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When Bruce Wayne was eight years old, his entire world shattered to pieces right in front of his eyes.
It shattered with a single shot of a bullet, and nothing would ever be the same again.
Park Row would never be the same again.
Gotham would never be the same again.
He would never be the same again.
He wouldn’t—couldn’t leave his room. Food had no appeal: even when Alfred cooked his favorites, the cream tasted sour, the noodles turned to ash in his mouth, even chocolate was tough and bitter.
Alfred tried. Bruce saw him try. He heard Alfred and Dr. Thompkins whispering outside of his room, worrying about him, but it didn’t matter. They weren’t his parents.
He had no parents anymore.
He had nobody.
When he went back to school, the other kids whispered. Most of the teachers pitied him, and those that didn’t punished him for falling behind.
He turned nine, and the birthday cake went uneaten, the candle burning out as he refused to celebrate.
His tenth birthday loomed on the horizon, and once again Bruce refused to celebrate. Alfred took him at his word, this time. He agreed not to make a cake. No decorations, no candles, no invitations.
He simply asked to go for a drive.
A drive. All the way across the country, from Gotham to California.
Bruce thought about it.
Several hours each day in the back seat of a car, no need to do anything but sit there, staring out the window, watching the world pass by. Alfred would probably try to talk to him, but Bruce was pretty good at pretending to be asleep these days.
And at least he wouldn’t be sitting at home, reminders of them everywhere he looked. The corner where his mother liked to read, the chair in which his father took his tea at the end of a long day, the table where they shared family dinners. Remembering how they used to decorate for his birthday, how it never really mattered that he didn’t have anyone from school to invite, because the three of them would be together.
A drive. New scenery. It couldn’t be worse than those memories.
So, just before his birthday, Bruce got in the backseat of the car, and they drove. They drove out of Gotham, into the countryside, down long highways and narrow winding lanes.
It was… almost pleasant. The sky was a bright, vibrant blue, bluer than any he’d seen in Gotham.
They drove until nightfall and slept in a small inn with soft, pale pink bedsheets.
Bruce didn't actually sleep, of course, but he did doze, for moments at a time. The smell of grass through the cracked window, the hum of crickets outside, it was just different enough to let him do that.
And then, another day of driving.
Cornfields started appearing outside the window, replacing trees and mountains. Alfred turned down yet another country lane as day turned to evening. Stopping again, no doubt seeking another quaint little inn to sleep in. Maybe this one would have pictures of puppies on the wall, rather than kittens like the last place had.
Bruce wanted to go home. Except, home wasn’t really home anymore. Not the one he wanted, anyway.
He wanted his own bed, but he wanted his mom to tuck him in, his dad to poke his head in when he got out of work, press a kiss to his forehead because he thought Bruce was asleep, whispering goodnight to him.
He wanted the dining room, but he didn't want sad, lonely meals with Alfred hovering to the side. He wanted his mom reminding him to finish his veggies, he even missed the way she used to glance at the door, waiting for his dad to get home when he was running late.
The car engine spluttered, and Bruce frowned. Alfred changed gears, humming to himself, and it spluttered again.
Slowly, the car rolled to a stop, at the side of the road.
“Ah,” Alfred said, mostly to himself. “Not ideal.”
Bruce didn’t say anything as Alfred got out of the car, popped the hood and began examining the engine. He stuck his head back in through the window.
“Not to worry, Master Bruce,” Alfred reassured him as though Bruce had expressed concern. “Just a touch of engine trouble. Nothing I can’t rectify, once there’s enough sunlight to work by. We’re only a short way from a town, I believe—shall we walk and find somewhere to eat and rest for the night?”
Bruce shrugged. He didn’t want to walk along this strange, unlit road in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t want to walk into a town full of strangers, who would look at them, whisper about them, judge them.
It was that or sleep in the car, though, with no air conditioning, no pillows, and nothing but the thin frame of the vehicle between him and whatever lurked in those cornfields. Bruce had watched enough movies to know it was probably nothing good.
He wasn’t proud of it, but he clung to Alfred’s side as they walked, Alfred carrying their bags under his arm. As the sun set, the world turned black around them. There were no streetlights, nothing but the small flashlight Alfred had taken from the car lighting their way. Bruce stumbled more than once, and he felt tears begin to roll down his cheeks.
Suddenly, he heard the roar of an engine, and lights blinded him as a vehicle approached. He jumped, clinging closer to Alfred as the truck—it was a truck, he could see now—slowed and finally stopped next to them. A man looked out at them from the driver’s seat. He was wearing a dirty looking shirt and a old, worn hat, but he smiled in a way that seemed kind.
“Well, hey there. Is that your car I saw pulled in a ways back?”
Alfred nodded. “Yes, sir. I fear we had a touch of engine problems and it was growing too dark to work by.”
The man nodded. “Need a ride somewhere? Where were you headed?”
“Into town, I suppose, if it would be no trouble. Is there an inn, do you know, where we could stay the night?”
The man screwed his face up. “Look, I’ll do you one better. How about you hop on in here, and I’ll bring you home with me—Judy’s place in town might have a room available, but I can't make promises—besides, the Taylors have family in town, and, well… I wouldn't put you through staying by them.” He chuckled to himself, like that was some kind of inside joke Bruce and Alfred weren't subject to.
“Really, we couldn’t impose, we—”
“Nonsense! If my Martha knew I passed you folks and didn’t bring you back with me, she’d have my head.”
Bruce flinched at the name. His mom’s name. Tears prickled at his eyes again, but now that he didn’t have the darkness to hide them behind, he fought them back.
“What do you think, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked. “Would you like to try our luck at this inn, or accept the hospitality of Mr—er…”
“Kent! Sorry, Jonathan Kent, you can call me John.”
“The hospitality of the Kents,” Alfred finished. Bruce chewed his lip. Alfred looked at him, brow furrowing in that concerned kind of way that Bruce was beginning to think might get stuck there.
Mr. Kent got out of the truck, and Bruce tried to take a step away but he felt the corn crops brush against his back, and a chill ran down his spine. Kent knelt down, putting himself at Bruce's eye level.
"Nice to meet you, Bruce. You know, I've got a son about your age. I'm sure you two could have some fun playing together, right? And my wife is making her famous chili for dinner. You like chili?"
Bruce nodded his head once. Not really because of the chili, or because of the other boy—other kids were hardly ever a good thing, in his experience—but because he just wanted to get in out of the dark, wanted to be somewhere warm and comfortable, and…
She had his mom's name. He couldn't help it—when he closed his eyes in the back of the truck, he pictured Mrs. Kent like his mom. He pictured her soft dark hair, her smile, her voice, her hugs.
The house was a little small, but there were warm lights inside. When Mr. Kent opened the door, Bruce smelled something delicious coming from what must be the kitchen.
"Well, there he is! I was about a minute from sending Clark out there to—"
"We've got guests, Martha!"
A short woman in a floral apron emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She had fair, graying hair, pulled back into a knot at the back of her head and round, soft features. "Oh!" She smiled, wide and open. She wasn't anything like his mom, but she seemed kind.
"Well, hello there! What brings you folks to Smallville?"
"Cross country road trip, ma'am," Alfred said.
"They had a touch of car trouble, I offered to put them up for the night, then I'll help Alfred fix up the car in the morning."
Mrs. Kent nodded, hands on her hips. "Well, it's a good thing I've made plenty of food, huh? The more, the merrier. Clark!"
The last word was aimed up the stairs, and followed by a thunder of footsteps. A boy appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and Bruce watched him, wary. He was probably younger than Bruce, but he was already taller, if only by a few inches.
The boy stopped short at the sight of strangers in his house, but his face broke into a grin at the sight of Bruce. He had the biggest dimples Bruce had ever seen and a gap between his front teeth.
"Hi!" he beamed.
"Clark," Mr. Kent said. "this is Alfred and Bruce. They're gonna join us for dinner and stay over."
Somehow, Clark's smile grew bigger. "Like a sleepover?" he asked.
"I guess so," Mrs. Kent smiled at her son. "Why don't you set the table, and your dad can get cleaned up?" She raised an eyebrow at her husband, and Bruce remembered all the times his mom had asked his dad to change out of his work clothes before they ate.
"Please allow me to help," Alfred insisted. "It's the least I can do."
Mrs. Kent looked wary. "You're a guest. You just sit down and put your feet up, okay?"
Bruce pictured Alfred with his feet up, and the image alone would have made him laugh a year and a half ago. Today, his lips twitched in a trace of a smile.
Bruce sat where he was told to. He needed to pee a little, but he didn't want to ask.
Alfred must have guessed, though. "Pardon me, ma'am. Could I inquire as to where your restroom is located? For the lad."
"I'll show you!" Clark piped up, after carrying a stack of plates, with cups balanced on top over to the table. Bruce was almost impressed at how easily he'd carried them.
Bruce followed Clark out of the room, down the hallway and to the door of the bathroom.
He paused at the door. He should say thank you, but the words caught in his throat, just like they always did, choking him. He rushed past Clark and locked himself in the bathroom instead. Breathing was hard, suddenly, but he'd been through this before.
He counted to ten. He washed his hands and splashed water on his face. Slowly, he remembered how to breath, and managed to take care of business.
He still felt tight in his chest. Still felt like everything was wrong. He balled his hands into fists and looked in the cracked mirror as tears started to fall.
A minute or so later, someone knocked on the door. Bruce expected it to be Alfred, fussing over him again. It wasn't.
"Are you okay?" Clark asked.
Bruce's eyes were red, but he rubbed his face with water until it was less noticeable. Then he walked out, expression blank. He nodded.
"I think dinner's ready." Clark pointed to the kitchen, then started leading the way back. "Hey, your name is Bruce, right?" he asked. Bruce nodded. "Cool! Maybe you can sleep in my room tonight and we can hang out. I never get to have sleepovers with my friends!"
They walked back into the kitchen, where the adults were all already sitting around the set table. Bruce took his spot next to Alfred, while Clark sat across from him.
The adults did most of the talking while they ate, Alfred telling the Kents all about their trip so far, about living in Gotham. They asked Bruce a couple of questions, but it didn't feel weird when Alfred answered for him. Any gaps in the adult conversation, Clark managed to fill in, talking about how he'd helped his Ma with the chickens today, which all seemed to have names and personalities of their own.
He asked whether Bruce could stay in his room, and Bruce shifted in his seat, feeling his cheeks heat up when the adults all turned to look at him.
"Well, if that's what you boys both want, then I guess we can," Mrs. Kent said, looking flustered. "I mean, as long as you sleep, and you don't break any rules."
"I'm not gonna break the rules, Ma! I know they're important. I just wanna have a sleepover!"
The Kents shared a look, then nodded. "Well, Bruce. It's up to you—if you'd rather stay with your—with Alfred, you can, but you're welcome to sleep over with Clark if you like."
Bruce thought about it. He shrugged. He had a feeling from the way they said Alfred's name, that he must have said something while Bruce was out of the room, explained some of what had happened.
"I think it's a splendid idea," Alfred said, smiling down at Bruce. "It would be nice for you to have some company your own age, wouldn't it?"
Bruce couldn't really say no to that, not without feeling mean, so he nodded. He wondered what the rules were, that the Kents seemed so insistent on.
"Should I do the dishes, Ma?" Clark asked.
"You're a good boy, Clark. I'll give you the night off—you go help Bruce get settled in your room, okay?"
Clark practically jumped up, gesturing for Bruce to follow him again. "My room's upstairs! Hey, maybe we could build a fort and sleep in there! There's a bunch of pillows and stuff we can use in the linen closet!"
Clark's room was very different to Bruce's. A single bed sat in the middle, a small book case next to it. A desk sat in the corner covered in papers and coloring pencils, but that wasn't what was really different. The walls were paneled with wood, but only small patches of it showed under the posters and images he had pinned up. It was bright, it was fun, it felt comfortable.
Bruce's room was dull and lifeless in comparison.
Clark sat on his bed, atop the Kermit the Frog bedsheets. "Oh! What age are you? I'm eight. And a half."
Bruce bit the inside of his cheek. This was what he'd dreaded. Questions. Talking. In school, the other kids teased him when this happened, when his throat got tight and his tongue felt clumsy and the words just didn't want to come.
He took a breath. Clark was looking at him, waiting patiently, and then he gasped. "Wait! Can I guess?" he asked. Bruce nodded in relief.
"Awesome. I get three questions, okay? First, are you older than me?"
Bruce nodded a confirmation, and Clark laughed. "I knew it!"
He pursed his lips, thinking. "Hmm. Are you more than ten?" he asked. Bruce shook his head.
Clark cheered. "So that means you're nine!" he declared.
Bruce pursed his lips. Not technically wrong, he supposed. Though, only for a few more hours.
"When's your birthday?" Clark asked.
Bruce looked around. There was a calendar sitting on the desk, one of those ones with a page for each day. This one had a Garfield cartoon on it. He walked over and picked it up, pulling off the current day, then holding it out.
Clark frowned at it. Then, slowly, it dawned on him. "Tomorrow? It's your birthday tomorrow?"
He jumped up off of the bed and for a moment Bruce thought he was just about to run laps around the room, there was so much energy in his body.
"That's so cool! This is like your birthday party, then! I love birthday parties!"
Bruce didn't. That was what this whole thing was supposed to avoid, but here he was.
"Maybe Ma would make a cake, if you guys don't have to leave too early. Do you want a cake?"
Bruce couldn't help the grimace that showed on his face, and Clark gaped at him. "You don't like cake?"
Bruce waggled his hand from side-to-side, making a face. He used to love cake. Chocolate cake, especially.
Clark tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy. "You don't talk much, huh? That's okay. Talking's fine, but you don't gotta talk to build a fort!"
Bruce felt some of the tightness leave his chest. Clark didn't care that he didn't talk. He wasn't acting weird, or laughing at him or anything. He noticed, but he didn't make a big deal about it.
Clark had to explain what they were doing, raiding the linen closet for blankets and pillows, but they made it back to the room, examining the pile of materials.
"I've actually never built a fort before," Clark admitted. "How about you?"
Bruce shook his head. He kicked at the pile of materials, then looked around the room. He felt a plan forming.
He picked up a blanket, and got to work. Clark caught on pretty quickly, following Bruce's lead this time. They stretched the sheets and blankets between the bed and the desk, propping them in place with books and other heavy items from around the room. Bruce, it turned out, liked making forts, and solving problems, and working with others—as long as others meant Clark.
Once they'd covered the carpet inside with pillows and cushions, there was barely space for them both, but they could just about squeeze in.
They stood back, admiring their work.
There was a knock on the door, and Clark shouted for whoever it was to come in. Alfred peeked his head around the door.
He blinked at the scene, then smiled. "Lovely work, boys. Quite impressive, if I might say so."
"Thanks!" Clark beamed. "Bruce is really good at building."
"You ought to be going to bed soon. My room is just down the hall, Master Bruce. Do come and knock if you need anything."
Bruce looked out, taking note of the room Alfred was indicating. He hummed in acknowledgement. Alfred put a hand on his shoulder. He leaned in to whisper, so Clark couldn't hear. "If you have a nightmare, you can come find me, okay?"
Bruce knew he could. He also knew he wouldn't. Sometimes, when he did sleep, he woke up in a cold sweat, reliving That Night. Sometimes, Alfred heard him shouting and came to offer comfort. Most of the time, though, Bruce sat in silence, watching shadows cross the walls of his bedroom until morning came.
Alfred left with a final goodnight to them both, and Bruce hesitated before turning back to Clark.
He wasn't smiling as wide as he had been before, and Bruce was surprised to realize he was disappointed by that.
He took his pajamas and toothpaste out of his bag and retreated by himself to the bathroom. He didn't cry this time, at least. When he looked in the mirror, he tried to see what Clark saw.
He saw his eyes, bright blue, but shadowed. His heavy eyebrows, straight dark hair, pale skin, skinny frame.
He blinked, and for a moment, he saw… a boy. Just a boy.
He returned to Clark's room to find him already dressed for bed, brightly colored pajamas with more cartoon characters on them, so different from Bruce's striped button down and pants.
Clark grabbed a flashlight from under his bed and switched it on before turning the light off. They scrambled into the pillow fort together, the torch providing enough light to see clearly in such a small space. It was warm in there, between their combined body heat and poor ventilation trapping it all in.
Clark smiled again, and Bruce breathed a sigh of relief.
"This is the best ever!" Clark said, shadows dancing over his face as he moved the flashlight.
Bruce nodded, agreeing, surprising himself with the realization that it wasn't just a lie to make Clark happy.
Clark looked thoughtful. "Can I ask you a question?"
Bruce nodded.
"If you can't answer out loud then that's okay. I won't mind. But… that man. Alfred?"
Bruce hummed.
"He's… he called you master Bruce. And you… I mean—"
Bruce pinched Clark's hand, raising an eyebrow in a way he hoped communicated that he should just ask already. Clark looked embarrassed. "Right. I just… He's not your dad, is he?"
Bruce shook his head.
"I thought so. I sort of… I heard the grown ups talking while you were in the bathroom earlier, and I heard him say… what happened."
Oh. Oh no.
There were the tears.
"I've never met another kid who was… who had that happen."
Bruce stared. What—
"Ma and Pa adopted me when I was a baby," Clark explained. "They love me, and I love them, but… But my other parents, they died when I was really little."
Bruce reached out, across the tiny distance between them, and grabbed Clark's hand—the one that wasn't holding the flashlight.
"Alfred seems really nice," Clark said, after a moment. "Did he adopt you?"
Bruce shook his head, then shrugged. Not really. But kind of.
"Do you play any sports?" Clark asked, in a sudden change of subject.
Bruce shook his head.
"Really? I like baseball, but Pa says I have to be careful, in case I—" His mouth snapped shut.
In case he what? Bruce wondered.
"I'm not… I'm not s'posed to tell anyone," Clark whispered after a long silence. "They said it… it's really important. That it's not safe to tell people who aren't family."
Was that what they meant about the rules? Bruce wanted to know, desperately wanted to know. He had never been good at not knowing things.
Clark's hand was still warm in his as they fell into silence.
"Oh! I have an idea!" Clark let go of Bruce's hand, climbing back out of the fort. For the few seconds he was gone, it was dark and cold, and Bruce was alone. Who was this kid? Why was he so nice, and what was he hiding? Bruce couldn't imagine it was anything bad.
Clark came back moments later, laying down next to Bruce again, this time holding a little alarm clock which had been on the bookshelf. It was already past eleven—where had the time gone?
"This way, we can see when it gets to midnight, and I can say happy birthday right away!"
They occupied themselves making shadow hand puppets on the wall of the fort with the flashlight. Clark was really good at it, showing Bruce how to make dogs and rabbits and birds and even a crocodile.
Then Clark curled his fingers up, putting his hands together as if he was making a heart, but when Bruce looked at the blanket above them, he saw a bat. He gasped, and Clark dropped his hands.
"Oh, look!" he grabbed the light and pointed it at the clock. 11:59.
Bruce watched as the second hand ticked around, as the minute hand stood, frozen, ready to move.
And then it was midnight.
"Happy birthday, Bruce!" Clark beamed, reaching over to hug him. Bruce froze, then melted into it, sniffling.
He'd barely known this kid for a full day, but he was acting like they'd been friends for years. Like they knew each other, inside and out. Bruce should have been pushing him away, waiting for the other shoe to fall, for something to go wrong.
But he didn't.
And it didn't.
Clark hugged him, then released him. He beamed. "Now you're ten!" he declared. "That's so awesome!"
Bruce found himself smiling. A real smile,only interrupted by a full-body yawn.
"I'm pretty sleepy, too. Want me to turn off the flashlight?" Clark asked. Bruce shook his head so vigorously that Clark just handed it over without question. "That's okay. I like sleeping with lights on sometimes, too."
Bruce held the flashlight, pointing it up and away from them so it wasn't glaring.
"Goodnight, Bruce," Clark yawned.
Bruce reached across again, hoping his hand on Clark's arm communicated what he wanted it to.
Goodnight, Clark.
Thank you.
Clark smiled, eyes slipping closed. Bruce thought maybe he understood.
The next thing Bruce knew, he was trapped. Something heavy was on top of him, smothering him, refusing to let him escape. He squirmed, wriggled, and cried out for help.
"Oh, gosh! I'm so sorry, Bruce!"
The coverings moved, and Bruce was free. He saw Clark there, holding a pile of blankets, and realized what must have happened.
"I'm so sorry, I was trying to get up but I slipped and knocked the fort on top of you! Are you okay?"
Bruce nodded, the fear he'd woken up with beginning to fade. He rubbed his eyes, then glanced at the clock, still nestled on the pillow next to him. It was late in the morning—later than Bruce usually slept. Why hadn't Alfred woken him?
"C'mon, get dressed!" Clark said. "I have a bunch of things I wanna do before you leave!"
Bruce smiled, without even thinking about it, and got up.
Downstairs, Mrs. Kent was in the kitchen again. "Ma, can we have party pancakes for breakfast?" Clark asked.
She raised an eyebrow at him. "Sweetheart, you know very well, we only have party pancakes on special—"
"But, it's Bruce's birthday today! Isn't it, Bruce?"
Bruce hadn't expected to be put on the spot like that. He stood frozen in place as she looked at him. Slowly, he nodded.
Mrs. Kent smiled, wide and happy. "Well, your—Alfred did mention you were on a birthday trip, now you mention it!" She pretended to think about it. "I guess you're right, Clark. Only fair we have party pancakes."
Clark pumped the air, doing a little dance on the spot. Bruce laughed at him. In return, Clark looked positively gleeful.
"Master Bruce, you're awake! I trust you slept well?" Alfred entered the kitchen, smiling. He looked refreshed, too.
Bruce nodded.
"Lovely. I am going with Mr. Kent to work on the car. You're welcome to join us, or you can—"
"Now, hold on, Mr. Pennyworth!" Mrs. Kent stopped him. "I've been informed that it's this boy's birthday today, and I'm not about to let him go without a special breakfast."
Alfred blinked at her, then down at Bruce. He felt suddenly self conscious under Alfred's gaze, looking down at his feet.
"Do you really wish to celebrate?" he asked.
Bruce hesitated. He didn't. He didn't want to celebrate anything, ever again, not without his parents. But… he looked at Clark. He looked at Mrs. Kent. Birthday breakfast was never something he did with his parents—his father usually had work, and his mother rarely ate at breakfast time. This wasn't replacing their memories together.
And he was intrigued, at the very least, to find out what Clark meant by party pancakes.
So he nodded. He wanted this.
Alfred looked like he might cry, but it was a happy kind of cry, like when Bruce agreed to this road trip in the first place.
"Well, then. I think the car can wait, don't you, Mrs. Kent?"
"I think that's a fine idea. Now, I believe you know your way around a kitchen, Alfred, so why don't you help me out here. Boys, I'll call you when it's ready, okay?"
Clark ran up and hugged his mother, then back to Bruce. "Let's play outside, I've got a swing!"
Bruce wasn't used to having so much space to play. Sure, the manor had large grounds, but he rarely spent time out in them. Honestly, he wasn't sure what to do out there. But here, on the farm, Clark ran and jumped and played, and they took turns on the swing until they were called in to eat.
Party pancakes, as it turned out, were pretty much regular pancakes, but with a perfect swirl of whipped cream and brightly colored sprinkles on top.
They were delicious.
Bruce ate two full helpings, but Clark managed to have a third, sitting back with cream on his face and hands resting on his stomach after licking the plate clean.
"Can we go back out to play, Ma?"
Bruce looked at Alfred, asking the same with his eyes.
"Off you go, boys," Mrs. Kent said with a smile.
"I shall fetch you when the car is up and running again, master Bruce."
Clark led Bruce out into the farm grounds, introduced him to each cow in the field, each chicken in the pen, speaking a mile a minute as Bruce just tried to keep up.
"Do you like climbing trees?" Clark asked. "This one is the best." He pointed to a tree in the corner of a field, and didn't wait for an answer from Bruce before he started climbing it. "Follow what I do!"
Bruce only hesitated a moment before starting to climb. He liked climbing. He was good at climbing, and he almost managed to catch up before Clark got to the top. As it was, he was only a few moments behind.
"I love it up here," Clark said, leaning against the trunk.
Bruce understood what he meant. the leaves were lush and green around them, filtering the sunlight so it landed with dappled green and gold spots on their skin. Bruce could forget the world up here, high above everything and everyone else.
Bruce made his way to the end of the branch he was on, moving slowly, carefully, looking down to try and figure out how high up they really were. He could almost see, just a little bit further. He leaned out, and felt the branch start to give way. His stomach lurched, that feeling of falling coming over him.
He might not have known exactly how high they were, but it was high enough that he'd probably break an arm, or worse.
Except, he didn't fall. The branch broke, and he slipped, and then…
Clark pulled him back up into the tree. He did it so easily, like Bruce weighed nothing—-he knew he was skinny and all, hadn't quite hit a growth spurt, but he was still older than Clark, it should have at least unbalanced him a little.
How…
Clark let go of him, scrambling back to the trunk of the tree. "I… Are you okay?" he asked.
Bruce nodded. He was fine, but…
"I'm not s'posed to…" Clark bit his lip. "We're friends, right?"
Bruce nodded.
"If I… If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone else?"
Bruce crossed his heart.
Clark took a breath, deep and bracing. "Okay, so… So Ma and Pa said I should never tell anyone about this. That it's important that only… only the people I trust most in the world know the truth about me. They said people could… that bad people might wanna hurt me, or… or even take me away."
Bruce shifted closer to Clark on the branch. He reached out and put a hand on Clark's arm, offering support.
Clark smiled. "I told you I was adopted, but… my parents, my birth parents… They weren't… they were from… somewhere else. Another planet."
Clark was stumbling over his words, fumbling with his sentences as he tried to explain, and Bruce knew he was telling the truth as he described the spaceship, his strange abilities. He wasn't lying, and Bruce was the first person he had ever told.
Clark was an alien. Clark was stronger than anyone else his age, could heal faster, could jump so high sometimes it felt like he was about to take flight.
"Master Wayne!"
The sound of Alfred calling stopped Clark mid-sentence as he told Bruce about being sent to earth as a baby. "Please don't tell?" Clark begged.
"Master Wayne, it's time to go!"
"Clark, are you up that tree again?"
At the sound of Mr. Kent calling alongside Alfred, Bruce smiled at Clark. He crossed his heart again, then held his hand out to shake Clark's.
They climbed down out of the tree, back to solid ground, back to real life.
Alfred was already carrying their bags, packed and ready to go. The car was by the house, fixed up and running perfectly.
"I'm afraid it will have to be straight back to Gotham for us, Master Bruce. The car will get us home, but I don't quite trust it for a full cross-country trip at this stage."
Bruce forced himself to nod. He didn't want to go home, didn't want to go back to the manor, with it's shadowed hallways, dark rooms, to the smog and memories of Gotham and the kids at school he couldn't stand.
They walked back to the house, and Clark grabbed Bruce's arm before he could get in the car. "Wait there!"
He ran inside, and Bruce watched him go. He didn't want to say goodbye. Clark came back with something small in his hands. He held the flashlight out to Bruce.
Bruce frowned at it.
"It's… It's a gift," Clark explained. "For… for your birthday. Something to, you know, remember me by."
Bruce wrapped his arms around Clark and hugged him, squeezing as tight as he could, and Clark squeezed him right back.
"Thank you," Bruce whispered in his ear. The words didn't stick in his throat, his tongue didn't feel weird, they just came to his lips as naturally as they used to. "I promise, your secret is safe." He whispered it as softly as he could, hoping none of the adults would hear. Clark squeezed him tighter and then let go.
"It was really cool to meet you, Bruce."
Alfred opened the back door of the car and Bruce got in, clutching the flashlight. He waved goodbye, and kept waving as the Kents grew smaller, as the farm began to disappear, until all he saw was cornfields.
Bruce had been happy, for a short while. He'd laughed, he'd made a friend.
But nothing had changed. Back in Gotham, everything was the same. Bruce was the same. The anger and grief that had consumed him took back over, and he lost himself in it again.
When he turned eleven, Alfred asked if he would like to do anything for his birthday.
"Can we have party pancakes?" he asked.
He still thought about Clark, about the farm, about shadow puppets and dappled light through green leaves.
He thought of Clark, of his optimism and joy, of how deeply and instantly he cared about some kid he'd never met before, how effortlessly he'd made Bruce feel safe and welcome, and he tried to embody all of that when he knelt in front of a young Dick Grayson, a boy grieving the unspeakable loss of his parents.
And then, one day, more than twenty years after driving away from the Kent farm, Bruce turned on the news to see a flying man over Metropolis. A hero, clad in bright blue and red, saving some kid from a car that sped towards her.
Superman smiled and waved at the news camera, and Bruce saw Clark Kent's dimples shine through.
"Alfred, I think a road trip may be in order."