Chapter Text
Smallville, Kansas, Unknown Day
Bruce stirred, the world around him slow to come into focus, as if reality itself had been softened at the edges, dulled by heat and silence. The first thing he registered was the sun — not the gentle kind that filtered through Gotham’s smog, but a brutal, unrelenting blaze that poured down from a cloudless sky, searing into his skin and burning against his closed eyelids like a spotlight he hadn’t asked for. The air was dry, thick with warmth that clung to his clothes and settled into his lungs, and it carried the scent of sunbaked earth, distant hay, and something faintly sweet — like corn.
He was lying on gravel, the kind that bit into his back with every shift, and when he opened his eyes, blinking against the glare, he saw the endless stretch of road beside him — cracked asphalt winding through golden fields that swayed lazily in the breeze.
Bruce was definitely not in Gotham, that was very clear from the moment he opened his eyes and saw the clear blue sky, in fact he was far from home. The last thing Bruce remembered was the electric shock that tore through his body like a lightning strike followed by the sensation of being pulled, no — hurled — through something vast and unknowable, a tunnel of fractured light and sound where gravity had no meaning and time refused to hold still. .
He remembered gasping, sucking in air with desperate urgency, each inhale a battle against the pressure that crushed his chest like a vice, and the pain — sharp, familiar, unwelcome — radiating from his ribs, the ones that had been cracked just days ago, the ones that made every breath feel like punishment. His chest plate had pressed against him, unforgiving and heavy, but—
Wait.
Hold on a damn minute.
Bruce jerked upright so quickly, like he had the previous night except no sharp pain stabbed through his torso, almost as if his ribs were never crushed in the first place. He looked down at his arms, his legs, his torso — no armour. No suit. No Kevlar. Just a crisp linen light blue shirt, not buttoned up to the top, leaving a few to expose his collarbone and beige slacks. He blinked, once, twice, trying to recalibrate, trying to make sense of the absence of weight, the absence of pain, it felt strange and unnerving.
Bruce hated this, he hated not knowing where he was, he hated how he wasn’t in control and how he wasn’t prepared, it made him feel worthless, who he if he’s not The Bat. Looking down at his legs and examining his body he noticed he was a lot leaner, less muscular, more lanky, his arms and legs looked as if they belonged to a 16 year old boy.
Bruce drew his knees to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, the fabric of unfamiliar clothes brushing against his skin as he squinted up at the sky — a vast, unbroken stretch of yellow-white sun that poured down with merciless heat, searing his vision and forcing him to raise a hand in defense, though the light still bled through his fingers. The road beside him stretched endlessly into the horizon, a ribbon of cracked asphalt shimmering in the distance, wavering like a mirage, as if daring him to chase something he couldn’t name. Sighing heavily and resigning, Bruce laid back onto the fresh, long green grass and he closed his eyes, praying it's just some sort of horribly realistic dream, and that when he awoke he’d be laying next to his loving husband who held him like he was everything, his loving husband who he should’ve listened to. Bruce would rather face Bane with no gadgets, just purely hand to hand combat than admit that Clark was right, how he should’ve just let Clark take care of him and truly rest.
A few moments later a red pick up truck seemed to make its way down the road, Bruce thought he was hallucinating — which he probably could be by how dehydrated he was. The truck seemed to close in the distance, that's when Bruce realised that the truck was really coming his way, he jumped to his feet and ran out on the road, waving his arms like a lunatic, desperate for the truck to stop. And so it did.
“Son, are you mad?” the man called out, his voice thick with a Kansas drawl and a hint of irritation. Bruce nearly stumbled toward him, overwhelmed with relief. For a second, he almost hugged the man — because he knew him, only except, the man in front of him looked at Bruce with unfamiliarity, like he didn’t know him.
Jonathan Kent. Bruce was in Smallville.
Bruce’s father in law looked at him like he didn’t even recognise him, as if the past 20-25ish years he’s known Bruce never happened, as if he never even met Bruce. It was like all those good memories they shared and created had been erased, Jonathan was the father Bruce never had growing up and it pained him in the chest to see the man who taught him how to shear a sheep or bail hay, look at him with such a foreign look painted on his face. He looked younger, fewer lines around his eyes, less gray in his hair — but it was still him. Still the man who taught Bruce how to mend a fence and laugh without guilt.
Bruce decided not to say anything to Jonathan about who he is, not now at least, not until he finds out more — so instead, Bruce puts on his Brucie Wayne persona and decides to charm his way through.
“I’m not a threat, I promise — unless you count bad timing and a tendency to faint dramatically in the sun”
“You’re not from around here are ya?” Jonathan chuckled warmly and took in Bruce's polished appearance, his crisp blue shirt, slowly soaking up sweat and his beige slacks that looked like they were worth as much as a new mower.
“No, No I am not sir.”
“Well Christ — you’re a Metropolis folk aren’t ya?” Bruce thought of correcting him but he really couldn’t be bothered, not while he was going to die from dehydration. Never in his life would he have thought this was how he’s going to die, he always thought it’d be in a fight against Apokoliptans or maybe in bed with his family by his side – but this? This was just miserable.
“Yes sir.”
“What’re ya doin out here in Smallville? Oh, wait,” Jonathan pursed as he thought hard about something, “Were you here for that party? the victory party after the Crows won the state championships?”
Bruce thought about it for a second, why would Jonathan assume he would be partying with a bunch of high schoolers over a football game, but he went with it and said,
“Yeah, i uh, had a bit much to drink and i don’t have a phone on me” Jonathan smiled, that warm friendly, trusting smile as he looked at Bruce.
“Oh you kids.” He shook his head fondly, smiling, reminiscing about his own fond memories of being a teen and drinking, he continued, “You look like you could use a drink and get out this heat, I’ll take you back to my place, we’ve got a phone you could use.” Bruce nearly screamed out of delight and was about to go on his knees and thank Jonathan but instead he gave him a polite, grateful smile.
“Thank you sir, that would be really great”
“You are very mature for a teenager, almost like you’re an adult trapped in the body of one” Jonathan laughed heartily as Bruce just looked down.
The two hopped into the red pickup truck and drove down the cracked, hot asphalt road and towards Kent Farm.
“So what's your name son?” There was no point lying to Jonathan, he’d have to tell him the truth and the whole story eventually.
“Bruce.” Jonathan nodded and hummed under his breath along with the radio.
“I’m Jonathan Kent” He said and Bruce nodded as well, the car ride was filled with comfortable silence, even if he didn’t know this jonathan or vice versa, it didn’t feel weird or strange, it was familiar and..nice, Bruce leaned back in seat and allowed himself to relax.
“I don't mean to sound dumb but, what's the date Mr Kent?”
“Had that much to drink huh?” Jonathan chuckled, “its 17th of July, 2002”
Bruce felt his heart skip a beat, “2002?” he echoed,
“Yup” Jonathan said casually as he pulled up the drive way to the Kent Farm.
Bruce had traveled back in time over maybe 25ish years, wayyyy before he and Clark had ever met, back to when they were still in high school and didn’t know each other existed.
Meanwhile in Gotham, Present day
“Oh god i’m so nervous i think i might throw up” Steph paced back and forth as Tim’s finger hovered over the button to call Clark.
“Would you stop that! Seriously! It's not helping the situation!” Jason snapped as he was also in the midst of worrying how things will go down in the next few moments.
“Just press the button Drake! Stop being incompetent for once and do it! You are acting like pressing a button is such an arduous task!” Damian huffed from his spot where he was perched but even he looked slightly uneasy at the thought of how Clark would take the news.
“I-I can’t…Dick you do it” Tim shoved the comms into Dick’s chest — who had been surprisingly quiet considering the whole situation but when Tim saw his face he noticed the worry behind Dick’s eyes and how he was moments away from a melt down.
“I’ll do it.” Cass spoke up and took the comms from Tim’s hands, she pressed the button firmly as she held a straight face, masking the worry and anxiety behind her demeanour.
Within 2 rings clark picked up and spoke into the comms
“Hello?” Clark's tone carried a sense of worry, almost like he knew something bad had happened, it didn’t help Clark's case knowing the bats only rang him when Bruce was injured or one of them was in deep shit, which Bruce couldn’t know about.
“Clark.” Cass kept her voice still and balanced, “We have an issue, regarding Bru-”
Cassandra didn’t even get to finish her sentence — she heard a faint ‘WHOOSH!’ sound from the comms and within a split second, Clark — no Superman — was standing in the middle of the road facing the others, with a look of dread and worry etched into his features.
“WHAT HAPPENED!? WHERE IS HE? GOD I TOLD HIM NOT TO GO OUT! HE NEVER LISTENS!” Clark’s voice cracked under the weight of panic, fury, and something deeper — something raw. But the moment his eyes landed on Tim, on the way his shoulders sagged and his gaze refused to meet Clark’s, the rant died in his throat. He looked around, scanning the room, counting faces. Dick. Jason. Steph. Damian. Zatanna. Tim.
No Bruce.
“Where’s Bruce?” he asked, but the words came out too soft, too fragile, like they might shatter if spoken too loud. His eyes — wide, impossibly blue — flicked from one person to the next, searching for someone to contradict him, someone to laugh and say it was a joke, someone to tell him Bruce was just late, just sulking, just being Bruce.
“No. Nuh Uh. Nope.” He said in a shaky voice, on the edge of tears falling out of his eyes, he refused to believe this and it pained everyone.
“He’s not gone.” He tried convincing himself. Clark choked out, despite the fact that his throat was closing up, despite the fact that the oxygen seemed to refuse entering his lungs, he felt as if there were shards of kryptonite poking at his throat in every angle, not allowing him to speak.
He said it like a prayer. Like a plea. Like if he repeated it enough, the universe would bend to his will.
“He’s not gone,” he said again, but his voice broke halfway through, and suddenly he was clutching his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he could hold himself together by force. His knees buckled slightly, and he leaned against the nearest wall, gasping — not because he needed air, but because his body had forgotten how to breathe without Bruce in the room.
His throat burned. His lungs refused to cooperate. His heart pounded like it was trying to escape.
Tim stepped forward, slow and cautious, like approaching a wounded animal. “Clark, Look at me.”
Damian didn’t speak. He didn’t roll his eyes or offer a sharp remark. He simply stepped down from his perch — slow, deliberate, like each movement carried weight — and walked toward Clark in small, hesitant steps, the kind that betrayed how unsure he was of what to do, but how certain he was that he had to do something.
Clark was bent over, hands braced against the floor, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding himself together. And Damian, without a word, without ceremony, knelt beside him and wrapped his arms around Clark’s shoulders — not stiffly, not awkwardly, but with quiet conviction. He buried his face into Clark’s chest, into the warmth and strength that had always been there, and held on.
Damian Wayne did not hug people. He didn’t seek closeness. He didn’t offer softness.
But at that moment, he did.
“Clark I’m so sorry!” Zatanna’s voice came through as she knelt in front of Clark, taking his hands into hers, “There was this whole situation with Bat-mite where he brought in a Batman from the past, and i had to send him back but Bat-mite intervened with my spell and i zapped the wrong Batman and i sent him back in time and i don’t know where i sent him and i lost him and im so so so so sorry Clark!”
Zatanna’s ramble sounded inaudible to Clark, the man who could hear things from all the way in Metropolis from Gotham, but instead all he heard was the loud thumping of his own heart against his ribcage.
“Lost.” Clark muttered, holding Damian close to him, “Lost in a multiverse…and no one knows where..” He repeated, trying to make sense of it to himself and Dick spoke up,
“Yes, he's out there, in a different timeline and we're not really sure of which one..”
Clark didn’t speak for a long moment. He just sat there, still on his knees, arms wrapped around Damian like he was the last tether to something solid, something real. His eyes were open, but unfocused — not looking at Zatanna, not at Dick, not at anyone. Just staring past them, past the walls, past the moment, as if he could will himself to see through time and space and find Bruce on the other side.
Zatanna’s hands trembled as she clutched her spellbook, her voice quieter now. “I’m already working on a trace. The magic left a signature — faint, scattered, but it’s there. I’ll find him. I swear I will.”
Jason crossed his arms, his voice low and steady. “We’re not giving up. Not on him. Not ever.”
Steph stepped closer, her expression soft but resolute. “We’ve faced worse. We’ve come back from worse. And Bruce? He’s not just surviving wherever he is — he’s fighting his way back.”
Clark finally looked up, eyes rimmed red, voice barely audible, he stood slowly, Damian still close, and looked at Zatanna. “Tell me what you need.”
Zatanna blinked, startled. “What?”
“To find him,” Clark said, voice steadier now. “Tell me what you need. I’ll get it. I’ll do it. Just… tell me.”
Zatanna nodded, swallowing hard. “I’ll need time. Power. Maybe Constantine. Maybe Fate. Maybe something darker. But I’ll find him.”
Clark turned to the rest of them, gaze sweeping across. “Then let’s get to work.”
“Clark, wait,” Dick said, voice low, hesitant. “Before we do anything… there’s someone you need to see.”
He stepped aside, and from the shadows behind him, a figure emerged — slow, deliberate, like he’d been watching the entire time. The other Batman. The one Bat-Mite had pulled from the past. The one meant to go back.
Everyone had forgotten about him — not out of neglect, but because their Bruce was missing, and grief had a way of narrowing focus. But now, as he stepped into the dim glow of the streetlight, the silence shifted.
Clark’s breath caught.
The man looked like Bruce — but not the one he knew. Not the one he loved. This Bruce was younger, sharper around the edges, his gaze colder, posture rigid, like he hadn’t yet learned how to soften. Clark hadn’t seen that look in years — not since before they’d let each other in.
The other Bruce reached up and pulled off his cowl, revealing a face that was achingly familiar and painfully distant. His eyes scanned the group, calculating, assessing, and finally landed on Clark.
“You all seem to know who I am,” he said, voice rough, clipped. “No point keeping this on.”
He held the cowl loosely in one hand, then tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at Clark like he was trying to place him in a memory that hadn’t happened yet.
“Superman,” he said — not as a greeting, but as a quiet confirmation. Like he was saying it to himself.
“You say that like you’re trying to remember if you kissed him or punched him last.” Jason snickered but quickly shut up as his older brother nudged his shoulder and glared at him.
Bruce held the cowl loosely in one hand, then tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at Clark like he was trying to place him in a memory that hadn’t happened yet.
It hit Clark like a memory — sharp, sudden, and achingly tender. That face, that voice, that posture. It brought back a wave of nostalgia so vivid it nearly knocked the air from his lungs. He was looking at a version of Bruce he hadn’t seen in many years — not the man hardened by time and grief and love, but the younger one, the one still learning how to carry the weight of the cowl, still figuring out how to let someone in.
He remembered those early days — when everything between them was tentative and electric, when they circled each other like opposing forces caught in the same orbit. He remembered the way Bruce used to look at him when he thought Clark wasn’t paying attention — those fleeting, stolen glances, sharp and searching, like he was trying to memorize every detail and hated himself for wanting to.
And now, here he was again. That same look. That same guarded curiosity. Like Clark was a puzzle he hadn’t solved yet.
Clark’s throat tightened. He took a step forward, then stopped himself. What was he supposed to say? I know you. I love you. You don’t know it yet, but you love me too. No. That wasn’t fair. Not to this Bruce. Not to the man who hadn’t lived it yet.
So instead, he just stood there, hands curled into fists at his sides, holding back everything he wanted to say.
The younger Bruce tilted his head, studying him. “You’re looking at me like I’m supposed to remember something.”
Clark forced a small smile. “No. Just… reminded me of someone.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”
Clark’s smile faltered. “Exactly like you.”
“Wow. That was romantic. I feel like I should leave and give you two some privacy.” Jason’s inputs to Bruce and Clark's conversation were not amusing anyone. Nobody laughed.
There was a beat of silence between them, heavy with things unsaid. Then Bruce looked away, jaw tightening, and Clark felt the ache settle deeper in his chest.
He wasn’t sure what hurt more — losing the man he loved, or standing in front of a version of him who didn’t love him yet.
As Clark visibly struggles to hold back emotion, Jason speaks up, “Someone hug him before he starts monologuing about stars and soulmates. I’m begging you.”
“I think it's best we all go back to the cave, we need to have a long long long conversation about everything” Dick says putting on his mask already and getting ready to go back to the cave.
“Wait- i know who Superman is but i don’t know who any of you are..” Bruce says and that's when it hits them, this Bruce is from when Dick was Robin, back in the early days, meaning he doesn’t know about Jason, Tim, Damian, Steph, or even Cass, this bruce is still living in the past where it was just Batman and Robin, the dynamic duo. He then speaks up again, looking at Nightwing, “You. You sound familiar, like I know you, but at the same time I don't know you..”
Oh boy.
That's right, he doesn’t know that he fires Dick from being Robin, he doesn’t know who Nightwing is..
Everyone sighed and turned to Dick, listening in to what he had to say in response to Bruce but instead he just let out a long tired sigh and said “Well..explaining this is gonna be good.”