Chapter Text
Clark found him standing under a tree, some distance away from the gathering crowd.
He was dressed in navy blue trousers and a red sweater over a rumpled long-sleeve button-up. His dark curls, longer than when Clark had seen him last, were neatly coiffed, no white streak in sight. It was a far cry from the leather-jacket-wearing, chain-smoking bad-boy aesthetic Clark had come to associate with him.
Not that Clark had ever actually known him to smoke after his debut issue—redebut, technically—but he’d had those vibes since he’d returned from the grave with a vendetta and a duffel bag of heads. Said vibes seemed totally absent now, with him so . . . dressed up. Less misunderstood black sheep, more artistic intelligentsia.
It looked . . . good. Really good. It suited him way more than that overdesigned, cheap-looking suit the powers that be had him wearing these days.
Though he was as tall and broad-shouldered as ever, he was so hunched that no one else might have noticed him at a glance, especially as the crowd of freshmen grew denser around him. His head was bent over his phone, a look of quiet concentration on his face as his finger dragged whatever he was reading up the screen.
Was this some sort of disguise, then? Undercover work for a new case, maybe?
For a moment, Clark considered just leaving him be, but his curiosity—and that old awe for all things superheroes he couldn’t quite shake even now—won out.
As Clark approached his target, he tried to think of something clever to say. Something suave. But when he’d finally shouldered through the throng and made his way across the courtyard, all he could think to say was, “Fancy seeing you here.”
Granted, it wasn’t his best opening line, but it got Jason Todd to slowly lift his eyes from his phone. To turn to Clark, blink, and groan, “Oh god. You again.”
Clark gave a little wave, grinning his best grin. “Me again. Hi.”
Jason studied him for a minute, visibly weighing potential replies.
“What do you want, Prime?” Jason said finally, sighing.
“Hey, you’re on my turf, remember? I should be asking you that. Also”—Clark gestured to his glasses—“civilian identities, dude. Call me Clark. Or CK.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “CK?”
“CK Lemmon.”
“CK Lemmon,” Jason repeated. “You really thought of that for all of two seconds, huh?”
Clark felt his smile slip. “What? It’s a good name.”
Jason snorted and dropped his eyes back to his phone, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“It is!” Clark insisted, feeling a little bit—only the tiniest bit!—defensive.
“Sure,” Jason said without looking up, his finger slowly swiping across the screen. Clark was close enough to catch the bolded words CHAPTER FORTY-ONE.
Unbelievable.
“So is this, like, a mission thing?” Clark forged ahead. Jason wasn’t giving him much to work with, but he wasn’t giving up. “A new case? Because I’m totally down for another team-up. I bet the readers are itching for a reunion special.”
Jason merely grunted. To anyone else, he would have looked distracted, even dismissive. But Clark knew him well enough by now to know when he was listening and when he was truly too preoccupied to pay attention.
So Clark continued, “Everyone loves a good team-up, especially a SuperBat team-up. It’s like printing money. Every hero generation has to have a SuperBat duo—pretty sure it’s an editorial mandate at this point—and the people know you and I work well together—”
“Since when?” Jason said, still reading.
“Since forever.”
“You and I have never worked together.”
“We worked together in New Angelique,” Clark pointed out.
That got a reaction. Jason looked up, the beginnings of a scowl on his face.
“You ruined my case,” he said sharply.
“’Ruin’ is a strong word,” Clark said, air quotes and all. “Objectively speaking, all I did was—”
“I told you not to get involved,” Jason snapped.
“I did you a favor! Out of the goodness of my heart—”
“You waltzed in the middle of my investigation and fucked everything up—”
“If you mean saved you from bad reviews and a toxic romance with your brother’s ex—that literally no one asked for, by the way—”
Clark would have gone on—made the usual quips he gave Jason about keeping their dialogue PG-friendly, the half-serious jokes about keeping Jason out of Gotham for his own good—except Jason was full-on scowling now.
Too late, Clark remembered Lois’s warnings. How often she’d reminded him to keep his fourth-wall breaks limited to his internal narration. The people here, it turned out, didn’t like knowing they were fictional characters on his world. Nor did they take particularly kindly to being reminded that Clark knew so much about them, knew whatever their writers had ever put to page.
And this look right here—this expression on Jason’s face? It wasn’t the first time Clark had been on the receiving end of it, but it still stung to see. It wasn’t as if it was his fault he’d come from Earth-Prime. Or that Joshua Williamson had decided to turn him into a buffer, funnier, more charismatic Gwenpool.
Not that he was complaining about that, of course.
Clark changed tack. “I was just trying to help,” he said, hoping he sounded appropriately apologetic.
“I didn’t ask you to,” Jason said, still sharply. “And I certainly didn’t need it.”
Doubtful, Clark thought, but he knew better than to say it aloud.
“Well, it all worked out okay, didn’t it?” he said lightly. “We stopped The Tower, saved the city, averted the crisis, etcetera etcetera. All’s well that ends well, right?”
Jason shot him a withering glare, and for a second, Clark was afraid that this was it. That Jason would storm off and disappear into the crowd. And if Jason did, then who knew when Clark would see him again? It wasn’t like the writers knew what to do with the guy, and they weren’t exactly itching to include Clark in stories outside their big crossover events . . .
But Jason didn’t leave. He just went back to reading his book as if Clark wasn’t there—but he didn’t leave. He stayed where he was, eyes fixed ostensibly on his phone.
A gust of wind rustled the leaves above them. Dappled sunlight danced across Jason’s face, flickering over his cheekbones, tracing the line of his jaw. His hair, though slicked back, had grown out enough that Clark wondered if it would fall over his forehead into those heart-shaped curls he used to have when he was younger. Clark had only ever seen it in comic books, years and years ago, and he couldn’t help but wonder what they’d look like on Jason now, with dark curls framing an older, finely chiseled face—
Clark didn’t realize he’d been staring until a group of girls passed by them, close enough that one of them had nearly bumped his shoulder. They walked away, giggling, darting looks at Jason—or were they looking at Clark?—but Jason didn’t seem to notice. Clark looked away anyway, feeling oddly warm.
There were more people milling around the courtyard now. Clark caught some curious looks, some wary glances thrown their way, but no one approached them. It reminded him of his visits to the Watchtower, and not for the first time, he wondered if there was something about him—something that said in bright neon lights that he didn’t belong here, that everyone else seemed to see but him—that made people keep their distance. That made them unable to see past the things he’d done, no matter how hard he’d worked to mend those bridges.
But Jason was here. Engrossed in his book, sure, but still here.
Clark cleared his throat and tried again. “So catch me up,” he said. “What’s the sitch? Where are the kids?”
To Clark’s relief, Jason looked up from his phone.
“What kids?” Jason said, frowning.
Oops. Too early. Stupid DC and their stupid, convoluted timelines.
“The case, I mean,” Clark said quickly. “You are on a mission, aren’t you?”
Jason’s brow crinkled. “I didn’t say I was.”
Huh.
“If this isn’t a mission, then what’re you doing in Metropolis?” Clark asked.
Jason stared at him blankly. “It’s the first night of orientation,” he said slowly, like this was obvious and Clark should have known this by now.
Which was a little annoying, frankly, because Clark did know that, thank you very much. Obviously, he knew that—it was why he was here, after all.
But then . . . no. That couldn’t be right, could it? Because then that would mean—
“Here?” Clark said, stunned. “You’re going to school here? You’re actually going to college—”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Jason muttered.
“It’s a good surprise,” Clark assured him, trying to bite back a too-wide smile. “Holy character development, Batman! I didn’t think—geez, I can’t believe it. Someone like you actually going back to school—”
“Someone like me?” Jason said, bristling.
It was on the tip of Clark’s tongue, the long tirade he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop once he started. How bad editorial had been lately at writing their characters’ civilian lives—which, sure, he could understand why the writers focused so much on the superheroics, but it was starting to feel like these people had nothing else going on outside of that. Maybe it was because Clark had lived it now—the double life, the careful balance of trying to keep both intact—and he’d seen firsthand how much of this world they failed to put to paper, but it was getting pretty boring, reading about the same conflicts, the same old stories with the same old bad guys, knowing how much it could change, how little it could matter. And god, don’t even get him started on how badly they kept fumbling Jason’s characterization. He had no life outside of being Red Hood, no semblance of a civilian identity, not even his helmet—and was he even legally alive right now, or had the editors forgotten to fix that whole mess from Task Force Z—
Jason was scowling at him. Again.
“I mean, I didn’t think you’d go here—to Met U,” Clark stammered. “I just figured you’d stay in Gotham. Or somewhere closer to home, if you had to go anywhere at all.”
Jason looked away, grimacing. Clark felt his insides lurch. Had he said something wrong?
“I go here too,” Clark hurried to add.
“You don’t say,” Jason said dryly, then went back to scrolling on his phone.
There was a horrible, awkward beat of silence.
“So what are you here for?” Clark asked.
Two beats of silence this time.
“What are you studying, I mean,” Clark added.
Jason looked up again—score—and let out a quiet breath through his nose, like he was deciding how much of this conversation he actually wanted to entertain.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, sounding only a little reluctant. “Creative Writing, maybe. Or English Lit.”
Clark beamed. He couldn’t help it. “No way! So am I!”
Jason’s brows shot up toward his hairline.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Clark went on. “It’s a toss-up between those two. Lois says I don’t really need either to get into writing, but I figured it couldn’t hurt, you know?”
“Not journalism?” Jason asked. “I thought that’d be more your speed.”
“Nah. Not really my style.”
Another Superboy following in the well-trodden path of the Clark Kent and the Lois Lane? Another would-be Superman without his own unique career and civilian identity outside the shadow of his predecessors? No thank you. The readers would absolutely loathe that.
“And English Lit is?” Jason said skeptically. “Doesn’t Superman have better things to do than sit down in a classroom and—I don’t know—write book reports?”
Clark very carefully didn’t flinch. Kept his smile fixed to his face. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not Superman, then,” he said, with all the nonchalance he could muster. “Haven’t you heard? The OG is back.”
Jason tilted his head appraisingly. “And you’re still here?”
“What, you trying to get rid of me?”
“Have been since day one. Thanks for noticing.”
He said it so deadpan that it startled a laugh out of Clark. “Oh, c’mon, don’t be like that. Or else I’m gonna start thinking you actually mean it.”
Jason rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth tugged up. It was nearly a smile. Hope climbed up Clark’s ribcage.
“It was Lois’s idea actually, this whole college thing,” Clark said, eager to fill the silence. To keep that expression on Jason’s face. “She says if I’m serious about staying in the city, I need to start thinking past next week and start planning long-term. That I have to start thinking about the future and taxes and all that very adult, deeply unfun stuff.”
Jason snorted softly.
Clark wasn’t looking at him with a dopey look on his face. He wasn’t. “Apparently, I need to do something productive. Something that won’t raise questions six months down the line if I’m going to stick around. And apparently, working retail indefinitely while having mysterious gaps in my schedule isn’t that.”
“She’s got a point,” Jason said. “You don’t exactly blend in.”
Clark frowned. “I blend in fine.”
Jason looked him up and down, gaze sweeping from Clark’s face to his Superman shirt then back again. Clark felt a flush run up his neck and settle into his cheeks.
Jason scoffed. “You really don’t.”
“I do.”
“You don’t react to temperature,” Jason said, ticking points off on his fingers. “You forget to eat unless someone reminds you. You live in a shoebox that’s one bad day away from being condemned. Your idea of ‘furnishing’ is a mattress and a framed—what was it—”
“A copy of Action Comics #242,” Clark said.
Jason stared at him. Another one of his withering looks.
Clark lifted his chin, unrepentant. “It’s historically significant.”
“You spent a month’s salary on that.”
“It’s vintage! From the Silver Age! Don’t act like you haven’t thrown money at first editions before.”
“A month’s salary, Prime. You could’ve used that to buy a couch. Or a heater that doesn’t sound like a raccoon. Or maybe a fucking bed frame.”
Clark waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t need all that extra stuff. Food, sleep, whatever. It’s not like it matters for me.”
“It matters if you don’t want people asking questions,” Jason countered. “Normal people need those things. You don’t get to opt out just because you can.”
Despite himself, Clark felt a flicker of irritation. “Now you’re starting to sound like Lois.”
A faint smile curved over Jason’s lips. “Good. You should listen to her more often.”
“I listen to her all the time!”
“Not enough, apparently. Or is the stack of unopened boxes in your living room just part of the decor?”
“Yeah, well—” Clark searched for a clever retort. “At least I have a job.”
Jason shrugged. “I don’t need one.”
“Lucky you,” Clark grumbled. “Not all of us get to skip the minimum wage grind. Just because you’ve got your dad footing the bills—”
Jason stiffened, his almost smile vanishing. All at once, Clark felt as though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” Clark said, and he meant it.
Jason shook his head, turning away from Clark. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice clipped.
“No, really, I shouldn’t have—”
“I said it’s fine,” Jason said brusquely. “Forget about it.”
Clark fell silent, feeling like his chest might crumple at any moment. He scrambled for something to say, to keep the conversation going. People, he knew, could be talked out of bad moods. If he could draw even a little of Jason’s attention away—onto a passing thought, a pointless observation, anything at all—it might thin the feeling out. And if all he managed was to annoy Jason into responding, that was something too.
Because he liked Jason. He really did. On paper, he knew he probably shouldn’t. What Jason had become, what the writers had turned him into with every badly written retcon and posthumous cameo, was everything Clark had railed against during his—er—less-than-heroic years.
But it wasn’t every day you opened a comic book to find a kid superhero your age, to have that character grow up with you. Stranger still, to accidentally-on-purpose bring him back to life and watch him become the worst version of himself. To then witness his lowest lows and see all your darkest moments, your endlessly selfish impulses, reflected back at you.
There was a kind of . . . kinship there. Clark was hard-pressed to put it into words, but he liked to think Jason felt it too. Because for all that Jason complained about his so-called interfering, for all that Jason grumbled about his fourth-wall breaking, Jason had never once looked at him the way the other heroes here did. Jason had never judged him by his worst moments, had never questioned his good intentions. Jason had never looked at him like he was a monster. Even Laurie had—
No. Clark tried to shake the thought away before it could spiral further. He’d ridden this train of thought more times than he could count. More than enough to know what he would find at its end.
Laurie. His parents. Home, and the facsimile of it he’d left behind.
Why he was still here, in this world, trying to carve a place for himself. Never mind that Superman was back. Never mind that the writers didn’t know what to do with him now that there was no crossover or reality-ending cosmic event. Never mind that he’d likely be relegated to bit cameos and background shots over the next decade or so. Or, worse, have his redemption arc undone and get yet another poorly written villain storyline—if editorial even remembered he existed. Just look at what they had been doing to the Super-Twins, to the other Superboy—
“So are you?”
Clark blinked. Jason was looking at him now, watching him intently.
“What?” Clark said warily. Maybe he’d been in his own head longer than he thought.
“Are you sticking around?” Jason clarified. “Long-term?”
“Well, so long as no one’s kicking me out, I don’t see why not,” Clark managed to say, trying to keep his voice light.
Jason was still looking at him closely, a divot etched between his brows. It was the expression he wore when he was thinking quickly about something. Right when Clark was about to ask what it was, Jason sighed heavily and squared his shoulders.
“Speaking of your shitty apartment,” he said, with all the gravity of a man about to jump off a cliff. “How many bedrooms does it have again?”