Clark begs asks Zatanna for a glamour spell. At first, she assumes it's for disguise purposes, so it surprises her when he specifically requests to look older.
"Humans age," was Clark's only explanation.
Zatanna gives him a watch. It looks simple, lovingly used, something that could be a century old. Once he puts it on, its features shift just a little; the band changes to a worn, dark leather; the clock face becomes a little more modern, the numbers morph from Roman numerals to Arabic as the face turns from withered brown to aged white. Clark swears quietly to himself that he'd seen Pa wear a watch like this.
"Just turn it forward to look older, and backwards to look younger," Zatanna explains. "Five minutes is one year, and that's human years, so be careful. And press the knob down three times to reset."
"Thank you," Clark says, before bidding her farewell.
He goes back to his apartment first. It doesn't see much use anymore, but he'd insisted on keeping something tying him to Metropolis. Flicking the bathroom light on, Clark peers at himself in the mirror for a moment.
Familiar discomfort pinches in his gut. The man staring back could still be shaking off the softness of youth, looking at home on a college campus. He allows the feeling to settle, then reaches for the watch.
If five minutes was a year, then Clark would need to turn it at least two and a half hours forward. Once done, he takes a breath, and looks back at the mirror.
Clark Kent, with fifty three years of life brimming in his new wrinkles, his receding hairline, his stripes of gray running from his temples. His face had sunken, somewhat, the skin looser to show the true sharpness of his cheeks.
He adores the permanent laugh lines. He'd never managed a single wrinkle before, proof of his life of joys and fears and experiences. He loves the faint spots dotting his face, hands, arms. He loves the loose skin on his neck, just above his Adam's apple and under his jaw. He has a double chin, now.
A strong rightness settles inside him as he pokes at new pockets of flab across his body.
He can't wait to show Bruce.
In fact, he doesn't wait.
Bruce doesn't turn his way just yet when Clark touches down in the Cave, too focused on the report he types out at speed. Clark waits, crossing his legs midair and floats quietly.
When Bruce finally finishes and saves the file, he turns to ask Clark what he needs. His words halt in his throat, taking in the man who is definitely Clark Kent, but different from the one he saw this morning. Not just physically, either, having visibly aged despite his biology decreeing otherwise. He's... happier?
Clark beams. "We match," he says, pointing to the grey at his temples.
With striking clarity, Bruce suddenly understands why Clark finds an old man like himself attractive. You're not old, he'd say, you're mature.
As gorgeous as Clark always is... this is different. He's beautiful. Most of it, Bruce realizes, comes from the joy and ease with which he holds himself. Had Clark been unhappy with his appearance before? Had Bruce not noticed?
Bruce lets his eyes drag up and down Clark's form, puts just a hint of Brucie in his smirk. "Well well," he says. "Come here often?"
The laugh lines deepen exquisitely as Clark bellows out his cheer.
