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Chapter Text

“The essential reason for my loneliness is that I don’t even know where I belong. I was supposed to be part of a story, but I fell from there like a leaf in autumn.” —Orhan Pamuk

Bruce thought the worst day of his life was when he presented as an Omega. But staring at two pink lines, he couldn’t help but think his life was over. He couldn’t be pregnant! He’d never wanted pups. What would an orphan even know about being a parent? Bruce’s first thought was to just get rid of it, but a small part of Bruce had always been so selfish and so lonely. He thought of how much he loved his parents, and he couldn’t help but think that a child was love. The kind of love Bruce didn’t deserve, would never deserve, but had always longed for. 

Finally, Bruce broke the silence. “I’m keeping it.”

“Very well, sir,” Alfred said calmly. Rarely did the old butler show any surprise, but tonight, there was a forlorn look in his eyes.

“What is it, Alfred?” Bruce asked. 

“If I may, sir,” Alfred began hesitantly. “When your mother was pregnant with you, your parents thought it would be best to get out of the public eye. That was, of course, more for your mother’s peace of mind… But in your case, I daresay it would be wise for you to leave Gotham. The paparazzi can be cruel after all.”

Bruce frowned. “But where would I go?” Technically, he could go anywhere he wished, but where could he escape the paparazzi and the media's all-seeing eye? 

“Why not where they stayed?” Alfred asked. “I believe it was a fine ranch house somewhere in Kansas.”

“Kansas?” Bruce asked dubiously. 

“As your mother put it, there’s nothing out there but green pastures and cow pies.” Alfred shuddered. 

A huff of laughter escaped his lips. Bruce knew Alfred was right. Avoiding a public scandal would be the easiest way to bring another Wayne into the world. And scandal it would be if billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne sported a baby bump in public. As an Omega, Bruce was held to a higher standard than Alphas, who were nothing more than perverts. Bruce could take it, but he hated the idea of putting his pup in that position. He’d been under public scrutiny his whole life, through the worst moments of his life… If he could shield his pup, then he really didn’t have a choice. “I guess we’re going to Kansas then.”

“Oh no, sir, I couldn’t possibly. Someone needs to see to the manor and Wayne Enterprises.” 

“Alfred—”

“No, sir, I’m afraid it has to be me.” Alred sighed dramatically. 

Bruce shook his head. He should have known. He couldn’t even picture the prim and proper butler out west...

Smallville, Kansas 

Stepping off his private jet, Bruce frowned. It was green, very green. His nose wrinkled at the smell. Used to the stench of Gotham’s polluted streets, he was overwhelmed by the stark freshness of the air here. 

Calling Alfred, Bruce announced, “I’m coming home.”

“Now, Master Bruce, you will do no such thing. Your plane just landed, and you mustn’t judge a place so quickly.” Alfred was clearly amused. “Besides, if you come home now, I lose my bet with Leslie.”

“But Alfred—” Bruce wanted to whine as if he were a small boy again. 

“Think of your pup, Master Bruce,” Alfred said softly. “Some fresh air and sunshine will do you both good.”

Sighing, Bruce relented. He found the car Alfred had rented for him and drove into town. He’d need to pick up some supplies before heading to the ranch house. 

The ranch house was in worse shape than what Bruce had expected. Then again, no one had set foot inside since his parents’ death... Stepping inside, Bruce could almost smell his mother’s lilac perfume. All of the furniture and decor was a capsule of his mother’s style. The manor used to be decorated in a similar manner, but it was too painful. After so long without his mother’s love for velvet, floral wallpaper, and bright colors, Bruce couldn’t help but relax as if he were finally home. 

***

Clark wiped his brow and stepped out of his muddy boots. “Ma, I got the eggs.” Swinging the basket, he grinned at his mother, who was standing before the stove, adding another pancake to a large stack that definitely had his name on it. 

He’d just about snagged one when Ma waved her spatula at him. “Now, Clark Jonathan Kent, I know I taught you better manners than that. Wash your hands!”

Quickly, Clark hurried to do as she bid. Then, like a good boy, he sat at the kitchen table with a sheepish smile. 

Jonathan was reading his morning paper. 

“Ma, that’s an awful lotta pancakes,” Clark commented, eyeing the giant stack of pancakes she was working on. “I know I eat a lot, but I’m not sure—”

“These aren’t for you,” Ma clucked. 

“Then who’re they for?” Clark asked. 

“The new neighbor,” Ma explained. At Jonathan and Clark’s blank gazes, she continued. “The ranch house across the street? Laura told me there’s an Omega living there now. I thought we’d be hospitable and bring him breakfast.”

Clark groaned. “Ah, Ma, you’re doin’ it again, aren’t you?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Martha said with a straight face. 

“You’re tryin’ to set me up with another Omega!” Clark whined. 

“So, what if I am?” Martha asked. “I’ve only got a few more good years in me, and I want to spoil some grandpuppies!”

“Ma!” 

“Now, Martha, you know you can’t force these things.”

“I’m not forcing anything,” Martha said innocently. 

“Woman, yer meddlin!” Jonathan laughed and kissed his wife soundly. “And son, you know your ma means well. ‘Sides, we raised you better than this. It’s only polite to greet the new neighbor.” 

And that’s how Clark found himself carrying a tray of his ma’s famous hot cakes, a basket of eggs, and freshly squeezed orange juice. Martha Kent was a force of nature, and both Jonathan and Clark were wise enough to bend to her will. 

With her head held high, Ma knocked on their neighbor’s door.

Clark tried not to use his superhearing if he could help it, but it was like trying not to breathe or blink. He simply couldn’t do it. So, he couldn’t help but hear the heartbeats within the dilapidated ranch house. 

There were two heartbeats within, but first, it is important to understand that every heartbeat is unique to its body. This heartbeat was steady, controlled, yet deceptively calm—like a metronome that never falters. But there was an unnatural stillness to it, the kind that only comes from years of discipline and training, a heartbeat hardened by willpower rather than circumstance. Despite that practiced rhythm, there was something else—a subtle tension, a coiled energy waiting to be unleashed. A predator’s heartbeat slow when at rest but capable of accelerating in an instant. It wouldn’t race with fear but rather with anticipation and calculation. Beneath all that control, Clark could just barely hear the echo of something raw. Not fear nor hesitation—but grief buried so deeply, one could almost forget it was there that it still trembled against his ribs. 

The second heartbeat was fast and fluttery like the wings of a hummingbird—delicate but relentless, full of boundless potential. It was one of the purest sounds Clark had ever heard, untouched by the hardship of grief, a tiny drum beating out the promise of a life yet to be lived. A fetus’ heartbeat, Clark realized. But there was something distinct about it. Where most unborn hearts pounded in chaotic innocence, this one had a curious rhythm—quieter, more deliberate, as if even in the womb, this pup was listening, observing, and absorbing the world around him. A heartbeat that would someday grow into something sharp and methodical, but for now, it was simply waiting. 

The door opened, revealing an Omega who might have been tall for an Omega, but he only came up to Clark’s shoulder. His dark brown hair was sticking up in every direction. His ebony eyes looked like shiny black buttons. He was wearing a long-sleeved, button-up shirt that hung to his slim hips. His boxers peeked out of the hem… His socks were mismatched. His hands wrung nervously, bringing Clark’s attention to the small swell of his stomach. “Uh, hullo.”

Martha smiled warmly. “Hello, dearie, we’re your closest neighbors. I’m Martha, but everyone calls me Ma, and this is my husband Jonathan.”

“Just call me Pa!” Jonathan grinned. 

“And this is our son Clark,” Martha introduced. “We brought you some fixings. Please let us know if you ever need anything. This here house has been empty for years, and I’m sure it’ll take some work to make it comfortable. Clark’s a dandy hand. Don’t even think about doin’ it yourself, not in your condition!”

“Ma,” Clark interrupted gently. He could tell the Omega was getting overwhelmed by his overbearing mother. “Really, if you need help, it’s no trouble.”

The Omega nodded seriously. “T-Thank you for the basket. That was very thoughtful.” When he took the basket from Clark, their fingers brushed. 

“Your name?” Clark asked. 

“Bruce.” Bruce smiled wryly.

Fuck,  Clark thought. He’s beautiful. 

***

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Chapter Text

“August evenings are especially stricken with melancholy—as if the ghosts of all past summers came rushing to haunt my heart.” —Author Unknown

Bruce hated Smallville! He felt so damn useless. He couldn’t enact his plans to clean up the city, nor could he oversee Wayne Enterprises. He did video calls daily, but he only listened to boring reports. Ever since his parents’ murders, he’d always been working towards something. For the first time in his life, there was nothing he could do. 

“You’re supposed to be resting, Master Bruce.” Alfred sighed, his voice crackling over the phone.

“I should be fulfilling my promise to my parents,” Bruce said sullenly. 

“Gotham is not going anywhere,” Alfred said gently. “I know how important your mission is, but you’ve been working towards it tirelessly. You have earned a rest. It will do you some good.”

Trying to do as Alred bid, Bruce lay on the yellow couch and tried to nap. He’d just about managed it when the sky chose that moment to scream. Suddenly, the wind was roaring, and rain was pattering against the roof. Grunting, Bruce rolled over and tried to ignore it, but then something wet dropped onto his head. 

Of course, the roof was leaky. 

Bruce scowled at the ceiling just for another drop to hit him. He swore and found a bucket to spare the couch. As the rain continued, he had to put out more buckets and bowls to try to stop the rain. But rain, no matter where it was falling, always had a way of finding the cracks.

In Gotham, the rain was a heavy, relentless downpour. Cold and unforgiving, much like the city herself. It would pound against towering skyscrapers and asphalt streets like a war drum, turning neon reflections into smeared streaks across the pavement. Gotham rain was thick with the city's weight: the smoke from factories, the exhaust from too many cars, the quiet despair of people hurrying under umbrellas, shoulders hunched against the downpour. It was the kind of rain that didn't cleanse; it just made everything feel heavier. 

But in Smallville, the rain was different. It came softer, slower—less of a battle, more of a lullaby. It rolled over the open fields in sheets, soaking the golden grass until the earth smelled fresh and alive. On nights like this, with a leaky roof and a worn-down house, the rain wasn’t just something to endure—it was something to listen to. Drops plinking against rusted metal, slipping down wooden beams, forming quiet puddles on the warped floorboards. It was a reminder of how alone he was here, how far he’d run, how different this was from Gotham’s storm-choked skyline.

Bruce wanted to go home, but the funny thing is he hadn’t had a home since he was eight years old. Sung to sleep by the pitter-patter of the rain, Bruce suddenly jolted awake. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what had disturbed him. Then he heard an awful pounding noise that seemed to shake the whole hose. 

Bruce stopped just long enough to throw on a silk bathrobe and slip on a pair of street shoes (shoes that he often wore on the streets of Gotham). He marched outside to find the Alpha from the other day fixing his roof…

“Hullo!” Clark called down at the scowling Omega. He looked adorable in his black bathrobe, and when it slipped off his shoulder, his scent wafted up to the Alpha. Breathing it in, Clark could pick out notes of dark plum and red wine. It was decadent and smooth, a scent that lingers like an expensive vintage, evoking both sophistication and something intoxicatingly deep.

“What are you doing?” Bruce chirped, irritated that he’d been so rudely awoken.

“Well, the storm was a beaut,” Clark said clumsily. “I’d just patched up my folk’s roof, and I got to thinkin’ nobody’s touched this roof for years. I was just gonna ask you ‘bout it, but it was worse than I thought, so I just started fixin.”

Bruce didn’t know what to say to that. He was surprised he hadn’t woken sooner. Usually, he was more on guard than this... But worse, he wasn’t used to being taken care of. (Alfred didn’t count) “That won’t be necessary. I can fix it myself.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Clark said. “‘Sides, you’re in no condition to—”

“Excuse me!”

“I mean not that you’re not capable,” Clark’s words were rushed, stumbling over each other like a rippling brook. “Only that, I’m almost finished, and you really don’t need to trouble yourself.” 

Bruce frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to figure out the Alpha’s angle. “How much will it cost?”

“Huh?”

“The roof,” Bruce repeated. “How much will it cost for all the work you’ve done.”

Clark’s kind smile fell flat. “Oh, no! I’m not doin’ this to get paid! I just couldn’t stand the thought of you dealin’ with a flood o’re here when I can fix it right up.”

Bruce crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. “I don’t need anyone taking care of me.”

Clark paused; hammer halfway raised. Something in the way Bruce said it—sharp but quiet—made Clark hesitate. His usual easy smile softened into something more thoughtful.

“I didn’t think you did,” Clark said. “But that don’t mean you gotta do everything alone.”

Bruce opened his mouth, probably to snap back, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he just stared at Clark, eyes flickering with something unreadable. The rain pattered against the newly patched roof, filling the silence between them.

Clark didn’t push, doesn’t tease. He just kept working, hammering in the last nail as if nothing had happened. 

But Bruce felt it lingering in the air, pressing against his ribs like a truth he didn’t want to face.

After Clark finished the roof, he hopped down from the ladder, dusting his hands off. 

Bruce watched him with narrowed eyes, arms still crossed. “I don’t like being indebted to people,” Bruce said, voice even. “You’re done with the roof?”

Clark glanced up at his work, then nodded. “Yep. Good as new—well, better than it was, anyway.”

Bruce exhaled sharply. The rain was still coming down in a lazy drizzle, and he knew Clark probably had to get back. But Bruce didn’t want to owe him, and—though he’d never say it aloud—part of him felt awkward just watching Clark leave.

“…I have food.” Bruce shifted his weight like he was forcing himself to say it. “Come in. Eat something before you head back.”

Clark blinked, a little caught off guard. He knew this wasn’t kindness—it was Bruce’s way of repaying him—but it still warmed something in his chest.

“Sure,” Clark said, smiling just a little. “I’d appreciate that.”

Inside, the ranch house was as run-down as Clark expected, but it still carried a strange, quiet dignity—just like Bruce. The furniture was worn but well-kept, and everything was meticulously in place despite the house’s disrepair.

Bruce moved through the kitchen with a sense of hesitancy. He opened the fridge, revealing a lack of food, especially for one in his condition. He pulled out simple ingredients and set them on the counter. Frowning, he pulled out a pan. 

Clark couldn’t help but sense that the Omega was deeply uncomfortable having the Alpha in his personal space. He was quiet as Bruce stared at the pan in consternation. 

“What are you making?” Clark asked.

“Food.”

“…Right.”

Bruce cracked an egg directly into the hot pan—no butter, no oil, just straight onto the dry, scalding metal. It sizzled angrily, the edges immediately burning.

Clark winced. “Uh—”

Bruce ignored him and carried on, grabbing some bread and slapping it into the toaster with a little too much force. Then, he stared at it as if he were willing it to toast faster.

Clark eyed the pan, where the egg was now half raw on top and burnt on the bottom. The smell was questionable, to say the least. “D’you… need help?”

Bruce glared at him. “I can handle it.”

A moment later, the toaster violently ejected the bread. Bruce tried to catch it, but one piece landed on the counter, the other on the floor.

Clark pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh. “Y’know, I did just fix your roof. If you’re tryin’ to kill me, there are faster ways.”

Bruce sighed heavily, looking at the sad, burnt egg and floor-toast. He wasn’t about to admit defeat. “Fine, if you’re not hungry, more for me.”

“Or how ‘bout I make us some of my ma’s famous French toast?” Clark asked gently. “You can put your feet up and boss me around.”

“I-I—”

“You don’t need to be taken care of,” Clark said. “I know. I’m not takin’ care of you.”

“Then what are you—I don’t.” Bruce’s face burned with embarrassment.

“I’m just bein’ a good neighbor. And savin’ us both from salmonella.” 

Somehow, Bruce found himself sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of orange juice because the Alpha insisted it was good for the baby. With all the prowess of a CEO, Bruce directed the Alpha on how to prepare their meal. He was a strict taskmaster and insisted the bread be cut in diagonals. Clark was a good sport and, although Bruce would never admit it, a better cook. 

The Alpha had rolled up his sleeves, exposing strong forearms dusted with flour and a hint of golden tan from the sun. His hands—large, steady—cracked eggs into a bowl with an ease that irritated Bruce. Like he belonged there. Like he’d been built for this—taking care of things, making things better.

Bruce scowled and leaned back, one foot propped on the chair beside him, feigning disinterest. “You’re whisking too slow.”

Clark chuckled, unbothered. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Bruce drawled. “You need to incorporate more air. It’ll make the batter lighter.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You a chef now?”

Bruce lifted his chin, smirking. “I know things.”

Clark just shook his head, going back to his task. He dipped thick slices of bread into the egg mixture, then laid them on the pan. The scent of warm cinnamon and vanilla filled the kitchen, drowning out the lingering rain outside. Bruce tried not to inhale too deeply.

Instead, he let his gaze wander—from the flex of Clark’s back beneath his snug t-shirt to the way his jeans fit just right. Clark moved like a man who knew his own strength but handled everything with care, with patience. Even now, as he carefully cooked their breakfast, there was purpose in every motion. It was annoying. And distracting.

Bruce tore his eyes away and focused on his real objective: being difficult. “You should flip them now.”

Clark barely looked over. “They’re not ready yet.”

“They’ll burn.”

“They won’t.”

Bruce exhaled sharply, drumming his fingers against the table. “This is taking forever.”

Clark finally turned, spatula in hand, giving Bruce a smug, knowing look. “You sure you don’t just like watchin’ me?”

Bruce rolled his eyes, shifting in his chair. “I like my food cooked properly.”

Clark flipped the toast over at the exact right moment—a perfect golden brown. He winked. “Told ya.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes but said nothing, biting back a smirk. He’d find something else to critique. Eventually. 

Finally, the rain petered out. It had sated the fields and earth, leaving everything fresh, gleaming. The clouds rolled back, the sky shifting from storm gray to soft blue.

“Would you look at that,” Clark drawled.

Bruce, still nursing his orange juice, turned his head toward the window. Outside, arching over the fields, was a rainbow. Vivid, unbroken. The kind of thing he never saw in Gotham—there, the sky was too choked with smog, the buildings too high, always blocking the view. But here, in the open sprawl of Smallville, it stretched unchallenged across the horizon. He stared, caught off guard by the simplicity of it, the raw, unfiltered beauty. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured, the words slipping out unguarded.

Clark didn’t answer.

Bruce glanced sideways, only to catch Clark looking at him instead.

There was something in Clark’s gaze, something warm and steady like a man seeing something rare. Something precious. His gaze lingered in a way that made Bruce’s pulse skip, a slow, traitorous thing.

For a moment, neither spoke. The air was thick with something unsaid. Then Clark smiled, soft and knowing. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

Bruce swallowed, looking away first.

The rainbow was still there, still perfect. But it didn’t feel like the most remarkable thing anymore.

***

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Chapter Text

Isolation is not safety, 

it is death. 

If no one knows you’re alive, 

you aren’t.

If a tree falls in the forest, 

and no one is around to hear it,

it does make a sound;

but then that sound is gone. 

I’m not saying you’ll find the meaning of life

in other people. 

I’m saying other people are the life to which

you provide the meaning to.

—Neil Hilborn

Clark used just about every excuse he could think of to walk across the golden wheat fields to the little dilapidated ranch house. But it wasn’t nearly as dilapidated anymore.

The roof no longer leaked when the storms rolled in, the wooden siding gleamed under a fresh coat of paint, and the once-barren yard had been sodded so that, soon, lush green grass would start to sprout. The porch, once sagging and weather-worn, had been reinforced, the boards sturdy underfoot. And at the very edge of it, beneath the gentle shade of the awning, sat a rocking chair—handmade, sanded smooth, built just for the Omega inside.

It wasn’t lost on Clark that he’d been doing everything in his power to make that little ranch house feel like a home. Maybe Bruce hadn’t noticed yet. Maybe he had…

Bruce told himself he didn’t care. Sitting on the aforementioned rocking chair, he watched Clark kneeling in the dirt, sleeves rolled up, hands working the earth as he planted something along the side of the house. Flowers, probably. Clark was insufferably wholesome like that. Bruce exhaled sharply, fingers drumming on the windowsill.

This wasn’t his house, not really. He had come here to get away—to disappear from Gotham, from the press, from expectations. From himself.

And yet, the stubborn Alpha had set to work fixing the place up, piece by piece, remaking the house into something more than a hiding spot.

The worst part? Bruce liked the changes.

The rocking chair had been a step too far. He had scoffed at it the moment Clark had placed it on the porch, arms crossed, scowling. “I don’t need a rocking chair,” he’d muttered, and Clark had just smiled that infuriating, easygoing smile.

“Well, I reckon that’s fine,” Clark had said. “But I figure a man ought to have a place to sit and enjoy the view. No harm in that.”

And then he’d walked away, whistling, leaving Bruce standing there with his jaw clenched, the scent of freshly cut wood still lingering in the air.

That had been a few days ago.

Bruce hadn’t meant to use it. But tonight, with the rain finally gone and the air thick with the scent of damp earth and wheat, he found himself there, rocking ever so slightly, one hand absently resting against his tiny baby bump.

From the garden, Clark looked up. Their eyes met.

Bruce tensed, suddenly feeling exposed, but Clark only smiled, tipping his hat in greeting before returning to his work as if he hadn’t just caught Bruce enjoying something Clark had made for him. As if he hadn’t just won.

Bruce huffed, looking away. He’d have to find some way to put himself back in control of this situation. But the chair was comfortable.

Damn it.

The thing is, Bruce needed to be in control. He knew how to play the role of slut—even if he hated it. He knew how to tease Alphas until they were putty in his hands. He knew how to use them and how to let them think they were using him. He knew how to act like the air-headed bimbo to get exactly what he wanted. He’d trained himself to study Alphas and learn what made them tick. But Bruce still couldn’t figure out what the golden boy wanted from him. In his experience, Alphas always wanted something, usually sex… But this Alpha was different. He refused any payment for all his fixing up except for a home-cooked meal that he insisted on cooking himself!

It just didn’t add up.

People like Clark just didn’t exist in Bruce’s world. There was always an ulterior motive, always an angle, always a catch. Altruism was just another mask, another form of currency in Gotham. So, why did Clark keep coming back? Why was he fixing a house that wasn’t his, planting flowers he wouldn’t get to enjoy, cooking meals he wouldn’t even let Bruce help with?

Bruce watched him now, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with flour as he prepped something at the tiny kitchen counter. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla drifted through the air. He’d never admit it, but it was… nice. Warm in a way Bruce wasn’t used to. 

But that only made it more suspicious.

“What’s your angle?” Bruce finally asked, arms crossed as he leaned against the table.

Clark turned, brow furrowing. “Huh?”

Bruce tilted his chin. “No one does anything for nothing. So, tell me—what do you really want?”

Clark blinked, momentarily thrown. “What do I want?” he echoed like the question had never even crossed his mind.

Bruce’s stare was sharp, testing. “That’s what I said.”

Clark let out a breath, shaking his head with a half-smile. “You really don’t think I exist, do you?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Clark leaned against the counter, arms folding loosely. “Someone who does good just because it’s the right thing? Someone who helps without expectin’ somethin’ in return?” He tilted his head, watching Bruce carefully. “That ain’t real to you, is it?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “No,” he said bluntly. “It’s not.”

Clark didn’t look surprised. If anything, he looked sad—but only for a moment. Then he straightened, flashing Bruce that easygoing Kent smile. “Well,” he said. “Guess I’ll just have to prove you wrong.”

Bruce’s stomach twisted, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because people who wanted to prove things always disappointed him in the end.

Maybe because, deep down, part of him wished Clark could prove him wrong.

Clark wiped the sweat from his brow and planted his hands on his hips, surveying the freshly tilled field. It was backbreaking work—well, it would have been for anyone else. He had spent the better part of the morning hauling stones, pulling weeds, and turning the soil, preparing it for planting.

A gust of wind rustled through the golden wheat fields, and Clark rolled his shoulders, enjoying the feel of the warm breeze against his skin. But then—

The air changed.

It was subtle at first, but Clark had lived through enough storms to recognize the shift. The temperature dropped fast. The wind grew erratic, gusting in different directions. The sky, once a soft, lazy blue, had turned an eerie shade of green.

Clark’s stomach twisted.

Then, in the distance—the sirens.

His head snapped up.

The wailing cry carried over the fields, rising and falling in urgent waves. Clark spun on his heel, scanning the horizon. A darkness was gathering far off to the west, the kind of swirling, angry clouds that made every instinct in him scream.

But his first thought wasn’t for himself. It was for Bruce.

Bruce, who had probably never even heard a tornado siren before. Bruce, who would dismiss the warning as overblown panic. Bruce, who had no damn clue what to do.

Clark swore under his breath.

There wasn’t time to walk—he needed to be there now! His mate and pup were in danger! Before he could think better of it, his feet lifted off the ground wind rushing past his ears as he took off, cutting across the wheat fields in a blur of speed. He forced himself to stay low, skimming just above the crops so no one would see him. The ranch house came into view in a matter of seconds, and Clark landed just out of sight behind the barn.

He forced himself to walk the last few steps to the porch, rolling his shoulders to shake off the residual energy. By the time he knocked—loudly—he looked like he’d simply sprinted over on foot.

No answer.

Clark knocked again, more insistent. “Bruce!”

Still nothing.

A fresh gust of wind howled past, rattling the old wind chime on the porch. Damn it. He didn’t have time for this. Clark yanked open the door and strode inside.

And there was Bruce. Sitting at his desk, reading a damn book, looking utterly unbothered by the sirens screaming outside.

The day had been unusually still, the sky an eerie shade of green that made Bruce’s instincts prickle. He had seen storms before and had heard the wind howling between the skyscrapers of Gotham, but this was different. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, the silence was almost worse than the noise.

Then the sirens started.

A shrill, wailing sound cut through the air, distant but urgent. Bruce frowned, glancing toward the window, where the wheat fields were no longer swaying lazily but whipping back and forth in sharp, chaotic bursts. The trees bent unnaturally, their branches groaning.

The house creaked around him.

A tornado?

Before he could fully process the thought, a heavy knock rattled the front door. He didn’t even have a chance to get up before Clark was storming inside, his face set in an expression of pure panic.

Clark’s blood pressure skyrocketed. “Bruce, we gotta move. Now.”

“Excuse me?”

Clark clenched his jaw. Oh, for the love of— “Tornado warning,” he said, enunciating each word like he was speaking to a particularly stubborn child. “It’s bad. We need to shelter in place.”

Bruce blinked slowly. “A tornado?” He looked toward the window, frowning at the swirling sky. “…Huh.”

Clark could not believe this man. His patience snapped. He crossed the room in two long strides, grabbed Bruce’s wrist, and started pulling him toward the hallway. “Come on. Now.”

Bruce bristled, planting his feet. “I am not—”

The wind let out an unholy roar outside, loud enough to shake the walls.

Bruce paled.

Clark took advantage of his hesitation and dragged him the rest of the way to the bathroom, yanking open the door and all but shoving him inside.

“Do you even know what to do in a tornado?” Clark demanded.

Bruce glowered at him. “No. But I’d have figured it out.”

Clark groaned, exasperated. He reached into the cupboard, grabbed a blanket, and threw it over Bruce’s shoulders. “Sit.”

Bruce sat.

The wind roared outside, and the house groaned under the pressure. For a split second, Bruce felt something tighten in his chest—fear, maybe, though he wouldn’t admit it. He had faced gunfire, knives, and explosions, but this—this wasn’t something he could fight.

Then Clark was kneeling in front of him, close enough that Bruce could see the tension in his jaw, the worry flickering in his blue eyes.

“You okay?” Clark asked, softer now.

Bruce swallowed. “I’m fine.”

A heavy silence stretched between them.

The storm raged on, but in here, in this small, enclosed space, there was only warmth—Clark’s presence, Clark’s hands braced against his knees like he was grounding them both.

Bruce exhaled slowly.

“This isn’t how I planned this,” Clark muttered under his breath.

Bruce arched a brow. “Planned what?”

Clark hesitated. Then, suddenly, his hand was on Bruce’s cheek, tilting his face ever so slightly. “Kissing you,” he murmured.

Bruce barely had time to process the words before Clark closed the space between them. The kiss was slow, deliberate. A quiet kind of intensity that stole Bruce’s breath more effectively than any storm. He hadn’t even realized he’d been gripping the front of Clark’s shirt until now, holding him close, keeping him there.

For the first time since he’d come to Smallville, Bruce didn’t feel like he was running. Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, Bruce let himself be swept up like a leaf in the wind.

***

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Chapter Text

I’m afraid of 

a lot of things,

but mostly, 

most sincerely, 

I am afraid of 

being completely 

unraveled by you,

and you finding nothing

you want in here.

—L.M. Dorsey

Bruce hadn’t realized he’d gotten used to the quiet of the countryside until Mother Nature decided to scream her voice hoarse. The screams of the storm were awful, but even worse was the way the house creaked and trembled. Bruce, who’d been reading children’s stories as a kind of research, couldn’t help but remember the story of the three little pigs. The towering skyscrapers of Gotham were sturdy, unyielding—strong enough to survive even the most violent storms. But this ranch house, this humble refuge tucked away on the edge of the world, was different. It was newer, less solid than what he was used to. The manor, with its centuries of history, had stood the test of time. But this house? It felt fragile, too delicate to withstand the full wrath of God. As if one huff and one puff would blow it away. 

How could this place survive a tornado? Bruce wondered. The bathroom, with its solid walls and lack of windows, was supposed to be the safest place. But the walls groaned under the pressure, the very air seemed to tremble with the fury of the wind, and he could feel the floor vibrating beneath his feet. It was like the world was being torn apart, and there was nothing either of them could do about it. 

Clark was strangely calm and still, like a tree with far-reaching roots. His presence was a solid comfort, but he couldn’t fully distract Bruce’s whirling mind or the panic gnawing at his chest. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Clark murmured against his ear. 

“How much longer?” Bruce asked, his knuckles nearly white as he gripped the edge of the sink. 

Clark didn’t reply right away. Instead, he pulled Bruce closer, his hands settling around his waist. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart gave Bruce something else to focus on amidst the storm’s madness. 

His breath hitched as Clark’s hands moved lower, just grazing the side of his stomach. Bruce’s pulse quickened, his chest tightening painfully. He was hyperaware of the pup in his belly that belonged to another Alpha… When he pulled away, his eyes darted to Clark’s, trying to look inside the Alpha’s mind. “Don’t,” Bruce whispered, his voice tight, unsure whether he was telling Clark to stop or telling himself to keep it together. 

Clark immediately stopped, his hands dropping to his side. For a moment, everything was still. The storm outside a distant thought, as if the world itself was holding its breath. 

“I didn’t mean to…” Clark began, but Bruce shook his head. 

Taking a shaky breath, Bruce’s gaze flickered to the floor, unable to meet Clark’s eyes. “Just… don’t touch me there.”

Clark’s expression softened. “T-The father’s not involved, right?”

“No.” 

“You know I don’t care…” Clark leaned in closer, but then he stopped, his movements slow, careful, gauging Bruce’s reaction and giving him the space to either pull away or let him come closer. 

Bruce was in complete control, and the Omega couldn’t help but be grateful that the Alpha trusted him. But in his experience, Alphas didn’t listen or trust. They sure as hell didn’t wait for permission. They didn’t care about hesitation or boundaries—they always took what they wanted. 

But Clark wasn’t like that. His gaze was filled with worry and concern, but there was something else. Something that almost looked like respect. 

Bruce knew how to handle pushy Alphas, but he wasn’t used to whatever the hell this was. There was no force, no hurry in Clark’s touch. Just the silent question of whether or not Bruce would allow it. Slowly, his fingers curled into Clark’s shirt, a silent consent. 

Clark’s lips brushed against his forehead. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was Clark’s unspoken vow: that he was willing to wait, to give Bruce the room he needed. 

Exhaling, Bruce breathed a little easier now, his fingers still holding onto Clark’s shirt. For the first time in years, he thought that just maybe he didn’t have to shoulder the weight of everything alone. He knew he could leave it here, this chaste kiss, but he wanted more. Tentatively, he allowed himself to explore, feeling the plains of Clark’s chiseled chest. His thumb flicked over the Alpha’s nipple, eliciting a throaty groan. His hands moved downwards, hovering near the hem of Clark’s shirt. 

Clark froze, his large hands trapping Bruce’s smaller ones. “Are you sure?” His voice was surprisingly soft, and there was a nervousness in his posture, a tightness in his shoulders. 

“I’m sure, are you?”

Oh, honey, the only thing I’m sure about is you scare the hell out of me, Clark thought. “A-Anything you want.”

Slowly, Bruce lifted the fabric of Clark’s shirt and tugged it upward. Clark’s breath hitched when the cool air hit his skin, and he trembled as if Bruce could completely undo him. Once the shirt was off, Bruce stood there for a long moment, simply looking. 

Clark was gorgeous. He had a farmer’s tan, and his muscles were well-defined from all the hard work he did on the farm. 

Unable to help himself, Bruce touched his chest, and oh, Clark’s skin was heavenly warm. He smiled at Clark’s little nipples standing at attention. His thumb flicked one while his mouth embraced another, his teeth teasing the little nub. 

Clark hissed. “H-Honey!” 

Chuckling, Bruce allowed his gaze and his hands to wander down, hovering near the waistband of Clark’s pants before teasingly cupping the Alpha’s bulge. “You’re not gonna make me do all the work, are you?” Bruce asked with a grin. His fingers danced along Clark’s ribs as if he were playing Mozart or Beethoven. 

Clark jumped, surprising both of them. A nervous laugh escaped his lips, and his arms wrapped around himself. “S-Sorry,” Clark muttered, his face flushing a bright red. “I-I wasn’t expecting that was all.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish expression.

Bruce smiled. “You’re adorable when you’re all flustered, you know that?” 

Clark’s eyes sparkled with a mix of embarrassment and something else. “I, uh, I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he admitted. 

Bruce cocked his head, a realization dawning on him. 

Clark wasn’t just nervous or inexperienced. 

The blush, the uncertainty in his eyes, the way he fumbled with every move— 

“You’re… you’re a virgin?” Bruce gasped. 

Clark’s face somehow flushed even redder, his eyes darting anywhere but on Bruce. He shifted his weight. “I mean… yeah. I’ve never really—” he trailed off, unable to finish the thought. “It’s not like I’m… I’ve just never…”

Bruce pulled back so fast he nearly tripped over himself. His heart pounded against his ribs, his breath coming sharp and shallow. “Shit!” He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. “Shit, Clark, I—”

Clark’s brows knit together in confusion. He was still flushed and bare-chested, but now, there was a hint of insecurity in his features. “Bruce?”

Shaking his head, Bruce stepped back until his spine hit the cool tile of the shower. His stomach churned. How had he let this happen? 

Clark was a goddam virgin! Untouched. Pure. 

And Bruce? Bruce was the opposite. He’d long stopped counting his conquests, stopped keeping track of the times; he’d let an Alpha sink into his heat just so he could feel something. 

And Clark? Clark was looking at him like he was something precious, something worth waiting for. 

Bruce felt sick. “I can’t—” he swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I shouldn’t have—”

Clark took a cautious step forward. “Hey, it’s okay. We don’t have to—”

Bruce let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t get it. I shouldn’t be the first, not me.”

“Why not?” Clark asked, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out and touch Bruce and pull him back into his orbit. 

Because I don’t deserve to be anyone’s first. Because I’m knocked up with another man’s pup. Because I’ve been used up. Because I’ll ruin you. Bruce couldn’t get the words out. His tongue felt heavy, his lungs struggling to breathe. He needed to get out of here. He needed air, space—A violent gust of wind rattled the house, making the foundation groan beneath them. The bathroom light flickered. The tornado. Fuck. There was nowhere to run. His panic clawed at his chest, but there was no escape. Not from the storm outside and not from the storm inside of him threatening to destroy him. 

Clark must have seen something on his face. Suddenly, his nerves faded, and he reached out and pulled Bruce in. “Breathe, honey.”

Bruce wanted to push past him, to find some dark corner to curl up in until the walls stopped closing in around him. 

But Clark’s touch was grounding. Not a chain, not a trap. Just something to hold onto. 

He forced himself to take a breath, then another. 

Clark didn’t let go. “Whatever’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t take that ocean of sincerity. He wished Clark would act like all the other Alphas he knew, tell him he was a disgusting whore, and let go of him because he could do so much better than a broken Omega. But Clark did none of those things. He was patient; he was kind. He didn’t boast or take pride in himself. He didn’t dishonor Bruce’s pain or seek pleasure for himself. He wasn’t angry, and he wouldn’t hold this against Bruce. He put Bruce first, protecting, trusting, and hoping in him. He persevered and never failed. 

Bruce knew he didn’t deserve it. But with the storm still howling outside and Clark’s warmth against his skin, he didn’t have much choice except to stand there and let himself feel it.

***

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Chapter Text

“I think once you’ve thought about how a person sleeps, how they’d feel pressed up against your back, or your head on their chest, how compatible your bodies would be in the same space of a bed—once you’ve thought about that, you’re fucked.” —Author Unknown

Bruce moaned, his head falling back against his silk pillow. His hands fisted into the sheets as a warm, wet tongue slowly trailed down his chest. It brushed over his nipples just long enough to make him shiver, his breath catching. The sensation was maddening—not enough to satisfy, but more than enough to leave him aching for more. The tongue continued its teasing, swirling into his navel before venturing even lower. 

Bruce’s thighs tensed in anticipation. “Please…” The word slipped from his lips, barely more than a breath. 

Clark didn’t answer; he didn’t need to. 

Bruce felt the Alpha’s presence like a gravitational pull, overwhelming and inescapable. When Clark ignored his leaking cock in favor of trailing feather-light kisses along the sensitive skin of his thighs, Bruce whined indignantly. “Clark!” Bruce gasped, his voice rough, needy.

Still no response—only the torturous heat of Clark’s mouth moving lower, his hands gripping Bruce’s hips to keep him still. 

Bruce’s muscles strained against the restraint, his body torn between surrender and the burning need to take control. Frustration boiled over. His hands shot down, burying into Clark’s thick, dark curls. He tugged, half-expecting resistance, but Clark groaned instead—a low, wrecked sound that sent a bolt of arousal straight to Bruce’s core. And then, Clark sunk his teeth into the soft flesh of Bruce’s thigh.

Bruce tightened his grip, pulling Clark up. Their mouths collided in a desperate, messy kiss, all tongue and teeth and raw, hungry desire. 

Clark met him with equal fervor, his hands sliding up Bruce’s sides, rough palms leaving a blazing trail of heat in their wake. 

Bruce couldn’t tell if it was too much or if he wanted more—he only knew he didn’t want it to stop.

Suddenly, Bruce woke up with a sharp inhale, like surfacing from beneath deep water. His heart pounded against his ribs, his lungs burning. For a moment, he couldn’t tell what was real—the heat of Clark’s mouth still ghosted over his skin, his thighs still trembled. His mind clawed at the remnants of the dream, desperate to pull it back, but it slipped through his fingers like smoke.

The cold hit him next—the sheets were empty, the other side of the bed untouched. His hand drifted over the space where Clark should have been, seeking warmth that wasn’t there. 

The melancholy hit hard. A strange sense of loneliness and longing. His stomach twisted, slick pooling between his legs as his body betrayed him. It wasn’t the dream that left him breathless. It was the terrifying realization that he wanted it to be real… that he was a selfish monster who wanted to possess Clark: mind, body, soul—all of him, completely, until there was nothing left but Bruce.

Rolling over, Bruce screamed into his pillow. He hadn’t seen Clark since the storm, not for lack of trying on Clark’s part. Bruce had made sure of it. Whenever he spotted the Alpha crossing the field, his heart would leap into his throat—and he’d bolt. He’d ride into town or disappear into the barn, anywhere Clark wouldn’t find him. A few times, he wasn’t fast enough. So, he had to hide in the house, holding his breath like a coward, pretending he wasn’t home. 

But somehow, Clark always knew. Without fail, he’d knock on the door, voice low and sad. “Bruce, I know you’re in there.”

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, a tear slipping free despite his best efforts. His head sank into the soft, familiar mess of blankets and pillows he’d positioned around himself. His nest. It was a pitiful thing since Bruce had never had anyone to teach him. It smelled like comfort, safety, and Clark—because he’d stolen the Alpha’s Carhartt jacket. He blamed the tears, the nesting, and the longing for an Alpha on the hormones. Omegas weren’t supposed to be alone when they were pregnant, but Bruce wasn’t like other Omegas.

The worst part was that Clark never got angry. Never yelled, never accused. He’d sigh, linger for a moment longer like he was hoping Bruce would open the door and let him in. 

But then, Bruce would hear his footsteps retreating across the porch, slow and heavy until they faded entirely. 

But not that day. 

That day, the knock came again—louder this time, rattling the doorframe. “Bruce, please just talk to me.” 

Bruce shut his eyes tight, willing Clark to leave. He waited, heart hammering, for the sound of retreating footsteps. He didn’t know how much longer he could do this. His resolve was fraying, stretched thin, and splintering with every day that passed without Clark.

But this time, Clark didn’t leave. The knock became a fist pounding against the wood, each blow vibrating through the walls. “Bruce!”

Bruce flinched, curling tighter into his nest. His hands fisted in the stolen jacket, holding onto Clark’s scent like it might hold him together. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He just had to wait it out. Clark always left—

A deafening crack echoed through the house—the splintering snap of wood giving way. The whole house seemed to shudder with it. Heavy, purposeful footsteps thudded against the floorboards, growing louder.

Bruce’s breath hitched, panic clawing up his throat. His bedroom door rattled.

“Bruce, either you can open this door, or I’ll tear it off its hinges!” Clark’s voice was low, rough, and shaking with barely contained emotion. It wasn’t anger—it was something rawer, something that made Bruce’s heart twist painfully.

For a moment, Bruce couldn’t move, frozen in the cocoon of his blankets. But then his hand moved on its own, trembling as it reached for the doorknob.

The door swung open.

Clark stood in the doorway, chest heaving, his broad frame tense like he was holding himself together by a thread. His knuckles were red and raw from breaking through the front door. His eyes weren’t angry—they were worse. They were broken.

“You keep hiding from me.” His voice was hoarse, strained, barely holding back something deeper. His eyes, glassy and burning, locked onto Bruce’s. “Why, Bruce? What did I do wrong?”

Bruce froze. His throat tightened painfully. He wanted to yell, to shove Clark back and tell him to leave him alone—but the words wouldn’t come because Clark hadn’t done anything wrong. 

He’d been gentle and patient and so damn good. And that was the problem! 

“You didn’t do anything,” Bruce finally managed to say, his voice barely audible. His gaze dropped to the floor, unable to look into Clark’s big blue eyes, pools of sincerity. “It’s me. I’m the problem.”

“I’m gonna need more than that. I don’t understand why you think that. Please, Bruce. I—I can’t stand this. I miss you.” Clark’s voice wavered. 

Bruce shook his head, tears burning hot and blurring his vision. Damned hormones. “You shouldn’t. I’m not… I’m not like you. I-I’m dirty.” The confession tore out of him, ugly and messy, before he could stop it. His voice trembled, nearly breaking. “Y-You’re so good. You deserve someone better—someone who hasn’t been with—”

“Stop.” Clark’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through Bruce’s spiraling thoughts like a knife. When Bruce finally looked up, Clark’s expression was fierce—not angry, but unwavering. Determined. “You think I care about that?” Clark’s voice trembled, his hands flexing like he was physically holding himself back from reaching for Bruce. “I don’t care how many people you’ve slept with! I care about you! I want you, and I’m so damned tired of you pushing me away like my feelings don’t matter.” 

Bruce’s chest ached, his heart slamming against his ribs so hard he swore Clark could hear it. After losing the two people who mattered more to him than anyone else in the world, he’d vowed never to love anyone that much again—that way, he couldn’t lose them, too. But his carefully built walls were cracking… “I-I don’t know how to stop,” Bruce admitted. 

Clark exhaled a shaky breath, his face softening, and this time, he didn’t stop himself. He stepped closer and cupped Bruce’s face, his hands warm and steady. His thumb brushed over Bruce’s cheek, wiping away a tear. “Then let me help you. Please, Bruce, don’t shut me out anymore. Let me in.”

Bruce stared at him. His mind and heart were at war. His mind reminded him that he was supposed to fight this, to push Clark away for his own good. But his heart betrayed him. His breath hitched, and before he could stop himself, he leaned into Clark’s touch, his eyes squeezing shut as the last of his willpower shattered. “Okay.” 

Bruce barely got the word out before Clark surged forward, wrapping him in his arms. Bruce crumpled against him, the fight draining out of his limbs like water. He buried his face in Clark’s neck, breathing him in, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself feel safe.

**

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Chapter Text

“‘I don’t deserve you,’ I whisper, pushing matted hair from his eyes. ‘How dare you say that,’ he replies breathlessly, not opening his deep-sea green eyes. ‘I don’t. You’re so amazing and caring and someone like me doesn’t deserve someone like you,’ I assure him, his grip tightening around my bare waist. He is too pure and too sweet to love me, as I fear. Yet, I have already fallen in love with him.” —Author Unknown

Clark didn’t know it was possible to be this happy. He was deliriously happy. The kind of happiness that made the world feel even brighter. He lay there, the morning light peeking through the curtains, watching the man curled up beside him in their nest of soft quilts and clean sheets.

Bruce was still asleep, though somehow his body remained on high alert—every muscle wound tight even in rest.

Clark didn’t move. Didn’t dare disturb him. He just watched as the sunlight turned Bruce’s dark brown hair a warm auburn, memorizing every freckle on his face, the soft, sleep-creased corners of his mouth, the way his lashes brushed against his cheekbones.

Bruce stirred, a small frown tugging at his brow as he shifted beneath the blankets. His hair was messy—dark, tousled curls flattened on one side and sticking up wildly on the other.

Clark watched in quiet awe, completely undone. He looked devastating. Unfairly, achingly beautiful.

Bruce’s nose scrunched, and it was everything in him not to coo, but then his eyes fluttered open—just a sliver, just enough to squint blearily in Clark’s direction.

Clark smiled, helplessly fond. “Morning.”

Bruce made a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh, then pouted. “God, you’re one of those, aren’t you?”

Clark chuckled, low and fond. “One of what?”

“A morning person.” Bruce’s voice was rough with sleep. “It’s unnatural.”

Clark only smiled. “So, what if I am?” Clark asked, his voice low, his eyes darkening as his gaze traveled over the breathtaking landscape of Bruce’s body—the slope of his shoulders, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, dusted with fine, reddish hair that reminded Clark of windblown wheat swaying in late summer fields. Every inch of him felt like open country: wild, quiet, untouched—a place Clark wanted to explore, to memorize, to call home.

Bruce caught him staring and immediately frowned, turning his face into the pillow. “Don’t,” he mumbled.

Clark blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.” Bruce’s voice was still muffled, but it held a sharp self-consciousness that broke Clark’s heart. “I need—my teeth, my hair—just. I’m gross right now.”

“You’re not gross,” Clark said gently. 

“Just… let me up first. I-I’ll fix myself up nice and pretty for you, Alpha.”

The word hit Clark like a spark of electricity, a deep, primal reaction he hadn't expected. His heart stuttered in his chest. Bruce’s voice, though tentative and shy, still stirred something wild within him. But Clark kept his expression soft, his gaze steady, even as his pulse raced. He gently wrapped his fingers around Bruce’s wrist, careful not to overwhelm him. “You don’t have to fix anything,” Clark murmured, his voice steady despite the undercurrent of emotion threading through his words. “You’re beautiful to me just like this. With your messy hair, your sleepy eyes. Just... just you.”

Bruce’s lips parted slightly as though trying to say something else, but the words caught in his throat. 

Clark watched as his face softened, the tension in his shoulders easing under the weight of those simple, honest words. He couldn’t help it—his thumb brushed across Bruce’s wrist, a soothing gesture. “You’re perfect exactly as you are,” he repeated quietly, almost reverently. 

And Bruce, though clearly still unsure, seemed to relax, if only a little, because he couldn’t doubt the sincerity in Clark’s voice.

They stayed in bed a little longer, just holding each other close. Bruce’s head rested against Clark’s chest, his fingers lazily tracing patterns along Clark’s arm, raising goosebumps in his wake. Clark’s hand rested on the small of Bruce’s back, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath.

This close, Clark’s senses were attuned to everything: the faint scent of clean linens, the smell after a storm—that sharp, mineral tang and the way rain made the earth feel alive. He caught the sweetness of blooming flowers carried in from the open window, the hush of morning pressing gently against the windows. But more than anything, he smelled Bruce. 

Bruce’s scent was rich and heady—dark plum and red wine, decadent and smooth, like something aged and rare. It lingered in the air like a fine perfume that spoke of depth and restraint, something intoxicating and endlessly fascinating.

And then there was his own scent, a contrast in every way—wild and bright. He smelled like the sky after a summer storm: ozone and sunlight, crisp and electric, as if lightning still lived just under his skin. Beneath that sharpness, though, was something warmer, something grounded—the scent of soil and wheat, of wind in open fields. 

Clark’s fingers traced lazy patterns along Bruce’s back. Outside, the gentle rustle of the wind hinted at a world moving on beyond their little sanctuary, and Clark knew the calm couldn’t last forever.

Just then, the soft chime of Bruce’s phone cut through the silence. Bruce stirred, reluctantly pulling himself from the warmth of the sheets, and Clark caught the flicker of worry that crossed his face before he glanced at the screen.

“Alfred,” Bruce murmured, his voice cautious but steady. “Everything alright?”

“I just wished to check on you, Master Bruce,” came Alfred’s soft voice. “I heard about the tornado that passed through Smallville. I trust you and the pup are safe.”

Clark never meant to to eavesdrop, but he couldn’t really help it with his super hearing. So, he caught every word clearly—and the last thing he expected was an elderly man speaking with such a refined British accent.

“Everything’s fine, Alfred,” Bruce replied, his voice clipped but firm. “No need to worry.”

“Very good to hear,” Alfred responded, a slight note of relief in his voice. “I would also remind you of your doctor’s appointment, sir. You have missed your last two, and I must impress upon you how important it is—for the health of your pup and yourself—that you do not miss another.”

Bruce sighed and thought of arguing, but he knew better than to argue with Alfred. “Fine. I’ll go.” 

When Bruce hung up, Clark couldn’t help himself.  “Is that your…”

Bruce shook his head softly. “No. My parents died when I was a boy.”

Clark’s expression softened. “I’m sorry.”

Bruce shrugged, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Alfred’s my butler. He practically raised me.”

There was a pause as Clark considered this quietly. Then, a gentle warmth filled his voice. “You know, my parents have been asking about you. I think they’d really like to meet you properly—not just the brief hello when they brought you those meals after you moved in.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “I don’t know… I’m not really the kind of Omega you bring home to Mama.”

Clark’s heart broke at that. “My mama would love you. She’s kind and warm, and she always sees the good in people—even when they don’t see it in themselves.” He reached out, brushing a stray curl from Bruce’s face. “And so would my pa. They’d want to meet the man I care about.”

Bruce looked up, eyes searching Clark’s. The vulnerability there made Clark want to hold him even tighter. “I’m not sure I’m ready for all that yet,” Bruce admitted quietly.

“That’s okay. Everything’s at your pace,” Clark said softly, watching Bruce closely.

Bruce bit his lip, then after a pause, he let out a quiet sigh. “A-lright…”

Clark’s face lit up instantly. “Really? That’s—great. I think you’ll like them.”

Bruce gave a small, almost shy nod. It wasn’t that he doubted he’d like them—he worried they wouldn’t approve of him. A pregnant Omega, out of mating lock… surely wasn’t what they wanted for their son. 

“Let’s go!” Clark grinned, practically bouncing with excitement.

“Clark, we’re not going to just show up unannounced!” Bruce hissed, still half-buried in the sheets. “I need to shower anyway.”

Clark chuckled as he stood, stretching. “I show up unannounced all the time! My mom’s used to it.”

Bruce grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked him in the side with it.

Clark laughed and held up his hands. “Okay, okay! Truce. How about this—you jump in the shower, and I’ll run over, ask if it’s alright we come by?”

Bruce nodded and turned towards the bathroom.

Clark kissed his cheek then stumbled to pull on his discarded jeans and plaid shirt. Once the door shut behind him, Bruce exhaled quietly and made his way to the bathroom.

He slid out of his boxers and stepped into the shower, twisting the handle until warm water poured over his skin. For a moment, he just stood there, eyes unfocused, letting the steam gather around him.

His gaze drifted downward. The curve of his belly was unmistakable now, more pronounced than the day before. He rested a hand against it briefly, but the contact made his stomach twist. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. 

He scrubbed himself down quickly, avoiding looking at his reflection in the fogged-up mirror. Every time his hand brushed over his bump, he shuddered. He couldn’t feel that time was running out… Not only did his body not feel like his anymore, but it was changing. Some days he could ignore it, but not today.

Out of the shower, Bruce wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped into the bedroom, water still dripping from his hair. He opened the dresser drawer with a sigh and stared blankly at the contents.

What exactly did someone wear to meet the parents?

He couldn’t remember ever doing this before. Staring at the neat rows of black button-ups, dark t-shirts, and worn jeans, he tried to figure out what to wear. The familiar uniform of his day-to-day life. Sleek. Simple. Safe. But today, all of it felt wrong. Too tight. Too sharp. Too much.

He tugged out a shirt and held it up against himself in the mirror. The fabric would strain across his belly; he could already feel it digging into his stomach. 

Finally, he settled on something more… Omegan. Something he knew he hadn’t packed himself. Which meant Alfred had probably sneaked it into his suitcase when Bruce wasn’t looking.

Bruce held up the shirt with a sigh. It was black, thank god, but the fabric was light and fluttery, patterned with a subtle floral design stitched into the weave. It looked soft. Forgiving. Exposed, in a way that made Bruce’s skin itch.

Still… black was black.

He slipped it on carefully, buttoning it over his bump, surprised at how easily it flowed over him. It didn’t cling the way his usual shirts did. It didn’t squeeze or press. It just… fit. Then, to his greater surprise, he spotted a folded pair of maternity jeans tucked beside his regular ones. Dark denim. Neatly pressed.

Bruce didn’t remember packing those either. Exhaling through his nose, he muttered, “Thanks, Alfred,” even though the man was hundreds of miles away.

The jeans slid on easier than he expected. Stretchy in the right places, snug in others. For the first time in what felt like weeks, he didn’t feel like he was bursting out of his own skin.

He ran a hand over his stomach, slower this time. The gesture didn’t send a wave of discomfort through him like it usually did. It was still strange—but maybe a little less awful.

Just as he was adjusting the hem of his shirt, he heard the front door open and close, followed by Clark’s voice calling out lightly, “They said yes! Brunch is on!”

Bruce rolled his eyes to himself in the mirror. Then, just barely, smiled.

***

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Chapter Text

“There’s pain in memory, but there’s beauty, too. Going back and digging deep may unearth bones, or it may unearth treasure. Don’t be afraid. I had gone searching for a corpse and found a flower.” —Andrew Peterson

The Kent farm was almost too picturesque, like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. The little yellow farmhouse sat nestled beneath the wide Kansas sky, its wraparound porch sun-faded and worn smooth by decades of wind and weather. An old swing hung lazily from one of the porch beams, swaying in the breeze. Towering cottonwood trees stood sentinel around the yard, their broad leaves fluttering in the wind. Beyond the gate, enormous lilac bushes bloomed in a riot of pale purple, clustered along the perimeter fence—half-wild, thick with blossoms and bees. The scent of them carried on the air, sweet and heady, mingling with the scent of the grass and the faint musk of animals. Rose bushes sprawled near the base of the porch, not carefully trimmed but lively and vibrant, their blooms a riot of yellow and pink. The whole place breathed life—warm, untamed, unapologetically alive.

As Clark’s truck slowed to a stop, two cow dogs came racing up from behind the barn, barking eagerly. Clark jumped out of the truck and hurried to open the door for Bruce. The dogs were close behind him, tails wagging, tongues lolling, practically vibrating with excitement. One of them barked sharply at Bruce, then nosed his knee like he was an old friend.

Bruce stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed by how alien it all felt—the open sky, the smell of animals, and the inescapable knowledge that everything around them had shaped Clark into the Alpha he was. It was a world so far removed from Gotham’s shadows that he almost couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t built for this. He didn’t belong out here. He didn’t belong with him …

“You know we don’t have to do this,” Clark said softly. “If you’re not ready, that’s okay. My folks won’t mind.” 

Taking a deep breath, Bruce shook his head. “I’m fine.”

Clark didn’t look convinced, but he squeezed Bruce’s hand. 

With that, they stepped inside the farmhouse.

Bruce’s first impression was pain. The house was warm, devastatingly cozy, bathed in the soft morning light. The scent of cinnamon and something buttery clung to the air. The old wooden floors creaked underfoot.  He knew immediately: this wasn’t just a house. It was a home . The kind he used to dream about…

The walls were covered in memories. Dozens of photographs lined the hallway in mismatched frames—Clark as a giggling, butt-naked toddler with a gap-toothed smile, Clark in muddy boots cradling a piglet, Clark on Jonathan’s shoulders, arms outstretched like he truly believed he could fly. School portraits, holiday snapshots—Clark on Santa’s lap, Clark with frosting on his nose, Clark at every age, every year, growing up whole. 

Every inch of it radiated love.

Bruce’s chest ached with it.

Between the photos were neatly clipped newspaper articles, the name Clark Kent circled with a pride Bruce couldn’t remember… Shelves were crammed with dusty sports trophies, blue and red ribbons from county fairs, and strange little knick-knacks—oddly shaped rocks, curled feathers, a bird’s nest in a mason jar. The kind of treasures only a kid growing up on a farm would collect with reverence, proudly displayed like artifacts from wild adventures. 

A faded painting of wild horses running across open plains hung slightly crooked above the mantel, and a crocheted Afghan was draped over the back of the couch—soft, well-loved, the kind of thing only a real mother would make. The kind of thing that only belonged to a real childhood .

Bruce blinked, trying to keep his face neutral, even as everything inside him cracked and splintered in the face of everything he’d never had. His childhood had been cold marble and shuttered windows. Portraits in gold frames of a mother and father who were more myth than memory. They’d died when he was so young, he never really got to know them… But he’d clung to the idea of them because he didn’t have anything left.  Alfred had done his best. He loved Bruce in the only way he knew how. But Alfred was a butler, not a father. He had never tried to take Thomas Wayne’s place, and sometimes—when Bruce was tired or angry or hurting—that had made Bruce hate him.

But at the end of the day, Alfred was the only adult who had ever given a damn about him. The only one who’d ever stayed. He’d stood firm when Bruce was a nightmare of a pup.

When puberty hit and Bruce’s secondary gender revealed itself, when he’d screamed bloody murder: I hate you, you’re not my father! When he’d shattered priceless heirlooms, punched holes in hundred-year-old walls… When he’d curled up afterward and sobbed until he had nothing left but empty, echoing silence…

That was what his childhood had been: hollow .

This house had never known that kind of silence. This house had never been hollow.

His eyes burned, but he blinked fast, hiding behind the Bruce-Wayne smile. A thing he curated when everyone expected him to be grateful for his wealth and privilege. But the thing was, Bruce would’ve given it all up to have just a fraction of what Clark had grown up with… 

“You okay?” Clark asked quietly, leaning in just enough that his voice wouldn’t carry.

Bruce nodded, though his fingers tightened slightly where they rested on his thigh. “I can picture you growing up here.”

Clark flushed, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You sure you want to do this? There’s still time to make a run for it.”

But Clark spoke too soon, because just then, his parents stepped into the room.

Bruce straightened instinctively, his spine taut and shoulders squared, as if he were preparing for an interview.

“Oh, Bruce, it’s so lovely to see you again.” Clark’s mother stepped forward, her arms already opening. Before Bruce could react, she pulled him into a warm hug that smelled like flour and lilacs.

“You as well.” Bruce smiled, stiff at first, but his posture relaxed a fraction as she squeezed him gently and let go.

“I hope you boys are hungry.”

“Starving!” Clark said with a dramatic rub of his stomach, as if he hadn’t already eaten half a loaf of banana bread in the truck.

The next thing Bruce knew, he was seated at a small, round kitchen table, surrounded by the Kents. The room was bathed in soft light, sunlight streaming through checked curtains, and there was something about the intimacy of it all—passing dishes, the creak of the chairs, the clink of forks—that made him feel even more uncomfortable.

Mrs. Kent had made homemade fried chicken, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, something pink and fluffy he couldn’t identify, and tall glasses of sweet tea sweating in the warm air. It was far more decadent than Alfred’s usual fare.

“This is delicious, Mrs. Kent,” Bruce said, politely wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Oh, call me Martha, dear.”

Bruce froze. His fork paused mid-air. That name. How had he not realized? How had he not known that Clark’s mother had the same name as his?

“…Bruce?”

“Y-Yes?” His voice came out clipped, a little too sharp. His fingernails dug into the skin of his wrist underneath the table.

“I was just asking about the baby,” Martha explained, her voice soft and without judgment. “Do you know what you’re having yet?”

“No,” Bruce said, trying to keep his tone neutral. “But I’ve got a doctor’s appointment later today.”

“That means you’ll need a drive into Wichita. Clark, you should take him!”

“Ma!” Clark’s face went bright red. He shot her a look.

“What? I’m sure Bruce won’t want to drive in the big city all by himself, and you’ve got nowhere better to be.”

“Martha, stop your meddling! They’re already seein’ each other,” Jonathan said with a good-natured shake of his head.

“No, it’s alright,” Bruce said too quickly, his voice almost too calm. But it wasn’t really alright. He’d done his best to ignore the reality of his pregnancy, to ignore it despite how his body was changing and his bump was growing… The idea of having Clark sit beside him in a sterile room while a stranger looked at him as if he were a specimen made something in him curl tight with dread.

Once they were done with lunch, Mrs. Kent began dishing out slices of homemade pie onto ceramic plates. “Ice cream?”

Bruce shook his head, trying not to wince. He wasn’t even sure he had room for pie. He managed a few bites—enough not to be rude—and thankfully, Clark took pity on him and finished the rest with a wink.

“If you would excuse me,” Bruce said, carefully setting down his fork. “I need to use the restroom.”

“It’s just down the hall, dearie,” Martha said kindly.

Once the bathroom door shut behind him, Bruce leaned against the sink, hands braced on the porcelain. He splashed cool water on his face and took a shallow breath that didn’t seem to fill his lungs. His reflection in the mirror looked pale, his eyes too wide.

He didn’t know what he was thinking. He never should have agreed to this.

Back at the table, Clark’s frown deepened. His ears twitched slightly, and he turned his head toward the hallway. He could hear Bruce’s heartbeat, usually so steady and calm, but suddenly beating like a hummingbird’s wings. 

“What’s wrong?” Martha asked gently, noting his shift in focus.

“I’m not sure,” Clark said with a sigh. “I told you not to mention the P.U.P.”

“Someone has to,” Martha huffed, but her tone was more worried than scolding.

“Ma, it’s not our business.”

“You’re dating him, aren’t you?”

“I told you—we’re taking it slow. He’s like a deer—”

“Clark, you’ve gotta have a talk about that baby—”

“Martha,” Jonathan said gently, placing his hand on hers.

“I know we need to talk about it eventually, but Bruce isn’t ready. And the last thing I want to do is push him.”

“I’m sorry, baby. I just…” She sighed, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “You haven’t been like this since Lana, and even with her… I can just tell this is different. I’m your mother—I know the look on your face. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Clark didn’t know what to say to that. That he was an alien, and just like the rest of him, his feelings were stronger, too? Only that was a big, fat lie, and Clark knew it. 

Bruce didn’t know it, but he had the power to completely destroy him.

When Bruce returned from the bathroom, his expression was shuttered, his movements tight and controlled. He didn’t sit back down. Instead, he stood behind his chair, fingers twitching slightly against the wood. “W-We need to leave,” he said, voice low but strained. “If we don’t want to be late for my appointment.”

Clark stood immediately. “O-Of course.”

They barely made it to the door before Ma called after them. “Wait, just a moment!” She hurried toward them with something bundled in her arms—a folded quilt, handmade, the fabric soft and worn with love. It was red, yellow, and green. A peculiar mix of colors.

Bruce blinked at her, confused.

“It’s for the baby,” Martha said gently, holding it out.

Bruce stared at it for a long moment. Normally, an Omega’s mother would make the pup its first blanket, but Bruce didn’t have a mother… “Y-You shouldn’t have.” His voice cracked, thick with emotion.

“I wanted to, dear.” She stepped forward and pulled him into another hug. “It was so lovely having you over.”

Bruce didn’t return the hug immediately, but when he did, it was hesitant and a little awkward, like he wasn’t used to being held. Hugging the quilt tightly, he looked a little lost as Clark helped him into the passenger seat of the truck.

Clark started the engine, the rumble low and familiar, but he didn’t shift into gear right away. He glanced over, uncertain. “Are you sure you want me to come with you?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He stared out the window, watching the flowers sway in the breeze. Finally, he said, quiet as a breath, “No. I don’t want you to come with me…”

Clark’s heart sank.

“But I don’t want to be alone either.”

Clark reached across the seat and gently took his hand. “Then, I’ll go,” he said, no hesitation in his voice.

The drive to Wichita wasn’t very long, typically about an hour and a half. However, time seemed to stretch further, making the drive feel much longer than usual. 

Clark blamed it on the silence, but he could see that Bruce didn’t want to talk. 

The Omega clearly needed a moment to himself. 

And Clark couldn’t blame him. He knew his parents loved Bruce, but he couldn’t help but worry that maybe it was too soon. 

Bruce sat with the quilt folded in his lap, fingers tracing the seams.

His expression was unreadable, and for the millionth time that day, Clark wished he knew Bruce better. There were so many things he didn’t know about Bruce. But he could clearly see the storm churning behind the Omega’s eyes. He just hoped Bruce would let him stay close when it broke. 

Bruce didn’t remember the drive. Only the sound of the quilt shifting in his lap as the miles blurred by. One minute, he was in the truck sitting beside Clark, the next, he was in the hospital... The reason he had deliberately ignored his previous doctor appointments was simple, really: he hated hospitals.

Hospitals always reminded him of the worst night of his life. The fluorescent lights, the smell of disinfectant, the cold press of metal instruments and synthetic sheets… all of it brought him back to being eight years old, blood drying on his hands, his parents’ screams still echoing in his ears.

Now, sitting on the paper-covered exam table in nothing but a gown, Bruce shivered. He felt like that boy again—small, exposed, powerless. He’d just about made up his mind to get up and leave when the door creaked open and the doctor walked in. His scent hit Bruce before the door even closed—cigarette smoke, sour sweat, something chemical and clinical underneath. It curdled Bruce’s stomach, made his temples throb.

“Ah, Mrs. Wayne?” the doctor asked without glancing up from the chart in his hands.

“It’s Mr. Wayne,” Bruce said evenly. “It’s not the 18th century.”

The doctor made a noncommittal hum, flipping a page but still not looking at him. “You’re five months?”

“Four and a half,” Bruce corrected.

“Bit late for your first check-up,” the man muttered under his breath, scribbling something down. “And this is your first pregnancy?”

“Yes.”

Finally, the doctor looked up—but not at Bruce. His eyes shifted immediately to Clark, seated quietly in the corner. “Ah. And you must be the Alpha father.”

Clark blinked, caught off guard. “I—I’m not the father.”

The doctor raised a brow. “But you are fucking?”

Clark stiffened. A low, involuntary growl escaped his throat.

Bruce shot him a look, sharp and warning. He didn’t need Clark to fight his battles. “If you’re referring to Acute Absentee Alpha Syndrome,” he said coolly, folding his arms over his chest, “I assure you I am not experiencing any of the markers. My hormone levels are stable. I’ve experienced no spontaneous heats, depressive episodes, or feral drops.”

The doctor gave a tight nod but didn’t apologize. “Still. We’ll want to monitor for signs just in case. Omega pregnancies without a bonded Alpha are known to be unpredictable, especially male Omegas.”

“I’m aware,” Bruce said, his voice clipped. “That’s why I’m here.”

The doctor finally turned toward the machines and began preparing for the scan. Bruce’s shoulders remained taut as he lay back, the paper beneath him crackling with each controlled breath he took. Every second in this room stretched his vulnerability under the fluorescent lights, the sterile chill of the air, the eyes on his body that weren't his own.

Clark said nothing, but Bruce could feel his tension like static in the room.

Bruce hated this part—

Being seen.

Being examined.

Being vulnerable.

He wasn’t used to that. Vulnerability wasn’t just uncomfortable—it made him weak. Something he’d trained himself out of years ago. The gel was cold as it touched his skin, sending a small jolt through his already-tense frame. Then came the wand, firm and unyielding, pressing low on his abdomen. Bruce bit his lip hard but didn’t make a sound.

Then—

A steady, rapid thud-thud-thud-thud like a drum, like something alive filled the room.

The heartbeat.

Bruce stared at the ceiling tiles above him, jaw locked, throat dry.

“Strong rhythm,” the doctor said blandly, like he was reading from a script. “Everything’s looking good.” He rotated the monitor slightly so they could see.

Clark leaned forward on instinct, his breath catching, his expression shifting from guarded concern to something softer.

But Bruce didn’t move.

“Do you want to know the gender?”

Yes.

No.

The answer warred on his tongue. Part of him didn’t want to know—refused to know. It wasn’t real yet. It had always been easier to keep the pup abstract, a condition to be managed, something he could put off thinking about until later. But another part of him… A quiet, aching part… “ Yes,” Bruce said finally, barely above a whisper.

“Congratulations,” the doctor said. “You’re having a boy. Hopefully, a strapping Alpha.”

Bruce blinked. His entire body stilled. He hadn’t let himself think that far ahead. He hadn’t imagined names or futures or tiny clothes. He hadn’t imagined anyone. But now, the fog he’d wrapped around himself was gone, and there was a shape inside it.

A boy.

His son.

Slowly, like he wasn’t sure it was safe, Bruce turned his head toward the screen.

He looked.

And it hit him like a comet, an iceberg, something inevitable.

A blurred outline, limbs curled in, floating like a ghost in the static gray. His heart twisted in his chest in a way he didn’t expect. His hands gripped the edge of the table.

The room felt too warm.

He blinked fast, throat tight.

The doctor squinted at the screen again. “There’s one thing I want to keep an eye on. Your placenta’s sitting a little low—marginal placenta previa. Not dangerous right now, but it means no exertion, no stress to the abdomen, and no missed appointments.”

Bruce swallowed hard. “What happens if it doesn’t… fix itself?”

“We’ll make a plan. Many cases resolve as the pregnancy progresses. If not, we’ll monitor closely and schedule a C-section when the time comes. The most important thing is consistency. We need to keep an eye on it.”

Clark shifted in his seat, glancing at Bruce again. His mouth opened slightly like he wanted to say something, but then he stopped himself. His fingers curled into the fabric of his jeans.

The exam ended with the machine’s quiet whirring shutting off. A nurse wiped away the gel with a warm towel, but Bruce still felt cold beneath the surface.

The doctor handed him a black-and-white printout. The sonogram photo.

A blurry silhouette of something real.

Someone real.

Bruce stared at it for a long moment. Then, carefully—like it might fall apart if he wasn’t gentle—he folded the photo in half and tucked it into his coat pocket. Hidden. Private. Dangerous.

“Any questions?” the doctor asked, too casually.

“No,” Bruce said immediately.

And just like that, it was over. 

Clark opened the door without a word, and Bruce stepped out.

The hallway was too bright. The tile too polished. Every sound too loud. Too sterile.

In the elevator, neither of them spoke.

Clark didn’t press.

And Bruce didn’t look up.

When they were finally back in Clark’s truck, the door shut and the hospital fading behind them, the Alpha seemed to hit his breaking point. “Bruce,” Clark said, breathless like he’d been holding it in for miles, “that was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I mean, yeah—the doctor was awful—but the baby…” He turned toward Bruce, eyes bright. “A boy. The cutest baby I’ve ever seen.”

Bruce stared straight ahead, hands folded tightly in his lap. “I’m sure i-he looks like every other sonogram.”

Clark huffed a soft laugh. “And I’m sure yours is the cutest of them all!

There was a pause.

“Please don’t,” Bruce said quietly, not angry—just tired. His voice was like something unraveling, barely held together. “I know we’re… something. Whatever this is. But the pup isn’t yours. I’m not expecting anything from you.” He swallowed, jaw tight. “I know Alphas don’t usually… accept pups that aren’t theirs.”

Clark blinked, stunned for a moment, before his expression softened. “That’s not true,” he said, voice low and steady. “If it were, my ma and pa never would’ve taken me in. They didn’t care whose blood I was. They just… loved me.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. His fingers curled tighter around each other.

“I know this is hard,” Clark continued gently. “And I get it—if you need space, if you want to do this on your own. But I meant what I said. I’m here if you want me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Bruce closed his eyes. The worst part was… he knew Clark meant every word. And the most selfish part of him. The part he kept locked away behind reason and restraint, wanted to take him up on it.

Clark was, without a doubt, the best Alpha Bruce had ever known. Steady. Kind. Strong in the ways that mattered. He’d be an incredible father.

Bruce could picture it so clearly it hurt.

Clark would get down on one knee before the pup was born—nervous and hopeful, his heart on his sleeve. He was so unbearably good... 

Alfred would straighten Bruce’s tie, hiding his misty eyes behind his usual gruffness. 

Ma and Pa Kent would fuss over flowers, cake, and traditions.

 They’d throw a shotgun wedding in the backyard under strings of lights and a wide Kansas sky.

Clark would marry him. And then, when the time was right, he’d mark him—gently, reverently.

And they’d be happy.

The pup would come into the world screaming and pink, and the first arms to hold him would be Clark’s. His grin would be bigger than the sun. He’d look down at that little boy like the world had just cracked open and spilled all its meaning into his palms.

And Bruce—would forget about his vengeance, his city… he’d give it all up for his Alpha’s smile, for the tiny pup in his arms, and his many, many siblings… God, he wanted it more than he’d ever admit.  But when he was eight years old, Bruce had made a promise. A promise that didn’t have room for a happy ending. 

***

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Chapter Text

“In another universe, I never ran from you. I stopped the bitterness from entering my bones, and I learned not to bite as much. In another universe, I don’t have to miss you, and in this one, I’m sorry.” —Author Unknown

That night, Bruce pushed Clark back onto the bed and straddled him. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think about the bump between them or how his body had changed. He didn’t let himself feel anything but want. He just pulled off his shirt and took what he wanted.

Clark looked up at him like he was the sun.

What a fucking joke.

Bruce wasn’t capable of being anyone’s sun. He wasn’t even the moon. He couldn’t reflect that kind of light. He was the eclipse. The void. Something that dimmed whatever it touched.

And Clark… Clark deserved the daylight… And yet, he looked at Bruce like he hadn’t even noticed his shadows. 

Bruce knew he should stop, but he couldn’t. He just needed this—needed to burn for a little while in the warmth of something that felt like love, even if he was going to ruin it… 

“Off,” Bruce growled, tugging at Clark’s shirt.

The Alpha obeyed immediately, stripping until he was bare. Gorgeous. Earnest. Too damn good.

Selfish, Bruce thought, hovering over Clark’s aching cock. But this is goodbye. Clark deserved more, so much more than Bruce would ever be able to give him. So instead, he took. He sank down slowly, inch by inch, impaling himself on Clark’s thick cock until he was full. Stretched. Split wide in a way that made him forget everything.

“Go easy,” Clark whispered, concern flickering in his voice. “Don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Bruce rolled his hips, took him deeper. “Don’t hold back.”

And Clark didn’t. He thrust upward, hard and sure. Bruce gasped, the tip of Clark’s cock catching against his clit, then deeper—right into his G-spot.

“Alpha!” Bruce cried, voice cracking.

“Mine,” Clark growled, low and reverent.

At some point, their positions shifted. Bruce didn’t remember when—he only knew that Clark was above him now. 

Clark’s hands never left Bruce’s body; one slid over his belly, and the other tangled in his hair. Their bodies moved in sync, but Bruce’s mind was somewhere else.

Memorizing.

Burning every second into his bones, because this—this was the last time. Suddenly, Bruce’s eyes filled with tears. He blinked fast, trying to stop them, but they slipped free anyway—hot and silent, streaking down his cheeks.

Clark stilled immediately, hands soft where they held him, careful not to press even an ounce of weight against him. “What’s wrong?” He asked gently, voice barely above a whisper.

Bruce turned his face away. “Hormones,” he muttered, the word brittle and deflective.

Clark didn’t believe him for a second. He reached up and cupped Bruce’s jaw, coaxing him to look back. His touch was warm and steady, grounding. “Bruce,” he said, like it was a prayer.

“I don’t cry,” Bruce rasped, ashamed and angry that he couldn’t stop.

Clark kissed the tears from his cheeks—soft, slow, patient. “You’re allowed to,” he murmured.

“‘M weak,” Bruce choked, the words breaking loose like a confession.

Clark’s hands were gentle where they held him, thumbs stroking his hips. “No, you’re not,” he murmured. “You’re so strong, baby.” His voice was ragged, reverent. “Look at you growing this puppy all on your own. You don’t need an Alpha.”

No, Bruce didn’t need one. He never had. But God… he wanted one.

Just one.

Just Clark.

Tears slipped down his face as their bodies rocked together, the pressure of Clark’s knot beginning to catch. Bruce could feel it—feel the stretch, the pull, the heat—and he clung to Clark like he might disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough. He buried his face in Clark’s neck. Breathed him in. Memorized the scent of wheat and sunshine. I could’ve loved you, Bruce thought. Maybe… maybe I already do. He held him tighter. He didn’t want to let go. He couldn’t let go.

Clark’s hips slowed, the tie locking them together, and his breath shuddered against Bruce’s skin. One hand came up, fingers threading through Bruce’s hair. The other settled on his lower back, holding him close but not possessively. Just steady. Steady in a way Bruce had never known.

Clark leaned down, pressing a kiss to the side of Bruce’s neck.

But then his lips parted against the skin. His teeth grazed the scent gland at the base of Bruce’s throat—barely a whisper of pressure. A tremor ran through Clark’s entire body, his knot pulsing as instinct rose up like a wave. He wanted to bite. He wanted to claim.

Bruce gasped—more from desire than fear—and Clark froze, eyes wide.

For one long second, neither of them breathed.

Abruptly, Clark pulled back, hands trembling. “Sorry,” he whispered, stricken. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Bruce said quickly, voice raw. “You didn’t.” But the part of him that ached—that wanted—grieved anyway.

Clark cupped his face again, kissed him like an apology. But they both knew something had shifted.

Bruce had nearly been claimed. Something he’d never ever wanted before… And it almost destroyed him, how much he wanted it now. How much he couldn’t let it happen.

Clark shifted them gently, moving with care until they were curled around each other.

Bruce let out a soft sigh, instinctively relaxing into the warmth of Clark’s chest at his back, the steady rise and fall of the Alpha’s breathing grounding him in a way he didn’t understand.

Clark’s hand slid over his belly—broad, warm, and sure—and settled there like it belonged. His thumb stroked small, absent-minded circles across the gentle swell. Protective. Comforting.

Bruce closed his eyes. He’d been feeling it for weeks now—strange fluttering sensations low in his abdomen. At first, he’d dismissed it. He’d blamed indigestion, muscle strain, maybe the way his body always held onto tension like a coiled spring. But now, he knew it was his pup; his son. Not just an idea or a consequence or a thing to hide from—but a person. A little heartbeat reaching for something inside him that Bruce didn’t know if he could give. Something soft. Something whole.

Clark’s arm tightened just slightly, as if sensing the spiral in his thoughts, and Bruce instinctively covered the Alpha’s hand with his own.

For a brief, fragile moment, the ache in his chest quieted. And that fluttering feeling returned—gentle, unmistakable.

A tiny foot. A stretch. A nudge from the inside.

Bruce didn’t say anything. Didn’t breathe a word. But a tear slipped silently down his cheek, hidden in the dark. Because for the first time, he felt it. And it felt a lot like family.

In the afterglow, Bruce pretended to be asleep when Clark slipped out of bed.

“I promised Pa I’d help with the morning chores,” Clark whispered, brushing a kiss against Bruce’s temple. “I’ll be back before you wake up.” There was a pause—a breath. “Love you, Bruce,” he murmured. “It’ll all be okay. I promise.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Bruce’s eyes stayed closed, but the tears came anyway. He never should have let it get this far. He should have kept his distance. Should have protected Clark from what he was always destined to do: break his heart.

The farmhouse, which had once been filled with Clark’s warmth and glow, was now drenched in darkness. Bruce sat on the edge of the bed with shaking hands and dialed the number. “Alfred,” he whispered, voice thick.

There was a rustle on the other end before the familiar, comforting voice came through. “Master Bruce?”

Bruce pressed his hand to his mouth for a moment before answering. “I-I need you to come get me.”

Alfred was quiet for a beat. “What’s wrong?” He asked gently. There was something in Bruce’s voice—desperation, fear, grief. An emotion his boy rarely allowed himself to feel, let alone show.

“I… I need to go home,” Bruce choked. “I can’t stay here any longer. I just— I can’t.”

“But the press—”

“I don’t give a damn about the press,” Bruce snapped—then immediately winced, because it wasn’t anger. Not really. Just pain. Deep and hollowing.

There was a pause, and then Alfred’s voice softened with that endless, unshakable loyalty Bruce had never deserved. “I’ll ready the jet.”

Bruce swallowed hard. Then, he said something that terrified Alfred. “Thank you.”

“I’m on my way,” Alfred said without hesitation. “Hang on, my boy.”

Clark was whistling as he climbed the stairs, light on his feet, a soft smile tugging at his lips. In one hand, he carried a small bag of chocolate-covered strawberries—Bruce’s favorite, though he’d never admit it. In the other, a velvet ring box, worn at the edges from the way Clark had been turning it over and over all morning.

He knew it was sudden, but he didn’t care. He loved Bruce. And he was sure now—completely, absolutely sure—that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. He wanted to be there through the rest of the pregnancy—to be the one whose hand Bruce broke during labor, to share every sleepless night, every dirty diaper, and all the messy, beautiful moments in between. He wanted to be Bruce’s mate. The father of his pups. His partner in everything.

Clark’s heart thudded in his chest as he reached the bedroom door. He opened it, still smiling—

But the room was empty.

The bed was made. The windows cracked open to let in the spring breeze. Bruce’s clothes were gone. So were his boots. His coat. His phone.

The smile fell from Clark’s face. “Bruce?” he called, stepping inside.

Silence.

The farmhouse was too still. A ghost of what it had been last night.

Bruce’s scent—rich plum and red wine—lingered like an afterthought. Barely there. Faint. The house had been scrubbed clean. If not for Clark’s super senses, he wouldn’t have known his mate had ever been there at all.

His mate, who had tried to erase himself.

His mate, who had left him.

His mate, who was gone.

Clark dropped the bag. Strawberries spilled across the floor, forgotten. He didn’t notice. Couldn’t. His knees hit the hardwood with a thud. The ring box in his hand crushed under the force of his grip. “Bruce!”

***

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Chapter Text

“I miss you, and it is torturous, vast, and indescribable—as if I’ve lost you in every lifetime.” —N.M. Sanchez

Alfred had known the young Master Bruce all his life. He had been the third person to hold the newborn pup—cradling him before he even had a name. He’d been there for Bruce’s first word, his first steps, his first scraped knee.

And he had been there the night their family fractured... 

Alfred would never forget the look in Bruce’s eyes, a void, quiet and endless.

He had looked so small, curled up on that hospital bed. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. It was as if all the light had been blotted out of him.

As awful as grief is, most people eventually move on.

Time heals all wounds after all.

But Bruce was never the same. How could he be?

Alfred tried. By God, he tried, but it was like holding back a flood with nothing but bare hands.

Gone was the little boy who had once been painfully shy but endlessly sweet—the one who used to press flowers between books and ask if the stars could hear him.

In his place was a boy driven by something Alfred couldn’t name at first.

Bruce had become obsessive, reckless. He trained with a kind of fury, rising before dawn and pushing himself past exhaustion. When Alfred tried to stop him or even ask why, Bruce would just stare, that void still lingering in his eyes. He wouldn’t say what he was preparing for. Only that he had to be ready. That he wouldn’t be weak. Not again.

And then, one day, Bruce was just gone.

No note. No warning. Just an empty room and a silence Alfred would never forget. He scoured Bruce’s room, his office, his contracts, his letters. Nothing. A part of him, foolish and aching, hoped Bruce had gone to Europe.

Maybe he’d found peace in the Alps or love in Paris. Maybe he was finally living…

But deep down, Alfred knew.

Bruce wasn’t running away. He was running toward something that would irrevocably change him. There were some things you just didn’t come back from. 

And when he came home, he was... different. Colder. Sharper. Hollowed out. Like someone had carved away what remained of the boy, Alfred had raised a void, quiet and endless.

Bruce didn’t speak of his time away. He didn’t have to.

But Alfred saw it. 

In the way he moved; the way he fought; and the way he slept with one eye open, if he slept at all. He had been forged into something else. Whatever warmth had survived in him… it had been left behind in the mountains.

But then—by some miracle—before he could begin his so-called mission, Bruce got pregnant.

Alfred had expected denial, maybe even cold detachment. The last thing he had ever expected was for Bruce—this boy raised by ghosts and guilt—to choose life. It didn’t make sense. Not for someone who spoke of legacy as if it were a tombstone.

But there had been something in his eyes. Something almost like... hope.

So, Alfred made a suggestion—half in desperation, half in prayer. “Go to Smallville,” he’d said.

It was a place untouched by Gotham’s darkness. A place that held nothing but warm memories of Martha and Thomas. If there were any corner of the world where Bruce might remember what it felt like to be human, to be loved... it was there.

And, miraculously, it worked.

Bruce had been broody at first—closed off like a storm waiting to break. But a few days in, Alfred heard it in his voice: something lighter, softer. He didn’t dare ask why. He was afraid a question would send Bruce running again. 

And then, one night, the phone rang. “I—I need you to come get me,” Bruce had whispered.

Alfred had never heard him so raw, so broken. And for the first time in years, he had been truly afraid. Now that Bruce was home, he didn’t know what to do. There was something in him—something cracked and bleeding—that no doctor could treat. It was like grief, but he didn’t understand what had been lost.

Bruce said nothing. 

Alfred didn’t press. He just watched as the boy he loved like a son faded deeper and deeper into himself. It was the same thing Bruce had done when he was a boy, and Alfred felt just as helpless.

The pregnancy was difficult—just like Martha’s. Leslie, who was staying at the manor to monitor the pregnancy, had him on strict bed rest, and Bruce didn’t fight it. He just lay there, hollow-eyed and silent. Hooked to IVs because he was barely eating or drinking.

Alfred couldn’t help but hover. These days, he found himself lingering in doorways, pausing on stairwells, straining to listen for any sounds of life. When Bruce slept, truly slept—not the sleepless nights where he tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable or the half-conscious dozing he usually managed—it was a small reprieve. 

Hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea; Alfred stared at the eye of the tea. The color almost an exact shade of Bruce’s irises. “Is this normal?” He asked suddenly, not bothering with pleasantries. His voice was tight and strained, a note of desperation hidden beneath the calm surface.

Across the table, Leslie blinked over the rim of her tea. She looked as worn as he felt. “Define normal,” she replied, dryly.

His hand clenched around his mug. “I’ve never seen him like this, not even when…”

“No, it’s not normal,” Leslie admitted. “I’m not sure what this is. The symptoms aren’t consistent… If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s going through bonding sickness or rejection. Possibly Triple A?”

Alfred growled. “That’s impossible,” he said. “He swore, swore he’d never bond anyone. And he had no feelings for the pup’s father. None.”

Leslie raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain of that?” There was a long pause, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Then Leslie asked, gently, “Did he ever say what happened?”

Alfred shook his head. 

Leslie didn’t speak right away. When she did, her tone had softened. “During pregnancy, Omegas are biologically wired to seek out an Alpha to protect them. If there was a bond, even an incomplete one… it would explain a lot: the lethargy, the nausea, the insomnia, even the dissociation.”

“But there’s no mark,” Alfred insisted. “And Bruce… he’s not the type to let anyone that close.”

“No,” Leslie said softly. “But after what happened, his biology, his very subconscious, would have been craving the safety and security that only an Alpha could have provided.”

Alfred closed his eyes. He would not think of that night. He would not… His free hand slowly curled into a fist against the counter.

And then one night, Alfred passed his room and heard a broken whisper in the dark: “Alpha… Alpha…” He froze because there was all the confirmation he needed.

The thing was, Bruce had always attracted admirers. Alfred had guarded the young heir fiercely, but as Bruce grew, there was no hiding him from the world.

He was handsome, yes—tall, sharp-jawed, with his father’s quiet charm and his mother’s eyes. But everything changed when he presented as an Omega.

Suddenly, he wasn’t just admired. He was hunted. Prey.

Bruce learned quickly how to turn that attention into power. To weaponize it. His biology became a mask, his scent a trap.

He knew how to manipulate Alphas—and he was good at it. Too good.

Reckless, even. Like he was daring them to try something. Daring them to hurt him first, so at least he’d see it coming.

But love?

Love was something else. Love was surrender. Trust. Vulnerability.

And Alfred had always believed that was Bruce’s greatest fear.

Not death.

Not failure.

Love.

Because love always led to loss.

Suffice it to say if Alfred ever found the Alpha who broke his boy’s heart, he’d shoot first.

***

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Chapter Text

“Child of the wilderness, born into emptiness, learn to be lonely. Learn to find your way in darkness.” —Author Unknown

Bruce had thought going home would fix him. He’d clung to that hope once before—after he left the League of Assassins—believing that returning to the manor would somehow make him whole again. But nothing felt right. The halls were unchanged, the rooms untouched—but he wasn’t.

The first time, Bruce had managed. Barely.

Well, no, he hadn’t.

He’d distracted himself and poured everything into the mission: building the cave, designing the suit, perfecting his arsenal. And when that wasn’t enough, he kept up appearances—galas, nightclubs, Alphas who would let him take what he needed.

Take, take, take.

Because that was all he knew how to do, all he was capable of…

Whimpering, Bruce reached out for an Alpha who wasn’t there. Who would never be there again. Bad Omega. Not good enough. Without Clark’s scent, the nest offered no safety, no comfort. He wasn’t even sure why he’d made a nest; he’d never needed one before. He’d never—

Something was wet?

He shifted, and the sharp, unmistakable scent of blood hit him. His thighs were sticky. The sheets beneath him soaked through. Panic didn’t register right away—his mind still caught in the fog of grief and exhaustion. But instinct, honed from a lifetime of ignoring his own pain, kicked in too late.

“Alfred!” Bruce cried. He tried to stand, but he slipped. The nest tore beneath him as he braced against the wall, dizzy from pain and blood loss.

Alfred appeared only a few moments later and dropped to his knees beside the ruined nest, one hand on Bruce’s shoulder, the other fumbling to steady him. “Master Bruce!”

Leslie was right behind him, already rolling up her sleeves, her expression tightening with concern the moment she took in the scene.

“It hurts,” Bruce whispered hoarsely. “Something’s… wrong.”

Leslie moved quickly, kneeling between his legs, hands steady and practiced despite the chaos. “You’re in labor,” she said, voice calm but firm.

Bruce shook his head, dazed. “It’s too soon.”

“I know,” Leslie said gently, brushing damp hair from his brow. “But you’re bleeding heavily. I think the placenta has detached. That’s why the pain came on so suddenly.”

Bruce made a low, strangled sound—somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

“We don’t have time to get you to a hospital,” Leslie continued, already pulling supplies from her medical bag. “You need to push now. The baby’s in distress.”

Alfred, pale but composed, nodded sharply. “Tell me what to do.”

“Call an ambulance,” Leslie instructed. “As soon as the pup is out, they’ll both need to be transported immediately. And get towels. Boiled water, if you can. I’ll do what I can here.”

“You can do this, Bruce,” Leslie murmured. “Just breathe. When I say push, you push.”

“No,” Bruce moaned, shaking his head weakly. “Can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Leslie said, her voice gentle but firm. “You have to. The baby’s in distress. You can do this, Bruce.”

He clenched his jaw, tears streaking down his face. “Not safe.”

“Oh, pup,” Leslie murmured. Alfred and I are here, and we’re not leaving you.”

A deep, shuddering cry tore from him as the next contraction hit, sharp and unbearable. 

Alfred knelt beside him, pressing a cold cloth to his brow, his other hand steadying Bruce’s back.

“That’s it. Breathe with me,” Leslie coached. “I know you’re scared, but your pup needs you to be strong.”

Bruce bore down with everything he had. Pain split through him, white-hot. Screaming, he pushed through it. He knew pain; it was his only constant. 

Then—“I see the head. You’re doing it. Just a little more.”

And then, there it was—the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard: a tiny coo.

Bruce slumped back. “Is he?”

Alfred took the pup from Leslie and knelt, offering the tiny bundle to Bruce. “He’s perfect. A boy.”

Bruce looked down at the crying infant—red-faced, fists balled up tight—and let out a breath that sounded like a sob. He tried to hold his pup, but his arms were too heavy like lead. 

“What’s wrong?” Alfred asked.

Leslie was still working, her hands bloodied. “Bruce, I need you to stay with me, alright? The placenta’s not coming clean. You’re still bleeding too much. We may need to manually remove it.”

His head lolled back against the wall, eyes fluttering. “Take care of him. Please.”

“Bruce—stay with me,” Alfred said, voice tight. “You’re not leaving him. Not like this.”

But Bruce was already falling into darkness. He was free-falling, but then he felt familiar arms catch him and hold him close. Taking a deep breath, Bruce exhaled, chest trembling. He knew that scent. Had memorized it without meaning to. The crisp bite of fresh rain on warm soil, the golden hush of fields just before harvest. It wrapped around him like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “Clark…” he murmured.

Then everything faded to black.

***

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Chapter Text

“‘I don’t know what’s going to come out of me,’ I told her. ‘It has to be perfect. It has to be irreproachable in every way.’ ‘Why?’ she said. ‘To make up for it,’ I said. ‘To make up for the fact that it’s me.’” —Author 

Alfred stared down at his grandpuppy. The word still felt strange in his mind—far too soft, too gentle for the harsh light of the hospital. And yet, there was no other word for what this was. His grandpuppy.

The pup was terribly tiny, nestled in a tangle of wires and tubes, each one seeming far too large for such a fragile body. Machines clicked and beeped in quiet rhythm, keeping time with the slow rise and fall of a chest that looked too small to hold breath at all. His skin was nearly translucent, veins traced pale blue beneath the surface, delicate as spider silk. But atop his head was a shocking spill of obsidian.

Alfred could only sit beside his grandpup and allow the little one to hold his finger. It wasn’t enough, not when every instinct screamed to reach in, to gather the pup into his arms, to offer warmth the machines couldn’t.

A soft sigh pulled Alfred from his thoughts. 

“Is there any news?” Alfred asked hopefully. 

Leslie shook her head. “He’s still in surgery.”

Alfred nodded once and focused on the faint, rhythmic flutter of the pup’s heartbeat. On the way, the light hit the curve of his forehead. On the miracle—no, the defiance —of this tiny life clinging on in spite of everything.

“I don’t understand why he’s not waking up.” Alfred’s voice cracked with the effort to keep it level. He was torn between a bed and an incubator. 

Bruce almost looked like he was sleeping. Almost.    

Just across the room, his newborn son fought for breath inside a glowing incubator, his chest fluttering like a moth’s wing.

Alfred didn’t know which sight was worse: his unconscious pup, or his struggling grandpup, too small to survive without machines doing the work his lungs couldn't.

“He made it through surgery,” Leslie said gently, stepping beside him, her hands folded in front of her lab coat. “He’s stable. That’s something.”

“But he should be awake by now!” Alfred said louder than he meant to. 

Leslie hesitated, then lowered her voice. “Dr. Pamela ran a full panel. She thinks it’s a rare hormonal imbalance—a variant of Acute Absentee Alpha Syndrome.”

Alfred finally tore his eyes away from his pup and grandpup to look at her. “But Bruce doesn’t have an Alpha. He’s never bonded with anyone.”

“I know,” Leslie murmured, her tone soft but unwavering. “But bond or no bond, Bruce’s body thinks he’s lost a mate.”

Alfred frowned. Clark, he thought. It was the last thing Bruce had said before he fell unconscious. He wasn’t a betting man, but it wasn’t hard to guess that Clark was the Alpha from Smallville. 

“I’m sorry. I never should have left. Please forgive me. Please, I just want to go home.” His voice echoed in the void—empty, infinite, unkind. The shadows swallowed the words before they could reach anyone. No answer came.

“You didn’t even say goodbye.” That voice wasn’t his. It was softer, sadder. Familiar.

Bruce turned, but there was nothing—only flickers of light like memories that refused to form. “Clark, don’t go! Don’t leave me!”

He was running now, heart pounding, barefoot against something that wasn’t ground but still dragged him down with every step. He saw a silhouette ahead, a red cape fluttering, just out of reach. “Clark!”

The figure didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around… He was already gone.

Silence fell like snow—cold and heavy.

Bruce dropped to his knees in the emptiness. His throat burned. His chest ached. The silence stretched thin… until he whispered: “Alpha, please.”

A light cracked at the edge of the void. Warmth bled into his skin, his bones, his heart. He felt the ghost of a hand—not Clark’s—but steady and strong, curling around his fingers.

A pulse.

A rhythmic beeping noise.

Bruce blinked slowly, every muscle aching, every breath like dragging air through glass. He leaned weakly into Alfred’s hold, his lips dry, voice hoarse, “T-The baby?”

“He’s alright,” Leslie said gently. She rolled the small incubator closer, its faint glow bathing the room in soft light. “He’s right here.”

Inside, his son lay so small and still, tiny limbs wrapped in wires and tubes, but his chest rose and fell with fragile determination.

Bruce tried to lift his hand—just to touch the glass, to reach him. “I want to hold my baby.” His voice was barely above a whisper. A single tear slipped down his cheek, catching the pale light of the monitors. His eyes stayed fixed on the tiny form in the incubator, so close and yet so impossibly far away.

“I know.” Alfred squeezed his hand. 

“He was born at 34 weeks—just a little too soon,” Leslie said gently. “His lungs are underdeveloped, and he’s still learning how to feed, but he’s strong. He’ll need to stay in the NICU for a couple of weeks, maybe longer. But he’s a fighter.”

“He’s stable enough now that we can start discussing skin-to-skin care. It’s been shown to help preemies regulate their breathing and heartbeat because it’s comforting, so medically beneficial,” Leslie said with a wry smile. 

Bruce finally turned to look at her, hope flickering like a match in the dark. “You mean I can…?”

“I’ll speak with Pamela,” Leslie nodded. “With the right precautions, I think we can make it happen. It could help both of you.”

Bruce let out a shaky breath, his fingers tightening around Alfred’s. “Thank you.”

After days of waiting, pleading, and strict medical precautions, Bruce was finally allowed to hold his son. Only after he’d been scrubbed in, dressed in fresh hospital scrubs, and coached on how to cradle a baby so small—so unfinished—did the nurses gently place the fragile bundle against his chest.

With limitations, yes. With wires and tubes still tethering the boy to machines. But Bruce held him.

And despite how little his pup was, the weight of him settled over Bruce like the entire sky. Heavy with wonder. Heavy with responsibility. Heavy with love.

He had never held something that embodied both love and loss so completely. 

Every beat of the tiny heart against his skin was a miracle. Every shiver of movement reminded him how fragile life could be.

He didn’t know him yet. Not really. But still, Bruce was already so undone by him. So utterly his. This little stranger had cracked open a space inside Bruce he hadn’t known existed—a space that pulsed with devotion, fear, and something like hope. “Timothy Jackson Wayne,” he whispered, breath catching on the name. His thumb brushed the downy curve of the baby’s head, careful not to disturb the monitor lines. “My tiny Tim.”

Bruce couldn’t help but feel that the only thing missing was Clark.

The whole time he’d been stuck in the hospital, adrift in pain and fear, the Omega had longed for the safety of his mate’s arms, the steady warmth of Clark’s presence beside him. Every night, Bruce dreamed of him. And every morning, he woke up to find that he was alone… Not truly alone—Alfred was there, and Tim, his tiny son—but the absence of Clark carved a hollow ache in his chest.

Bruce wished, more than anything, that he could open his eyes and see the tall Alpha with unruly black curls and eyes like a summer sky, gentle and bright. He wished that Tim could feel that strength, could be wrapped up in arms that had once made Bruce feel like nothing in the world could hurt them.

Maybe if Tim had that… had him…

Maybe then he wouldn’t feel so helpless, so broken. Maybe Clark could do what Bruce couldn’t. Maybe Tim would get better. 

But every day, his body reminded him of the truth. He hurt in unfamiliar places. His back ached. His breasts leaked. His skin stretched in ways he couldn’t control.

And through it all, he missed him. God, he missed him.

The ache for Clark was constant—bone-deep, gnawing. It lived in the quiet moments, in the long nights, in every moment he woke up alone. And the worst part was knowing it was his own fault. He was the one who had run away.

He had denied Clark the right to be there, for reasons that once made sense, that had felt necessary at the time. But now, in the aftermath of everything they could’ve had together, those reasons felt impossibly small. 

And all Bruce could do was live with the weight of that decision… and wish, with everything in him, that he hadn’t made it.

***

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Chapter Text