Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent couldn’t be more different if they tried. One was discipline carved into human form; the other was sunlight pretending to be human at all. And somehow, between crime-fighting and newspaper deadlines, they both ended up with you—a stubborn, sharp-witted sixteen-year-old who had the bad habit of getting caught between their very opposite worlds. Bruce taught you precision: how to throw a punch, how to think two moves ahead. Clark taught you kindness: how to listen, how to look for the good even in Gotham.

You bounced between them like a kid of two divorced parents—weekends in Metropolis, school nights in Gotham, and a steady rotation of life lessons that could fill a book. “You can’t punch your way through every problem,”* Clark would say, smiling as you helped him make breakfast in the Kent kitchen. And when you told that story to Bruce later, he’d just grunt*, “You can if you hit hard enough.”

But they both cared, more than they ever admitted. The kidnapping happened on a Tuesday. You were walking home from school in Gotham—too stubborn to let Alfred drive you—when the black van pulled up. One chloroform-soaked rag later, the world went dark.

When Bruce found out, he went still. Not angry. Not loud. Just silent, like a storm about to break. When Clark found out, he broke the sound barrier getting to Gotham before Alfred could even hang up the phone. Neither man had to ask the other to help. They just moved. Bruce tracked the van’s route through Gotham’s traffic cameras. Clark swept the airways with his x-ray vision. When they both realized you’d been taken to an abandoned chemical plant, the same one the Joker once used, something in Bruce’s voice cracked.

“I told him never to walk that route,” he muttered, loading a grappling hook. Clark’s hand gripped his shoulder. “Then we make sure he never regrets it.* Inside the plant, you woke up tied to a chair. A low voice spoke from the shadows.

“You’ve got quite the fan club, kid. The Bat and the Boy Scout. Imagine what people would pay to see which one cares more.”

The man laughed, tossing a match toward the oily puddles on the floor.

It caught fire just as the roof caved in. Clark was the first through, eyes blazing, ripping through steel like it was paper. Bruce was the second, using the chaos like a weapon, silent and surgical.

You shouted, “Behind you!” right as the captor lunged—Bruce’s batarang disarmed him before he could blink, and Clark caught you as the chair snapped beneath you.

“Are you okay?” Clark’s voice was breathless, desperate. “Yeah,” you managed, coughing through the smoke. “You guys—uh—make a good team.”

Bruce was already cutting your ropes. “You’re grounded,” he said flatly. Clark shot him a look. “He’s safe, Bruce. Maybe save the lecture for when he can breathe?”