Chapter Text
Clark was still mostly asleep when he heard the tires rumbling over the dirt road. The cars along the main road past the farm were always a constant background hum—somehow more noticeable and distinct than the blur of traffic in the city—but they rarely turned off and onto the dirt strip up to the Kent farmhouse. Clark was home for the weekend, taking a break from the hustle and bustle of Metropolis, and as far as he knew his parents weren’t expecting anyone. Judging by the soft purr of the engine, the car was far nicer than anything folks around here drove.
Clark rubbed his eyes, pushed himself out of the warm cocoon of his bed, which was almost comically small at this point, and shuffled over to the window. For autumn, it was early on the farm. The summer months might mean they were up with the crack of dawn, but once the frost came at night there wasn’t much to get up for, especially since they didn’t keep animals.
Speaking of frost, small bits clung to the edge of the glass. This year was already proving to be unseasonably cold and a nasty draft gushed through the window and washed over Clark’s feet. Cold temperatures never bothered him, but he made a mental note to see if he could seal the old windows before any snow came. The last thing his folks needed was a cold house and a sky-high heating bill.
Through the ice-edged glass, he focused on the car coming up the dirt road. He was right in his guess—the car was nicer than anything people in Smallville drove. The black Mercedes had a fine layer of dust over it and clumped-up bugs and yellow leaves caught in the grill.
“Mom,” Clark called. “You expecting company?”
A muffled ‘no’ came from downstairs. Clark sighed and, in a blur, swapped his flannel pyjama pants and grey t-shirt for a worn pair of jeans and his MetU sweatshirt. He went downstairs at a fast but still human speed and entered the kitchen, where his dad stood over a sizzling pan of bacon while his mom buttered the toast.
“Welcome to the world,” his dad said with a chuckle. “Nice of you to join us.”
Clark rolled his eyes and tried to flatten his bedhead with his fingers. “It’s only just past nine,” he mumbled and started to complain about how late he’d been up on Thursday to make his deadline when his mom cut him off.
“You said someone was coming?”
“A black Mercedes, yeah. Up the drive.”
His dad shook his head. “No one we know.”
Clark helped himself to the half-full pot of Mr. Coffee. “That’s what I figured.”
“It government?” His dad didn’t meet his eye; he focused intently on flipping over a piece of bacon, but Clark could hear the edge of anxiety in his voice.
“No—I don’t think so. It’s only one guy and there’s no weapons in the car.” Clark scanned around the farm with his hearing. “Don’t hear anyone else nearby either.”
“Good,” his dad said into the pan. Although he was older and able to stand on his own—or maybe because he was older and standing on his own—his parents’ fear that someone would come one day and unravel the little life and lie they wove to keep Clark safe had never faded. Often, Clark found himself wondering how they lived with it the whole time, how they raised a kid, a kid that could’ve (and often did) bring a whole slew of issues they were woefully unprepared for to their doorstep, all while worrying that men in black would come one day and uproot everything they laid out so carefully.
“Well don’t drink all the coffee then,” his mom scolded. “Save enough that we can offer our guest a cup at least.”
Clark sighed and stopped himself from filling the cup up all the way. His mom wiped her hands on the dish towel and hovered in the kitchen, clearly unsure whether she should wait by the entrance or wait in the kitchen.
The knock came soon enough. His mom rushed to the door and, before she opened it, Clark heard her take a deep breath.
“Hello?”
“Is this the Kent residence?” said a smooth and unfamiliar voice. Clark peeked out from around the corner—the man stood there in a sleek suit, but he was free of weapons. The only thing he had on him was a briefcase.
“It is,” she said. On the door frame, her grip tightened.
“I’m Roman Quinn. And, if you have a moment, I’d like to speak to you about something.”
Clark lingered in the living room while his parents talked to the man. He did take a cup of coffee, but refused the offer of a bite of breakfast. Clark kept the TV on an old rerun but listened in on their conversation. His mom always warned him it was rude to listen in, but he figured she’d let this one go.
Clark kept his hand tight on the remote.
The man introduced himself again and this time he explained that was with T&MW Real Estate.
And then he offered to buy the farm.
Clark darted up. The remote control splintered into bits of plastic in his palm. He wiped his head around toward the kitchen table.
The man hadn’t said the number, but he had pushed a piece of paper toward his parents and if their heartbeats were anything to go off of, the amount had to be staggering.
“Mr. Quinn,” his dad said. His voice was steady, measured. “I’m not sure I quite understand.”
“The Johnston farm is for sale,” his mother added, “for much less than this, too.”
“The Johnston farm… that’s the land on the other side of the creek?”
“Yes. ‘Bout eight miles over.”
“What we’re looking for is something a bit different,” he said. “I hope you’ll consider the offer.”
Quinn didn’t elaborate much further. He went through who to contact and when they hopped for the answer by and then set his mug on the table and stood to leave. Altogether, he couldn’t have stayed longer than fifteen minutes.
Clark turned away before he came back into the main area of the house. Behind Quinn, his parents stood. Nervous. Clark jumped to his feet and rushed to the TV to turn it off.
Quinn stared at Clark and the broken pieces of the remote on the hardwood floor.
“Stepped on it,” Cark said and shrugged.
“Right, well.” Quinn turned to them and smiled. “I hope you’ll consider my offer.”
He left. The Kents stood in silence, staring at each other, trying to make sense of whatever the hell had just happened.
Monday, at the Daily Planet, Clark sat with the real estate papers in front of him. He was supposed to be working on an article about the changes to the Metropolis wastewater system—just one of the hard-hitting pieces he got assigned to as the new guy—but he was desperate to dig into whatever the offer on the farm was about instead. Out at the farm, the internet was terrible, and his parents both insisted that he shouldn’t stress himself out about it.
Of course, Clark did. The thing was that the offer was good. Too good, really, but still a hair under being unbelievable.
His parents were getting older. He didn’t think that he could take over the farm and shoulder all that work. As loath as he was to admit it, it was a decent offer. Enough to get them a smaller place they could manage more easily on their own in the coming years.
“Whatcha working on,” Lois said, pulling Clark from his thoughts.
Clark swivelled around in his chair. “Informing the citizens about the upgrades coming to the wastewater management system.”
“Exciting shit.”
“You know it,” Clark said as Lois came into his cubical, set down a paper cup of coffee, and stared at the blinking line on his word document.
“This doesn’t look like wastewater management,” she said, tapping the papers that Roman Quinn had left behind.
“Because it’s not. Someone came this weekend and put an offer on my parents’ farm.”
“I didn’t know they were selling.” Lois took her usual seat on the desk of his cubical.
“That’s because they’re not.”
“So someone came out of nowhere and offered them a good chunk of change?”
“Exactly.”
Lois raised a brow and it disappeared into her brown fringe. “You think something’s up?”
“Almost definitely.” Clark leaned back in his chair and stretched out the crick in his back. “Take a look.”
Lois lifted the paper and held it close to her face—probably too close, but she always insisted she didn’t need glasses. “Is this offer a lot?”
“It’s more than they would ask if they would put it on the market, but it isn’t unreasonable.”
“And this company… T&MW Real Estate?”
Clark shrugged. “I looked it up and couldn’t find much, but it’s registered.”
“Hm.” Lois drummed her nails against the desktop. “Where?”
“Uh,” Clark said and flipped his tab back over from the empty word doc to his own research. “In Gotham.”
“T&MW,” Lois repeated under her breath. “It sounds familiar.”
“Does it?”
“It’s something.” She sighed and looked up at the speckled ceiling tiles. “I can’t think of it right now.”
“Well, let me know if anything comes to mind.”
“Will do,” Lois said and gave him a mock salute as she hopped down from the desk. “I should let you get back to your exciting shit.”
“Thanks,” Clark said, “if I don’t I’ll be in deep shit with Perry.”
Lois tapped his arm as she walked away. “Puns are the lowest form of humour,” she said right when she was too far for Clark to call whatever comeback he came up with out to her without disturbing the whole office. Clark had been at the Planet for all of eight months and it had taken Lois half that time to figure out his secret. Granted, she had figured it out in the brief time they dated before they decided they were better off as friends.
Clark shook his head and reread the quote from the wastewater site manager. In no time, he was finally getting some words down on the page.
“Clark!”
He looked up. Lois’s high heels clattered as she rushed back toward him. “T&MW. Gotham.”
“Yeah?”
She smiled wickedly, the way she always smiled when she knew she was right. “Thomas and Martha Wayne.”
Thomas and Martha Wayne. Clark turned the names over in his head as he flew over Metropolis that night.
What happened to them was a tragedy. But beyond that, they were in the business of Gotham and, from what Clark gleaned about their son during his research of the day, it seemed that Bruce was committed to following in their footsteps when it came to the business side of it all.
Publicly, not so much. Bruce was better known for his drunken antics and sexual escapades than his philanthropy or head for numbers.
Still. Clark frowned. What did anyone in Gotham want with a farm out in Kansas? Clark would have to check around Smallville and see if anyone else had gotten offers too. As far as Clark knew, all that land wasn’t zoned for businesses or development, but he doubted it would take much for someone as rich as Bruce Wayne to sway the minds of the town council.
Clark was about to call it a night for patrol and return to his studio with nothing but his thoughts when a string of gunfire from across the bay shocked him back into action. He zipped over the icy water and landed at the docks, where the noise originated from, in a fraction of seconds.
But whatever issue was there, it was resolved now. Half a dozen men were tied together with grappling wires and, in between them, sat crates full of oil paintings.
“Oh,” Clark muttered. Art smugglers were a new one for him.
In the corner of his eye, a dark cape fluttered. “Batman?” Clark called and turned.
No answer came.
One of the smugglers looked up. “It was the bat that caught us,” he spilled. “I’ll tell you whatever you need—but tell them I cooperated, yeah?”
Clark ignored him and scanned the docks. In the distance, a sleek car pulled away. I guess I’ll call the police then. So nice of you to stick around.
He had no idea why the bat was so cold to him—they’d only met once before, albeit briefly, and that time too Batman didn’t say a word to Clark.
It was summer. A late night, a gala, a bunch of rich idiots dressed to the nines.
Someone—the Joker, he called himself—tried to gas the event. In the chaos and panic, some spark must have ignited the gas. Batman had already evacuated almost the whole flaming hall when Clark showed up to help.
It all went smoothly—Clark took off into the gas and smoke to look for anyone who might’ve been trapped while Batman grabbed the Joker and hauled him in front of the police commissioner.
After, Clark caught the bat on the rooftop. His cape fluttered. He smelled like leather oil and gunsmoke.
And so Clark did what was natural—he thanked Batman. Told him he did good work.
Clark didn’t remember exactly what he said to the bat, but he knew he did say that he was glad he had an ally. It was easy to talk to him, another hero, instead of trying to put on a front for a panicked civilian or adoring crowd or someone out for destruction. “Hopefully we can work together more in the future,” Clark ended with.
Batman only looked up slowly and stared at Clark with those eerie whited-out eyes. And, without saying anything, he turned on his heel and vanished into the night.