Chapter Text
Before Clark woke up that morning, he would never have expected his life to take such a strange turn. Insanely surreal things had happened to him as Superman, but Clark Kent was another matter. Clark Kent’s life was supposed to be simple. Not exactly average, but at least more manageable.
Clark always woke up with the sun, at roughly the same hour—except for the stressful days when Perry was overloading him with work. That morning, he could feel neither the usual early warm rays of light brushing his skin, nor the gentle breeze of the spring wind.
In his groggy state, he wondered if there had been some bad weather when he went to bed. That would explain why he might have chosen to close the windows, though he usually didn’t mind and left it open, come rain or shine.
He noticed that he was wearing a t-shirt and what felt like boxer briefs instead of his usual trunks. His right arm and leg weren’t falling half out of the bed—he actually couldn’t feel the edges of the mattress—and…
He was in a weird position, curled in on himself with his arms around his knees.
Clark never slept like that.
He always sprawled on top of the covers half-naked after his evening shower.
Weird.
He opened his eyes and stretched. The room was pitch black. Why would he have closed the curtains?
Also… he didn't have curtains.
And the bed was definitely too big.
What the hell had happened? While fumbling for the light, Clark tried to remember what he had done yesterday night to find himself in this place. He was certain now he hadn’t fallen asleep in his apartment in Metropolis.
He had no clue. No damn clue.
That’s worrying.
Clark straightened up to sit and knocked his head on something (probably the wall). He repressed a surprised shout at the unusual pain, and finally found the switch.
Even the lamp didn’t light up that much, only enough to allow his eyes to make out the form of a wooden door and the corners of the room. Its owner, whomever he was, seemed keen on not seeing anything.
Not quite awake yet, Clark attempted to get up without entangling his feet in the never-ending sheets. He succeeded and took a first step towards freedom. Only to feel his ankle protest and nearly give out beneath him a second later. He hissed in agony. Had he been exposed to a lot of kryptonite yesterday?
That could explain the memory loss and why his body was aching all over.
What the hell is wrong with my legs? Or my back?
He gritted his teeth and hopped cautiously to where he assumed were the windows.
How did I end up in some weirdo vampire’s house anyway?
Clark pulled the curtains on the side in a sharp, annoyed move.
Ouch.
He squinted in the sudden light. Staring straight at the sun had never hurt him before, that was weird.
He caught a glimpse of the hand still closed around the drape, and thought now would be the right time to panic.
It couldn’t be his hand, or his arm. The skin was too pale. The hairs were too scarce, and—
Where do all these scars come from?
He looked at his other arm. Same thing. With the addition of an awful yellowish bruise near the elbow. He didn’t dare glance at his legs.
Clark refused to panic.
No. There had to be some kind of explanation as to why he was currently in an unknown room, with his body being in this most painful (and scarred) state, and no memory of the previous night.
Yes. There must be an explanation. Somewhere.
Still limping, Clark began to look around for clues. Now that the room was lit, he spotted a small door near a huge wardrobe.
Please, mighty door, be a bathroom. Please.
By the time he reached the handle, his treacherous brain had already come up with a handful of the worst scenarios, but nothing could have prepared him for this sight.
No.
Not even his overflowing imagination could have prepared him for the face staring back at him in the mirror.
Grey eyes, black hair.
Infamous cheekbones.
“What the h—”
The face of freaking Bruce Wayne.
“Jesus.” He stumbled against the sink and accidentally sent a glass crashing into the floor.
Too many thoughts started rushing through his head at once.
Firstly: How was this even possible? And why Bruce Wayne of all people?
Secondly: Did that mean there was a billionaire playboy occupying his own body at this instant? His own very superhuman body?
Thirdly: How was Wayne going to react? He was a clueless civilian. A dumb one on top of that. He was probably panicking and wreaking havoc in Clark’s apartment, scaring the cat and—
He looked in despair at the shadows under Wayne’s eyes, the bruises on his strong jaw, on his right temple… then there was this two days old cut on his chin, which seemed too deep to be due to a clumsy shave…
What the hell was this guy doing in his spare time? Weren’t billionaires supposed to work safely in an office and watch stupid reality shows to spend the time when they weren’t golfing, or being invited to galas and other fancy events?
Why didn't Bruce Wayne have the comfortable body of a lazy sedentary rich recluse?
Clark jumped at the knock on the door, already pondering the next course of action depending on whether whoever was behind this door would leave if Clark didn’t say “come in” and pretended to be dead or if—
He could only stand aghast as the handle lowered despite his silence.
Then a man in his sixties, dressed way too formally for his taste (like a butler, Clark thought), started berating him—Wayne, not him— with a strong British accent and a stern, disapproving look. The kind of look that even Pa didn’t use on Clark anymore, not since the day Clark had accidentally set the neighbour’s children’s playhouse on fire when they had refused to let him play with them.
“Master Bruce. How come you’re already up and hopping about? I recall we agreed on you taking some rest this morning subsequent to the diagnosis of your injury. I shall not stand idly by while you—”
“Hang on, hang on!” Clark cut him off. How was he going to be able to explain the absurdity of the situation? “It’s not my fault. I… I am not Bruce Wayne. I didn’t know.”
Damn, it came out super lame…
The man’s face was blank—probably under the reasonable assumption that ‘Master Bruce’ was trying to bullshit his way out of the situation, but his eyes were focused on Clark’s.
“Are you sure you’re feeling quite all right, sir? I was but fairly sure the head hadn't been impacted.”
“No… no, please. Listen. I’m in his body, but I’m not him. I can prove it.” Ill at ease, Clark rubbed at the back of his head, not stopping to think about the weird sensation of feeling not his own curls, but somebody else’s hair.
The man continued to stare at him with piercing and scolding eyes. “I believe you.” He nodded. “Mister Wayne doesn’t say please this early in the morning.”
Clark was way too relieved to point out how absurdly unaffected the man sounded and looked. Nothing more nuts than that could have happened to Wayne though, right? Surely the people around him ought to be more freaked out, and act more dramatically, than simply nodding before making deadpan jokes?
“Where would you reckon that Mister Wayne is?” the man asked, the slightest hint of worry in his otherwise bland voice.
So he does feel concerned. How reassuring.
“In my body, probably? I hope?”
He wasn’t sure he hoped Wayne was in his body, but wishing he were stuck inhabiting some random guy on the other side of the ocean didn’t sound too nice, even in the privacy of his own head.
“And you are?”
Clark understood the implied question: where is your body?
“Clark Kent. I live in Metropolis.”
“Alfred Pennyworth,” the man introduced himself with a formal bow. “I suggest we—” A phone vibrating from one of his pockets cut him off.
“Forgive me.” He nodded at Clark before picking up.
“...”
“Master Bruce.”
Had Clark been swallowing something, he would have choked. Was Wayne really calling?
“...”
“Yes. The man said so himself.”
Mr. Pennyworth was calm as he answered, not sounding the slightest bit fazed at hearing Wayne speaking with the voice of a complete stranger after having been body swapped with said stranger... or whatever the blazes had happened to them.
“...”
Clark wished more than anything he still had his super hearing to know what Wayne was saying.
“Clark Kent, yes.”
“...”
“Indeed. Do you wish to speak to him?” Pennyworth asked.
He handed over the phone to Clark, who was too shocked to do anything but stare stupidly at the dreadful object for a few long seconds, before his brain caught up and allowed his hand to move.
Clark was sure this phone call was the moment when his life reached the pinnacle of absurdity.