Chapter Text
"Goodbyes turn to poetry
Heartbreak turns to whiskey
And if you turn to lonely
Call me if you miss me."
-Call Me If You Miss Me, Max McNown
There was fire, and Bruce desperately clutching Jason's body.
Clark couldn't hear a heartbeat.
And then Superman was flying through the cool night air, easily catching up to a fleeing vehicle.
He landed in front of it with a loud crash, sending the car tumbling into a ditch on the side of the road. Clark stalked forward and ripped the roof off, coming face to face with the Joker.
There was blood on his clothes.
It wasn't his blood.
Jason.
Clark didn't remember much after that. His fist in the Joker's face, and then the splintering of bone and the warm squelch of blood.
He only came back to himself when he heard the distant sounds of sobbing.
One heartbeat. Normally strong and assured, now pounding and erratic.
Bruce.
The date is April 27. Four years ago, Clark Kent's son died.
Clark tries not to think about that as he walks into the Daily Planet, this time only five minutes late instead of his usual ten.
Lois is already at her desk, typing away and sipping at a mug of coffee that Clark can smell is about 95% sugar packets.
There is a framed photograph on Clark's desk that is permanently tipped over.
Today, Clark is tempted to look at it.
"Perry talk to you yet?" Lois asks, turning from her work to Clark in interest.
"No," Clark says slowly," Was he looking for me?"
"Wow, Smallville," Lois sighs but smiles," He came through about three minutes ago. I presume he wanted more than just to yell at you, or he would have waited until you showed up to come hunting. I think," She pauses to take a sip of the sugary-sludge that she considers coffee," You have a new assignment."
"Already?" Clark purses his lips.
His plans for the day had been to sit in the Fortress and valiantly try to refrain from listening for Bruce, or Dick, or Alfred. Attempt to deal with his grief by himself.
All in all, about the same as his plans for the last three years.
Lois raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow, noting Clark's hesitance.
"It's just, he just put me on this gala piece, and Jimmy was looking forward to helping me take photos," He shrugs, hoping to placate his friend.
Lois knows, of course she knows. It's just…Clark never exactly told her all the details. All she knew was that, before coming to work at the Planet, Clark had been married, and their child had died, and then Clark wasn't married anymore.
True enough, at any rate.
"Kent," Perry snaps from his office," Get in here, now."
Clark closes his eyes, wishing not for the first time that Krypton had taken him with it, and then follows Perry into his office.
"Don't bother sitting, I need you to get to work on this as soon as possible."
"I— Okay?"
Perry tosses a file at him that he has to consciously miss catching, sending papers scattering over the floor.
"Good Lord, Kent." Perry sighs" Just listen, we received a tip today that there's something going down in Gotham."
Clark freezes, bent in half in an attempt to clumsily retrieve the contents of the folder.
"Who was the tip from?"
"The President of Nicaragua," Perry deadpans," How the hell should I know? It's called a confidential tip line for a reason."
Clark closes his eyes and counts to ten.
"Right, yeah, sorry. Um, did they say what was happening?"
If something is going down in Gotham, there's no way Bruce doesn't know about it.
Unless…
Clark shakes his head. Gotham wasn't his business anymore.
"Murders."
"Murders…in Gotham?" Clark asks slowly, failing to see the importance. They're talking about Gotham after all.
Perry rolls his eyes. "Just, read the file. Find out what's happening with the gangs. I want a completed article on my desk in three weeks."
Clark blinks.
"Well? Get to it!"
The Batman's routine was simple:
He wakes at ten, trains, gets updates on Wayne Enterprises, works on cases, and goes on patrol. Sometimes, there's a meeting or nine thrown in for the fun of it.
Today, Bruce Wayne does not follow that routine.
He does not sleep after patrol. Instead, Bruce sits in the cave and stares at a glass case containing a brightly colored suit.
He does not train. Instead, he walks the short distance to the family cemetery.
He does not work on active cases. Instead, he beats every criminal he can find with everything he can muster, which is less than his best but also more than they probably deserve.
At some point, somewhere between the petty thief and the serial killer, his Justice League communicator goes off.
Batman doesn't answer it.
Because Clark's life is a joke to some mysterious cosmic entity, J'onn calls for a League meeting the evening of the 27th.
Clark briefly considers not going. Then, he thinks about what disaster could be occurring that he has a duty to prevent.
He thinks about all of the children he has to protect.
So, reluctantly, he dons his suit and reaches the Watchtower in about eight minutes.
He took his time, so sue him.
"Superman, glad you could make it," Hal greets, winking," It appears someone had better things to do."
Clark winces. He hopes it isn't noticeable.
"Batman is otherwise occupied. I am sure he will review the meeting notes and keep appraised of the situation," He says in what he hopes is a solid enough tone.
They have only had two meetings on the 27, not including today, and Bruce has never attended any of them.
"That's rich," Hal snorts.
"Why is that?" Diana asks, gently tilting her head.
"Because, Spooky's the whole reason J'onn called this meeting. Am I right?" He raises an eyebrow at the Martian.
J'onn nods, albeit slowly.
"There is a dangerous presence in Gotham. There is something there that is so strong, it projected to me."
"But surely if there was a League-level threat lurking in Gotham, Bats would tell us." Barry looks around the table," Right?"
They all turn to Clark.
He doesn't have an answer.
Once, maybe. Not anymore.
"What kind of threat do you think this is?" Clark asks, instead of answering. "Are we dealing with aliens?"
Various people around the table grumble. Last time they'd had to deal with an alien threat, Hal had been swallowed and Hawkgirl's mace had been damaged.
"I do not know," J'onn says slowly, as though unsettled by the idea.
"Why don't we review the usual suspects?" Hawgirl suggests, swiping at the table-top console until a picture appears above the table.
Clark still doesn't care for holograms. He especially doesn't care for this one.
Even after what had to have been extensive reconstructive surgery, the Joker still doesn't look the same.
His jaw is several inches too far to the left, his nose is almost non-existent, one eye is higher than the other and (Clark knows from very personal knowledge) both of his cheekbones had been replaced.
He looks….mangled.
Good.
"The Joker has been at Arkham for the past two months, and appears to have no plans of escape. There's been no reports of Lex-Corp doing business in Gotham," Cyborg reports reading off of his console station.
"Maybe it's the Legion of Doom?" Arthur suggests. Flash shakes his head.
"They haven't been active since Lex and Joker got into that fight, remember? If the Legion is active again, they'd steer clear of Gotham. Whatever went down, Joker was pissed."
Hal is technically correct, though they all loathe to admit it.
"Okay, so all we know is that something is going down in Gotham, but we have no suspects, no leads, and no Batman? Do I have that right?" Barry asks, looking vaguely ill.
Clark sighs. Today is never going to end.
The plan was simple:
Get in, snoop around, get out.
Simple.
Jason didn't anticipate hitting a snag in his plan.
Disabling the security system and intercepting the alert from reaching Bruce was easy enough.
But now, as Jason stands in the doorway of what used to be his home, he finds himself puzzled.
There are no shoes on the front porch. Clark's work boots are mysteriously missing.
Maybe Alfred finally convinced him to move them?
Inside, Jason has more questions.
The foyer seems…off.
Jason tenses.
When Jason thinks of the manor of his childhood, he thinks of sun-drenched libraries and Clark's apple pie, Alfred's cookies and the hum of the cave's air conditioning unit and a tight spandex suit.
And then, inevitably, he thinks of pain and metal and fire.
Jason shakes his head, and focuses on his surroundings.
This place is different. Colder, maybe?
Good. It's what they deserve.
Jason can't smell Clark's usual apple-cinnamon candle in the air.
Come to think of it, the throw blanket from Ma Kent is conspicuously missing from the couch.
Furrowing his brow, Jason slowly makes his way to the kitchen and opens the mug cabinet.
Expensive teacups made of fragile china greet him.
Clark's ridiculous "Don't Talk to Me Before My Coffee" and "I'm Kind Of A Big Dill" mugs are gone.
Jason blinks.
Maybe they broke? Or Clark got tired of them?
He opens the pantry. Clark's cheap brand of coffee is nowhere to be found.
Silently, Jason creeps upstairs and into the main bedroom.
A perfectly made bed with tasteful, dark throw pillows greets him.
Again, one of Ma Kent's blankets is missing.
Clark's family photos of Kara, the Kents, and Krypto are gone. Bruce's single picture of his parents remains.
Jason swallows.
The closet has nothing but Armani suits and Gucci sweaters.
No flannels, or jeans, or worn Metropolis U sweatshirts.
Wherever he is, Clark isn't living at the manor.
A new plan starts to form.
The Red Hood has a new mission.
As the sun sets on April 27, the custodial crew of the Daily Planet make their rounds. One janitor stops at a desk, where a picture frame has been knocked over.
Clearly, nobody has bothered to fix it for a long time, if the dust collecting on the back of the frame is anything to go by.
Samuel glances around, ensuring his partner for this floor is across the room and not watching him.
Then, carefully, he lifts the picture.
It's a typical family photo. Two men, both with dark black hair and blue eyes, and two children, both with the same black hair, albeit entirely different facial features and skin tones.
One boy looks to be about seventeen, while the other can't be more than thirteen.
Samuel's own daughter's age.
If he concentrates, one of the men almost looks vaguely familiar. Maybe he'd seen him on the street somewhere?
He knows that face, he's sure of it.
"Hey, Sam?"
Samuel jolts, dropping the picture.
It clatters on the desk, dropping so that the frame is tipped over.
The family picture is obscured from view.