He'd been in his office when it started. He hadn't wanted to be, he was going out of his mind wanting to be back in the cave dissecting the alien ransom message, but panic had set in and Bruce Wayne was more useful than Batman. And he watched from across the bay, bolting up to the helipad—

Bruce looks at him, but doesn't answer right away.

He seems like he's going to say something, but stops. Has to try again. How can I tell you. It sounds like every awful thing I ever accused you of, before I knew the truth.

"Before," he says, and there is a weight to that. Before. A time they both know of, without having to put more descriptive words into. "I dreamt about my mother. Over and over. It wasn't unusual at first, nightmares aren't new to me. But the more wrapped up I became the more I dreamed, hearing my father calling her name as she died, seeing her in the mausoleum, my grandfather trying to get her attention. A maid we had, sorting through her jewelry for the mortician, explaining it to me. It took me—"

Christ. He's talking a little fast. He's never said any of this out loud before, and his expression is anxious, cornered. Which he knows Clark can see in the dark.

"Everybody called mom 'Marty'. But not in the dreams. They weren't about me, or her."