Archive of Our Own

It took three months for Clark to break all of the clocks in his apartment.

The first one had been an accident. It had been the morning after Bruce had disappeared (stupid, stupid, the magician hadn’t even known what spells they were using—) and Clark’s alarm had caught him in the middle of a bad dream. It wasn’t the first alarm clock he’d reduced to scrap metal, though, and Clark didn’t have the bandwidth to feel more than a pang of disappointment.

Then Zatanna had explained what had actually happened to Batman. The magician that had been wreaking havoc had managed to hit Bruce with a banishing spell. A very old, very powerful, very annoying banishing spell. Ecaps dna emit ot tsol reverof eb luos ruoy yam — Bruce had been sent to a completely random point in space and time.

Not even the magician who’d cast the spell knew how to reverse it. Any sort of reversal would require knowing where and when Bruce had ended up, and it wouldn’t have been much of a curse if things were that easy. The spell was well and truly random, and that meant Bruce was well and truly lost. Forever.

(The magician — Rao, they were just a stupid teenager with a cursed spellbook, just a kid, but Clark hated them. Hated them with a passion that brought him to his knees. He wanted to rip out his bones for thinking it — they were as much a victim here as anyone — but it was true. Clark couldn’t help with the interrogations because his eyes wouldn’t stop glowing red. How dare they take Bruce away from him, how dare this amateur steal Batman from Gotham — Bruce was stronger, faster, smarter — he deserved a better fate than temporal exile because some kid didn’t know how to stay out of trouble.)

(The worst part was, Bruce would have loved the kid. If the roles had been reversed, Bruce would have been kind and helpful and understanding, empathetic in spite of his anger. Thinking about it made Clark nauseous.)

After that, Clark hadn’t been able to think about the passage of time without thinking about Bruce. His best friend was out there somewhere, dying by seconds while the rest of the world spun without him. The longer it took to find him — and the League was looking, but how did you send a search party through the infinity of space-time? — the worse it got. Would they find Bruce after he’d spent years (how many did he even have left?) after he’d been banished, a changed man with a new home, body degraded past the point of no return? Or would they get him back seconds after he vanished, only for so much time to have passed searching that the present was unrecognizable to Bruce? How much time would both of them have lost when Clark finally got his best friend back?

Would they ever see each other again?

Honestly, Clark was proud of how long he’d held it together. Then the new Gray Ghost movie came out. 

It was stupid. Pointless. Both Superman and Batman had missed much more important things in the name of heroics, but Bruce had been so excited about the movie. He’d gotten tickets months in advance, had explained the entire franchise to Clark during a particularly slow monitor duty, and he’d even planned on going to the theater in cosplay. But the opening weekend came and went, and Bruce had just… missed it. 

That was the day Clark had snapped his wall clock in half.

The ticking was driving him insane, counting precious moments as they slipped away. Some days were better than others. Some days, Clark set his microwave on fire trying to burn off the numbers. He didn’t wear a watch anymore.

If emotions were songs, then Clark’s head was a medley of the first four stages of grief stuck on loop. Passing time, wasting time, killing time — time was killing him, god damn it! None of his time was free, it came at the price of Bruce’s absence, so what little free time he did have between working himself to death was spent curled up on the floor of his apartment trying not to cry. He usually failed.

(There were so many things Clark had never gotten to say — had waited too long to say. So much time he’d taken for granted. If he could go back, he would hold Bruce to his chest and whisper all the things he’d been too afraid to say. He’d mark the moments with Bruce’s heartbeat instead, time himself against it, time how long it took to say I love you. Even if Bruce never said it back.)

It took three months for Clark to break the final clock — an old cat-shaped trinket Jimmy had given him. The poor thing was charming, in a vaguely creepy way, like it was still haunted by whatever thrift store it had come from. Unfortunately for it, Clark had instinctively listened for Bruce’s heart just in time to hear a clock strike midnight.

Even as a pile of mangled gears, the thing still smelled like old people.

***

“Kal,” Diana insisted, “you need to get up.”

“In a minute,” Clark said, voice flat. A minute was 24 of Bruce’s heartbeats, a third of the time in between his blinks – though that was more variable. Clark could go to the sun and back 87 times in a minute at his preferred superspeed, more if he actually tried. A minute was more time than it took to win a pie eating contest, less time than needed for light to reach Earth. If Clark had a minute with Bruce, Bruce would breathe 13 times, and Clark would have enough time to say “I love you.”

“You’ve had your minute.” Diana’s voice was strained and sad. “I know you miss him, Kal, but please. You need to keep moving.”

Clark didn’t respond. In a minute. Just one more minute.

***

There was a new art exhibit opening in Gotham. Apparently, some collector had found a metric ton of ancient Greek statues, and now they’d finally gotten past the hell that was paperwork in order to show the pieces off. Clark didn’t really care. Gotham was the last place he wanted to be right now, and ancient Greece was more Diana’s thing than his.

“Kent!” Perry yelled. His voice lacked its normal bite, which meant Clark was being too obvious with his emotions again. Too bad he didn’t have the energy to care. “This story is yours! Don’t try to pass it off — the lady in charge requested you by name!”

Clark sighed. Great.

***

The annoying thing was that the statues were, in fact, gorgeous.

Most of them depicted heroes in various stages of combat, though a decent amount depicted everyday people as well. The sculptor's identity was unknown. Apparently the collector had had the statues as family heirlooms for so long no one knew where they came from, or that they had existed, for that matter, at least until a few months ago. Whoever they were, their grasp on anatomy was so firm it was practically a strangle hold. 

Clark’s favorite thing, though, was the sheer diversity of the statues. Big noses, small heads, body fat, stretch marks, every body type imaginable — all of it had been recreated in loving detail. The statues flaunted their "undesirable" traits, the beauty of humanity in all its forms. The harsh museum lights did their best to ruin the way the stone seemed to breathe, trying to strip the life from the art, but not even the fluorescents could kill the obvious care that they’d been crafted with.

Clark got stuck staring at one of the larger statues. It was a woman carved from black marble, fairly tall, with muscles that could crush watermelons. A crown of curls cascaded down her head, pooling around her shoulders. She was clearly a warrior, maybe even an amazon, frozen mid battle cry, face warped as she challenged an invisible foe. Clark couldn’t help but notice how similar she was to Diana.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Clark startled — Rao, he needed to fix his hearing, the last person who’d managed to sneak up on him was — whirling around to face the newcomer. He spun so fast that he tripped over his own feet. Good news, he was in the correct orientation. Bad news, the stranger’s first impression of him was going to be the impression of his but on the carpet.

They – she, that was pretty obvious now – laughed. It was a bright, musical sound that resonated a little too deeply, like high notes on a church organ. A pair of heels clicked as they stopped next to Clark, and he took the hand she offered to him largely on instinct.

Clark looked up and his heart stopped.

The woman was gorgeous. Unfairly, unspeakably, borderline inhumanly pretty. Tall, but a few inches shorter than him (the same height as—) with black hair trailing down her back. Her skin was a rich brown, contrasting beautifully with her white dress. A wide brimmed sun hat draped over her face, tilted down by the bundle of roses, anemones, and narcissus flowers pinned to it. Strings of pearls hung around her neck, tying the whole look together while drawing attention to the real show stopper: her face.

“Oh dear,” The woman grinned as she helped Clark to his feet. “Most people fall for me, but usually it takes longer than that.”

Clark’s ears burned, even as his heart sank. He couldn’t deal with flirting right now, not when Bruce— no. “Sorry, ma’am, must’ve had my head in the clouds.” He cleared his throat, dropping her hand like it might bite him. “I’m, uh, I — Clark Kent, Daily Planet! It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss.”

“Oh, trust me, the pleasure is all mine.” The lady grinned. For a second, the twist of her mouth, the flash of teeth — it was so similar to Bruce’s playboy smirk that it hurt. “My name is Amara Julia Venus, but you can call me whatever you want! I couldn’t help but notice the way you were admiring my collection, and I just love a man with good taste.” She gave him a once over. “Well, except for the clothes, but that can’t be helped, can it?”

Clark rubbed at the back of neck, suddenly hyper aware of how boxy his suit was. “Uh, well, I’m a reporter, and I’m doing a piece on the statues— wait,” he blinked, “your collection?”

This was the person who’d requested him by name?

Amara laughed, eyes shining. “Oh, yes! I’ve been looking after these beauties for a long time — they were a gift from a friend, you know. I almost couldn’t bring myself to give them up! But I figured it was about time for the rest of the world to take a look.” She turned to the marble woman, smile softened into something kinder, almost sad. “He — the sculptor, of course — was always my favorite. Anything can be beautiful, but it’s much harder to make something beloved. Most are too afraid to care for anything that deeply. Not this one, though, he delighted in the challenge.”

Huh. Clark gave the warrior woman another look. He could see what Amara meant — the love that had gone into its creation was palpable, bleeding out of the stone like sap from a tree. Raw humanity was rarely celebrated with all its flaws and follies, and yet the artist had refused to hide anything. It was as if Clark was looking at all the reasons Superman kept fighting.

Out of habit, Clark pulled out his phone, ready to text a picture to Bruce. Whether or not he liked it was a coin flip. Bruce’s favorite artwork was graffiti, street art, the kind anyone could make and everyone could see. On the other hand, Bruce liked spray paint on concrete because it was honest and messy and human. These sculptures were all that and more.

But even if Bruce hated it, he would probably point out a dozen things that Clark had missed, and that would lead to a four hour debate and a new inside joke. Maybe they could even visit the museum together, if Bruce had the time—

Oh.

Right.

Clark shoved his phone into his pocket, swallowing back the lump in his throat. “You, uh, you sound like you know a lot about the artist who made these. I thought their origin was unknown?”

“Yes, well,” Amara wrinkled her nose. “Apparently, what I know isn’t solid evidence, and are just stories you made up, because they happen to be impossible to verify.” The air quotes were audible, as was the following eye-roll. “Museums, always so concerned with the details. The sculptor was called Nukteros.”

“Nukteros,” Clark rolled the name around the tip of his tongue. “Your whole collection is his work?”

“Every piece!” Another smile. Amara had sharp eyes and winged brows that looked wrong on a stranger’s face. “He was quite the character, you know, always working away at something. These are some of his earlier commissions, you can tell from the color. Nukteros had a preference for black marble, never looked back once he had a steady supply of the stuff. Between you and me, though, I think he just liked being dramatic.”

The smile Clark offered her was strained, but it was the best he could muster. He forced himself back into work mode, flipping open his notepad as he adjusted his vision — Amara’s skull was much easier to look at than her face. “I see, Ms. Venus. Would you mind telling me more about why you decided to donate to this museum? This seems sudden, especially given how long your family has held onto—”

“Aww,” Amara cut him off with a frown. Her head tilted to rest in her hand, staring at Clark like he was a dog who’d just failed to do a trick. “You ran away! And we’d been getting along so well.”

Clark blinked. “Sorry, I don’t—”

“No, no, it’s okay! I wasn’t expecting to get this done all at once.” Just like that, she was back to grinning. Was it possible for Kryptonians to experience emotional whiplash? “I like you, handsome, so I’ll tell you what. You come back tomorrow without your little scribbles, and I’ll tell you something really interesting.” There was a predatory glint in her eyes. “I’m sure you’d just love to hear it.”

Something about her tone made Clark take a step back. He wanted to reject her, but his mouth refused to open. His heart felt like it was about to explode. Amara’s eyes were blue, so very blue, like seafoam and clear skies and Bruce—

“Of course, Lad— Ms. Venus.” Clark could feel his face turning red. “But, um, one more question, if you don’t mind—”

Amara inclined her head, not blinking. 

(Bruce only blinked once every three minutes. He would have loved the art but hated the museum. Clark had arrived in Gotham 12 hours ago, half a day, sometimes that was how long Batman’s patrol took. Amara had the same eyes as Bruce, and Clark hated looking at them. Clark hated the statues for being beautiful. If they’d been horrible, Clark could have forgiven them, but what was the point of having wonderful things in Batman’s city if Bruce wasn’t around to see them?)

“Why did you ask for me, specifically?”

Amara’s posture shifted. Her expression didn’t change, but Clark couldn’t help but feel like he’d somehow managed to please her.

“It’s nothing, really,” Amara said. “An old friend told me some wonderful things about you, and I just had to see it for myself.” She dipped her head. “I do hope you manage to live up to expectations, for everyone’s sake.”

***

(“What did you want to be when you were a kid?”

Bruce rolled his eyes, though it was hard to see behind the lenses of the cowl. They were Batman and Superman that day — or they had been, but Clark was trying to pretend he wasn’t watching his own memories like a post-breakup Netflix binge — watching the sunrise over Gotham from the back of a gargoyle while they feasted on cold enchiladas and mediocre donuts. As far as breakfasts went, it wasn’t half bad. “Seriously, Kal? Twenty questions?”

“I’ll have you know, I take twenty questions very seriously,” Clark waved his donut menacingly. Bruce, of course, refused to act menaced. Bad Bruce, no donuts for you. “I mean, I doubt either of us were planning on fighting evil space mermaids when we were seven.”

“Hm. You must have been a very boring seven year old. My evil space mermaids were zombies by that age.”

Clark did his best to look annoyed, but it was difficult to pull off when he couldn’t stop grinning. “Okay fine, I’ll go first. I wanted to be an astronaut, I was going to have my own rocket and everything."

“Congratulations then, mission successful. Little you would be proud.” Bruce took a bite out of his enchilada, licking a bit of sauce off his gauntlet. “I wanted to be a butler.”

That made Clark pause. “A butler?”

“Yeah. Just like Alfred.” Bruce said. “I looked up to him — always tried to help him out with chores, dressed like him, that sort of thing. My parents… they thought it was cute, but Alfred…” Bruce sighed. “He didn’t think it was appropriate for me. He was right, of course, it would have been the scandal of the century, especially after—”

He broke off. Somehow, the silence rang louder than any words could have.

Clark shuffled closer, throwing an arm over Bruce’s shoulder. “Well,” he said after a second. “I think vigilantism is a lot cooler than housework.”

“Hm.” Bruce grunted, but he couldn’t hide the ghost of a smile on his face. “I suppose I can’t argue with that. Not many butlers get to see this everyday.”

The last part was accompanied by a gesture to the sunrise. Despite the near constant rain and smog, Gotham had an odd habit of clearing her skies at dawn. The pollution painted a kaleidoscope of colors across the horizon, dying the clouds neon pink and purple while it burned the air with golden fire, the colors so vivid it looked like something out of a story book. The city was cast in deep shadows and sharp highlights, emphasizing the best and worst parts of Bruce’s home.

Gothic architecture hadn’t originally been dark or gloomy, in fact, it had been designed to let in as much light as possible. Centuries of accumulated grime had worn down the churches and houses, until it was easier to assume they had always been that dark. Easier to accept that was just the way things had to be. After all, who would bother cleaning up all that filth?

Maybe Bruce, in a roundabout way, actually had achieved his childhood dream, because what was Batman if not Gotham’s butler? He spent all his time cleaning up messes, getting his hands dirty so other people might see Gotham the way he saw it. 

Clark had never understood. Maybe, likely, he never would. To him, Gotham would always be a twisted fairytale, dark and dirty, as oppressive as the architecture it loved. 

But sometimes, when the sun rose, Clark would think about large windows and high ceilings and what was buried under all that neglect.

And every time he fell just a little more in love.)

***

“You know, someone once claimed that Nukteros’s statues were more beautiful than Aphrodite herself!”

“Oof, I hope not,” Clark winced, thinking about Diana’s stories about her family. “Challenging the Gods never ends well for anyone.”

Amara threw back her head when she laughed. They were in a different section of the exhibit today, full of smaller sculptures and half-finished carvings. “Unfinished business,” Amara had joked. Maybe it was for the best — Clark didn’t know much about sculpting, but even he could tell the way Nukteros worked would send any sane person into a coma.

It was raining today. It was always raining in Gotham, but this was the heavy rain Bruce called beautiful weather, the kind that blotted out the sun and made streetlights look like stars. Clark could hear it pounding on the roof.

He had decided to humor Amara and left his notes at the hotel — though, with his memory, it didn’t really make a difference. She was dressed in all white again, same hat, same pearls, but the dress had been traded for a skirt and blouse. Once again, Amara was so stunning that calling her a supermodel felt reductive. It was hard not to notice how pretty she was, and it kept catching Clark off guard.

“Smart boy,” Amara’s voice was music and honey, smooth and rich. It reminded Clark of how Lois sounded after waking up. “Good to know some people learn their lessons. No, Aphrodite was not happy about it. Nukteros never said anything himself, he was far too clever for that, but the rumor got so big that Aphrodite decided to hunt him down anyway.”

“Let me guess,” Clark said. “He got smited?”

“You would think!” They stopped in front of an odd, half-made shape. A fist was trying to punch out of the green marble, a single ring decorating the clenched fingers. Clark had to admire its perseverance. “Honestly, he probably should have. No hubris in that one, but so reckless with his own life, he was lucky he was so competent. The Goddess went to him in disguise, pretending to be a humble maiden, and questioned him about the rumor.” She paused. “Well, she tried to. He snorted halfway through her speech.”

“Are you sure he survived?” 

“Somehow! Aphrodite asked him what was so funny, obviously, fully expecting to strike him down, and you know what he said?”

Clark kneeled down to get a better look at the carving. The hand had a scar on the pinkie and bruises on the knuckles, callouses implied in odd places. The unfinished ring looked like it had been worn for a while. This wasn’t a generic study, it was someone’s hand, someone who had lived and breathed thousands of years ago. Someone who Nukteros had wanted time to remember, even if only by their hand.

“No,” Clark said. “What was it?”

There was the swish of fabric as Amara kneeled next to him. “He said, If anyone thinks they’re more beautiful than Love herself, they’re crazy. You see this statue? This is my favorite statue, and, frankly, it’s a piece of shit. But I love the person I carved, and that comes through enough that it could be mistaken for pretty. So if what I make is beautiful, then it is only because Aphrodite has allowed me to make them so.”

Clark let out a low whistle. “You’re right, he was smart.”

“Brilliant.” Amara sighed. “And he was telling the truth — that man loved everything. People, places, things that hurt him, things that no one else wanted, things he really shouldn’t have. It was like he couldn’t help himself — he had a heart so big you could drown in it.”

The sound of ticking was loud in Clark’s ears. “Reminds me of someone I know.”

Thankfully, Amara didn’t press. “Aphrodite was touched, you know, decided to keep him alive. She came to love his art, too. Some say she even tried to make him her priest.” She rose to her feet, drawing Clark up with her. “Funny thing was, he hated sculpting.”

Clark glanced around at the several hundred chunks of rock sitting behind glass. “Really?”

“Oh yes, thought it was boring and tedious, much preferred music to carving.” Amara huffed. “But he wanted people to know who he loved, to be able to see themselves in his art, even thousands of years later. How else would anyone know he’d existed? Hearts of stone last much longer than beating ones.”

“I guess I can’t argue with that,” Though he could be confused by her sudden bout of cryptic wording. “I can understand the sentiment. Everyone loses something to—” He swallowed. “To time.”

(Three months, two weeks, six days. Clark was beginning to have nightmares about forgetting what Bruce’s heartbeat sounded like.)

Amara nodded. “And yet,” she gestured to the room, “love finds a way to persist.”

“I hope so,” Clark muttered. “I really do.”

“Hope certainly helps things along, makes a wonderful partner to love. But that’s enough for now.” Amara tilted her head at the door. “Shall we continue?”

***

(Over the years, Clark had written a lot of articles. A lot of articles. Some of which he really hadn’t wanted to write. Thankfully, the Daily Planet valued ethics and morals, so Clark almost never felt the need to outright refuse a story, no matter how tedious or annoying. Yeah, doing reports on “premium window screens” made him want to pulverize an asteroid with his skull, but at least he wasn’t making a human rights violation.

Clark even wrote hit pieces on Superman for Rao’s sake! He knew how to keep his personal feelings separate from his work. He wasn’t going to risk his job over a disagreement about opinions, with one exception.

Clark had taken one look at the headline Bruce Wayne: Heartless and said “I’m not writing that.”

Heartless. It happened constantly. The Justice League made jokes about how Batman was too stoic to have any emotions, much less love. The internet had a running joke about billionaire Bruce Wayne being more shallow than an empty bucket. People loved to claim that Brucie was too stupid and detached to care for anything except his base needs, that the Batman was cold and unfeeling, that his heart — if he had one — didn’t beat. It did beat, thank you very much, Clark could hear it and it was one of his favorite sounds in the world.

Bruce loved so much. Clark had watched it hold Bruce together, watched it tear him apart. Bruce loved artistic vandalism and sunrises and reboots of old movies. He loved his family, loved Alfred, loved his kids, loved his parents, so strongly that it killed him, so deeply that it kept him alive. He loved humans and humanity, joked with baristas while filling tip jars, sat with teenagers sobbing on park benches, all but begged the worst of the worst to change. Never killing because he always, always believed people could be good if someone gave them the chance.

And Bruce loved Gotham. Loved it to his bones, it bit him and scarred him and took everything he had, but Bruce loved that place, damn it, loved it for what it was and what it could be, filth and flaws and all.

Bruce loved Clark. Maybe not the way that Clark loved Bruce, but it was still love, and Clark clung to that whenever he felt like falling apart. So what if the world thought he was a monster? Bruce had given him his favorite coffee and told him dinosaur facts for three hours and offered to be interviewed so Clark could get away from writing about himself. 

For all his problems and bad choices and inability to say things out loud, Bruce was not heartless.)

***

It was a bad day. Clark had known it would be a bad day when he woke up to someone else’s alarm. Still, he had a job to do, so he dragged himself to the museum — hopefully, Amara would forgive him for being late.

He found her with her arms crossed, a sour pout and an empty boba cup in hand. It took less than a second for her to spot him (Rao, even her scowl looked like Bruce’s) and she wasted no time marching over. Clark didn’t bother bracing for whatever was about to happen. He’d spent Rao knows how long (an hour and 47 minutes, the time it took the Batmobile to reach Metropolis) rotting in bed for no good reason, he knew how karma worked.

“Finally! Do you have any idea—” With an abrupt heel click, Amara stopped. Blue eyes gave Clark a once-over, likely noticing the rumpled sweater-vest (Clark had torn his suit when trying to get out the door), the exhausted expression, and the general aura of “pathetic wet dog” Clark was emitting like radio waves. It was not a good look. “What in the world…?”

Clark winced, desperately wanting to crawl into a hole. “I’m so sorry, I know I’m a mess right now. I understand if you aren’t comfortable, or if you’d want to skip, or—”

There was a hand on his chin, forcing his eyes to meet Amara’s. “Oh, handsome, what happened?”

Clark was not going to trauma dump on a stranger. Nope, no sir, he was going to politely wave her off and move on with both their lives. He was not going to make someone suffer though watching his heart juice itself like a lemon. 

“I lost my best friend recently.”

God damn it.

Amara’s face softened, then it twisted into something… guilty? Clark didn’t understand. The world was too loud and too quiet, he couldn’t breathe around the lump in his throat, couldn’t think around the ticking. He couldn’t be here, couldn’t be thinking about time — all these statues from the past, all these people who were gone gone gone. How long until Bruce met the same fate? How many more seconds would it take until Clark could hear Bruce’s heart again? Why did the status survive when Bruce couldn’t? When was it going to end—

“Have you ever seen a centaur with his head stuck in a bucket?” Amara asked.

Clark’s brain froze. Buffered. Failed to process the emotional whiplash so badly that it had to reboot. “...No?”

And that was how Clark found himself in the outside courtyard, staring at a brilliantly carved black marble centaur, who was rolling around like a caffeinated hedgehog trying to get a bucket off his head.

“Huh,” Clark stared. Then he stared some more. “What… am… I…?”

Amara patted him on the arm. “You’re looking at what happened on one of Nukteros’s excursions. Never could keep himself out of trouble, that one, or other people’s business. Thank the Gods he liked helping — the havoc that man could cause when he wanted to. But he much preferred solving problems to starting them.”

“Wait,” Clark shook his head. “Are you telling me that this guy was a Greek hero?”

Clark’s knee-jerk reaction was disbelief. No way, no one had the time to make several hundred statues and fight off monsters, they would drive themselves insane! Clark could believe Nukteros was an incredible sculptor whose stories were passed down through family tradition — the guy cared about enough people that it was plausible, and stranger things had happened (see: his fight with Mxyzptlk last Tuesday) — or that he had been a hero — Diana’s existence was enough to justify that claim. But both? Simultaneously!? 

“Yes, handsome, that’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Amara said, unimpressed by Clark’s gaping (When would he sleep?). “He had a soft spot for kids, you know, couldn’t say no when one came to him with a problem. Then people got wind of him chasing off a centaur for bullying a little girl and, well,” Amara gestured to the rest of the courtyard. “He much preferred mercenary work to doing commissions.”

Sure enough, the outside area was littered with scenes straight out of a sit-com. A cyclops wearing a floral hat, a nobleman half-buried in salmon, a woman dressed in finery going absolutely feral over a roasted pig. Some of them made no sense to Clark, but by the time they were halfway through he was grinning from the sheer absurdity of it all.

A certain statue caught Clark’s eye and he lit up, jogging over for a better look. “Hey! Some of my coworkers did something like that once!”

That earned him a raised brow and a smirk. “Oh really?”

“Yeah!” Clark took another look at the marble chaos of two men failing to wrestle a goose. They even looked like Arthur and Barry. “The goose had eaten Barry’s car keys and they were trying to get them back.” At some point they’d even teleported to the Watchtower in a n attempt to cage the beast — landing right in the middle of an important meeting. “Everyone was finding feathers for months. B was not happy about it, threatened to stock the snack bar with hardtack until they cleaned up the mess. It was crazy.”

“It sounds crazy,” Amara giggled. “Who’s B?”

Clark’s heart stopped.

He felt like a bird that had just flown into a window. There was no time to prepare for the sudden crash, no time to see it coming. One second he was fine, the next he was on his back with a broken wing, wondering where the sky had gone.

“He, uh, he is—” was— is— “my best friend.” Clark swallowed. “He’s kind of an asshole, but, like, not really? He’s stupid smart, especially when it comes to problem solving, and he has so many random skills he’s basically Barbie. He’s pretty quiet — unless you get him started on something he has opinions about, then the trick is making him shut up — but he’s always doing stuff. He does a lot of, uh—” vigilant justice, "—volunteer work for Gotham. And he makes all these plans, really detailed stuff. He claims it’s because he can’t trust anyone, but basically everything he does relies on other people helping him out. I think he just wants to make sure everyone is safe. Oh! And—”

Clark stopped short, blinking stars out of his eyes. There was a warm hand on his forehead (when had that gotten there?) and the smell of seafoam and roses was practically overwhelming. Amara smiled at him. Clark couldn’t remember her getting so close. Actually, Clark couldn’t remember much from the last minute or so. That probably should have worried him, but instead he felt lighter than he had in months. Warm. Fuzzy. “What was I…?”

“Oh, just filling me in on a few things,” Amara pulled away, looking strangely pleased with herself. “You looked like you needed a break from the heartbreak — suffering is only fun when it’s deserved, I do hate to be wrong about these things. Think of it as a painkiller.”

Clark blinked. “What?”

It was hard to tell if the pat on the back was condescending or not. “Nothing, handsome. Why don’t we see a few more statues — any other familiar faces?”

Surprisingly, yes. There was a recreation of Dinah doing her worst at karaoke to spite a pair of catcallers, Oliver shooting an arrow through his own hat, Dick being a menace of a child — memories upon memories of the stupidest things.

It was… nice, in a way, taking a trip down memory lane. Clark kept wondering when things would become more bitter than sweet, when the ghost of Bruce would start haunting the spaces between his steps. Every time he thought about Bruce this long he started spiraling. Clark couldn’t stop bracing himself for the eleventh hour.

But it never came. The grief was there, clawing at Clark like a cat demanding to be let inside, but every other part of him had collectively decided to ignore it. His mood stubbornly refused to drop. Soon, Clark was rambling about the dumb nonsense the League got up to, happily sharing stories he’d been repressing since Bruce had disappeared. The lack of pain felt like the first clear breath after a head cold.

“—And then they tried pulling Victor out from the other side, which just made the lemonade go everywhere—” Clark cut himself off, suddenly aware of the people around him. Or, more accurately, the lack of people. He hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. He blushed to the tips of his ears. “Gosh, I’m so sorry! I’ve been up on my soapbox this whole time, golly, I didn’t mean to make this all about me! First I make you wait and now I waste your time, cheese and crackers Ms. Venus, I really can’t tell you—”

Amara cut him off with a laugh. “It’s quite all right, handsome, you’ve more than made up for it. Our favorite sculptor would be delighted to know how much you love his work — I quite enjoy your stories, so enlightening!” She grinned, leaning in a touch too close. “Though, if you really must make it up to me, then you wouldn’t mind seeing one more thing tonight?”

After what she’d done to cheer him up? Clark didn’t even have to think. “It would be my pleasure, ma’am.”

***

The museum felt different with no one in it. Amara’s heels echoed off the walls, leading Clark through the winding hallways. Clark was fairly certain they weren’t allowed to be here anymore, but Amara did own the statues, and people like that had a bad habit of pretending like they couldn’t read keep out signs.

(Bruce literally never went anywhere with an invitation.)

Amara stopped at a door. With a shove and a creak, it was open, Amara slipping through the gap as she beckoned Clark to follow. After a beat, Clark obliged.

Almost all of the rooms had fairly low ceilings, so Clark was surprised when the hallway opened up into a cavernous space. The walls stretched up and up and up, circling around the one and only statue in the room, held aloft by a bronze platform for the whole world to see.

Clark’s breath caught. “That’s…”

Amara nodded, mouth curved in a sickle of a smile. “Love herself,” she said, “Aphrodite.”

The statue was huge, towering over them as if they were insects. Black marble with silver veins had been shaped into flesh and cloth. The Goddess’s face was tilted down to look at them, gazing through the veil over her face, and Clark could swear he could feel the weight of its watching. She had the build of a warrior, with stronger, harder features that almost made her more androgynous than feminine. Her dress was architecture, a building disguised as fabric. It cloaked her like the fog over a half-forgotten dream, maybe it was home, or maybe it was a grand daydream — Clark couldn’t tell. One hand cradled a child while the other reached out, as if offering it to the people below. 

Clark’s first thought was, It’s beautiful. 

Clark’s second thought was, Holy heck that thing is terrifying. 

“It’s my favorite,” Amara’s eyes were soft and warm, practically glowing with tenderness. It occurred to Clark, for the first time, that Amara had probably spent her entire life with the statues, with the stories of their creator. She really cared for them, didn’t she? How much had it taken for her to allow him to see this? “He made it as a gift for the Goddess, you know, she promised to give him his heart’s desire if he could please her.

Clark looked up the stunning, awe-inducing, horrifying statue. (What was scarier than love? What could possibly be more wonderful or awful? Clark was too scared to tell Bruce that he loved him, and now he was terrified that he never would.)

“Did he do it?” Clark’s voice was barely a whisper. “Did he succeed?”

Amara didn’t answer. In fact, she didn’t say anything for a long moment, eyes turned upward to meet the gaze of the stone. A stray beam of moonlight caught her like a spotlight, and Clark was once again blindsided by the radiance that seemed to echo out of her. When she finally spared Clark a second glance, her face was bright and warm and open and genuine in a way Clark hadn’t seen from her before. She looked kind. She looked proud. 

“Oh dear, I’ve been very unfair to you, haven’t I?” Amara shook her head with a light laugh, completely ignoring Clark’s confusion. “I supposed that’s my fault, I really should know better than to doubt him by now, but I had to be certain, you know? I would hate for all this to fall apart. But it seems both I worried for nothing — both of you have remarkable taste.”

Clark didn’t have time to ask what any of that meant. Before he could blink Amara was there, inches away from his face, grinning like she’d won a prize. “Tell me, handsome, humor me one last time. If you were in his position, granted anything your heart desired, what would you ask for?”

Somewhere, a clock was ticking. Some when, a heart was beating. Clark swallowed.

“I’d ask for more time with my best friend.”

“Wonderful,” Amara pulled away, moonlight glowing on her pearls. “Tomorrow, then. It’s our last day together, you know, and I would hate to leave our story unfinished. So,” she raised a playful finger, “I suppose I’ll just have to show you something really special before we say goodbye!”

“Uh, sure, okay, Tomorrow, got it.” Clark said, but Amara had already turned to leave. She got all the way to the door before pausing, throwing one final glance over her shoulder.

“Oh, and Handsome?”

“Yeah?”

He swore Amara’s teeth got sharper. “Do make an effort to arrive on time.”

***

Clark got there early.

It was a little awkward having nothing to do, but between being late yesterday and Amara’s parting shot, he wasn’t going to risk it. An over abundance of caution never hurt anyone, right? Especially not when it came to vaguely terrifying pretty people.

(Clark was choosing to believe every hot person he knew just happened to make a hobby of triggering fight-or-flight instincts — the alternative was admitting he had a type.)

For a while he loitered by the entrance, fiddling with his tie while he waited for Amara’s hat to appear through the crowd. Unfortunately, he’d shown up way too early, and not even Superman was strong enough to endure several hours of awkward eye contact with strangers. Clark had started to play at being busy with the art, which somehow turned into him genuinely admiring the creations, seeing them in the new context of Amara’s stories. Amara had a lot of stories — Clark could probably write a novel about everything she’d told him. 

It was kind of staggering just how many statues there were. Clark’s eyes wandered over the stone faces and bodies. Most were smaller, and there was a clear improvement in skill over time, but they all had a specific style to them, a signature left by their creator. After a certain point the marble turned black, whites and greys becoming less and less common until they vanished entirely. Amara had mentioned Nukteros had a preference for black marble, hadn’t she? The dark stone seemed to eat light and shadow like it was starving, forcing viewers to pay more attention if they wanted to catch the details.

Clark was trying to figure out how much he needed to adjust his vision to read the inscription on a dagger when a familiar voice appeared next to him. “Kal?”

“Diana?” Sure enough, when Clark turned he was greeted by the sight of Wonder Woman dressed in civvies, looking just as surprised to see him as he was to see her. “Hey! Hi! It’s good to see you again, what are you doing here?”

“Likewise, my friend,” Diana inclined her head with a small smile. It didn’t last long, though, her expression stiffening to match the rest of her posture. “I was intrigued — it isn’t often that relics from my home are discovered, especially not in such large amounts. I was hoping I could verify if they were genuine or not, and perhaps even obtain one for my own museum. What brings you here?”

“Work, reporting, you know – the usual.” Clark didn’t like the tension in Diana’s shoulders, or the way her eyes kept darting around, as if searching for enemies. “Is everything okay? You seem…” He hesitated. “Not great.”

Some of the steel left Diana’s eyes. “Peace, my friend. It is likely nothing, I fear I have been more prone to unneeded mistrust since—” She broke off, glaring at the floor. Clark understood. No one had really realized how much they’d relied on Bruce’s paranoia until there hadn’t been anyone around who knew what to do if their shadows started attacking them. “But the problem does not lie with you. It is good to see you active, truly.”

“Yeah, same. It’s been a while.” The smile Clark offered her was equal parts rueful and empathetic. “Is there anything in particular that’s been bothering you? I’ve been talking to the owner for a few days, so I might be able to clear a few things up. Not sure what to do if they’re forgeries, though.”

Diana shook her head. “No, they are very real. That’s part of the problem.”

Clark blinked. “What?”

“Come, look.” Diana moved to the display lining the far wall — a series of statues that had clearly been made as a set, all depicting various figures. The plaque speculated that it was supposed to represent the Olympians, but Clark had seen how the artist depicted Gods. These were probably just local heroes or people Nukteros knew.

“I’m looking,” Clark trailed half a step behind Diana, taking in the black marble figures. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

Diana’s frown was audible. “These statues are several thousand years old, and yet they show almost no signs of damage. No broken limbs, no weathering, they have been preserved well — too well. More than that, the style is too modern. They are similar to Hellenistic statues, though more modestly dressed, and yet the level of detail is more akin to Gothic architecture than anything. Worst of all, look at their faces. What do you observe?”

“Uh,” Clark squinted. “I don’t know. They look kind of familiar?”

“It is more than familiar, Kal,” The edge in Diana’s voice could cut bone. “They look like us.”

She jabbed a finger at the nearest statue, the one labeled Hermes. “That is Barry. The one they call Hephaestus is made in Victor’s image, Arthur bears the role of Poseidon, and Oliver has been named Dionysus.” Clark could practically hear Ollie getting offended about not being Apollo. “And Athena! Look, Kal, you cannot tell me I am wrong.”

“It does look a whole lot like you.” It really did, right down to the lasso the statue used as a belt. Clark thought back to the warrior woman he’d seen his first day — even with the clear gap in skill between the statues, both bore a striking resemblance to Diana. It was even harder to deny with Diana standing there looking like she’d found her twin. “Okay, yeah, that is pretty uncanny. But that’s only a few people—”

Diana grabbed him by the shoulders. “Everyone, Kal. I’ve found replicas of everyone.”

Clark squirmed. Yeah, the Justice League were maybe sort-of kind-of gods among men, but getting honest to Rao marble statues seemed a bit much, especially for a man who’d existed well before the age of Gods and Monsters. Something was up. “Everyone?”

“Everyone,” Diana confirmed. Then she paused. “With one exception.”

“Really? Who?”

Suddenly, Diana couldn’t meet his eyes. Her grip tightened as her shoulders slumped, and Clark felt a familiar lump lodge itself in his throat. “Oh.” He pulled away, desperate to change the subject. “What about me? I hadn’t noticed a doppelganger anywhere.”

“You haven’t noticed much in recent times,” Diana muttered. Clark hated that she was right. He’d been living in a haze, intentionally ignoring as much of his own life as he could. Stuck, as Diana had said before. “Though I do suppose most of yours are less overt. Anyone who isn’t already someone else seems to make some reference to you. Just look.”

Clark looked. At first he couldn’t see it — the statues were the same as always, with the same variety that had first caught his eye. Then he noticed how many of them had curly hair, or large noses, or hands with bitten down nails. Some had his eyes, others had his ears, a few even had his body with a stranger’s face on top. The ones that were supposed to be inspiring had Superman’s curl and Clark Kent’s smile, the beautiful ones had dimples and a farmer’s build. A few of them moved like him, referencing nervous habits in the way they rubbed their neck, or how their face froze halfway through a startled blink.

Diana was right — Clark was everywhere. 

“Okay,” Clark swallowed. “Okay, that’s fine. This is totally fine! Nothing creepy about this!” He shook himself off, trying to get his thoughts in order. “What does this mean? Like, it has to mean something, right? This can’t just be a coincidence.”

“I’m afraid I do not know.” Diana frowned, though she seemed to relax slightly now that she had confirmation that her unease was justified. “It could be a ploy to lure us out, or part of a large scheme. Who knows what the person who orchestrated this was thinking. But we cannot remain idle, we must—”

“Aww,” A voice like a shiver running down a spine. “You ruined the surprise!”

Clark jumped. “Ms. Venus! I didn’t realize you had arrived! My friend and I were just — oh, yeah, this is my friend Dian— uh. Sorry, Di, what are you…?”

Diana was kneeling. Down on one leg, face tucked between her thigh and the arm resting on it. Her eyes were closed, Lasso of Truth clutched between her fingers, muttering something in what Clark could only assume was Ancient Greek.

“Lady Aphrodite,” she said. “I apologize, I had not known you would be here.”

“Wait,” Clark looked between Diana and Amara, trying and failing to make sense of things. “Wait, what? No, that’s Ms. Amara Venus, she’s the owner of the collection. She’s been showing me around the last few days! Yes, she’s pretty, but she’s not Aphro…di…” Clark slowed, the pieces finally clicking together in his head. The stories, the strange moments, the name. “...te.”

Amara — Aphrodite??? — smiled at him with a set of perfect white teeth, like a shark who’d just been to the dentist. It was Bruce’s smile. Bruce’s smile and Lois’s hair and Lana’s build. Ma’s hands and Jimmy’s ears. The stubborn curve of Pa’s jaw, the elegant way Diana moved. Bits and pieces of everything and everyone Clark found lovely and beautiful, brought together seamlessly. A form tailor made for him to fall in love with.

“Glad to see you haven’t forgotten your lesson — I would hate for you to fall to hubris so late in all this, even if it is unnecessary in this instance.” With a flourish, the Goddess(??!?!?) bowed. Her dress shifted into a flowing toga, form expanding until she was at least a head taller than Clark. The sunhat became a woven crown. Gold burned in her irises, skin as dark as the marble surrounding them, and when she spoke her voice resonated somewhere in Clark’s blood. She smelled like seafoam and roses, her arms were decorated with strings of pearls, and she looked like she’d been ripped from the chest of something that could eat the sun.

Clark’s ears were ringing. He didn’t know if that was a side effect of divine exposure or his brain trying to evacuate his skull.

Diana punched him in the knee. Under other circumstances, Clark would have taken the hint. As it was, he collapsed to the floor like a house of cards. Diana glared at him. “Apologies, my lady, please forgive my companion’s lack of manners.”

“Oh, it’s no issue! His dead fish impression is quite adorable.” Ama— Aphrodite giggled, resting her head in her hand — a familiar gesture that just made everything more surreal. “My fault for teasing the poor thing. Mortals are so very good at only seeing what they expect to see, you know, it’s why they can never see when someone loves them. Fickle things, really, but that just makes it all the better when they work things out. You may rise, Princess.”

Diana drew to her feet, standing at attention. Clark, who’d somehow managed to misplace his bones, continued to lie there like a dirty sock. 

“Goddess,” he muttered. “I’ve been talking to a Goddess. I told the Goddess of Love about the Goose incident. You waited for me when I went to the bathroom.”

“Correct!” Aphrodite was grinning ear to ear, which was a stark contrast to Diana, who looked like she wasn’t sure who she wanted to stab first. Thankfully, the room was empty, which was probably one of those things that you could do if you were an actual literal God. “I was going to let our friend explain it to you — he’s so very blunt about these things, you know — but it seems that has been spoiled already. Shame.” She sighed. “Oh, very well, I suppose I’ve kept you waiting long enough.”

“Waiting?” Diana’s voice was hard. “Waiting for what?”

Aphrodite clapped her hands together. “Why, for the finale, of course! I still haven’t told him how the story ends!”

“Holy— that statue was you. How did I not notice that?” Clark said, hysterically.

Diana glanced between them. Oh, right, she had none of the context for any of this. Clark should probably fill her in once his brain got back online.

“Don’t worry, handsome, it happens to everyone. Now, I do believe I promised to show you something very special, and I intend to keep my word. But first—” Aphrodite snapped her fingers. Suddenly Clark was on his feet, dressed in a baby blue sweater and the nicest pair of pants he’d ever seen. They fit better than anything he owned and were probably twice as expensive, even Diana seemed begrudgingly impressed. Aphrodite nodded at her handiwork. “Much better. Come along now, let’s not waste any more time!”

“Wait,” Clark said. “Where are we— why did you— What did he ask you for?”

Because Nukteros had clearly succeeded – his gift was Aphrodite’s favorite, even eons later. She’d cared for him enough to preserve his work, to keep it hidden from the world, so why reveal it now? Why target Clark? What wish was Aphrodite working to grant?

Aphrodite beckoned him forward. “Why don’t you come see for yourself?”

***

Being alone with Diana always left Clark feeling odd and unbalanced. Sometimes that was a good thing — he needed the occasional reminder he wasn’t special — but it also ran the risk of making both of them feel alien and isolated, unable to fit into a world that wasn’t made for them. That was (one of the many reasons) why the Trinity was so important. Bruce balanced them perfectly, keeping Diana from getting too cynical and Clark from feeling too alone. He kept them grounded. Human. 

His absence hurt like an open wound, made even worse by the deep shadows and the drone of rain. This was Bruce’s home, Bruce’s element, and yet his place at their side remained empty. There was no one to fill the gaps in Clark’s rambling explanations when he got too far in his own head, no one to plan around Diana’s growing unease, and no one to ask the questions they were both too polite to mention.

Aphrodite seemed content to ignore them, leading them through the museum’s basement while Clark recounted the last few days. She occasionally chimed in about something Clark had missed (what did she mean she messed with Clark’s memories and emotions?) but was largely content to let them be.

“So,” Diana said, dodging around a pile of dusty boxes. The basement looked like something out of a horror game and smelled like the back corner of a closet. There wasn’t much room to maneuver, forcing them to duck and weave every few steps, which wasn’t easy when their only light source was the divine light radiating off of Aphrodite. “To clarify, a Goddess summoned you, specifically, to see an art exhibition about one of her favorite mortals, whose creations happen to resemble people we know, and you did not think to question it?”

Clark winced. “In my defense, I’ve had other stuff on my mind. It wasn’t like I was expecting this to be a big thing — it’s my day job! Big things aren’t supposed to happen at my day job!”

“True. Your ability to stumble into these things will never cease to amaze me,”

“Yeah,” Clark said, “that makes two of us.”

***

“We’re here!”

Clark stumbled to a stop, barely remembering to move out of the entry way so Diana could stand next to him. The space they’d found themselves in had a bit of breathing room, but it still looked like it should have been lit by a single dangling lightbulb and a ghost. Aphrodite looked wildly out of place in all her glory. She should have at least seemed disgusted, but her smile was bright enough to light up a city — literally. 

The thing she had been leading them to was covered in a sheet. Another statue, presumably, though Clark had no idea what statue made lumps like that. A camel lying down? A really weird yoga pose? Something low and wide, with two large bumps in the middle.

Aphrodite ran a hand over the cloth, rumpling it as she moved. “You’ve already seen my favorite statue, of course, but this beauty was his pride and joy.” She slipped behind it, facing her audience, and Clark watched as tiny roses sprung from the fibers. “It was one of the first ones he ever made, you know, refused to sell it, no matter how hard times got. Most people didn’t even know it existed.”

“Except you,” Diana said. “I take it this has something to do with the wish Kal mentioned?”

Aphrodite frowned. A chill swept through the room, and Clark felt a shiver crawl down his spine. “Oh, do be careful, Princess, I would hate to have any more of my fun spoiled. This story isn’t for you, remember?”

Oh, yeah, right. Aphrodite. Greek Goddess. She’d been in such a good mood that Clark had almost forgotten why the Greeks had so many myths about hubris.

After a long moment of silence, Diana bowed her head. “Forgive me. I have overstepped.”

For a second it didn’t look like Aphrodite would accept. She stared at Diana, as if wondering what species of newt would make for the most insulting transformation. Clark did not want to fight a Goddess over an animal transformation, semi-aquatic or otherwise, so he cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. “Uh, sorry, why was this his favorite?”

Thankfully, it worked. Aphrodite’s eyes softened, her arms uncrossing so they could return to the sheet. “Because, handsome, this statue was the only one modelled after the person he loved.”

It should have been ambiguous, but the way she said it — there was power behind the word. Intent. Clark could feel the emotion echoing through his ribs, the exact meaning all but transplanted into his body. It was longing and wonder, hope and joy, the aftertaste of agony and the dream of being worthy. It was waking up next to a warm body, falling asleep in a pair of strong arms, moving galaxies for the off chance it would make their day just the slightest bit better. It was passion and desire mixed with friendship and family, kissing under the moonlight in the same breath used to laugh at an inside joke. Love, in all its shades.

Clark knew that feeling.

He knew that feeling. 

Aphrodite smirked, as if she could sense what was going through his mind. “Oh, he had many muses, of course, but only one he could never bring himself to share. Not fully. He used to spend hours with it — fixing it, admiring it, talking to it — several people thought he was mad!” She giggled. “The real irony is that, after all that, I was the one to add the finishing touch.”

Clark couldn’t breathe. His heart was trying to jackhammer a hole through his ribs. He had a suspicion, a hunch, but he needed to know— “What did he ask for?”

“Time,” Aphrodite said. “He wanted time.”

In one beautiful, terrible motion, she ripped the sheet away. Diana gasped, but Clark barely noticed, barely noticed anything as his senses tunneled, converging on the impossibility sitting a few feet away.

Two figures sat on a brown marble bench. The one to the right was carved from white stone, only broken by the inky veins of the marble, and it was Clark. His clothes, his hair, his honest smile — a little too big and dotted with dimples. Everything, from his awkwardly big hands to the folds in his favorite t-shirt to the slight dilation of his pupils, was on proud display. The reflection looked like he’d just recovered from laughing, leaning forward as he turned to address his companion. 

It was uncanny, seeing himself preserved in stone, and yet. Clark could feel the care that had shaped those — his — features. A few of the finer details were made of a different stone, evidence of repairs, and the mixture of skill levels showed just how long it had taken to reach this point. His shoulder had been touched so often it was polished smooth, and his eyes…

They weren’t right. They were close, sure, but they weren’t looking at the right place. They were friendly, kind, even, but they weren’t really focused on the person next to him. Clark turned to the other figure, though part of him already knew what he would see. 

There, cast in stone, was Bruce.

Time stopped. 

Bruce. Bruce. Bruce with stone skin and milky scars — a perfect inversion of Clark’s statue. Bruce wearing an ancient Greek toga, but, somehow, otherwise exactly the same as he’d been the last time Clark had seen him. Bruce staring at a recreation of Clark like he was basking in the warmth of a star. Bruce, ghost of a smile on his face, something soft and sad in his eyes, leaning into a conversation that had never happened. Bruce, looking at the statue of Clark he made with an emotion Clark had never dreamed Bruce would turn towards him.

Bruce, looking at Clark like he loved him. And, for all its detail and precision and beauty, the white marble man would never be Clark, because Clark would always look back.

Diana was speaking — possibly shouting, that was probably bad — but Clark couldn’t hear. The world, the ticking, for once it was silent. He took a step forward, then another, then another, until he was close enough to throw himself onto his best friend..

“I love you.”

Clark didn’t need a minute — it only took a second to say.

The stone was warm. It shouldn’t have been warm, but it was. Was that magic? Maybe. Or maybe Clark was just imagining things. Bruce didn’t react to Clark at all — not that he could — and Clark wondered if he should start crying. As a statue, Bruce had all the time in the world, and it was possible Aphrodite wouldn’t give him back. Love was a fickle thing, and Clark knew exactly how much she could hurt.

Clark wanted to press Bruce to his chest, but he couldn’t risk damaging the stone, couldn’t risk hurting Bruce. Instead he laid his hand over the fingers resting on the bench. It was fine! It was fine, they had Bruce back, Clark could find a way to fix him now, they could fix this—

Ba-dum. 

Warmth, heat, light — there were cracks in the stone. They raced over Bruce’s skin, glowing silver as Clark watched, unable to breathe. With a musical cracking sound, the black marble fell away like an exoskeleton, leaving behind a pile of gravel on the floor and smooth, unharmed skin.

“—e thing already— what the fuck?” Bruce squinted like he was waking up from a long dream. (His heart — Clark could hear his heart—) “Why does it smell like old people?”

Clark couldn’t help it. He picked Bruce up but the armpits and pulled him into a hug.

Bruce made a sound halfway between a yelp and a hiss, hands clawing at Clark’s sweater. They came face to face with each other, and Bruce froze once he realized who was holding him. He glanced back at statue-Clark, then at actual Clark, and then did that three more times to make sure he was seeing things correctly.

“Hm,” Bruce’s gaze finally focused on Clark. It felt like he was looking into his soul, checking if everything was in place. “Are you real?”

“Yeah,” Clark couldn’t stop grinning. “I love you.”

“Definitely a dream, got it.” Bruce glanced over his shoulder. “Why is Diana trying to fight Aphrodite?”

That was a good question, especially given the screaming. Too bad it was overshadowed by the first statement. “Hey! I’m not a dream!” Clark’s grip tightened. “Is it really that hard to believe I love you?”

“Yes.” Bruce said. “Oi! Why are you two trying to kill each other!”

“Bruce!” Diana’s voice called back, cutting off a lot of the chaotic banging — minus the sound of something important shattering into a billion pieces. Oops. “My friend! You’re back! I thought the Goddess—”

“I told you he would be fine!” Aphrodite flickered into the corner of Clark’s vision. “Well? Have you told him yet? Please tell me I didn’t miss the good part!”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I haven’t told him anything. I’m also not convinced this isn’t an overly elaborate figment of my imagination, which would make admitting anything redundant.”

Clark pouted. “Stop being an idiot and let me love you.”

“Please,” Bruce waved him off. “I’m not in nearly enough pain for this to be real.”

Rao, Clark had forgotten just how stubborn Bruce could be. He’d also forgotten what it was like to have this kind of banter — it felt like breathing again. Though the pain comment did bring up a few questions. Clark’s eyes drifted to Bruce’s exposed arms, greedy for the sight of him, but also—

“Why are your scars glowing?”

“Why are my—” Bruce wrestled an arm free and yanked his toga aside. His chest was a dazzling mess of silver and gold, like someone had replaced all his scar tissue with moonlight. “Aphrodite!”

The Goddess’s smile was all innocence. “Yes? Do you like my gift?”

“Why!?” 

“Why not! I also reduced your age back to something more appropriate, of course, so you didn’t lose any time. Don’t worry, I let you keep all the scars you got during our time together — I still don’t know why you’re so attached to those things.” Aphrodite shrugged. Then she lit up like a supernova. “Oh! And I tied your life force to his–” she pointed at Clark, “—so neither of you can die until the other one does!” 

Somewhere behind them Diana choked. Clark could see the gears turning in Bruce’s head. “Wait, so this is real? Are you the reason my Kryptonian is broken?” He glared at Clark. “Let go of me.”

“No!” Panic shot through Clark. “Unless you really don’t want me to hold you, then, uh, yeah, let me—” 

Bruce wrapped his legs around Clark so hard his bones creaked. The look he gave Clark was 100% Batman. Clark relaxed, happily holding him closer. Message received!

Aphrodite cackled. “Oh, that’s the best part! I didn’t even have to do anything, he came like that! I thought for sure I’d have to work a little magic, but no! You two really are made for each other, you know, it’s delightful!”

“I can also support this, Batman,” Diana chimed in. “Kal’s feelings for you have been more than apparent since—”

Bruce’s eyes softened. He reached over Clark’s shoulder, likely to squeeze Diana’s hand. “I know, Princess, it’s good to be home. You’ll have to fill me in on everything I missed.”

Clark couldn’t stop the wounded noise from escaping his throat. He buried his face in Bruce’s shoulder, trying not to sob all over his pulse. “The movie came out,” he said. “I couldn’t watch it without you, but the reviews have been good. Dick’s been Batman for a while, though Cass started wearing the suit when Nightwing needed to patrol, and Damian’s not been doing great in school but he adopted a lizard. I thought I was never going to see you again.”

Bruce studied him. Not with cynicism this time, but with tentative realization. “Oh,” He said. “This is really happening, huh?”

“Yeah, I can’t believe it either.” Clark squeezed him. “I thought we’d have to talk Booster into doing something fancy to find you. You made me talk to Booster, B.”

The way Bruce’s nose wrinkled was pure vindication. “Jesus. How long has it been?”

“Three months.” Longer, now, but details could wait. “You?”

“About 25 years, not that it matters because someone—” He glared at Aphrodite, “—decided to mess with my biology instead of making sure the statues got to the people who needed to see them like I asked.”

Aphrodite waved him off. “Please, where’s the fun in that? I have it on record that most mortals wouldn’t have even realized you were trying to signal them, you know, your boytoy certainly didn’t!”

“Don’t call him that.”

“No, no, she’s got a point,” Clark said.

“See? Boytoy doesn’t mind!” The Goddess said. “And this way everyone gets what they want! Well, except the Princess. Sorry dear, but you really weren’t supposed to be here today.”

“Believe me, my Lady, what you have done today is more than enough to put me in your debt.” Clark could hear Diana’s smile. “Not only have you returned to us a dear friend and ally, you have also done what the strongest heroes of this time could not — you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for these two fools to actually talk to each other.”

Bruce glowered. “I can’t believe I spent a quarter of a century trying to get back to this.”

“I can’t believe you actually became a sculptor, an ancient Greek hero, and managed to befriend a Goddess.” Clark said, pulling Bruce’s attention back to him. Rao, he’d missed those eyes. “Seriously, B, black marble bucket centaur?”

“Statues were one of the few things that could survive until the modern day largely unchanged, sue me.” Bruce huffed. “The centaur was personal, though, fucker deserved that.”

Clark laughed. Of course. Of course. Of course Bruce wanted to get back as much as they wanted him home, of course he never stopped fighting. Leave it to Batman to beat time travel through the power of love, spite, and creative liberties. “I love you.”

“You said that already,” Bruce said. And then he kissed Clark like they were flying.

The kiss lasted 124 heartbeats. Bruce tapped his fingers 58 times and Clark tightened his grip twice. Time became nothing more than the air in their lungs and the slow churning of life under Bruce’s skin. He had new calluses from carving statues, a slight accent from the language he’d had to learn, but they’d have time to talk about that later. Right now, Clark had three months, three weeks, and one day of lost time he needed to make up for.

Aphrodite cooed, Diana smiled, Bruce held Clark as tightly as Clark held him, and, somewhere, a clock kept ticking.