Good. Try not to get mugged.”
Clark nodded, tucking the folder under his arm.
“Oh, and Kent?”
He turned.
“Don’t overthink it. Just give me something people can read over breakfast without wondering if the world’s ending.”
Clark smiled faintly. “I’ll do my best, Chief.”
-
Gotham was both less and more intimidating from the ground instead of a rooftop or the safety of the clouds.
For one, the gargoyles were creepy. But, Clark had to admit there was a certain charm to the gothic, gray structures adorning the streets.
Not one for grabbing attention, he wore a dark sweater and jacket over slacks, hoping to blend in with the monotone shades of Metropolis’ sister city. Hard as he try, however, Clark knew he still stuck out like a sore thumb.
Six foot something and traveling alone, he heard the faint murmurings of low level thugs and gangs of scrawny teenagers all around him. There was a constant buzz that blanketed the city, seeming to envelop bystanders and civilians as they trudged through the darkness, lit only by flickering streetlamps.
It was barely five, but the short days of November combined with the cloudy weather of the past few days gave the illusion of a much later time.
The restaurant's grand opening wasn’t til 5:30, so Clark had a bit of time to kill before starting to walk towards the business district. He patted his pocket, checking once again he had everything.
Notepad, wallet, keys, and suit. Of course, his costume rested just beneath his clothes, ready to make an appearance should anything world-threatening come up.
Precautions.
Clark stopped at one of the smaller shops, grabbing a pen he thought Lois would appreciate before finally turning around and making his way to the restaurant, where a gaudy red ribbon and a smiling owner were waiting.
Clark sighed, he really hated puff pieces.
Still, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t love the work.
There was something grounding about the life of a journalist: chasing leads, building stories from scraps, piecing together fragments of humanity until they formed something whole. For all his power, the Planet reminded him he wasn’t untouchable. That he was still, in most ways, part of the same world he was trying to protect. The smell of ink, the buzz of conversation, Perry’s shouting from across the bullpen—it was all so loudly alive. It’s hard to feel like a god among men while getting chewed out in front of your coworkers.
Superman didn’t need to write about people to understand them. But Clark Kent did.
Sure, “Clark Kent, reporter”, was still just another mask at its core. That man was something of a clumsy giant, always dropping pens and spilling coffee. Always late, too (crime fighting? Maybe). But, due to his gentle, Midwestern demeanor, usually no one would hold him to it for long. Clark Kent, the simple man from Kansas, probably just slept through his alarm.
The perfect cover, and a mask that was a little easier to maintain than the persistent hope of Superman, as well.
He smiled faintly at the thought, spinning the pen he’d bought between his fingers as he walked.
And then, of course, there was Lois. Another bonus of working at the Planet.
Sharp-tongued, relentless, brilliant Lois Lane. She challenged him more than anyone he’d ever met, never pulling her punches, never letting him off easy. Somewhere between the long nights at the newsroom and the countless cups of burnt coffee, his admiration for her had softened into something warmer.
He wasn’t naïve. He knew the difference between friendship and the gentle, clumsy ache of wanting something more. And he was almost certain she felt it too.
Almost.
Clark adjusted his tie as he approached the restaurant, a small smile tugging at his lips. Maybe when he got back to Metropolis, he’d finally ask if she wanted to grab dinner somewhere without a story attached.
Maybe.
he grand opening went about as well as he’d expected. A handful of local reporters jostling for quotes, flashbulbs going off every few seconds, champagne glasses clinking beneath the buzz of polite applause. The mayor cut the ribbon, the owner gave a speech about “community,” and Clark spent the next two hours jotting down notes and pretending not to notice the cold sesame noodles slowly congealing in their bowls.
By the time he stepped out into the Gotham night, the sky had gone from gray to black, and the air carried that damp, metallic chill that never quite left the city. The streets were slick from an earlier drizzle, neon reflections bleeding into puddles.
He adjusted his glasses and started toward the subway station.
The last train back to Metropolis left in fifteen minutes, and he had every intention of catching it. He really didn’t want to fly tonight—too obvious, too cold, too… lazy. He could do normal. Normal was good.
The footsteps came from behind him before he even heard the muttered voices. Three of them, by the weight and gait. Young, probably mid-twenties, hearts hammering faster the closer they got.
“Hey, pal,” one called out, tone low and unfriendly. “You got a wallet on you?”
Clark turned slowly, putting on his best wide-eyed, oh goodness me expression. “Uh—yeah, sure, just—hold on.” He reached for his coat pocket, careful to stumble a bit over the uneven sidewalk. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Good,” another said, stepping closer. “Then hand it over.”
He sighed inwardly. Of course. Gotham.
For a brief second, he considered letting them take it. It wasn’t like he couldn’t replace a few dollars and an old press pass. But then one of them reached for his arm, and he realized he’d have to sell this a little harder.
He opened his mouth, ready to babble something suitably nervous, when the air shifted.
It was subtle—pressure changing, sound bending around an arrival too precise to register on most human ears. The thugs didn’t notice until a shape dropped between them, black against black, cape cutting through the mist. Batman.
The first man didn’t even have time to curse before he hit the ground.
Clark blinked, stepping back just enough to keep up appearances while the second and third were dispatched with grim efficiency. The entire scuffle took less than ten seconds. When it was over, three unconscious men lay sprawled across the pavement. It was strange, watching the vigilante work from a civilian perspective. Was this what the caped crusader looked like to the rest of the world?
Batman straightened, silent and immovable, the city’s glow catching in the edge of his cowl.
His suit was a marvel of innovation. Clark did his best not to peak under the mask as he surveyed the precise wirings running up and down kevlar-plated armor.
Clark swallowed, taking care to exhale shakily. What would a human do right now?
“Uh—thanks for the assist. I, uh… got worried there for a sec.”
No answer. Not a sound. But Clark could hear the judgement—the slight quickening of Batman’s pulse, the measured intake of breath that betrayed thought. The man was studying him. Weighing him.
So Clark did what any good reporter would do. He adjusted his glasses and awkwardly extended a hand. “Clark Kent. Daily Planet.” Just the name of the paper should be enough to scare off anyone fearing publicity. And if Clark could guess anything, it was that Batman didn’t want publicity. Not in Gotham, at least.
Batman didn’t take the offered hand. He only lingered a second longer, and Clark could almost feel the suspicion like static in the air before the grapnel line fired. A moment later, the rooftops swallowed him whole.
Clark exhaled, looking down at the unconscious men, then back up at the empty skyline.
“Well,” he muttered, glancing at his watch. “Dang nabbit.”
He’d missed his train.
March
The Watchtower was quiet when Clark arrived—too quiet, if he were being honest. The hum of the orbital systems filled the silence like a held breath. From the observation deck, the Earth was a wash of deep blue and cloud-white beneath him.
He loved that view. It reminded him what all of this was for.
Then he heard the familiar shuffle of capes and boots echoing down the corridor and braced himself.
“Morning, Boy Scout,” Hal greeted first, floating backwards through the door with his usual smirk. “Back from saving kittens out of trees?”
“Not quite,” Clark replied mildly. “Traffic.”
Barry laughed as he zipped in behind Hal. “You get stuck in traffic? You can fly.” Clark smiled, letting a bit of that ‘Superman goodness’ take his posture.
“Everyone should follow traffic laws.”
“Spoken like a true square,” Hal muttered, earning a punch on the shoulder from Diana, who was already seated at the conference table, perfectly poised.
And then came him.
Batman entered without a word, the lights dimming slightly as if the room itself had learned to lower its volume when he was present. He placed a stack of tablets on the table, gloved hands moving with precise efficiency.
“Reports,” he said shortly. “Last week’s mission logs. Flash, your timestamps are inconsistent.”
Barry blinked. “They’re in order—”
“They jump from twenty-one-hundred hours to twenty-one-forty-seven with no record of what happened in between,” Batman interrupted. “Either fill the gap or remove the entry.”
Barry slumped. “You could’ve just said that.”
“I did.”
Clark could feel the temperature of the room drop by a few degrees. Oliver Queen leaned slightly toward him, voice pitched low. “He’s in a mood today.” Clark did not respond.
“He’s always in a mood,” Hal whispered.
Finally, those sharp eyes turned toward Clark. “Superman.”
Clark straightened instinctively. “Yes?”
“You described the metahuman containment as ‘secure’ in your written report.” Batman’s tone was clinically even. “Define secure.”
Clark blinked. “Containment seals were reinforced. J’onn confirmed psychic suppression was stable, and the cell—”
“The cell had structural stress along its north support beam,” Batman cut in. “You didn’t note that.”
Clark paused. “It didn’t pose a threat to the integrity of the chamber.”
“That’s not your call to make.”
The words landed sharper than they should have. Clark could hear the faint quickening of Hal’s pulse, the silent tension in Diana’s shoulders. He resisted the urge to sigh.
“I’ll amend the report,” he said finally, voice calm.
Batman gave a curt nod and turned his attention back to the table. “Good. Moving on.”
Clark sat back slightly, trying to keep the smile on his face steady. He’d been doing this long enough to know how to take criticism, but with Batman, it wasn’t the words that got to him—it was the way they were delivered. Precise. Icy. As if he were dissecting Clark’s every action for weakness.
The rest of the meeting went about as expected. Updates, logistics, the next set of assignments. Batman ran it like a general commanding a field unit—efficient, bordering on ruthless. When he asked for volunteers for monitor duty rotation, Hal groaned audibly.
“Come on, Bats, I did it last week.”
“You were two hours late.”
“I was saving a planet!”
“You were on vacation in Oa.”
“Same thing.”
“Not remotely.”
Clark cleared his throat. “I don’t mind taking Hal’s spot for monitor duty. Wasn’t planning on anything else tonight anyways.” This was inherently untrue, since Clark was planning on calling his mother and watching a few episodes of Golden Girls over takeout, but no one else had to know that. Especially Batman.
Clark suppressed a smile at the thought of the cold, serious figure hunched over lo mein and watching bad TV.
“Noted,” Batman said, shattering the ridiculous image, “Since no one else volunteered, you and I will take tonight’s shift.” With that, he continued.
Clark kept quiet, taking extreme care not to let his annoyance show on his face. Monitor duty with Batman was fine. He didn’t mind. Not at all.
It was just a few hours of stony silence and the occasional tropical storm that usually died out before reaching land.
Batman was speaking, giving a rundown of some programs being implemented in the new space headquarters and possible off-world missions. Clark really did his best to pay attention, but soon enough his mind wandered. When the meeting was finally adjourned, he was listening to heartbeats—some powerful, some quick, and some dreadfully steady—and wondering, not for the first time, if Batman could somehow tell when he was doing it.
Or maybe the glare was simply a permanent fixture.
When the meeting finally wrapped up, Diana lingered to discuss strategy, Hal stomped away muttering about “space paperwork,” and Barry zipped off to grab food for everyone. Clark was almost out the door, mind still wandering, when the low rumble of Batman’s voice stopped him.
“Monitor duty, Superman. Did you forget?” His voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument.
Clark blinked, caught halfway through the exit. “Right,” he said quickly, turning back. “Didn’t realize I was still on rotation.”
Batman’s gaze lifted just then, one sharp, assessing glance that felt like it cut through the layers of Clark’s composure. “Try to stay focused this time–higher stakes than a simple league meeting.”
Clark smiled thinly. “Was I not?”
“You were listening,” Batman said, “just not to me.”
That stopped him for a second. He hadn’t realized it was so obvious—or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Batman just guessed. World’s greatest detective and all that.
“I pay attention,” Clark said finally, his tone gentler than he felt.
“Good,” Batman said shortly, returning his attention to the data feed. “Then you won’t miss the next report deadline.”
There wasn’t anything left to say after that. Clark inclined his head slightly and turned on his heel, cape brushing the doorway as he left.
The hum of the Watchtower followed him down the corridor. Out the viewport, Earth hung against the dark like a lantern—so blue it almost hurt to look at. He could hear its heart from here: billions of pulses, breaths, voices layered over one another. It should’ve been grounding. It usually was.
But Batman’s words still lingered, sharp as the echo of a reprimand.
Maybe he was right. Maybe he had been drifting lately. Between the missions, the League, the Planet, and the constant noise of the world, it was getting harder to stay still—to stay one.
He took a breath, steadying himself, and stepped into the monitor room. The screens came alive before him, glowing soft and cold, a perfect map of the world below.
“Alright,” he murmured under his breath, settling into the chair. “Let’s see who needs saving tonight.”
Batman grunted in response, sitting down in the adjacent chair in what would probably be his stance for the next six hours. The man had an uncanny skill for stillness. Sometimes, even with all his super senses, Clark almost forgot the other man was there after a long enough period of silence.
He was, by far, the strangest person Clark knew. And that he was: a person. Clark had personally verified it, over and over. He knew the creak of Batman’s bones (human) and the sounds he made when taking a hit (human) and the color of his blood as it dripped down his chin after he took one too many punches during battles (so very, very human).
Batman was something Clark could never be, simply because he was never given the choice to be otherwise. Neither of them were.
His thoughts were interrupted nearly an hour later by the subtle shifting across from him.
Batman’s heart beat out of rhythm for just a moment and he swallowed quickly. Like he was preparing to speak.
“Thank you,” He said gruffly, “For taking over for Green Lantern.”
Clark blinked in surprise. Thank… me?
“Uh,” he said, shifting slightly in the chair in a very un-Superman fashion, “it’s… It’s not an issue. Just helping out where I can.”
Batman’s head tilted just a fraction, voice low and clipped. “I would simply hate to do monitor duty with Green Lantern for another week.”
Clark’s lips twitched in a faint, amused smile. Of course that’s it.
He nodded anyway. “Noted.”
Batman didn’t add anything else, settling back in his chair with the same precise stillness as before. Clark exhaled quietly, listening to the steady pulse of the monitors and the faint rhythm of a heartbeat across the table.
Even a single word from him—gruff, minimal, fleeting—carried more weight than most compliments Clark had ever received.
And that was enough. The night would pass regardless.
If Clark noticed, after their week of late-night monitor duty was over, that the schedule was changed so he and Batman had shifts together three times a week for the foreseeable future, he didn’t say anything.
Simply because he’d hate to do monitor duty with Green lantern, of course.
May
Clark and Lois’s nineteenth date had gone exceptionally well, or at least so he’d thought.
He didn’t mean to track the number, per se, but somewhere along the way his eidetic memory and seemingly limitless sentimentality had created a sort of tracker in his head.
Nineteen was a lot. Much more than he’d ever had with anyone else to be sure. Not that he had much to go off of, considering his experience in… dating was limited to Lana Lang from high school and a few first date ghostings from the past couple months.
But he and Lois? They weren’t like anything he’d ever known before.
Tonight, the apartment smelled faintly of roasted garlic and tomato—his attempt at pasta, which Lois had kindly declared “charming” instead of “under-seasoned.” She was sitting cross-legged on his couch now, glass of red wine in hand, hair falling loose from the bun she’d worn all day at the Planet.
Clark watched her laugh at something on the TV, the sound bright and familiar, and tried not to think about how still the air felt between them when neither of them spoke.
It wasn’t that things were bad. They weren’t. If anything, they were exactly how they were supposed to be. He respected her, admired her more than anyone else he knew. She was sharp where he was soft, fearless where he hesitated.
And yet—
He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was something he was missing.
She glanced over at him then, catching him mid-thought. “You’re staring again, Smallville.”
He smiled, sheepish, setting down his fork. “Guess I am.”
Lois rolled her eyes, grinning as she leaned back into the couch. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you do it.”
Clark chuckled, trying to memorize the sound, the curve of her smile, the way the city lights outside caught in the reflection of her glass.
If there was a crack somewhere in the foundation, he didn’t want to see it.
Not tonight.
Dinner went long. Lois left just before midnight, laughing as she tugged her coat on and teasing him about his “boy scout manners” when he insisted on walking her to her car. He watched her drive off, heart light, convinced that this—this quiet, ordinary happiness—was something he could hold onto.
For a while, it almost felt like he did.
The following weeks fell into a rhythm Clark had never realized he wanted. Days at the Planet blurred together in a hum of ink and paper, stories edited side by side, coffee runs shared between deadlines. Lois sparred with Perry, charmed sources, and occasionally used Clark as her sounding board when things got too heated. After hours, they’d grab takeout or wander the streets of Metropolis, shoulders brushing as they traded gossip about colleagues or theories about the latest headline.
It was… good. Simple. Almost enough to make him forget that half of his life happened behind the clouds.
But the illusion was fragile. Too many times, Clark had to disappear—an “interview” cut short because a monorail had derailed outside Keystone, a “lead” he had to chase down while a wildfire raged through the Rockies, a “source” who called at odd hours that just happened to coincide with an earthquake across the Pacific. Lois never made a scene about it, but he could feel her noticing. Every time he came back, smelling faintly of smoke or rain or ocean salt, her smile was just a little tighter. Her questions came a little slower.
It had been easier to hide before. To laugh it off, to charm his way through her suspicion, to be the mild-mannered reporter who just happened to have terrible timing. But lately, he could feel her eyes on him in a different way; measuring, searching. Sometimes Lois looked at him less like a coworker or a boyfriend and more like a subject. A lead.
And maybe that was what scared him most. Because if anyone could find the cracks in his disguise, it would be her.He told himself she trusted him. He told himself he wasn’t lying, not really. There were just certain things that “Clark Kent, mild mannered reporter” couldn’t share.
And for a time, he almost believed it.
It only came crashing down in front of them sometime after the twenty sixth date. The numbers were blurring together–most of their meetings ended early or in skeptical silence.
A couple weeks later, in Lois’s apartment, the evening light slanted through the blinds, striping the room gold. Lois was at her kitchen counter, barefoot, hair falling loose from its clip as she balanced a mug of coffee in one hand and her tablet in the other. She looked relaxed, domestic in a way Clark didn’t get to see often. Until she spoke.
“You missed the mayor’s press briefing today.” Her tone was casual, but the glance she gave him wasn’t.
Her tone was even, almost conversational, but Clark could hear the pulse behind it—steady, then quick, like a drumbeat just out of rhythm. He froze halfway across the room.
“I—uh, yeah,” he started carefully, loosening his tie as if that might buy him time. “Something came up.”
“Something always comes up, Clark.” Lois set her mug down a little too hard. Coffee sloshed over the rim. “You’re gone half the time, and when you’re here, you look like your head’s somewhere else. I’ve dated reporters before, you know. None of them had sources that called at every odd hour of the night.”
He tried to smile, tried to make it sound light. “Well, maybe they just weren’t dedicated enough.”
“Don’t do that,” she said quietly. “Don’t make a joke out of this. I’m serious.”
Clark sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Lois, I’m not hiding anything. You know how this job is; deadlines, travel, unpredictable hours.”
“Cut it out, Kent.” She turned to face him fully now, her eyes sharp in the slanting light. “You’re hiding something. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it. And it’s big.”
The words hit harder than he expected. Clark’s heart stumbled in his chest. For a long moment, he couldn’t speak. He just looked at her: this brilliant, relentless woman who always found the truth, no matter where it was buried.
She deserved an answer.
And for the first time since throwing himself into Lois Lane, Clark thought about what it might mean to tell her everything.
To let her see both halves of him—not the clumsy, stammering reporter or the calm, untouchable hero, but the whole truth of the man caught somewhere in between.
He could almost see it: years spent side by side, as he chased stories by day and stopped disasters by night. Lois standing beside him not just as a partner at the Planet, but as someone who truly knew him. The weight of it, the relief of it, was enough to make his breath hitch.
He opened his mouth, ready to bare himself in front of someone he trusted. But then he shut it again, the words dying in his throat.
The thought shifted, subtle but certain.
Because the truth wasn’t just about trust—it was about exposure. Once spoken, it could never be taken back. If Lois knew, she would never look at him the same way again. Every glance, every touch would be through the lens of Superman. Not Clark. Not the man she’d come to love in this small, human life he’d tried so hard to build.
He couldn’t do that to her. God, he couldn’t do that to himself. Selfishness was never a good look on anybody, but Clark was sure it was going to eat him alive.
And yet.
“Lois,” he said softly, “I swear there’s nothing you need to worry about. I’m just juggling more than I probably should.”
For a long time, she didn’t speak. The silence stretched, filled only by the low hum of the city outside and the faint ticking of her kitchen clock. Then Lois nodded, slowly, like she’d been expecting that answer all along.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice steady in a way that made his stomach twist. “That’s what I thought.”
He blinked. “Lois—”
She shook her head, setting her mug aside. “No, Clark. Don’t. You’re a good man, and I care about you. But I can’t keep doing this. You keep disappearing, you dodge questions, you look at me like you want to say something but never do. Whatever you’re hiding—it’s bigger than us, and I don’t think you’re ever going to tell me.”
Her eyes were kind, but tired. It wasn’t anger, just the quiet acceptance of someone who’d already made up her mind.
Clark swallowed hard. The words caught in his throat, everything he wanted to say but couldn’t. She was right, and that was what made it hurt most.
He nodded once. “You deserve better,” he said quietly.
Lois looked down at her hands, then back up at him. “I wouldn’t ask you to change whatever it is about yourself you work so hard to hide. Not for me.”
With that, a strange sort of peace settled over the two of them. Lois gave a small, sad smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes but carried depths of unspoken understanding. “Goodbye, Clark,” she whispered. “I’m still your friend, always will be. For now, though, I think we could both use some time.”
He nodded again, not trusting his voice. Turning, he stepped toward the door, the quiet of her apartment stretching behind him. Neither of them made a sound as he left, as if the calm between them had always been inevitable, like the rhythm of the city itself.
Outside, the night was cool, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the faint flicker of streetlights. Clark pulled his coat tighter around him and walked, letting the familiar weight of the city’s pulse fill the space Lois had left behind.
All Clark wanted to do was head back to his apartment and throw himself into something, anything. Work, books, movies–he really didn’t care. Maybe eat some ice cream and have a good cry. Who knows what he would’ve done if he wasn’t gosh darn Superman.
And Superman was needed at the Watchtower for monitor duty.
He sighed solemnly, turning the corner towards his apartment complex to change and fly back up to the familiar station orbiting the Earth.
At the very least, he knew Batman wouldn’t expect him to hold much conversation tonight.