Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter One

The house was still and dim, soaked in the kind of pale blue light that came just before dawn. Aven had been awake for hours, sprawled sideways across the guest bed in a borrowed T-shirt that hung loose off one shoulder. It smelled faintly like laundry detergent and Clark—clean cotton and something quiet and grounding, like the air before a summer storm.

He hadn’t slept much. Not really.

The night before had gutted him in a way he hadn’t expected. That stupid, hopeful moment when he’d finally worked up the nerve to call Bruce—only to get no answer. No voicemail. Just silence. Like maybe he really was a ghost now. Like maybe Bruce had finally stopped waiting.

The pain had settled deep in his chest, quieter than rage but harder to breathe through. He hadn’t cried. He’d just... shut down. Curled sideways into the blankets, arm tucked tight to his ribs, and tried not to think about the hundred reasons why Bruce might’ve ignored the call.

Then, hours later—well past midnight—his phone had buzzed against the nightstand.

A message from Sarge. No text, just a link and a timestamp.

It led to a breaking news article about the Mayor of Gotham's granddaughter being taken hostage by The Joker and being rescued by Batman and his bats.

No video. No quotes. Just a grainy still of flashing lights outside City Hall and a two-line blurb:

“Hostage crisis ends in Gotham: Mayor’s granddaughter recovered. Joker in custody after late-night intervention by Batman and affiliates.”

That was it.

No fanfare. No names. Just a quiet confirmation that the man Aven had tried to call—who hadn’t picked up—had been busy saving a child from one of the worst monsters in the city.

And somehow, that made it hurt less.

Not all the way. Not enough to erase the sting of silence or the way his heart had dropped when the call went unanswered. But enough to cut through the fog. To remind him who Bruce was. Who he’d always been.

The kind of man who didn’t stop just because he was hurting.

Aven had stared at the screen for a long time, watching the blinking cursor at the bottom of the article as if it might turn into something else—something more personal. But it never did.

So he’d turned the phone face-down and let the quiet take him again.

Now, as the first edge of sunrise bled over the window frame, he finally pushed himself upright. The sheets slid from his legs as he stood, stretching just enough to feel the tug in his shoulders and spine. Clark’s shirt shifted across his skin—soft, worn-in, too big in a way that made him feel both ridiculous and strangely safe.

He padded barefoot down the hallway, careful not to let the floorboards creak. The boys’ door was cracked slightly, just enough for him to catch the sound of deep, even breathing on the other side. No one else was up.

Good.

He didn’t want to talk yet. Didn’t want to face their concerned gazes as if they were waiting for him to break apart.

Not after everything.

Not after collapsing in Clark’s arms, after bleeding on his couch, after taking up space in a home that wasn’t his, with people who’d already given more than he ever asked for.

He hadn’t meant to stay. Not really.

But he’d stayed anyway. Long enough to see the quiet strain behind Clark’s kindness. The way Jon had hovered at the edge of the room, nervous but trying. The way Conner had offered his silence like a shield.

It had all settled in this morning—guilt, gratitude, and that tired ache behind his ribs that never really left.

He’d been nothing but trouble since the moment they found him.

The least he could do was say thank you. Even if it came out scrambled.

Instead, he found the kitchen by instinct, flicked on the under-cabinet light, and opened the fridge.

Eggs. Cheese. Leftover brisket wrapped in butcher paper. Bell peppers and a half-cut onion in a Ziplock. Good ingredients. Comfort food. Texas food.

Aven cracked his knuckles quietly and got to work.

Dice the onion. Mince the peppers. Chop the brisket. Eggs whisked with a little milk and smoked paprika. He moved with quiet purpose, letting the familiar rhythm of it all settle his nerves. The skillet warmed. Butter hissed. The scent of caramelizing onion and pepper filled the room, earthy and rich.

He started the coffee next, more by instinct than need—Clark had one of those clunky old machines that hissed like a tired dragon when it came to life. Aven found the tin of grounds in the second cabinet. Bold roast. Of course.

The scent hit him a minute later, grounding and bitter in the best way. The kind of smell that made kitchens feel like home.

He didn’t know what he was doing here. Not really.

He just knew he needed to do something. Something that wasn’t breaking down. Something that didn’t involve running or bleeding or watching another person die.

This wasn’t much.

But it was something.

The skillet sizzled as Aven folded the eggs, watching the edges firm up around the meat and vegetables. His shoulders relaxed into the simple, mindless rhythm of cooking. Something about the kitchen had always been a sanctuary—even in the worst places, the worst times. He'd made meals in combat zones, in half-destroyed bunkers, in hospital break rooms between emergencies. Food was the constant, the thing that kept people together when everything else fell apart.

He heard a soft creak behind him and tensed, but didn't turn around. The footsteps were too light to be Clark's—had to be one of the boys.

"Morning," he said quietly, keeping his eyes on the pan. "Hope I didn't wake you."

"Smells too good to sleep through," Jon's voice came from the doorway, hesitant but warm.

Aven glanced over his shoulder, taking in the kid's rumpled sleep shirt and hair sticking up in all directions. Jon lingered in the doorway like he wasn't sure if he was allowed in his own kitchen, and something in Aven's chest twisted at the sight.

"Breakfast'll be ready in five," Aven said, turning back to the stove. "Coffee's already up if you want some."

Jon shuffled to the cabinet, the sound of ceramic mugs clinking as he pulled one down. "Dad says I'm still too young for coffee."

"Your dad's probably right," Aven admitted, sliding the spatula under the edge of the omelet. "But I won't tell if you don't."

He could feel Jon's presence behind him, the careful way the kid moved around the kitchen, giving him space but still hovering close enough to watch. It reminded Aven of the Batfamily—how they'd circled him in those early days, curious and cautious all at once. The memory sent a dull ache through his chest.

"You didn't have to cook," Jon said, pouring coffee with exaggerated care. "Dad usually makes breakfast."

"Figured I'd return the favor," Aven replied, keeping his voice casual. "You guys have been putting up with me for days now."

"It's not—" Jon started, then stopped himself. "I mean, we don't mind. Dad says you're family."

The word hit Aven like a punch to the gut. Family. Such a simple word for something that had never been simple for him. He'd had one once—the Wayne’s, the Bats, the whole chaotic mess of them. Then he'd walked away to keep them safe, and now...

"Your dad's too nice for his own good," Aven said, focusing on sliding the omelet onto a waiting plate. "Always has been."

Jon was quiet for a moment, and Aven could feel the kid watching him, those too-perceptive eyes taking in more than Aven wanted to share.

"Are you leaving?" Jon finally asked. His question is soft and almost delicate in its deliverance as if afraid he might say something wrong.

Aven hesitated, unsure what to say to the twelve-year-old he’d only met a handful of times—but who was clearly starting to get attached.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, keeping his eyes on the skillet. “I mean… yeah, eventually. I can’t just hang around forever, taking up space.”

He reached for the spice rack above the stove, shaking in a little extra smoked paprika and something labeled “Ma’s secret mix” before giving the scramble another stir.

Jon twisted his hands around the mug, steam curling up around his face. "But you don't have to go right away, do you? I mean, Dad said you're still recovering."

"I'm fine," Aven replied automatically, the lie sliding out with practiced ease. He wasn't fine. The wounds on his back still pulled when he moved too quickly, and his ribs ached with a dull persistence that reminded him of the thing nestled against his lungs. But he'd survived worse. Much worse.

He cracked another set of eggs into the bowl, whisking them with more force than necessary. "Besides, I've taken up enough of your dad's time. And his bed."

The words came out wrong, and he felt heat crawl up his neck and cheeks. "I mean—the guest bed. Which is his responsibility. And time." Aven cleared his throat. "You know what I mean."

Jon smiled behind his mug, a flash of something that looked too knowing for a twelve-year-old. "Dad doesn't mind. He likes having you here."

Aven focused on pouring the eggs into the pan, watching them bubble and set at the edges. The sizzle filled the silence as he tried to formulate a response that wouldn't sound pathetic or ungrateful. Clark had been nothing but kind since the moment they'd met—offering shelter, protection, and a quiet understanding that somehow hurt worse than any judgment.

"Your dad's a good man," Aven said finally. "Better than most."

The words felt inadequate against the weight of everything Clark had done for him. Holding him through panic attacks. Cleaning blood from his skin. Staying up all night to make sure he kept breathing when the nightmares hit. Things nobody should have to do for a virtual stranger.

"He says the same about you," Jon replied, taking a careful sip of his coffee before making a face at the bitterness.

Aven snorted, flipping the second omelet with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Your dad sees the best in people. Even when it isn't there."

"Is that why you're making breakfast? Because you think you're not good enough to be here?"

The question caught Aven off-guard, so direct and perceptive that he nearly dropped the spatula. He glanced at Jon, finding those blue eyes watching him with an intensity that reminded him too much of Clark.

"I'm making breakfast because I was hungry," Aven deflected, sliding the second omelet onto a plate. "And because it's the least I can do after crashing here for three days."

Jon didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. Instead, he moved to the cabinet and started pulling down plates, setting the table with a quiet efficiency that spoke of routine. Aven watched him from the corner of his eye, this kid who'd accepted a stranger into his home without complaint, who looked at Aven like he was something worth keeping around.

"Are you gonna go back to living with Uncle Bruce when you feel better?" Jon asked suddenly, his voice casual as he set a fork down beside each plate.

Aven froze, spatula suspended mid-air. The question hit him like a bucket of ice water, shocking his system into a momentary standstill. He cleared his throat, trying to find words that wouldn't come.

"I—uh—that's not—" His voice cracked embarrassingly. "It's complicated, kid."

Jon leaned against the counter, watching him with those unnervingly perceptive eyes. "Is he still your boyfriend?"

The word 'boyfriend' made Aven's ears burn. He fumbled with the spatula, nearly dropping it into the pan. Jesus Christ. How did you explain to a twelve-year-old that you'd left the man you loved with nothing but a letter because you were carrying an alien parasite that could get him killed?

"That's—we're—" Aven stammered, feeling heat crawl up his neck. "It's not that simple."

"I used to think Dad and Uncle Bruce might get together someday," Jon continued, seemingly oblivious to Aven's discomfort. "I thought it would be cool, you know? We'd get to spend more time with Damian. Maybe even live in the same house."

Aven blinked, momentarily derailed by this unexpected turn in the conversation. Clark and Bruce? The image was so startling that for a second, he couldn't process it. Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent. Batman and... well, Clark. His brain stuttered over the possibility, something uncomfortable twisting in his stomach.

"I don't think they've ever really talked about it, though," Jon shrugged, taking another sip of his coffee. "They've always just been best friends."

Aven turned back to the stove, grateful for the excuse to hide his face. Best friends. The phrase echoed in his head, carrying implications he wasn't ready to examine. Had Bruce and Clark ever been more? Could they have been, if Aven hadn't crashed into their lives?

It made a strange kind of sense, now that he thought about it. The few times he’d seen them together, there had been something there. An undercurrent of tension he’d noticed but never really dwelled on. Like a conversation that kept getting interrupted before it could mean something.

"Your dad and Bruce have known each other a long time," he said carefully, focusing on sliding the last omelet onto a plate. "They've been through a lot together."

"Yeah, but they look at each other different sometimes," Jon said, with the matter-of-fact certainty of a kid who noticed more than adults gave him credit for. "Kind of like how Dad sometimes looks at you when you're not watching."

Aven nearly dropped the plate. "What?"

Jon's eyes widened slightly, as if he'd just realized what he'd said. "I just meant—"

"Morning," Clark's voice came from the doorway, deep and sleep-rough. "Something smells amazing."

Aven's head snapped up, relief and panic mingling in his chest. How long had Clark been standing there? How much had he heard? The man looked rumpled and soft in the doorway, hair still mussed from sleep, wearing a faded Smallville High t-shirt and flannel pants. His eyes were warm and curious as they moved from Jon to Aven and back again, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I made breakfast," Aven said unnecessarily, gesturing at the plates with his spatula. "Hope that's okay."

"More than okay," Clark replied, crossing to the coffee pot. "You didn't have to do that."

Aven shrugged, uncomfortable with the gratitude in Clark's voice. "Figured it was the least I could do after everything. Nothing fancy, just omelets with some of that leftover brisket."

Clark poured himself a cup of coffee, his movements easy and unhurried. Morning light spilled through the kitchen window, catching on his glasses and turning his eyes an impossible shade of blue. Aven looked away, suddenly fascinated by the pattern on the floor tiles.

"Jon, why don't you go wake your brother?" Clark suggested, ruffling his son's hair. "Tell him breakfast is ready."

Jon nodded, shooting Aven one last curious look before disappearing down the hallway. Aven kept his eyes on the stove, scraping the last bits of egg from the pan with more concentration than the task required. He could feel Clark watching him, that steady, patient gaze that somehow saw too much.

"You're up early," Clark said, leaning against the counter beside him. "How's your back feeling?"

"Fine," Aven replied automatically, then caught himself. "Better. Still pulls a bit, but the stitches are holding."

Clark nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "And the rest of you?"

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with meaning Aven wasn't ready to unpack. How was he? Physically, mentally, emotionally? The answer seemed too complicated for a kitchen conversation at dawn.

"I'm standing," he said finally. "That's something."

Clark's expression softened. "It's more than something."

Aven busied himself with moving the dirty pan to the sink, needing something to do with his hands. The silence between them lingered—not cold, just thick with things unsaid. Clark didn’t speak, but Aven could feel him there. Watching. Waiting. Patient in that calm, unnerving way that always made Aven feel like he was being gently dissected.

He focused on rinsing the skillet, scrubbing at a bit of melted cheese like it was suddenly the most important task in the world.

What he wanted to ask was simple: Did Bruce call? Was he okay after what happened with Joker?

But the words caught.

Because if Clark didn’t know—if he didn’t know Bruce was Batman—then that question cracked the whole secret wide open. And despite everything, Aven wasn’t sure if it was his to give away.

Could he somehow ask? Maybe hint at it to Clark and see if the reporter caught on?

"Is there anything you need from the grocery store today?" Clark asked, his voice gentle as he leaned against the counter. "I thought I might pick up a few things. The boys go through food like locusts."

The simple, domestic question caught Aven off guard. It was so normal—so far removed from aliens and corporations and near-death experiences—that for a moment, he didn't know how to respond. When was the last time someone had asked him about groceries? Like he was just a person with preferences, not a walking incubator on the run?

"I'm good," he said finally, setting the clean skillet in the drying rack. "Got everything I need right here."

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. What he needed wasn't something Clark could pick up at the corner store. What he needed was for the thing in his chest to be gone. For the nightmares to stop. For the people hunting him to disappear. For Bruce to—

He cut the thought short, focusing instead on wiping down the counter with more attention than necessary.

"I saw about Joker," he said carefully, keeping his voice low. "On the news. Sounds like it was... intense."

Clark's mug paused halfway to his lips. "You saw that?"

"Sarge sent me the link." Aven glanced up, searching Clark's face for any recognition, any hint that he understood what Aven was really asking. "Bruce was there, I guess. At City Hall."

Clark's expression shifted subtly, something careful sliding into place behind his eyes. "Yes, he was. That's why he couldn't take your call right away."

Aven nodded, relief washing through him in a quiet wave. So Clark did know. About Bruce. About Batman. The confirmation loosened something in his chest—one less secret to navigate, one less wall between them.

"Is he okay?" The question came out rougher than he intended, scraped raw with concern he couldn't quite hide.

Clark set his mug down, his movements deliberate. "He's... processing. It wasn't an easy night."

The vague answer sent a chill through Aven's spine. "What happened? The article didn't say much."

"Bruce can tell you himself," Clark said, his tone gentle but firm. "When you're ready to talk to him."

Aven turned away, focusing on arranging the plates on the counter. Ready. As if it were that simple. As if five months of silence could be erased with a single conversation. As if the queen in his chest didn't make every connection a potential death sentence.

“What if calling him was a mistake?” Aven said quietly, eyes still on the sink. “I know he’s been looking for me… but he’s already got so much on his plate. What if all I did was make things worse—give him one more thing to carry?”

Aven stared at the clean skillet, droplets of water beading along its surface. He'd spent months convinced he was protecting Bruce by staying away, and now he wasn't sure if that had been the right call after all.

"Bruce has never seen you as a burden," Clark said, his voice gentle. "Not once."

Aven's throat tightened. "You don't know what it's like, carrying this... thing." He pressed his palm against his chest, feeling the faint outline of the inhibitor pump beneath his borrowed shirt. "Knowing that every time I get close to someone, I'm painting a target on their back."

"I think I understand more than you realize," Clark replied, something quiet and resolute in his tone.

Aven glanced up, catching the intensity in Clark's eyes. There was something there—something deep and knowing that made Aven wonder just how much this mild-mannered reporter had seen in his life.

"Look," Aven said, turning to face him fully. "Bruce has this whole family to protect. A city. He doesn't need my mess on top of everything else."

"That's not your decision to make," Clark countered, his voice still gentle but firm. "Not for him."

The words struck Aven like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to argue, but footsteps thundered down the hallway as Conner appeared, hair sticking up at odd angles and eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Did someone say breakfast?" the teenager asked, making a beeline for the coffee pot.

Clark smoothly stepped back, giving Aven space as the moment between them dissolved. "Aven made omelets," he said, gesturing to the plates on the counter.

Conner's face lit up. "Seriously? That's awesome."

Jon trailed in behind his brother, shooting Aven a look that was somehow both curious and knowing. Aven turned away, busying himself with distributing the plates to the table. The normalcy of the moment—four people gathering for breakfast in a sunlit kitchen—felt surreal after everything that had happened.

They settled around the table, and for a few blessed minutes, conversation centered on nothing more complicated than the food and plans for the day. Aven let the chatter wash over him, focusing on the simple act of eating. The omelet was good—savory and rich with the smoky brisket—but he barely tasted it.

His mind kept circling back to Bruce. To Joker. To whatever had happened at City Hall that Clark wasn't telling him.

"This is amazing," Conner said through a mouthful of egg. "Way better than Dad's cooking."

Clark chuckled. "I'm not going to argue with that."

"We should keep him," Jon said, the statement so casual and earnest that Aven nearly choked on his coffee.

Clark shot his son a look that Aven couldn’t fully read even as Aven gave Jon a playful smirk.

“What, like some half-starved Pomeranian you found under a dumpster?” Aven said, smirking as he poured Jon a glass of orange juice and swiped the coffee Jon had been pretending not to hate.

Jon laughed, the sound bright and unguarded in a way that made Aven's chest tighten with something he couldn't name. "More like a really grumpy stray cat that pretends it doesn't want to be petted."

"I don't purr," Aven deadpanned, taking a bite of his omelet.

"You hum when you sleep," Conner said without thinking, then flushed red when everyone turned to look at him. "I mean—I was just walking past the guest room yesterday and—"

"Conner," Clark warned gently, but there was amusement in his voice.

Aven felt heat crawl up his neck. Great. Even unconscious, he was apparently making himself at home in ways that were mortifying. He focused on cutting another piece of omelet, willing the conversation to move on to literally anything else.

"So what's the plan for today?" he asked, desperate to change the subject.

Clark glanced at him, something careful in his expression. "I need to run a few errands. Check in at the Planet, pick up some things." A pause. "You're welcome to come along if you're feeling up to it."

The offer hung in the air between them, loaded with unspoken implications. Aven hadn't left the house since Clark had brought him here three days ago. Hadn't seen anything beyond these walls, this kitchen, the quiet sanctuary Clark had provided. The thought of stepping outside, of being exposed and visible, sent a familiar spike of anxiety through his system.

But staying here felt like hiding. And he'd been hiding for months.

"Yeah," he said, surprising himself. "Yeah, I think I'd like that."

Clark's smile was soft, genuine in a way that made Aven's chest ache. "Good. We'll take it easy."

Jon bounced slightly in his seat. "Can we come?"

"School," Clark reminded him. "Both of you."

Conner groaned dramatically. "It's not fair. Aven gets to stay home and we don't."

"Aven’s thirty-three, not sixteen," Clark said evenly. "And he’s still recovering."

"I'm recovered enough," Aven said, then caught himself. The last thing he wanted was to sound ungrateful for Clark's protection. "I mean—I'm feeling better. Stronger."

It wasn't entirely true. His back still ached, and the inhibitor pump created a constant low-level discomfort against his ribs. But he was tired of being an invalid. Tired of taking up space without contributing anything. Tired of feeling like a problem that needed solving rather than a person worth keeping around.

Clark studied him for a moment, those blue eyes seeing too much. "We'll start small," he said finally. "Just the Planet, maybe grab lunch somewhere quiet."

“You don’t have to cut your errands short because of me,” Aven said, keeping his tone light. “I’m a marine—I’ve been blown up, shot at, and slept in the dirt. I think I can handle grocery shopping.”

Clark's laugh was warm, genuine—the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes behind his glasses. "Alright, point taken. But if you start feeling tired or anything hurts—"

"I'll tell you," Aven finished, cutting him off before Clark could spiral into full protective mode. He'd seen that look before—on Bruce's face, on Amanda's, on every person who'd tried to take care of him over the past few months. The careful concern that made him feel like porcelain instead of a person.

Jon was still bouncing slightly in his seat, clearly torn between excitement about missing school and disappointment about being left behind. "Can we at least come to the Planet after school? I want to show Aven the newsroom."

"We'll see," Clark said, which Aven had learned was parent-speak for 'probably not but I don't want to crush your dreams right now.'

Aven found himself smiling despite everything—a real smile, not the careful mask he'd been wearing for months. These kids had accepted him without question, folded him into their morning routine like he belonged here. It was terrifying and wonderful in equal measure.

"I should probably shower and change," he said, pushing back from the table. "Can't show up at the Daily Planet looking like I slept in a barn."

"You look fine," Clark said automatically, then seemed to catch himself. A faint flush crept up his neck, and he took a sudden interest in his coffee mug.

Aven felt heat prickle along his own cheeks. He'd been living in Clark's borrowed clothes for days now—soft cotton shirts that hung loose on his frame, sweatpants that were too long in the legs. Comfortable, but hardly professional. And definitely not his own.

"I mean—you always look—" Clark started, then stopped, clearing his throat. "I have some shirts that might fit better. If you want."

The offer was practical, innocent enough. But something in Clark's tone made Aven's pulse skip in a way that had nothing to do with anxiety. He stood quickly, needing distance from whatever was happening in the space between them.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks."

He escaped to the guest room, closing the door behind him with more force than necessary. His reflection in the dresser mirror looked back at him—rumpled hair, stubble, wearing another man's clothes in another man's house. When had this become his life? When had he started running toward people instead of away from them?

The shower helped clear his head, hot water sluicing over his shoulders and washing away the lingering haze of sleep. His back protested as he raised his arms to shampoo his hair, the healing wounds pulling tight against the movement. But the pain was manageable now—a dull ache instead of the sharp agony that had nearly crippled him for days.

Once he was done, Aven shut off the water and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist before leaning over the sink. The mirror was still fogged around the edges, but clear enough to catch his reflection.

His facial hair wasn’t much—fine, sandy blonde, barely there in places—but scruffy enough to look like he was halfway to getting profiled at an airport.

Digging into the bag Sarge had packed for him, he pulled out the razor and shaving cream. He lathered up, then shaved most of it off—leaving just a small patch under his lip, the way Coyote had shown him once.

A soul patch, he’d called it.

“Makes you look like a man and not some pretty lil’ girl, hermano,” Coyote had teased, back when they were laying low in Mexico and Aven couldn’t go five minutes without one of Ricollo’s cartel boys trying to flirt with him.

Aven scowled at the memory, checking the mirror to make sure it was even.

Whatever. Change was good. Change meant fewer people recognizing his face—especially the ones who shouldn’t.

Once he finished, he ran a little gel through his hair, spiking the top just enough to keep it in place as it dried and taming the sides that were starting to grow out from their last buzz.

After a quick glance to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, Aven opened the door, one hand still clutching the towel at his waist—only to walk straight into a solid chest as someone stood on the other side.

"Shit—" Aven jerked backward, nearly losing his grip on the towel as his shoulder collided with the doorframe. Water from his still-damp hair flicked across his face, and he had to blink it away before he could focus on the person standing in front of him.

Clark.

Of course it was Clark.

The man stood frozen in the hallway, one hand raised as if he'd been about to knock. His eyes went wide behind his glasses, and Aven watched a flush creep up his neck in real time—starting at his collar and spreading upward until even his ears were pink.

"I was just—" Clark started, then stopped, his gaze flickering downward before snapping back up to Aven's face with almost comical speed. "Clothes. I brought you some Clothes."

He held up a small stack of folded laundry like they might shield him from whatever the hell was happening in the narrow hallway. Aven became acutely aware of the fact that he was standing there in nothing but a towel, still dripping wet, close enough to Clark that he could smell his aftershave—something clean and understated that made Aven's chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the inhibitor pump.

"Right," Aven managed, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. "Thanks."

Neither of them moved.

Clark's breathing had gone shallow, and Aven could see the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. The hallway felt impossibly small suddenly, the air thick with something Aven didn't want to name. His skin prickled under Clark's gaze—not uncomfortable, exactly, but charged in a way that made him hyperaware of every drop of water still clinging to his shoulders.

"I should—" Clark gestured vaguely toward the living room, but his feet remained planted.

"Yeah," Aven agreed, though he didn't step back either.

The silence stretched between them, loaded with tension that Aven could practically taste. He watched Clark's gaze flicker downward again—just for a second—before the man caught himself and looked away entirely, focusing on a spot somewhere over Aven's shoulder.

Jesus. What was wrong with him? Standing here half-naked in front of Clark Kent like some kind of exhibitionist. The man had been nothing but kind to him, had opened his home without question, and here Aven was making things weird by existing in a towel.

"The shirts," Clark said suddenly, thrusting the stack toward him. "These should fit better than what you've been wearing, There my old ones."

Aven reached for them, and their fingers brushed as he took the clothes. The contact sent a jolt through his system—electric and unwelcome and completely inappropriate given that Clark was Bruce's friend, and Aven was supposed to be figuring out how to fix things with the man he'd left behind.

But Clark didn't pull his hand away immediately. Instead his eyes seemed to catch on Aven’s face as something in his expression shifted even more. “You shaved.”

Aven swallowed hard, suddenly self-conscious about the change. "Yeah, I—thought it was time for something different."

"It looks good," Clark said, his voice dropping to something softer. "Different, but good."

The compliment hung in the air between them, warm and unexpected. Aven clutched the clothes tighter against his chest, using them as a barrier between himself and whatever was happening in Clark's eyes.

"I should get dressed," he managed, taking a half-step backward into the bathroom.

"Right. Of course." Clark finally moved, stepping aside to clear the doorway. "The boys are heading to school soon. I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready."

Aven nodded, unable to form words as Clark turned and walked down the hallway. He closed the bathroom door with shaking hands, then leaned his forehead against the cool wood, eyes squeezed shut.

What the hell was that?

His heart hammered against his ribs, a rhythm too fast and too hard to be healthy. The queen shifted in response, a subtle movement that sent a wave of nausea through him. Aven pressed his palm against his chest, willing the creature to settle.

"Not now," he muttered. "Please, not now."

He focused on his breathing—in for four, hold for seven, out for eight—the way Amanda had taught him. Slowly, the pressure in his chest eased, the nausea receding to manageable levels. The inhibitor pump was doing its job, keeping the queen dormant, but these moments of awareness still hit him sometimes. Little reminders of what he carried.

Aven turned his attention to the clothes Clark had brought him. A pair of jeans that looked almost new, a soft flannel button-up in muted blue, and a gray henley that seemed closer to his size than the t-shirts he'd been borrowing. Everything smelled like Clark's laundry detergent—clean and familiar in a way that made his chest ache with something he didn't want to examine.

He dressed quickly, surprised by how well the jeans fit. The henley hung a little loose across the shoulders—Clark was broader there—but it was soft and comfortable. He left the flannel unbuttoned over top, rolling the sleeves to his elbows and exposing the Marine Corps tattoos along his left arm, where Moose’s red collar rested snug around his wrist.

Standing in front of the mirror, Aven barely recognized himself. With the new facial hair, the styled hair, and clothes that weren't threadbare from months on the run, he looked... normal. Like someone who belonged in a life like this. Someone who could walk down a street without checking for drones or corporate hitmen.

Someone who could stay.

The thought sent a jolt of panic through him. Stay? He couldn't stay. Not here, not with Clark and his boys, not in this warm house with its comfortable routines and easy acceptance. Every day he remained put them at risk. Put Bruce at risk. Put everyone who ever cared about him in the crosshairs.

And yet, a small part of him wished he could—the part that, despite his brothers' company these past few months, still felt lonely and craved even a fleeting sense of normalcy.

Shaking his head Aven exited the bathroom and made his way towards the kitchen where he could hear the boy getting ready to leave.

Aven found the kitchen transformed into controlled chaos—Jon stuffing papers into his backpack while Conner searched for a missing shoe, both of them moving with the frantic energy of kids running late for school. Clark stood by the counter, looking remarkably composed for someone whose morning routine had apparently exploded around him.

"There you are," Clark said, glancing up as Aven entered. His eyes lingered for just a moment, taking in the new look, before he cleared his throat and turned back to packing lunch boxes. "The boys are almost ready to head out."

"Looking sharp, Aven," Conner called from somewhere near the couch, voice muffled as he presumably searched for the missing shoe. "Those clothes fit you way better than that baggy stuff you've been wearing."

Heat crept up Aven's neck. Of course the kid would notice. And comment. Loudly.

"Found it!" Conner emerged triumphant, holding up a battered sneaker. "Under the coffee table. Why is it always under the coffee table?"

"Because that's where you kicked it off yesterday instead of putting it in your room," Clark replied without looking up from the sandwiches he was assembling with mechanical precision.

Jon appeared at Aven's elbow, backpack slung over one shoulder and hair still sticking up despite what looked like a half-hearted attempt to tame it. "You really do look different," he said, studying Aven's face with that unsettling directness kids seemed to specialize in. "Older. More... I don't know. Serious?"

"Thanks?" Aven wasn't sure if that was a compliment or an observation. Probably both.

"It's a good different," Jon added quickly, as if sensing Aven's uncertainty. "Like you're not trying to hide anymore."

The words hit harder than they should have. Aven felt something twist in his chest—not the queen, just his own complicated mess of emotions responding to a twelve-year-old's casual insight. Not trying to hide. Was that what he'd been doing? Even here, in Clark's house, wearing Clark's clothes, had he still been hiding?

"Jon," Clark said gently, handing him a brown bag. "Your lunch. And remember—"

"Soccer practice after school, home by six, homework before dinner," Jon rattled off, accepting the bag with practiced ease. "I know, Dad."

"And you," Clark turned to Conner, who was now fully shod and digging through his backpack with increasing desperation. "What are you looking for?"

"My history report. I know I printed it. I know I did." Conner's voice took on the edge of panic that came with realizing you'd forgotten something important five minutes before you needed to leave.

"Kitchen table," Aven said quietly. "Under the newspaper."

Conner's head snapped up, hope brightening his features. Sure enough, when he lifted the newspaper folded in half, there it was—three pages of neatly typed text about the Industrial Revolution.

"You're a lifesaver," Conner breathed, snatching the papers and shoving them into his bag. "Seriously. I would've been dead meat if I showed up without this."

Aven shrugged, uncomfortable with the gratitude. "Just happened to notice it when I was making breakfast."

The boys finished their frantic preparations, shouldering backpacks and grabbing lunch bags with the efficient chaos that seemed to define their morning routine. Aven found himself oddly charmed by it—the way Clark orchestrated everything with quiet competence, the easy banter between the brothers, the casual assumption that everyone would end up where they needed to be.

It felt like family. Real family, not the careful construction he'd built with the Wayne’s or the brotherhood forged in combat zones. This was something else—messier, warmer, more genuine in its imperfections.

"Alright, you two," Clark said, herding them toward the door. "Have a good day. Be safe. Call if you need anything."

"We will," Jon promised, then turned back to Aven. "It was cool having breakfast with you. Maybe we can do it again tomorrow?"

The hopeful question made something ache behind Aven's ribs. Tomorrow. Such a simple concept for most people—just another day in an endless string of days. But for Aven, tomorrow had become a luxury he couldn't afford to assume. Every morning he woke up was borrowed time.

"Maybe," he said, because he couldn't bring himself to crush the kid's optimism with the truth.

Jon grinned like that was a yes, and Conner gave him a casual wave before they both disappeared out the front door in a whirlwind of backpacks and teenage energy. The house settled into sudden quiet, broken only by the distant hum of the dishwasher and the soft tick of the clock on the wall.

Aven stood in the kitchen, hyperaware of Clark's presence behind him, of the way the silence stretched between them without the boys' chatter to fill it. The morning light streaming through the windows felt different now—warmer, more intimate. More dangerous.

"Ready to face the world?" Clark asked, his voice carrying that gentle humor that somehow made everything feel manageable.

Aven turned, finding Clark watching him with those impossibly blue eyes. The man had changed while the boys got ready—traded his sleep-rumpled t-shirt for a button-down that somehow made his shoulders look even broader. Professional. Put-together in that effortless way that probably made him blend perfectly into a newsroom full of reporters and editors.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Aven replied, shoving his hands into the pockets of the borrowed jeans. The movement pulled the flannel tighter across his shoulders, and he thought he caught Clark's gaze following the motion before the man looked away.

“I hope you don’t mind if we take the metro. Traffic this time of day makes using my car a less effective form of travel.” Clark said as he reached over to grab his worn leather satchel from the corner of the counter.

Aven nodded, grateful for the excuse to focus on practical matters instead of whatever had just happened in the hallway. "Yeah, that's fine. I'm used to public transport."

The lie came easily. He'd spent months avoiding anything that required ID or left electronic trails. Buses, trains, hitchhiking—whatever kept him invisible and moving. But sitting in a subway car with Clark Kent felt different from running. Less desperate. More like something a normal person might do on a Tuesday morning.

They gathered their things in comfortable silence—Clark's satchel, Aven's phone and wallet, a light jacket that Clark insisted he take despite the mild weather. The domestic routine of leaving the apartment together felt surreal, like playing at being someone else's life.

The walk to the metro station was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Clark seemed content to let Aven set the pace, hands tucked into his pockets as they navigated the morning foot traffic. Aven found himself cataloging details without meaning to—the way Clark automatically positioned himself between Aven and the street, how he nodded politely to neighbors but didn't stop for conversation, the careful way he avoided crowded sidewalks.

Small considerations that might have been nothing. Or might have been everything.

The platform was busier than Aven had expected for early morning, filled with the usual mix of commuters, tourists, and people whose schedules didn't follow standard business hours. He tensed instinctively, scanning faces and exits with the paranoid efficiency that had kept him alive for months. But nothing felt wrong. No one looked twice at him. No corporate suits with calculating eyes, no camera drones circling overhead.

Just people. Living their lives. Going to work.

"You okay?" Clark asked quietly, close enough that his voice didn't carry over the rumble of an approaching train.

Aven realized he'd been holding his breath, shoulders rigid with tension that probably looked obvious to anyone paying attention. He forced himself to exhale, to relax the defensive posture that had become second nature.

"Yeah," he said. "Just been a while since I've been around this many people."

Clark's expression softened with understanding. "We can take a cab if you'd rather—"

"No." The word came out sharper than Aven intended. He modulated his tone, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "No, this is good. I need to get used to being around people again."

The train pulled into the station with a screech of brakes and a rush of recycled air. Aven followed Clark through the doors. the tube was packed as expected and Aven found himself standing close to Clark as they both held onto the support rail.

The train lurched as it accelerated, pressing Aven slightly against Clark's side. He steadied himself against the support rail, hyperaware of the warmth radiating from Clark's body just inches away. The subway car smelled of coffee, perfume, and that unmistakable metallic tang that seemed universal to public transportation everywhere.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Once, twice, then a third time in rapid succession. Only one person texted like that—like he was having a conversation with himself instead of waiting for a response.

Aven fished the phone out with his free hand, angling it away from curious eyes out of habit. Three messages from Coyote.

Safe house clear. None of Wasabi's traps triggered. Staying clear anyway for now. Better safe than sorry, hermano.

Amanda says her mole went dark. Metropolis lab probably going dark too. Couple weeks at least until things calm down.

Going to stake out LexCorp. Mercy Graves might lead us to next clue on lab location. Stay safe. Will keep you posted.

He typed back quickly, thumbs flying over the screen: Be careful. Mercy's not stupid. If she catches you watching her, she'll feed you to sharks.

Clark shifted beside him, politely pretending not to read the messages though Aven could tell from the slight tension in his posture that he was curious. Aven angled the phone further away, not because he didn't trust Clark, but because old habits died hard.

The train lurched around a curve, and Aven braced himself against the door to keep his balance. Just as he hit send, a hand slid into his back pocket—fingers curling and squeezing his ass with deliberate, firm pressure.

He yelped, startled, jerking forward into Clark as the hand followed still wedged in his back jeans pocket.

"What the—" Aven spun around, instinctively grabbing the wrist of whoever had just groped him.

His fingers closed around a thin arm, and he found himself staring into the startled face of a middle-aged woman with frizzy red hair and wide, mortified eyes.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" she gasped, yanking her hand back as if burned. "I thought you were my husband! He's wearing the same flannel today and I—" Her face flushed crimson as she gestured desperately to a balding man standing a few feet away, who indeed wore a similar blue plaid shirt.

Aven released her immediately, his own face heating with embarrassment. "It's—uh—it's fine. No harm done."

The woman looked like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Her husband appeared equally mortified, offering an apologetic grimace as he pulled her closer to his side.

"I am so, so sorry," she repeated, her voice small.

"Really, it's okay," Aven said, trying to sound reassuring despite his own discomfort. "Honest mistake."

Clark cleared his throat beside him, and Aven didn't miss the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth—the beginnings of a smile he was clearly fighting to suppress.

"Our stop is next," Clark murmured, his voice low enough that only Aven could hear.

The train slowed, and Aven felt a wave of relief as the doors opened. He followed Clark onto the platform, grateful to escape the stifling awkwardness of the subway car. Once they were clear of the crowd, Clark's composure finally broke, and he let out a soft chuckle.

"Well, that was... unexpected," he said, adjusting his glasses.

"Jesus Christ," Aven muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Of all the asses on this train, she had to grab mine."

"To be fair," Clark said, his eyes crinkling at the corners, "it is a... distinctive asset."

Aven's head snapped up, not sure he'd heard correctly. Did Clark Kent just make a joke about his ass? The reporter's expression was innocent enough, but there was something in his eyes—a glint of mischief that made Aven's stomach do a weird little flip.

Aven’s eyes narrowed playfully even as a blush tinted his cheeks. “Mr. Kent, if you’re going to start critiquing the merchandise, at least buy a ticket first.”

The words hung between them like a challenge, and Clark's face went through several interesting color changes—pink to red to something approaching burgundy. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again like he was trying to form words that wouldn't come.

"I—that's not—I didn't mean—" Clark stammered, his professional composure completely shattered.

Aven felt a wicked satisfaction at having turned the tables. It was petty, maybe, but after months of feeling powerless, there was something deeply gratifying about making the unflappable Clark Kent squirm.

"Shut up," Clark muttered, but there was no heat behind it. His face was still red, and he adjusted his glasses in what Aven was starting to recognize as a nervous habit.

They climbed the stairs from the subway station, emerging into the bustling heart of downtown Metropolis. The Daily Planet building loomed ahead of them, its iconic globe catching the morning sunlight. Aven craned his neck to look up at it, feeling oddly small beneath its towering presence.

"Impressive," he said, mostly to fill the silence that had settled between them after his ass-related commentary.

"It's home," Clark replied, his voice carrying a warmth that made Aven glance at him sideways. The man's face had returned to its normal color, though he still seemed to be avoiding direct eye contact.

The lobby was all marble and brass, with the kind of understated elegance that screamed old money and serious journalism. Aven felt underdressed despite Clark's borrowed clothes, like he was wearing a costume that didn't quite fit. Security guards flanked the entrance, their eyes scanning everyone who entered with professional disinterest.

Clark flashed his press badge at the turnstiles, then paused. "I should probably get you a visitor's pass."

"Is that necessary?" Aven asked, following him toward the security desk. "I mean, I'm not staying long, right?"

"Better safe than sorry," Clark replied, but something in his tone suggested he wasn't just talking about building security.

The guard behind the desk looked up as they approached—a middle-aged Black woman with graying hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing. Her gaze lingered on Aven for a moment longer than strictly professional.

"Morning, Clark," she said, her voice carrying the easy familiarity of someone who'd been working the same job for years. "Bringing a friend up to the newsroom?"

"Something like that," Clark replied, pulling out his wallet. "Aven Davis, meet Diane Foster. Diane's been keeping this building secure since before I started working here."

Diane extended a weathered hand, and Aven shook it, noting the firm grip and callused palms. Former military, probably. Or law enforcement. The kind of person who noticed things.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Davis," she said, her eyes studying his face with that particular intensity security guards developed over years of reading people. "Haven't seen you around here before."

"First time," Aven replied, keeping his voice casual despite the way her scrutiny made his skin prickle. "Clark's giving me the grand tour."

Diane nodded, processing this information with the efficiency of someone used to cataloging details. She handed him a visitor's badge—a simple plastic rectangle with his name printed in block letters.

"Keep this visible at all times," she said. "And don't wander off without Mr. Kent. Building's bigger than it looks, easy to get lost."

Aven had just clipped the badge to his shirt when a familiar female voice called over to them.

“Smallville! Aven!”

Turning, Aven spotted Lois Lane making her way down the narrow hallway toward the elevator that led up to the main office.

He hadn’t seen her since she dragged him to that café—only to watch him faceplant into her ex-husband’s lap three days ago. His face flushed at the memory, but he couldn’t help the warm smile that tugged at his lips.

"Lois!" Aven called back, oddly relieved to see a familiar face. His last memory of her involved passing out in Clark's arms after she'd found him tracking Carter—not his finest moment.

She strode toward them, dressed in a tailored pantsuit that somehow made her look both professional and ready to kick someone's ass if necessary. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she carried a leather satchel not unlike Clark's.

"Look at you, vertical and everything," she said, stopping in front of him with an appraising look. "You clean up nice, Davis."

"Amazing what a shower and not having a 103-degree fever can do," Aven replied, the sarcasm automatic but without any real bite. He gestured at his borrowed clothes. "Though I can't take credit for the wardrobe upgrade."

Lois’s eyes flicked between him and Clark, her mouth curving into a knowing smile “Clark does have good taste,” she said lightly.

Aven blinked, unsure how to respond. The comment hung there just long enough to make the air between them awkward. He cleared his throat and found a sudden fascination with the floor tiles.

"I was just getting Aven a visitor's pass," Clark said, his voice carrying that slightly flustered tone Aven was starting to find weirdly endearing. "Figured I’d show him around the newsroom before we run a few errands."

"Perfect timing—Perry’s looking for you," Lois said, falling into step beside them as they moved toward the elevators. "Something about your Wayne Metro Tower piece needing revisions before it goes to print."

Clark nodded, adjusting his glasses. "I was heading up to take care of that now. Just wanted to get Aven squared away first."

"Well, now that he’s all official," Lois said, looping her arm through Aven’s, "how about I give him the grand tour while you go wrestle with Perry? Trust me, you do not want to be in the blast radius. He’s been raging about comma placement all morning."

Aven glanced at Clark, unsure if this change in plans was okay. He'd expected to stick close to Clark today, using him as a buffer between himself and the world. The thought of navigating the Planet without him sent a small spike of anxiety through his system.

Clark seemed to read his hesitation. "Only if you're comfortable with it. I shouldn't be more than twenty minutes with Perry."

"I promise not to kidnap him again," Lois added with a wink that made Aven's cheeks warm at the memory of their café encounter. "Just a quick tour of the bullpen, maybe reintroduce him to Jimmy. Nothing strenuous."

The choice hung in the air between them. Aven could feel Clark watching him, waiting for his decision without pressure. It was a small thing—barely a decision at all in the grand scheme of things—but somehow it felt significant. A test of whether he could function without Clark's steady presence beside him, even for twenty minutes.

"Sure," Aven said finally, offering what he hoped was a confident smile. "I'd like that. As long as you promise not to let me pass out on any concrete floors."

Lois's laugh was bright and genuine. "Deal. I'll return him in one piece, Clark, I promise."

Clark's expression was hard to read—something between relief and reluctance. "I'll meet you both in the bullpen as soon as I'm done with Perry."

As Clark headed toward the elevator, Lois steered Aven in the opposite direction, toward a different bank of elevators.

"This way," Lois said, guiding him toward the other elevators. "These go directly to the newsroom floor. Perks of knowing the back routes."

Aven followed her lead, hyperaware of the visitor badge clipped to his borrowed flannel. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and they stepped inside. As the doors closed, sealing them in the small space, Aven felt his shoulders tense automatically. He'd never been fond of elevators—too enclosed, too few escape routes. The feeling had only intensified since Mill Creek.

"So," Lois said, breaking the silence as the elevator began its ascent. "How are you really doing? And don't give me the 'I'm fine' crap you've probably been feeding Clark."

The directness of her question caught him off-guard. Most people tiptoed around him these days, afraid he might shatter if pushed too hard. But Lois Lane had never been most people.

"Better than three days ago," he said, offering a half-truth instead of the full lie. "Not passing out is a definite improvement."

Lois gave him a look that said she wasn't buying it. "Clark mentioned you're staying with them for now. That must be... interesting."

The way she emphasized "interesting" made heat crawl up Aven's neck. He shifted his weight, suddenly fascinated by the elevator's control panel.

"It's temporary," he said, the words coming out more defensive than he'd intended. "Just until I figure out my next steps."

"And those would be...?" Lois prompted, her reporter's instinct for follow-up questions kicking in.

Aven sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Honestly? I don't know. I thought I did, but now..."

Now Bruce hadn't answered his call. Now he was wearing Clark Kent's clothes and cooking breakfast for his kids. Now everything felt more complicated than it had when he'd been running.

The elevator doors opened before he had to finish the thought, revealing a bustling newsroom that hit all his senses at once. The clatter of keyboards, the smell of coffee and printer toner, the fluorescent lights bouncing off monitor screens—it was chaotic and alive in a way that made his pulse quicken.

"Welcome to the Daily Planet bullpen," Lois said, gesturing broadly as they stepped out. "Where journalism happens and caffeine addiction is practically a job requirement."

Aven followed her into the fray, instinctively scanning the room for exits, threats, patterns. Old habits. The space was large and open, divided into clusters of desks where reporters hunched over computers or huddled in small groups. At the far end, glass-walled offices lined the perimeter—editors and senior staff, probably.

"Clark's desk is over there," Lois pointed to a surprisingly tidy workspace near a large window. "Mine's next to it. We used to be on opposite sides of the room, but Perry got tired of having to shout across the bullpen when he needed both of us."

Aven followed her gaze, noting the organized chaos of Clark's desk. A framed photo of the boys sat beside his monitor, and a small potted plant thrived near the window. The space felt lived-in but tidy—much like Clark's apartment.

"Smallville keeps things neat," Lois continued, leading him through the maze of desks. "Unlike some of us who operate on what I like to call 'creative filing systems.'"

She gestured to her own workspace, which looked like a small paper hurricane had swept through it. Files stacked precariously, post-it notes stuck to every available surface, at least three coffee mugs in various states of emptiness. Yet somehow, Aven suspected she knew exactly where everything was.

"Jimmy!" Lois called, waving to the young photographer Aven vaguely remembered from the café. "Look who I found!"

Jimmy Olsen looked up from his camera, his face brightening with recognition. "Aven! Hey, man! You're looking a lot better than the last time I saw you."

"Amazing what not having a raging infection can do for a guy's complexion," Aven replied dryly, accepting Jimmy's enthusiastic handshake.

"Seriously though, glad you're okay," Jimmy said, genuine concern in his eyes. "You had us pretty worried there for a minute."

The sincerity in Jimmy's voice caught Aven off-guard. This kid barely knew him, had only met him once while he was sweating through a fever and about to collapse, yet here he was, genuinely relieved to see Aven standing upright. The casual kindness of it all made something twist in Aven's chest.

"Thanks," he managed, uncomfortable with the attention but trying not to show it. "I appreciate the concern."

"Jimmy's been working on the Metro Tower project with Clark," Lois explained, leaning against a nearby desk. "Photographing the construction progress, that sort of thing."

Aven's ears perked up at the mention of the tower. Bruce's tower. The one being built in Metropolis as an extension of Wayne Enterprises. He’d forgotten Clark was covering it.

"Yeah, it's a cool assignment," Jimmy said, enthusiasm lighting up his features. "Mr. Wayne's really pushing the boundaries with this one. The architecture is incredible—all these curved glass panels and sustainable tech. I've got some shots from last week if you want to see?"

Before Aven could respond, Jimmy was already pulling up photos on his computer. Aven leaned in, curiosity getting the better of him. The screen filled with images of a half-constructed skyscraper—sleek lines of steel and glass rising against the Metropolis skyline. Even unfinished, it had Bruce's fingerprints all over it—elegant, functional, quietly impressive without being showy.

Aven stared at the images, something cold settling in his stomach. There was Bruce—his Bruce—pouring resources into Metropolis while Aven hid in Clark Kent's spare room wearing borrowed clothes. The tower looked exactly like something Bruce would build: purposeful, beautiful, a monument to hope disguised as corporate necessity.

"When was this taken?" Aven asked, trying to keep his voice casual despite the way his throat had gone tight.

"Last week," Jimmy replied, clicking through to the next shot. "Mr. Wayne was actually on-site that day for the beam-raising ceremony. Got some great shots of him with the construction crew."

The next image made Aven's breath catch. Bruce, hard hat perched on his dark hair, shaking hands with a worker in a reflective vest. Even in work clothes, he looked every inch the billionaire philanthropist—confident, engaged, genuinely interested in the people building his vision. But Aven could see what others might miss: the tension around Bruce's eyes, the careful set of his shoulders. The man was carrying weight that had nothing to do with construction deadlines.

"He seems like a decent guy," Jimmy continued, oblivious to Aven's internal turmoil. "Not what you'd expect from a billionaire, you know? Actually talked to the crew, remembered names, asked about their families."

Of course he did. That was Bruce—the man who'd built a family out of broken kids, who'd held Aven through nightmares without asking for explanations. The man Aven had walked away from to keep him safe.

"Yeah," Aven managed, his voice rougher than he intended. "He's one of the good ones."

Lois gave him a sympathetic look and a slight squeeze to his arm in comfort as Jimmy clicked through a few more photos, and Lois launched into an explanation of the Planet's photography department, but Aven found himself only half-listening. His mind kept circling back to those images of Bruce at the construction site, the way he'd looked tired despite the professional smile.

How long had it been since Aven had seen that face in person? Five months felt like a lifetime, but looking at these photos, it could have been yesterday. Bruce looked older somehow, though maybe that was just Aven's guilt talking.

"—and that's where Perry keeps his coffee stash," Lois was saying, pointing toward a corner office with glass walls. "He pretends it's for emergencies, but we all know he's just hoarding the good stuff."

"Right," Aven murmured, dragging his attention back to the present. He needed to stop staring at pictures of Bruce like some kind of stalker. The man was building a tower in Metropolis—probably had dozens of legitimate business reasons for being here. It didn't mean anything.

Except it did. Everything Bruce did meant something.

"You okay?" Lois asked, studying his face with that reporter's intensity that made him want to look anywhere else.

"Yeah, just..." He gestured vaguely at the newsroom around them. "It's a lot to take in. I've never been inside a place like this before."

It wasn't entirely a lie. The energy of the newsroom was different from anywhere he'd been—urgent but not frantic, purposeful in a way that reminded him of mission briefings. People who knew their jobs and believed in them.

"It grows on you," Jimmy said with a grin. "Though the coffee's terrible and Perry's got the temper of a caffeinated badger most days."

"Speaking of which," Lois glanced at her watch, "Clark should be done with his editorial meeting soon. Want to grab some of that terrible coffee while we wait?"

Aven nodded, grateful for something to do with his hands. The break room was smaller than he'd expected, cramped but functional, with a coffee maker that looked like it had survived several wars. Lois poured three cups with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this thousands of times.

"So," she said, handing him a mug, "what's the plan after this? Clark mentioned running errands."

The coffee was as bad as advertised—bitter and slightly burnt—but it was warm and caffeinated, which was good enough. "Not sure, really. He said something about grocery shopping, maybe lunch." Aven shrugged. "I'm just along for the ride."

"Hmm." Lois sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim of her mug. "And after that?"

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with implications Aven wasn't ready to examine. After that. After today. After whatever this temporary sanctuary at Clark's apartment was supposed to accomplish.

"I don’t really know.” He said honestly.

Lois's blunt question hung in the coffee-scented air like smoke, and Aven found himself staring into his mug as if the bitter liquid might hold answers he didn't have. The truth was a knot in his chest he couldn't untangle—too many variables, too many people who could get hurt depending on what he chose next.

"I mean it," Lois continued, her voice gentler now but still carrying that reporter's persistence. "You can't keep drifting indefinitely. Eventually you'll have to decide what you want."

What he wanted. Christ, what a luxury that would be—actually getting to want something instead of just trying to survive from one day to the next. Aven took another sip of the terrible coffee, using the pause to organize thoughts that felt like scattered puzzle pieces.

"I want a lot of things," he said finally. "Most of them impossible."

Jimmy shifted beside them, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden weight of the conversation. The kid probably hadn't signed up for existential discussions over bad coffee, but he was too polite to escape.

"Impossible how?" Lois pressed. "Because you think you don't deserve them, or because someone else is standing in your way?"

The question hit too close to home, and Aven felt his shoulders tense automatically. He'd gotten too comfortable here, too relaxed in Clark's borrowed clothes and the Planet's bustling normalcy. Started forgetting that every conversation was a potential minefield when you carried the kind of secrets he did.

"It's complicated," he said, the deflection automatic as breathing.

"Everything's complicated until you break it down into simple choices," Lois replied, and something in her tone reminded him sharply of Bruce. That same relentless logic, the refusal to let him hide behind vague excuses. "What's the simplest version of what you want?"

Aven closed his eyes, just for a second, and let himself imagine it. Waking up in Bruce's arms without checking for corporate drones outside the window. Cooking breakfast for the kids without calculating how many minutes until he'd have to run. Walking down a street without cataloguing exit strategies and potential weapons.

Living like a person instead of a target.

"I want to go home," he said quietly, the words scraping against his throat like broken glass. "But I can't. Not while I'm..."

He caught himself before finishing the sentence, glancing at Jimmy. The kid was listening with the kind of focused attention that suggested he'd caught the subtext even if he didn't understand it.

"Not while you're what?" Lois asked, though something in her expression suggested she already knew.

Aven shook his head, draining the rest of his coffee in one bitter gulp. "Not while I'm still a walking disaster zone for everyone I care about."

The words hung heavy in the small break room. Jimmy looked like he wanted to ask questions but wasn't sure he should. Lois studied Aven's face with that same unnerving look he’d seen that morning on Jon.

"Sorry," Aven said, setting his empty mug down. "I didn't mean to get all existential over bad coffee."

Jimmy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "No, man, it's cool. We all have stuff, you know?"

The kid's earnest attempt at empathy made Aven's chest tighten. If Jimmy only knew what kind of "stuff" he was carrying—literally inside his body—he'd probably be halfway to the exit by now.

Before Lois could press further, a familiar voice called from the doorway.

"There you are."

Aven turned to find Clark standing in the entrance to the break room, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. Something in Aven's chest loosened at the sight of him, like a knot he hadn't realized was there.

"Perry held you hostage longer than expected," Lois said, glancing at her watch. "We were about to send in a rescue team."

"He just needs some last-minute edits on the Metro Tower piece," Clark replied, but his eyes were on Aven, scanning him with that careful attention that somehow never felt intrusive. "You doing okay?"

The genuine concern in his voice made Aven's throat tighten. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak past the sudden lump there. It was ridiculous how comforting Clark's presence had become in just a few days—how quickly he'd come to rely on the man's steady calm.

"Lois has been giving me the grand tour," he managed, gesturing with his empty mug. "And introducing me to your world-famous terrible coffee."

"It's an acquired taste," Clark said with a small smile. "Like most things worth having."

There was something in the way he said it—something weighted that made heat crawl up Aven's neck. He looked away, suddenly fascinated by the coffee maker.

"I should get back to those prints," Jimmy said, an edge of awkwardness in his voice. "Chief wants the Metro Tower shots by noon."

"And I've got a source waiting at city hall," Lois added, setting her mug in the sink. She turned to Aven, her expression softening slightly. "Don't be a stranger, Davis. And think about what I said."

Aven nodded, grateful for her discretion even as her question echoed in his mind. What do you want? Such a simple question with such an impossible answer.

As Jimmy and Lois headed back to the newsroom, Clark stepped fully into the break room, closing some of the distance between them. "Everything okay? You seem... tense."

Aven shrugged, trying for casual and probably missing by a mile. "Just not used to being around so many people. Makes me jumpy."

It wasn't a lie, exactly. But it wasn't the whole truth either.

Clark studied him for a moment longer, then nodded as if coming to a decision. "Come on. You can sit with me while I finish those edits. It'll be quieter than standing around here."

"You sure?" Aven asked, not wanting to intrude. "I can always wait in the break room."

"I'm sure," Clark said, his voice warm with certainty. "Besides, Perry will have my head if I don't get these changes in before lunch."

Aven followed Clark back through the maze of desks, hyperaware of the curious glances from reporters who clearly wondered who the visitor trailing Clark Kent might be. The borrowed clothes suddenly felt like a costume—Clark's flannel hanging off his shoulders, marking him as something other than himself.

Clark pulled a spare chair from an empty desk and positioned it beside his own. "Here," he said, gesturing for Aven to sit. "Make yourself comfortable."

Aven lowered himself into the chair, feeling oddly formal despite the casual setting. Clark's desk was exactly what he'd expect—neat stacks of paper, a few framed photos of the boys, a small potted plant soaking up sunlight from the nearby window. It felt lived-in but organized, much like the man himself.

"So these are the infamous edits?" Aven asked, nodding toward Clark's computer screen where a document sat open, red marks scattered throughout the text.

"Perry's special brand of torture," Clark confirmed with a small smile. "He's old-school—believes every story can always be tighter, cleaner, better."

"Sounds like my old drill instructor," Aven said, feeling himself relax slightly as Clark began typing. "Man could find fault with God's own sunrise if he had the chance."

Clark chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "Perry would probably send God back for revisions too."

The easy banter loosened something in Aven's chest. He leaned back in the chair, watching Clark's fingers move over the keyboard with surprising speed for such large hands. The man typed like he did everything else—efficiently, thoroughly, with quiet confidence.

"So what's this article about?" Aven asked, trying to read the screen without being too obvious about it.

"The Metro Tower project," Clark replied, highlighting a paragraph and deleting a sentence. "Basic coverage of the construction progress, quotes from the project manager, that sort of thing."

Aven's stomach tightened at the mention of Bruce's tower. "Any... quotes from Wayne himself?"

Clark glanced at him, something knowing in his expression. "A few. Standard stuff about community investment and sustainable development."

"Can I see?" The question slipped out before Aven could stop it.

Clark hesitated for just a moment, then turned the screen slightly so Aven could read more easily. "Sure. It's going to print tomorrow."

Aven's eyes scanned the text, searching for Bruce's name among the paragraphs about steel beams and architectural.

Aven's eyes caught a quote halfway down the screen, attributed directly to Bruce Wayne:

"The Metro Tower isn't just about expanding Wayne Enterprises' footprint. It's about reimagining what corporate responsibility means in the 21st century. Every panel in this building generates clean energy. Every floor uses recycled materials. We're creating jobs while reducing our carbon footprint, because I believe Metropolis deserves a future as bright as its present."

Something warm unfurled in Aven's chest as he read the words. That was Bruce—always thinking three steps ahead, always finding ways to build something better than what came before. Not just a tower, but a statement. Not just business, but purpose.

"He really believes this stuff, doesn't he?" Aven murmured, unable to keep the pride from his voice.

"Every word," Clark confirmed quietly. "Bruce has always—"

The elevator across the bullpen pinged, its doors sliding open with a soft metallic whisper.

Aven glanced up automatically, a habit born from months of tracking exits and entrances. His body went rigid, blood turning to ice in his veins.

Lucius Fox.

The man stepped onto the newsroom floor with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged anywhere he chose to be. Tall, distinguished, in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than most reporters made in a month. His silver-peppered beard was neatly trimmed, his eyes sharp behind frameless glasses as he scanned the room.

Bruce's CEO. His right hand. The man who knew every Wayne secret worth keeping.

Aven had never met him in person, but he'd seen enough interview photos to recognize him instantly. And if Lucius recognized him in return—

He didn't think. Didn't hesitate. Pure survival instinct took over.

In one fluid motion, Aven slid from his chair and ducked beneath Clark's desk, wedging himself between the man's spread legs and the wooden panel that mercifully extended to the floor. His heart hammered against his ribs, the queen shifting restlessly in response to the sudden adrenaline spike.

"What the hell?" Clark hissed, startled by Aven's sudden dive beneath his desk.

Aven pressed his finger to his lips, heart hammering against his ribs. The queen shifted restlessly inside him, a subtle movement that sent nausea rippling through his gut. He fought it down, focusing on staying absolutely still as Clark's knees pressed against his shoulders.

"Lucius Fox," he whispered, barely audible. "Wayne Enterprises CEO."

Understanding dawned on Clark's face. He nodded once, then smoothly rolled his chair closer to the desk, effectively shielding Aven from view. The space was cramped—Aven's shoulders wedged between Clark's thighs, his back pressed against the wooden panel. The scent of Clark surrounded him—clean laundry detergent, faint aftershave, and something else that was just... him.

"Mr. Kent?" A deep, cultured voice called from somewhere above. "I was hoping I might have a word."

Aven's breath caught. Even muffled by the desk, Lucius Fox's voice was unmistakable—that same measured cadence he'd heard in countless Wayne Enterprises promotional videos Bruce had shown him.

"Mr. Fox," Clark replied, his tone perfectly professional despite the man currently hiding between his legs. "This is unexpected. What brings you to the Planet?"

"I was hoping to discuss some aspects of your Metro Tower coverage." Footsteps approached, and Aven pressed himself further into the shadows. "Mr. Wayne felt your last piece captured the project's vision quite effectively."

"That's... very kind of him to say," Clark answered, and Aven felt his legs shift slightly. "Though I'm surprised he sent you personally to deliver the message."

A soft chuckle from Fox. "Bruce Wayne rarely does anything in the expected manner, Mr. Kent. As I'm sure you're aware."

The casual mention of Bruce's name sent a pang through Aven's chest. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing—shallow and silent, the way he'd learned during reconnaissance training. In for four, hold, out for four. Don't make a sound.

"Actually," Fox continued, "I was hoping to discuss the possibility of an exclusive. The tower's environmental innovations have attracted considerable interest, and Mr. Wayne thought the Planet might be the appropriate venue for a more... in-depth exploration."

"I'd certainly be interested," Clark replied, his voice steady despite the absurdity of conducting a professional conversation while Aven was tucked beneath his desk. "Though Perry White would need to sign off on any exclusive arrangement."

"Of course." Fox’s voice shifted slightly, followed by the quiet creak of a chair as he settled into the seat across from Clark’s desk.

Aven pressed his face against Clark’s thigh, forcing slow, measured breaths as the queen stirred restlessly beneath his ribs, roused by the adrenaline spike.

Clark had sworn the call to Bruce was encrypted, and that Bruce had agreed to stay away—even knowing Aven was somewhere in Metropolis. But it didn’t matter. Fox couldn’t see him with Clark. Couldn’t know Aven was hiding out in his best friend’s apartment—not so soon after Dick had seen him outside the Wayne penthouse.

Fox crossed his legs and leaned forward, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. "I've brought some preliminary materials about the environmental initiatives. Mr. Wayne thought you might find them useful for background."

Aven held his breath as papers rustled above him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, loud enough that he worried Fox might somehow hear it. The queen shifted again, a slithering sensation that made his stomach roll. He pressed his palm against his sternum, willing the creature to settle.

"These are impressive," Clark said, his voice perfectly calm despite the situation. "I'd be very interested in exploring these innovations further."

"Excellent." Fox sounded pleased. "Mr. Wayne will be glad to hear it. He speaks quite highly of your work, Mr. Kent."

Aven's thigh muscles began to cramp from maintaining the awkward position. He shifted minutely, pressing his back more firmly against the desk panel. Clark's leg tensed against his shoulder in silent warning.

"That's flattering," Clark replied. "I've always found Mr. Wayne to be surprisingly forthcoming for someone in his position."

Fox chuckled, a warm, genuine sound that made Aven's chest ache with unexpected longing. This was Bruce's world—these people who respected him, who carried out his vision while he fought battles most of them would never know about.

"Bruce has always valued integrity in journalism," Fox said. "He’s looking forward to your piece on the Metro Tower tomorrow.”

"Ah," Clark said, and Aven could hear something careful in his tone. "I appreciate the feedback. The tower's certainly an impressive project."

Aven's leg cramped, a sharp spike of pain that made him bite down on his lip to keep from making noise. The position was killing him—wedged between Clark's thighs like some kind of human pretzel, every muscle screaming in protest. But Fox was right there, just feet away, and if he saw Aven...

The minutes stretched like hours. Aven could hear Fox's voice above him, professional and unhurried as he discussed project timelines and environmental certifications. Each word felt like another second closer to discovery, another moment where Bruce's carefully constructed world might come crashing down because Aven couldn't stay away from the people he cared about.

His left calf seized up completely, muscle knotting into a painful ball that made him want to cry out. He gritted his teeth, pressing his face harder against Clark's thigh as he fought the cramp. The fabric of Clark's pants was soft against his cheek, warm with body heat that somehow made the cramped space feel less like a trap and more like a sanctuary.

"The timeline seems aggressive," Clark was saying, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm against the desk edge just above Aven's head. "Can Wayne Enterprises really implement all these systems before the scheduled opening?"

"Mr. Wayne has never missed a deadline when it matters," Fox replied with quiet confidence. "Though I suspect he'll be working around the clock to ensure everything meets his standards."

Of course he would. Bruce never did anything halfway—another reason Aven had to stay hidden, stay away. The man was already pushing himself to the limit without adding Aven's problems to his plate.

The queen shifted again, more insistently this time. Aven pressed his palm against his sternum, feeling the outline of the inhibitor pump beneath Clark's borrowed henley. The device was working—he could feel its steady pulse against his ribs—but the creature seemed more restless today. More aware.

"I should let you get back to your work," Fox said finally, and Aven nearly sobbed with relief. "I'll have my assistant send over the full environmental impact report by end of business today."

"That would be perfect," Clark replied, his voice carrying just the right note of professional enthusiasm. "I'll review everything and get back to you with any questions."

The chair creaked as Fox stood, followed by the soft shuffle of papers being gathered. "A pleasure as always, Mr. Kent."

Aven's throat tightened at the casual mention of Bruce's opinion. Did Bruce really think about Clark that often? Talk about him to his CEO? The thought sent an uncomfortable twist through his gut that had nothing to do with the queen.

Footsteps retreated across the newsroom floor, growing fainter as Fox made his way back toward the elevators. Aven counted thirty seconds, then another thirty, before daring to breathe normally again. His entire body ached from the cramped position, muscles screaming in protest.

Clark waited until the elevator doors chimed closed before rolling his chair back slightly. "Coast is clear," he murmured, his voice tight with something Aven couldn't identify.

Aven tried to unfold himself from beneath the desk, but his legs had gone completely numb. His left foot was asleep, pins and needles shooting up his calf as circulation returned slowly.

“Ah, shit… I’m sorry. Give me a second. Fuck, I’m getting too old for this,” Aven groaned, leaning heavier into Clark’s lap than he meant to.

Internally he was cursing his own stupidity. He hadn’t been careful enough this past week. It was bad enough Dick had spotted him outside the Wayne penthouse, setting off a full-blown search through the city. But worse, he’d cracked. Let himself give in. Let Clark set up a call to him, out of a selfish, lonely kind of desperation.

And Bruce hadn’t even picked up. Missed the damn call because his life was already overflowing with chaos—without Aven adding even more to it.

"Clark, I—"

The sound of heels clicking rapidly across the newsroom floor interrupted Aven's apology. Before he could extract himself from between Clark's thighs, a familiar voice rang out.

"Smallville, I forgot my—oh!"

Lois Lane stood frozen at the edge of Clark's desk, one hand clutching her press badge, the other suspended mid-gesture. Her eyes widened comically as they locked onto Aven—still on his knees, wedged between Clark's legs, face flushed from exertion.

For one excruciating moment, nobody moved. Aven felt his face burn hotter than any fever he'd had.

Then a slow, wicked smile spread across Lois's face, transforming her surprise into something far more dangerous.

"Well, well," she drawled, leaning against the desk with practiced casualness. "When I said give him the grand tour, Clark, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

"Lois—" Clark started, his voice strangled.

"Don't let me interrupt," she continued, eyes dancing with mischief. "Though you might want to consider somewhere a little more private than the bullpen for your... editorial meetings."

Aven tried to stand, but his foot was still half-asleep, and he only managed to lose his balance, grabbing Clark's thigh for support. This just made everything worse.

"It's not—" he began, mortification crawling up his neck like fire.

"I mean, I know the Planet's circulation could use a boost," Lois continued, completely ignoring his protest, "but I didn't think we were that desperate for front-page material." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Though I have to admit, 'Daily Planet Reporter Caught in Workplace Scandal' has a certain ring to it."

Clark made a sound like he was choking. Aven finally managed to get his legs working and scrambled out from under the desk, nearly knocking over Clark's chair in the process.

"Fox was here," he hissed, straightening Clark's borrowed flannel with as much dignity as he could muster. "I was hiding."

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Lois arched an eyebrow, clearly enjoying herself far too much.

"Lucius Fox," Clark clarified, his face a shade of red Aven hadn't thought possible on a human being. "From Wayne Enterprises. Aven was—"

"Avoiding an awkward reunion?" Lois supplied, her expression softening slightly even as her eyes remained alight with amusement. "Relax, boys. Your secret's safe with me." She paused, then added with a wink, "Whatever that secret happens to be."

Aven wanted to sink through the floor. The queen shifted uncomfortably in his chest, responding to his elevated heart rate. Great. Even the alien parasite was embarrassed.

"I was just looking for my phone," Aven lied, patting his pockets for effect even though he could feel the weight of it against his thigh. "Thought I dropped it."

Lois's expression made it clear she didn't believe him for a second, but mercifully, she let it go. "Well, I just came back for my press badge." She held it up like evidence. "City Hall security gets snippy when I try to sneak past them without it."

Clark cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses with that nervous tic Aven was starting to find endearing. "Don't you have that interview with the comptroller?"

"Going right now," Lois confirmed, her eyes still dancing with amusement as she backed away. "You boys have fun with your... phone hunting."

She disappeared into the bustle of the newsroom, leaving Aven standing awkwardly beside Clark's desk, his face still burning with embarrassment. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to salvage what little dignity he had left.

"That was..." he started.

"Mortifying?" Clark supplied, his own face still flushed.

"I was going to say 'unfortunate,' but yeah, that works too." Aven sank back into the chair beside Clark's desk, the queen finally settling as his heartbeat returned to something approaching normal. "Sorry about that. I panicked when I saw Fox."

Clark's expression softened. "You don't need to apologize. I understand."

But he didn't, not really. How could he? Clark Kent with his perfect life and perfect kids and perfect job couldn't possibly understand what it meant to be hunted, to live every day knowing you were a ticking time bomb for everyone around you.

"I should go," Aven said suddenly, the walls of the newsroom closing in around him. "This was a mistake. Coming here. Being seen."

Clark's hand caught his wrist as he started to rise, the touch gentle but firm. "Aven, wait."

The contact sent a jolt through Aven's system that had nothing to do with fear. Clark's hand was warm, his grip solid without being restrictive. Aven could pull away if he wanted to—but he didn't.

"Fox didn't see you," Clark said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that only Aven could hear. "No one who matters saw you. It's okay."

Aven stared at Clark's hand on his wrist, at the way his fingers wrapped completely around the bone with room to spare. The man's hands were ridiculous—broad-palmed and long-fingered, the kind of hands that made everything they touched look smaller by comparison.

"It's not okay," Aven said, matching Clark’s low tone. "It’s never going to be okay, Clark. I’ve got a monster growing in my chest, and now Bruce knows I’m in Metropolis. That call last night—encrypted or not—doesn’t guarantee he won’t figure out you set it up. That you’ve been lying to him for me."

He shook his head, frustration tightening in his voice. "It’s bad enough you know as much as you do. Between the warehouse, Alex Mercer, Amanda’s lab, and everything we’ve learned about Weyland-Yutani… I’ve dragged you and your boys into the same danger I tried to keep Bruce out of."

Clark's grip tightened slightly around his wrist, not restricting but anchoring. Aven could feel the warmth of his palm through the borrowed flannel, could smell that clean scent that had become familiar over the past few days—laundry detergent and something uniquely Clark.

"You didn't drag us into anything," Clark said, his voice steady and certain in a way that made Aven's chest ache. "I made a choice. We all did."

The words struck deeper than Aven expected. He’d heard this kind of warning before—from Bruce, Amanda, his brothers—but from Clark, it wasn’t just concern. It was something heavier. Something that could crack him open if he let it.

"You don't understand what you're choosing," Aven said, tugging gently against Clark's hold. The man's fingers loosened immediately, but didn't release him completely. "The warehouse, what happened to Alex—that's just the beginning. Weyland won't stop. They can't afford to."

Clark leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes intense behind the glasses. "Then we stop them first."

The casual confidence in his voice made Aven want to laugh and cry at the same time. Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter, talking about taking on a multinational corporation like it was just another Tuesday. The man had no idea what he was suggesting.

"We?" Aven repeated, his voice rougher than he intended. "Clark, you're a journalist. You write articles about construction projects and city council meetings. This isn't your fight."

Something flickered across Clark’s face—too fast for Aven to fully read, but it looked like frustration. Or maybe disappointment.

“Maybe not,” Clark said quietly. “But it became my fight the second I found you in that café and brought you home. Bruce is my best friend, yeah—but you’re my friend too. And I’m not just gonna stand by and watch you go through this alone. So please… stop running.”

His hand shifted on Aven’s wrist, thumb brushing gently over the worn leather of Moose’s collar. The softness of it made Aven’s throat tighten.

Silence stretched between them before Clark finally exhaled, voice low.

“You’re right. Bruce knew it was me who set up the call. He called back last night after you’d fallen asleep. I wanted to wake you, but he asked me not to. Said he could wait. That he’d stay away until you were ready.”

Clark glanced over at him. “He understands more than you think. And honestly? Him knowing you’re here in Metropolis is better than him tearing the country apart trying to track you down—when he should be focused on helping Amanda finish the formula.”

Aven felt his breath stall in his chest. Bruce had known it was Clark who set up the call, and instead of demanding answers or charging over here like Aven had feared, he'd chosen to wait. To give Aven space he probably didn't deserve.

The leather of Moose's collar felt warm under Clark's thumb, worn smooth from months of nervous fidgeting. Aven stared down at their hands—Clark's broad fingers wrapped around his wrist, that gentle touch that somehow anchored him without feeling like a cage.

"He said that?" Aven's voice came out rougher than he intended. "That he'd wait?"

Clark nodded, his thumb still tracing the edge of the collar. "His exact words were 'Tell him I'll be here when he's ready. However long that takes.'"

Something cracked open in Aven's chest—not the queen, just his own carefully constructed walls finally giving way under the weight of five months' worth of guilt and longing. He'd spent so long convincing himself that leaving had been the right choice, that Bruce was better off without him. But hearing those words, knowing Bruce was still waiting...

"I don't know if I'll ever be ready," he whispered, the admission scraping against his throat like broken glass. "What if the formula doesn't work? What if I can't—"

"Then we figure it out," Clark interrupted, his voice steady and certain. "Together. All of us."

The newsroom bustled around them—keyboards clicking, phones ringing, the endless hum of people doing their jobs—but it all felt distant, muffled. Like the world had narrowed down to just this moment, this conversation, Clark's hand on his wrist and the impossible weight of hope settling in his chest.

"You make it sound so simple," Aven said, unable to keep the bitter edge from his voice.

"Not simple," Clark corrected, his blue eyes meeting Aven's through his glasses. "Just possible."

Possible. Such a dangerous word for someone who'd spent months thinking in terms of survival rather than solutions. Aven pulled his wrist free from Clark's grip, immediately missing the warmth of the contact.

"We should go," he said, standing before he could lose his nerve. "You said something about errands."

Clark studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Right. Errands."

But as they gathered their things and headed for the elevators, Aven couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted in that cramped space under Clark's desk. Not just the embarrassment of being caught by Lois, but something deeper. Something that felt like trust beginning to take root in ground he'd thought was too poisoned to grow anything good.