BELLADONNA @garfieldsladybird - Tumblr Blog

if you're done with your ex, move on to the next!

summary: Being rejected from Metropolis University? Humbling. Your boyfriend of four years dumping you a year later thanks to his dead parents? Even worse. But when your friend tries to get you out of your dorm after two weeks spent bed-rotting and takes you to a photoshoot audition — "Just to try something new!" — you find yourself with a lot of attention you didn't want and a billionaire playboy on your tail.

pairing(s): bruce wayne x reader, (ex) clark kent x childhoodsweetheart!reader

word count: 21.7k (my longest fanfic yet)

warnings: inaccuracies regarding the position of the towns (used this map for reference) and college admissions, if you don't really understand why reader is beware of bruce then you might want to go and read a little sumsum about epstein island (my girl is right not to want anything to do with a billionaire), bruce is so not nonchalant, he's also kinda bi (OF COURSE HE IS HE'S A SLUT!!! AND OF COURSE IT'S WITH HARVEY), no trouple sorry, blood, one (1) gunshot as well as one (1) scott pilgrim reference, bruce and reader trauma bond over their weird exes, merry christmas/please don't call trope, suggestive maybe, swear words, angst and fluff, dick makes an apparition at the end (if there's anything I'm forgetting pls lmk)

author's note: credits to @lovingyoulovinme for the concept, taken from this post! bruce and clark can be imagined as any transposition of their characters, but honestly I tried my best not to think of david corenswet while writing this cuz I'd NEVERRRR let that man go. EVER. english isn't my first language so construcitve criticism is always welcome!!

dividers from @uzmacchiato! <3

You’ve known Clark Kent all your life.

That happens when he’s the only kid in a three-mile radius near the house you were raised in — and that also happens when your mothers have been best friends for more than twenty years. There are pictures of him, barely one year old, sitting on the couch of your parent’s living room while cooing at the pink bundle in your mother’s arms — you. From then on, it’s unusual to see a photo of the two of you not together.

He’s there when you start crawling, clapping his hands in encouragement, a picture showing him smushing his cheek against yours in triumph as you smile with the only two teeth you have. He holds you steady as you take your first steps, a bit wobbly himself, and you both fall into a fit of uncontrollable laughter as you crumble down to the floor. He teaches you his name as soon as you start talking, and when he’s over to your farm you end up following him like a lost puppy, chanting ClarkClarkClarkClark! loud enough for your father to take a peek out of the living room to make sure you’re okay.

You’re four when you participate to your first dance recital, grinning wildly while wearing the pinkiest tutu your father could find at the only costume shop Smallville has, and when you get off stage after a choreography only the parents of the kids doing it could enjoy, you find a red-cheeked Clark holding a bouquet of flowers almost bigger than him. Your parents watch with knowing smiles as you squeal and topple him to the ground, smooshing your cheek against his.

“You shouldn’t have, Jon,” your mother whispers to Pa Kent, “I know flowers are getting expensive these days.”

He barely brushes her comment aside, “Oh, shut it, woman, he wanted to. ‘Sides, Eleonor from the flower shop already owed us a favour.” he chuckles quietly, “Why, you tellin’ me it bothers you to see her so happy with her itty-bitty pink tutu and her bouquet?”

By this point, both you and Clark are back on your feet, and you’re jumping around — showing off your flowers to the friends you’ve made in the dance class while dragging Clark along by the hand. The kid is as red as a tomato, shuffling his feet awkwardly as you hold the bouquet like it’s an infant.

Safe to say, you and Clark are thick as thieves growing up: it’s rare to see him around without you and vice versa, aside from school hours — and even then, you’re always together during breaks and such, and given that you take the same school bus and even get down at the same spot there’s never a day where the seat next to you or next to him is empty.

Since the Kent farm and yours aren’t that far away you’re both often found wandering in the fields between your houses, sometimes even bringing your lunch lovingly wrapped in an embroidered cloth by your mum, who — same as Ma Kent — always packs not one but two meals; one for you, one for Clark. Of course, you both take advantage of the situation and always end up eating the whole feast without leaving a single crumb, only to then pass out for usually two or three hours after the ordeal on your little beaten up blanket.

When everybody starts picking on him when he gets glasses — horrendous, thick-lenses ones — you just hold his hand while laying together on the hammock that hangs on two of the trees outside his farm, probably older than Pa Kent himself. “Who cares?” you mumble over his muffled sobs, hugging his side tight. “They all suck anyway. Besides, if they think the glasses look bad on you, maybe it’s their eyes that need fixing.”

You’re nine when you first see him fly. It’s an accident — he thought you were in town with your parents, but opted to stay home instead and went to the Kent farm for a surprise visit — and he doesn’t talk to you for a week, too scared of confrontation. Things slide back in place as soon as Martha understands what happened and gives him a stern talk about friends and secrets; not even an hour later you’re aware of all his history — the meteor shower of ten years ago actually being his space pod entering the atmosphere, him coming from another planet and having freaking superpowers.

You’ve always known Clark was special — always thought that he was one of a kind, a boy too gentle to be like everyone. You just didn’t know that special would have meant from another galaxy.

Not a lot changes by the time you start going to middle and then high school — Clark’s one of the few boys in town that growing up didn’t have a phase or permanently turned into a dickhead. The Kents raised him well, making sure he never disrespected anyone without a good reason to, and even then he’s often too nice to act on it — unless it involves someone other than him. If there’s someone who’s being given trouble at school, he always finds a way to help — even if he himself isn’t really one of the popular kids either.

That’s what you like about Clark. The ability to look bigger than he is if needed to and a heart of gold that would make the nicest man on Earth look pale in comparison.

Of course, it’s not a surprise to anyone when you two start dating — it was just a matter of time, clearly. The only visible change is the hand-holding and kissing; when you tell the Kents, as Martha squeals and jumps up to hug you, Jon just sits there with a confused look on his face while scratching his chin. “You tellin’ me you two weren’t together this whole time?”

Those are definitely the best years of your life, you think one summer evening as you lay on the same battered blanket of ten years ago in the same tulip field with the same boy. It’s just that this time he’s double the size and officially your boyfriend, who holds you tight against his chest while basking in the blazing sun.

“Will you ever take me flying?” you ask, eyes barely open — just what you need to look at him, golden and smiling. He chuckles, “You’d like me to?”

You nod enthusiastically. You’ve rarely ever gotten out of Smallville, aside from school trips and a couple of vacations with your parents, so it’s safe to say that you’ve never even gotten on a plane in your entire life, with the closest airport being in Metropolis. Clark, you guess, is the next best thing you have to a plane.

“Dunno, sweetheart,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your hair, “If Pa saw me fly with you, he’d yell at me to get down and start a long lecture about being seen and the dangers of it. Maybe when they’re out of town, mh?”

You hum, almost half asleep, lulled by his hand gently caressing your back under your shirt and the warmth of the sun. “I’ll hold you to that one.”

But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end — and just two years after that conversation in the field you find yourself in Clark’s room, holding back your tears as you help him pack his things for college. You should be happy for him — he’s been accepted into the Journalism course, which has been his dream for years — but you just can’t shake the thought of him being so far away in the big city while you’re still stuck here for another year.

You like Smallville — you love the farm, the animals and the constant fresh air — but there’s basically nothing there aside from fields and the school. You and Clark have never been so far away from each other for so long — you honestly don’t know how you’ll manage without him around. Sure, you have other friends, but nobody could ever make up for his absence.

And that’s why you’ve been spending the last two weeks tied to his side — helping him get ready for his move and packing old shirts and jeans. You almost burst out in tears when you see him sneaking an old picture of you in a tutu and a bouquet in one of the boxes.

He notices you staring — of course he notices. He’s already noticed how on edge you’ve seemed in these last few months, and if he’s right the dam is about to break in a million pieces right in front of him.

Clark gets up from his place on the floor, wiping his hands on his jeans, “Everything alright?”

You look at him– really look at him. Your lips tremble, tears begin to form in your waterline and judging by the rapid beats of your heartbeat you’re about to have a complete breakdown. Finally, you whimper, “I don’t want you to go,”

The dam breaks. You start ugly crying, full-on sobbing as Clark hugs you and holds you tight against his chest, “No– I mean– I want you to go, it’s– it’s a great opportunity– but I don’t want you to leave me here all alone–” your sobs rattle against his chest and your words are barely understandable, but for someone with super empathy — you’re sure that’s a real thing and an actual true power of his — and super hearing it’s pretty understandable.

His eyes soften. “I wouldn’t leave you here if it was my choice,” he murmurs, “I’d take you with me in a heartbeat, but we’ll have to start somewhere if we want to eventually move out of here together. In a year you’ll finish high school, and until then I’ll still visit constantly.” he smiles sweetly, “You could come to visit me too. Did you know that they just finished building the railway connecting Midvale to Metropolis? How convenient is that?”

His heart breaks even more when you don’t stop crying. His shirt is damp by now, and you are starting to hyperventilate — sobs becoming more drawn and hoarse. “Hey, hey,” he takes your face in his hands, wiping away your tears with his thumbs, “we’ll be okay, alright? Nothing will change. We haven’t been friends for seventeen years only for things to change because of– what, a hundred miles of distance?” he starts peppering your damp cheeks with kisses, managing to get a strained laugh out of you. “I didn’t come all the way here from another galaxy just to forget about you the second I move out of town.”

You’re back in the Kent’s farm two days later to say goodbye to Clark along with some close friends of his, and you cry more than you’d like to admit — but for now it doesn’t matter, because he’s still here and still able to wipe your tears with a gentle hand and dry the dampness on your cheeks with kisses. The real problems will arise when he won’t be able to do that anymore — and it happens soon after: he and Jon get on his truck and start driving towards Metropolis.

You stay seated on the Kent’s porch until Clark’s truck isn’t visible anymore, and Martha gently puts a hand on your shoulder. “Want a slice of pie? Lemon blueberry tart, your favorite. I made it… well, I kind of knew this sadness was coming.” she gives you a tight-lipped smile, teary herself. “I’ll miss him too. But it’s not the end of the world, is it? It’s just a new beginning. Besides, a couple of months and it’ll be Christmas. And you know we always spend Christmas together, hun.”

The next few months are spent between your studies for the admission tests for University and hours-long calls with Clark, who’s enthusiastically adapting to life in the big city as you try not to give away too much that you’re rightfully sulking back at home. Christmas is a nice break from your longing, and you barely spend any time apart from each other, but after that it’s back to square one.

Much to your displeasure, the calls start to become less and less long — and you really don’t want to be the type of girlfriend that stalks her boyfriend’s every step, but you really miss him, and it’s hard staying in Smallville without him when you’ve only known the town with him in it. He’s just starting to make new friends and getting to know the city, and you know that, but you wish you could be there with him instead of being stuck in the middle of nowhere.

Spring break comes, and with it your train ticket from Midvale to Metropolis and your hunk of a boyfriend waiting for you at the arrival station. You nearly tackle him to the ground — and that says something, because he played football in high school — and kiss him fervently right here and there, not really caring about being in public. He takes your luggage like the real gentleman he is and tries not to laugh when you take his hand and start skipping like Heidi as he leads the way to his apartment.

It’s definitely the shortest week of your existence — you get to have a preview of the life you’ll have with Clark in Metropolis, but not really the whole thing. You try to forget about how soon you’ll have to be back home as he shows you around and introduces you to his friends, and try to ignore the fact that while you’ve been wallowing in your own pity and having breakdowns weekly he seems to be just fine — peachy, even. As you barely manage to adapt in an environment without him, he’s thriving without you — and you know it’s not specifically because of your absence, but still. It drives you crazy, the way you seem to cling on him for everything as he manages to handle even the most complicated things alone.

The week ends, and you go back home — maybe it’s for the best, you try to reason with yourself. You’re not sure of how much you could go on without going crazy while seeing him being perfectly fine without you as you’re spending every day missing him, and you’re starting to doubt yourself. Maybe he just doesn’t need you as much as you need him, and that hurts, because you’ve spent all your life by his side and don’t really know how to change that.

You still try to put up a brave face when talking to him on the phone, even though you’ve been counting the days that remain until your graduation — and thus Clark’s next visit — and try to hide your anxiety about your college applications. Veterinary Science, you’ve chosen — pretty predictable for a farm girl who was raised around animals, really. Metropolis is your first choice, of course, but what you haven’t really told Clark are the other options — Gotham University, Central City College, and countless others that you don’t really want to mention to him.

Truth is, you’re not sure you’ll be accepted into Met U, and even if you did — you’re still not sure it would be the best option. Clark seems to be holding up the fort just perfectly without you — and since you’ve visited him in Metropolis, you’ve had this horrendous itch that you just aren’t able to actually scratch. Would you be able to create the life he’s having, alone? Are you melancholic just because you’re in Smallville, and to you Smallville has always meant Clark Kent? Would it be the same if you weren’t here but somewhere else, like Gotham?

Graduation day comes and goes, and not even Clark’s presence is able to bring you out of the existential crisis you feel you’re living in — because the thing is, you don’t really know how you would manage in a new city alone. You’ve never explored the idea because you’ve always taken for granted that Clark would’ve been there for you, but seeing the acceptance rate at Met U really gave you a reality check.

You spend the day throwing mostly fake smiles at everyone that congratulates you and going back to frowning at your shoes once they notice Clark at your side, not able to ignore the pit that’s formed in your stomach at the thought of not being accepted at Metropolis University anymore. But why do you really want to go there, anyways? Because there’s Clark? As much as you love him, you don’t want to live your life tied to his side only to then discover you can’t actually function without him.

And when, inevitably, the admission letters come back in, you try to act like you can keep it together — like you’re not nearly combusting at the mere idea of opening them. Clark comes over in the evening and you open them together, hearts thumping and feet tapping nervously against the ground. The first one you open, of course, is from Met U.

Dear miss, this is in regard to your application to the Veterinary Science program at Metropolis University, Delaware; we regret to inform you that…

You don’t even want to read the rest of the letter, immediately dropping it on the table and getting up from your seat to go take a breath of fresh air on the porch — trying to avoid the inevitable nervous breakdown waiting for you if you dare to look into Clark’s eyes. You don’t want to see the disappointment in them — you know he’d never really blame you, but you’ve been waiting for this moment for a whole year, and despite all your doubts you still wanted to be admitted. It’s, honestly, so humbling.

Clark is smart enough to give you a couple of minutes to yourself, coming to sit beside you on the porch when he’s sure you won’t burst out crying as soon as he mentions the subject, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “It’s not the end of the world,” he hushers, pressing a kiss to your temple, “you’ve been accepted to GCU, which is still closer to Metropolis than Smallville. Or– or Star City, too, even if that’s a bit far– whatever makes you happy, I’ll support that.”

You sniffle, rubbing the palm of your hand on your face. “You opened the other letters?”

He chuckles quietly, “Wouldn’t rob you of the experience. X-ray vision, remember?”

A small, broken laugh escapes you. “Oh, you and your outer-world powers.” he shares the laugh with you, the air lightening for just a moment before it goes back to heavy. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”

He flinches. “You– oh, sweetheart, no,” you can tell that he’s, for maybe the first time in his life, at a loss for words. “It’s… it’s just a mishap. They happen. It’s not your fault.”

You hide your face in your knees and hug them tight against your chest. “I was already imagining us two happily living together in Metropolis.” you're now imagining yourself not able to live alone without him and ending up all alone in the new city, whatever one it’ll be.

“And it will happen,” he assures you, “just, in… a couple of years. As soon as they let you transfer to Metropolis University.”

Life goes on. You choose to pursue Gotham University, even if your parents are a little worried about the percentage of violent crimes there, and find a little apartment near campus in a complex that’s owned by the School Department and offered to the students for a modest price in one of the relatively safest areas in town. Clark helps you pack and even drives you all the way to Gotham when it’s time for the semester to start, unloading all your things in his truck and carrying them up the stairs to your unit.

That being said, your roommate’s already there when you enter. “Jenna,” she introduces herself, enthusiastically shaking your hand as you let Clark do all the work in the background. She’s got a shirt with the drawing of a bat on and looks already settled in. “Heard you weren’t from around here, so I got you a little welcome present!” she passes you a glittery pink box with a bow on it, smiling excitedly.

You blush, hesitantly accepting the gift, “Oh, there was no need–”

She brushes you off with an easy smile, “Nonsense! Now, open it and tell me if you like it,” she’s buzzing with joy, and Clark curiously joins your side while wiping inexistent sweat from his forehead. You cautiously untie the ribbon, then open the box to reveal the gift, “It’s a…” you’re trying your best not to seem rude, but you’re really confused. “...A weirdly shaped bat?” Clark tries, not unkindly.

Your roommate doesn’t seem too disheartened by the inexistent recognition of her gift. “It’s a Bat-taser!” she says it like there could be no doubt ever about it. “They’re really popular these days. Trust me, you’ll need it.” a fucking taser. Shaped like a bat–

Clark perks up, “Oh, yeah– is it from the guy that goes around dressed like a bat?”

Jenna claps like he’s won the lottery. “Batman, yeah!”

You frown, “I’ve heard of him. Guys playing dress-up are getting really popular these days, aren’t they? Heard about a guy floating around in a horrendous green suit in Star City.” you lower your voice, making sure only Clark can hear you, “You sure he isn’t from your planet?”

“I sure hope not,” he whispers back, “would really taint the whole mysterious thing about being from an unknown planet, you know?”

Bat-taser aside, you find out pretty soon that Jenna’s actually really cool. She was born and raised in Gotham, apparently, and lunged at the idea of moving into a safer area of the city when given the opportunity. “Things are actually crazy around here,” she tells you as soon as Clark leaves — thank God, because the last thing you want is a far-away worried boyfriend that shriekes in fear every time you have to go out. “Got even crazier when Batman started going around. We’ve got so many insane criminals that a whole island’s basically dedicated to them.”

“You mean Arkham,” you recall, slouched on the couch beside her, “so the stories about the asylum are true?”

“Probably even watered down,” she muses, “the city’s had more lockdowns than sunny days these last few years.”

Well, isn’t that exciting. Something tells you that soon, you’ll learn exactly why Bat-tasers are so popular these days.

You adjust to life in Gotham pretty well — to be back home before the sun sets, to use all the locks on the door even if it’s still just noon and never ever leave a single window open. You and Jenna have the disadvantage of the balcony — a tiny little crane that looks onto the street below —, disadvantage, you learn confusedly, because apparently Batman and his friends (aka the lunatics that he follows around in the city) often swing by those and either break the rails (in Batman’s case) or straight up break-in (in the lunatics' case).

Adapting to Gotham is hard — but still easier, you must say, than adapting to a Smallville without Clark. It’s a new city, after all, void of any memories and full of new things, and soon enough you’re too immersed into your studies and the new city to constantly miss your boyfriend's presence.

It’s not that you don’t miss him — you do — it’s just different than in Smallville. It doesn’t feel like something — someone — is constantly missing, and you have enough things on your mind to keep Clark’s absence out of your mind until mid to late evening, when usually one of you calls the other to talk about how things are going.

Jenna helps, too — you find yourself being more close to her than you could ever imagine. It’s more like having a sister rather than a roommate, really. She manages somehow to get you a job at the same animal clinic she works at, and you've discovered more things that people can do in the last few months in Gotham than in your eighteen years of life, and that’s probably where farm life has stunted you.

She offers you your first cigarette — not really a cigarette, she specifies, it’s made out of natural herbs that should taste like strawberry or something like that — and soon enough you purchase two ten-dollar fold-in chairs from Target just for the thrill of sitting in your little hazardy balcony while gossiping about the other students or one of her fifty family members.

“And you?” she asks during a Saturday night in October, spent happily freezing outside while bundled up in a blanket each, “I bet at least one interesting thing happened in your eighteen years spent in your little farm town.”

You think about Clark flying and holding up cows and tractors like they’re berries, “The most interesting thing that can happen in Smallville is a particularly nice harvest. Even though I do recall that the milkman’s wife cheated on him with the mailman a couple of years ago.”

For Christmas, obviously, you go back home. Jenna tells you that she’ll take care of the plants and make sure that nobody dares to break in, even if she’s back to her parents in Chinatown. Clark picks you up at the Metropolis' train station, greeting you with a tight hug and a loving kiss, and you make the two-hour drive to Smallville together, chatting quietly about how the last few months have been. Not surprisingly, even with the distance between you two shortening to eighty-seven miles rather than the hundred from Smallville, you haven’t really had the time to see each other.

Something’s going on with Clark. You’re not really sure what it is, but the look in his eyes troubles you. He looks dazed, almost dull, and he isn’t anything like your usual loverboy Kent is.

“Hey,” you whisper to him on Christmas Eve night, as everyone chatters happily while waiting for midnight to open the presents, “everything alright?”

“Mh?” he looks taken aback. “Oh, yeah, I’m just…” he sighs, slumping his head against your shoulder, “lost in my own thoughts, I think.”

“Well, what about them?”

His brows furrow. “Not sure yet.” he looks up at you, pretty blue eyes shining under the dim light of the living room, “Do you ever think that my powers should be used for good?”

You stay silent for a moment. “I think you’re too kind to use them in any way but for good. Why?”

“I don’t mean ‘helping my parents in the farm’ good,” he nuzzles his nose on your shoulder, leaving a faint kiss there. “I mean, like, ‘helping citizens during a crisis’ good.”

You blink. “You’ve got a heart of gold, Clark Kent,” you hush lovingly, pressing a kiss into his curls, “but as much as I love that about you, I don’t think you should put that burden on your shoulders. If you could, you’d help everyone, but that can’t really be possible. There’ll always be an old lady you couldn’t help walking the street, or a girl you couldn’t save from a mugger.”

His eyes are so soft that they might melt you too. “Why are you telling me this?”

You frown in the most gentle way possible. “Because I’m worried that if you start being like Green Lantern or– or Batman, you’ll never be able to come to terms with the people you weren’t able to help.”

“I still could try to help,” he argues without any spite.

You study his face — oh, your sweet, sweet boy… “Jenna told me stories,” you murmur, “about Batman having to crawl back to his car, bloodied and barely alive, and sometimes even fainting in some God-forgotten alley — saved only because of some good samaritans that helped him get back up on his feet. I… I know that you might feel like you have a mission, Clark, but you have to consider the downsides of it.” you shake your head gently, “I don’t want you to be the man lying half-dead in a dark alley while I wonder why you’re so late to dinner.”

Of course, none of you knows the true extent of Clark’s powers — that happens when someone has to hide them for all of his life. When the winter break comes to an end, you go back to Gotham with Clark like always, but this time the car ride is silent. He drops you off at your apartment, carries your luggage up the stairs and kisses you goodbye like nothing’s wrong — like the air isn’t heavy with something.

Your days go on like always — you listen to your lessons, study, have a half-decent lunch with Jenna, listen to some more lessons, do your shift at the animal clinic and get back home before the sun goes down. The calls with Clark have slightly lessened, and you’d like to think that the blame can be put on the shoulders of the exam season, which — you are sure of it — is kicking both of your asses. Everything continues just fine until April comes.

Clark calls, which by now it’s unusual because it’s always you that calls him. “Hello?” Your reply comes after a few rings, because it’s 10 a.m. on a Sunday and you sure as hell weren’t thinking about getting out of bed before it was time for lunch. Silence meets you on the other end. “I said, hello?”

“Hi,” Clark’s voice is the tiniest squeal, a very unusual thing for him — he’s never insecure about something, and when he is, you talk it out like the responsible people you’d like to think you are.

You sigh softly on the phone, already fighting back sleep, “Hi, baby,” you yawn loudly, “what’s up?”

“I, um…” he stutters for a bit, maybe unsure of where to start. “I’m in town for a couple of commissions. Are you up for a coffee?”

Well, if that doesn’t wake you up, you don’t know what would. “You’re here? In Gotham?”

“Yeah.” you do hear the ever persistent GCPD sirens screech on his end of the line.

“Not that I’m mad about it, but why?”

Another weird silence. “I told you, had a couple of commissions to run.”

It confuses you — what kind of job would Clark have to do in Gotham, and why didn’t he even tell you about it before coming here? — but you just shrug it off, taking for granted that he’ll explain everything about it when you see him. You get ready to meet him downtown quite happily, thinking about maybe a surprise, but nothing could really prepare you for what’s about to come.

“I think we should break up.”

The words ring in your ears. You’ve never pondered about the option of Clark and you breaking up — honestly, you’ve known him for so long that it just wasn’t even a thought in your head. Ever since you were little, you’d dreamed of the day you’d finally be able to marry Clark Kent and have the life you’d always fantasized about with him.

The café he told you to meet him in is nice. Not one of the fancy ones in uptown Gotham, but not even one of the worst ones down in Crime Alley. You’re pretty sure you’d actually be able to enjoy it if it wasn’t for the fact that your boyfriend of four years is dumping you in it and you have no idea why. You can’t even form an actual thought, let alone an intelligent one, so the only thing that escapes your mouth is, “Uh?”

He doesn’t look so comfortable either. It’s your first time getting dumped, but it’s also his first time dumping someone, you guess. “I just think it’s not working anymore between us. That we may need some time to figure things out on our own.” the shock must be written on your face, because he almost flinches. “Don’t look at me like that, please.”

“A cappuccino, an espresso and a croissant,” the waitress pretends not to listen as she brings you guys your order, but you saw her staring earlier. You shake your head in disbelief as soon as she leaves, pinching the bridge of your nose to try to make sense of anything that’s happening right now. “So you mean to tell me that the commission you had to do in Gotham… was to break up with me?”

He grimaces. “Don’t say it like that,”

“How else should I put it?” you hiss, “Clark, we’ve been together for four years — friends for all my existence even before that. You’ve been in my life since I can remember and you want to break up with me with the whole ‘I don’t think it’s working anymore’ bullshit? No, my guy, you’ll have to tell me a lot more than that. What is up with you?”

He presses his lips together for a brief moment, “I managed to get my degree earlier than I expected,” he almost stumbles over his words, “I… it was always my intention, but I didn’t think I’d actually manage to do so in such a brief period of time.”

You blink. “You never told me that.”

“I– I never told anyone, actually.” now he’s actively avoiding your eyes while nervously playing with his fingers, “Clark, it’s not a thing you just casually avoid to mention. You turned a three to four year program into a year and a half course. That’s a big thing. You should’ve told me– I would’ve done my best to support you.”

His eyes are shiny, and it’s not just because of the light hitting them in just the right way. “I’m leaving.”

You blink. “What?”

He gives you a sad smile — and that makes you shudder, because in your entire life you’ve never ever seen Clark Kent smile like that. It’s honestly scary; he’s made for happy smiles, not for sad half-crapped ones. “I’m leaving,” he repeats gently, “I want to find out more about my biological parents — about my home planet. I think I’ve just found a way to do that, and I don’t know exactly for how long I’ll be gone.” he blinks away the tears, “And I can’t leave if I know that I’ve left you behind waiting for me.”

“How long will you be gone?” you almost don’t hear yourself asking — it’s like that’s not even your voice. You have no idea how you still haven’t started crying.

His voice is almost as little as yours. “I don’t know. I’d like to think it could be just a few months, but… something tells me it’ll be years.”

You’re not sure how you get back home, but you somehow do. Jenna is on the couch, eating ice cream for breakfast, and chirps happily when she sees you. “Hey, I was getting worried! How did it go with Prince Charming?" you make it to your room before you throw yourself on the bed and start ugly crying uncontrollably.

You don’t know life without Clark Kent. You’ve been inseparable since forever, and you always thought he’d be one of the only constants in your life — turns out, he had other plans. Yes, it’s true that you wanted to experience life in the big city without him, but that doesn’t mean you wanted him completely out of your life — you just wanted to see how well you’d do. (Ditched for unknown and dead parents, by the way? That has to be a new low.)

Jenna tries her best to boost your morale — even buys you that one Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream that she hates with passion but that you love— but in the end, everything proves to be useless, and you end up going on with your life while trying to pretend that you have it all together.

Class. Study. Lunch. Class. Work. Back at home. Repeat.

Of course, you barely manage to keep it together. Every hour not spent doing the things you have to do is spent in bed contemplating your life and the exact moment where it got real shitty. Somewhere along the first week Ma Kent calls, probably alerted by your mother about the break up, but you really don’t have the heart nor the strength needed to respond to her call. You’re relieved when she avoids calling a second time — probably knowing that you need some space and that she’s not the first person you’d want to hear after something like this — because you don’t really know how you could’ve avoided to reply for a second time while watching her name grace the screen.

Week two passes and things get even worse for you, so much so that you have to call in sick to work thanks to the sore throat that you find yourself with after crying uncontrollably for almost all night every night. You can tell Jenna’s fed up, because even with all her strength, it seems as if she can’t help you at all.

“You know, I once broke up with an italian guy over distance,” she tries to reason, sprawled on your bed as you lie face down as if dead — you have yet to actually explain to her why you and Clark broke up, so she’s still thinking that it was because of all the miles separating you. “He has yet to tell his mother– and it’s been two years. She still sends me a whole box of Italian cheeses for every holiday.” she suddenly perks up, “Maybe I’ll be graced with some of the famous Ma Kent pie one day. I hope she sends a piece for your birthday.”

Your hiccup is muffled by the pillow. “Right, yeah, sorry. Not the best thing to say right now. You don’t need to mourn Ma Kent’s pie too. You’ll do that once you’re ready.”

“I’ll never be ready to mourn Martha’s pie,” you groan. You could get over Clark Kent, but not his mother's pies. Your ma's still friends with her, so you doubt that you’ll never eat it again, but you’ll have no reason to come over to the Kent’s farm as much as you did before.

Two days later, entering the third week post break up, Jenna has had enough — and she barges into your room with a plan. “We’re going out.”

As always, your reply comes out muffled, “Ion wan’ to.”

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to,” she tears off the duvet from your body and takes a hold of your ankles, literally dragging you out of bed as you shriek, “I just said that we are going out!”

She makes sure you dress up decently before dragging you out of the house and into her car, making sure the child lock is on — wouldn’t want you to jump out of the vehicle as she’s driving — before starting the engine. “I signed you up for an audition.”

You look at her, frowning, pretty sure your ears have betrayed you and made you hear wrong. “I’m sorry, what?”

Her smile is so genuine that it would be hard to find the will to smack her. “I signed you up for an audition,” she repeats without any sign of remorse, “you know Flowers n’ Kisses? The shop uptown? They’re looking for new models to renew the brand, make it younger. And you, my dear, with your little sad eyes and red cheeks from all the crying, will be perfect.”

You stare at her, bewildered. “Are you well?”

“What? It’s true that you look your best right after crying!”

“Are you saying I should be sad more often?”

“Of course not! I’m just saying that at least one good thing should come out of this situation — besides, don’t look at me like that, you know you’re already sad all the time. I just think that we should take advantage of your puffy, irritated, cute face. Besides, it’s just to try something new! Who knows, maybe you’ll like the lights of the camera and having to pose and all the pretty dresses they’ll put you in.” you highly doubt that, but you let it go in favour of your remaining sanity.

There’s at least twenty other people at the audition when you arrive to the location — and this is only the three PM slot, Jenna whispers to you conspiratorially — and you raise an eyebrow when you see the other girls there, because they’re gorgeous and you’re starting to wonder if there were any demands for this interview. “Jenna, are you sure there aren’t any requirements for this kind of thing?”

“Oh, there were,” she assures you, “I had to put a couple of your pictures in the form before they gave me a time for your audition. I tried to apply too, but they rejected me.” she sighs dramatically, clinging to your arm, “But if I can’t chase my dream of marrying a ninety-year-old multi-billionaire and living the rest of my life filthy rich, then you might as well follow up for me! And don’t forget about me when you’re going on vacation to Tenerife with your boyfriend’s super expensive and huge yacht…”

“You’re sick,” you mutter, completely fed up, “and not in the good sense. I’m sure there’s people in Arkham down on the worst levels that are much more reasonable than you.” you sigh, feeling the by-now familiar punch to the gut that follows every single thought about him, “I don’t care about yachts. I would’ve been just happy with a little apartment in Metropolis with Clark.”

She groans dramatically, “Oh, please! What was so great about this guy? Was he the genie of the lamp or something? Was he that good in bed?”

You sniffle. “You’re so cruel. He was my everything.”

“He’s a guy! An average one, at best!”

“You take that back–” you’re about to strangle her because Clark Kent is definitely above the average male population but get conveniently stopped by the call of your name. It’s the PR manager, you assume, and he smiles kindly at you when Jenna takes your hand and raises it up like he’s a teacher making a difficult question and you’re a student eager to reply. “Please come with me, this way.”

You find out his name is Roy and he’s better at make up than you are — you stare at his perfect eyeliner with envy as he leads you to a room with a camera set up and a table with other people quietly chatting. You already feel awkward just by standing there, and you’d be lying if you said that you were ready for this thing, so you find yourself thinking about Jenna’s dreams to force yourself to go on. Think about Tenerife and a yacht. Think about Tenerife and a yacht. Think about–

“So, miss,” a redhead at the center of the table smiles at you, leaning her chin on her intertwined fingers, “are you ready to start?”

You'd be lying if you said that you got out of there without feeling stupid. They made you walk into a straight line with music in the background, asked you to pose, took a few pictures and then just started asking questions about your life, saying something about wanting to know the personality of the candidates. You feel so relieved when you walk out that room that suddenly being single doesn’t look as bad as staying ten minutes more in that hell hole.

Jenna doesn’t seem to be too worried about your relief about being out of there. “So?” she asks excitedly, “How did it go?”

“I doubt they’ll call back,” you weren’t that terrible, but you’re sure that much more qualified people auditioned for this thing — and even if they didn’t, you’d seen at least fifteen girls that look like they could rock the style of Flowers n’ Kisses way better than you, “but if they do, I’m not replying. Please don’t make me do that again, like, ever. We don’t need an ancient husband to have a yacht, we can just steal one. Seems way more doable to me.”

Except that they actually call back. And you hadn’t put into the equation the fact that while registering you for the audition, Jenna was smart enough to put her cellphone number in it instead of yours.

“You signed me up for another thing?”

“I had to! They were happy about your audition and wanted to schedule the day for the shoot of the campaign!”

“What campaign–”

“The one for the summer collection! Aw, c’mon, they’ll pay you eight hundred something dollars and give you some free clothes too–”

You want to smash your forehead into the wall — but then again, she wouldn’t let you do that, because your forehead is on your face and your face will be on an ad of some kind. “I wouldn’t risk having a restful sleep if I were you,” you hiss, “because I think that one of these days I’ll become one of the many maniacs that help the violent crimes rate be so high, and rest assured that you’ll be my first victim.”

Jenna doesn’t seem to worry about that, and as it turns out she’s right to be — because on the day pre-established you still make yourself presentable and head to the studios where the photoshoot’s supposed to be at 7 a.m. sharp like requested.

The same PR guy you met at the audition greets you first with a smile and a hand shake, “Roy Chamler,” he introduces himself — you only notice you didn’t know his full name when he says it. You were so nervous at the audition that you barely introduced yourself, let alone asked the name of the other people there. “PR manager and guy in charge of the campaign. Is this your first time participating in something like this?”

You cringe. “Yeah, is it that obvious?”

He shrugs, smiling at you. “I’ve made it work with worse in my hands. You were chosen in the end, weren’t you?”

The day starts with a worryingly high stack of paperwork in need to be signed. “Your contract,” Roy explains, patting it, “the rights for your image and copyright, parties involved, payment times, everything.”

You frown, “Is it normal for employees to sign their contract on the first day of work?”

It’s his time to cringe. “No. It’s just that… the owner of the brand — Mrs Livvie, she was at the audition — is a very demanding woman. She called me a month ago about making the campaign and I have barely a week left to organize the rest. So, please, even if the conditions of this job are weird, please bear with me.”

You sigh. “Alright. Where will the pictures of the shoot be exposed, exactly?”

He cringes even more. “I… it’s all in the contract. You know, before Mrs Livvie, it was her father who thought about the brand. Then it was passed down and she wanted to do a lot of things, but it’s clear that she still doesn’t really know her way around. So, the thing is, it will depend on how much her and the other owners like the shoot.” he tilts his head, “I wouldn’t say more than a couple of posters around town and maybe some internet ads, though.”

You sign the contract while not trying to overthink too much about your face being splattered around the internet, and as soon as Roy gets his hands on the paperwork you’re dragged into a room that positively looks like a spa. A girl gets immediately around to work on your hair as another worries about your nails, and you have to admit that if submitting to this thing meant a free manicure and hairdo you’d have gotten here even earlier than needed to. The make-up is the last thing on the list, right after the clothes, and then you’re ready for the shoot.

The whole ordeal lasts about five hours — five grueling hours, during which you have to change outfit, make up and hairdo one time too many for the day to still be considered relaxing. You go back home with your hair still in the last slickback they gave you, mascara a little smudged from all the times you rubbed your eyes during the train ride, and a bag full of clothes to wear this summer. Roy tells you that the ads should be up somewhere between next week and the one after that, takes your actual phone number and promises to call you if any problem with the campaign emerges.

Meanwhile, you're surprisingly starting to accept the fact that Clark dumped you and probably will never get back with you, that he’s now who-knows-where doing who-knows-what with who-knows-who. Actually, you’re starting to get mad — how dare he not tell you about his plans? For how long was he thinking about just disappearing? You were out there dreaming about a future with him and he just–

“Yo,” oh. Is your mental health that bad that now your dreams are angry about Clark, too? Because you’re in bed, it’s been a little over a week since the shoot and Jenna is shaking you awake. “Yo. You did not tell me the campaign was so serious.”

Still groggy, you barely find the strength to raise your head from the pillow, “Whatcha mean?”

“The billboard,” she hisses, “you didn’t tell me they were going to put your pictures on a billboard.”

That wakes you up instantly. “They what?”

Sure enough, there’s a big ass billboard with a picture of you in a strawberry shirt and a pair of low-rise jeans while subtly smiling at the camera from the side (under the brand’s name and motto, of course) right in the middle of Union Square — literally the most trafficked place in all of Gotham. You’re about to slap yourself in the face because there’s simply no way they actually put a whole billboard of you when they said it was gonna be just a couple of ads online and maybe some posters around town. You suddenly fear what they’ll do with the pictures of you in that one blue tankini.

“Dear God,” you utter in disbelief.

Jenna blinks. “If it reassures you, you do look good. It’s the sad eyes, I think. They give you depth.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to show my face around ever again,” you’re on the verge of tears, “how will I manage to get around on campus again? No, Jenna, I’m finding a house in the Appalachians and hiding there for the rest of my life–”

“But you can’t! This is one picture and you’re really shining in it– why can’t you embrace this? Maybe it’s a good thing! Do you know how much models make–”

“Jenna!” you shriek, “My photo is on a fucking billboard right in front of Wayne Tower! Can’t you understand I just want to bury myself in the ground and die?”

“Well, maybe it’ll make Bruce Wayne fall in love with you as he’s forced to see your face every day.” she jokes, “And then I’ll be able to get my vacation on a yacht–”

“We are not going on vacation with Bruce Wayne,” you hiss, “have you seen one footage of him with any woman? God knows what he puts in their — and his — drink to act like that.”

“I think of him as someone who’s actively drunk all the time without even drinking, and his company is surely not better than him.” she shrugs, “Besides, he’s not that older than you. You would be happier with him rather than with the ninety-year-old billionaire."

You blanch. “I’ll be happy if they both leave me alone.”

They will, unfortunately, not leave you alone, you find out soon. Because thanks to the spike in sales, not even two weeks after the ads are made public the management of Flowers n’ Kisses organises a gala with all of its associates and investors, and you — just like the other models who do runways and are the face of previous campaigns — are contract-bound to participate, because– well. Your face is scattered all over the city while wearing their clothes — it would be weird if you didn’t show up, no?

And guess who is one of the biggest associates of Flowers n’ Kisses? Exactly. Fucking Wayne Industries. Guess your dream of not becoming one of Bruce Wayne’s victims as the latest coming model — not that you would describe yourself as one, but you guess that his definition of model is much more wider than yours — in Gotham may be a little more difficult to achieve, since if they could talk, he would probably try to have one-night stands with walls too.

Roy calls again to arrange for you to get a dress, one from the newest collection that you hadn’t had the chance of trying out, and thankfully he doesn’t seem too mad about the last time you called him — you had insulted him so much about the billboard that you almost discovered new curse words. “You know, I got a few calls about you,” he says, ecstatic, “people love you! I’ve got the list of a few other brands that would like a contract with you–”

You shut the idea before it gets a little too deep into his head. “No. Bye, I have an exam to study for.”

The event’s in some fancy, fancy rented mansion’s ballroom — incredible that they still have those, by the way — and the timing’s just right, because tomorrow morning you have a test, and you’re already mumbling names and descriptions under your breath before they even get you in that evening dress. And about the dress– it’s dark blue, with little embroidered silver stars around your hips, tight where it needs to be and softer as it reaches your legs. They give you a pair of silver kitten heels to match the stars around the dress, and even if they do kill your feet a little, you have to admit that you look good.

Getting out of the room where they dolled you up, you immediately notice another woman at the end of the hallway — probably one of the other models of the brand, hopefully one more experienced than you. She seems to notice you too, and waves a hand up to catch your attention, “Hey! You must be the new girl they told me about,”

She’s stunning, with chocolate skin and honey eyes and a dress that — you guess — is made to be worn right next to yours, because while your gown resembles the night, hers resembles the dawn, with an embroidered red sun on her waist. She offers you her hand, which you shake without any questions, “I’m Kelly,” she introduces herself, “Roy asked me to keep an eye out for you — didn’t want you to feel lost. She knows these types of gatherings can be scary, and I’m happy to help a new recruit out.” Kelly does look a bit older and experienced than you — early thirties, at most, even if she does carry them well.

“Thank God,” you can’t really hide your relief, “I was afraid I had to do all of this alone.”

She giggles, “I remember being this scared too. You’re doing it well, though, from what I have seen — you came out perfect in the pictures, I really couldn’t believe it was your first shoot,”

You feel your face get hotter at her words, “Thanks,” you manage to squeal out as she guides you into the ballroom, where the main event is held, “It’s the sad eyes, I think.” she adds. You’re one more comment about your sad eyes apart from imploding. “I don’t tend to like these events, but usually the food is pretty nice, so that’s a plus. I’d avoid any drink already served if I were you, though,”

Thankfully, you soon find out that you two were put at the same table — great thing for you, because you really don’t want to socialize more than you actually need to. The other people around the table are mostly boring investors and owners of shares, who don’t seem interested in asking anything more than what’s expected in a common conversation — your name, age, what do you do in life. One kind old lady asks you more about university and looks actually interested in hearing you repeat the subject of your exam tomorrow, until you are rudely interrupted by a voice calling out for you just as the dessert is being served.

“Oh, there she is!” you’ve only seen her once, but you do recognize Mrs Livvie from the audition — you did not forget those striking red hair of hers. Beside her, your latest possible obstacle: in all his striking glory, Bruce Wayne. “This is our latest golden girl, miss…” it’s clear that she has forgotten your name, which you kindly suggest to her, “Right! A real sweetheart. Anyways, this is Kelly Th–”

“I know Kelly,” he interrupts her, giving her and your — hopefully — latest friend a kind smile. “I remember her from the runway for the autumn collection.” he turns his gaze to you, “I’ve never met you, though, which is really a shame because you’re stunning. You know, the billboard with one of your photos is right in front of my office, which is the motivation to get on time around the office I just needed.” well, if this isn’t your nightmare come true.

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Mrs Livvie looks at you, “this is Mr Wayne–”

“Please,” he looks directly at you in a way that would normally have you swooning, but that from him just makes you quite worried. “Just Bruce will go.”

You give him a tight-lipped smile, “Sure.”

“Weird that I have never seen you before,” he continues, “usually models start young, but I’m happy that Nina found you — you’re a real jewel, miss. May I ask why you — or your parents — never thought of putting you out there?”

“Well, I never knew about this talent of mine until now.”

He smiles, chuckling quietly, “Well, you don’t sound like you’re from around here, either, am I right?”

You nod. “Yessir — I’m from Smallville, a little farm town a couple of hundreds of miles from here.” you hope that being the daughter of farmers will scare off a playboy that is known to socialize with rich people. It doesn’t.

“Well, if you ever need anything,” he takes out a business card from his breast pocket with a pen and scribbles something on it, then gives it to you, “please don’t hesitate to call me. I’m at your disposal.”

You don’t reply, getting a weird look from all the people on the table before Mrs Livvie quickly brings his attention elsewhere — hopefully away from you. Kelly looks at you, delighted, “Well, miss girl, that is the offer of a lifetime.”

You snort, looking unamusedly at the private number scribbled on the card. “I doubt I’ll ever use it.”

Summer break comes a lot faster than you’d expected.

You’re not sure it’s a good thing. You still haven’t exactly come to terms with what happened with Clark now almost three months ago and the thought of seeing your parent’s farm draped with pictures of you and him from when you two were kids nauseates you. Besides, you just know that your mother talked to everyone who willing to listen about your newfound talent as a model, even if you only did one shoot. It’s also your first time doing the trip from Gotham to Smallville alone, and you opt to just use the train after seeing the whopping prices for a taxi.

Your father picks you up at the Midvale train station, teary eyed and with arms wide open to hug you. “My baby,” he says trembly, once you are in his arms “oh, it seems like it’s been years since Christmas,”

You laugh tearily. “Oh, trust me, I know.”

The car trip is filled with conversation and love. “Oh– did your mother tell you we adopted a dog?”

You perk up. “Oh, did you, now?”

Your father nods, “Dunno what kind o’ dog he is. All I know is he’s yellow. We found him on the side of the road to the farmer’s market a coupla’ weeks ago and he won’t leave your mother's side since then. We tried to ask around, see if he was someone’s dog — nobody knew anything, so her resolve was just to take him home.” he looks at you, cracking up with laughter. “You wanna know what she called him?”

You grin, loving to see your father so serene. “Do tell me.”

“Batman!” his laughter gets even louder, “Batman, you get it? Said, it’s after the psycho that runs around in a Halloween costume and makes sure that my daughter’s city doesn’t burn down. I really owe him. Have you ever even seen him, or is he just some kind of urban legend?”

You crack up with laughter too, half from hearing him laugh so openly, half for the actual story, “No, no,” you wheeze, “never seen him, but I do know people that have. I just don’t get out late enough for him to be running around yet, I fear.”

It’s with relief that, once you enter the farm, you notice that all the pictures of you and Clark have either disappeared or been replaced. You know your mother’s too much of a sentimentalist to get rid of them, so they’re probably carefully hidden in some drawer — but that doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate her gesture. She hugs you tightly and kisses you on both cheeks before calling out for the dog — which you find out is a golden retriever — to meet you.

The next three weeks are spent helping your parents around the farm and bringing Batman — or, as your mother calls him, Battie — in the fields so that he can run as much as he likes. You gotta admit that you also do it to try to form new memories of the place — because you simply can’t spend the rest of your life brooding as soon as you go back there to visit your parents.

You avoid the old classmates to prevent any questions about Clark. You don’t visit the Kents. You’d like to, but honestly, you are ashamed — ashamed because Martha had called back when you and Clark had just broken up, and yet you never called her back or replied. Or sent a message. Or a postcard. Did you really ghost a nice old lady? Because that has to be some kind of new low.

It’s your mom that tries to get you back to sanity. “Martha and Jon did nothing to you,” she tells you, angered, when you refuse to take the muffins she’s just baked to their farm, “and you are going to say hi to them because they’ve always been nothing but nice to you!”

That’s how you end up at the porch of the Kent’s farm, a tray of still steaming muffins in your hands as you anxiously wait for either of them to answer the door. You almost burst out in tears when it’s Martha that greets you — because, you have to admit, you’ve missed them too. And as she invites you in and calls Jon down to say hi to you too, not mentioning that call you had completely ignored — you thank the universe that at least you didn’t lose them too with Clark.

You return to Gotham feeling shittier than ever, but, hey! At least you got some nice pie while you were in Smallville, since you can’t really say that you and Jenna cook real food when you have to eat. The University’s not back open just yet, so you spend most of your days picking more shifts at work so that people that actually go on vacation can do it without any remorse or trouble.

You’re worrying about getting every animal at the clinic fed when the bell of the door rings out in the waiting room. “I’ll be there in a minute!” you call out, petting a cat and putting him back into his carrier as he meowles happily around the meat stick you just gave him — a good enough treat in exchange to being neutered, you hope.

You exit the backroom and go back to the front desk, “So, how can I help–” your eyebrows raise. “Mr Wayne?”

In all his glory, surely. He’s right in front of you, smiling, hair slicked back and sunglasses hanging from the neckline of his shirt. “I thought I asked you to call me Bruce,” he says, not unkindly.

You try not to grimace. The last thing you wanted for him was to find out where you worked. “Yeah, sorry,” you press your lips into a thin line, “how can I help you?”

“I was thinking about adopting a dog.” this actually surprises you, because you didn’t think billionaires had the time for animals — and even if they did find the time to get them a petsitter, you’d taken for granted that they would buy the fancy breed ones. “I was thinking about getting a german shepherd, I told your friend Kelly at last week’s Prada runway and she suggested coming here since apparently this clinic collaborates with the local shelter.”

“We do,” you nod, “they’re running out of space and we have a decent sized backyard for them to play in and some rooms for the animals to stay in.” you open a drawer on the desk, taking out a folder with all the registered pets, “We mostly have the injured ones that are recovering, but I’m not sure about german shepherds. I do think there’s a mixed one though– there!” you stop at one of the pages and turn the folder for him to see the picture of a dog with brown fur and a star-shaped white patch on his forehead.

“This is Ace– he’s a retired K-9, mixed german shepherd. He’s just two, but was shot during an inspection and has been limping ever since. Nobody in the police department could adopt him, so we took him in. He’s been doing well with the recovery and we’re trying to rehabilitate him to normal as to our best abilities.”

He nods, “Looks like a cute dog. Can I see him?”

You show him the way to the backroom with all the strays, stopping at Ace’s crate. He immediately raises his snout from his paws, tail wagging as he sees you, “Well, this is him,” you sneak a hand between the rails to give him a pet, “one of the nicest dogs we have here — if you want, you could take him on a walk today or when you want. Usually we ask for at least four outings before permitting the adoption — to see if the owner and the pet are compatible, y’know.”

He nods, “So, I can take him out today and then come back in the next few days to later on adopt him?”

You lean your head, “If everything goes well, yes.”

“Perfect– I’d like to take him on a walk right away, then, if possible.”

You get a collar for Ace and a leash for Bruce after getting the dog out of its crate, then put a couple of treats in a little paper bag with some toys. You attach the leash to Ace’s collar and give it to his aspiring owner with the paper bag, “Wait a moment, I’ll tell my coworker that I’m going out and then we can go,”

Mr Wayne perks up, suddenly interested in something else rather than the dog, “You’re coming with us?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Of course. The outings before adoption are always supervised.”

You come back after alerting your coworker that you’re going out, then exit the clinic with Bruce — who's handling a definitely too excited Ace — on tow. It’s weird seeing a blue Rolls Royce parked right in front of where you work, as usually the most expensive thing that’s parked there is a FedEx van. “There’s a dog park just around the corner — we often bring customers there for supervised outings.”

Bruce Wayne looks so out of place in such a funny way at the dog park that you barely manage to keep your laugh in; in his Armani tailored coat as Ace, finally without a leash in the dog fence at the park, looks thrilled to play with him, it’s so obvious that he’s never been in this kind of situation. “Are you sure he’s still in rehab?” he squeals, as the dog tackles him to the ground and licks his whole face clean. “He’s– aargh!– definitely in better shape than me!”

Your laugh finally blesses his ears. “That just means he likes you, Mr Wayne! Be nice to him, or he’ll think you’re friendzoning him.”

Ace is a good dog. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense for bad people — he never barks at kind customers, only at the rude ones, so you guess that’s kinda his talent. And since it’s never betrayed you, you admit that maybe — just maybe — Bruce Wayne isn’t that bad of a person as you thought he would be.

He comes back to the clinic for three days in a row, just what he needed to be able to adopt the retired K-9. He always suspiciously shows up during your shifts, with mysteriously not a single paparazzi on sight and always the same Rolls Royce. On the second day he got there with brand new toys — some for Ace, some in donation for the other pets awaiting a loving owner — and a new collar with a bone-shaped metal tag with a bold ACE engraved on it.

Saturday’s the last day of the supervised period, and just as the last three days, you find yourself leaning over the railing of the fence that limitates the unrestrained dog area, watching them play like they’ve known each other for years. It’s a rare connection to see forming with a guard dog — they usually need time to adapt to new people, but apparently Ace didn’t. He took one look at Bruce and thought yeah, I want to munch on his atelier shoes for the rest of my life.

“You know, I think it really was love at first sight,” you tell him as you walk back to the clinic.

Bruce looks at you like for a second he forgot you were talking about his dog. “You really think so?”

You laugh, “Yeah, I mean, have you seen him? He’s wagging his tail like crazy and he met you three days ago. It’s like he knows you’re taking him home today.”

His shoulders deflate a little as he understands that you’re talking about him and Ace. “Yeah, well, I’m happy that he’s happy.”

“Why do you want a dog, by the way?” you realise just now that you hadn’t asked, having taken for granted that he just wanted one for show, but now it’s clear that it isn’t.

He shrugs, “To keep me company. I guess I just want someone other than my butler greeting me at the door when I get home. Besides, I liked playing with him — it’s a win-win: I get to destress about work and he gets to play catch.” he pets Ace’s head as you reach the clinic, “Don’t you, boy?”

You go behind the desk and immediately get to work, preparing the paperwork for the adoption, “So– here, fill out this form and this one. There’s a ten dollar fee on every adoption, but I guess it shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

He chuckles. “I should have a fifty dollar bill in my wallet — you can keep the change.” he coughs a bit as he starts to fill out the paperwork, “You know, I, uh… I didn’t come here just because I wanted a dog. I wanted to talk to you.”

You square him up and down. “Yeah. We talked the last three days.”

“Oh, no, I mean–” he looks honestly embarrassed, “I was… I was wondering why you didn’t call me back after the event.”

You blink — you had completely forgotten about the business card rotting in your bedside drawer with his private number written on it. You must be the first girl that doesn’t call him back after receiving such an opportunity. “Well, you told me to call if I needed anything, and I have yet to be in need of anything.”

“I–” he sighs, “I was hoping I’d see you at the following Flowers n’ Kisses event, but you weren’t there.”

You raise an eyebrow in the politest way you can muster up. “Yeah. It was a lunch on a Monday. I had an exam.” you actually started ghosting Roy as soon as he started suggesting coming to events not included in your contract, but that’s a story for another time.

It seems you aren’t really getting what he’s trying to say, Bruce understands. He takes a deep breath, “What I meant to say is… that I was wondering if you wanted to grab a coffee one of these days.”

You stare at him, bewildered, then point to yourself. “Me?”

He looks even more bewildered than you. “…Yeah. Would… would you like that?”

“I mean, I,” you aren’t really understanding if he’s interested you in a romantic sense — which would be absolute bonkers, by the way — or if the conversations of the last few days just made him want another friend. “Sure. As… as friends, right?”

He winces. “Yeah, of course.” he’s losing count of how many awkward yeahs he’s mumbling. Alfred’s right; he, terrifyingly so, has a crush.

“Wouldn’t, like, paparazzi follow us?” you really don’t want your face splattered all over the news again.

“I honestly doubt it.” he wouldn’t waste his little chance because of a couple of gossip-hungry journalists. “When I don’t want to be noticed I use my butler’s car, so that if anyone passes by they think it’s him around rather than me, and the staff of the places I frequent can be very discreet.” he looks down to Ace, “Besides, could you really say no to seeing this cute face again?”

No, you couldn’t. You do raise an eyebrow, though, “Your butler… owns a Rolls Royce?”

He nods like it’s the most common thing in the world, “Yeah, it was my gift for his fiftieth birthday.”

And that’s how you end up having coffee with Bruce Wayne in some high-end uptown cafè two days later. Then two days later after that. Then, someway, somehow— fucking everyday. And thank God that he’s the one paying, because you doubt you can even afford one of the smallest macarons they have on the menu.

You have to give it to the man — he’s trying really hard to be nice. It’s clear he’s not good at courting — not the kind that doesn’t let him bring a woman into his bed an hour after he met her, at least — but he’s doing that while also doing his best to respect your boundaries.

“I don’t think it’s really a great time for a new relationship as of now for me,” you explain, a little embarrassed, over the first coffee you share. “I just got out of… one of the most important connections I’ll ever have in my entire life.”

Bruce isn’t one to give up easily, and surely not on the first person he’s actually interested in since years. Even if it will take decades — and he’ll be just as happy being just a friend during those — he won’t give up. Even if he has to be just a friend for all eternity — you and your accent really did a number on him.

Just as he promised, no articles come out about you two, even if a couple of curious waiters do ask if you’re that one girl from the billboard in Union Square — much to Bruce’s sincere delight, because it’s probably the first time in his life that he gets overlooked in favour of his date. What’s so special about your ads to overlook a billionaire, you’ll never really understand.

It goes on for months, and before you can really assimilate it, It’s November and it’s been eight months since Clark broke up with you, seven since the terrific Flowers n’ Kisses campaign and four since you started seeing (you’re not sure how to actually describe it, because you’re kinda warming up to him despite everything) Bruce.

You cave in to Kelly’s constant nagging, and finally accept her invitation to go out for dinner, just the two of you, to her favourite Thai restaurant down the street from her apartment — even after almost a year in Gotham, you’re reluctant about going out at night, still a bit scared after Jenna’s horror stories about her outings during the evening.

It’s a fun night — you chit chat about anything and everything and she makes sure you’re updated about the latest rumors going around in the modeling world (apparently, Linda Reynolds is pregnant, and the father is supposedly the son of the sixty-year-old CEO she should be marrying in a few months). You both laugh as a teenager from one of the other tables comes over and asks you if you’re the girl from that one Flowers n' Kisses photoshoot, and you almost forget about the dangers of going out at night as you exit the restaurant because — c’mon, you’re with Kelly, her car’s just a few feet away from you two and she’s Kelly, she just knows how to deal with things. That is, until–

There’s a man. He’s in front of you. He has a gun. You barely even register all that happens next.

She pushes you behind her as he screams to give him all the valuables you have, gun trembling in his hands — is he drunk or just a schizo? — and just as she reaches for her purse — to take out her wallet, she says as she feels around for her taser — he panics and pulls the trigger.

You don’t know when you start screaming, nor register your hands pressing on her bloody shoulder, nor the cashier from the Thai restaurant going out in the street after hearing the shot and calling the police. You barely feel Commissioner Gordon’s hands around your shoulders as he gently pulls you away from Kelly and gets you to his car while two paramedics get a stretcher ready and lift her into the ambulance, nor notice when he pulls a blanket over your shoulders and a mug of hot chocolate into your hands at the police station. “You’re trembling, kid.” you think you started when the man took out the gun, but it could be when he shot Kelly. You’re not sure.

“Can I call anyone?”

You snap out of your trance, looking at Commissioner Gordon with eyes that could only be described as haunted. “Huh?”

He presses his lips into a thin line like he’s been in this situation one too many times. “Can I call anyone?” he asks again, not unkindly. “To come and pick you up and stay with you for the night? It would be better for you not to be alone.”

You blink. “Is Kelly okay?”

Gordon sighs. “The paramedics said she should recover without any trouble. You can go visit her tomorrow, if you want.” he leans forward, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder, “Can I call someone for you?” he asks for the third time.

You sniff — you hadn’t even realized you’d been crying. You can’t call your parents — you know they’d drop everything and come here, but you don’t want them to worry. Jenna’s out of the city for a week, having gone to visit a cousin in Blüdhaven, and terrifyingly so the only person who comes into your mind is Clark Kent– wherever he is, he does know how to fly, and if he wanted to he could just zap here. You manage to scribble his number in the post-it that Gordon hands you, and then he’s off to make the call — only to return defeated ten minutes later.

“I’m sorry, nobody’s replying. Can I call someone else for you or would you like to try to make the call yourself?”

You try to swallow the lump in your throat, “Can I try? With my phone?” Clark’s never ignored your calls. And, sure, you haven’t heard from him in months, but you don’t think he’d actively avoid you — he has to know that you wouldn’t call unless it was strictly necessary. Besides, he’s never turned you down in the time of need.

Gordon nods, “Sure. I think I left your bag in the car, though, so I’ll be right back,”

He brings your purse, and as soon as your phone’s in your hands you press onto Clark’s number and try to reach him. The Commissioner leaves you in his office, probably to try to give you a bit of privacy, and you’re quite thankful he’s not there to witness you start crying as Clark not only doesn’t reply to the first call, but also to the next five you make.

“Clark, I know that maybe you don’t want to hear from me but — could you just please, take up the phone?” you try not to sob as you leave what must be the third message in a row, “I wouldn’t call unless I really needed you and– and I’m trying my best not to sound hysteric but please, just pick up the fucking phone.”

You try and try and try, but lo and behold, it always goes straight to voicemail. Gordon knocks on the door of his office, opening it hesitantly when you don’t reply, “I– it’s been twenty minutes.”

“I,” you huff tearily, slamming your phone on your thigh, “he just won’t reply.”

You don’t want to look Gordon in the eye, because even now you can feel the pity in this voice. “Is there anyone else you can call? If… if there isn't, I could have an agent escort you home,”

“No, I–” you really don’t want to cry in front of him, even if your cheeks are already tear-streaked and your eyes are puffy, “I guess I could call someone else.”

You hadn’t even thought about calling Bruce, having taken for granted that Clark would have replied and knowing about the late hour, but it’s not like you have any other choice. Besides, he did say to call him if you ever needed anything. You dial his phone number and have to hold back a sob as he replies in two rings, voice hoarse, “Hello?”

“Hi, um, I…” you stumble over the words, not managing to hold the tears at bay anymore as your voice breaks. “Hi, Bruce, could you…” a hiccup interrupts you.

“Hey,” his voice is alarmed even if it’s clear that he either just woke up or is hungover from the roughness of his voice, “is everything okay? Did something happen?”

“I…” your throat betrays you again as you let out an embarrassingly loud sob. You hear Bruce’s worried questions on the other side of the line, but you aren’t really able to respond to any of his questions, and Commissioner Gordon holds his hand out for you in a way that says ‘If you want, I can talk to him for you,’. You don’t ask many questions and just pass him the phone.

“Hello, this is Commissioner Gordon from the GCPD…”

Not even twenty minutes later Bruce rushes into the office, accompanied by Gordon, and holds you tight as you rise from your chair and crash into his arms. You’ve never hugged before, but that doesn’t really matter as of now, because he’s rubbing your back and pressing his cheek on the top of your head and suddenly you feel safe. “I was so scared,”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, and something on the back of your mind whispers that it’s not fair to cry to him about your friend getting shot but surviving when he had to watch his parents die when he was just a kid, but he doesn’t say anything. He just holds you tighter, thanking Gordon and leading you to his — his butler’s, technically, as it’s still the blue Rolls Royce he came here with — car. Well, if the media didn’t know you two were seeing each other before, now they probably know, because Gotham’s cops are the most gossip hungry people in the city.

He helps you get into the car as you sniffle, making sure your seatbelt is on before jumping on the driver’s seat and going back to look at you. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “He shot Kelly on the shoulder. Looked crazy, like a schizo maniac on drugs.”

He sighs, a bit disheartened, “I mean, does a schizo maniac need drugs to look crazy?”

“I guess he doesn’t.” a beat passes before he reaches over to your side, opening the glovebox and reaching for wet wipes — the kind you use for babies’ butts. “Here,” he murmurs softly, “you might want to get the blood off your face.”

You didn’t even know you had blood on your face. You look at the picture of the newborn on the wipes pack, puzzled, “Is there anything you might want to tell me?”

He chuckles and starts the car. “I told you this was my butler’s car. He carries a pack of those anywhere.”

You look at yourself in the sun visor mirror, acknowledging the fact that you look like absolute crap and definitely have splatters of blood as well as smudged make up all over your face. “Sorry I made you come all the way here so late,” you mumble, trying to wipe the now dried blood off of your face.

“Nonsense,” he assures, “Commissioner Gordon said it would be best for you not to be alone tonight — would that be okay for you?”

You nod. “Yeah, my place’s a bit cramped but I can sleep on the couch.”

He frowns, “That’s not a problem, I’ll take it. You need a good night’s sleep. We could always go to the Manor if you want.”

You shake your head, “I need a shower and to eat the leftover ice cream in my freezer.”

Bruce smiles the tiniest bit. “Okay. Where to, then?”

You wouldn’t say the apartment’s cluttered, but you weren’t expecting any guests over so it’s a given that it’s not tidy either — if Bruce notices it, he doesn’t mention it, something you’re grateful for. Instead, he puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling softly, “You should go take that shower. Don’t worry, I’ll be right here.”

You take a good look at yourself in the mirror and almost start crying again. You had seen that you were covered in blood, but you also didn’t think it was so much blood — the cardigan your poor mother had hand-stitched for you is awaiting a brilliant future in the trashbin, because there’s no way that the stain will ever wash out.

The water is soothing, even if it takes you a good half-hour to scrub away all the dried blood from your hair and neck — so much so that the skin is left red and sore. It’s your first time witnessing one of the violent crimes Gotham’s so famous for, and you gotta say, it’s even worse than you thought.

You put on an old ratty sweater — that after a year of living together neither you nor Jenna are too sure of who it belongs to anymore — and a pair of cozy sweatpants that are definitely Jenna’s, because you would never buy such a thing as yellow pants with the bat signal print on them.

You exit the bathroom with your damp hair still wrapped in a towel, eyes barely managing to stay open thanks to the aftermath of the shock you had been in. You find Bruce sitting on the sofa, maybe a little too interested in the news broadcast playing on the TV. “And it’s game over for Harvey Dent, also known as Two Face, who was arrested just yesterday by the GCPD thanks to an ambush coordinated by none other than Batman…”

“Wasn’t Dent the district attorney?” you’d lie if you said you were informed about the latest coming criminals of Gotham City. “Man, in Smallville the craziest guy we’ve had was Samuel Comell and that’s just because he ate nothing but corn. We’ve got clinical psychos guiding the law here.” it actually would’ve been Clark if anyone knew he was an alien, but you avoid talking about that. You aim for the refrigerator and take out the ice cream, bringing it and two spoons with you to the couch. “Ice cream?”

Bruce grimaces as he takes one of the spoons, “You couldn’t be more right about madmen in Gotham, but Harvey wasn’t one of them until less than a year ago.”

You raise an eyebrow at his soft tone. “You knew him?”

“We grew up together.” his face falters, “He was my friend– still is.”

You blink. “Man, the universe must be laughing really hard right now, because the boy I grew up with is also kinda weird.” sure, not a mass-murderer type of weird, but a little weird still.

He leans to take a spoonful of ice cream from the tub you’re holding, “What do you mean, kinda weird?”

“Oh, you can’t even imagine,” you can’t even tell him — you swore to Clark that you wouldn’t have told anyone his secret, and you don’t plan on breaking that promise now. “Remember the guy I told you I was trying to get over?”

“It was him?”

“Yeah,” you try to laugh it off, “Clark was… pretty much everything for me. Then he dumped me to, I don’t know, disappear to find himself or something like that.” it’s much more complicated than that, but you can’t just tell him that your ex-boyfriend is an alien — he’d freak.

Bruce’s eyes soften a bit. “Well, it’s always more complicated than that, isn’t it?” this time you can’t exactly handle your emotions well, and sputter as your eyes widen. Did he just read your mind? He laughs, “What? I know a thing or two about relationships. Well, about how they end, at least. You know, uh…” he rubs the back of his neck, “I haven’t really said this to anyone, really, but me and Harvey… let’s say we were more like you and your old friend rather than simple friends.”

You squint, then force the ice cream tub in his hands. “Here. You probably need it more than me.”

He stares at the tub. “It’s been years. I’m sure you need it more than me.”

“Well, my ex hasn’t just been arrested,” your face drops, “for what I know, at least.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at you. “He really just disappeared?”

You shrug. “Could be in Alaska right now and I wouldn’t know about it.”

The night starts off easy. You finish the ice cream, then put away the towel you had around your hair and get a blanket because it’s getting a bit chilly, then one thing leads to another and suddenly your cheek is resting on his shoulder as Criminal Minds is playing on the TV.

“You know,” you mutter at some point, almost half-asleep and too cozy to muster an actual, coherent thought. “You should be detestable. You’re ugly rich, live in a mansion up on the hill and have a butler that has a car that’s probably worth more than my parent’s farm.” you poke his cheek as he turns his head to look at you properly, his arm going around your shoulder, “And instead, you’re nice — and worst of all, relatable.” you raise a hand to curl a lock of his hair around your finger, and he makes that face that men do when they’re about to kiss you — the blank stare that makes them look dumb in the head. “Now, one evil ex’s down. Do I have to defeat the other six or can we just get this over with?”

His lips slosh over yours with unexplainable easiness, like they’ve wanted nothing but to do this their whole life, and maybe you should feel a little guilty about eating Bruce Wayne’s face in your little beat-down couch, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. It’s the first time your mind finally manages to shut down — to stop worrying about anything and everything, and think about just one thing: Bruce.

Tomorrow, he’ll worry about catching the guy that shot Kelly, he says to himself. Tonight, he worries about you and tries to make sure you’ll be alright. And he does.

You wake up the next morning with an absolute sight — infamous Bruce Wayne, untouchable playboy and known for his one night stands, standing in your small ass kitchen in a pair of hot pink pajamas — the only thing you had that vaguely fit him — trying to cook pancakes. Key word: trying, because you weren’t woken up by the birdies singing outside of the window, but by the smell of burnt food. Badly burnt food.

You come up from behind him, hugging his back, “Have you ever even made pancakes?”

He purses his lips like a kid. “No. What is so terrible about wanting to try?”

You chuckle. “Nothing, nothing,” you tug him down to kiss his cheek, “I just think it’s really funny of you to try to cook when you’ve clearly had problems just with getting the stove on.”

He rolls his eyes, “Okay, okay, I wasn’t that stunted.”

He turns to take a good look at you — and apparently, notices your pants just now. “What’s with you and Batman?” he asks, amused. You shrug, ”More like, what’s with Jenna and Batman. When I tell you she’s obsessed with him, dude. She keeps a med kit in the bathroom just in case he falls on our balcony and we have to stitch him up.”

He shudders. “That does sound a bit manic.”

After a definitely too cheesy breakfast and quickly getting dressed, Bruce accompanies you to the hospital — not before going to the flower shop, of course, to get the biggest bouquet you’ve ever seen and a couple of Get well soon! balloons.

“What?” he asks. You’re not saying anything, but still clearly judging him, “I thought Kelly was your friend. She has to enjoy the flowers, especially since they’re from you.”

“Technically, they’re from your wallet,” you retort. He shrugs, “Same thing.”

Kelly’s still a bit pale, but happy to see you and Bruce. She gives you a look as you apologise for what happened, eyes teary as you remember that she got shot while protecting you. She swats a hand in your way, laugh full of not suggestion but knowledge — absolute certainty. “Honey, if what you two needed to get it on with was me getting shot, I’ll get shot another hundred of times.” she lowers her voice as your face burns red, “Besides, you might want to raise a little that scarf you’ve got — a hickey’s still showing. Just remember me when you’ll go on vacation with his big-ass yacht.”

What is it with your friends and yachts? You really need to make Jenna and Kelly meet — just kidding, you take that back, the consequences of their team up for your psyche would be devastating.

Time passes quickly when you’ve got one exam after another, and suddenly — before you can actually register it — it’s December, you and Bruce have been together for a month and it’s time for the Christmas holidays. While Jenna goes as soon as she can back to her parents in Chinatown, you, of course, need to go back to Smallville — without Bruce, as it’s still too early in the relationship to meet the parents. He doesn’t look too beaten up about it — just before you told him you wanted to go visit your parents, he had suggested a skiing trip in the Alps in an all-paid-for resort. Poor him, having to go on an exclusive resort with all the comforts in the world all alone! How will he manage without you, you wonder? How will he thrive?

(Just kidding, of course. You’re pretty sure it’ll take all of his restraint not to go back to his old playboy ways and try to seduce the first female that approaches him. He’ll be just fine.)

There’s two trains for Metropolis on the 22nd of December: you plan to take the first one, the one that leaves Gotham’s station at 8 a.m. sharp — and so you tell Bruce, who unfortunately has a plane to catch and can’t give you a ride — and of course, you just had to miss it. You wake up twenty minutes too late, and by the time you’re at the station the train has just left.

You go back home to take a nap while waiting for it to be time for the 4 p.m. train, and wake up just two hours later with an emergency broadcast for all Gothamites going off on your phone — God forbid you have a happy holiday in the arms of your loved ones, because the corridor that connects the prison’s main structure to Arkham’s left wing — the one holding captive the major crazed maniacs — has just blown up, and now years and years of captures and police operations have ended up in a massive breakout that will probably pulverize the city in a matter of two days. You’ve never been happier to not be a police officer than now.

The downside is that the whole city’s on lockdown. Commissioner Gordon appears on TV, warning all citizens to remain home unless strictly necessary and inevitable. A quick call to your parents later you’re fuming about your own stupidity while laying on the couch, wondering why you didn’t just wake up earlier — because now you’re condemned to a Christmas and probably New Years all alone, as all trains and planes are canceled to avoid the passengers turning into hostages or worse, victims.

Later that night you receive a call from Bruce, voice unusually rough, who says that he’s grateful that you’re already back at home in Smallville and not in Gotham because, if you hadn’t heard, a massive breakout happened. You really don’t want him to worry, so you lie and tell him that you’re relieved too that you took the 8 a.m. train — that your parents say hi and hang up.

The following days are weird. There’s barely anyone but cops in the streets — you wonder why — and your only interactions with a human are the ones with Nelson, the guy that works at the 7/11 right beside your apartment, and you both try your best to ignore the shotgun he’s keeping behind the counter as he scans your items and wishes you a happy Christmas.

You spend Christmas Eve eating instant noodles and watching the old Harry Potter DVDs that Jenna left behind — Ron’s just been dragged into the Whomping Willow by Sirius when your phone starts ringing.

You pause the movie and frown — because you’ve already heard both your parents and Jenna, who could be the only people calling at such an hour. It could also be Bruce, you guess, but you haven’t heard much from him considering the six hour difference between Gotham and wherever he’s staying in the Switzerland Alps. Except when you take your phone, you see an unknown number on the screen.

“Hello?” you reply tentatively — you really don’t want to be blackmailed by the Penguin or one of his friends on Christmas Eve. No one responds to your hesitant greeting, so you try again, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

You’re about to close the call when you hear it — barely there, the whisper of your name by a voice you know too well. You put the phone back against your ear, eyes already twitching, “Clark?”

“Hey,” his voice is the tiniest you’ve ever heard from him, “I, uh… wanted to know how you were holding up.”

Your hand starts trembling — if in anger or disbelief, you’re not sure. “You know, you’ve got some fucking audacity calling me now,” you manage to keep your voice steady only by some weird miracle, “when just a month ago I called you about twenty times and cried in the voice messages begging for you to come and get me.”

He doesn’t reply, but you can almost see him grimacing. “I… I got busy. I’m sorry about that.”

You pinch the slope of your nose, “Clark, I get it. You need to find yourself and all that but– but I needed you. Like, really needed you. Even if we broke up, I thought you would’ve always been there for me.” a grumble escapes from your throat, “I would’ve always been there for you. But you weren’t there, even with your flying abilities and supersonic speed.”

He sniffles. God, is he crying? “I just… I thought you would’ve been able to handle it alone. I know you’re strong enough to.”

“Well, if I call you at an ungodly hour an ungodly number of times then maybe I’m not able to handle it alone. Where are you, anyways?”

You hear a shuffle on the other end, “Somewhere in the Arctic. Not sure I can exactly tell you where.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure your dead parents would be really offended if you did.”

Ouch. That was a low blow. He says your name as if to try to calm you down, but you shake your head even if he can’t see you, “Why exactly did you call, Clark?”

“I told you, I wanted to see how you were doing–” “Please, we both know that’s just an excuse you invented right here and now. Why did you call me, Clark?”

Silence meets you on the other end. “I… it’s Christmas. We’ve never spent a Christmas apart.”

You check the hour on your phone, and it’s true — it is Christmas. Has been for only a few minutes, but still. “So what, Clark? It’s not like it was me who decided to break it off between us.”

Another sniffle on his end. “I guess I… I just wanted to wish you a happy Christmas.”

You sigh. “Merry Christmas, Clark. I loved you, and I’ll always love you– but I’m trying to get over you, and you need to understand that. I can’t do that if you call me just now after ghosting twenty of my calls and voicemails. I’m sure we’ll find a balance in some years when you get back — maybe even be friends again — but please… don’t call.”

You press the red END CALL button almost as soon as a crash comes from your balcony. You shriek and jump up from the couch, running from your purse and the Bat-taser — finally, his moment to shine. Jenna’s hard earned ten bucks will serve their purpose, maybe. You also eye the metal baseball bat sitting beside the entrance in case you’ll need it, but choose against it in case your opponent is way too strong for you to kick him out.

You try to peek outside and see nothing but darkness. So, you do the only thing you can think of: hold the Bat-taser in front of you like it’s a gun, slowly open the door to the balcony and yell (probably sounding more shrill than you’d intended to): “GoawayorIswearI’llcallthepolice!”

A pained groan comes from the ground, “Please don’t.”

You have to hold onto all the self control you have not to shriek again, “Batman? Is that really you?”

Another pained groan — from the dim light, you notice him holding onto his side and trying to get back up– and also that he crashed one of Jenna’s beloved flower pots while falling here. “The one and only.”

Now, Jenna had told you about him ending up on civilian’s balconies, but you didn’t actually think he did it. You let the taser fall from your hand and rush to his side, helping him up and then inside the apartment. “What the hell, dude? You scared the shit out of me.”

He slips from your grip pretty easily — he’s built like a tank, of course he does — and maybe you should worry about getting him back up to his feet, but rather think about closing the balcony door behind you. “Well, my guy, I sure hope you haven’t dragged one of your nemesis right here in my poor little apartment — because I might just lose it.”

He just groans — again. He must be a real sweet talker. “You don’t happen to have something to stitch me up, do you?”

And that’s how you end up hunched over Batman’s limp body on the tiles of your bathroom floor — you had begged him to at least get there before the living room’s carpet was ruined without any means to salvage it — with an All That You Need If Batman Crashes Through Your Window! medical kit — a wonder that they make these and that Jenna paid a whopping thirty bucks to have it — while watching the shortest video you found on Youtube teaching how to stitch an open wound. Because while you’re a vet student, you still haven’t exactly gotten to this part of the practice just yet.

“It’s scary that you haven’t even flinched since I started sewing your side close,” you murmur — the first thing you say to him after managing to get him laid down decently. You say it just to try to break the ice, feeling kinda pressured by the awkward silence. “Sorry, man, I’ll have to cut your suit open again. You’ve got a nasty cut on your ribs.”

“What’s scary is that you’ve got all these Batman themed things,” he replies curtly. “The Bat-taser? The Bat-signal pants? This… abomination of a medical kit? I didn’t even know they made those.”

You would’ve laughed loudly if you weren’t trying to make the stitches as even as possible. “That’s not on me– that’s on my roommate Jenna. She’s a big fan of yours. I’ll need you to sign her limited edition iridescent Bat-popcorn-bucket before you go, by the way.”

He blinks. “A Bat… what?”

“Bat-popcorn-bucket. It’s iridescent. It makes it look like you’re wearing a rainbow and she keeps it in a display box in her room just in case.”

You take the scissors and cut away some more fabric, only to stop and squint at his abs. Now, don’t they look familiar… “So, Batsy… how are you holding up in these fantastic days of freedom for all the Arkham prisoners?”

He grunts — does this man know how to start a phrase without an animalistic sound? “Just what I needed for Christmas.”

You hum, scanning his abdomen as if to understand how to better close the rib wound while you try to understand if your mind’s playing some trick on you or not. “It was just so nice of them to ruin Christmas for everyone, wasn’t it?”

You dab some hydrogen peroxide on the cut on his ribs, “Don’t you have someone to spend Christmas with, anyway?” his response is kinda quipped, and if your suspicions are true, you might just know why — after all, Bruce does think you’re in Smallville as of now. Who knows what he’s thinking right now.

You decide to test your theory. “Oh, yeah. My boyfriend’s in the bedroom, he was so tired from cooking all day that he just collapsed after dinner.”

His entire body freezes, and as he tries to sit up, you get your answers. “I have to go,” he mumbles hurriedly, “Scarecrow’s still out there–”

You place a firm hand on his chest, smirking as you inch closer to his face. “Huh-huh,” you tut, his eyebrows twisting in confusion, “where do you think you’re going, Bruce? I just started stitching this cut right here, and you’re not getting out of here unless you take a good nap.”

He raises an eyebrow, “I don’t know what you’re talking about–”

“Please,” you push him back onto the floor, “I would recognise these abs anywhere. By the way, the only thing sleeping in the next room is Jenna’s elderly hamster. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t even have the social skills needed to cheat on someone if I wanted to.”

He sighs, then presses a hand to his forehead and decides to drop the act. “What gave me away?”

“I told you,” you tap his abdomen, “those abs don’t lie. Besides, the way you reacted when I told you my boyfriend was in the bedroom sleeping? Whoof, you slipped right into my trap. Now, can I look into your baby blues or will I have to converse all night while looking at those ugly white lenses?”

He rips off his cowl, rising to his elbows — and there he is, your handsome, so-tired looking loverboy. “I’m mad at you, by the way,” he says while glaring in your direction, “you told me you were in Smallville. I thought you were safe, and here you are — do you know how many home invasions I had to stop just these last two days in this area?”

You blanch. “I’d prefer not to, thanks.” but you also raise an eyebrow, because you’re not about to lose an argument to a guy that outed his real identity because of abs and jealousy, “You told me you were in the Alps, by the way. In Switzerland. About… what, four-thousand miles away?”

Bruce sighs, resigned. “I received word of the breakout just as I was flying above the Atlantic.”

You tie the last stitch and cut the excess string, pressing a kiss on the wounded skin. “Well, I lost the 8 a.m. train but was too embarrassed about it to tell you. I guess we’re even.”

You lean down to his level as he holds out an arm to brush your hair off your shoulder, “Oh, sweetheart, we’re always even.” his hand rests on the back of your neck as you two kiss hard, all spit and tongue — so much so that you lose yourself in the moment and press your side a little too hard on his cuts.

He jumps, yelping in pain as you stare bemused. “Oh, so you do feel pain,”

He raises an eyebrow, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Thought you were some kind of robot programmed not to feel soreness for a second.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “I’m still mad at you. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“Thank goodness then that the guy crashing on my balcony wasn’t one of the Joker’s henchmen, no?” you frown, “Besides, why did you come here? For all you knew I wasn’t home.”

“Well, missy, I wasn’t looking for you,” you feign a gasp of disbelief, “I was hoping to find that horrendous medical kid you told me about.”

You pinch his side — one of the parts not wounded, at least. “You were thinking about breaking in? What are you, a criminal?”

He purses his lips. “I would’ve forced the lock, but I would have repaired it before you got back.”

“Is that how you spend your fortune?” you murmur, defeated. “Fighting bad guys in your free time? That’s a pretty expensive hobby.” you suddenly remember something you had said to Clark — I don’t want you to be the man lying half-dead in a dark alley while I wonder why you’re so late to dinner. Would you look at that — you ended up with the same guy you told your ex to please not be. You’re not even too surprised about it — because sometimes, it does feel like Bruce is faking being dumber than he actually is.

You let him go as soon as the sun peeks out from the horizon with a kiss on the lips and the promise of coming back later in the day, to autograph Jenna’s popcorn bucket, and while he later on keeps his promise, he makes sure to make you another Christmas gift other than the too-expensive necklace he already got you — and somehow manages to get all the criminals back in their cells by the time New Year’s Eve comes around.

The lockdown ends, but all means of transportation are still off-limits thanks to a few well-placed explosions that went off in the last few days. That’s why you’re confused when Bruce tells you to pack a bag and come with him to the Archie Goodwill International Airport. “I mean, Bruce, we should be somewhere opening champagne bottles — not in a completely deserted airport looking for– what exactly are we looking for?”

He chuckles, going for one of the hangars present at the launch track, the number 18 plastered on it. “Have you ever flown on a helicopter?”

You frown, “I’ve never flown like, ever.” you don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s because your ex-boyfriend knew how to fly and you’d always hoped he would be the first one to take you flying.

He takes out a key and opens the sliding door of the hangar — revealing, surprise surprise, a helicopter. “Well, get ready for your first flight, then.”

Flying is much more scary than you would’ve thought — especially because you really don’t know if you should trust Bruce at the wheel. All you know is that you’re holding onto the armrest for your life, hoping that he actually got the licence for flying and didn’t randomly purchase it one day. “Wh– where are we going?” you ask him, trembling, not even managing to look down from the window.

He sends you a look, “Don’t worry, I would never crash the helicopter with you in it. About the place where we’re going, however– it’s a surprise.”

Barely an hour up in the air later you look out the window to see the helicopter landing in a familiar — too familiar — field, with the grass cut weirdly low. “Bruce, are we–?”

“In Smallville? Yeah, we are.”

Your whole face lights up. “No, you didn’t,” you jump on him, kissing everywhere you can reach, “oh, Bruce, thank you, thank you, thank you– mwah! You’re a real sweetheart, I don’t know how I ever managed to think that you were any less of a person than you are–”

Needless to say, your parents are elated to see you — they did know about Bruce’s plan, hence why the grass was cut so short where you landed: they were his accomplices and made sure the soil was decent to land on. You’re so happy when you take a bite out of your mother’s pie that you could cry, and your boyfriend — is he? You still haven’t really talked about labels and such — looks not too far away from tears either.

You spend at least two hours chatting away happily with your parents before Bruce coughs, taking his coat back from the hanger at the entrance. “Well, I think it’s time for me to go.”

Your mother raises an eyebrow, “Oh, but you can’t go! I’ve just put the sweet potatoes in the oven– besides, it’s already dark out there, you seriously wouldn’t want to fly that thing in complete darkness!”

Bruce looks at you, waiting for your approval — well, it was you who said that spending the holidays together at your parents’ was a step a little too big for just a month-long relationship — but you nod, smiling. “You were the one who brought me here, Bruce. C’mon, you gave Alfred the week off– surely you don’t want to be all alone during New Years’ Eve?”

He relents, “Well, if you say so,”

That’s how he ends up staying at your parent’s house against all predictions — and you won’t forget the kiss he gives you when the clock strikes midnight for a long, long time, that’s for sure.

You two spend one week at the farm and another one in the Alps’ resort Bruce had planned to spend Christmas in, spending your time either skiing — tripping over the snow, in your case — or, an activity you appreciate much more, cozied up in the jacuzzi of your private suite. It’s also during this vacation that your relationship gets leaked, but surprisingly — apart from a call from an absolutely fuming Jenna (you had somehow managed to keep the relationship a secret from her) and one from a triumphant Kelly — you take the new wave of publicity suspiciously well.

Because for the first time in months, you’re truly happy.

It’s the summer of the year later when he appears again.

You’re on one of the Wayne's biggest yachts in Tenerife with Bruce, Kelly and Jenna — just as the prophecies predicted!, the latter had shrieked when you’d shared Bruce’s invite with her — sunbathing on the boat’s deck as your friends play mermaids in the water when you notice an unusual silence from the upper deck.

You get up from your sunbed, raising your sunglasses up to your hair as you look for your boyfriend. “Bruce? Honey, is everything alright?”

You find him seated on the plush couch of the lounge room, staring intently at the TV; you hug him from behind, leaving a kiss on his temple, “Did something happen in Gotham?”

He takes the remote and raises the volume, turning to look at you with a puzzled face. “Not exactly in Gotham.”

Looking up at the screen, you frown when you see the broadcaster. “DPN? Isn’t that the Daily Planet News channel?”

“And things apparently just keep getting weirder in Metropolis, because after scarce apparitions and helping for some minor crimes the man that the citizens have lovingly dubbed as ‘Superman’ has just shown the public what he’s really capable of by preventing a building from falling onto the passers-by after an explosion cut the structure in half…”

Your heart skips a beat, and suddenly you begin to wonder what you must have done wrong in your life to end up not only with a vigilante boyfriend, but also a vigilante ex-boyfriend. You have to hold back not to slap your forehead in disbelief — really, Clark, and the glasses should be your mask? It’s the stupidest disguise you’ve ever seen, and you have no idea how no one connected Clark Kent — just starting his career as a reporter in the Daily Planet — and Superman — just starting his career as… you don’t know what he’s trying to be.

You seem to have a magnet for too good-hearted guys, apparently. Bruce presses a kiss on your cheek, “I’ll worry about it when we get back. Don’t think too much about it, okay?”

You’re not ready to tell him your ex-boyfriend is the guy saving old ladies from having to carry their groceries alone — that would be a conversation for almost six months later, when the Justice League is formed — so you just smile at him and pretend to your best abilities that you don’t know anything.

The first time you see Clark Kent again after that morning at the cafè is five years after the start of his crusade as Superman.

He’s one of the six reporters who were granted permission to be inside of Wayne Manor during the engagement party, briefly interviewing anyone he can talk to and taking notes of everything he thinks valuable on his little notepad.

You? You’re the one who’s getting engaged.

You’re wearing a silky white dress that fits you like a glove as you stand next to Bruce, talking to some WE associates, Dick patiently waiting for the conversation to end as he stays glued to your side, hugging your waist and pressing his cheek into your hip as you gently run your hands through his hair. Clark is expecting a one-of-a-kind rock on your ring finger, but is instead surprised with a simple white pearl adorned with two smaller ones on its sides — he did hear something about Bruce proposing with his mother’s ring, now that he thinks about it.

Lois’ gone off to interview Lucius Fox when you notice him standing awkwardly to the side, scrambling with his notebook and looking around. You excuse yourself from the conversation, giving a little smile to Bruce, nudging Dick with a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to come and meet an old friend of mine, bubba?” he nods, eager to please, and lets your waist go in favour of your hand.

You approach Clark with the confidence of someone who doesn’t hold any grudges when they should. “Hi, Clark,” you greet him like you two are old friends that meet again — and even if you technically are, you’re also so much more than that. You hold out your hand — again, like you were just good old friends catching up — and he has to force himself to shake it instead of tackling you into a hug. “Have you seen my parents? I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you– it’s been a while.”

You nudge Dick from behind you, gently holding him by the shoulders in front of you, “Dick, this is Clark, the old friend I was telling you about. Clark, this is Dick, my son.”

As the child holds out a hand and excitedly says “Hullo!”, Clark tries not to think about how weird it is that he’s still trying to figure out his life while you just have a whole ass kid — adopted, but still. It’s clear how much you have taken into the role of mother. “Hi, Dick,” he says as kindly as possible, not really believing that the Robin who beats up criminals during the night beside the fearsome Batman is the same kid who hides behind his mother during formal events.

Said kid raises his eyebrows in curiosity, looking up at you, “What kind of friends are you, anyways?” he asks, knowing all too well about your distaste for reporters and journalists alike.

“The kind that goes way back,” you reply easily with a chuckle, “me and Clark grew up together, bubba.”

“Oooh,” he ushers, “does that mean you also know nana and gramps?”

Guessing that he’s talking about your parents, Clark chuckles a bit before nodding, “That I do, champ.”

“Aren’t they the coolest people you know?” Dick rambles excitedly, “last time gramps took me a ride on his tractor and it was so fun! Besides, they have this dog–” he turns to look at you, “Batman’s here, isn’t he?”

Clark’s eyebrows shoot up to his airline. He knew the kid was talkative, but he didn’t think he would be able to out Bruce like that. You laugh, “Yeah, I think I saw him earlier somewhere in the garden with Ace. It’s a miracle the both of them still have their tuxedo collars.” you then look at your old flame, a playful smirk on your face, “Don’t worry, Batman’s my parents' golden retriever.”

“Ooh,” he sighs in relief, “for a moment there I wondered why Gotham’s most famous vigilante was playing with Bruce Wayne’s dog, and how exactly to phrase it in my article,” a terribly awkward silence follows.

You shift your gaze to Dick, “Hey, Dickie, why don’t you–”

“Hello! Good evening!” a man with blazing red hair and a whole lot of freckles on his face runs up to the two of you, nudging Clark with an elbow as if clearly saying, please please pleaseeeee introduce me. He’s one of the reporters, you notice, with the press pass and a Canon slung over his neck. He kinda looks like a kid in a candy shop — eyes shining with excitement and almost jumping up and down on his feet.

Clark sighs, “This is Jimmy Olsen, one of my coworkers from the Daily Planet,”

The guy grins and holds out his hand, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” his fingers are a bit sweaty, “I’m a great fan.”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to avoid bursting out in laughter, “Oh, I’m flattered,”

“May I take a picture of the two of you?” it’s clear it was what he had wanted to ask since he saw you and Dick talking to Clark. You look at your son, and he grins up at you with glee. You smile, “Of course,”

You lower yourself a bit and cross your arms over his chest while pressing your chin to the top of his head, smiling widely — and you don’t doubt that he’s smiling with all he’s got too, hands holding your forearms, showing the window his last canine that fell out left. Jimmy snaps a little more than one pictures, but gets interrupted by a voice from behind you, “I hope you aren’t hogging the missus too much, boys,”

It’s Bruce — of course it is, he’s been staring since you got out of that conversation twenty minutes ago — and he slings an arm around your waist as you rise from your position. Jimmy sits up straighter like his drill sergeant just entered the room — you’re surprised he doesn’t do the salute. “Sir,” he starts, “it is an honor–”

“Clark,” Bruce casually shakes the man’s hand, to his coworker’s utter disbelief. Technically, Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne don’t know each other, but it’s another story for Batman and Superman. “A pleasure to meet you — this pretty girl right here told me a lot of stories about the two of you growing up together."

Jimmy’s mouth falls open. His gaze turns to his coworker with an accusation that could only be described as treacherous. Clark smiles awkwardly, “Yeah, well–”

“You’re a photographer, aren’t you?” the Brucie Wayne persona isn’t trained to hold his attention on just one person at once, so he immediately switches his charming smile to Jimmy, “Why don’t you take a few photos of us? We’re a real nice picture to see,” he draws you closer to him by the waist, “Especially my soon-to-be wife.”

Jimmy doesn’t let him repeat that, snapping a couple — more like a dozen — of pictures of Bruce holding you close to him while his other hand is as occupied as yours, sitting on Dick’s shoulder as he stands between the two of you, grinning ear to ear.

“So, Clark,” you start when Jimmy stops snapping pictures, eyeing the other reporter from the Daily Planet — was it Lane? — from the other side of the room, “is that your girlfriend? You two looked pretty close earlier.”

It’s meant to be a friendly remark, said with nothing but a happy tone, but Clark almost chokes on his saliva. “Oh, I mean–”

You raise an eyebrow, “Please,” you laugh out, “Don’t tell me she’s just a friend, because I’d be nearly as devastated as she would.”

He huffs with a little smile. “I’m… working on it.”

You smirk. “That’s a good thing. Bruce here has got something for you that could help in your romantic quest.” you nudge your fianceè with your elbow as Dick snickers, “Don’t you, honey?”

He grumbles, looking with a frown at Clark — it’s not that their relationship isn’t good, it’s just that… he wasn’t really the happiest with your decision. “I do, actually,” he takes out an envelope and passes it to Clark with gritted teeth. “I’m… delighted… to invite you to our wedding.”

“As a friend, and with the possibility to bring a plus one,” you add, hand squeezing Bruce’s bicep, “not as press– there won’t be any, by the way.” you roll your eyes towards your boyfriend, “He’ll insist on making you sign an NDA, but I’m sure that you wouldn’t write anything about it nonetheless.”

He blushes deep red, “Oh, no, no, I would never–”

“Clark.” you giggle as you interrupt him, “It was a joke. Nobody’s going to make you sign an NDA,”

“Yet,” Bruce grumbles.

You ignore him. “It was a joke between friends,” you aren’t implying anything in your words — you’re sincere. After all these years, that’s what you see Clark as, and it would be sad not having him or his family at the wedding. You’ve already sent the invites to the Kents: only Clark was missing.

You hold your hand out to him, hopeful. “We are friends, aren’t we?”

I loved you, and I’ll always love you– but I’m trying to get over you, and you need to understand that. I can’t do that if you call me just now after ghosting twenty of my calls and voicemails. I’m sure we’ll find a balance in some years when you get back — maybe even be friends again — but please… don’t call.

He takes your hand and shakes it with a soft smile. “Friends.”

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