Chapter Text
Batman was waiting for him, ghost-like and solemn at the docks. Clark touched down gently, but he knew the Bat had heard him. He always did. Sometimes it was impossible to believe that man didn’t have superpowers.
“What is Project CADMUS?” Batman asked, without looking at him. His voice was flat, but confrontational, and Clark winced.
“A research facility owned by Lex Luthor. Specialising in clones.” Clark said, “But you already knew that.”
Batman finally met his eyes. “I did.” He said. “Only because Tim risked his own safety and put our identities in jeopardy in the name of gathering information. Superman, if we’re going to work together, I expect that you’re honest with me. That includes lies of omission.”
“Maybe your paranoia was rubbing off on me.” Clark retorted. Batman conceded that with a tilt of his head, and something that might have, in the right light, looked like a slight smile.
“But you understand the threat that a facility like CADMUS poses.” He said. Clark frowned.
“Obviously. That’s why I destroyed it, and took K—the clone—away from Luthor.”
“You destroyed it?”
“Razed it to the ground. I’m not as stupid as you seem to think I am, Batman. It would have been impossibly dangerous to allow Luthor to keep—”
“And yet, according to the data we’ve pulled from Luthor’s network, CADMUS continues to function.”
Clark froze. “What?”
“So you didn’t know.” Batman’s voice was grim. “That’s both reassuring and disturbing.”
“Do you have a location?”
“First—”
“I need a location, Batman, now—”
“Slow down, Superman.” Batman’s voice was raised, but softer than he was used to. “You said yourself that Luthor is expecting you. Rushing into a conflict unprepared is what gets vigilantes killed. Even the ones that think they’re invincible. Trust me on that.”
There was something about the tone of his voice, unyielding, with an edge of pain, that cleared the panic from Clark’s mind. Instead, something in his chest twisted. “Where’s Robin, Batman?” He hadn’t seen the kid – and which kid was it these days? The surly, violent one? – for a worryingly long time.
Batman’s face darkened. “That does not, and never has, concerned you.”
“Is he injured? Dead?” Clark said. He was pushing, and he knew he was pushing. He should stop. He shouldn’t start a fight. “How many child soldiers are too many? And now – with Tim – you’re getting children involved outside of the capes as well?”
“Do not talk to me about my children,” Batman seethed. “Do not.”
Clark’s lip twisted. “How do you live with yourself?”
He deserved the punch. It was a shock, though, that it rocked his head sideways. Pain rocketed through his jaw. And when he raised his hand to his face, his finger came back streaked with blood. Batman shook out his fist, and Clark noticed the green ring on his gauntlet. He rubbed at the wound, stunned.
“We had an understanding.” Batman said. “You violated that agreement to ask for my aid. You are in no position to be criticising me.”
“I don’t like you, Batman.” Clark said, carefully. “I never have. But I do need your help, and while I do, I won’t fight you on the way you do things. I just need to know that Robin is alive, at least.”
“He’s got moderate burns on his legs, but he’s healing smoothly.” Batman was rigid. His expression was cold, aloof. “He’ll be back in the field by the end of the month.”
Clark didn’t push it. There were so many things he wanted to say – to spit – at Batman’s face, but he held his tongue. He thought about Bruce Wayne’s honest concern for his children, how his priority was keeping his sons and daughter safe. A contrast to the callous asshole stood before him. But… but Batman had his morals, and he was helping Clark despite their tensions purely because there was a kid in danger, and something about that eased Clark’s resentment. Because, at the end of the day, Clark still believed that Batman was a good man.
If he didn’t, he would have put him away many years ago.
“We need to take down CADMUS,” Clark said. “For good, this time.”
“I have a few ideas.”
-
The gala was in full swing, but Clark had found himself tucked away in a quiet corner. It would have been peaceful, if not for the two sets of eyes that were glued on him.
They weren’t even trying to be subtle. Two of Bruce’s kids, Dick Grayson and Cassandra Wayne, had sat themselves at a table nearby. Both were watching Clark with an intensity that was starting to make him nervous. Seeing him notice them, Dick waved brightly.
Clark pulled out his phone. This had been Batman’s plan, and he hated it, but maybe there would be a saving grace in the form of a handsome billionaire.
Are you at the gala?
There was no response for a moment, and Clark was beginning to give up hope of being swept off of his feet by Bruce Wayne. He was here for the mission, anyway, and he shouldn’t let himself be… distracted. His phone buzzed.
Luthor has been talking my ear off about superyachts for fifteen minutes. Requesting extraction. -B
I’m not above begging. -B
Clark huffed a laugh. He decided it was probably a good idea to leave his hiding place and actually try and get the intel he’d come for.
Dick and Cassandra cornered him immediately. “You’re Clark Kent, right?” Dick asked, beaming.
“That’s me.”
“You’re not as tall as I thought you would be.” Cassandra said, eyes narrowing slightly. Clark frowned. Last time he’d checked, he was 6’3”.
“Yeah, he’s kinda dorky.” Dick added. Clark was beginning to feel a little insulted.
“Is there something I can do for you?” He asked, carefully. Dick met Cassandra’s eyes, and they both turned to him with concerning synchronicity.
“We’re big fans.” Dick said, holding out a hand for Clark to shake. His grip was worryingly strong. “If you’re looking for Bruce, I saw him over by the champagne table a few minutes ago. I think Lex had him cornered. He’s been watching the crowd all evening, looking for you.”
And then they were gone. Clark blinked. He hadn’t even noticed them disappear, but they were just… not there anymore. His phone buzzed.
Luthor mentioned a ‘project’ off the East Coast. That mean anything to you? -B
Probably the not-so-secret base he’s got set up on an abandoned Atlantic oil rig. The Planet exposed that one a year or so ago, it’s been inactive since then
Why did Bruce care? He did know that Clark was an investigative reporter, though – maybe he thought Clark would be interested. And it was in Wayne Enterprises’ best interest to distrust Luthor at all times.
You know for certain that it’s currently inactive? -B
Clark glanced around. He’d migrated across the room somewhat, and there were currently no eyes on him. He took a deep breath, preparing for the onslaught, and slowly began to focus his hearing.
Through Gotham (car horns, conversations, shattering glass, a gunshot), across New Jersey (electrical humming, a concert crowd, the beeping of a cash machine, a thousand private moments), and out, out across the ocean. To the faint metallic creaking of the oil-rig that he’d destroyed single-handedly some time ago. Luthor had been using it for some gruesome experiment that Clark had rather efficiently put a stop to. He expected silence – nothing more than the splashing of the ocean and the settling of the metal structure. Instead, there was noise: footsteps, the press of fingers on a keyboard, someone singing in the shower.
It was active.
I’m not certain of anything.
In fact, I have a hunch that this ‘project’ is bad news.
I thought the same. -B
Luthor rarely deserves the benefit of the doubt. -B
For Brucie Wayne, that was outright jaded. Clark tucked his phone away, and tried a little harder to identify the billionaire amongst the crowd. Seeing the broad shoulders and tousled black hair, Clark maneuvered his way through throngs of people and settled beside Bruce.
Bruce, who turned to smile brightly at him. Clark melted a little under the glare of that giga-watt smile. “Clark!” He said, and Clark clocked the tension in his face at the same time as he clocked Lex Luthor stood before them, looking as he always did – a smug asshole. “I wasn’t expecting to see you!”
“I’m here with the Planet.” He fished a notebook from his pocket. “Ms Grant is on vacation.”
“I see.” Bruce said. “Lex, have you met Clark Kent?”
Luthor raised an eyebrow. “I’ve had the pleasure.” He said coldly, likely remembering Clark’s article – LEXCORP CORRUPTION SCANDAL SHOCKS CITY – and the multiple weeks he’d spent as an unflattering front-page story. Clark smiled tightly.
“I apologise for the interruption, but I was hoping to talk to Mr. Wayne.” He held up the notebook. “Can’t disappoint Cat, I promised her an exclusive.”
Luthor bared his teeth. “By all means, reporter. We’ll talk later, Mr Wayne.” And then he was striking up a conversation with the nearest interested faces.
Clark and Bruce ducked away, finding themselves in a moderately empty hallway. The noise of the party was dim, here, a faint bass vibrating under their feet. “An extraction, as promised.” Clark grinned. Bruce blinked, his expression spasming, but then his face smoothed into a passive smile. His eyes had gained an intensity, though.
“And I’m unfathomably grateful.” He said, smoothing his tie. “That man is odious.”
“Big word.”
“Alfred is rubbing off on me.” Bruce shrugged. “It’s good to see you, Mr Kent. It’s been, what, a month?”
“Something like that.” Clark realised he’d been grinning, a little giddy, and tampered his expression. “Your son sent me over.”
Something changed in Bruce’s expression. Clark could almost call it disappointment. It passed quickly, though. “Dick?” Bruce surmised. Clark nodded. “The others detest these events. I imagine Jason and Tim have snuck off to get into a fist-fight somewhere they won’t get in trouble for fighting. They’ve been insufferable all week. I’m this close to just bashing their heads together.” And Bruce looked every bit the tired father, his playboy persona easing away.
“They seemed like good kids to me.” Clark said. “But I don’t have much experience. I’ve only got the one, and he fights me on everything.”
Bruce raised his champagne glass. “To difficult children.” He toasted. “We can’t help but love them, even while they’re turning us grey.” And he downed his drink in a single swallow. It was… attractive.
“Bruce, I wanted to say—”
Bruce’s phone began to vibrate. He winced, pulling it a little frantically from his pocket. “I’m sorry, it’s Damian, I have to take this.” And he turned away, slightly. “Damian?”
“We require assistance.” Clark shouldn’t be listening in. He didn’t stop, though. “I think Todd is genuinely attempting to smother Drake to death.”
Bruce pinched his brow. “Is Dick there?”
“Yes. He is not strong enough to pry them apart.”
“Well, are you helping him?”
“No. It is entertaining to watch.” There was a distant thud, and a battle-cry. “Drake has acquired a folding chair.”
“I’m on my way. Don’t let them kill each other. I mean it, Damian.” Bruce ended the call, buried his face in his hands for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Clark.”
“No, I get it.” Clark said. “I think.”
Bruce laughed. It was gruff and deep, and it sent a thrill through Clark’s whole body. “You definitely don’t. They’ve been at war for a week – Tim stole, and then crashed, Jason’s bike. Jason retaliated, and so forth. I’m amazed there’s been no blood yet.”
“Huh.”
“I would say Tim deserves a little shake-up for that one, but ever since Jason… went missing, he’s been prone to escalating things.” Bruce shrugged. “The best I can do is keep them apart until they cool off. Which they will, when they remember that they’re brothers and that they actually like one another.”
Bruce’s phone began to vibrate again.
“I get it.” Clark said. “Please, go sort out your kids before they do some damage.”
And Bruce raced off down the hall, leaving Clark slightly shell-shocked and alone. Again.
He didn’t stick around much longer, after that. Batman was somewhere around, amongst the throngs of people. Let him get the intel – Clark couldn’t stand another minute of small-talk with rich snobs. And if he had to talk to Luthor again he would probably do something stupid, like freeze him to death. He was sure the Atlantic oil-rig was a lead, though. Hopefully Batman would be satisfied with that.
He flew back to Metropolis without bothering to change. Part of him – the part that saw Bruce and his sons and thought he could learn something from them – was looking forward to seeing Kon. The other part was dreading another confrontation.
But he needn’t have worried, because the apartment was empty. There was no sign that Kon had been there recently. He settled onto the couch with a sigh. Maybe he’d gone back to Smallville. It would be for the best.
Productive evening? -B
not like I’d hoped.
Me neither. -B
--
Connor had been waiting at the stupid bus stop for almost an hour, and the bus still hadn’t arrived. He was barely sheltered from the torrential rain. He checked his phone, again. Two missed calls from Clark – fuck that – and a text from Lois. He ignored them both.
Gotham was grimy. It was the only word he could think of to describe it. The water that ran down the pavement was grey-brown with muck, and on the floor by his feet was a used needle. He kicked at it, disgusted. Everything was illuminated by the pink-and-green lights of the Amusement Mile ferris wheel, adding an eerie discomfort to the already seedy street.
There was a teenager sat at the far end of the bus-stop bench from Connor, in a fancy suit that had probably looked smart before he’d been dragged through a bush backwards and then soaked through by the rain. He clutched a black umbrella between his knees, and was frowning at his phone. His fringe covered his eyes. It seemed impractical.
From somewhere nearby, several gunshots went off. Connor flinched, but the teenager didn’t react. Connor wished, somewhat violently, for the miraculous return of his powers. He wasn’t used to having to worry about what would happen if someone shot at him. Usually, it would just… bounce off.
Not to mention that his powers meant he’d never had to take the fucking bus.
“You’re not from around here?” The teenager was looking at him, now, from under that long black fringe. Connor shrugged.
“Metropolis. My d — uh — my DNA donor and I argued. I needed to get away, and Gotham seemed like the place to go.” Wow, when he said it out loud, it sounded incredibly stupid. But the teenager smiled, and wow – he had a pretty smile.
“I get it. Parents suck.” He said. Then his smile dimmed. “Trust me, I’ve had a few of them, and they’ve all been bad. Some – some worse than others.”
“Tell me about it.” Connor muttered.
“Gotham seems an extreme choice, though. Even for a runaway.” The teenager offered. “I’ve never known anyone to come here willingly.”
“It sounds stupid, but I wanted to see the Batman.” Clark had told him that Batman agreed to help. Connor had hoped that he could cut out the middle man and just talk to the Bat himself. That he could fix his issue without having to rely on Clark’s help. But it sounded so dumb to say out loud, and he felt his cheeks heat. The teenager’s face brightened, though.
“Awesome!” He said. “I used to be obsessed with the Batman. It sounds a little lame now, huh. Wait, let me—” And he produced a wallet from his jacket pocket. “Look!”
It was a blurry photograph, worn and peeling at the corners, of two smudges: one black and pointy-eared, the other yellow and red, mid-flip. “I took this when I was a kid!”
“That’s impressive.” Connor admitted. “Cla – uh, the man that’s supposed to take care of me, hates Gotham. I figured I’d be able to hide from him here.”
“You had a really bad argument, huh?”
“He doesn’t want me.” Connor said, a little weakly. “And he’s not afraid to show it.”
“Two of my brothers have tried to kill me.” The teenager blurted. Connor whipped his head around to stare at him. “Our dad didn’t really, um, know how to handle it.”
“They tried to kill you?” Connor repeated. The teenager shrugged. Connor noticed, for the first time, the purpling bruise that marred one pale cheek.
“We mostly get along now. It just took some time.” He said. “And dad – he’s not the most emotionally literate person. He gets things wrong. A lot.”
Connor held out a hand. “I’m Connor.”
“Tim.” And the teenager grasped his hand. For someone as short and… gangly, as Tim was, his grip was strong. But maybe that was just Connor trying to adjust to the lack of super-strength. Still, the palm in his was warm, and when he met Tim’s eyes he thought, wow, this guy is perfect.
Tim checked his watch. “I don’t think this bus is coming.” He said. “I know a good pierogi stand not far from here. It should still be open. Do you… want to go get some food?”
“Sure.”
And as they stepped from the bus-stop and into the rain, Tim pulled Connor in until they were both huddled, a little damp but surprisingly warm, under the shelter of his black umbrella.