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Chapter Text

A pair of deep blue eyes, staring at them like he is staring into ten thousand feet down the ocean or cosmos, feeling something silent and large and unable to be fathomed, addressed to his soul. 

Like all other dreams he has, Clark can’t remember how or why he got here, except staring into that pair of blue eyes. He also doesn’t remember why he is staring at the other man across the room and through the ocean of people, and for how long. The only thing he knows is that he is looking at none other than Bruce Wayne.

The matter-of-fact brings more to Clark. He has met Wayne a good handful of times in public as a Daily Planet reporter, and browsed his photo a million times for some fluffy pieces of assignments. People like Bruce Wayne are unforgettable, especially when he hits the front page of newspapers every couple of months, Metropolis or not. Wayne is not only famous because of his money, his company, his fame, his dates, but also his beauty.

Clark is aware of Wayne’s beauty right now. That pair of blue eyes. He could drown in them.

However, after Clark admits his defeat, time seems to begin ticking. Other things—lights, noise, surroundings—start filling in into the ridiculously large and luxury Rococo-style bathroom Clark and Wayne share. 

Wayne volunteers to film a short commercial for a new cologne product named with some fancy foreign name that Clark never pays attention to. He is the solo actor in this film, and whoever the director is got some idea of mixing fine-tuned and edited clips with black-and-white filtered behind the scenes together to create some shocking contrast. It turns out amazingly well, as Clark recalls. Wayne is luring as a siren. Nobody dares to move their sight from him once they stare into that pair of deep blue eyes. The close-up of Wayne is not helping. Maybe that’s the reason Clark keeps dreaming about the commercial plot while inserting himself as a witness.

But just watching as a bystander is not what Clark truly desires. 

Clark stands in the background of people, watching Wayne step into that cold bath. He lays there with some kind of content, innocent, and almost childlike smile. His simple white dress shirt and blue jeans are not preserving enough heat for him. The color is slowly drained from his cheeks and lips, even though they were as white as sheets to begin with. Wayne doesn’t look well, though he is smiling at the camera. Staff has dumped chunks of ice into the bath. Wayne does not flinch or shake. He acts as if he is lying on the beach and under the sun, happy and relaxing, which is rather eerie and surreal in a sense, but beautiful. 

Filming goes on. The way the floating ice surrounds Wayne is like he is drowning in the Atlantic Ocean. Clark observes that a pair of deep blue eyes gradually turning into ghosts and pale blue, distancing, and alien. It feels like they are slowly losing him. Wayne’s smile is the only constant in this two-minute commercial, always so carefree, so charming, so pure, like a sweet dream descending from heaven, also like a narcissus blooming too close to Styx. It’s painstakingly beautiful and breathtaking. It drives Clark crazy to know what’s under the shadow hiding under this smile and buried so deep down in that darkness of irises of blue eyes.

When Wayne steps out of the bath, the magic surrounding him breaks (or takes effect, which really depends on how people think about it). He becomes a ghost only Clark can see. Wayne blends into people with an ease of breathing. Everyone sees him but does not look at him. He walks away without bothering anyone or being bothered by anyone, and Wayne can leave this world so smoothly and quietly if Clark does not keep an eye on him.

One of the sudden, Clark reaches out to Wayne and catches his wrist when he is passing by.

It’s pure by instinct, Clark would say. He is more surprised than Wayne for his sudden action. On the other hand, Wayne is not surprised at all, like he is waiting for this to happen and waiting for a long, long time. It makes Clark feel guilty and pushes him to step closer.

That’s the moment the faint bittersweet of burnt sugar and complex cinnamon spice scent with a touch of icy chill hits Clark head on. A more primitive and ancient urge rises up, compelling Clark to smooth the pain, the sadness, and the tiredness he is looking at and hugging, kissing, and protecting the other until whatever causes this distress all melt away.

Once upon a time, Clark felt the same primitive compulsion, so he is no stranger to his own feelings. The question is, why does he feel this way toward a mere stranger? 

With all his heart, want, and burning desire.

It’s hilarious.

Almost jumping out of and falling from the sofa, Clark shockingly awakes and pants. He drags his end of the palm over his face and tries to calm down, both mentally and physically. Till he feels his heart not going to jump out of his chest and his member not suffocating, straggled in his briefs, Clark slowly rises and turns off the laptop laying on the coffee table. 

It turns out to be a bad idea to re-watch some clips you already dreamed about more than a couple of times and accidentally fall asleep on the sofa.

Clark could blame this for Cat, since she couldn’t stop complaining about how hard it was to catch Wayne these days, like he just vanished from the earth. She was always in the hearing range of Clark, so there is absolutely no way to not eavesdrop. 

“You could always interview one of his boys. The oldest one is just back in town or something, giving a speech for some fundraiser.” A photo of the oldest adopted son pulled upon on the phone by an assistant from the admin office, showing a young adult with a genuine smile, handsome face, and good shape. “Isn’t he charming? And he is an Alpha.” 

“Oh, Alphas. They get attached and obsessed too easily. Working hazard.” Cat rolled her eyes somehow with grace, while girls snickering, “Beta is better. Brucie baby is much better.”

Cat made it sound like dumped or getting dumped is another Tuesday for playboy Brucie Wayne. Might it be true if the tabloid is believed? Clark is not so keen to find out. But he may right now.

He really needs to find a solution to stop this wet dream from continuing. He is not a teenager anymore, and for certain, Wayne is not his celebrity crush to begin with. 

Clark doesn’t know what he feels about Gotham’s billionaire, except that he didn’t look as good as he pretended to be in the commercial. Wayne limped a little bit in the behind the scenes, though it is only recognizable due to Clark’s superman-level scrutiny of examining and extent of knowledge about human injury through the years’ experience as a superhero.

That also may be caused by a reckless extreme sport activity, which is another kind of Tuesday norm for Brucie Wayne. Sometimes he looks like having a death wish when he is so badly injured and ends up labeled as dying in the tabloids and gossip.

Signing, Clark rises and goes to take a shower. After that, he changes and beams to Watchtower. If he can’t get any sleep tonight, he better get some work done.

-x-

“You are troubled, Kal.” Diana asks, “What's bothering you?”

“Hard to sleep.” Clark murmurs, “Not a big problem. I’m fine.”

He is, just, fine.

Clark was patching up the damaged exterior of the lower parts of the Watchtower when Diana approached. The fight that broke out two months ago on Watchtower dealt a ton of damage to the structure. Watchtower has not been able to run on full capacity since then. Some League members are still recovering from the disaster of leaking Batman’s contingency plans. The entire crisis is messy and painful, something even Clark has a hard time to think back and talk about. People need their time to heal. 

Diana hums an understanding tone, but she won’t let Clark off the hook so soon.

“Okay then, would you like to talk about Batman?”

The heat vision stops for a moment, making an uneven line between the alloy plates, Clark welding them together.

“Is there another problem rising about the repair package shipment today?”

Another reason why Watchtower does not recover as it used to be is the limited resources. It may be due to the main supplier being Wayne Enterprises, who was also under attack in the Arkham breakout a couple of months ago. Multiple major Wayne Enterprises factories either run on a lower capacity because of the damages they received in that break-out or change their production line to other products to support the rebuild of Gotham. All the non-emergency requests of Watchtower are waiting a longer time for fulfillment. 

The Watchtower isn’t going to collapse or fall from the sky without some proper redecoration walls. It’s simply sad to see all the aftermath of deconstruction and damage left by a crisis. People need a more accommodating workplace to feel better and safer.

Cyborg finding some trackers and unidentified hacking programs installed in the last few shipments definitely does not help improve everyone’s mood here. And there is also Lex Luthor publicly announcing himself more than willingly to lend a hand on rebuilding and furnishing Watchtower, which Superman has to step out and politely refuse due to unspoken security issues.

There is still some lingering media questioning about why the Justice League is refusing Luthor Crop since it’s clear that they can use some help, but it’s not something Clark has enough patience to deal with.

Batman is used to being in charge of logistics. He strikes whatever deals necessary with the government and anonymous donors, screens and picks all the vendors and suppliers, and makes sure all the required items arrive at their designation on time and in time. Clark couldn’t help but think if things are easier if Batman is here.

For sure, that’s not what every member thinks nowadays. Undeniably, Batman’s contingency plans got them into this mess in the first place. People do not take it well when they realize their own teammate, the one who is supposed to be on their side, not only distrusts them but also uses their trust to learn everything about them against them. 

Clark is disappointed at first too, but later he comes to an understanding that there were, and will be, times the League is going to need these plans. But the Bats could always warn others ahead of time, if not politely asking permission first. 

“If I am going to warn you ahead, how is that plan going to be effective?” 

His brain immediately supplies an imaginary answer to Clark, with a harsh and unamused voice from his fellow Stoic colleague. He grimaces. It makes sense when elements of surprise are something relied on to make things work. That may be part of the reason why Clark is not as angry as some others get. But there is no stopping someone feeling hurt and being wary about the Bats for a while.

“Green Arrow’s volunteered for contacting new suppliers and arranging shipments for now, and I have Cyborg monitoring both the newly arrived packages and the media. There is nothing needed to worry about repairing the Watchtower.” Diana calmly repeats, “I am asking if you would like to talk about Batman.”

A brief pause.

“He has not yet responded to any of our calls, ever since the crisis caused by his corrupted contingency plans.”

Clark drops whatever he is working on and descends to the ground to stand in front of Diana.  

“We had a compromised comm during the crisis, and he was with me in the meantime until things calmed down, then he left because another crisis broke out in Gotham. The entire Arkham was blown up, and one-third of it forever sank into the bay. The whole city was on fire, Diana, and he is the only one man to handle all that disaster on his own.” 

Clark wishes he could help, but he had his own brand of troubles at the same time as others did. Plus, the situation in Gotham is losing control in just one blink of an eye. That city has its own breed of madness and craziness, indeed.

“That’s more than two months ago, Kal.” Diana calmly readdresses. “It’s taking him too long.” 

“I know.”

“People are asking questions.”

“I understand.”

“You need to do better than understand.” As a leader. The undertone hints.

Clark signed. “So, what’s happening when I am busy fixing the storage walls?” Judging Diana’s firm expression, Clark adds, “Or what’s your suggestion here?”

“A vote.”

Clark blinks. He didn’t see that coming… or, he did, somehow deep down in his guts. It’s understandable with what happened more than a couple of months ago; he is not happy, Diana is not happy, heck, nobody is happy. To make things worse, Batman never showed up after all of these to formally apologize or simply explain.

Well, considering he is not showing up at Watchtower at all, this is no surprise.

But if there must be a vote to formalize the consequences of the mistrust Batman brought to the team, Clark foresees where his vote will be. 

He is not looking forward to it.

But still.

“It’s not going to work, if I’m going to be honest.” Clark grimaces. “Batman is bound to help himself whenever he feels it’s needed, even though we ‘vote’ him out. And we are not going to be able to stop him.”

He is a man with a mission, if anything Clark learns holding true about Batman, that’s he is not going to stop until he accomplishes it.

He is a man with a mission; if anything, Clark learns, holding true about Batman, that he is not going to stop until he accomplishes it.

“Even if the result of the vote eventually ends in vain, we could still use the closure it brings. A closure to settle the minds and doubts and unify the team once again. Think this not only for him but for the entire League. For yourself. It’s time to end this unspoken doubt and debate.”

Diana firmly believes in her words and whatever future they shall bring, but Clark is not so sure. He won’t be able to feel any closure or peace when they are putting on some funny, twisted solitary confinement on Batman, which is a fancy way to say, kicking someone out of their little social circle. Are they high schoolers?

Guess that’s why he always gets headaches with diplomacy. Men are children.

“Kal.” Clark envies how calm Diana calls his name.

“I know. I know.” Clark signs again. “At least let’s talk this out with Batman first, okay?”

Chapter Text

Disappointment is not the reason keeps Clark from actively seeking out the Bats. Clark hates to admit he might sullen too long, but it’s only for the first couple of weeks, if not days.

There was a full-scale Arkham break out during the same period when Justice League falling apart. Who kidding. Even with all the backups, any sane man won’t make too far in that kind of insane. How Batman manages Gotham craziness is a mystery. The man himself is an enigma. But it’s undoubtedly possible even the Bats could be grievous injured and put out of commission for an extended period.

Clark was concerned when the first time he called Batman, but nobody answered. He understood the situation and he got other business to attend. Clark let it go.

Maybe that’s a mistake.

With each passing day and each non-answering call, Clark becomes worried. For so much Clark knows Batman, he is not somebody going down easily. There must be something equivalent to death to keep the Bats quiet so long.

If Batman died in an anonymous dark alley in his beloved city…… that’s ironic, isn’t it?

Clark pushes that thought, or any thoughts leading to that end, deep down in this mind. There is an unquenched itch of back of his mind all these times, demanding him to seek out the Bats, and to make sure and to protect. The unwavering burden of being a Pack leader to ensure all the pack members are safe and sound. Though Justice League is only a semi and unofficial pack.

Funny thing is, Clark never feels this strong need to guard and to protect when Batman is by his side. The urge slowly grows after he realizing the Bats is missing in action till it’s hard to ignore. Then, Superman needs to remind himself the Bats is never his pack member to begin with to protect.

Clark blames everything happening to serious and weird krypton poison he got in the crisis. Batman put up that plan at the first place, so he is undeniably responsible.

But that does not remove any nervous when Clark is about to find out what happened to the Bats.

There are multiple vigilantes associated with Batman in Gotham. No accurate intel, only rumors, bury under the urban legends of the Batman. Clark knows it’s true because he spots some of them while looking upon Gotham searching for the Bats or accidentally pick up couple of lines in the built-in comm of Batman’s cowl. Super hearing is sure be damned for consistently breaching others’ privacy. Diana probably shares some acknowledgement as Clark about Batman. She doesn’t say nothing but let Clark lead the way.

They fly across Gotham’s sky and descend near a skyscraper. Clark hears some signature hissing of grapple line close-by and leading them toward this place. Considering the dramatic factor the Bats would like to play the rooftop will be a perfect meeting place.

Not long after their arrive, a lean figure reveals himself on the edge of the rooftop, stealthy, and with mysterious grace.

It’s a young adult with dark hair and a domino mask covered his face. Dark spandex with striking blue pattern assembled like a bird, staring from his fingertips across his chest. The grapple gun is gone when Clark and Diana turned around to face him, giving a feeling like he has been standing at the edge of the roof this time all along and waiting.

“Superman.” He causally nods to Clark, and then to Diana. “Wonder Woman.”

No surprise by the sudden visit of Justice League, no excitement nor much nervousness. At least not the same nervous one would have facing two powerful beings.

He looks rigid, yes, and a little bit tired. Clark could smell stress rolling off from his pores if not for the heavy scent blocker the young man is wearing.

Good thing is he is not hostile.

Or not yet.

The way he is gauging Superman and Wonder Woman gives away a feeling of demanding. What he is after for is unclear at the moment. He is holding back, a lot, from dumping all the questions at them. Oh, so polite.

“We are wondering when you are going to drop by.” Another voice, a teenager boy, speaks up at the back, causing a jerk of neck from Clark and Diana.

Clark has to scan the surroundings to make sure if there are any more vigilantes hiding in the shadow or something. One day for sure Gotham residents are going to give Superman a heart attack.

Good news is he has checked it out. There is one more standing in the dark shadow and looks like going to jump into this conversation in any second. At least this one is also a young adult, or Clark really would like to have a talk about the recruiting child for vigilantism with Batman.

An angry young alpha. The more Clark scans him the more, he is sure. Even with a red mask covering most of his face this one somehow manages to give Clark a grumpy and sharp look. The streak white hair with a confusing aura makes him appears more mature than he is supposed to be. He has a red bat cross his chest, barely visible between his crossed arms and his unzipped jacket. This young man is violent to bones and ready to lash out with a blink of eyes.

“Please ignore him.” The blue one murmurs. “He has a long day, a long week, whatever, but he won’t bother us.” He raises his voice. “Anyway, I guess you coming here for talk.”

“I assume you are related to Batman.”

“My bad.” With a sloppy smile, he forces himself to a stance that looks more relaxed and welcome, though with Superman’s sight, Clark could tell more tension is building in that body. “Name’s Nightwing. There’s Robin.” Sluggish gesturing toward the red, yellow and green costume teenager perches on the other side.

Robin, the teenager who manages to speak to them earlier, responds with a cautious nod.

“Yes, we are with Batman.” Nightwing says. “It’s good to finally meet both of you.”

Clark notices Nightwing intentionally left the angry red hood one out. It’s not like Clark doesn’t have a hunch who he might be, but since that’s not what he is mainly after today, he does not pursue.

“Nice to meet you.” Clark politely replies, “All of you.”

Diana cuts to the point. “We are here to talk to Batman.”

All three vigilantes tense up at the drop of Diana’s words.

Silent, until Robin quietly and calculatedly speaks.

“I thought you are here to talk about Batman.”

The red gives a mocking huff at Robin’s response.

Clark is confused but calmly clarifies, “The last time Batman was seen by the League was twenty first of December, when he departed Watchtower and went back to Gotham. We called him multiple times from then and now but got no response. Therefore, we’re here to check upon him.”

“First of all, you are suggesting B is not working on some deep undercover job for League, right?”

Clutches her lasso, for both impression and habit, Diana squints Nightwing, “What you are implying?”

“And the second?” Clark steps forward and takes control of the situation. He would like to hear Nightwing out before burning the bridge.

 “It might be true that the last time LEAGUE saw Batman was the twenty first of December, but for you, Superman, you rescued a civilian from a twisted time and dimension turbulence bubble and escorted him back to Gotham on December twenty seventh. I have an impression that you received this specific request directly from Batman and might he also provide you instruction about how to help.”

Alfred Pennyworth. Name of the Gotham civilian Robin talked about. The butler of infamous billionaire and playboy Bruce Wayne. The message Clark found out left out all the details about who was trapped only with the necessary information and instruction to make a successful rescue. Back then he simply assumed the identity of the victim was irrelevant or lost. But on second thought, it’s too clean to not be done on purpose.

Clark was nervous about he won’t make it on time because the entire League comm was so messed up that he still didn’t know when and how Batman left him this message. Only after talking with Pennyworth gave him some ideas about what’s happened. Pennyworth has a way of his words, which makes him the worst enemy of investigation and journalism. Even Superman couldn’t pull much useful from this overly polite English man. Guess that’s a requirement to successfully serve multiple decades for Wayne family so surprisingly with how many times Wayne embarrassed himself in public but there not yet a single scandal rising up inside of his house.

Clark saves people twenty-four seven, so he didn’t put much thought into this matter. Pennyworth is not so different from others. But thinking about it now, how did Pennyworth end up in a twisted time and dimension turbulence bubble in the first place? How did Batman know? Pennyworth must be linked to Batman, maybe important, since he tried to send out of message to Superman when the entire League’s comm was screwed and specifically asking to rescue this man even when he certainly knew it’s very possible this request may never reach its end. It’s a desperate measure in a desperate time.

He let Pennyworth walk away too easily, Clark thought, he was overwhelmed and didn’t want to think about it. But how could Clark predict Batman would go radio silent for so long?

Gotham Bat is used to being mysterious and solitary, but he is not unresponsive. Yeah, unless he thinks it’s totally bullshit or ridiculous he would skip and ghost. Whatever they are having now is beyond child play.

“Isn’t that the last time you see Batman?” Nightwing gingerly asks.

“No.” Clark denies, “I received his request through message. I have not seen him in person as the rest of the League.”

A pause, let his reply sinking into dead silent vigilantes. Then it’s Clark’s turn to question.

“Now, where’s Batman? When is your last time seeing him?”

Chapter Text

Tim is not sure whether he is expecting the League to come checking on Bruce.

Tim knows deep down his heart someday someone is going to show up in the doorway straight asking or talking about the Bats. It’s pure logic. Batman is not something could be easily forgot and let go. He is more than a mere human but symbol of fear, vengeance, redistribution, and the list going on. Batman is too many things to be lost even Gotham collapsed on itself. Cannot be ignored, forgotten, or let go.

Bruce must be alive somewhere. He’s just trapped, caught himself in emergencies and busy saving good men. Anything. But he must be there somewhere. Batman is not going to go down without a fight.

But he had his fight, his traitorous mind whispers, a big one, the end game, a finale.

You all were there to witness the Knight fall.

“That’s very productive.”

Leaning at the rail in Cave, Jason satirizes while taking down his mask, giving Dick a full view of his sarcastic smirk.

“Sure it gives whatever the fuck you are looking for right?”

“Jason.” Dick hisses with warning, clearly frustrated and does not want to engage.

Like that’s going to be easy. Tim thinks and goes straight to computers and pulls up all the flagged files he downloaded from the League server.

Good thing is Alfred has retired to bed early tonight and left a dish of cucumber sandwiches and a bottle of tea on the tray near the computer.

It’s a shame that Jason and Dick are too busy staring each other to notice. Not like Tim has any appetite right now. His stomach has been filled with stone heavy dread while he types on the computer, but he takes one anyway. Food always is a comfort to mind.

With Wayne Enterprise as the anonymous main donor for Justice League is not that hard to slip some bugs on their shipment. Cyborg catches a few of them but it’s the point, so he won’t look around for backdoors in-built in original League system. Hacking Bruce’s computer is a pain but with time Tim cracks it.

Apparently, there were a lot of files could lead back to Batman with multiple flag criteria Tim inputs. However, due to the messed-up system, most the files Tim pulls out don’t have a reliable timeline, which takes them back to square one: nobody really knows what happened to B after his last witness on night of Christmas Eve.

The same night Arkham was blown up and a third of it sunk into the bay and forever lost.

Jason continues taunting Dick at the background.

“How the deep undercover mission story goes for you? Hate to say, you only embrace yourself for even bringing that topic up.”

“It’s possible Jason, we need to consider it.”

“No, you need to consider it, thinking about pull your head out of your ass and accept it. Bruce is dead. Instead of six foot underground but thousands foot down the water --”

“Bruce is NOT DEAD!” Dick bursts, face red, fist clenches.

“Yes he is!”

Arms tightly holding cross his chest, Jason does not flinch, but burning with anger.

“Deal with it you dumbass! Bruce is dead, thousands foot down the water and what are you expecting? You’ve turned over every piece of rocks left on Arkham island seven times by now and found absolutely nothing. Don’t even mention how many times you dive into the bay. A deep undercover mission for League? You serious? League is like shit around Christmas and they still are right now. They couldn’t even wipe their ass clean yet and how much possible a control freak like Bruce would allow his beloved justice friends to deteriorate like this this whole time with him by their side? Yes these almighty superheroes probably have some opinions to the mess Bruce got them into but he can fix it. If these is ever one thing Bruce was good at, he got fucking shit done!”

“Stop it. Don’t talk like he is dead.” Dick clenches his teeth too hard. Tim could almost feel his pain.

Jason laughs.

“Because he is dead. Bruce is gone and you won’t admit it, because you had a very bad day or a bad week with coming Christmas and tired old man bossing you around, there you decided once in your life not listen to him. You regret it! Because it’s too late to realize you miss the chance to say one last good-bye. It hurt like hell –”

“That’s not what happened –”

“Then where were you? Where were you at that time Golden Boy?” Malice bleeding through Jason’s words, and he definitely doesn’t notice his voice right now is dangerously close to when he yelled at Bruce and questioned him where he was when himself was dying.

That’s frustration, fear, anger, bitterness, hatred, most importantly, Tim realizes, guilty and remorse. Buried too deep and twisted so bad even beyond recognition of its own master.

It’s not fair. None of these are.

They were too busy fighting and saving life caught in crossfire to realize what’s happening around them. They all split up to cover as much ground as they can. There was a stupid argument about contingency plans and true culprit for this crisis before they split up, because, that’s just what they are, stupid and stubborn. There was no one by Bruce’s side when everything literally blew up.

If he was by his side, would everything be different now, Tim wonders. But he was close to Dick when the entire Island shaking and threatening to fall apart and sunk down the water. It took Tim couple minutes to scramble out of derris and comprehend what’s actually happening.

Bruce might be right about the missing bombs were transported to Arkham and this is not some situation they could get away only with some scratches, but he was wrong about he could take care of it by himself alone.

Or he was right about everything but not tell them.

Tim couldn’t decide which way hurt the most.

Either way it must hurt Dick very deep.

Tim still remembered vividly the horror he saw on Dick’s face the moment he realized Bruce must be in the center of the explosion.

“But you know, Dick.” Suddenly, Jason takes a softer tone, eyeing showcase of Batman suits briefly before returning to Dick. “Batman doesn’t need to be gone.”

“… What this supposed to mean?” Dick must catch the eyeing too, next moment he is beyond shock. “You can’t expect me take the mantle! I am not going to replace Bruce!”

“One of us must take it! Damn it! Either you or me. There are people need Batman, Gotham needs Batman, even that goddamned League looks could use some help there. You are trained your entire life for this and now you chicken out?”

Jason turns and points Tim. “Or you want the pretender to take it? He is not tall enough to pass as a grown up and certainly end up dead on the first night patrol.”

“Nobody takes it! And we are not trained to replace Bruce! We are trained to become someone better, smarter, to protect the weak and the good, to stop the evil.” Exhausted, Dick claims. “We are not replacing anyone at any time.”

And Bruce is not dead for replacement. Tim hears Dick’s unspoken line.

“Fine. Suits you.” Jason finally backs off. He puts his mask back on and heads toward his bake. “Time is ticking. With new players in town Gotham won’t forever stay quiet. When I am taking care of that bastard, don’t get in my way.”

With load roaring of the bike, Jason is gone.

Dick stands in silent for a while and spaces out. Tim turns back to computers and resumes his analysis.

“I always thought it’s going to be you to ask me to take the mantle.” With a sign, Dick stands next to Tim in front of the screens.

It could be me, but I would rather not think about the death of Bruce like you do. Tim wonders, but not say. It hurts too much, and he has not yet given up hope. Besides, he has not seen the same urgency as Jason does to let Batman spotted back in the field.

Last year’s Christmas took out a good number of major players in Gotham underworld and who left behind were lying low for recover. Justice League also swiped out some the most dangerous criminals during their last crisis. Therefore, the vacuum of power has not yet been completely filled in Gotham when the world is kind of quiet for once in millennium. Tim won’t describe it as a healthy ecosystem, but it’s as close as it could get to Gotham when most gangs are busy recruiting and re-claims their turf and the regular Gothamites busy rebuilding the city.

“Do you think Jason is implying something when he saying we are running off time?”

“That’s Jason, he reads Shakespear as morning paper so yeah he is always implying something. It’s called metaphor.” Dick signs. “I think it’s his source got killed by our mystery newcomer today actually pissed him off.”

“The dirty cop related Penguin’s traffic ring?”

“Yeah.” Dick signs again. “Anyway, Jason is probably right about the new player in town. Even though the victims are bad cops, corrupted judges, and sociopath killers, we cannot let him keep killing people. We need to stop him rather sooner than later. Do you find anything about this guy?”

“I checked all the footage and files Barbara could pull out for us, but until now, not much. They are invisible to cameras, like ghosts. Whoever this new player is, they are good.”

There is magic and there is ghost, Tim has seen some even work with a few before. Somehow, he gets the hunch this is not the case.

Based on their M.O., Tim has not yet decided whether they are a good guy or a bad guy, but for sure this one is dangerous.

Every time Tim looks up the footage, he gets a chilling feeling he has been watched. Weird.

“Keep looking.” Dick put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed, and rest there for a while, before he quietly asks.

“Any luck with League’s files?”

Tim doesn’t want to say “no”. His silence probably is more than sufficient.

“Just.”

Inhales, exhales. Tim hears Dick whispers.

“Keep looking.”

That’s not something he is going to give up. Not so soon. Not forever.

Chapter Text

These aren’t kisses. He might simply eat the other alive, and funny thing is, he feels he is allowed to do so. The same way, hugging him feels like holding on his dear life.

Clark cannot think straight in this dream, or in these dreams. Some part of him knows this is a dream but it for sure doesn’t feel like one. It’s too real to be surreal. The hot and sweaty skin he is touching, the wanton and broken moans he is hearing, the gorgeous and filthy face he is staring… the glassy pale blue eyes or the wet tightness wrap around his member and milk him dry, Clark is not sure which one actually drives him insane. Could be both.

Why this kept happening is beyond Clark, but oh Rao he could deny it feels good. Tonight’s lewd wild imagination might just be the final straw to break Clark’s sanity. Everything he is dreaming upon this point feels so real like he has already lived through it.

Not once, but a million times.

There is confidence and familiarity in repetition.

Probably the trip to Gotham provokes this dream. Bruce Wayne is and will forever be the favorite son of this doomed and dark city, though more people may argue Batman should be the night and dark side of it. You cannot walk into Gotham without recognizing Wayne’s name even once the entire time. It’s engraved into the core.

As if it’s the cue, any thought traced back to the Bats sends chills running down his spine and unfortunately wakes Clark up. Too fast, he is forgetting all the vivid details of another man he has seen more on television and internet than in real life. Wayne in his dream only left a faint impression of desperation and self-sacrifice before completely gone. Clark doesn’t want to be the bad wolf manifesting on a helpless lamb, but he cannot undo what he’s already done.

The strength he was using undoubtedly left nasty black and purple bruises lingering all over his partner. It’s a wonder in these dreams Wayne never seems to be bothered by pain.

Like if any of this is real. Clark reminds himself.

There is no one he could apologize to if all he experienced was just dreams. Though they’re very inappropriate ones. No real harm done. Just super awkward celebrity crash, Clark broods, even he knows truly nothing about this man.

Wayne does have a good face. His traitorous mind whispers. And a pair of pale blue eyes you couldn’t dare to look at.  

Nonetheless, Clark tries his best to clean all the physical trace of evidence his horny dreams left and forgets every bit of it, like taking a good ten-minute frozen cold shower to clear his head, but only got backfired when he walks into the Daily Planet at eight o’clock with his morning coffee.

The sudden mentioned name punches Clark in the guts, hard. He chocks on his coffee. The bittersweet dark liquid does not necessarily hurt him but does leave a very unpleasant feel in his mouth and airpipe, which leads Clark unintentionally holding his breath to ease his discomfort.

Very bad choice. He must look more suspicious and anxious than he already feels.

“A penny for your thought?” And here goes Cat who has some kind of superpower about digging up gossip materials and never misses a hint. Safe to say Daily Planet only hires best of the best. No matter what kind of the best here goes.

“You hear the lady, Smallville.” Lois is next to Cat, leaning at one nearby desk, chuckling at Clack’s clumsiness. When Clark grabs his drink, reluctantly turns around and tacitly shoots his rescue signal to her, Lois simply ignores but mischievously adds her two cents: “You know him right?”

“Yeah, remember the commercial you watched thousands of times? The weird one kept shifting from color and black and white. “Jimmy chimes in. “He is in it. Like, he is the only one in it. Couldn’t miss that.”

As a photographer, Jimmy has a taste which currently is not totally align with Gotham producers. That’s a touch of crazy and unearthly generally never align the bright and optimistic vibe of Metropolis very well. But what can Clark say, people are drown to mysterious and absurd things. The cologne sells, even the price makes Clark stood in front of the shiny showcase of a high-end perfume store and winced.

There is a big, nice check sent to some kind child protection fundraiser just a while ago after the commercial was released to the market. This is also the reason Wayne agreed for acting, for some reason the director really, really wanted him. Whatever he earns directly goes to that check.

Shame they don’t advertise this fact as much as the product.

“Yeah, yeah, I saw the clip and recognize the face.” Clark surrenders, “it’s hard to not know him. He is practically everywhere.” Even the subway Clark took for work is built with donation from the Wayne.

The man truly is everywhere.

“He was practically everywhere.” Cat corrects. She savors Clark’s confusion before continuing. “Brucie has been unnaturally quiet these days.” She talks about him like good old friends if Clark doesn’t know better.

“How long ago Brucie broke something big and landed himself on the cover of tabloid? What’s the last time you saw him show up in a gala fashionable late and with two flings in his arm? Where are the pretty girls and boys he used to date right now? Where is our favorite Gotham Prince in the past couple of months? Where did he go? What is Brucie Wayne doing except getting lost?”

“Bruce Wayne’s gone missing?”

Over a decade, this man is plastering all over the press and social media. In some way he is embedded in normal people’s lives so much his name becomes a constant. The sudden unbalance due to a small missing piece strikes feral anger in an unfamiliar way deep down of Clark.

Likely sensing Clark sudden changing in mood, Lois speaks up, “What Cat saying is there is not many sightings of Wayne and the gossip section’s started losing business.” She is giving him a curious look and Clark can only return a sheepish smile.

“It couldn’t be that bad,” Clark murmurs.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him for a second and why mentioning Wayne’s name pushes his buttons in such wrong way.

Totally oblivious Cat questions: “What’s the last time dear Brucie been so quiet for extended period of time?”

“Broke his leg and too many ribs and almost got himself killed in a horrible skiing accident? It’s ‘bout couple years ago.”

“But that accident didn’t stop him attending galas Jimmy. Nothing truly stops him having fun. I’m wondering what kind of fun you could’ve by playing died.”

“Then the incident his adopted son died oversea or something.”

Jimmy speaks before he double thinks, and he winces at what comes out of his mouth. There is a fleet moment of silence falling down on this small gossip circle.

“Wayne did not show up in Wayne Enterprise Christmas and New year gala last year,” Lois thoughtfully adds,” I couldn’t think of last time he misses something this big.”

“Like never,” Cat agrees, “he may very well not attend the Easter one, I’m afraid, if we don’t find him now.”

It’s questionable whether Cat really likes Wayne, but his presence seems to make her job easier since anything Wayne does sells, may it be another scandal or Wayne Enterprise’s newest product info release he reads from cards. However, if Clark remembers correctly Wayne probably only showed up in half of the galas he’s supposed to attend and the ones he did show up, he is fashionable late, both makes it hard to drive anything useful from Wayne even you’re lucky to catch him before he gets too drunk.

There’re ups and downs in the consistency of Wayne’s public appearance, like the incident of Wayne’s second son, although the entire story is somehow vague about what’s the boy really did where he went, and if he truly ended up dead and what role Wayne’s playing. Too many mysteries to even keep the narrative straight for Clark’s like. The only thing for sure is the boy is gone.

Thinking about it leaves a bad taste in Clark and from what he heard through the years this might be another skeleton in Wayne’s closets. Superman or not, it’s simply impossible to discover all the rich people’s dirty secrets.

But Wayne always managed to attend his “important” galas, no matter if it’s bad weather, criminals running lose in downtown or supervillains come in, busted the parties, abducted him and demand for money. So, on second thought it seems odd for Wayne starts gone missing now.

Whatever.

“Is it that long?”

Christmas was two months ago and now is the beginning of March. The commercial plagued Clark’s dreams came out early February. Then there are short video clips took during the filming of the commercial and had Wayne talking about his acting and other irreverent gossip materials randomly released to the internet over the next couple months.

To Clark, Wayne seems always being around.

He somehow has this ghost feeling of always connecting to him. Wayne is always around.

At least, in dreams.

“Yep.” Cat announces. “I believe it’s perfect time for our world best investigators gathered a team to unearth and exploit what secret Brucie Wayne is hiding from the world. It’s the next Pulitzer Prize material. I declare a hunting competition!”

“Whoa, it’s so exciting.” Lois teases and finishes her morning coffee and throws the paper cup in the trash can hidden under the nearby desk. She straights her posture and says: “Unfortunately I got some bigger fish to fry but good luck on your prince hunting Cat.”

She turns, “And you, big boy, are going to help me catch them.” Lois smiles, fierce and determined, beautiful forever.

“What a shame.” Cat lets out an exaggerated sign and grabs a yelping Jimmy by collar before makes her exit. “You won’t know what’s you missing Lois!”

“Oh sure I won’t.” Lois purrs.

After Lois and Clark get back to their desks, which is quite a walk considering Clark bumped into their unconventional group gossip in the break room at far end of the hall, and where other people either busy with their own work or don’t care about their small talks, Lois causally asks. “Someone occupies your mind?”

A statement rather than a true question. Leaving no room for hiding and impossible to deflect.

“I am good, and you?” Clark tries anyway.

Lois is not swayed. “I’m used to think that’s your prickly friend from reading club starts killing you these days, but I could be wrong, couldn’t I?”

“I won’t say you are wrong.” Clark sheepishly replies.

Batman has remained as a main cause of Clark’s brooding moods for past few months because they didn’t part on good terms before Batman completely dropped off the grid and Clark still deals its consequence till today. He is going to deal with the missing Bats tonight and few foreseeable nights, in which just to think about what’s he is going to face for the incoming League meeting is slowly killing him inside. What Clark really needs right now is flying to Gotham and finding Batman and demanding answers even if it means tear the entire city apart or turn it completely upside down to achieve his goals.

But that’s mad man talking.

The old lead painting and other horrendous old architectures are shielding their vigilante under their wings. There is a reason Superman doesn’t show up in Gotham sky so frequently despite the fact that Gotham has its own kind protector.

And what’s worse than pulling Batman out of Gotham and talking to him (if by any luck they don’t land with yelling contest or something even worse)? It’s NOT finding him there.

The possibility of finding him and never finding him are both so dreadful is hurtful to think about.

Something the hero community kept thinking all the time but never felt enough is about retirement. When should they stop? How can they stop? Where are they going to stop? All these questions just are to answer, if not thinking about it. This line of work could be bright as is dangerous and dark. Countless times not only toying with the possibility but facing the horrible facts that his teammates were actually dying, Clark is still not immune to the angst these questions bring.

He knew people could die and he saw people died.

Sometimes he does wish his heart is bullet proofing too. Maybe too much to ask.

But thinking Batman is dead feels like a bizarre reality. This man is made of sheer will power and determination and fueled by spite and vengeance, as Lantern would like to ramble, he is unstoppable. Like a hurricane. There is nothing that could stand between him and justice.

If it means to cheat the death to achieve his goal, Batman for sure will find his way.

Then comes the secretive and seclusive. Clark never knew how many tricks he had hidden in his sleeves and no matter what desperate situations the League and the world got themselves in, Batman has a plan.

Yes, he always has a plan to save the day.

Clark thinks that’s really some points tore people apart and make them mad when it comes to Batman’s plans are the undeniable causes for an almost destruction of the League and endanger the world.

So many levels of betrayal, in another words.

People don’t deal with betrayal kind. It’s something that shake their core and shatter their worlds.

But Batman is only a man. A man could die, and would die, given time. Nothing lasts forever, even a Kryptonian under yellow sun has their limits. This contrary is something Clark constantly struggle to balance and without any certainly if Batman is alive or not is slowly killing him. He couldn’t image B has died. Like how? A sunken island is not something they have not seen in the past and hardly ranked top 10 most deathly situations they ever been in.

“You’re worried about him.”

Lois whispers, the hand she is wrapping Clark’s arm radiating warmth and safety. The faint omega scent she pushes out converting sincere kindness, love and care smooths Clark’s nerve.

“It’s okay to worry about another man even if he hurt you. You are allowed to do so, and you are such a good man. But sometimes you need to let him go to do you own good.”

“Lo.” Clack signs. The last thing he needs now is his best friend acting as his personal therapist.

“I’m not saying he didn’t deserve this.” Lois pauses for a second, mischievously adding. “Not yet.”

“Things are complicated.” Clark murmurs while pinching the bridge of his nose.

Lois knew he was attacked and injured in the last crisis since she was the one to help to cover Clark’s track when he was missing in action and took care of him after the crisis ended. There are not enough thanks Clark could pay her for going this far helping him.

Sometimes Clark wishes he could hold her, kiss her, build a life and family around her like old stories of alpha and omega do. Very selfish thoughts, but.

There was no lack of trying. Just failed. Some itches cannot be scrab the right way, so they kept things open back then till they faded into background.

They are family. Just some small piece missing in their relationship to make the entire thing really work out doesn’t mean they will forego everything they built till today. They’re still family in the end.

“Do tell.” Lois laughs. “What’s the matter with Bruce Wayne then?”

“Wha-what?”

“I just heard some interesting facts about you keep going over some Brucie Wayne’s clips like five minutes ago.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Last time I checked, Mr. Wayne is still ranked as most eligible bachelor among the country, so if somebody wants to try his luck, he could always help himself.”

Tip of his ears is burning, Clark gasps, “I’m not in his league.”

“I would say it’s actually another way around.”

“I have a kid.”

“He has more.”

“Doesn’t he own this place?” Clark dramatically gestures everything around him and exclaims. “He is our Boss.”

“Yeah, like he would remember he bought Daily Planet in last decade. I wonder if he remembers what he got last week.” Lois chucks. “It’s not like you are asking Perry out.”

“Don’t say it. You are giving me most horrify nightmare in my lifetime.” Clark grimaces.

“Come on, big boy. You are free of parenting duty for this week and may also be the next if I feel generous. And you know what, I am feeling very good now.”

You should take this opportunity to see someone. Her undertone says.

Nothing could stop Lois setting him up. She probably waits forever for this moment. Lois is seizing Clark up and bold enough to not hide her wandering gaze. “I would say you may not be in his typical type, but what’s the fun to be a rich guy if not to try out all the best things the world could offer.”

“I thought I just heard he is kind of out of town.” Clark counters drily.

Right now, a real headache starts to build behind his eyes. Being Man of Steel but not immune with jokes your best friend throws at you, what a crude world. “Come on Lo, I never really speak with that man before. Don’t even know him at all.”

“Better stay that way, Smallville. He’s just your average mindless billionaire with a pretty face.” Sounds like speaking with experience, then Clark starts to recall she has met Wayne a few times for interviews. “Well, a very attractive face.” Lois contemplates.

Clark grudgingly finds himself agrees.

Chapter Text

Gotham is getting more interesting these days.

If anyone would like to ask Clark’s opinions.

In the past few days, he spent more time than he likes in that dark, twisted, and gloomy sister city of Metropolis. It’s a wonder how Batman managed to tame her in past decades. Without her loyal guard and knight, the crime is threatened to rear its ugly head. Nothing major has yet happened, but given the time, Clark is not so sure it could be always this quiet.

At least the sub columns talking about dropping bodies of policeman in Gotham from Clark’s morning paper has a say to it. But it’s Gotham, there always are died bodies lingered around in random corners.

Clark is having a hard time deciding whether Superman should engage in this situation.

It all comes back to Batman’s era of *cough cough* “minding your own business” and “leaves Gotham to me” *cough cough*. Superman should only show up in Gotham in strict order of Bat to avoid being more trouble worth than help. Things tend to be more gray than black and white in Gotham and make his line of work a lot harder. You cannot seek justice without breaking a couple of ethical rules. The corrupt police force is definitely not helping. High society is even worse.

Batman tames Gotham and the same vise verse.

Back in time Clark tried to respect his boundary and work style because despite the possibility that they may never become friends, they’re at least colleagues and allies.

Is this still standing true?

Especially when considering how Batman betrayed the league and went off of picture for so long.

Not being friends nor alliance do not make them enemies.

Being Batman’s enemies is going to be catastrophic in some way. Clark sulks. Batman being paranoid and making a handful contingency plans to take down his allies, disastrous, and it’s the ultimate reason leading them to today. Batman actively and furiously making attack plans against the League? It somehow tastes like World War III and Superman is not amused.

There are always some wrongness hugging the edge of Clark’s thoughts whenever he must think about Batman. He cannot put his finger on it and it’s also so frustrating in his subconscious he may not always be on the moral high in this process. He feels guilty and it’s shockingly ridicules.

It’s very subtle comes to relationships. May it be romantic or work.

Life is so complicated, and Clark doesn’t know how the average person handles it, making himself feel so alien, apparently, he is the only one thinking this way in the League. Well, considering the composition of the League, they have aliens, demigoddess, mutated superpower user and etc., he may not be that bad.

Nonetheless, without the dark knight’s patrolling, Gotham is not left vulnerable. A group of young associated with Batman steps up and takes control of situations. Nightwing, Robin, and … Red Hood, if Clark’s research turns out to be correct.

Isn’t Red Hood some kind of crime-lord? He definitely makes himself on top of the police wanted list. He didn’t wear his iconic red hood, probably as camouflage to avoid being spotted as a criminal and blowing up the meeting, but his build and other details matched.

How Red Hood showed up on that night and was teamed with other two vigilantes are a mystery to Clark, nonetheless the enraged young alpha did have a red bat symbol on his chest, and he seems to deeply care about Batman to be there in person even though he was not so much a fan of the League.

Clark doubts if the other two share the same feelings toward the League. Nightwing was friendly enough to make small talk and Robin was not impressed, he kept feeding in facts to support Nightwing in the entire conversation, otherwise he was quiet observing Diana and Clark from a distance.

The good thing was none of them started any yelling contests or caused any trouble on that night. Red Hood had an attitude, but he didn’t really speak other than sneering a lot. Clark has a hunch that he maybe has some sort of agreement with Nightwing to let the other leads. There’re good couple times Clark was spotting him on edge about yelling liars in their face and breaking the talk to a fist fight.

After confirming both parties had no idea where Batman had been or gone, the conversation pretty much ended there. They reached an agreement to exchange info on Batman’s whereabout if either party catches some news. Clark didn’t leave the message that Batman was voted out to them, other than it’s the League’s business they don’t need to explain it to outsiders, Clark didn’t think it’s a good idea to tell anyway.

These young guys held respect and deeply cared about Batman. Batman in MIA had stressed them out already and Clark didn’t need to be the last straw to break the bad news.

But it’s not like if they’re asking for help to make Gotham safe Superman would say no. He is more than happy to lend a hand but it’s going to be complicated when you kick their associate, if not the leader thinking about the age and experience, out of the group chat and still want to be friends with the rest.

If these young vigilantes are anything like Batman, Clark would say being paranoid would be on the top of the list.

Could anything be simple and easy with the Bat?

Apparently not.

Someone is demanding Superman when Clark is about to retire tonight.

-X-

March in Metropolis could be nice and beautiful, but it’s just not tonight. There was a bit of rain during the day and the sky is still mostly cloudy at night. This makes everything a touch bit darker than usual and definitely a lot colder.

The wind on top of skyscraper is chill to bones, but sane people won’t want meet Superman on rooftop at this unholy hour.

The last person who did something like this is Batman.

It’s going to be very helpful if this Batman makes his mysterious appearance in the night of Metropolis. It’s still troubles he brings, that’s for sure, Bat never simply hangs around for no good reason, but that’s kind of troubles Superman know how to handle.

This is different, not only because Clark has absolutely no idea who is this one perching at the edge of the rooftop. He wears an armor covered from head to toe with a white cape, two swords visible on his back, no other weapons could be seen. He is looking at Clark’s direction before he gets close.

The neon lights from other high buildings and streets lights so far down below them is not enough to illuminate their surround, though it doesn’t bother either of them.

“Superman,” the stranger greets with a hint of challenge, seizing him up, body postured in a way ready to charge at a blink of eye.

He looks like a seasoned fighter, Clark thinks, certainly not his typical rival. Nobody sane is thinking of taking down Superman only by material arts, or Lex Luthor would make himself the greatest material art master in history. Clark doesn’t think it’s going to happen any time soon.

To take down Superman, one needs either a big gun or a hand full of kryptonite.

None of these two is on display right now, if the other wants to talk, so be it.

“Who are you?” Superman is floating in the middle of the air, arm crossed, “what do you want?”

Not every day someone calling Superman with a specifically designed ultra-sonic device blow the message in a frequency only could be caught either by special receiver or superhuman hearing. When someone goes all the troubles do this only means a lot more troubles are waiting down the line.

The stranger could be the very trouble incarnated.

It’s hard to read people when you can’t see their face nor smell their scents. The stranger must use some very strong scent blocker and neutralizer to be this scentless, thinking it as a compliment given Superman’s nose.

Almost like a ghost, if he is not standing right in front of Clark and he is seeing him with his very eyes.

That’s put Clark on guard.

If someone doesn’t come to Superman for help, then the trouble probably is.

Just before Clark starts to speculate what kind of superpowers or ability this stranger might have, he answers.

“I have no interest in meeting you nor we shall meet, but there we are. We can make this as quick as possible,” says the stranger. “Tell me everything you know about Kryptonian pregnancy and abortion measures, and I will be on my way.”

What the hell? Clark is stunted, “why in the world you need that kind of knowledge?”

The stranger is not impressed and dangerously lowering his center of weight. Being with Diana and Batman long enough makes Clark know how to read a fighter’s posture when they make a show of intimidation and threatening.

The stranger is not about to use violence to sort out their difference but it’s a close call if Clark doesn’t keep the conversation going, so he is holding himself and clearing his throats.

“This kind of knowledge is useless except you’re a Kryptonian. But Krypton is long gone, it makes me the last survivor. I think this kind of knowledge becomes very personal; don’t you think?” Clark grimaces, he himself never thinks about looking up to this kind of thing until Lois’s pregnant with Jon.

Apparently, Kryptonian is used to be a galaxy level immigrating species and colonized many planets in its history. It has this weird ability that could fail other compatible species’ contraception mechanisms and facilitate a cycle.  Aphrodisiac in a secret way. The other won’t realize what’s happening until the conception already happened. Another wonderful reason why Kryptonian shifts to reproduce in Genesis chamber to monitor unwelcome outsider’s genes.

Until that very moment, Clark knew human contraception doesn’t work very well with Krypton biology and it doesn’t matter which party takes it.

One of his most memorable mistakes, never paying enough attention to his Kryptonian biology class and simply assuring it’s the same as the earth.

Clark is very lucky he is not very sex active since he grows up and the karma only caught upon with him until few years back.

Though he never regrets having Jon and Jon is a ray of sunshine but just they never planned. Pure surprise.

But Clark is not someone who repeats his mistakes, he has been careful, and he has not seen anyone for a long time. Lois stopped share her heat with him for a good couple of years and this morning he checked, she was not pregnant.

No way there is a Kryptonian pregnancy happening without his acknowledgement, and Clark wonders if any mad scientist will be bold enough to ask him in his face about how Kryptonian reproduce.

… that must be the part of abortion comes in, right? That brings more suspicious questions about why someone wants to know specifically about Kryptonian abortion measures.

“You need proof. Fine. I could give you one.” The stranger acts like reading Clark’s mind. He throws a ball of a folded handkerchief in Clark’s direction.

Clark catches the handkerchief before realizing he is catching it. All his mind and senses are focused on one and only thing, the faint and dull scent lingered on the handkerchief.

It could be hours, even days past since the handkerchief caught the scent. The scent on it is almost gone if not for Clark’s super sense. The stranger must prepare it in such a way that eliminates the possibility of Clark recognizing the owner by the scents only, but still leaves enough traces for Superman to know what he is smelling.

It’s the faint bittersweet of burnt sugar and complex cinnamon spice scent, something so sickly sweet and warm and dangerous and yelling in the hollow wind. It’s the distress and desperation whispers, and they are saying dangerous words.

Too bad Clark pins down the owner of scents in a blink of eye.

If Clark hadn’t recognized it in his dreams, he startling knows right now.

What provokes him to feel so protective and possessive, well, the answer may be very simple.

A Kryptonian pregnancy.

As the last son of Krypton, it’s very likely he is the sire.  

Clark is shocked and horrified.

How could that even be possible?

“Ready to talk or not?” The stranger cruelly reminds him, impatience and annoyance bleeding out of his harsh voice. “I don’t have all day.”

Chapter Text

“What did you do to him? How that even be possible?”

Clark blurs out, loudly. Without thinking straight, certainly.

Clark could tell the moment his reply left his mouth has turned the conversation in an unpredictable route and now the other party is furiously glaring at him and slowly drawing out his sword. He no longer hides his hostility and aggressiveness, which is no way good.

“So you know.” The stranger’s attention is dangerously narrowed on him.

There’s a tint of green on the edge of his blade. The familiar nauseous threatening rising from his stomach tells Clark this sword is painted with Kryptonite. He can feel the phantom pain before the blade cuts him open.

The dose is not high enough to render Superman useless, but good enough to make him uncomfortable and alerted.

Clark backs down and flies higher in instinct. A grapple gun is shot at Clark at the exact moment and the hook mercilessly latches on to his angle. Clark is yanked and throw back toward the stranger. What is waiting for him is nothing other than the Kryptonite embedded sword.

The sword is not aiming at killing Clark at this very moment but it’s a close call. This gives Clark some leeway to clumsy avoid being cut off some limbs.

This dangerous dance only continues for barely seconds before Clark cuts down the grapple line with his heat vision and fights his way out.

Now Superman is back to float in the middle of air and put some good distance between himself and the other, holding his hand up to show he has no intention of further engage.

He doesn’t want to fight, like at all. Even though the stranger is pissed off by one sentence said wrong from Superman, but he comes here for info that only Superman could provide. He is not getting anywhere if he kills Superman in the process.

Clark knows this as well.

He tries to control the damage.

“I don’t want to fight you. I’m just confused,” says Clark honestly. “It’s just… never mind. I know what I smell, and it is real. I will try my best to understand what’s going on.”

There are artificial alpha and omega scents in the market and some black-market brands are so strong to cover people’s real caste. But the thing about scents is that even the best chemists and biologists couldn’t fake some random person’s scents, even though it’s all broken down into chemicals and pheromones. The ratio is too complicated to make the scents smell right. It’s all about impressions and different people have different interpretations.

There is no way someone could fake an omega scent with undertone of Kryptonian pregnancy… wait.

“He is not an omega.” Clark frowns.

Bruce Wayne is a Beta, though the tabloid whispered he’s supposed to turn out to be an Omega in his twenties, since the Wayne family is an ancient line to breed strong Alphas and Omegas. If Wayne is still in his twenties, he might be a late bloomer for his presentation. But if he went un-presented for his entire teenage years and young adulthood he is not going to present right now. It’s too late to be possible, and it’s not uncommon for pups exposed to extreme conditions when grow up go un-presented for their entire life.

Maybe Clark reads everything wrong, though it couldn’t get any better to involve an unknown omega in this dreadful situation. It’s pretty solid evidence that indicates the other has encountered an omega carrying a possible Kryptonian baby.

But the stranger confirms him, unhappily. “He is not.” He tries to conceal his frustration, but Clark wouldn’t say it’s very successful. “He is fucked up.” There is hatred in these words, part of it directed at Clark.

Clark drifts lower to meet with the other eye to eye.

“Tell me what you know and how to get rid of it.” The stranger squares himself and demands.

“I must see him in person to evaluate the situation.” Clark frowns while explaining. “Kryptonian pregnancy is complicated and could become very different from the regular human one. I need to see him to know which stage he is in. Please bring him to me.”

“Not going to happen.” The stranger counters.

“Then bring me to him.” Clark replies.

The stranger doesn’t fancy this idea either. They are glaring at each other for quite a while and in the meantime, the other must re-evaluate the possibility to torture Superman to get whatever he needs.

Clark is not going to simply hand over any things to unknown and possible hostile party and like he said, Kryptonian pregnancy is complicated and there is no way he could explain it in short time. He is prepared to start round two.

However, one of sudden, the stranger changes his mind. Something happened and upset the stranger, but Clark detects nothing changed from their surroundings. Must from some inbuilt comm in his headpiece and outsiders are feeding him information. Clark picks up some tiny fuzzy noise originated from the other.

So, it’s a team. Clark assumes.

“Fine.” The stranger huffs, sounding more toward his backup than Superman. He turns and leaves. Clark follows. There is a white and shining high-tech vehicle parked in the back streets and stranger hops on it, takes the lead and heads in the direction of Gotham.

Ghost-Maker, it’s what the stranger refers to himself. He says before he gets in the car as self-introduction.

Clark takes it as a truce and gives a nod.

When Ghost-Maker races toward his hide-out, Clark flies high in the sky. He takes his time to leave some messages in case he is lured to a trap and needs backup. He doesn’t think it’s necessary, but he needs to take cautious in case he is dealing with a new, probably not entirely legal, unregistered and unknown organization. He will delete these messages when he comes back in one piece tonight.

Funny thing to think that Clark was not always so careful in the past. Maybe the crisis from last year did a number on him. Or the absurd situation is getting on his nerves.

Clark is still not comfortable thinking about how Bruce Wayne got involved and ended up being pregnant with a Kryptonian baby. It must be some mad scientist’s experiment but still comes with a question “why him”?

Your average mindless billionaire sometimes could be a laugh in gossip magazine, but he doesn’t deserve this.

Back to think about experimenting… the Man of Steel does bleed no matter how rare it is. It’s highly possible that some unknown entity collects Clark’s blood and does experiments on it. The thought alone makes Clark sick. He should be more careful with his own flesh and blood in the future if he doesn’t want to end up with an army of children without his consent running free.

If Clark wants to revive Krypton, he has so many better ways to do it other than this.

Ghost-Maker’s hide-out is a house on the skirt of Gotham. The house itself looks plain and normal. There’s quite a distance between its neighbors, and an awful lot of trees and bushes. Nobody will have clue about some mysterious men coming in and out.

The garage door silently opens when Ghost-Maker hits the driveway. He parks there and leaves the garage open.

Superman descends from the sky and walks into that dark garage. No lights turned on until the garage door is fully shut behind him. Then, a door silently opens and a path leading to the basement is shown. There are strips of LED lights automatically turned on to light the path.

A slight burnt smell is floating in the air.

Something is not right.

The path spiraled to basement isn’t long. Only took seconds for Clark to get through. It’s a large space divided into multiple sections. Passing the entrance there are monitors hanging high on the wall and consoles beneath them. And other devices and large equipment. Training area. Mini chemical lab and med bay. It’s a well-stocked headquarters. Or something similar to it, whatever it’s supposed to be.

But not a wreck.

The lights are flashing above. Monitors are displaying red warning signs. Wires are broken out from boxes and cut out. Something crashed and left broken pieces all over the ground. Couple doors are clearly busted and hanging half open. One has a staircase behind it, probably leading to the upstairs. Before Clark could manage a word, Ghost-Maker disappears behind the door.

Clark turns back to what is in front of him and starts investigating. The basement is quiet, and he cannot hear anything other than humming of the computers and machines. Whoever used to occupy this place is long gone.

He flies to the mini med bay first. There are a few drops of blood dried on the ground and scalpel and forceps tinged with dark red tossed aside. Whoever stepped on the blood and left a couple of blurred footprints must be barefoot. Everything implies that someone using the medical tools to cut open the flesh and take something out, but there is no bullet to be found … oh, there is a waste of smashed chip nearby.

So, it’s a tracker.

Clark turns around and finds the back corner of the basement is isolated by transparent glass walls. Inside it has a shower, toilet and bed, looks like a confinement room. There are hookers and leather strips installed on the concrete walls and IV stand. With close inspection, broken manacles dangling near the bed. There’s blood left on manacles. Someone was restrained in this room cut themself when try to get out.

And this someone, no doubt is Bruce Wayne.

He spent long enough staying on this bed, the blankets and pillows hazardously laid on the bed are soaked with his bittersweet scents. It’s the same scents he sniffs in his dreams and from the handkerchief, but with intensity and complexity. The scents are still fresh, couldn’t be hours old. Clark could distinguish every subtle detail in the scents and changing moods along with them. He could tell there was sadness, distress, fear, protection and determination, burnt like acid to his nose, making Clark feel sad and angry at the same time.

There is also something alarming about Wayne’s scents, on some instinctual level Clark believes, but couldn’t tell. But one thing for sure, he is carrying a Kryptonian pup, and it smells like Clark’s. It’s a unique undertone of the scents, like something to distinguish between family and outsiders. Clark is no stranger to it and there is no need to avoid the fact. Though he still doesn’t get how and why.

Superman or not, Clark is not about to shy away from his responsibilities. He may not know Wayne much, but whatever is concerned Krypton is his responsibility.

The first question.

“Where did you go?” He murmurs.

“Mr. Batman has left 56 minutes ago.” An engineered voice kindly replies. “Although I have not located his whereabouts yet.”

Clark jerks his head up, only sees monitors displaying a floating white ghost shape figure on the screen in distance, both surprised by sudden voice and the mention of Batman.

“Batman has been here?” Clark zooms close, stares at the monitor. “Did he take Bruce Wayne away?”

This is definitely the least possible place to hear Batman’s name that Clark could ever imagine. Is this all three months long MIA about? Trying to focus and solve a missing person case?

On second thought, Batman did seem to drop off the grid the same period when Bruce Wayne stopped showing.

It’s not Clark saying a missing person case is not important but from whatever he knows about Wayne in media and Batman in person, these two never speak good for each other. Although this doesn’t mean these two have any history, it’s simply never on anybody’s mind to put these two together in the same picture. They don’t belong.

But a case is a case. It makes sense why Batman dives so deep to save someone.

Suddenly hearing your missing (former) colleague’s name surprises Clark, giving him complicated feelings about kicking the other out of the League while Batman was working on saving people, although he knows that’s not all his decision back then. There’s a vote. It’s fair.

Or as fair as it could be.

“I’m not sure what you are asking. Do you mean…” The voice sounds like to illiterate the question but gets cut down by a stern call.

“Icon.”

Ghost-Maker walks out behind the door he disappears to. Clark is too distracted to notice his approach.

“Yes, master.”

So, Batman broke Bruce Wayne out like an hour ago when Ghost-Maker was in Metropolis talking to Superman. That’s sufficient time for Batman to retreat to a safe house in Gotham.

Through the years knowing each other, Superman may once or twice ask Batman’s opinions about his resident billionaire, just in case Wayne is not as evil as Luthor. “He’s irrelevant” is the most what Clark coaxed out from the reclusive Bats despite other subtle insults/reply before himself started get questioned about why one of sudden Superman was interested. There are couple times Wayne was saved by Batman and made to the headlines. It’s safe to say the Bats at least tolerates the billionaire through the years. Therefore, it’s unlikely that Batman will harm him or want him to be harmed.

He broke him out for good.

That makes who restrains Wayne at this place in a bad position. Who clearly is Ghost-Maker.

But this also introduces more questions, like why he seeks help from Superman if he is the one contains Wayne in the first place? How is he related to the pregnancy? It’s not like you could conduct experiments in this small operation base. This means Bruce Wayne was transferred here after conception.

It's not like Ghost-Maker is about to answer any of these.

He doesn’t talk about what he has found upstairs or anything but only says.

“He won’t be able to get far.” Ghost-Maker asks, “how about you track him down?”

Batman or Bruce Wayne? Clark isn’t so sure which one they’re talking about now. But it’s hard to track down the vigilante on any good days, Ghost-Maker should know this, the billionaire should be an easier one to start with.

Take a deep breathe, Clark briefly closes his eyes and expands his hearing. Thousands of sounds of people talking, passing, leaves and branches shuffling, wind blowing, water dripping down, and more cross Clark’s mind, but yet he finds anything useful.

He needs something to locate the billionaire, something very special, one of a kind.

Superman opens his eyes, asking.

“Do you have record on Wayne’s heartbeat by any chance?”

-x-

Some time ago.

The headlight catches a slender silhouette far away down the road.

“Do you see a guy down there?” The gangster sits on the passenger murmurs in surprise. “What’s the fuck?”

“Yeah.” The driver nonchalantly replies. “Weird.”

Getting closer, it’s clearly a man walking toward them. It’s hard to make out what his face is like, but he has a disheveled appearance.

His clothes look too clean to be homeless. More like a runaway, but he doesn’t shy away from the blind headlight fast approaching. He stands there watching the van fast approaching.

Maybe he wants to hitch a lift.

A thought crosses the gangster’s mind. “Stop! Stop!” He yells to the driver, with a sick smile showing on his face.

The driver complains but obeys. “What fuck are you thinking? It’s not a good idea you know?”

“Shut up. I will give you a cut. He looks like a good catch.” The gangster puts his right hand on his hip, where the gun is hiding, before rolling down the window and sticking his head out to check.

Oh, this one looks good, has a pretty face. The cloth he wears are loose and ill-fitted. Some random leaves stick out from his hair and coat. Like he just passed through some bushes.

“Hey.” The gangster greets, cannot withhold the greedy smile crossing his face. “What are you doing outside this late? Going anywhere? You know, it kinda cold out there.”

The man looks at him, doesn’t answer but only hums, like dream walking. It’s hard to tell if he realizes the other is talking to him.

The gangster licks his lip. “We’re heading to Gotham. Wanna’ ride?”

The mention of Gotham somehow catches the man’s attention, but he only silently stares at the gangster. With his silent icy blue eyes, it starts getting creepy.

“Anyone with you?” The gangster keeps talking just to make the one-sided conversation go. Maybe to ease his own nerves. He gets out the truck and approaches the man. The other doesn’t finch when he suddenly grabs him, but frowns. He is oddly calm with everything happening to him.

The gangster can see the man very good now and he gets a hold of his natural scents.

It’s sweet, like caramel and cinnamon sugar but with a burnt bitterness in it. Omega. But there is something behind the lovely sweetness and calling on instincts. The gangster’s sight involuntarily drifts lower until meeting with one hand holding on the other’s stomach.

The bump becomes hard to ignore if you know where to look.

A pregnant male omega.

That’s a rare sight for sure. The gangster doesn’t know if he ever saw one before tonight. If not on television.

It’s gonna sell. He knows. Like a ton.

There’s no short supply of perverts who wish to have a taste of this. He is not gonna deny. They will pay handsome for it. He will be rich.

“Good. Good. That’s going to be great. You’re coming with me, sweetheart. Now walk.” He pulls the omega. Surprisingly, the other doesn’t move an inch. It can’t be. “I said walk!” The gangster snarls, drawing out the gun. This close, the muzzle is un-avoidantly pointed to the other’s belly.

The other is startled. His eyes dart back and forth between the gangster and the gun, face confused. He turns his head around to see the driver, but the driver only watches with cold eyes.

First time this night, some real reaction is drawn out from the man. He clutches his belly with both hands in instinct. There’s a flicker of ice-cold sober flashing deep down in his crystal blue eyes. For a split second, he is almost intimidating.

This moment past too fast for the gangster to realize what’s happening but he suddenly gets a chill and starts to hurry things up.

He pulls and pushes the man with gun shakily pointed to him, forcing the other getting to the end of the van.

“Give me a hand!” The gangster yells at the driver. The driver reluctantly gets up of his seat and gets to the end of the van to open the back door.

The light is automated switched on in trunk, revealing five young and scared faces. They all scramble away from the door, making small scary noises. No one is tied up, but none dares to run.

After the man is forced to crawl in the trunk, the door’s shut behind him with blunt force and locked.

There are no seats in the trunk, and nothing to hold on to. The man can only sit on the floor like other scared boys and girls. He doesn’t bother to get close to the others, just stays in the corner.

The gangster gets back to his sits and opens the small observation window.

“Quiet!” He barks, satisfied when his voice causes another round of panic in his hostages. “We’re going to arrive at our destination in forty minutes. Then I will drop you, all of you. You’re going to make me rich.”

With a roar of the engine, the van starts to move.

Chapter Text

Dick and Tim have no idea what’s coming up. They’re only focused on two things right now, catching the mysterious killer running free in Gotham and finding Bruce.

It seems Dick gets some clues about the first one, but for the second, none of them getting anywhere.

It’s not like Jason is hundred percent sold on the idea that Bruce is dead. Like he tried to kill the old man, multiple times, with green colored madness and no holding back, before they finally reached some truce. If there is anything Jason learned from the failed attempt murders is that Batman is hard to put down.

And he is not meant to be put down. There is no peace in that man’s mind and peace is nothing he’s seeking.

Hell. He won’t believe Batman is dead until he sees it with his own eyes. Maybe until then, Jason still finds himself hard to believe it even he is holding Bruce’s dead body.

It’s not like he is looking forward to it okay?

No. He never image it. Maybe that’s the exact reason he’s used to hit Bruce so hard because deep down Jason thought Bruce could never die. That’s delirious.

People like Bruce won’t allow himself to stay dead. He will cheat death and crawl back to life to finish his job. Bruce is not the kind of guy who lets others do his own job. He is a man on a mission and never let it go.

One day, they’re going to need to wrestle the mantle out of him to carry on Batman’s legacy. Tim is probably more than willing to do the job. If the boy lives long enough for that day to come.

There is a difference between believing Bruce is alive and let Batman be missing.

People definitely notice. The entire Gotham knows. It’s just a pure miracle the entire city has not yet degraded to chaos and shambles.

Guess the mysterious killer did a good job keep the bad guys in check with blood spilled down the streets, doing what’s supposed to be the Bat’s job.

Jason kind of likes this guy. Killing takes out the causes of chaos and crime in an efficient way. He is used to this means and method when he just came back. It worked for a while but couldn’t permanently remove the evil from this fallen city. The killer has yet to learn this fact, he assumes.

There’s a reason why Batman needs to patrol the city every night to keep the worst monsters at the bay.

Dick needs to take the mantle. Or he will. Someone must do it before it’s too late.

But Jason is afraid they have already run off time. He has not yet heard anything, but the assassins are not supposed to warn you before they strike.

There’s only quietness when a storm comes.

Jason can feel it, but he is not going to announce it. Not like the two is going to believe him. Well if they actually believe, that’s worse. Dick will get so worried about Jason gets back to the League of Assassins and distracted from the real issue. He needs to prepare for… whatever is coming up.

Meanwhile Jason also has a traffic ring needed to bust as soon as possible. The mysterious killer cut down his source of info not only once, but twice this week. Hard to believe is coincidence. There is no coincidence in their line of work. This is an enemy action. Jason doesn’t enjoy getting beaten in his own game. He needs to make a move and make it fast.

In the past few days, Jason caught the wind that a new delivery was about to arrive in Gotham. Took him some effort to pin down the time and location. This time, nobody jumped out from nowhere to cut down his lead or mess up his plan. Almost like fate finally favors Jason for once. But Jason knows better. The mysterious party has been quiet these days. Either they leave the town or plan something big. None is good. He will think about it after he finishes punching some bad guys tonight, letting some steam out.

But things aren’t right.

It’s not like Jason expects those crooks could throw some real punches, but the job gets suspiciously easy. The gangsters make too many rookie errors. They are in some mess before Jason comes in. They forget where their big guns hide. The communication is interrupted. The electricity is down during the middle of the fights and that’s not Jason’s doing. Someone calls the cop earlier than Jason is expected and the cop is on their way when Jason is punching out the number and locations of the victims from some henchmen.

There is not enough time to scoop the entire place up before the cop arrives. Jason barely has time to make sure most victims are physical okay despite been roughed up a bit.

Most of them. The number does not line up. There is one missing. Probably the most valuable “good” tonight. A pregnant Omega male. Truly rare sight, but also very difficult to go missing in any circumstance.

But here he is, still out looking and running out of time. Jason curses under his breath. He only hopes the crooks didn’t transfer him to other location in such short time. They shouldn’t have time to do it.

The siren is getting dangerously closer. Jason must leave soon if he doesn’t want be caught. Busting traffic ring or not, Red Hood has made himself on the GCPD’s wanted list. He is not going to change it tonight. He need to go.

Jason had secured an escape route before he comes in. How coincident, someone shares same thought with him, patiently hiding in the dark corner waiting the final chaos breaking out when the cop enters the front door causing even more chaos than Red Hood does so he could use it as cover to run away.

Jason almost collides into him, barely missing the other when the other steps around at the very last second. Without thinking Jason twists and throws his entire weight to push the other on wall next them. His arm crashes into the other’s chest to pin him down.

Jason bares his teeth at the other in instinct. Anger and burning Alpha scents is rolling off of him and declaring dominance, but he is hit head on with a sick sweet and familiar scents and it’s so strong making his head spin and the growling comes out of his mouth becomes a half confused whine.

“What the fuck...?”

Eyes widen, Jason stares the one he pins against the wall.

The light has broken over their head and the only light to lit up the passage in from the door far away left half-open. Everything is dim but he knows who he is looking at.

But he doesn’t understand. It couldn’t be.

Unconsciously sniffing, Jason inhales another lung full sweet Omega-ish scents. Yes, with close inspection, that’s not Omega if you know where to look, but close enough to fool the most, even Alphas and Omegas with sensitive noses. It’s still hilarious. So he lowers his eyes. Being this close should be hard to see but pressing hard into the other makes him technically “feel” the bump. It’s there. No shit.

“You’re fucking kidding me...”

Looking into the familiar and silent blue eyes, Jason is definitely about to lose his nuts, if not saved by the tumult coming their way.

Shit! The cop must be in.

“Come! We’re not done!” Grabbing the other, Jason darts to the exit and lead the way to his bike hidden in the dark corner. He almost pulls the other to the back seat with too much force than necessary. The other doesn’t bother so Jason won’t care. The bike roars in life and shoots into the dark alley, speeding away, leaving the mess all behind.

At this moment, Jason doesn’t really think too much about where he’s supposed to go, other than the answer would obviously be the Manor. Like hell he is going back to the cave and dump the old man in front of Dick and Tim just to mock them in the face. He probably needs to inform Alfred, in a proper way the English butler truly deserves. Jason doesn’t know how Alfred deals with all those ridicules everyday. It gives him headache just thinking about it.

Why everything is so messy and complicated? Even death couldn’t make anything in this family simpler.

Jason isn’t even sure he is mad or relieved or frustrated or something.

He needs to let the steam out before he gets to decide his next move, which, frankly, may not be as plenty as he might like.

Twisting the handle, it’s satisfied to see the speed racing climbing higher. Wind howling around him, Jason finally feels like hold on to some control.

It’s toxic. Feeling he could let everything go in blinking of eye and having absolutely control over it. That’s madness talking.

But there is a constant presence hugging him, radiating warmth, keeping pulling Jason back to harsh reality, holding him down to the earth like an silent anchor.

“You can’t let anything go, huh?” Jason murmurs, knowing the other won’t hear him in the back seat. He almost signs, changing his direction to the suburbs of Gotham, trying to enjoy the quiet before the storm.

Unfortunately, Jason doesn’t make very far.

Superman floating in the middle of empty road, waiting, is something very hard to ignore.

Chapter Text

When Clark suggests a record of Wayne’s heartbeat, he doesn’t put much hope on it.

Even everyone has a unique heartbeat pattern, it’s still hard to simply recognize one by listening. It’s even harder to distinguish one from thousands, if not millions. That’s like separating a drop of water in the sea.

There’s a reason why Clark only remembers a handful of people’s heartbeats by heart even with his eidetic memory. He can only wish the Kryptonian baby (or fetus) has a heartbeat pattern unique enough for him to differentiate. Or whatever Krypton instincts kick in would give him a shot to instantly know when he looks out.

Jon’s heartbeat definitely etched in his mind the first time Clark heard it. That’s his baby. It means a ton, both in feelings and in biology.

But deep down, Clark knows that’s a far fetch. A successful Kryptonian pregnancy could be very much passed as a human one, so the same goes with baby’s heartbeat.

It turns out, it’s not the baby’s heartbeat Superman could different flood of people, it’s Wayne’s. It’s so easy, and it becomes concerning.

Neither Superman nor Clark Kent has ever been close to Wayne. He is familiar with Wayne only on the base of general public knowledge. Clark might speak to this man couple times but that’s for job and the conversations were quick and superficial. It’s safe to say they’re strangers.

For right now, Clark is not going to complain. He could always figure this mystery out when he is free. In hinder sight, this strange familiarity may be related to why he keeps dreaming about Wayne in past couple months. Clark shoves all the thoughts to back of his mind in order to concentrating his hearing on Wayne.

From what Clark could tell, currently Wayne is moving fast and far away from the base of the Ghost-Maker, and there is another heartbeat close to him.  Must be on some vehicle, but that much is expected. He cannot run away without any help, entering Batman. Everything is lined up nicely.

Clark takes off immediately after he is sure the one he is listening is no other than Wayne. He flies high in the sky, using the height as his advantage to locate which way Batman and Wayne is heading, and waits them at the middle of the road before they could change the route.

It will only take few seconds for both speeding parties met head on.

Clark is surprised to see whoever taking Wayne is not the dark knight.

Since there’s no way Batman knowing Superman is coming after him, or Wayne more accurately, Clark shouldn’t feel being avoided.

The screeches of the bike interrupts Clark’s thought. The smell of burning tires suddenly fills the air, but hardly covering up the bitter and aggressive Alpha scents rolling off from the biker. Clark pulls on a straight face, looking directly into the biker’s eyes, or the white lenses on the red hood the biker is wearing, sizing him up.

The young Alpha clearly taking Superman’s appearance as a threat. He crouches down a bit and leans forward on the bike, one hand firmly grasping the throttle, and another dangerous down to the hostler hooked on his tight, judging whether he should shoot Superman or run him over. The posture makes the young man seems bigger than he actually is, almost blocking the entire view of Wayne, who is silently sitting behind him. Scents of frustration, anger and spite keep rolling off him, making him more aggressive and dangerous, giving Clark a good impression how much he hates his surprise visitor.

“What do you want.” The biker spites, doesn’t bother to be polite.

“Red Hood.” Clark says in a calm voice, floating lower to make the conversation easier, but still a good foot above the ground to maintain the height difference. “I believe we’ve met the other night. “

Even without a proper introduction and the outfit has changed for the other, this is clear the same anger young Alpha Clark has met with another two Gotham’s vigilantes, if not more angrier. Clark doesn’t need to ask for his name, the signature headgear the young man wearing is a dead give-away.

The meeting on the other night was tense because both parties had no idea where was Batman and why he was MIA and presumed the other holding back the important intel. In the end they did wrap up the conversation in a semi agreement to inform the other if Batman has been found, Clark would say he is the one supposed to feel offended for those Gotham vigilantes didn’t hold on to their end of the deal.

“I think you forget to send a message in about you’ve made contact with Batman.”

“That’s all you about to say? I don’t play messenger. Complain all you want and get off my way.” The engine roars loudly under Red Hood, he sneers. “Somebody gets real job to do.”

“There is an important matter the League would like to discuss with him in person.” 

“Like kicking him out of your hero club.”

“So you know.” Clark squints.

Before Diana and he approached Gotham the vote was only a vague suggestion, and sure they didn’t reveal this idea to the Gotham vigilantes. They’re ambassador and reporter. They know how to talk without giving them away.

Much to his dismay, the vote happened sooner and without Batman, but Clark also doubted even with him there if there was going to be any difference. It just didn’t feel right.

But Diana was right. It’s a closure more for them than for Batman. A bitter conclusion is better than none.

They decided to send a message to Batman on revoke his membership and never got a reply.

Clark assumes it’s because the dark knight is still missing, but it isn’t.

“You made yourself pretty clear. There is no need to pretend. ” Red Hood loses his patience, “Now! Get out!” He growls. Instantly Wayne clutches tighter to him, but raptly watching Superman behind Red hood.

Yes, Wayne. Clark is not here to talk to Red Hood nor Batman. It’s Wayne he is in Gotham the middle of night.

Like sensing the Superman’s change of focus, Wayne shifts a bit behind Red Hood. The arms wrap around the waist of Red Hood squeeze a bit, but Red Hood doesn’t seem to notice, who is too busy trying to kill Superman with glare. Wayne is watching Superman in full attention all these time. His blue eyes are not ghost and pale as in Clark’s dreams, but sharp enough to pierce Superman’s facade and Clark’s soul. Like he knows something Clark doesn’t, or dare to acknowledge.

There is no indication to tell if Wayne is happy to see Superman or just as agitated as the young man he is hugging. He keeps a perfect poker face, revealing no secrets nor feelings.  

Clark lowers his sight and x-ray Wayne’s mid section. A quick peek confirms Wayne is carrying and the fetus looks more like over 20 weeks is bigger than Clark would expect. A blood test preferred will be required in the lab of the Fortress to be hundred percent sure, but with super sense, a sniff of the unique undertone of Kryptonian pregnancy buried deep in the sickly sweet scents would be enough for Clark to know the pup is his.

“Fuck off!” Red Hood bristling, finally catching the subtle change in Clark’s attention. Somehow this badly provokes him and brings hostility. He let go of throttle, with a blink of eye there are guns in both of his hands and aimed Superman’s head. “Before I make you!”

“No.” Wayne murmurs, so quiet if not for Clark’s super hearing. His fingers dig deep into Red Hood’s jacket, like holding the young Alpha back or trying to cover him up by his own body, but unsuccessful since Red Hood is almost the same size of him and won’t back down without a fight.

On any good day, fighting with Superman is ridicules. Wayne looks like the only one sane knows this and try to prevent a fight.

Wayne never moves his sight away from Clark while struggling holding down Red Hood. He looks at him like Superman is the danger.

“I mean no harm.” Clark explains, in his full glory and authorization of Superman. “Actually, I am here to talk with Mr. Wayne.”

“Fuck you are.” Red Hood’s distrust is plain as day. He is elbowing Wayne to push the other back. “You outta your mind?” He is yelling to Wayne, but focused on Superman. Seeing there is no leave of Superman, Red Hood swiftly swaps new bullets from his pocket and loads them in his gun with a fluid motion and a faint click. Let his action does the talk.

Clark knows what’s made of these bullets. Or rather, he feels it.

Kryptonite.

Superman drops to the Ground instantly. Good thing is the dose is not high enough to disable Superman without direct contact, so his dignity is still in tack.

There are lead lined pockets when Clark scanned Red Hood for dangers but he doesn’t expect the other kept kryptonite on him.

They never cross the path in the past and probably highly unlikely in the near future, saving the meeting the other night.

Seriously, how much Superman managed to piss off the Bats to grant his allay carrying kryptonite around? Isn’t this too dramatic and extreme?

Or paranoid is a trail running deep in Gothamite?

“Uhmm.”

A low whimper snaps Clark’s attention back. Wayne is involuntarily crawling up at the sudden exposure of kryptonite and his painful reaction confuses Red Hood.

“Bruce?” It’s tearing Red Hood apart if he should keep his focus on Superman or turn back to check on Wayne. His hand draws back to touch the other, voice quivers for a moment, then outrageously yelling at Clark. “What’s the hell did you do!”  

He is about to shot Superman if it means to end the pain of the other, only barely holding back because he doesn’t know if it’s going to work.

So he doesn’t know Wayne is pregnant with Superman’s baby.

“Put the kryptonite back.” Clark says with much authority and sincere he could put into his voice. He is holding his hand up, trying to get closer but freeze when Red Hood takes it badly.

“Put. The kryptonite. Back.” Clark repeats, slowly.

“What did you do!” The hand holding the gun never tremble nor move. At all. Despite panic slowly creeps into Red Hood’s voice and scents.

Wayne clenches his jaw and not let out no more noise. He presses himself onto Red Hood, hard, clearly in pain.

“Kryptonite is hurting him more than it hurting me.” It’s a matter of fact, but Red Hood doesn’t believe it.

“Are you kidding me?!”

The silence of Wayne doesn’t help. He is watching Clark, like all these time, but it’s still hard to determine if he knows the pup inside him is Kryptonian or not.

What if he doesn’t know.

That’s sick.

Whatever happened to put him through and end up being this. It must be horrify.

Ghost-Maker doesn’t seem to be the one putting the fetus in Wayne, since he is so frustrated and end up calling Superman to get rid of the baby. So there is another unknown party performed the operation. A party is able to obtain Superman’s genes and abduct a billionaire for a expanded time without raising any concerns.

The question circles back to why Wayne,  now is not a good time to play detective.

“You need to listen to me.” Clark takes a deep breath. He hopes there is better way to phrase this. “The pup he is carrying, is Kryptonian. Kryptonite is hurting him.”

Red Hood is beyond furious, a string of nasty curses poured down on Clark.

Clark winces. “Just put the kryptonite back for one second, please. I promise I won’t move.”

The pleading and promise falls on deaf ears.

Red Hood growls, “get the fuck out. Now!”

Clark honestly doesn’t know how much kryptonite will hurt a unborn half blood pup. He is not going to find out tonight. Red Hood doesn’t give him any choice to stay.

See there is no other way around, Clark grudgingly leaves.

Chapter Text

Jason doesn’t trust the alien. He could be the goody two shoes any time any where he wants, saving all the cats on the tree in the world and Jason won’t buy any of it.

Throwing someone saved his ass more than one hand could count out of the team only because some contingency plans fall into the wrong hand, when practically every single bad guy cross the path with the Justice League would like to try to manipulate them in some degree and this happened so many damn times, what they are doing could rate the most hypocritical thing Jason ever heard about. Like hello?? Do they really believe world peace is achieved by smiling and shaking hands? And there Jason is thinking Batman is too weak to eliminate the problem from the very existing roots for not killing the criminals on hot action. See what kind of people Batman is hanging out with all these time. It starts to make sense.

But it’s still feeling so wrong and so absurd how things end. Rage is boiling and every time Jason thinks about it only adds fuel to his frustration and this feeling of wrongness. Dick has been quiet about the unravel of the situation if he doesn’t like it he doesn’t show, but Jason knows Tim is feeling the same way even he won’t admit it. Alfred is in another level but he keeps watching closely.

Alfred apparently expects the League shows up in Gotham one way or another after their silly vote ends, just Jason doesn’t think himself will be the one to witness it.

He doesn’t trust Superman, not the night on the rooftop, not tonight with Bruce on the back seat. There’s something the alien was hiding and it was about Batman back then, he is hiding more now. Call it a hunch. Superman knew more than he let on, he made face every time Wonder Woman hided her anger and disappointment when she mentioned Batman’s name. And right now, he just shows up from nowhere and blocks Jason’s way and what, to talk, it’s suspicious as hell.

Tim broke Bruce’s kryptonite safe not long after the League starting questioning the rightful statue of the Bats. Dick gave him a speech when he found out Tim tried to slip some kryptonite in everyone’s weaponry before they met Superman and Wonder Woman, clearly thinking it’s a over kill and in whole heart believed they would just talk and shake hands. Funny thing was he forgot to ask Tim to give all the kryptonite back.

Jason won’t give his share of kryptonite back and things becomes very handy right now. In retrospect, Tim is more like Bruce than Dick and him in constructing plans over plans for emergency and odds.

If anything Jason had learned from Batman, it’s preparation is the key to everything. Jason doesn’t think himself suicidal, despite whatever Dick mumbles all the time, he knows very well confront, if not fight by any miracle, Superman alone, may not be the most wise thing to do, but he is prepared. Or as prepared as he could be at this hot moment.

Jason has no time to entertain some crazy alien wants to play house, if his words aren’t enough to chase him away, then some green rock should do the work.

Dick is going to be so pissed, for not telling them he finds Bruce, for not calling backup right now, for picking a fight with Superman, for everything when he finds out, if Jason makes back to manor in one piece.

The shred kryptonite he laced with the first bullet is more like a warning and distraction. It helps Jason determine how much kryptonite works on Superman. He loads his gun with lead lined kryptonite bullet and regular bullet, keeping an element of surprise when he fires. The alien wouldn’t never know which one could be his death.

Kryptonite does keep Superman on his toe while Bruce is caught in the cross fire in some way Jason couldn’t fathom. Despite the whimper coming from the surprised pain, Bruce doesn’t let out much more noise, but he clutches into himself so hard, Jason could feel him shaking the way he is clinging to Jason. That’s no good. Not at all.

Jason is furious.

Bruce Wayne, the airhead and useless billionaire, is no threat even to a grandma. He is a mascot of Gotham the most, harmless and silly. Even the criminals won’t bat him an eye if they are not after his money. There could only be one reason that Superman is following and targeting Bruce Wayne - he knows, or at least suspects the relationship between Wayne and Batman.

This is fucked up in so many levels Jason’s too angry to count.

He doesn’t know how much Superman knows to initiate some thing like this, but he might have some thing very specific. The cold dread is shoved into Jason before he could even realize.

It starts to cross Jason how suspicious Superman knows exactly where to wait for them right now. It’s not like Jason has been planning to pick Bruce up and drive back to manor.

For a hot second, Jason doesn’t know what to think and what himself is thinking. Everything narrows down to one most important matter: to make Superman go away (to eliminate the threat).

Whatever the fuck Superman says doesn’t register in Jason until the alien takes off and vanishes in the cloudy dark night of Gotham.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

It’s probably not wise to put kryptonite back because with the super speed, Superman could zoom back once he sees Jason puts down his guns, but Jason must find some way to stop the pain in Bruce. Putting kryptonite back to the lead lined pocket is the most formidable first step.

When kryptonite is securely tugged back into the hidden lead lined pocket, Bruce’s pain’s subdued significantly. He almost let out a soft sign when the pain is eased, whole body going limp, making Jason loses the breathe he unconsciously holding.

Jason reaches out and holds Bruce in place. Bruce looks deadly pale, eyes glassy, sweating heavily. His hands clutching tightly on his belly, like holding on his dear life.

“For fucking real...?”

Without thinking, Jason tries to touch the bump for conformation, but stops when he hears Bruce inhales sharply. He raises his head and looks into Bruce’s eyes. It’s a cloudy sky or a swirling sea he couldn’t decipher.

“Say something, old man. Don’t play dumb. It’s not the time!” 

Jason probably is yanking his own hair right now if he doesn’t have his hood on. “Is it true you fucked with a alien and let yourself knocked up? Bruce! What the fuck?” He hisses.

Bruce doesn’t reply, slowly turns his head around and takes in everything in his surrounding, especially where Superman’s used to stand, like he doesn’t know what’s going on.

Jason doesn’t like to be ignored, so he grabs Bruce’s arm and yanks his attention back, but with little success.

Bruce seems lost to his own mind. No. He is lost to his own mind. With close examination, he looks like day-dream, hallucinated and high. He doesn’t give much response to the more than needed strength Jason uses to shake him.

Even with the baggy and ill fitted cloth, Bruce still looks much thinner and pale than Jason remembers last time saw him. But there is no obvious scares or wounds on the skins he reveals. When Jason pats him down, he only flinches because of confusion rather than hurt, which is the only relief Jason has right now.

And yes, the baby bump is fucking real. Nothing moves when Jason briefly touches it. Jason honestly doesn’t know what he should expect, but.

Jason needs to calm down and thinks what’s the next move. He should tell his brothers he finds Bruce but he couldn’t explain how he finds him. He should get Bruce check out what drug is running in his system but he doesn’t know what to say about this weird at least, horrified as the most pregnancy. He should stay calm when Bruce is depended on him but he cannot think when his mind keeps screaming what happen and how much he fails his mentor by letting everything happen. He was on his killing path and fighting Batman like three months ago how it’s even possible to feel this way? Must be the god damn hormone and Alpha instincts talking. This close, every inhale is infused with full blown of Bruce’s sick sweet, Omega-ish scents, which damn sure fires his Alpha side.

There is no way to look at Bruce and stay calm.

“We should go.” Jason murmurs. They couldn’t sit in the middle of road and middle of night until every thing sorts out. The chance of Superman coming back or run into gangs are too high. Jason feels exposed in the open field and he wonders how Bruce stays calm and peaceful all this time. Isn’t that pregnancy should make him want to hide away or what? Or it’s just Omega’s thing. He doesn’t know. “We need take you back to manor.”

“No.”

“What?” Jason jerks his head up, not expecting a real response from Bruce.

“Not going back.” Bruce grunts. His eyes darts around, first time tonight looks have some sort of concentration and awareness of his surrounding.

“You not get to decide - wait!”

Jason grabs Bruce before he tries to climb down the bike, seems either Jason does things his way or he will do it on his own. Jason bristles but there is no use to talk sense to a dream walking man.

Bruce is staring him, somehow patiently waiting for Jason’s response.

Jason takes a deep breath. “Fuck it. I’m doing this because I don’t want to lead unwelcome visitor back to Alfred you know.” He hisses. “Don’t try anything silly.”

Yes, Jason needs to find out how Superman locates Bruce, it must be Bruce because Jason knows himself if clean. He cannot give the alien more evidence how Bruce Wayne and Batman are linked before he can send him back to manor, or the most appropriate place, the cave.

They must make it a do with one of Jason’s safe house tonight. Good thing is that there will be some medical device to do a quick check.

- x -

Clark keeps listening while he flies back to Ghost-Maker’s base.

There is a undeniable familiarity in Red Hood’s tone when he talks to Wayne. The young Alpha is clearly frustrated and pissed off about Wayne’s knocked up with Superman’s pup. Clark is glad the crime lord doesn’t do Wayne any harm anything except some yelling.

What Red Hood says he doesn’t want to disturber the old butler by dropping Wayne back to his home makes Clark wince. It’s not like he can just fly back and double his effort to explain he is not a bad guy and has no ill intention. If they are really going to get into how in the world Wayne could end up with a Kryptonian baby, Clark is definitely losing all his credits of being a hero and good guy. He has no explanation in short, which only promises more troubles and disasters.

Red Hood and Wayne takes a turn back to Gotham downtown and not long Clark lost his track over them.

He still could hear Wayne’s heartbeat if he focuses, which, still feels odd. Clark doesn’t think the instinct would catch up him so quick, but he is apparently wrong.

With a sign, Clark lands in Ghost-Maker’s front door. He doesn’t hear any heartbeat in the house but the garage is left open.

Clark gets back into the basement. There is nobody welcomes him and not even the AI voice speaks up. He finds a small portable freezer with a couple tubes of blood inside. Without being told, Clark knows these must be Wayne’s. Clark would like to talk with Ghost-Maker and the man must obtains more information about Wayne’s health statue but true to his name, Ghost-Maker is nowhere to be found.

Guessing blood sample is where he gets start.

Clark takes the sample to the Fortress and asks Jor to run an complete analysis. Jor tries to fish out more from Clark because it’s not normal on any day his son will walk in and ask for a pregnancy test. For sure he doesn’t want to explain to his biological parent he didn’t sleep around and find out, but there he is. Yes Bruce Wayne is handsome, charming and attractive but Clark Kent barely knows the guy. He is not horny teenager any more and he doesn’t do a night for like past ten years. Clark knows how absurd this whole deal sounds and he doesn’t know much better than Jor and what he could tell is hard to believe. Good thing Jor senses his unease and doesn’t question more.

Clark doubts he could get any more sleep and there’s nothing to do except keeping checking at Wayne, Wayne seems doing good now with a slow and steady heartbeat, so he waits in the Fortress the rest of the night for the results.

By the dawn, Jor manifests in front of Clark and for a projection who has completely control over what he lets show on his face, he looks a little pale, if his frown is not enough to indicate how troubled he is.

Clark clears his throat. “Is something wrong?”

“The analysis is going to take longer time to process due to the complicated nature of this situation, and the result of analysis would be incomplete to guide you through the entire course. There is so much more couldn’t be substituted with only a blood sample. A one on one session is highly recommend.” Jor answers. “And I suggest you bring him in as soon as possible.”

Chapter Text

Jason’s safe house is in an old apartment building which has seen better days. It’s a miracle the power and water has not yet been cut off from the entire block, but that’s a close call. Residents who have enough resources to move or have too much fear to stay are long gone. The rest who stay learn how to keep their nose in their own business and never ask what’s going on behind their neighbor’s door. Nobody would make a fuse if they see some strangers coming in and out.

While Jason thinks everything is not so bad, there is no real evil or threat nest in this block. Nothing serious except some junkies or low rank henchmen, but a bad reputation caused by a serial homicides like a couple decades ago and a horrified exterior desperately begging for a fix. Maybe interior too. Jason spent a lot time to do it up and secured the power he needed to power up the computers and security system.

It’s a shame if he needs to burn this one to rid off unwanted attention from Superman, but this is the closest one has all the resources he is going to need to check Bruce out.

The ride to the safe house is uneventful. It’s well past three when they arrive, a time even Bats and Birds will retreat to their cave in regular day. No one is supposed to be out in this odd hour. There are not many lights up neither. Nobody sees them get in.

Once steps into the apartment, safely locks the door and check out no surprise visitor ever dropping by nor touching anything, Jason finally feels the fatigue is catching up with him.

Somehow Bruce doesn’t seem tired or anything. He paces in Jason’s living room and evaluates his surrounding, in a grace only a day dreamer could have.

It’s silly if he doesn’t clutch to the damn baby bump.

Batman and pregnancy are the least two word Jason has ever imaged to be in the same sentence. This is a living hell. Why couldn’t he just stay died.

“Get in, quick.” Jason pulls Bruce to his bedroom and gestures him to sit down on the bed while he digs out a portable medical device from the cabinet. The device could be used to scan internal injuries, bleeding, broken bones and some other similar purposes. It comes handy when Jason is too pissed off to go to the cave for a full body check when he sustains some nasty punches or kicks during fights. Frankly, he is not suicidal and knows how to treat himself despite what common believe currently spread in the manor.

Bruce watches him hooks up the device with the computer and then turns back to him.

“Okay, let’s do this, uhmm. ” Holding the device in one hand, a sudden rash of embarrassment interrupts Jason’s words. To make the device working properly, the cloth shall be removed. It’s not like he never sees Bruce naked, but the sweet Omega-ish scents must throw him off the balance. It’s never been this awkward.

Plus, Jason never sees Bruce this compliant, never, once in his entire life. Somehow this feels so unsettle and so weird. It satisfied a lower part in his Alpha brain to finally succeed his mentor and has him taking his order, and the same time it’s so wrong to his logical mind. “Fuck it, just take the cloth off and show yourself. We need to get over with this.”

Bruce doesn’t follow Jason’s order, which is, oddly comfortable to know something sticks to the routine, but also very inconvenient and frustrating.  

“You never make thing easy, huh, old man?” With a little push and pull, and some non-sense grunts from Bruce and whole lot more unnecessary cursing from Jason, Jason is able to scan Bruce for injury.

Good news is, there is no serious hidden injury, only some months old scars and broken bones looks almost healed, most of them are matched with the battle they have gone through before the Christmas. There are some bruise forming on Bruce’s knuckles and sides, all minor ones, seems he is using his body weight to hit something hard. And smalls cuts too. All have stopped bleeding.

Jason highly doubts Bruce spent too much time with the traffic ring he busted tonight. Whoever kept him probably didn’t take him in and treat him so they could sell him, which is too simple and too hilarious.  But it’s not like Jason could just ask what’s going on because Bruce just won’t answer. Considering how Jason found Bruce hiding in the dark corner and patiently waiting for his chance to escape, he probably got bruised the meantime.

There is an ugly cut in Bruce’s right biceps, most likely cut by Bruce himself based on the angle, doesn’t need stitches but Jason cleans it anyway and put on proper bandage. Jason has some theories why Bruce stab himself but they are not going to be confirmed by Bruce. Whatever Bruce tried to dig out from himself is gone and has no effect on his well being so Jason doesn’t feel it’s necessary to ask.

There is no trackers or other odd implements planted in Bruce except the ones matched with his medical record, and there is no fitting explanation of the disassociation Bruce currently has. Without a lab there is no way to analyze Bruce’s blood but Jason is sure he is drugged.

No one back in traffic ring has the same symptom as Bruce, indicating he is drugged before he ends up there. Bruce looks functional enough to make an escape plan when he is in trouble but not enough to communicate with others. Jason isn’t sure what effect this new drug tries to achieve. He wonders how himself looks like in Bruce’s current point of view. Probably weird too.

Jason is going to take some blood sample and send it to Tim to analyze. If something this strong could render Batman useless for a long time, whatever the drug is, it’s not wearing down by time from what Jason could see here. Bruce is chill as a cucumber and disassociated like a dream walker, it’s a bad news, but that’s for later, at least there is no immediate bad effect except making Bruce awful quiet.

Right now, Jason is looking at the screen and not sure what’s he is looking at. He doesn’t go to medical school to start with and the League of Assassins doesn’t do degree in obstetrics and gynecology. All Jason knows about pregnancy is from high school health textbook which basically is nothing. The science museum he’s used to go for field trips and extra credits probably gives more idea about how a normal human pregnancy develops because there are models presenting different stages of it, like human Beta/Omega female models.

Beta and Omega females are still the main carriers in modern age. Omega males are rare as Alpha females. Beta males either don’t have the right set of production parts or their uterus are under development to conceive, even they’re carrying, the heath risk and chance for miscarry is much higher than Beta females/Omegas.

But the size of bump looks well past the first trimester, Jason can only hope everything is okay. Bruce seems have recovered from the kryptonite exposure pretty well. He just needs to take a look and to be safe.

Just one look. A quick scan. To calm both of them, well, mainly Jason’s nerves.

“What’s the...?”

Jason stares at the black and white image on the screen, no amount of preparation will make him ready to see this.

“We need to talk to Leslie. Like now.” Jason murmurs. “Is she up right now? Do you think we just go and knock her door she will let us in?”

Jason grabs his own hair with his free hand and takes in a sharp breath. He turns around in a jerk and startles Bruce who is also staring at the screen with a rapt attention he suddenly has despite clearly still not being himself.

Bruce gives him a stern glare, very close to the Batman disapproving one when he thinks Jason is acting out for dumb reasons, which is supposed to instantly piss Jason off.

Jason jerks his head back and stares at the screen. No matter how little knowledge he possesses he knows what he is looking at is beyond normal and certainly not human.

“Shit! How can you stay calm? You know. Yes, you know right? You have known this all the time.” Jason grunts, a strangled noise left his throat is too much like a pathetic whine, making him feeling deeply vulnerable and shameful. “Why don’t you say anything?”

Like sensing the change of air, Bruce murmurs, “it’s alright.”

Bruce looks at the screen, seems enjoying it very much and making Jason being the one acting dramatic.

“How dare you give me that look? This is no fucking way alright!”

Okay, the squirming fetus is kinda of humanoid to start with, but human shouldn’t have a tail, like some lizard. And that’s not the only trail is off.

On second thought, the fetus looks more lizard than human. It still gets the head, the long body, the short limbs, all squeezed together with a long tail curled around the body, hiding.

How could a fetus knows to hide away its inhuman part is beyond Jason but clearly the bastard CAN hear and probably understand human’s words because it squirms and relax like it knows it fails the fucking intimation of a human baby, its little body unravels, chills like it knows Jason is no use to threat it.

Jason honestly doesn’t know what the fuck he is looking at and Bruce is hundred percent not helping.

But one thing for sure, whatever grows in Bruce’s womb, is a damn monster.

He is going to kill Superman. He is fucking kill the alien.

-x-

While Bruce takes a shower, Jason gives his cloths another thorough pat down to avoid any trackers. There is none of it Jason could find, still has no idea how Superman located them back on the road, so he decides to burn all Bruce’s belonging on the rooftop to be safe.

Jason just gets back in time when Bruce steps out of the bathroom, a towel hanging haphazardly around his neck and water dripping from the tip of his hair, seeping into the gray shirt he is currently wearing. The old shirt and sweatpants of Jason hugs loosely around Bruce who is used to be about the same size as Jason, if not bigger. Jason doesn’t need a scale to know the other has lost a good twenty pounds during his disappearance.

Bruce walks on his bare feet and instead of wandering in the apartment again, he makes a bee line to the kitchen. Someone must be hungry. Probably sucks to feed two. Urgh.

Bruce’s used to make P&J when Jason was young and needed a snack while Alfred was unfortunately away. And P&J isn’t proving anything for Bruce’s cooking skills. Jason highly doubts he could make a ten courses meal when he is day dreaming and he doesn’t really need a burning kitchen on top of all the mess he is going through tonight, so he chases him away into living room and back to stove to heat up some canned chicken noodles soup. There are crackers in storage could go along with it.

Bruce doesn’t complain when he is offered food at the kitchen island. Jason puts his bowl of soup on the counter and let Bruce eats alone. He gets out the kitchen and decides to call Dick when Bruce is busy himself eating. There is no fucking privacy when he shares space with Bruce but Jason still prefers he has some pretended one when he makes calls.

He stalks to the far end of the living room to press the button, and it only rings once before picking up. Too fast to be comfortable. Dick probably is alarmingly awake and on his phone right now to pick it up this quick in this unholy hour.

Does anyone in this family actually sleep?

“Hi, Jaybird.” Dick answers, voice’s a little strained. “You good?”

“Peachy.” Jason automatically responses. He pitches his bridge of nose and cuts to the point “Listen, I found Bruce.”

A short silence. “Good. Urgh. I mean, great.” Dick is still at loss of his words. “How’s he?” But he recovers from the shock quickly. “Is he hurt? Injured? Where has he been these days? Why he never contact us or anything? He doesn’t even call Alfred these days and you know how that makes Alfred feel. I couldn’t believe it unless...” To spin into another panic attack. “Hi, Jay. Are you still there? He is not... ”

“No, no. He is alive, if this is what you mean.” Jason must stop this train wreck before it escalates into a real panic attack. Dick sucks in a sharp breathe and murmurs “thanks God” on the other end of the line.

“So...” Dick clears his throat.

“He is alive, losing a couple pounds but there is no bag under his eyes so I bet he has a better sleep in past couple months than the rest of you could ever dare to dream of.” 

Jason glances at Bruce. Thinking about that, he does look like having his time of life right now if they can ignore the disassociation and pregnancy part. Oh fuck. Is the disassociation to sedate him to not disturb the pregnancy? The thoughts make Jason want to throw up.

“But there is something wrong with him.”

Jason doesn’t give Dick much time to dwell on this. He rushes through the rest. “He is pregnant. An extraterrestrial one. And the sire is Superman. Confirmed by the alien himself. An exposure to kryptonite could hurt him, or the little fucker inside him, badly. I witnessed it with my own eyes.”

Dick makes a strangled noise, “what the hell?”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, finally someone is on the same page with him, so refreshing, “what the hell.”

Chapter Text

Jason gives his report on how he accidentally run into Bruce in the traffic ring and the later confrontation with Superman on the line.

“There is no high speed trajectory indicates when Superman flies into Gotham. He might take some transportation or he flies slow enough to go under the radar. But there is one matched with your report showing his leaving. He flies straight to Arctic. I think he is back to the Fortress of Solitary right now.”

Superman never out right tells the public the exact coordinates of the Fortress of Solitary, but Batman has enough record of his flight trajectory to work with if one day he decides to knock Superman’s front door. There is only one click away from finding Superman’s not so secret home base and Dick is finding the idea is very tempting.

Or Bruce has already unearth that secret but he is reluctant to share it with the family. Heck. He probably has a complete file about Superman, from his home address to medical bill, established by now considering technically how long they’re working together through the League. This man has a file about everyone he encounters but he just hides it. After so many years, the man’s secrecy still bites him.

Maybe Tim knows something since he cracks Bruce’s system and hacks into the League. Barb could help too.

Dick shifts a bit in his seat and takes a deep breath. It’s too early to go down that train wreck of thoughts about tracking down Superman and torturing him for answers, though it sounds like a easier way, but there is an easiest way is just to call him. They still has Bruce’s League comm. As long as the League has not yet officially declared cutting ties with Batman Dick thinks it should work.

During Jason’s encounter, despite how unpleasing the ambush is, Superman doesn’t seem to be mad or crazy. There is a chance they could talk over this in peace and right now Dick prefers talking than any other violent methods.

He has gotten enough violence for his rest of life in past couple days.

Withholding a sign, Dick cut Jason short when the other starts to cite Divine Comedy or something totally out of Dick’s depth. He would very much appreciate a written report to go back and forth and analyze or simply stare at right now, but the world is cruel so he can only hang on Jason’s rambling.

He can tell Jason is nervous. Jason doesn’t tend to get nervous. When he is anxious he tends to be angry and punching the light out of the reasons made him nervous, anxious and frustrated. But right now, he cannot punch Bruce and fight Superman is out of option. Dick doesn’t thing Superman is the real problem is. He is the cause, maybe, but not the real threat. Jason’s mind simply has to grasp on something to keep thinking. This leaves Jason unease as the best. Dick himself would like to punch some creeps if it could make any problem go away. Sadly it’s never the case.

This is absurd situation isn’t it? All they could do is to wish Bruce has some contingency plans to deal with a Kryptonian pregnancy, which frankly, Dick himself even finds hard to image existing the first place. 

Like, why on the earth you need one on the first place.

They should have reproductive isolation, shouldn’t they? Superman is ALIEN. No matter how much Dick admires him he is not human.Thank you very much.

Come on Bruce, how did you manage to get into this kind of trouble?

Nonetheless Jason is right about they need to check Bruce out the first.

“How is he doing?” Dick asks.

“In the bedroom and quiet. I suspect he is exploring the room and poking at all my explosives and guns.” Jason says. “You know what? On a second thought, I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave him alone. Who knows what he is capable of doing right now. He can bust a traffic ring when he is in hallucination. That’s definitely him calling GCPD in earlier and ruined my mission. Why can’t he fucking stay out of my way? I’m sure he can burn down the entire building once he realizes he is full and boring.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Totally reasonable for a drunken man.” Dick tries not to roll his eyes. Whatever dramatic nonsense Jason puts up relieves him. Bruce sounds doing okay and from the photo Jason sent him Bruce also looks okay. Weird with a baby bump, yes. But over all is good. Much better than the most time he mops the floor with Bane or Killer Croc or something else, beaten up, drenched with blood, stinky with smoke and gun powder, Alpha rage or fear, if not worse, sewage, considering that’s typically what he looks like for most the time around the house. Maybe Dick can work this out without making too much fuss. He braces himself.

“I know you may not like what I’m about to say but...”

“I already don’t like it.” Jason grumbles, “but what?”

“I think it’s better to have him stay with you for now.”

“What the fuck are you thinking?” Jason raises his voice, dramatically. The booming voice makes Dick winces.  “I’m not going to babysit him for fuck’s sake! There is no way I can rid off that demon spawn inside him in my place! I’m no doctor!”

Yikes. Dick probably just hits a nerve and he doesn’t know it’s the unborn pup Jason is concerned the most.

“Do you ever think if Bruce may want to keep it...”

“There is no fucking way he’s keeping it!” Jason is piratically yelling. “You don’t see it! IT’S A MONSTER!” 

Dick doesn’t know how much the anger is related to the pregnancy is not human or how much is Bruce’s having another child. Or it’s more territory issue since being an alpha in their dysfunctional pack will mess up their protection instincts, may he admits it or not. Dick believes it’s part of the reason why Jason is keeping fighting with Bruce because unconsciously he challenges Bruce for the authority to eventually become the Pack Alpha.

Sorry, buddy, that’s not going to happen any time soon. Dick thinks. Like it or not, Bruce stays on top no matter it’s patriarchy or matriarchy. All the good alphas need find their own territories, which Dick has learned the hard way. Dick is thinking Jason might get some of the idea because he refuses to move back to manor and develop a territory in Narrows.

“Okay, okay. Alien baby or not, since Bruce is no way to consent anything right now we should fix the disassociation part first. How about I contact with Leslie in the morning to figure out how to get him checked without rising any question. You just watch him in the mean time until we get some solid results?” 

“You want him to go to a public office to check out? You don’t understand it’s not human baby he conceives. What the nurse is gonna say? Say the elegant long tail coiled around the chubby body is so cute? For fuck’s sake!”

“Superman doesn’t look like have a tail.” Unconsciously, Dick says.

“Who knows what the hell the alien is hiding under that tights?”

“Urh, is there anything I need to know about the pup?”

“I don’t know.” Jason sounds exhausted, “you need to see it yourself.” He murmurs, a very faint hint of fear only registered to Dick showing in his voice. “It’s a monster, I’m telling you.”

“Okay, okay.” Dick tries to brainstorm. “How about we ask Leslie to meet up in one of Bruce’s penthouse? I can set up all the equipment she would like to have before the meeting. That should give us enough privacy.”

Jason sees through his bullshit. “Just tell me a reason why he cannot return to Manor. I’m sure Alfred would be thrilled to see him no matter how fucked up he is right now.”

I think it’s the same reason you phone me first instead of Alfred. Dick thinks. We try to dance around the white elephant without poking it in our life.

There is only limited space for Dick to work around the real issue here and he is losing his ground. It’s not like he is going to hide the kid from Jason forever or something. Now what’s he doing feels like delay the inevitable.

This makes him feeling like Bruce years ago when he finds out Jason was adopted, lived in Manor, took the mantle of Robin without his acknowledgement. Karma is a cruel joke.

Dick signs. “I can always let Alfred know when he is up and I’m sure Alfred won’t mind a half alien grand kid neither.” 

The old butler shelters all the lost pups Bruce takes in with patience and love, the merrier the better, he is only going to be happier with one Bruce gives birth to. He ignores Jason’s protest that there is no way for keeping the baby, but Dick knows Bruce too well in this department.

“But the reason I don’t want Bruce to return right now is not because I’m worried Alfred will freak out. There is something, uhm, someone in Manor. I don’t think it’s good time for them to meet. Not under this circumstance. He needs to at least have a clear mind to deal with the situation.”

A pause of silence.

Contradicting to the public believing, Bruce doesn’t bring random guests to stay over in Manor on a regular basis. At least not nowadays. Bruce has long perfected his skills to maintain his reputation of playboy and airhead billionaire to bring mere strangers into Manor to make a show. He keeps the Manor free of prying eyes for everybody living inside to relax. Bruce doesn’t have many relatives close enough to visit either.

Dick couldn’t think of a time there is someone who stays in Manor for extended period and impossible to relocate if it’s necessary, clearly the same Jason thinks too.

“Who?” Jason asks.

“Damian.” Dick explains. “He is Bruce’s son. Talia Al Gaul dropped him in the front door of Manor couple days ago. We run a DNA test on him and the result comes back positive. He is Bruce’s biological child, ten years old and well trained by the League of Assassins. I think his current motivation is to take over Bruce’s mantle. Think you may know him?” He let out a few embarrassing chuckles.

“Fuck,” is all Jason could say.

-x-

Go back to Manor is out of option. Dick promises he will make some arrangement to make sure get the proper check done for Bruce. He even suggests sending Tim to Jason’s place if he feels too overwhelmed to take care of the pregnant man.

Of course Jason refuses the later. He is not incapable imbecile who cannot even look after a day dreamer. He is pissed but he knows not to hit someone pregnant. He will never punch someone pregnant hard enough until they miscarry like in Middle Ages to get rid of the fucking alien growing inside Bruce. What’s the hell Dick is thinking.

But the frustration lingers, not only due to the fact that he is stuck with a disassociated Batman for who knows how long, but also the appearance of Damian Al Gaul. He knows what crap and shit the League of Assassins would feed to its member so there is no way Damian Al Gaul could be a normal, happy ten years old. Jason is thrill to learn that everybody is still alive and kicking in house. And right now his goal is to become Batman?

How Gotham would react to a four feet tall pint size Batman is beyond Jason, it’s hilarious, but he could image Dick is using everything he could to steer the kid to another more tolerable path and save him to be killed on his first night out.

Even the League of Assassins won’t be enough to prepare a kid for the craziness and madness Gotham has to offer.

But what Jason could think of is it’s really not the best time to introduce Bruce to his son. If the kid assumes he is the boss when Bruce is dead and what he is capable of doing when he finds out Bruce is not dead and also carrying another pup?

Based on Jason’s first hand on experience with the League of Assassins, a place is common that you actually need to kill to become a successor, he would say it’s not going to be pretty.

Jason despises the monster Bruce’s carrying but he doesn’t wish it’s literally ripe out of Bruce’s womb, like a sacrifice made during an ancient war.

Fantastic, so right now he is not only going to hide Bruce from Superman but also from his assassin son while figuring out a way to rid of the little bastard growing inside his womb. What a joy.

After the call Jason takes a smoke in the balcony. He lets night breeze takes as much smoke stained on him away before gets back inside. Bruce is messing with the few pillows and blankets he has found in Jason’s place. If he is building a nest he is horribly failing.

The sight makes Jason feels etching. He restrains the urge to obtain more nesting materials. Jason leaves Bruce doing whatever makes him happy and sleeps on the coach in the living room.

Jason wakes up in noon and fortunately Bruce is still sleeping. Dick must tell Tim what’s happened because he sent Jason a link of the surveillance for flight pattern of Superman a couple hours ago. If the alien ever decides to visit Gotham again, Jason will be prepared.

The stock of real food is none in this safe house. Jason needs to run grocery if he is stuck with Bruce in here for longer than a couple of days. He also needs to grab some necessities to make this home stay more enjoyable, that leaves his option to either take Bruce with him or leave him alone at home.

Bruce is obedient last night but it’s no promise he will cooperate during the shopping. A pregnant male tends to be eye catching for its rarity. He will risk Bruce gets recognized on street if he goes too. Frankly Jason has no idea what he is even thinking right now. Bruce is more unpredictable than ever. He is incommunicable too. Since he is soundly sleeping without a worry for the world, Jason weights that leaving him alone will be a better option. Jason just needs to make a quick run to the supermarket a few blocks away and come back.

Easy-peasy.

This light mood is certainly crashed with a “Ding” of notification that’s specifically made by Tim to inform everybody in family that Superman decides to pay Gotham a visit when Jason is on his way back.

Chapter Text

“You look like Luther strangles your mother’s favorite dog with bare hand and sends the tape to you.” 

Lois sips her coffee, saying a utterly cruel but accurate description of violence fitting Clark’s mood perfectly without even a slight waver in her voice, like saying a halfhearted “it’s a nice day.”

She proceeds with another sip. “What happened?”

“Hhmm.” Clark doesn’t even know where he should begin, especially at the entrance of Daily Planet, people coming in from all the directions despite nobody pays attention to them, but still. “How are you doing Lo?” He sheepishly greets.

“I checked the news ten minutes ago the world is still safe and sound,” Lois raises one of eyebrow, “so I assume it’s not concerned with your book club.”

“Shall we get in now?” Clark fidgets his glasses and glances the clock on the wall. “It’s almost time. We’re going to be late to clock in.”

“Yeah, like you cared.” Lois snorts, but starts walking toward the machine. Clark almost relieves when she suddenly says, “so you find about what happened to Wayne.”

The whole world seems to stop moving at this exact moment. Clark sucks in a sharp breath and grimaces knowing he gives himself out.

“Jackpot.” After swapping her card on the machine with a satisfying beep, Lois spins on her heel, clearly interested. “Tell me about it.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Clark whines, clock himself in but still follows Lois’s lead like a lost puppy. He is a miserable mess right now and he realizes it. “I don’t even know where to start.”

It’s the truth. The thing with Wayne is like being hit by a train wreck head on. Things evolves out of his hand in a rapt speed even Superman had hard time to follow. Before he left the Fortress to work, Jor gave him a short Kryptonian evolution presentation and made sure Clark knew what he is dealing with it’s definitely not a normal happy pregnancy.

Clark still has hard time to grasp how the whole package of Kryptonian evolution thing in different pregnancy conditions but he knows he probably couldn’t rely on any his past experience with Lois for current mess he’s pulled in with Wayne.

But he wishes he could tell everything to Lois. Clark feels obligated to do so. Married or not, she is his son’s mother and his best friend. She deserves to know if he gets another baby baking in the oven.

And definitely helpful to come up a good explanation to Jon why he is going to have a sibling. At least Lois is the one between them has real experience about having siblings and Clark is a helpless single child.

...if Wayne would like to carry the baby to full term.

Clark is not going to blame him if he doesn’t. There is a lot of complications involved with carrying a half Kryptonian baby and Wayne doesn’t seem to have a great start right now, and him as a Beta male may add more complications to that pile of problems. Clark never heard about Bruce Wayne has any previous pregnancies or births. All his boys are adopted with a clear history indicated there is no way they are Wayne’s as far as the public knows. There’s used to be gossip about his infertility. It’s common for un-presented omega turned beta male to have fertility issues because their both sets of reproductive system tends to be underdeveloped to fit into one body. Most the time medical aid is required for them to impregnate or conceive.

Clark will feel sad if Wayne decides to have abortion. He has caught the scent of pregnancy and heard the drumming heartbeat of the baby. Clark’s instinct has already latched onto it and he will have a hard time to let it go.

“You are journalist. Figure it out.” Lois gives him a encouraging smile and pats on his arm before heading to her desk. “You know you can always talk to me if you’re in trouble, right?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Clark murmurs, earning a light chuckle.

The entire morning, Clark couldn’t stop thinking about the baby. He finds himself space out and listen to Wayne’s heartbeat and his surrounding time to time. Might be the instinct overreacts to highlight the pattern of Wayne’s heartbeat among others, but Clark is not going to complaining. He worries about the other man and doesn’t know if Red Hood is going to take care of him or not, despite these two seems knowing each other. Wayne’s heartbeat is slow, steady and calm, sounds like he is meditating. It’s a good rhythm, somehow easing Clark’s nerves.

The rhythm of peace changes in the noon. It picks up quite a bit like Wayne is running. Clark expands his hearing but cannot pin down why he is in such a hurry. There is no one leading or following him and his surrounding is rather quiet ... Oh.

Wayne is on the run. Again.

-x-

It takes less time than the last night to find out the whereabouts of Wayne. In a couple minutes, Clark speed changes into his custom and flies straight to Gotham. He checks out Wayne’s surrounding and makes sure they have a semi privacy in this part of street before descending from the sky.

Wayne is wearing some loose cloth obscures his features and stays still when he spots Superman touching down in front of him. His expression is unimpressed, like Superman is his neighbor and greets him every morning and night.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Wayne. I hope you are doing well.” Clark approaches him carefully. Although Jor has warned him the side effect when a Kryptonian pregnancy goes south, Clark still winces when he gets no response.

Wayne doesn’t move but stares at him. The pair of cloudy blue eyes has haunted Clark’s dreams for past couple months is now hundred percents focused on him. Clark feels they are piercing through his very soul. He doesn’t feel like Superman, a figure full of strength, confidence and hope, but not mediocre journalist Clark Kent from middle of nowhere neither.

He feels more vulnerable somehow because Wayne sees through all his little lies and illustration begrudgingly created by his double lives.

“I’m sorry for what happened last night.” Clark apologizes, “It’s not my intent to provoke Red Hood and I’m sorry you’re caught in between us. It must hurt by exposing to kryptonite. I promise I will protect you from any harm.”

If Wayne is listening to Clark, he doesn’t show any indication, only blank staring.

Clark signs, “I know you probably not going to answer me, at least not when you are under... the influence of this pregnancy. Don’t worry. It’s uhn, some chemical released by the baby to help the carrier stays calm when the environment is not desired. Krypton wasn’t a peaceful heaven back in time. I can see it has a stronger effect on human. It’s not going to hurt you.”

Basically Jor is saying the Kryptonian used to conquer many planets and their high intellectual residents. Alone the way to expand the population the Kryptonian evolves more aggressive reproduction mechanism. They can breed other species who share close anatomy with easy and the result pregnancy could produce poison to the host to keep them semi paralysis if the baby detects the high level stress because of a harsh environment or the pregnancy is not desired by the carrier. The baby could also take another course of development to both shorten the length of the pregnancy and prepares them to better survive in a harsh world.

This mechanism actually backfires because sometimes a Kryptonian omega will fall into the victim because they run into some danger and triggers the change of the pregnancy. Once the change starts there is no return and of course this severe change could potentially harm the carrier in multiple ways if not being handled with care.

There is always more than one reason why the the Kryptonian starts to use Growth Codex to creates offspring.

Not that Wayne needs to know everything right now. Even he is poisoned by his own baby to numb but it’s not a good idea to give him more stuffs to panic internally. The chemical works more like a sedative to numb him to be quiet rather than killing all his intelligence or feelings.

Wayne squints, seems processing what’s Clark saying and silently calls Clark out on his bullshit.

He should be able to do better than this. Clark holds back another sign, tries not to massage his temple in front of Wayne. He takes a couple steps toward Wayne.

“How about I take you to my Fortress so I can exp...”

Wayne steps back before Clark could close their distance. Actually, he turns and tries to walk away immediately, if not for Clark grabs him first.

“We don’t need to go there if you don’t like,” Clark quickly says, taking a different route, “I can take you home. Do you want to go back to your Manor?”

Wayne ignores Superman and drags him alone with himself if Clark doesn’t want to let him go. The pull from Wayne is stronger than Clark expects but he doesn’t yield.

Okay Wayne is very clear about he doesn’t want to go back home neither, and Clark gets it.

“Or any place you feel safe then we could talk.” Clark doesn’t know where he could offer but they cannot stay in some random back street all day. Red Hood or Batman is certainly going to find out Wayne is missing. “Please hear me out!”

Wayne stops. He peaks at Clark from the corner of his eye.

The same time, a familiar loud rumbling of motorcycle enters Clark’s hearing range.

Shit.

“Sorry we need to go.” Clark gives Wayne an apologizing smile and carries him in bridal style then shoots to the sky. Wayne squirms in Clark’s hold but has no place to go since they are high above the ground.

Clark could clearly sees it’s indeed Red Hood chasing down the street and in mere a minute or so he would arrives where Clark and Wayne are used to be.

Clark doesn’t know why Bruce goes with Red Hood last night but runs away from him the next day. It’s as mysterious as why he ends up to be with Ghost-Maker. Both men appear to be dangerous to Clark. Clark feels sorry for him to feel the constant need to run and hide.

Where is Batman? It’s not like he transferred Wayne to Red Hood’s care but without a proper instruction for next step. Let Wayne gets lost and caught by Superman doesn’t sound like a valid plan but more like a amateur mistake.

Clark can ask all the questions he wants when he gets Wayne to somewhere more safe and comfortable.

Considering the Fortress and Wayne Manor are out of the window, there is not many options left for Clark to choose. The League is not a good place to deal with a personal crisis and Clark is not ready to announce that he mysterious impregnates Gotham’s favorite billionaire. Ma and Pa’s farm is not an option for the same reason.

Fly to some open field to have a single sided conservation is useless. Eventually Clark needs to find a place to accommodate Bruce Wayne. This place at least need to be sufficient to live for a couple of weeks. The injection Jor provides him will hopefully remove the most neurotoxin in Wayne and restore his sanity, then Clark may have a meaningful talk with this unfortunate man who is carrying his baby.

With a sign, Clark flies them back to his apartment.

Chapter Text

The window Clark always leaves open and uses for an easy exit when he is in his suit is not big enough for both of them entering the same time. Clark doesn’t think it’s safe to have Wayne climbs in there neither. He touches down on the rooftop of his apartment building and speed changes to normal cloth. Clark is back with Wayne in a blink of eye and guides Wayne down the stairs and leads the way to his unit.

It’s about one in the afternoon. Clark is glad most of his neighbors are either working or at school. Only a grandma lives downstairs has the TV on. The building is eerily quiet in broad daylight.

Wayne doesn’t protest to enter a stranger’s home. Once he steps in the room, gets off his shoes, he wanders in the living room like he owns the place, checking everything out with an undecipherable look.

Clark doesn’t know what Wayne is looking for and he finds himself not practically worried about an airhead billionaire finds out his secret identity. He is going to keep Wayne in here for a few days until they can actually communicate for the future plan. There is no way Clark could hide all the materials connected Clark Kent to Superman away. Wayne could easily knock at the next door down the alley and ask who is living in this apartment, and boom, he finds out he is living with Clark Kent, a report from Daily Planet when Superman is obviously making home the same place. Bruce Wayne is not a smart guy but Clark won’t think he is that stupid to not connect all the dots.

There is always a risk about exposing his civilian identity to Wayne. Clark needs to call Lois and ask her to take care of Jon the meantime until Clark reaches some neutral agreement with Wayne.

You should always be aware of who you trust. The dark knight’s voices his comment (or concerns) in Clark’s imagination. You trust too easily and forgive too quickly. It’s going to be the death of you.

But it’s also going to be impossible to hide the secret from Wayne if he is going to take care of him and, fortunately or unfortunately, his baby if Wayne decides to keep and share custody with him.

Clark grimaces.

What a mess.

Yeah, he definitely is going to contact Batman after he settles Wayne down. There is a lot they need to talk about, not limited to Wayne and his future trespass of turf for visiting and parenting his child.

Clark gets the injection and other medical tools Jor prepares for him and ready to grab Wayne before he decides to take a tour in bedroom.

Think about it, Clark feels he need to do a bit sweep and put some very personal items away before he let Wayne become super comfortable in his place. If Wayne digs out his dirty underwear, or socks, anywhere other than in laundry bucket Clark may not survive from the sheer embarrassment. He does so before he gets back to Wayne.

Clark makes Wayne sit down on the couch and explains how the injection works and why he needs to take it like right now. The earlier encounter in back street clearly shows that Wayne is capable of rational thinking and would very much reject any unfavorable action, even in a dissociated condition. Actually, Wayne is holding him together much better than Clark thinks when Jor explains everything to him.

Somehow, Wayne still avoids Clark after everything he says.

“Please, Mr. Wayne, this is important to your health.” Clark pleads, “or I won’t be able to know what you need if you never speak to me. I hate to tell you that this pregnancy is highly risky and it’s very important for us to keep the communication open. Like for now. I don’t even know if you’re feeling alright or safe or there is anyone you would like to talk to. It won’t hurt you. This is also important for the baby too.”

Wayne impetuously clutches his belly with his left hand. A gesture for protection. It melts Clark’s heart.

Oh, that’s it. He fears the drug will harm the unborn child.

“I swear whatever I do, I will never harm the baby. The injection is formulated in special to keep both of you safe and healthy.”

After the promise, Clark tries again and this time Wayne doesn’t pull himself away from Clark. He watches Clark rolls his sleeves up and administrate the injection.

“There we go.” Clark says, giving him his best assuring smile. “It’s going to take a while to take effect and I need to draw your blood later tonight to see how good it works. The next injection will depends on how well this one goes. Hopefully in couple weeks you’re good as new.”

Clark starts to clean the medical tools away. He prepares a small bowl of fruit salad with a glass of milk for Wayne. The man digs in immediately when the plate sets in front of him. Clark gets the water boiling for spaghetti on the stove. He will make something quick for lunch for both of them.

-x-

The injection he gives to Wayne contains a bit of sedative, mainly to ease the process of flushing the poison blocks his ability to think and act straight in his system.

After the lunch, Wayne visibly grows sleepy. Clark gently nudges and guides him to his bed. Wayne doesn’t resist. Clark digs out an old pair of pajamas for Wayne and leaves him alone in the bedroom to change. The injection is probably going to knock him out for a solid few hours. Clark hopes he could sleep through the entire afternoon.

Making sure Wayne is comfortable at his apartment, Clark flies back to work.

Going back to work may not be the smartest move Clark ever makes, but there is not a lot he could do right now. He is working on autopilot the rest of the day, keeping his hearing open on his apartment so if anything rises he would know immediately.

If Lois notices something, she doesn't speak up. The gesture is very appreciated.

It's Clark's turn to pick Jon up after work and he does so and treat the boy with favorite pizza for dinner. Lois is catching a lead for her next story and won't be back until she has everything she demands. Clark helps Jon with homework and waits for her at her house.

Jon has not yet shown any superpower and there is no sign indicating if he is going to develop any. Truth be told that Clark doesn't mind if Jon doesn't inherit any powers from him.

It actually feels... safe.

There are lots of dangers in a perfect normal human life, but there are ten-ford more for being a superhero. Too much danger. Too much sacrifice. Too much pain and hurts and too many lies. Like right now, it's so hard to explain to Jon why Clark couldn't take him back to his apartment like usual so they can enjoy shows and snacks. Jon always enjoys his time in Clark’s place with abundance of sweets and pampering.

"You can still have all you want at here." Clark fidgets all sorts of half eaten ice cream buckets in the fridge. Gosh, Lois must have a bad time for this story to have so many buckets of ice cream stock in her freezer. "I don't see it's necessary to walk a half hour for some sweets, and you know Mom is gonna be back any minutes from now. She will be very disappointed if she cannot see you the very moment she steps into the house, you know?"

"But Mom doesn't allow me to eat her ice cream. She will know even I take one little tiny bite." Jon whines and hugs Clark's waist, putting up his best puppy eye. Clark doesn't know where he learns to do it. Definite not from him. "Please, Daddy."

He is so adorable like this and Clark won't trade the world with it. It's a crime Clark must commit to refuse him.

"I'm sure it's not a little tiny bit you bite." Clark signs, "how about I re-stock everything you eat so Mom won't know?"

It's a tough battle but Clark wins but cost him a good bucket of chocolate chips and cookie dough ice cream bucket. Lois is going to talk his ear off about spoiling Jon. At least Jon will be happy.

When Lois comes back it's almost 10. Clark has tucked Jon in. He is trying to catch up with some work on his laptop when Lois walks through the door.

"A tough day, huh?" Lois says in lieu of greeting and hangs up her coat.

Clark smiles and replies, "the same to you." He gets up and walks toward kitchen.

"Would you like to have something to eat? Jon and I had pizza for dinner and there is some leftover in fridge, but I can make you a chicken sandwich really quick if you want something light."

"Anything is fine. Just grab me a beer." Lois sinks on the couch and lifts her feet on the coffee table. She lets out a satisfying sign, then changes her mind, "actually, two beers."

“Aye, captain.”

Using heating vision to heat up couple slides of pizza in few seconds and Clark obediently follows Lois's order by placing the plate on Lois's knee with the other two bottles of beer, only to have the second bottle put back into his hand by Lois.

"Come and sit." Lois pats the seat beside her, giving him a long meaningful look. "Clark, we're going to talk."

"Okay." Clark sits next to her and cracks open the beer.

Lois is right he is going to need a beer to muster the courage to talk about everything occupied his mind these days. Alcohol is useless on Kryptonian but works a wonder on Clark’s mind.

The fresh and sweet lavender scents of Omega soothes Clark’s nerves and sends a warm and fuzzy feeling down his spine, loosen him up. He doesn't even realize he is so anxious until now.

After a long sip of beer, Clark starts to talk. He tells Lois everything, starting with the encounter with the Ghost-Maker, but also including the weird dreams he had in the past few months about Wayne. He tells her about the potential baby coming on its way with guilty weighing heavily in his guts.

"That's a lot happened under 24 hours." Lois puts her hand on Clark's arm and looks direct into his eyes, "even a lot for Superman to take in."

"Yeah, thanks Lo."

"No, I mean it." Lois shifts, leaving the empty greasy plate by her side and giving Clark a firm squeeze on his bicep. "Wake up in the middle of night and find out you're going to have a baby? With Bruce Wayne? Resulted from some crazy illegal experiment? Holy crap. I don't know if I should say 'congratulation' or 'I'm sorry'."

"Well." Clark says dryly. "Just don't say anything. It's fine."

“It’s not your fault. What happens. All these mess. None of these is you fault.”

“Well.” Clark wishes he could be as confident as Lois, because deep down in his heart, he knows that’s all his fault. He won’t have all kinds of lewd dreams about Wayne if he never lay a finger on him. It’s way beyond some stupid celebrity crash. But it’s always nice to hear Lois saying it.

"It's going to be a good headline though. Superman impregnated Gotham's favorite son." Lois grins, "it's going to sell a ton. Perry would love it."

Clark whines, "Lo." He doesn't want to know how pathetic he sounds.

"To be honest, I don't think you can hide this forever, considering there are too many people knows Bruce Wayne is carrying Superman's baby. You, this Ghost-Maker, Batman, Red Hood, and whoever puts the baby inside him. Not really in a superhero community I guess. Think about it."

Clark mutters, "I know." The list could run long, if anyone feels kind to share with the class. Privacy is damned and paparazzi is going to be a nightmare.

There is more than one reason that Superman never announces he has a son to the public. Jon himself doesn't even know his Krypton heritage and Clark would like to keep it that until the boy either mature enough to understand the importance of this piece of knowledge or develop some signature power of Superman so there is no way and no use to hide it anymore.

"What does Batman say?"

"What?"

"His billionaire. His responsibility. I don't think he would let that part go easily. Doesn't matter if it's your baby involved." Lois comments, after a moment of silent she points out, "you guys didn't talk."

"He never calls." Clark sheepishly replies.

"I know you guys are not in the best terms nowadays, but come on Smallvile," Lois urges, "you need to talk."

"I leave him a message." Clark supplies, mostly to make Lois happy. "He doesn't bother to reply neither."

"Go to Gotham then. Talk to him face to face. Have a heart to heart conversation."

"You have no idea how hard to seek him out." In Ghost-Maker's base, it's the closest chance Clark has got in past few months of catching up the Bats.

Lois shoots him an irritated look. Clearly tonight's personal crisis consulting service has approached its end.

"I don't care. Go figure out. You're Superman." Lois finishes her beer in one go and gets up to take the dirty plate to kitchen, leaving Clark grudgingly nursing his drink.

Moments later, Lois comes back to living room with a hand on her waist. "Any idea for name?"

"Huh?" Clark confuses.

"The baby." Lois rolls her eyes.

"No?"

"You better start thinking." Lois hums. "Is it a girl or boy?"

"Why do you want to know that?" Clark squeaks.

"For the baby-shower! Off course I need to know. Somebody needs to keep tab on these things."

"Isn't that too early to think about it?"

"Yeah, it's not like you are going to remember to have one after the baby is born."

“I don’t know if he wants to keep the baby or not, you know.” Clark grimaces, “It’s alien.”

Contrary to what people may believe, thank you very much Lex Luthor, Clark is very well aware of he is an alien except living on earth almost his entire life and makes there home.

Lois looks at him like he is delirious. “He has adopted three boys. Three. He won’t do that if he doesn’t want more.”

-x-

It only takes ten minutes for Clark gets back to his apartment.

Clark doesn’t know when Wayne wakes up, but when he opens the door, the other man has already crouched on the couch with a blanket covers him from head to toe, quiet and small. The position he chooses is perfect to watch over all the exits of this small apartment. Wayne spots him walking in dead on.

The pair of pale blue eyes locks on him immediately, like a bird of pry.

“Huh, hey. How are you doing, Mr. Wayne?”

No response.

Clark feels a little disappointment, but God knows how long Wayne has been poisoned by his own baby nestling comfortably in his womb. It’s going to take a while to fix.

There is an empty dirty plate in front of Wayne. Wayne finishes the leftover pasta Clark left untouched on the kitchen’s counter since he doesn’t have much appetite at noon to eat his portion. This instantly makes Clark feels more guiltier than ever.

At least he should provide warm and nutritious meals to his... ugh, there is no right word Clark could use to describe the relationship between him and Wayne.

They barely know each other despite the names.

Oh names. Clark never properly introduce himself, doesn’t he? Rude. He can hear Ma chides him inside his head, which makes Clark grimaces.

But he smells like his, smells like he is carrying his child. A sweet and alluring scents drifting from the man and lights up fireworks on Clark’s minds.

Despite all the complications, this makes Clark happy. There is no other news better than knowing you’re expecting a child.  

“How do you feel about some soup? It’s a bit late in the night and I don’t want to mess up your sleep cycle too much, considering you’ve slept a lot in the afternoon. But I bet some warm soup will be nice. There is a receipt Ma taught me it’s delicious. Everybody likes it...”

Clark is practically talking to himself. He murmurs random things when he cooks. Wayne doesn’t seem to mind so he keeps talk until the soup is done. He lets the soup cool down a bit when he prepares some crackers and dips.

Wayne quietly sits behind the bar table in the open kitchen, which is also the usual place to serve food in this apartment, since most the time it’s only Clark eating here after Jon is born. 

Omegas like to keep their pups close and in the nests, making them feeling safe and better, and Clark doesn’t mind having a little walk back and forth from her place and his.

Clark doesn’t notice when he slips in the open kitchen, like how he doesn’t notice Wayne is up and moves into the living room in the afternoon or evening. After all stealth seems like Gothamite’s gifts.

Clark sets the plates and drinks in front of the waiting man, “here you go. Hope you enjoy it. Or you can tell me how you like your food be prepared next time. You have a butler or sort, don’t you?”

Wayne gives him a peculiar look, which is an improvement compared to what he is in the morning. Clark still doesn’t know how to decipher it, but he gets a feeling he is chiding him being ridiculous.

Clark never image how Bruce Wayne could be hard to understand, without words or what.

Not exactly wearing his heart on his sleeve type, but he doesn’t look very much like what people describes him in papers or gossips, hollow, superficial, only chasing sensory pleasures. He isn’t picky about cloth or food. He wears Clark’s two size bigger white and blue strip pajamas, having a worn out brown blanket hazardous wraps around his shoulders, accepting all the food Clark is kindly providing no matter it’s cold leftover spaghetti or chicken noodles soup. He could be passed by as an ordinary guy if he doesn’t eat with a grace only the old money could manage.

He doesn’t seem to dislike Clark, very different from the local bald rich man.

He doesn’t immediately fall in love with Superman neither. He has a aloof attitude like a black cat when he is quiet, impressed by nothing.

“I’m Clark Kent, by the way, Daily Planet. We met a few times back in the day. No interviews. I just asked for quotes like hundreds of other reporters did on these big events. Yeah, you probably aren’t going to remember me, but there I am.”

It comes easier than Clark thinks. He talks and Wayne listens. No pressure. No hassle. Almost like good old friends.

There’s a familiarity haunting Clark but he couldn’t place his finger on. Not like it’s important for now.

He shrugs it off and smiles.

“I’m also Superman.”

First since they met last night, Wayne acknowledges him with a quiet hum, like he knows all alone.

Chapter Text

Having Bruce living with him is some kind experience that Clark could never image.

Yes, they are down to the first name base now.

When the next morning Clark asks him about the preferences of breakfast he correct him.

“Bruce.” He murmurs under breath, voice husky due to lack of use. “Just Bruce.”

“Sure, Bruce.” Clark answers.

It’s all Clark needs to believe they’re building a good relationship.

Flushing out all the neuronal poisons is still a work in process for next few days, if not a few weeks. The blood sample he takes back to the Fortress for analysis indicates the treatment is doing fine. The baby looks good under x-ray vision and moves quite a bit like it can sense Clark’s presence nearby. Sadly Clark still doesn’t know it’s a girl or boy. The curled up, tiny dragon-shaped body makes it impossible to distinguish the gender. He needs to ask Jor. Clark has a lot needs to ask Jor.

It’s hard to tell what Bruce thinks about this. He looks half amused and let out a quiet huff the first time Clark touches his belly, but his expression is too elusive to be sure and Clark definitely not pays enough attention.

Clark is over the moon when he feels the movement under his palm.

“Thank you.” Clark quietly says. There is no other words he could gather at this moment. He holds back the urge to kiss him. Clark doesn’t want to take more advantage of Bruce. A baby is already something he could never dare to dream of.

Bruce hums.

The communication between Bruce and Clark is still jammed though. The only noticeable change between these two is Bruce switches from watching Clark intensely 24/7 to purposefully ignores him.

Bruce doesn’t speak in length, which is so different compared what he looks like in TV or galas. He is always the charming one and gives silly comments and carefree laughs every opportunity he can find, which for sure leading to many of his scandal episodes, but he is a funny nice guy. No wonder Gothamites loves him. His charm always works like a spell. Who can say no when those wet blue eyes look and only look at you.

But the Bruce currently lives with Clark is a totally different man. Clark suspects he spends most of his time crouches on the couch and brooding. Clark never thinks about putting brooding and Bruce Wayne in the same sentence before, but there he goes.

The Bruce living with him is kind of quiet and intense, stubborn and determined, though what drives him is even beyond Superman. Clark has hard time to simply persuade him giving up the couch to rest at the actual bed, where is definitely a lot more comfortable and better for his long suffering back.

This is getting ridiculous.

Bruce has a notorious schedule too. He doesn’t rest at all the first night spent with Clark and would very much likely to watch over the living room at three in the morning. He stays up all night and doesn’t even move one bit on his spot, even when Clark retreats to the bedroom to give him some privacy. It’s almost like Bruce knows Clark is watching him so he does everything on purpose. Clark tells Jor to dial up the sedative in the injection so Bruce at least has some real rest the following days.

Clark thinks Bruce mysterious knows he is the culprit behind his increasing sleeping hours later on. He gives Clark a hard time to administrate the next injection and won’t let Clark gets any closer until his mouth runs dry from explaining all the importance he could think of why Bruce must take the shot or bad thing will happen.

Bruce still doesn’t agree to come to the Fortress. Every time Clark mentions it he will gets a firm “NO” accompanied with a fierce glare.

Well, that’s an improvement if you consider it with non verbal avoidance.

The same goes with every time Clark mentions sending him back home or anything related.

Okay, if Bruce doesn’t want to be found then Clark at least could shelter him from the rest of the world.

Cat is keeping digging around. Finding out what happened to Bruce becomes her pet project. She is about the only one Clark knows semi actively looking out for Bruce Wayne. He contacts some of his more reliable sources, there is no missing person case or demanding of ransom for Bruce. If there is anything, Clark would assume the PR team of Wayne is doing a good job to make people believing Bruce is consistently around this whole time, with all the commercials running on TV and vacation photos and short clips on social media. The Wayne family is eerily quiet these days.

Actually, despite Bruce Wayne, the sole heir of Wayne fortune, other members in his family always keep a low profile. Most people isn’t sure how many kids he adopted, despite Richard Grayson, who came to him after the murder of his parents.

Clark has been debating if he should knock on the front door of the Wayne Manor and ask, but it’s going to raise a hell of questions why suddenly Superman would like to know the whereabouts of Bruce Wayne if he goes in tights, or he will be rejected and sent away and also raise a hell of suspicions how he knows Bruce is not around if he goes in as a reporter.

And there is message he received from Batman simply asks Superman to keep Bruce safe and out of the public.

It’s frustrating when too many unknowns involves and so little he has known. Clark decides to leave a spare phone to Bruce. If he wants to call someone, anyone, he can make the call.

Jor says this pregnancy is high risk and insists Bruce to come over. He has something would like to go over with Bruce in person and a full body scan could help a lot with mitigating these risks. Clark tries his best but no guarantee. Bruce is pretty determined to become a couch potato in Clark’s apartment and play dead to the rest of the world.

Clark wants to make Bruce a lobster dinner for both apology and peace offering, using the lobster, squid, fish he gets as a gift for saving a malfunctioned and slowly sinking ocean-going cruise ship. Lobster is listed high on Bruce’s favourite food on Internet.

Bruce looks delight at seeing the forearm long lobster Clark presents to him until the distinctive smell of fish hits him head on. He is about to throw up right on Clark’s carpet. Thankfully Bruce holds back. Clark tries to salvage the dinner by frying the seafood, which ends upon a completely disaster. The smell is only intensified. Clark could see clearly how Bruce’s Adam's apple moves and his lips stretches to a disapproving thin line.

When dinner is done, Bruce is forced to retreats to sit in the balcony with a glass of fresh squeezed lemonade, enjoying some nightly breeze coming from the open window. Clark packs all the fried seafood and eats it all on the rooftop so his hard work won’t end upon in dumpster.

The fried seafood is delicious. It’s just a devil conjuring morning sickness unfortunately. So fancy dinner to bribe Bruce to come over to the Fortress is a totally failure.

It’s not like Clark has a lot of bargain chips at the very beginning. Think about it. This is a man who is listed high on the wealthiest on earth and has almost everything, top notch quality and nothing less, tied with ribbons and balloons at his finger tip. He donates millions for reconstruction projects after major battles of the League and wants nothing for return, not even publicity, since all the donation is agreed to be anonymous and kept low profile when it’s made by the Wayne Enterprise and Bruce himself.

This man is Clark’s boss in more than one way and now he is also carrying Clark’s baby.

And then there is Clark Kent, growing up on a farm in middle of nowhere and working hard to pay for his monthly bills. The salary at Daily Planet and the extra money from freelancing let Clark buy nice things in life but never too fancy. He still has a kid needs to raise and a farm needs to help pay for mortgage, even thought Lois and his parents are perfectly capable of everything, but Clark insists. He won’t shy away from his own responsibility.

So to speak, Clark has no idea how to deal with Bruce. Get a couple of quotes on galas, easy. Do an interview in a chic restaurant, he will live. Live under the same roof and be a good provider, well, that’s the tricky part. It looks like the most he could provide is safety.

Ghost-Maker, Red Hood, or whoever kidnaps Bruce at the first place has not yet made an appearance, but Clark won’t assume this peace will last forever.

On the other hand, there is no way Bruce will stay in his apartment until the full term. He needs stretch his legs and some fresh air. Clark is not his warden and he won’t act like one.

Clark wants to live upon to his moral standard of a traditional good Alpha, but he feels he is dangerously failing.

At least he should keep the other healthy. He could always start at getting the other enough rest.

If Clark needs to hold the man on the bed to rest he will do that, and that’s what he starts to do since the third night they spend together.

Sometimes Clark feels Bruce is silently challenging him, daring him to get hold of him. Clark tries everything he gets to hold Bruce down and tries to pin him down. Emphasize on “try”. Bruce always seems to slip away from his fingers like a shadow, which is amazing and unsettling the same time. Guess being a wanted rich man must learn a couple of tricks under his sleeve. This quickly spirals into some sorts of tag. The extra weight on Bruce is practically nothing. He is enjoying this silly little game too much and Clark is just frustrated. Clark is the one has the super power and super speed in this room. He is the Superman.

Not that he dares to use his super strength on Bruce. But the point stands.

“How come you are so hard to catch?”

Clark whispers on top of Bruce’s head while finally, finally being able to pin the other man down and cover him with his entire body, after a whole ten minutes struggle or play depending on which one of them is going to define.

Bruce seems content to stay put under Clark for now.

He replies in quiet whisper too, with a hint of smug. 

“ I ’ m Batman. ”  

“Oh, that’s funny.” Clark rolls his eyes.

Bruce lets out a small huff but says nothing. They fall into a moment of comfortable silence. There is some primitive satisfaction coming along from holding your mate in this protecting position, shielding them away from the world, even though Bruce is not his mate. But he does smell like his. The bittersweet smell of slight burned cinnamon and spice almost Omega scents mingles nicely with his own woody and sun bathed Alpha scents, gives feeling like a warm and lazy autumn afternoon.

Clark wants to scent him. Bite him. Mark his as his and seal their fates together.

It must be an instinctive impulse.

Bruce seems to be receptive to the same impulse. He smells good, happy, pleased, with a hint of aroused, but also contented with simply cuddling and hugs. There is part of him smells like responding to Clark’s carnal desire, like old traditional Alphas and Omegas calling to each other.

But this is not right. It must be pregnancy hormones messing up his body and mind. No matter how much he smells like Omega, he is not. Clark starts picking up the scents, or lack thereof, after spending long enough with Bruce to know the difference. Once you know, it’s impossible to let go.

The hormones makes Bruce craving something is not even there. Clark could scent him, bite him, may be temporarily give him a bleeding and swell mark on his neck, extending this small fantasy a little bit longer, but nothing will last forever.

The scar will heal and then Bruce will realize the mate mark doesn’t even exist in the first place. What he longs in his lucid dream is all but a false impression. It’s all in vain. Clark will never be able to bond with him.

The thought and imagination makes Clark feels cruel and sad.

Clark never feels the same way when Lois was pregnant. There was temptation of bonding, too many times, raised from time to time ever since they started to spend time together. Every time when the urge raised one of them would hold back with pure logic, eventually, Clark learned to suppress his need without realizing it. The attraction faded away and this finally became their new normal.

Clark and Lois are good partners in work and friendship, and may be many other things, but never the exemplary husband and wife. Clark doesn’t think they would ever want to be. There is some fundamental lacking in their relationship to make it true. You cannot always think straight in a romantic love. The ecstasy and euphoria doesn’t come with logic and reason. Clark is nothing but a hopeless romantic.

But with Bruce, everything is so different and foreign, never something Clark ever predicts. Funny thing is, Bruce barely exists with Clark the whole time. Half of his mind is still in a wonder land the poison secreted by the pregnancy creates for him. Consistently drifts in and out. Clark wonders how much of him actually stays with him. Sometime Bruce seems like he understands more than he lets on and sometimes he seems so distant that Clark could never reach to him.

There is space, probably too much, left for imagination. Clark finds himself does not treat Bruce with expectation, because he certainly doesn’t know what to expect for the man. But if he lets go all of his prevision, Bruce is a walking enigma that throws Clark abandon vague threads but never enough to solve. He first invades Clark’s dream and then his life. Clark starts to lose the grab of reality of anything related this mysterious man because he doesn’t know if the familiarity to this man is coming from his fantasies or his unconscious obsession, or mixed of both.

It’s like falling. Clark is falling fast and hard. It’s supposed to scare him, like the time he jumped so high he flied first time without knowing how to get down. But it doesn’t, the same as when he flies he doesn’t think about landing.

Bruce gently nudges into Clark and shakes him off from his own thoughts.

Clark take a sharp inhale and pulls back to smile to Bruce.

“I’m okay. Just thinking.” 

Clark pulls back a bit so he could see Bruce’s face better.

“I’m going to see Batman tonight.”

Bruce is a bit shocked, Clark would say, then turns confused, finally rests on sulking. He shifts away from Clark and hangs on to the old blanket, which he decides to take a like the very moment he lays his eyes on it when he arrives the first night. It’s cute to see him wrapping himself using this blanket and pretend to not exist.

“Good night to you, too.” Clark needs hold back the urge to kiss on top of his head, but he does put his hand on Bruce’s back to feel the warmth radiated from the solid body. “I will be back soon, but don’t wait on me.”

-x-

Dick feels relief that Bruce is not dead, although Bruce somehow ends up pregnant with Superman’s baby, drugged high as a kite, and mysteriously involves in a traffic ring as a victim, runs into Jason and then decides to run away from him at the first chance he could hop on.

Jason is furious at Bruce’s runaway. He blames everything on Superman and is currently on a murder path for avenge. He comes back to the Cave firstly to stock more kryptonite, which is thankfully being stopped by Alfred, secondly to find any useful information to help him locate Superman if not kill him on sight.

Bruce must have a thorough file about Superman, from his weakness down to his monthly bank statement, well hidden somewhere on Bat Computer, just Tim hasn’t found it yet. Batman must have complete evaluations done about everyone or he won’t agree participant in the Justice League the first place.

Jason storms out before he could be officially introduced to Damian, who is keeping himself busy at the time by messing around in Bruce’s study.

Tim is glad those two never meet. This house doesn’t need more troubles and dramas. Really. It’s going to explode. Or Tim is going to do so with his own hands. No way in the world the Manor will be able to contain three Alphas the same time without descending to a living hell.

Damian is for sure going to present as an Alpha being damned stubborn and arrogant, and also you won’t choose other caste as heir if you must create one in lab tubes.

Oh, by the way, Damian doesn’t think it’s wrong to have a child by using laboratory means, which is, so many levels wrong, but it at least saves Dick lots headache on combing through Bruce’s history to pin point when the kid was conceived. Bruce has scandal every another day on tabloids but it’s still gross to think about him having a night life. The beauty of father-son relationship.

Dick is working with Alfred on how they should integrate Damian into the Wayne family with a proper excuse and without making to much fussing in public. For so many years, the public is semi believing the Wayne’s line is going to extinct. The tabloids constantly gossip Bruce’s reluctance to use IVF to compensate the low fertility for unpresented Omega turned Beta male but instead of adopting street kids .

The reporters are going to have a field day when the announcement for the blood son comes out.

But that’s before they hear about Bruce is pregnant.

Knowing Bruce, Tim is sure he will never be willingly giving up the baby, not even when his own life is on the line. He doesn’t know how Damian is going to react to this news and he doesn’t want to find out. Last time he checks the League of Assassins isn’t some merry place.

They probably need to stall time, until Bruce comes back with a plan. Tim knows Dick shares the same thoughts with him while Jason is determined to get rid of the “freaking monster”.

Tim has no idea what Jason has saw to make him react indignant like this.

Well, it’s alien. Maybe Superman is a bit off when he is young just nobody knows. Martian Man Hunter doesn’t looks like human at all upon close examination and he is a shape-shifter. Who knows what a Martian baby looks like.

But, hey, Superman is ranked top on many lists of “the most desired Alpha one would like to date/bed/whatsoever”. A half of Omega population masturbate with fantasying him. He at least is handsome and strong by a universal standard.

Tim’s point is, it couldn’t be that bad.

Yeah, Alphas are weird.

Alfred accepts everything with a grace only an old English former MI6 intelligence officer turned butler could possess. Tim envies his calmness. This keeps reminding him this is the man who raised up the Batman.

Alfred is drying the dishes when Tim slips into the kitchen.

“Hey, Alfred.” He quietly greets.

“Good evening, Master Tim.” Alfred finishes drying the plate currently occupied his hand, puts it down, then turns around to face Tim. “Trouble sleeping?”

“It’s not the time.” Tim murmurs under the breath. He knows Alfred hasn’t given up to persuade everyone under this roof to have a healthy and normal schedule. Not yet.

In the new normal in the past few months, Tim would be out as Robin with Dick as Nightwing for patrol, but tonight Dick is out as Batman to meet up with Superman to discuss the arrangement for Bruce and Tim is stuck with babysitting Damian so he won’t find out or interrupt this meeting. If Alfred hasn’t broke the news to him, then he doesn’t know Bruce is alive. Not yet.

Since Bruce is going to be out of his suit for foreseeable future, it really comes down to either of Dick or Jason to don the cowl. Knowing he is a just temporal replacement makes things easier on Dick’s mind so he finally decides to do so, additionally to prevent Jason obtains all the resources he need to murder Superman on sight.

It’s always going to Dick’s job. Tim thinks. He braces himself with this truth every time Bruce sustains grave injuries, but it’s still weird to see it’s actually happening.

Right now, Tim is just glad Damian is with Lucius for designing his own Robin costume so he gets time off of being a babysitter. Dick has gone through a lot of trouble to make the boy see the light that he is not ready to be the next generation Batman. A pint size vengeance and night is ridiculous even by Gotham’s standard when Halloween is a half year away.

Tim always has the feeling that Dick will do something like giving the mantle of Robin to Damian when the kid shows up in the front door, but the idea still makes him bristle, especially right now when it comes true.

Now he can relate to Jason a bit more in Robin’s business. Not like he wants to.

He misses Bruce. More than he is willing to admit.

Not like Bruce will make everything better. It’s probably going to be pure chaos even with Bruce present. Like ninety-five percent worse than now. Over thirty years, this man somehow develops a disaster ability to dealing with feelings. But Bruce is always a constant in his life and without him it’s nothing. The family falls apart. Piece by piece. Agonizingly.

Alfred can read Tim like he is an open book, so he kindly suggests, “would you like to have some tea, Master Tim?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” Tim replies.

Or coffee. But Alfred won’t brew coffee for him this late of night. Frankly, Tim never understands how Alfred holds his hope high that someone under this roof will willingly fall asleep before two in the morning. They’re all night creatures.

“Please take a seat.”

Alfred precedes to boil water. Tim watches him going through his ritual of preparing tea. It’s an art and Alfred uses his tea as a weapon never fails.

When the thin white steam rising from the kettle, Tim clears his throat.

“I’m thinking Bruce sending you some messages?”

Alfred hums, “indeed.”

Okay, so they do has some ways to communicate in case the tracker implanted on suits broken.

“But he never contact the cave.” 

He never contact me. 

Tim leaves the bitter accusation out. I thought we’re at least partners, if not father and son. He cannot prevent his mind drifts. Must be the side effect of sleep deprive.

The butler doesn’t even raise an eyebrow, “I believe Master Bruce is currently compromised.” He turns off the stove and starts to pour a cup of tea.

“Aren’t you worried about him?” It’s not a real question if Tim knows the answer, but he feels compelled to ask, to check, to be sure.

“Oh boy, I never stop worrying,” Alfred serves him the tea. His stoic expression is a little blurred and wavered by the hot steam slowly rising from the warm drink, “but this is the path Master Bruce chose, and the decision he made, quite a long time ago.”

Tim picks up the cup, but hesitates to drink, “you know I’m not talking about being Batman.”

“What’s the difference then?”

Frankly, Tim doesn’t know. He changes topic.

“What did he say in the message?”

“Not much. Except he’s doing well.”

Tim doesn’t know how well Bruce is doing now. Pregnancy never enters his mind so he doesn’t know much about it. He did a bit research on it but he doubts how helpful it could be, considering the baby is a half Kryptonian. Maybe it’s a better idea to let Bruce stays with Superman.

Alfred must reads his mind, because he agrees, “Superman seems to be a young fine man and a good company.”

“I hope so.”

Tim honestly says.

Chapter Text

“You’re not Batman.”

Descending from the sky, Superman approaches the impostor with caution and arms crossed on his chest. His face naturally falls into disappointment with a hint of well controlled anger.

Superman doesn’t like being fooled. Clark makes it his own job to get everyone knows. Not many men have the gut to play tricks on him.

The impostor does a good job to pretend to be the original one though. He dresses in the same striking black suit and cowl. A ragged cloak imitated the bat’s wings enfolds his body and conceal any minor details could potentially give away his true shape. He is a tad shorter than the original Batman. But without any close inspection, he could easily pass as the old one. Superman recognizes the differences only because of the countless battles he fights along with his Batman.

Clark automatically switches to x-ray visions and tries to uncover the identity of the impostor. However the suit is lead-lined, like it always has been, silently guarding its own secret.

“Not so fast, Sups.” The impostor murmurs with a hint of amusement. White lenses directly look into Superman’s eyes, accusing him the breach of trust. Clark huffs. Trust is a subtle thing with the Bats, as far as he knows, Batman rarely trusts anything or anyone by its appearance. They have a long history to work out the trust issue to make teamwork works.

The only reason stops Clark trying to peek under the cowl, only despite the necessary, is not out of trust but more about respect of boundary and privacy. The secret identity shall stay as a secret until one would like to tell.

However, from what happened in the last major crisis of the League, Clark has a gut feeling that Batman most likely unearths their civilian identities. Nobody could know this much and plans something could disable them so efficient but still not figure it out. The only good news is that it’s not the secret identity in the end he used to against everyone, even though their trust still stretches too thin to be viable as the final result.

Clark feels sorry for it. Somehow, it hurts him deeper then he anticipates. Guessing it always falls onto him for a failing team building, for him being the leader of the Justice League. No matter how other would like comfort him, it’s on him.

Right now, Clark doesn’t let himself be surprised by this uncanny prediction of his move. Instead, he narrows his eyes, asks. “Who are you?”

“I’m Batman.” The impostor growls in deep and horse voice. A voice so familiar to feel so strange to hear from someone else.

Like hell you are. An imaginary Green Lantern snorts in Clark’s mind. You wish you could be as scary as Spooky, but you are no use to me.

Green Lantern and Batman are like two street cats locked in a vet waiting room. They share a weird relationship only could be described as toxic. Most of the time they hate each other’s guts, apparently, but they also would unit forces to make their enemies regret their fool actions. They even bicker when in good mood. Everything is based on some mysterious mutual understanding. Clark thinks Lantern feels lonely when there is no one calls out his big mouth and scold him being reckless in battles.

Superman scolds, “no, you’re not.” Like treating a petulant child.

If not for the suit and cowl indeed seems to be the authentic and the impostor has not yet showed any ill intention, Clark will make take it upon himself and force the other to spill his beans.

But there is other minor details Clark could focus on to reveal the other’s end game before they escalate to violence.

The impostor probably wears the same high grade scent blocker or whatever products Batman used to apply. He smells like nothing, a ghost, even to the superhuman nose. But Superman can do better. If he concentrates enough he pick up a bare undertone of Alpha.

Batman is a Beta, contrary to most people’s believe and he knows for a long time, but this impostor is an Alpha.

An Alpha is close to Batman to have the access to his suit and gadgets. Someone is familiar with him to mimic his behavior and mechanism to fool almost everyone. A alliance could step up in place of Batman and take over the control.

There won’t be too many of them and only one Clark could think of at the top of his mind.

Superman touches down on the rooftop near the impostor. He takes a closer look to be sure. The height and the build seems to match. It becomes easier when he knows where to look.

“You are Nightwing.” Clark is certain now. “Where is Batman?” He demands.

“You don’t know.” Nightwing says drily.

“He shouldn’t send you here to pretend to be him. If he can break Bruce Wayne out from Ghost-Maker’s hideout without a heckle, he can come and meet me here tonight. He has the audacity to agree to a meeting but not show up. I’m tired of this hide and seek. This is becoming humiliating.”

Clark doesn’t want to intimate a kid. Nightwing seems a good ten years younger than Clark and that’s practically kid in his eyes. But Superman has his own limits.

Batman probably is watching this meeting from afar. A quick scan of surrounding doesn’t reveal anything. Clark keeps his guard high, waiting for the real Batman to make a move.

Although it never comes.

The accusation he throws out catches more of Nightwing’s attention.

“Ghost-Maker?” He shockingly repeats, locking his gaze with Clark’s, like not believing just hearing this name out of the blue. An realization strikes and shakes him. Nightwing murmurs under the breath, “Ghost-Maker.”

“Fuck, it made sense.” Nightwing curses with a burst of emotions, though he doesn’t leave an impression of cursing type to Clark.

It’s not like Clark expects to provoke such a strong feeling by listing one single name.

Nightwing turns and asks, anxious creeping into his voice, despite his efforts to disguise, “when did he get in Gotham? How did you know?” 

Before Clark could say anything, Nightwing takes a step back and eyes him oddly. “You knew, because you met him. This is the only way someone could know. That made sense. The way you showed up in middle of nowhere and dead of the night, asked for Bruce. You knew exactly what you’re looking for. And you only knew because he told you.”

“Where is Batman? Why don’t you ask him?” Clark says. He doesn’t miss the way Nightwing calls Bruce, sounds like he knows him in person. Thinking about it, Red Hood was also a bit over-protective over the Gotham billionaire. They are all connected.

It never occurs to Clark that Bruce Wayne has any connection with vigilantes or crime bosses. If there is anything in public, Bruce Wayne is not interested, if not borderline on dislike of vigilantism. Clark’s curiosity is piqued, but it’s really not the time to dwell on the mysterious relationship between them, he reminds himself.

“He is not going to answer.” Nightwing waves his hand like dismissing the idea. “He is, ugh, busy.”

“Too busy to answer the League’s call.”

This time is actually more about Superman’s personal business, but it’s not like Batman answers to the last few calls from the League, so Clark is going to use it to his advantage.

Nightwing gives him an odd look, clearly not expecting Superman to pull up this kind bullshit. Clark keeps his straight face, and eventually, Nightwing doesn’t comment on his straight lies.

“He won’t have Hood to take Bruce to safety. He would see it through and you knew it.”

Clark doesn’t response.

“It’s not him replied on the comm, Sups.” Nightwing gestures himself, a bit awkward, “it’s me.”
”Why did you do that?” Clark frowns. “How did you get his access to Justice League?”

“He kinda leave it to me, ” Nightwing says, “in case of emergency? It’s the same deal with all his suits and gears.” 

He paces on the parapet of the rooftop.

“Well, I just told you, he is kinda busy right now and won’t answer to anyone. He didn’t even send anything to us, neither. Like, literally nothing.” Nightwing explains. There is pain hided in his voice. “Actually, it’s not until the night you run into Hood we knew he’s alive.” He admits. There is raw honesty and relief in his voice.

“By the way, Hood is not very impressed. You should look out for him.” He chuckles, then continues. “Anyway, I’m taking over the cape right now. Strange things are happening in Gotham, break-outs after break-outs, if you paid attention to the news. People missing. Too many of them. Dead bodies dropped on the street. The number doesn’t match. I fear there is something big going on. The city needs Batman. I’ve avoided it long enough. There gonna be somebody do it when he is not here. I couldn’t let them down.”

Clark doesn’t ask about who they are, but he bets it’s a sensitive and difficult question. A long story too. His investigative journalist instinct is rearing its head. Not a good time.

There is also this consistent urge to hold him back about digging out the stories Batman keeps avoiding to tell. Who is the real man beneath the cowl and cape? He must be more than some symbol of justice and vengeance, hollow fear or endless nightmare. Flesh and bones.

When people ask about why Clark decides to become Superman there is usually an easy answer. He has the power and he tends to use it for good. But for Batman, someone who doesn’t have any power and runs down all the dark streets and alley ways to beat up criminals, putting crazy murders behind bars, there must be more to it.

There are too many occasions Clark almost asks, what drives him every day and night to jump in this endless war head on, if not only back down for fearing the inappropriate questions will infuriate the dark knight.

“Where did he go?”

Nightwing purposely ignores his question, “I’m glad that you are looking after Bruce. If you can keep him with you a little longer, that will be better.”

“I cannot keep him with me forever. He is his own person. I’m not going to lock him up.”

“Yeah, I’m not asking you to and I wont’ be so sure if you want.” Nightwing shrugs and then ponders, “But things are, complicated, let’s say. Especially when Ghost-Maker is in town. He shouldn’t be here.”

“And that’s because?”

A shadow fall upon Nightwing. “He made a deal with Batman.” Clearly it’s uncomfortable for him to even talk about this man. Bringing up bad memories. If Clark has to guess.

“I need to know who kidnapped Bruce Wayne and put...” Clark puts on his best straight face, “put him through everything until he was found by Ghost-Maker, if it’s assumed that  Ghost-Maker was not the culprit who got him the first place.”

Nightwing shoots him another odd look, caustically gesturing to Clark too, certainly catching on Clark means the Kryptonian pregnancy and very much silently asking if it’s Superman himself knocked Bruce Wayne up.

No, he didn’t do that. Or. Clark didn’t remember himself do that. He is not going to argue with Nightwing right now with neither of them has nothing concrete to argue about.

He could always ask later when Bruce is well enough and comfortable to talk.

Rao, that’s going to be such awkward question to ask in his life, if not the most.

Nightwing says at length, “no, I don’t think it’s Ghost-Maker. Whoever the culprit is I believe Ghost-Maker either has taken care of them, or he is going to. It’s not our top priority.”

For someone he hates to think about, Nightwing has an awful lot of confidence in him.

“You trust him.”

“Well, it’s not me who has faith in him.” Nightwing sulkily says. “Never mind. It’s not important. What important is,” he glances at Clark, “Bruce is safe and sound.”

Clark nods, “for this, you have my word.”

“Then I think we’re good. Are we good?” 

Nightwing shoots him a lopsided smile. He looks very young wearing a smile like that. He has a lot carried on and Clark hates to put more burden on his shoulder.

That’s probably everything he could get from Nightwing for tonight. Pretty far away from what Clark wants, but temporarily it’s enough. He just needs to save all the questions until either Batman finishes whatever occupies him all these time or Bruce gets better and is willing to talk.

“If you need an extra hand you could always call me.” Clark says, “I’m always happy to help.”

“Yeah, I know.” Nightwing slowly back away from Clark, until his heel is touching the edge of the rooftop.

“You are my favorite hero.” Says Nightwing.

Clark smiles. “I thought it would be Batman.”

“He wishes he could.”

Nightwing waves a little good bye. Then he turns. One of sudden, the nice and friendly aura surrounded Nightwing has completely gone, instead the full dark and terrify glory of Batman swings back with full blast. The cape spreads out like wings and blocks all the moonlights and neon lights, only a black bat-shaped void would devour everything.

Nightwing tilts back and falls down. He is gone in a blink of eye.

Clark approaches to the edge of the roof, barely catching the sweep of grappling gun from distance.

Ever the dramatic.

-x-

Clark has no idea what Bruce does when he is alone in his apartment. He couldn’t be asleep all day long so he can torture Clark during the night. But the idea is getting tempting over time. Every time when Clark comes back from his visits to Gotham, Watchtower, and the Fortress, Bruce is awake and waiting.

He curls up on the couch like a bossy cat feels it owns the world, with his blankets and a few over beaten sappy pillows haphazardly lied against each other. Clark has no idea what Bruce did to his pillows. Last time he checked none of them looks like have been through a never ending but losing war.

Clearly building a nest is never in Bruce’s skill set and he also never knows how to quit.

Clark holds back the urge to facepalm. He simply changes out his uniform with super speed and stands in front of Bruce, giving the man couple seconds to fully absorb the fact he is finally back home.

No, he is not trying to imitate.

If Clark has found out anything about Bruce from all the time they spend together, is that he never listens to anyone and he refuses to be scared.

Fear only fuels rage and Bruce can very much live on spite.

Clark told him to go sleep on bed without him and he is sure Bruce is currently sitting on the couch, wide awake just to stunt him.

Spoiled brat, thinking he can get away from everything.

Contradict to his own thoughts, Clark reaches out to Bruce like approaching an unpredictable cat, slowly and with caution.

“You should rest more. It’s good for you.” Clark signs. What else could he do? One day Bruce is going to be his death.

Bruce let Clark touching his cheek. The warm and soft flesh stirs something deep down in Clark’s heart. And with Bruce leaning into his palm, Clark’s heart wobbles, hopelessly.

“What I’m supposed to do about you?”

Bruce hums, seems agreeing with Clark.

“Do you want me carry you to bed?” Clark jokes, “I’m pretty sure that’s where you belong to right now.”

Bruce withdraws. He shuffles pillows around and makes Clark a spot to sit, so Clark sits. Their arms still brush each other. The warm contact hasn’t yet broken. Clark likes it that way.

“What do you want to talk about?” Clark asks, since Bruce won’t rest until he gets what he wants.

It takes a couple seconds for Bruce to process.

“... Batman.” He murmurs.

“I’m sitting with you and you only want to talk about another man.” Clark playfully clutches his heart, dramatically signs, “Bruce, that’s cruel.”

Bruce shoots him a disapproving glare. An intense one. Definitely remind Clark all the disapproving glares he used to get on the League meeting from Batman.

“If I got any doubt about your relationship back on that rooftop, when Nightwing said Batmen would very much like to escort you back to safety personally, now I’m certain that you two are close,” Clark says drily, “very close.”

“...you’ve no idea.” Bruce mutters something sounding like “idiot” but too obscure to understand under his breath.

Clark nods along, pretending to be affectionate understanding, guessing this truly makes himself a fool. Frankly, he doesn’t even know where to fathom.

He smiles, more to himself than to Bruce.

Chapter Text

A few months ago.

Batman regrouped with Superman right outside of a populated satellite outlet mall, only a few minutes before Luthor tracked them down and sent an army of robots to blow Superman up with whatever nasty Kryptonite cocktail bombs he managed to create.

The shrapnel embedded with Kryptonite shreds the blue suit and the invincible skin of Superman immediately. Being the center of the explosion, Kal stumbled out of the flame and smoked like a bloody mess. The painful howling could be heard despite the continuous uproar of bombing and explosion.

Bruce was sent flying across the field due to the blastwave at the same time, until he hit the brick walls.

People screamed and desperately ran away from them, from the explosion. Buildings collapsed in far and smock raised from everywhere. Robots which ambushed Superman didn't care about the collateral damages, as much as that had been established. 

Bruce rushed getting up and yelling who was too shocked to move to run. He pulled up a few civilians who fell down on the remnants and was glad they were only minor injured.

But the worst had yet to come.

Bruce realized that when he crossed the battlefield and almost reached Superman.

The burning smell of smoking and explosive suffocated his sensitive nose, but Bruce won’t mistake the specific spicy and bitter tang of rut accelerator spreading along with the smoke. It’s impossible and fruitless to pin down the source. It’s everywhere and there was no way Kal hadn’t inhaled a lungful. Even if Kal was lucky to hold his breath, the glittering fine dust had thoroughly covered his exposed skin, seeping into the countless tiny bleeding cuts.

The only comfort was that the rut accelerator was concentrated at the center of the initial explosion, where Superman was, and kept a distance from the crowd, so Batman didn’t need to worry about the civilians catching all this nasty stuff. At least not this moment.

His priority was solely on Superman.

However, Kal was barely holding himself together. His damaged and bruised skin slowly started healing, but his scents, the forever sun bathed warmth scents turned to something burning and suffocating. The particular tang of rut developed quickly and strongly. He looked at Bruce with painful red eyes. The rationality and sanity diminished like slowly dying embers. 

Kal stumbled toward Bruce. One or two steps, then he stopped abruptly. The robots regrouped high above and fiercely attached him. Superman was buried under incessant fire and explosion, again.

Bruce tried to pull down as many as robots he could but only a moment later, an agonized growl came out from Kal and then he shot up to sky, drawing all the robots away and taking the battle down to the deep of the forest nearby. 

Hopped on the Batmobile, Bruce tracked down Superman. 

Luthor underestimated, or he didn’t care about, how destructive Superman could be when he was on rampage. The robots he sent out didn’t stand a chance. The tore up metal pieces and wreckage was everywhere when Bruce only arrived like ten minutes later. Trees fell down and cut to chunks, crashing to the ground. 

In the middle of this destruction stood Superman. Ragged. Red eyes. Panting and sweating. Shaking a bit, too. 

The air was drenched with agitated, aggressive, agonized, rut scents. It’s choking to even get any closer.

When they locked gazes, Bruce knew he came late.

He was going to experience first hand what a furious and feral Kryptonian would like to do when he was sinking down in rut and instincts.

That’s... really not hard to predict. All the Alphas practically wanted the same thing. Fight or mate. The Kryptonian was not that different.

There was no way Bruce let Kal fly back in town and run loose like a pissed wild animal. That’s probably Luthor’s end game. A Superman reduced to nothing but a feral beast. An ultimate way to humiliate and degrade a god.

For a brief moment, Bruce wondered if he could manage to inject a rut inhibitor to neutralize the situation, but he also knew too well the rut inducer Luthor wouldn't be anything cheaper than top grade and Kal was too far gone. 

The investigative journalist Clark Kent would have a field day to report on how Superman became the worst kind of destroyer, or worse, rapist, if he could come back at all. 

He would be back . Bruce hummed to himself. Superman was a persistent man. He would live. Just given time.

But right now, it’s only Superman and Batman standing on this wreckage, making Batman the last barrier between a feral Superman and the rest of the world.

Time was slipping away. Since Bruce was a Beta wearing heavy scent blocker and showing no intention of challenging him, Kal stopped focusing on Bruce and looked away. His nostril flared, taking in the surrounding scents.

Kal could see almost every corner on earth and hear the tiniest sound, but it’s tricky when it comes to scents. 

Bruce couldn’t risk him picking up Omega scents back in that outlet mall. There were quite a few of them.

Only one option was left to Bruce.

He carefully backed until could get back in the Batmobile. Then the tanked vehicle roared in life at full blast. Superman’s attention snapped at it automatically.

Frankly, there was no better day to fight Superman. Batman just needed to give his best try.

Before Kal could think of anything, Bruce hit the buttons and launched missiles on him, blowing him up.

Then he hit the gas hard. The vehicle shot straight out, barely avoiding the first strike from Kal. A punch landed right at where Batmobile was a second ago, split the land and blew everything up. Even the Batmobile waved a bit because of the impact before the tires could firmly grab the ground.

No Alpha in their right mind would tolerate an assault like that, especially the ones deep in rut and instincts roared its ugly head.

Exactly what Batman needed.

The chase, officially, started.

It became Batman’s advantage right now that Luthor’s bombing with Kryptonite significantly weakened Superman, to a degree Kal couldn’t super speed or fly to catch him. But Superman was still fast, strong, violent and single minded in taking down anyone who dared to challenge. Kal gave good fights even when he was out of mind.

It's good news Alfred wasn’t there on the other side of the line. The butler worked alone to handle a dangerous time travel machine back in Gotham, in order to buy Bruce time, so he could make it to Watchtower to prevent any further leak of information after his contingency plans were stolen. 

A few hours ago, Alfred sent him a message saying everything was going accordingly, which was odd, considering how the butler persistently pestered on Bruce’s comm on any other day. But Bruce could only believe him.

If anything happened to Alfred, the kids should let him know, even though their communication seemed a bit strained recently. 

Bruce vaguely remembered the arguments and fights with his kids going on in the past few days. Troubles tended to find only troubles and troubled he was, until everything became a blur. 

There was no one on the comm right now, which was good. Only Bruce’s inner voice kept chewing over all the faults he committed and all the possibilities he could potentially do better.

Bad time to reflect. Bruce must focus. 

The only important matter right now was to get Superman away from the rest of the world and find a way, either tiring him out or something, to calm him down.

There was a place in mind Bruce would like to lead Kal to. An underground base disguised as a bunker, secretly built and operated by an illegal group for human experiment, got busted by his kids not too long ago. It’s not unreachable and so deep down into the underground that, after Bruce initiated the lock down, even with Superman’s senses, he could smell nothing from the surface.

The only problem was time.

Superman healed quickly. He would wear off the Kryptonite any second. The Batmobile carried Bruce as far as it could, Bruce could see the entrance of the bunker, before Superman finally managed to punch the rear of the Batmobile and send it flying across the field. Bruce was ejected before Kal caught upon with the Batmobile flying in the mid of air and punched till it exploded.

Bruce rolled on the ground to drop off the momentum and put up a distance between Superman and the in-recognizable piece of junk used to his beloved car. 

Kal only stopped punching when there was literally nothing left, letting out a victorious cry.

He sniffed the air and tilted his head while watching Bruce scrambled away and then got back up, since as a Beta and with heavy scent blocker, Bruce was practically a living ghost to Kal’s instincts, standing for no threat. 

In Superman’s mind, Bruce was no different than a leaf dropping down the tree or a rock unfortunately caught in blast range and flew across the field. He was nothing, no matter how humiliating it felt. He glanced at Bruce with cold eyes.

Superman turned around to the direction they came, a place full of innocent people. It’s hard to tell what he was looking at, but there was something slowly catching his interest as he discerned whatever was carried down by the wind.

Scents. Bruce perceived. From the fights had finished, the forests that silently stood, the animals hid from sight, the people lived far away.

Was it even possible when it’s so far away?

Bruce couldn’t risk Superman deemed him as a non-threat and went back to do whatever on top of his instincts. Whatever he was thinking right now, reinforcing a territory? Beating up more opponents to prove him as worthy? Sinking out a mate if not multiple? Bruce didn’t like his imagination and doubted it would be pleasant to the general public to know neither.

There was a piece of Kryptonite Bruce kept in his utility belt. Given an opportunity he could challenge Superman and distract him, so he pull it out. This immediately caught Superman’s attention. 

Kal growled deeply and full of warning, probably sensed the danger of the little shining green rock even before it landed on his face. For that, it’s exactly what Bruce planned to do next.

On top of the cherry, Bruce took out a small bottle of artificial Alpha scents and quickly sprayed on himself, before he fired his grappling gun and charged directly at Kal, throwing him a solid punch square at his jaw, bruising more on Kal’s ego rather than his body.

It did the trick.

A rutting Alpha so far gone might be able to ignore a scentless Beta on a good day, but no chance to shy away from another hostile and aggressive Alpha.

The scents Bruce applied to himself made sure he smelled like the most terrible, aggressive Alpha one could ever meet.

Forgetting what he discerned a minute ago, Superman’s full attention was back on Batman. He growled, feral and bestial. The retaliation came fast and strong.

A smooth swing, Bruce dodged Superman’s attack, taking their resumed battle toward his final destination. Kal chased him down the hill and into the bunker.

Once they were in there, Bruce initiated the lock down immediately. In case Kal changed his mind, Bruce continuously led him deep down underground. The bunker spiraled down into a maze. The further down, the bigger it became. With thick concrete walls and countless rooms, a perfect place to play hide and seek.

But Bruce probably wasn’t going to last that long. Kal was getting dangerously closer at ever passing second in their fight. Without any backup, it’s impossible to lose Kal. 

Superman’s stamina was impossible for humans to imagine, less to compete. Kal was as fast and strong as the first moment he lay his eyes on Bruce. The only thing weakening him was the small shred of Kryptonite Bruce wrapped in his hand, only good to distract Kal but never enough to knock him out. 

This battle couldn’t last forever and Bruce feared he was close to his limit. The only way out was somehow administrated a rut inhibitor to Kal. Normally it won’t involve impenetrable skin, but if Bruce planned his moves right, he might be able to cut Superman with the piece of the Kryptonite and needle him while the wound was still open.

The chance was slim but Bruce got to try. His entire life depended on it. At the heat of the chase, Superman won’t let him go until he is ripped apart.

The plan went down, as much as expected, disastrously. Bruce was caught and tossed around like a ragged doll until it hit the columns and walls like a bowling ball. It’s a miracle he hadn’t yet broken any major bones.

There was only a limited amount of gadgets he could carry with him and Bruce had used most of them to distract Superman. He was running off, weapons, time, options, may be his life too.

I’m sorry.

Bruce locked his eyes with Superman’s, before the next unavoidable death blow delivered on him.

The red eyes, fell upon Bruce, could only belong to a dangerous predator who seeks for blood.

For die on you.

Somehow, the punch missed. Instead of landing directly on his stomach, it missed Bruce only millimeters to his right. His entire right side of body was numbed. The impact of the blow sent him flying across the platform until dropped to the lower concrete ground, crashing the smooth surface.

His vision blacked out, a few seconds or minutes, it was hard to tell. Bruce must have lost consciousness meanwhile too. The next thing he knew was Superman pinned him over the round and growled directly into his face. A large and burning hand crashed on his throat and almost choked him.

Instinctively Bruce tried to shake him off, but Superman lifted him to hit on the concrete floor. Again and again, until he lay limp in his hand. The fingers tightened around his throat and sunk down into the protection collar. Bruce could hear the crash of collar and cowl playing out in milliseconds. His body was paralyzed by the excruciating pain and his senses were blank.

It took minutes before Bruce came back to himself, before he realized a hand touching everywhere on him, before he felt Kal’s hot breath fell upon his jawline, the tip of his nose poked at his cheek.

“...what?”

Bruce stirred under Kal, groaning. Superman was like weighing a thousand tons and crashing him. Any attempts to escape or simply pushing him back was impossible and irritated the Kryptonian.

Kal growled, voice deep and commending. Alpha voice . Sending a chill run down Bruce’s spin, freezing him on spot, however briefly it was.Bruce had trained himself not to freeze under Alpha commend, but somehow it sent him back to day one. Satisfying with his effort, Kal proceeded to peel the broken armor off Bruce, tearing the black kevlar like thin paper.

Then the scents finally hit Bruce.

The thick, choking sweet scents, like ripen tropical fruit dropped off the branch and blasted on the hard ground. The artificial Omega scents. Clouded them like a heavy blanket.

The bottle of Omega scents kept in his utility belt must have cracked and spilled when Superman landed punches on Bruce. Or his involuntary landing crashed it under his weight. Just Bruce’s luck.

Several facts were registered in Bruce’s mind the same second. First, the artificial Alpha scents must be worn off during the fight. Now the Omega one was dominant and strong, practically marking Bruce with its powerful sweetness. Second, Superman wasn’t about to kill him any more. He used his entire weight to pin Bruce down. Even the hand used to grab Bruce’s throat wandered down his chest and searched. Third, his armor was too broken to be functional. The built-in comm in the cowl was dead silent. The ringing sound repeating in his head was more likely the concussion rather than someone on the other side of the line. 

Okay, Bruce was alone in an empty secret base, stripped out of any useful weapon - the shred of Kryptonite was dropped somewhere out of Bruce’s range, whatever left in tack in his belt was questionable - and about to be assaulted by Superman.

The realization hit Bruce like a bullet train.

“No. No!” Bruce gasped, aghast. His limbs were numb and won’t answer to his will no more. He thrust and pushed under Kal but it’s useless. He couldn’t even move an inch!

“KAL! NO!”

Kal was taken aback a bit by the sudden burst of Bruce. He stopped and reared his head up a bit to stare down Bruce with an inscrutable expression, with his weight firmly planted on the other to prevent any escape.

Bruce watched him with wide eyes, panting heavily. He was completely at mercy of Superman. A man was standing for Hope .

But what a feral Superman wanted was an enigma.

Or, was it?

Bruce took a deep breath and swallowed hard.

The artificial Omega scents mingled with the strong rut scents pouring out from every pore of Superman, taking the sharp edge of aggression off, creating a false, but elusive intimating feeling.

Yeah, now Bruce could tell Superman was quickly glancing at his crotch, where he wore his belt and the Omega scents were mostly concentrated. The carnal desire was rising in Superman. His reddened face was more likely from the inner flame of lust other than from the previous fight.

Superman was confused.

What Superman pinned down was not a hostile Alpha but a wanting Omega. The intensity of Omega scents spoke for itself. A feral mind won’t mind the equally empty feeling the scents carried, as long as it’s strong and appealing.

Any thoughts from Bruce?

Didn’t matter. He used to hide his identity under a cowl. Now he was hiding his feelings and panics under the artificial scents. What’s the difference ?

They’re all in disguise.

Batman was a master of disguise. He could use this up to his advantage if he chose smart. The intercourse definitely stalled more time than a fight, if not wear the rut off entirely. Consent was damned.

Okay. Okay . Maybe he could do it. There was nothing to lose. The only thing on stack was his dignity . It’s not like he will be pregnant or anything. He was not an Omega. To knock him up without IVF was like a fucking miracle .

It was probably going to be a bit of pain. Bruce was a little rusty on the receiving end. He could deal with pain. Wounds, blood, even broken bones, they were all so familiar to Bruce and he could endure them. He would be bruised, but he would live.

He would never talk about this after it finished. Kal didn’t need to know. This was certainly better than waking up beside a dead body.

It’s for the best . Don’t blame him for not trying .

Bruce forced his body to relax. He sprawled on the ground and stopped struggling. His sudden welcome hesitated Superman, but the hesitation barely lasted a second. When his eyes flickered back to red, Superman’s hands were back to business at no time.

Bruce bared his neck and allowed Kal do whatever he pleased. Toying him like a doll, peeling off all his armor, Bruce only hissed when the grab and hold became too rough and hurt.

He managed to toss the emergency signal transmitter away. When everything ended, Bruce was going to need a way out.

The liquid of concentrated Omega scents had seeped through his belts, cracked armor plates, undersuit, until smeared and dried with blood on his burning skin. Bruce didn’t need to worry it wore off any time soon, and he doubted Superman would mind even if it’s gone when he was dick down inside him.

Bruce angled his head and scented Kal with the little freedom he had, contentedly finding Superman smelled like nothing short than carnal desire and pure lust. He smelled happy to get his well deserved prize after all the troubles he had been through.

It would do. He braced himself. It must work.

Superman bit down on his bare neck. Teeth sunk deep in the scent gland, drawing blood out.

Hot agonizing pain streaked like a lightning down on Bruce’s body. 

He screamed.

Chapter Text

“Kal-El!”

The scream fell on the deaf ears. Bruce didn’t have the mental capacity to change to Superman’s civilian name. His screaming mind supplied nothing useful to this situation, except, screaming . He screamed until everything died in his throat. Not like that anyone was going to hear him.

How was this supposed to feel like being claimed and marked? It’s more like tearing his throat open if Bruce didn’t know better. Instinctively he thrust and fought back, but Superman was firmly glued to him there was no way Bruce could push him off.

The sharp and rusted smell hit Bruce like a freight train. He smelled blood. Relaxing and letting Kal take whatever he wanted was easier said than done. The truth was, Bruce never quit fighting and Superman won’t let go of his throat. The blood called for a primitive repulse and the pain simply made everything worse. When there were teeth sunk deep down in his throat, some part of his brain was fried and wouldn't stop screaming at him.

The ringing in his ears suddenly intensified. Bruce couldn’t hear anything except his labored breath and racing heart. 

He was not going to die. Bruce tried to remind himself. It’s not a life or death situation. It’s just a goddamned claim mark and it wouldn’t do anything to him except giving him a stupid bite scar . Stop screaming like you’re dying!

Kal was putting all his weight on Bruce to hold him down and biting hard to rip flesh. He only let go of the bite when Bruce ran off the strength to struggle. When he seemed to be submissive to his fate.

Kal would get tired. Bruce swallowed, hard. His mouth was dry like sandpaper. Putting yourself together and it would pass.

Superman drew back to scent him again. Didn’t matter how hard Kal bit him, the artificial Omega scents weren’t going to change one bit. The scents were still overpowering, strong and care-freely flowing in the air, slightly mingled with Alpha’s rut scent but that’s about it. 

The confusion was the first meaningful expression surging on his current stoic face. The outcome for sure contradicted what his instincts claimed.

To fix the error, Kal bit him again.

The pain came back with full intensity. There was no way to tolerate it. Why Ra’s never included biting as the part of torture program? What’s wrong with him? Because right now Bruce felt it’s the most efficient method he could think of now to elicit pain. He would never be ready for it. Clawing and kicking, he automatically fighted back. He howled like a cornered injured animal. 

It didn’t matter. Kal might think it’s the way he liked it, because he smelled like it. The Omega scent wouldn't change a damn!

The kicking and fighting added spice for the fun. Certainly for a feral Kryptonian. It warred with Kal’s primary instinct for wanting a submissive mate but he was generous to allow a bit of playfight before they got into business.

The patience ran off quickly though. Between the pain and scream, Bruce was aware how Superman’s large hand searched down to his crotch and peeled the rest layers away. 

Thick fingers fiddled with half-hardened cock and balls for a while - he wasn’t even aware when he got hard, but that must be adrenaline - and then moved down, slipping through the dry folds and touching his hole. There was no slick and it hurt like hell when Kal determined to test its bearing.

He was not an Omega and he doubted even if he was, would he feel anything under this circumstance?

The answer was probably yes. The claim bite was supposed to prepare Omega for intercourse, may it be willing or not.

But he was not an Omega.

When Bruce hit puberty, he instinctively knew that he would never present to be one. His secondary sex characteristics development subtly deviated from the expectation of a male Omega. He knew how to read signs and there were also annual health checks. Alfred never let him slip away from those. His hormone levels, after his parents’ death, dropped and were never able to hit the lowest mark of presenting as a Omega.

The doctors said it’s a rare but not unheard symptom under stress and of traumas, suggesting it’s actually a way his body tries to preserve itself in an extreme environment. It benefited him in a biological sense.

Oh that’s funny . A younger Bruce would think. He was the richest orphan in the world, with access to almost everything in the world with a snap of his fingers. He never thought he was living in a harsh environment. The Manor was huge for a single child. Alfred never truly denied him essential things and Bruce was well aware that he could be a handful when he was upset.

He was just angry, in Bruce’s opinion, for the cruel fate of taking his parents away, for the police never catching the culprit, for some random man who wanted easy money and gunned down his parents like animals and cowardly run away, for himself freezing at the spot and doing nothing.

Knowing he would never present as an Omega actually relieved him when Bruce was an angry teen. Finally he could let go of all that stupid social expectations and morals and unspoken rules to be something , himself wasn’t even sure at that time.

He changed from the quiet and reclusive child after his parents’ death to a real menace. Always getting into troubles and being called to the principles. Alfred needed to transfer him to a handful of different schools and skipped his grades a couple of times because he deemed with heavier school work or stricter school rules would tire him out, a silly thought. It never worked.

Bruce was too smart for his own good. 

The rage and unfairness kept boiling deep down in Bruce and no amount of therapy would take it away. In return, he picked up the methods those therapists tried to apply on him. He lied to get away, and only got sent back next time he was deep in trouble.

In the end, he ran away, from his own home, from Alfred, from Gotham - likely instinctively knew one day his rage and self-hatred would do more harm than good to not only himself, but also his loved ones around him; self preservation finally kicked in it seemed - to learn who he really wanted to be and understand this cold and unfair world, until he returned as Batman and wielded his rage as a weapon, seeking vengeance and justice not for himself, but for the other innocent.

Bruce was no stranger to sex thanks to his playboy persona, but he was rarely on the receiving end of it. He didn’t like his partner touching his vagina. It made him sad , somehow, instead of feeling pleasure. 

It’s much later when he realized what’s behind the rage and unfairness he always felt back in those days. There was hidden fear. He thought he got over the part of being pained, hurt, pointed by a gun, loneliness and all sorts of stuff. But there was still a subtle kind of fear that remained unearthed, buried so deep down under his teenage years that he couldn’t even look it in the eyes.

But somehow he always knew. He was supposed to know, because it was the first thought across his mind when he knew he was not going to be what he’s supposed to be.  May it not be fear, but shame . It was supposed to be so easy , and he was born with it. He was ashamed that he failed to become the perfect child his parents wished to have. He couldn’t never live up to their expectations. What his mother expected. 

Their expectations were not even meant to be hard to achieve. It’s supposed to come to him, rather than the other way around.

Being a fine, lovely, happy Omega .

Oh, Martha would never be able to be there to see what he grew up to, something even Bruce himself would often have a hard time pinpointing. Just anything but what she could ever imagine. Even Alfred stopped providing answers at some point of time.

Now it’s the exact moment Kal tried to put him in his place , frankly, which he had troubles to fill in.

Revisiting his past was so pathetic, but in truth any distraction was overly welcomed at this moment. Bruce didn’t know what his brain wanted to achieve here, but memories flashing back like chain reaction and the sorrow crept in.

Currently his traitorous mind would only focus on how large and hot Kal’s fingers felt when probed his tight cunt. Kal tried to squeeze two fingers in and the tight ring of muscle won’t let him. It hurt. Kal couldn’t comprehend what’s happening and he growled in frustration, pushing out a more commanding rutting scent.

Bruce hopelessly squirmed under him and very much would like to snap back, if there is anything that would like to come out from his back of throat but the pathetic whines. 

There was a little bottle of lubrication in his belt. Bruce suddenly remembered. It won’t be enough but better than nothing. End up dying due to blood loss or bruised internal organs because an inhuman large dick won’t fit inside his cunt was too mortifying.

His fingers twisted and scratched the ground to try to reach for it. But Superman ripped off his utility belt and threw it out of Bruce’s reach. He came back to desperately push Superman to buy some leeway.

“ Please . Just move a bit. Kal--”

Bruce didn’t dare to think what would happen if Kal decided to force himself on him. He could feel the huge bulge squeezed between them, leaving very little to imagination. The trapped alien cock against his tight was pulsating and radiating heat. Bruce didn’t need Kal to take it out to know it won’t fit.

It never fitted.

The most recent thing in years had ever been to his cunt was his fingers, and that’s only fucking two of them! 

For some miracle, Kal moved. Bruce flipped and lunged to grab his broken belt but only got caught by Kal in between. Again . Kal forced him down and planted his face on the ground, then lifted his waist high, ass in the air. Kal planted himself firmly in between Bruce’s kicking legs. Another large hand squeezed Bruce’s tight and pried it to open further.

Bruce couldn’t see what Kal was doing now and he felt the warm breath fall upon his sensitive skin of groin.

Hot wet tongue spread open his fold and overlapped on the naked flesh. Kal licked him.  

Bruce yelped. His entire body was seized by the raw feeling. 

Fucking with Superman was one thing. A fuck or death scenario , Bruce got that part. But having Superman eating him out was totally another level.

It’s too lewd, filthy and intimate .

Suddenly getting torn into halves and dying of blood loss sounded better than this.

Kal ignored all the protest of Bruce and continued what he deemed to be necessary. What a considerate lover. He licked the pink flesh thoroughly with copious saliva and left nothing behind. Thick tongues breached the entrance and dragged across the pulsating flesh walls.

It felt wrong but arousing. His heart beat crazy against the rib cage.

Bruce couldn’t tell if it’s him leaking slick or it’s Kal’s saliva, but his bottom was hot, wet and messy.

Fingers that probed again and scissored inside him didn’t hurt so much as the first try. Fuzzy pleasure slowly seeped into the pain and numbed Bruce’s mind. He whimpered, hopelessly. The bleeding bite marks also pulsed with numbness, sending waves of unrecognizable feelings down his spine, drawing him. Bruce was dazed, until Kal lined his cock with his cunt.

He didn’t even notice when the other got rid of his suit.

The massive meaty head steadfastly pressed against his entrance. And pushed. The pressure built up.

Bruce ceased moving and unconsciously held his breath. The time slowed down to milliseconds. He could feel every tiny struggle of his tight ring of muscle held up to resist the inhuman cock to enter, also all slowly giving up under the pressure. There was no stopping. It popped in with a lewd sound. Or Bruce just felt it reckoning in his head. Then came the hard and short thrusts.

Hot pain mixed with incomprehensive pleasure shot down Bruce’s spine like a lightning, knocking out the air in his lungs. Bruce involuntarily scratched the ground underneath him to find purchase, but nothing held him there except Kal’s strong grab on his waist and ass.

Kal leaned forward to bite him again. Again and again. Never stopped moving inside him. It didn’t really take long until he buried his length inside Bruce, head touching the cervix. The walls were burning. The little preparation was not close to enough. Bruce feared Kal would tear him up. He could taste the blood, but he didn’t know for sure. He couldn't see. Everything was overwhelmingly too raw and too painful. The head of cock punched his cervix, he could feel that, more pain than pleasure.

Bruce crawled into himself, as much as he could. Kal was merciless pounding on him. The rut completely took over his mind and body. 

Bruce didn’t try to touch himself. On the hinder thought it might be a good idea, at least it could distract him from this seemingly forever lasting agony and pleasure that tore his mind apart. 

If it’s purely the pain it would be easier to endure. Bruce had done lots of training for it. However there was pleasure. Pleasure was hard to resist and there was nothing left to fight for.

The fatigue, sleep deprivation, bruised ribs, muscle aches, and all the injuries from his previous struggles with Superman and fights that happened before their regroup were all catching up with him now. Bruce felt bone deep exhaustion, despite everything going on around him. Or inside him, more specifically.

Kal dumped a load of hot cum inside him and Bruce whined at the raw sensation. His cunt compulsorily clenched down on the throbbing cock, happily devouring everything Kal gave it, sucking him dry like a greedy whore. 

The alien cock didn’t soften one bit and Kal kept fucking his abused cunt. His mouth pressed at his nape of neck, licking and biting when he saw fitting. One arm tightly wrapped around his waist and squeezed. Bruce was impossibly stuffed and felt his guts rearranging with every poke and prod of the huge cock. He couldn’t care less when Kal almost crashed him with his entire weight and pinned him in place.

His vision turned dark but Bruce didn’t remember when he rested his eyes.

...

He drifted in and out of consciousness.

There was a warm and buzzing feeling pooled in his guts. He was feverish, sweating like being in a pouring rain. He was shaking so bad, almost vibrating. Teeth tried to clench hard but thick fingers pried his mouth open. Freezing water gushed in. He choked on it.

A rumbling sound was above him. Purring. His hazy mind slowly registered it. Hands, huge and hot, touching his cheeks, stroking his spine, taking all the displeasure away. All that was left was the warm, buzzing numbness.

Bruce moaned and stirred. A dubious amount of warm slick leaked between his legs like a broken tap and down his tights. There was something, something meaty and hard was downright to spear him open and make more room inside him. Bruce didn’t know if that’s even possible, but what he could tell was it was succeeding. 

He tried to crawl away, but his limbs collapsed. He wanted to escape from, whatever it was, but it shoved in with a determined hard thrust. 

Bruce screamed at the top of his lungs.

Something expanded inside him, suddenly eliciting white lightning pain from his abused cunt. He almost passed out cold on it. The trembling of his body finally stopped due to the pure shock.

It’s a knot. His traitorous mind mysteriously worked out the answer. Why was there a knot inside him?

“Good Omega.” A harsh voice muttered next to his ear, repeating the words, with great satisfaction.

Bruce didn’t know where the Omega the other was talking about. He could only smell the Alpha scent. Heavy with lust. Deep in rut. But it smelled good. The blanketed rutting scent hadn’t concealed all the pleasant unique notes like sun baked sheets or vast green corn field.

He liked it. But liking wasn’t enough to stop him from being overwhelmed by the sheer strength of the downpour of rutting scent and a inhumanly huge knot expanding his ruined cunt. For God's Sake, he was not made for this.

No, you were. Or you used to be.

He was drenched and blinded. Alpha fucked him while the knot stuck inside of him, dragging the abused flesh with it every movement, mercilessly crashing all the sweet points inside him until hitting the womb, hard. White pleasure coursed through his veins. Bruce couldn’t bear it anymore.

...

He was burning. Every cell in his body was burned up. Until there was nothing left. 

His mind was mud. He couldn’t see straight, let alone think. But he knew a pair of startling blue eyes was watching him with incomprehensible emotions.

He wanted to scream but only heard wanton whines and moans. His throat was raw and hurt.

Something was breached inside him. He was broken. Ruined . Something heavy settled in his guts, or womb, more specifically. It felt like floating in the clouds. Bliss out. Pure ecstasy. He lost the control of his limbs, might be himself too.

He let the other play with his body like a ragged doll. Spearing open and rearranging the guts. Something was moving between his guts again but he barely felt it anymore. He was descending from incoherent happiness. What a shame. He gradually sunk deeper in the dark.

The only comfort left was being held tightly by the strong arms. He won’t let him go. The thought provided a slim of reassurance to his mind. 

That’s better than nothing. Frankly he always dreamed of dying in a cold, dark alley and alone .

He was dying . Bruce was sure of it. He had been waiting too long.

...

He didn’t felt like himself, but he also didn’t felt being wronged , with a warm body spooning him from the back, Alpha purred like a downpour, the knot stuffed him beyond the full, hard cock spontaneously pumped hot cum into his womb, their scents mingled nicely and enveloped him like a weighted blanket.

He felt good, satisfied. He knew Alpha felt the same too.

Everything else delightfully receded into the dark. Bruce hummed along the purring Alpha. He wasn’t able to purr correctly. Everything coming out was more like some frustrating wheezing. Alpha was resting his chin on top of his head and smothered him with love for all his trying, so as to take all the bad feeling away. A hand wrapped on his waist and kept him close to the other. Bruce curled up to himself.

They’re locked in this position. He dozed off.

Chapter Text

Bruce stirs in his nest, woken up by sensing something wrong.

He glances around the dark in the quiet living room. Nothing seems out of order. Taking a sniff of the air, Bruce annoyingly notices that Clark’s scent on the nest materials are slowly fading away, but the homey feeling of the entire apartment is made upon to that. Temporarily enough for Bruce. Maybe he should invite Clark to sit within the nest with him next time when he comes back.

Speak of Clark.

There is a tiny trace of fresh Alpha scent flowing in the cool air of night, picked up by the sensitive nose of Bruce.

He is more sensitive than most people. Most Omegas even, since they need good noses to detect any dangers rising in their surroundings. It's a good tool in their pockets to find good time and measures to please Alphas who protect, and comfort Betas who serve, and befriend with other Omegas who share the same mindset. Hence Omegas are always in a controversial debate of pack leadership because of their sneaky and trickery ways to work things out in their favor. They are sly the best, manipulative the worst. 

Nevertheless, modern society prefers the patriarchy on top of everything, even when firearms are much more advanced and deadly than some random Alphas can do by throwing a punch.

Bruce understands the significance and impacts coming from the same thought process generated this conclusion and expectations, but he doesn’t give a damn about it. He would never become Batman if he cared.

Following the trace of scents, Bruce gets up quietly, prowls close to the bedroom and cracks the door open.

A breeze rushes out from the crack one of a sudden and carries down the nightly cool and fresh Alpha scent. A bitter and metallic note seeping through the normal pleasant Alpha scent alerts Bruce. There is something wrong going on inside.

He peeks.

The bedroom is dimly lit by the moonlight poured into the room through the open window installed on the far end wall. The unceasing night breeze keeps blowing up the half drew up curtain, making the vague shadows of furniture eerily dancing on the floor.

Clark is sitting on the edge of his bed, suit on, posture slouched, brooding. The usual radiant red cape seems dull, pooling on the bed and piled up, threatening to slip on to the floor with the tiniest stir from Clark. Even with the primary color of his suit, he slowly fades to a long silhouette.

Clark is too stuck in his own head to notice Bruce wakes up and moves around outside of the bedroom. The crack of the door catches him out of the guard. He startlingly raises his head and meets Bruce’s inquisitive eyes head on. Panic flashes in his inhumanly blue eyes.

He changes into the casual flannel shirts and jeans in a blink of an eye and zips in front of the bedroom door. He pulls the door wide open and awkwardly touches his bridge of nose, only to embarrassingly find out he forgot to put on his glasses. His hand grabs his neck instead. Clark gives Bruce a tired smile.

“Good evening, Bruce.” Despite his effort of trying to stay positive, Clark sounds awfully defeated. “Sorry to wake you up ... yeah. You alright? Need anything?”

Bruce ignores Clark’s pathetic squeak when he pushes in. He grabs Clark’s forearm to steady him and scents him - a deep inhale through the nose to take in every subtle detail in Clark’s scent.

No matter how many sweet assurances Clark dares to put up in his scent, the sensitive nose of him could always pick up the nuance traces of frustration, anger, sadness and desperation... Everything has the potential to slide toward distress and aggression. Alphas tend to get aggressive under stress. It’s not easy to poke Superman, but Bruce knows the supervillains are getting creative these days. 

“It’s not really a good time.” Clark murmurs under his breath when Bruce ghostly brushes the tip of nose on his exposed skin of neck. But contrary to his words, his body slightly leans toward the warmth of Bruce, seeking for comfort and support.

The bitterness of adrenaline rushing through the veins and rust smell of blood are impossible to neglect. Gun powders, dust, gasoline, the burned plastic and rubber, they’re all too familiar to Bruce. Clark smells like a tough battle and a defeated one, leaving bad taste in his mouth.

It’s very subtle though. Like extremely delicate. Bruce just knows. What he knows puts him on edge.

Clark extends one hand to hold on Bruce’s nape of the neck. Familiar warmth radiating from his palm and soothes Bruce’s nerves.

“No, nonono. Don’t worry about me.” He gently nudges Bruce close to him, until the gap between their bodies closes and he is practically hugging Bruce.  Clark coos, “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

“Uhmmm.” If he says so. Not that Bruce believes in any of this bullshit.

Bruce reaches out to Clark, wrapping his arms around the other’s waist, patting his back. The rigid muscle reflexes under his fingers, having no idea to do with such sudden intimacy. The other hand used to hold onto the door frame snaps to Bruce's small of the back, pulling him into a tight hug. Tension finally started to bleed out from his body. 

“...Long day?” Bruce asks.

Clark rubs his cheek on top of Bruce’s head. It’s illegal to do so because he is not that much taller than Bruce. “Yeah. I think that’s one way to put it.”

They stay like this for a good minute until Clark pulls back and looks Bruce in the eyes.

“You should rest.” He says. “It’s too late in the night. Come on, I’ll make you bed and you’re going to sleep tight alright?”

Bruce gives him a disapproving glare. They haven’t even started on Clark’s problem.

Clark gets surprisingly well at reading him now. He sheepishly smiles, “or we can talk while lying on the bed.” He gives a small squeeze to Bruce’s hand and guides him toward the king size bed, the only thing in this apartment actually accommodated to Clark’s size. Thank God. Bruce doesn’t know if it’s a habit to squeeze oneself into anything two sizes smaller because it’s more comfortable, or an investigative journalist is a doomed career even a decent one can make no money.

Bruce let himself be led.

Clark uses super speed to get everything ready. He doesn’t forget to snatch the soft old blanket Bruce left on the couch.

Well. That’s part of his nest so Clark really shouldn’t do that, but the scents on the blanket are dull. Bruce decides to let him off the hook this time.

“Do you want some snacks? Water?” Clark doesn’t wait for answers. A cup of warm milk is set on the nightstand in no time.

Bruce sits on the end of the bed, watching Clark busying himself with all kinds of trivial tasks: securing all the windows and doors, patting the pillows to make them fluffy, tidying up the bedroom, putting away all the random loose sharp objects like he is a child and can fall on them... bringing him a plate of finger food.

Chicken salad rolls are sliced to nice pieces and carrots are cut to perfect finger length, a small sauce cup of Ranch dressing to go by.

It’s always endearing when Clark works on the domestic stuff like these. One of his gestures of love is food. Clark cooks perfect sunny side up eggs and toast crispy on the edges and soft and warm in the middle. He cuts off the edges when he finds out how Bruce prefers him and lets a piece of butter melt on it before serving to him. Orange juice is always fresh squeezed with a good use or a bit of show off of his strength. For main courses he either comes back to cook something quick but hearty, or brings back whatever delicious healthy takeout in the equivalent five-minutes driving range of Superman. There is always plenty of food stock up in the refrigerator. Country beef stew, apple pies, gigantic bowls of salad certainly makes Alfred happy. A feast to feed an entire family but for one person. 

There is no way Bruce could finish them all even if he is eating for two. Clark ends up eating left-overs all the time. He heats up one plate full with heat vision and comfortably sinks into the single couch after a hard working day. He eats while absent-minded listening to the news. Bruce could feel Clark stares blankly at his back most of the night but purposefully not to acknowledge it.

He doesn’t feel like speaking up anyway these days. It’s a calm and relaxing experience. He only got a glimmer of the similar experience when diving too deep in meditation.

Or lucid dreaming as an outsider it’s supposed to be. 

Huh.

Juggling between Superman, day time job, supporting friend, good son and responsible parent is a scheduling nightmare. Clark sneaks delicious finger food whenever he can. He has a smitten smile on his face every time watching Bruce eating. Bruce doesn’t comment on it either.

For this moment, Bruce has no appetite. He pushes the plate back into Clark’s hands. All he wants now is for Clark to stop zipping around like a bumblebee lost in a rainy day.

“Wanna go straight to sleep?” Clark sheepishly says, “just suggesting.”

Bruce pats the spot next to him. “Here.”

“Okayyy-- But hon, I haven’t taken a shower. Don’t want to soil your nice and warm blankets. Wow.” 

Bruce takes matter into his own hand and grabs a fistful of Clark’s shirt and pulls with determination. Clark pretends to fall over on the bed next to Bruce. He rolls over to lay on the side, facing Bruce, roaring his head with one hand supporting his chin, smiling, “happy?”

Bruce climbs on the bed and slips under the comforter. Clark moves to make room and snuggles to him. Bruce reaches out for the switch, kills the light.

The room now flows in a sea of comfortable quiet darkness. The flashy red light of the alarm looks like a distant light tower. The only things that could be heard are consistent buzzing and humming of electronics and circuits, periodic insect noises and night bird songs, and quiet breaths of both of them.

Clark’s scent drifts slowly in the air. Closing his eyes, Bruce could imagine how it timidly reached him, enveloping him, impossible to hide all the nuance feelings from him. Clark has an iron control over his scents, but fatigue and exhaustion are creeping up with him quite quickly. 

Clark goes from being quiet to restless squirm. It takes him an embarrassingly long time or conjures enough courage to curl up to Bruce, like a big spoon.

“You’re doing better now, aren’t you?” Clark whispers. “You become more expressive than the first day I met you on the street. You’re like being shocked. Not moving a bit. I don’t think you speak any real words the first couple days in my apartment. I don’t even think you would stay, but there you are. I’m thankful for that.”

Hilarious . Bruce rolls his eyes. He doesn’t think Clark notices what he does. Like, everything. Only sees, but not observes. For a man who has multiple super visions, Clark is hopelessly useless. Blind as a bat will actually be a compliment to him.

How he keeps his reporter job at Daily Planet is beyond Bruce. 

Never mind, it’s not like Gotham journalists are doing any better. Whatever runs on nowadays paper is worse than junk, full of propaganda and hatred. What’s people going to do with these?

Clark keeps rumbling sweet nothing for a while.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me.” Clark signs, softly. Vulnerability bleeds out of his words. “I don’t know what to do with you. Yeah. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with anything around me. I only want to help. To lend a hand. Or being there for them. Somehow it becomes super hard for no good reason.”

He groans, anger and sadness sparks in his scent. A short life laugh escapes from him. “At least not good reasons for my understanding.”

Bruce turns and faces him, reaching out to hold Clark’s hand. Clark’s finger automatically laces with his, giving a weak squeeze.

“I fear I don’t understand this world anymore.” Clark says defeated. His scent complicates every split second he fights the control over it. He struggles with grace like a half paralyzed man.

“Uhm.”

“Very responsive.” Clark deadpans, but fails miserably to conceal agony rising due to his self doubt. 

The scents stir something heavy inside Bruce. The baby squirms in his womb, sending a wave of dull ache spreading from his abdomen to fingertips, causing his index finger convulses involuntarily. 

Not yet. Bruce thinks. There is no real danger. Only an over stressed Alpha. It’s not going to be super hard to fix.

He has perfect control with his breath and heartbeat. They are leveled and calm. 

Bruce puts the other hand on his belly, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

“I ought to tell you about it, right? What happened today.” 

Clark nuzzles in on Bruce’s forehead, pulling his head to his chest, placing his chin on top of his head. Since Bruce is under the comforter and Clark is on top of it, their position is too awkward to put up a proper hug. Clark places his hand on the back of Bruce’s neck.

“There were... a group of kids. Teenagers. They were a team called Ultimen. You might have heard about them before, like, they were kinda the rising stars of popular culture right now, it didn't matter they only appeared a year ago.”

Clark gives a few humorless chuckles. His every control of his mood and feelings cracks. His own words drag him back to the wasted land of the battlefield. The sheer force of memory. It pains before you dare to recall it, and that’s what Clark did all night long, dancing around the real problem. The bleeding wound won’t scab until he takes care of it.

“I don’t think I... didn’t like them. Like I said, they are kids. They didn’t know what they were getting involved in before they jumped in. I know that’s hypocrisy of me saying it because I started flying around when I was a teenager. Not always saving the world kind of things. No. It’s just hard to not do anything when you have power. Temptation is the true devil. That’s a long time before Lois decided to name me Superman. Like years. I got called a lot of weird names before that and I was still nobody. But I messed up a lot of things when I was young, okay? I was lucky to fix most of them.”

Bruce caresses his belly, silently listening.

“Um, I don’t think that’s what I mean. My words tend to get away from me. What’s wrong?“ Clark grumbles. Sadness slips into his scent. Before creating a good cocktail of depression, his scent takes a shape turn towards aggression.

Clark changes to talk about his past crossed with those Ultimen kids. Anger is slowly and secretly built upon word by word. It’s not directed at the kids. He could never hate a kid, but anger is anger. It burns Bruce’s sensitive nose, along with other boiling feelings of Clark. Seeping down to his core.

The baby knows too.

Bruce presses himself against Clark, burying his nose in his scent gland, inhaling. It startles Clark, who looks down to him and checks on him.

“You okay?”

Bruce hums and lets him continue.

“Okay. You smell nice too.” Clark chuckles before quite down.

Bruce doesn’t care about what he smells like, but he likes his scent mingled with Clark’s, taking the edge of frustration away, turning the acrid rage to something mellow and nostalgic. Bruce pushes out more of his scent. He can tell Clark flares his nostril instinctively.

That’s not enough.

Clark’s monologue unfortunately moves into a dangerous zone.

“They aren’t normal kids. Not because they are metas with super power, but because they are artificial beings created in a laboratory.”

The arm wrapped around Bruce tightens.

“To become some kind of living weapon to serve the needs of the government. All their memories, their home, their family and friends, their everything are lies. Their entire lives are lies. And the government feeds them more lies, even lying about their own condition. Their genetic structures can only stay stable for a period of time and then the government swaps them out like nothing happened.”

The unfairness of fate, the cold world, the anger, the rage, the desperation, the agony, the pain, they are all familiar to Bruce like old friends. They follow him like the shadow under the sun. Sometimes they recede, but they never go away.

He doesn’t need to listen to the end of Clark’s story, because he knows how it ends deep down in his heart. The very reason makes Clark furious and mad. Because even if he wants to throw a fit there is nothing he can hit. 

He is one man up against a system. The system is not perfect but most people live in peace with it, until some unlucky ones fall as the victims.

Even Superman couldn’t beat over something senseless and untouchable.

But you are not alone.

Bruce presses a kiss on Clark’s chin. Then another on his lips. Clark is rendered speechless by this sudden change of Bruce but he responds after a moment of hesitation. Hot and messy. The comforter between them is kicked and tossed away. Bruce climbs onto Clark and the other lifts him up in the air with both hands on his hip.

A loud, shameless moan is ripped from Bruce’s throat when Clark licks a long strip down his neck and chest. Hot tongue plays with the nipple. Groins grand against each other.

For this war of justice in our time, you’re never alone.

For that, Bruce can promise.

Chapter Text

“You look good, Sup.”

Flash zips past Clark and then zips back to stop to say hey. He puts a hand on crotch and gives Clark a sunny smile, which soon turns awkward when he tries to explain himself.

“Well you know I am not mean you don’t look good other times but you didn’t look great last time we parted. Your expression was actually a bit scary. I understand you’re mad at...”

“Flash.” 

Hearing Flash freaks out rumbling really becomes a test for how long Clark could resist the urge to sign or facepalm.

“Okay, okay. Sorry Big Blue.” Flash puts fingers on his mouth and pretends to zip it. He still wears an awkward big smile though, looking at Clark with genuine concerns.

“You alright?”

“I’m sure that I’m more than alright. Sorry for worrying you on Friday night.”

“Yeah, guy looks radiating. If you ask me.” Coming from nowhere, Green Lantern pipes in, casually placing his elbow on Clark’s shoulder and leans on him. “Care to share with the class about your secrets on stress relief? Wait a sec--”

Before Clark could protest, Lantern gets super close - almost touching him with his tip of nose that kind of close - to sniff. That’s a bit too much for Clark’s liking. He is the mildest tempered Alpha one could ever meet in life but that doesn’t mean he is hundred percent fine with another cocky Alpha sticking to him for no good reason.

Not that he does not like Lantern. The Lantern sometimes gets too good at getting under people’s nerves. Superman is no exemption.

Barry squeaks, aghast, “Lantern!”

“Easy Bear.” Says the Lantern, while obviously sniffing at Clark. ”I think I smell something.”

“Ah, that’s gross.” Flash retches and Clark would very much like to second him.

Clark pushes Lantern away with a straight face. “That’s enough.” Holding back the urge to sign is becoming extreme taxing right now.

Lantern smirks victoriously. “Looks somebody got--”

The speedster slaps both his hands over Lantern’s mouth, turning whatever naughty words will come out of that mouth into a muffled nonsense, to which Clark is very thankful. But what Flash couldn’t stop is Lantern wiggling his eyebrows furiously.

Yeah, that’s very expressive eyebrows Lantern has.

Clark shoots him his best disappointing and disapproving glare. He knows what he did a couple days ago after the battle of stopping four meta teenagers run wild and destroy everything around them due to sheer panic, desperation, frustration and anger. It’s not the hardest battle he ever won but the aftermath confrontation with the authorities, or the lady apparently in charge of the operation more specifically, was troublesome and taxing. 

Clark probably made a few stupid moves when he did not feel like himself the night after the battle. He has a feeling of taking advantage of Bruce even though he could defend himself with some more stupid lines like “he started this”. It changed nothing. He is Superman in the room. At least Clark should hold onto the higher moral standard a little longer. 

He doesn’t regret the sex though. It’s the best one he has had for quite a long time. Although Clark didn’t usually sleep around, there isn’t much to compare, but the point stands.

It’s better than the dreams. All the dreams he used to have about Bruce in the past. The past few months feel like an eternity. Clark knows that it somehow feels like that he knows Bruce for a good long time in dreams. But he also feels that he knows Bruce his entire life when he finally has a piece of him.

Something is messing his head. Clark concludes. But all he can do is hope what he experiences right now isn’t going to make him a fool.

But who is he kidding? Only fools fall in love.

They fucked in the next morning when the first ray of sunshine peeking in underneath the curtain. He didn’t know what got him. They fucked again in the following night. That’s probably a bit excessive considering how far Bruce is right now, but it’s irresistible. How his hand on his waist and belly and himself buried in that tight heat deep enough to feel...

Clark holds his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to explode in front of his colleagues if he wants to avoid more embarrassing questions regarding his private life.

Damn he wishes he could spend the entire weekend with Bruce in his apartment without being bothered by the rest of the world, but duty calls. The very down part of being a superhero. Not recommended.

“We shouldn’t keep others waiting.” Clark straights his posture, putting authority in his voice. “We should go.”

“It’s about time.” Flash agrees, dragging Lantern with him.

“Yeah yeah.” Lantern rolls his eyes. “I’m just super interested in what’s on this month’s damage reports.”

-x-

J’onn, who calls before the meeting and informs Clark that he has something would like to discuss before they dive into the regular agenda, has been waiting for them in the meeting room before the group enters. 

There is also Cyborg, who is ticking with some tiny devices, a sheet of codes fast rolling on a hologram in front of him, face tinged with a bit of green from the hologram’s light; and Diana, who sits straight and proud, in a honorable princess and warrior way.

Diana and J’onn greet them one by one. Clark can’t help himself to notice how stiff Diana’s posture is and how her lips press a thin line. Cyborg waves a little without looking up from what he is busy with.

Clark takes his seat, the one facing the main entry and exit, designated for the official Chairman and Leader of the Justice League, despite it’s a round table with generic chairs equally spaced out around the table. Lantern and Flash follow suit, all sitting in their usual places. 

There are two empty chairs left. 

One is for Arthur, who only participates in the major League meetings when world threats or natural disasters are directly linked to him, or he is specifically asked to attend. Being a king is a tough job.

Clark looks at J’onn and the latter nods in silence. Clark doesn’t know if this is supposed to mean J’onn doesn’t think it’s necessary to call upon Arthur for whatever he wants to talk first or it’s okay to proceed without him. The result seems to be the same.

Another empty seat is directly facing Clark, the one close to the main entry, usually saved for Batman. Nobody cares about taking the chair away even after they had the vote, so it stands out like a sore thumb. Clark almost winces when his eyes fall on the empty seat after he gives others a checking look.

Clark clears his throat, “I think that’s everyone. We shall start.”

“J’onn, you mentioned you have something you would like to share before we get along with our regular routine. Would you like to talk about it right now?”

“Yes. Sorry for noticing you at the last minute. I hope this won’t take long.” J’onn turns and calmly speaks to others, “I would like to warn everyone that the League currently is in a serious situation. If you please, Cyborg.”

Cyborg pulls out and spreads a bunch of files in a rotating hologram setting in the middle of the table so everyone could see.

“Details and supplementary documents have been sent to your personal tablets. You can look into them later after the meeting. This is a situation that requires delicate care. It’s important for every Leaguer to know and understand the importance of the matter.”

J’onn gives a pregnant pause before he announces.

“It’s believed that the Justice League is currently targeted by the United States government.”

The silence falls upon everyone. People glance at each other. Clark catches Cyborg secretly gazing at the empty chair which used to belong to Batman. Twice. One before the meeting officially starts and another right now.

“How?” Shifting to lean against the table, Lantern looks serious for the first time today. “That’s pretty big words you use here, J’onn. We need something concrete if we go on that kind of accusation .”

J’onn won’t announce something this big before reviewing it with an experienced member. Diana is a good consultant for both diplomacy and warfare, Clark is certain he thoroughly discusses everything before calling upon Clark and spreading the news to the peer.

“Ultimen, a superhero team with five major members who have different superpowers, is under the auspices of Maxwell Lord, on the cover, and is owned and controlled by the United States government, in secret. There was an incident where four members of Ultimen went rogue last Friday night. It’s intervened by Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash and Aquaman. Long Shadow, as a member of Ultimen, helped the League stop this rampage and came back with them to Watchtower. He’s kindly shared his knowledge about the US government’s involvement in Ultimen along with other useful information. Cyborg and I looked into the information. It’s confirmed that Ultimen is created by the government for the purposes to replace and against the Justice League if the day comes.”

“Okayyy.” Lantern pulls up some images of Ultimen by his personal hologram, narrowing his eyes while looking at them. “Are they seriously getting a bunch of teenagers and hope they could go toe to toe with us? What are they? High schoolers?”

“Nay, they’re metas with strong superpowers specifically genetically engineered in the lab, like human Chimera.” Flash explains in length since he is involved in finding a cure to extend the lifespan of Long Shadow before his genes become too unstable and inevitably kill him.

After a minute, Lantern looks both disgusted and horrified. Flash is a bit of green too, probably from knowing there isn’t much hope to save Long Shadow. Clark hasn’t read Flash’s report yet but it’s all over on Flash’s face. He feels sorry for both Long Shadow and Flash.

Clark glances at Diana, who says nothing since the meeting starts. She is fond of the boy and welcomes him with open arms on Friday night to join the Justice League. The wish of joining the League finally came true, dissipating part of the kid’s sadness from separating from his teammates. The boy’s eyes were gleaming with shining hope, which is painful to remember.

“Ultimen is not the ultimate move the government is going to use against the Justice League.” 

Cyborg joins the conversation. He glazes at the empty seat next him, again. Third is a pattern, Clark thinks, but doesn’t show. New photos of a black middle aged woman are pulled up in hologram with a couple of bold words crossed on top of them.

“Amanda Waller. The one you met last Friday responsible for taking Ultimen away. She has a Rhodes Scholarship and a PhD in political science, worked in intelligence under three administrations before disappearing from public life. Now thinking about that, she probably drops off the grid to do a secret mission or something for the government. Like, Ultimen. She is clearly in charge of them. But Ultimen is not the only one she is in charge of.”

“Project Cadmus.” Clark reads from the hologram. A name doesn’t ring any bell.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Cyborg says, looking at him. “What the gov tries so hard to hide from the public, from us.”

J’onn says. “We salvaged as much information as we could, about Ultimen and Amanda Waller, before the government could erase and cover all their traces. That’s how we found out about the name of Project Cadmus.”

“Only the name?” Lantern questions.

“Yeah, about that.” Cyborg murmurs.

Clark asks. “What do we know about Project Cadmus?”

“Not much.” Cyborg’ voice is low, busy himself with whatever tech installed in his steel arm and avoiding looking Clark in his eyes - ashamed will be a strong word, but definitely embarrassing. “Except big names of some organizations, both legal and illegal, what they kinda work for the gov and what they might be working on. All sorts of illegal experiences that’s for sure. A possible location for its base. Or one of their bases. We really need to look into the details and verify them...”

“That’s enough.” Diana speaks up, first time in the entire meeting. “We need to take action.”

“Action about what?” Lantern counters, “we are not going to attack A Government because they think we’re dangerous, which is ridiculous and I get it.”

“We are not waiting for them to strike first either.” 

“So your idea is to start a war instead?”

“It’s not a war.” Diana is fuming, teeth grinding hard to hold back her anger. “If we are defending ourselves.”

She may not be an Alpha but she doesn’t like being challenged when it comes to authority. She is a princess nonetheless and she demands respect, which Green Lantern usually discharges and ignores for convenience. 

“Heard about defensive war ?” Lantern snorts, crossing his arms in front of his chest and completely ignoring the furious Diana.

Clark jumps in to prevent any more escalation. “Diana, what makes you believe we’re possibly under attack?” Diana is protective but not aggressive. There must be a reason why she acts out.

J’onn quietly drops in. “Lex Luther sponsored Ultimen under the covers of a series of shell companies. But the flow of cash didn’t all stop at Ultimen. A considerable large amount went untraceable. Considering the connection between Ultimen and Cadmus, it’s reasonable to suspect it went straight to Cadmus.”

“There are holes in military funding and financial reports, but none of them is big enough to fund Cadmus.” Cyborg pipes in. “They must get their money through other means. Like Luther.”

Okay, when there is Luther’s involvement, there is a big glowing target on Superman’s back. 

And Clark is wondering how Luther could always buy himself out of jail so smoothly, like water off a duck’s back.

At least he understands where Diana’s over-protection comes from. He smiles affectionately at her. 

Diana huffs. “It’s not about you, Kal. Think about what they do with Ultimen. They are creating superpower soldiers , if not an army. Ultimen is simply a front but has shown a potential to deal severe damage. An unstable super power army is dangerous to the world and humanity. History is repeating itself. What else Cadmus is capable of? Men with such power won’t stay silent and in the dark forever. They always want more .”

“I understood how concerning the situation is,” Clark agrees to disagree, “but we couldn’t act on feeling threatened. Frankly speaking, there are too many secret organizations, government or not, that want us gone. We won’t be able to do anything if we respond every single time a new one shows up. This time is no different. The main goal of Justice League is to help people and stop evil. We will investigate first, evaluate the situation and then mitigate if there is going to be a problem.”

“Make it fast then.” Diana hisses in a low voice.

Lantern shoots an odd look to Diana, not understanding why such a hurry. Flash stops vibrating on his spot for an impressive long time. He looks worried.

“Cyborg,” Clark turns and re-focuses, “from earlier you mentioned that we have collected a good amount of intel regarding this Project Cadmus and I believe you have gone through all of them. Do you have any suggestions about where we should start looking?”

“Well, I said we have information that may need to be verified...” Cyborg hesitates, eyeing J’onn for help.

“Why do they need to be verified?” Clark questions. “Didn’t you collect them in the first place?”

“Not really. I mean. Not me actually...” 

“Then who does?”

Cyborg glances at the empty seat, with a touch of despair, like a ghost has been sitting with them all this time through this meeting but only he can see.

Clark forms his educated guess before J’onn even answers him.

“Most of the information Cyborg mentioned is originally gathered by Batman.” J’onn calmly says, totally unbothered by the sudden change of air in the room. “He encrypted them in a hidden file on the League’s server. We found the file while cross referencing key terms during our search of Ultimen.”

At least it solves the mystery of why Cyborg keeps looking at Batman’s empty seat. Clark can feel that a phantom, dark and tall, gloomy and reclusive, gives him a weighted glare at the back of his mind.

Congratulations .

An imagined harsh voice satirizes.

Chapter Text

“Why don’t we go knock at Spooky’s front door and ask him? Gonna save us a lot of trouble.”

Lantern’s words still ring in Clark’s head after the meeting is adjourned. Whether he is aiming for sarcasm or simply out of boredom from a prolonged heated discussion, Clark has no idea, but Lantern has a point which practically everyone in the meeting hates to admit it’s right.

A good one, really.

Why could they simply ask? As if an easy “please” is supposed to do the trick. 

If Batman has known and stalked Amanda Waller and Project Cadmus long enough to write a lengthy report with their past doing, objections, secret operations and location of a secret base or bases... that’s not something one could do over a night. Knowing Batman, who always keeps his enemy close, Clark is certain there is quite a lot more information he knows by heart than writing it down, for whatever reasons, probably the same ones he doesn’t feel like sharing this with the League.

Ah, the old secretive, reclusive, broody and gloomy Bats. He wears his secrets like his lead lined kevlar armor, like it’s more bulletproof than a Kryptonian’s skin under the yellow sun. Frankly, in the end, it's the same paranoia that hurts himself and the people around him the most, and Clark doesn’t think the League is the only one caught in the crossfire.

After the betrayal, after the salvage, after the disappearance and after the vote, after everything that they must go through, finally nobody feels comfortable to even mention the name.

Except Green Lantern, it seems, he won’t be called brave and bold for nothing.

Clark is exhausted. He doesn’t really dislike the man, and he doesn’t really want to. He knows the existence of Batman long before the League is a mere idea. He knows Batman and works with him before the League officially forms. Clark used to believe they have built a semi working partnership through the years, but frankly he doesn’t know anymore.

There are too many secrets and holding back between them. No real trust and meaningful relationship ever builds on lies . 

Yes, omission is lying. He is well aware of it. Being a journalist doesn’t give Clark the privilege to twist the truth with words. 

It’s a shame none of them move past that in years. They all get too comfortable with the false safety generated by the distance and secrets, like feeling warmth of the sunshine but never get close to the sun because it’ll burn. 

Diana is right about that they all should get a proper closure to move forward, but putting up an internal vote and leaving Batman behind, hopefully they all forget a dark clad Knight one day just won’t do. There are too many empty holes Batman left and can’t be filled by forgetting. 

Clark cannot let the wounds stay open and bleed. It’s no good for any of them. Clark takes a deep breath to calm his nerves when nobody is with him in the corridor. He sees his own reflection on shining metal walls of the corridor. He looks thoroughly chewed and spit out by a hell dog. 

Clark grimaces, turns back to his private quarter, fixing himself up so he looks presentable and trustworthy again. He drops by the kitchen to grab a couple cups of coffee. He gets the specific brand and adds the exact amount of milk and sugar that Diana likes during a break to the large to go cup.

Finally, he finds Diana in the viewing deck.

She is standing close to the handrails and looking into the dark, forever expanding space. Countless tiny starlight twinkles against the blackness and blankness. Sometimes it’s amazing when thinking about how life could emerge from such a cold, dark void and fill up the entire universe.

Sometimes.

The look Diana wears when she faces the view suggests something very different.

Clark quietly lands next to her, one cup of coffee in each hand. Before he can pick up something to say, Diana beats him.

“Men are pathetic when trying to avoid the inevitable, aren’t they, Kal?”

“I’m only glad that Arthur didn’t make it to today’s meeting.” Clark confesses. “The less comments, the better.”

“We were not in a press conference.” Diana takes the cup from Clark and sips on it. “Thank you for the coffee. It’s very nice of you. I appreciate it.”

“The pleasure is all mine. I couldn’t imagine what you have gone through to prepare for today's meeting.” Clark carefully adds. “In such a short time.”

“It’s as much of a surprise to you as it is to me.” Diana says, while going back to look into the space. “J’onn and I only had a few hours before the meeting started to go over all the materials Cyborg gathered. I didn’t think Cyborg realized what he found on the server was originally created by Batman when he first dug it out. It’s an encrypted file as you already knew, and encrypted. We figured it out later nonetheless.”

Diana turns, meeting Clark's eyes. 

“I was not mad at him. Not on this particular matter.”

Clark finds nothing but sincerity in her eyes. She is speaking the truth, like she always does, which renders Clark speechless. But then he thinks, there is nothing wrong with not telling everything one finds to others if there is no immediate danger or anything. 

A half members live dual lives and have their plates full. Dumping more on their plates seems unethical . But then again, they are heroes, who are supposed to stay on high alert.

Isn’t that nice someone doing your job? Watching out for you? So you can take a breath and know that someone is out there and look out for everyone?

Batman likes knowing despite not knowing about everything. It’s different from pursuing eternal knowledge. He likes control and won’t let anything go. Knowing gives him power, gives him the upper hand. He likes to be prepared. Preparation and strategies are what keep him alive most of the time in this line of job. Yeah, there is his quick-wit, his impressive martial art skills, his fancy gadgets, his calmness and his determination. He doesn’t start anything without planning for it. He is the strategist , the brain of the team. Preparation is the key to his survival.

Then it goes back to his countless contingencies, once useful upon the time until they backfired, his omission of... whatever this is. Knowing creates a difference, that’s for sure, but the line between lies and truth, honesty and deception becomes a bit blurry. He hates to be absolute right or wrong, righteous or evil. Batman lives in a forever grey world, does the wrong to right, being the necessary evil so there is a harvest of righteousness. It’s a dangerous world, but the world is always dangerous for those who have no power .

A headache threatens to merge at the back of Clark’s head if he continues this train of thought.

“I see.”

It’s all Clark could reply and he has earned his day job for his art of using words.

“You don’t understand, Kal.” Diana talks to him in a tone like treating a stubborn child who refuses to see the obvious. It’s different from Ma’s, when she sees him going astray and refuses to acknowledge the truth, but carries the same effect of getting his attention and making him listen. 

“We are under attack. We have been attacked for a long time. Longer than you’ve even realized, and the attack never ceased. Doesn’t matter how peaceful the world seems right now. Our enemy lurks in the dark and waits to strike.”

“... but how?”

“You didn’t think Batman’s contingency plans against the Justice League were leaked due to pure coincidence, did you?”

“No. Never.” Clark gives out a humorless chuck. “He guards his secrets like a dragon guards its treasure. Letting anyone have it means over his dead body.”

“Then it takes someone who knows him very well to achieve this task. Do you remember who was responsible for the leak?”

“The Legion of Doom.”

“Vandal Savage is an ancient man. He knows a lot, but doesn’t possess the particular knowledge about Batman nor harbor the particular hatred toward him.”

“I think Bane is the name you are looking for.” Clark says. “According to other members of the Legion, he was the one going after Batman. However, what happened between them was unknown.”

Bane was locked up in prison and the League paid him a visit to try to get a whole picture of what happened. Unlike other criminals, Bane didn’t share any details of fights with the Bats nor how himself went down. Others in the Legion just didn’t care to know. They were all dead ends.

“If we could have Batman’s report... he never submitted his.” Or showed up to tell.

Clark shakes his head. Not that matters anymore. The reflection meeting after the crisis is pretty much a mess. Clark typed his part with a throbbing headache due to prolonged exposure to kryptonite and whatever poison Luther got his hand on. Waking up sore and exhausted in the medical bay wasn’t the best experience he had. His report was crap and he knew it, but too exhausted to care about. Others were no better than him. It took everything Clark got to hold on to the control of the meeting to prevent it becoming the next emotional turmoil and breakdown, the undoing of Justice League. All he did back then was to survive. That’s it. Pretty much summed for everything of a half month long chaos.

“Does this Bane strike you as one intelligent person who can work with technology and steal under the constant watch and guard of J’onn and Cyborg?”

Okay, now Clark sees where Diana is going. He shakes his head and admits. “No. He is physically strong, super strength and healing factors. He is smart but doesn’t seem to excel in technology.”

Diana takes a long sip of her drink, says nothing.

Clark runs what he read from other’s reports regarding the whole crisis. “I thought other members in the Legion worked separately and alone.” 

Alone but efficiently, almost took the League apart.

“I visited Vandal. After everything quieted.” Diana says. “I asked him how he got hold of Batman’s plans, who helped him, but he didn’t cooperate. In either way, his silence answered my question.”

“He was not the culprit.” Clark’s eyes widen at surprise and confusion. “Why haven’t I ever thought about it...”

“Because someone told you it’s been taken care of.”

You cannot guarantee it’s never going to happen again!

I’ve taken care of it! Now go!

The memory of the scream match strikes Clark with a ferocity as fierce as if he relives the moment. The anger and agitation it brings back hits Clark like a freight train, making it impossible not to grimace.

Diana looks at him like she knows all alone. She probably makes the same grimace when she realizes the flaw in her chain of thought.

That’s the very message Clark sent back to the League: the initial breach of security has been taken care of. The Watchtower is secure.

He cannot believe himself that he just believed in it. A few words. A yelling demand. He believed in it and passed it down the line and others followed, for trusting Clark made the right call.

Diana puts a hand on his shoulder to ground him. “We all trusted him.” She says with sympathy, knowing what pain he feels right now when he fully grasps what’s happened at some moments in his life but it’s long gone.

But part of his brain is stuck with “past tense already?” and finding it hilarious. Clark struggles for a second to put himself together. It’s not like I don’t trust him no more, he is... okay, please stop there.

Diana lets her hand drop before Clark catches on. “There are others involved. The enemy who handed the most powerful weapon, our weaknesses and how to utilize them, to Vandal, but never revealed themself. They are hiding in the dark and watching .”

“It’s still a far stretch, Diana, you know that. I know that,” Clark murmurs, he suddenly realizes where all this started. All the roundabout talks and insecurity . It’s inflicted by something about it but not exact it . Whatever they are talking about right now it’s a distant echo , for the sake of keeping the conversation going but not speak of the rotten core .

But Clark needs to know what needles Diana, what’s so painful or shameful that cannot even be acknowledged, so they can face it together, like the way they’re supposed to be.

“Diana.” He drifts in front of Diana so she could only look at him, and pleads, “just say what’s on your mind when you saw the encrypted file turned out to be Batman’s. Say it out loud. What did you think?”

“It doesn’t matter, Clark, what matters is--”

“Diana. You are avoiding my question.”

“I’m not--” Diana cuts herself off, surprised by her own voice.

Clark keeps pressing, “please, just spill it out. What’s the first thought that crossed your mind when you figured it out?”

A long moment of silence. 

Clark is hyper aware of his coffee slowly turning lukewarm in his hand, but his gaze is hundred percent fixed on Diana, whose look keeps changing and twisting until she presses her hand on her lasso to steady herself.

The lasso flashes a bright golden light.

Men are pathetic when trying to avoid the inevitable.

How ironic Diana chose the exact line to avoid talking about her true worries. It’s not like Diana, a demi goddess who is brave and straightforward and open minded and strong. It’s more like a human. Feeling escapes from people since it’s a double-edged sword for freeing and hurting them at the same time. But both the freedom and pain is something that takes courage to endure.

Being a princess may never lack the courage. God and Goddess bless her.

“I was thinking,” taking a deep breath, Diana says, slow but steady, “if he’s been watching out for them, for so long, meticulously, painstakingly, we’re deep in trouble.”

“Only the paranoid survive.” Clark lets out a little chuckle, feet touching the ground, finally taking a sip of coffee and then wincing at how bad it actually tastes.

Diana gulps down her coffee like wine, finishes in one go, crumbles up the paper cup and tosses it across the deck into a trash can.

“So I’ve heard.” She signs, softly, finally relaxing a bit for the first time of the day Clark has seen her. “Oh, Hera. What a mess.”

“Yeah.” Clark nods along. “He is not always right, you know?”

“So he is rarely wrong.”

“That complicates things.” Clark says. “ Is life always this hard, or is it just when you befriend a Bat? ”

Diana is not impressed, at all. “I’ve heard that line too.”

“We should watch it together next time. Have a movie night. Next Friday or Saturday. I can get a bag of corn and pop as much as Flash can eat with my heat vision. We haven’t done that forever. Do you think people will like it?”

“Cyborg will appreciate it.” Diana indulges Clark’s fantasy a bit, before she gets back to topic. “I trust my back and my life to my comrades, but I don’t know if I still, or I should trust him for him using our trust against us.”

“Make up your mind, Diana. But I believe whether you trust him or not, it all means we’re deep in trouble. Now it’s a Bat dilemma.” 

“You’re insufferable.” Diana says, “That’s hardly ideal.”

“I live up to the ideal, but I know the world is not always an ideal place.”

“Have you seen him recently?”

Batman? Or the “Batman”?

Well. Clark thinks. Now that’s a tricky question to answer.

Chapter Text

As far as Clark knows, the “Batman” Batman is still missing in action.

This sort of missing person case gets serious every passing second. Without showing up for even one second in the past few months, Batman somehow manages to slowly occupy everyone’s mind. A ghost that lingers and refuses to go away, retreats to the background every single time when they want him to come forth.

The urge to see the man, talk to him face to face was never so strong until now, Clark is a bit desperate.

He is going to Gotham tonight and seeking Batman out, no matter what it takes, Clark is going to do it.

As he makes his mind, Diana seems to be on the same page too.

“I will go to see him tonight.” Diana says, taking Clark’s silence as he hasn’t seen the Gotham Bats since then. Her jaw tensed. “I heard that he is back on the streets.” From the way she downturns her corner of lips, Clark knows she doesn't fancy this idea.

She would rather not meet him.

“The vigilantes, those boys.” Clark carefully mentions. “They never called.”

Diana replies. “No, they never did.” 

During their last visit in Gotham, they made a deal with the local vigilantes led by Nightwing that they should inform the League once Batman returns. A deal, to Diana, the local vigilantes didn’t seem to hold on to their end.

A broken deal is a broken promise, and can be easily interrupted as a taunt and disrespect. Diana doesn’t like people disrespecting her and that’s clearly what she thinks right now.

Disrespect .

If things are ever so simple.

“Have you thought about...” Clark hesitates. Nightwing puts efforts to replace the missing Batman, therefore he can’t just give this piece of information away as nothing. It’s not his secret to tell.

Diana catches his hesitation, but assumes it’s for a different reason. “I will be polite. Question first.”

“And lasso the second?” Clark cracks a smile with his poor attempt at a joke. “I genuinely don’t think binding him and forcing him to talk would do the trick.” The words turn bitter on his tongue so he winces. “It’s a method supposed to be used on the enemy rather than on friends.”

There is a moment of silence before Diana speaks. “One day I fear we have to.”

“Is that a fear or is that a hunch?”

“Both, I’m afraid.” She says. “My friend. Both.” 

Clark can tell she is serious, and that’s really a big problem. Batman may not give a damn about their attitude toward him, but this hostile mindset won’t get them anywhere.

If they want help, they have to ask nicely. They have very much started with wrong foot by voting him out and they can’t continue on that path.

“I will go.” He blurts out. “I will go alone.”

Under Diana’s inquisitive look, Clark has no choice but to explain himself. “Recently I keep in touch with Nightwing because we are working on an ongoing case together.” Bruce is not actually a case but there is no better way to put it. “It’s a bit personal...” That’s most Clark can say because any more details revealed will eventually lead to him explaining the entire surreal experience of somehow he knocks up the Gotham favourite celebrity and is gong to be a daddy very soon. Clark is not ready to have that talk with Diana. She barely knows the presence of Jon.

“It would be better for me to talk to him first before we have to confront Batman.”

“I won’t punch him in the face, if this is your concern.” Diana gives a small but genuine smile.

“You punching him is the least of my concern.” Clark grimaces. “But I would rather not be there and see it.”

-x-

Fear comes from strangeness, from unpredictability, and mostly, from the unknown.

Batman is always a bit more of a walking enigma than mere flesh and bones in most League members’ point of views, which serves him well and keeps him intimating. If people get spooked, they tend to look away, they forget the suspicious details and keep their distance. The League is not scared of talking to a man dressed as a giant bat, but they do keep their distance with Gotham. Nobody knows what’s really going on in that city.

Therefore nobody picks up the clue that the Batman currently tormenting Gotham’s night is not the Batman they know, and Clark would be none the wiser if he hasn’t been there and looks into it.

But besides the Batman, Clark also thinks whoever has eyes can tell the “Robin” is definitely not the same Robin he has met a while ago.

He doesn’t know what to take to shrink a teenager over 5 feet to an actual small boy. The skin tone doesn’t match either, for the previous one is much paler even in the shadow and darkness. Clark has perfect night vision so he can tell the facial structure is also different despite the age and domino mask. The design of the suit and choice of weapons seems to vary too. Therefore, it must be a different boy.

Three goons in cheap suits and watch duty gather in front of a half closed workshop, and their associates in that building are busy trading drugs. They are oblivious to the small boy who stalks them on the edge of the rooftop right above them, and pretty much considers the job is done. The deal is made and all the left is counting money. They relax and let their guard down, the same happens in the workshop.

It’s the exact time when they think they should start to pack and ready the car, all the lights in the workshop bust, hundreds and thousands of shred glasses rain down the entire room. Screams and deafening gunshot pierce the gloomy night sky.

Clark watches afar. He has long learned not to interrupt Batman’s work - doesn’t matter if it’s the original one or copycat.

But Nightwing is doing a great job to scare those low rank goons and hit men to death, in a true Batman style. He jumps down from the steel frames of the ceiling and swaps out most of them in a couple of minutes, fast and brutal. The new Robin also throws himself onto the closest goon and knocks the man off with a powerful kick. Like a young leopard bounces on its prey, the boy wields the sword like an extended arm, claw, cutting off cheap firearms in one swing and aims for his opponent's neck for the next, which thankfully is intervened by a batarang and misses its target.

“Robin!” Nightwing growls, but the boy only tsks in annoyance. They wrap up the battle in a few more minutes and Nightwing proceeds to check out all the unconscious goons and bind them with ropes and handcuffs.

“We have talked about this.” Nightwing scolds. “We don’t kill.”

The boy rebukes. “It’s efficient.”

“We don’t aim for efficiency when people’s lives are involved even if they are enemies, and being willing to kill doesn’t make you superior either.” 

“You are not my father.” The boy bristles. “I am not taking orders from you.”

“No, you are.” Nightwing doesn’t even lift his eyes to the boy but says. “Either you behave or stay back. Your choice.” A moment of pause so Nightwing can tighten up the loose end of the rope. “Now you go back to the Batmobile and wait for me there.”

“Fine.” Robin scowls, kicking a waking up goon hard on the head to knock him off, before stamps out of the workshop in anger.

Nightwing takes a deep breath and then proceeds on checking the knocked off goon and makes sure he is not gravely injured.

Once he is done, he grapples himself back to the ceiling frames and gets out from the ceiling window, into the bare rooftop. He runs and jumps and gets to a quiet place and calls.

“Superman.”

That’s... not entirely unexpected. Batman always knows when Superman decides to pay him a visit. Clark expects nothing less for his partner. Though if they know the existence of Clark Kent remains a mystery.

“Greetings.” He descends from the sky and drifts in front of Nightwing, the other now perches on the edge of the rooftop and looks unimpressed for Clark’s sudden visit.

“You are not supposed to be here.” As a perfect replica of Batman, Nightwing says in lieu of greeting, probably the mildest version of “get out of my Gotham”. Guessing he is really giving Superman the privilege of being his favorite hero, but he doesn’t seem to be very excited to see Clark around either.

Nightwing doesn’t wait for Clark’s reply, he wastes no time to ask. “What happened to Bruce?” 

The question throws Clark off a bit. “He is fine. He is brooding, I think, definitely awake at this hellish hour, but he is fine.” Clark quickly answers. “I promise I’ll take care of him and you can trust me on that.”

Nightwing hums, switching the center of his weight between his feet. He looks up at Clark and asks in the harsh, grating voice of Batman. “Why are you here then? What do you want?”

Clark straightens himself and puts seriousness in his voice. “I have an important League matter that I would like to discuss with Batman .”

It’s weird to ask for Batman when he stands in front of a Batman. The bizarreness of the situation tenfold every passing second with no reply from Nightwing.

Finally, Nightwing rasps. “You are now talking to Batman.” 

“I know you are not .” Clark crosses his arms in his front, and frowns. “There is no need to pretend.”

Nightwing doesn’t flinch, not visibly, but there is a sudden flutter in his heartbeat, like he has been stinged.

“I am Batman.” There is a pause. Nightwing stills himself in position, muscle tensed, teeth grit. “You can either talk, or show yourself off.”

“It’s about the League.” Clark emphasizes. “About what he has done on the Watchtower. I have to talk to him, preferably in person and soon. Nightwing, this matter is urgent.” 

The Nightwing doesn’t seem to be the same Nightwing, sanguine and chatty, who Clark messages back and forth about the status of Bruce. There is something dark and bewitched about this cowl, whoever dons it becomes stoic and suppressed, like there is a weight coming with it and it’s too heavy for people to even breathe freely underneath it.

Nightwing is evaluating him, a small tilt of his head, the white lenses of his eyes catches and reflects a brief ominous light. Calling him out by his original code name helps lose him up a bit, or reminding him who he is. “I don't know how many times I have to repeat this, Sups.” He starts slow and dragging, voice lost the hoarse quality of Batman but somehow still too raspy to be comfortable and soothing. “But sorry, your request can’t be fulfilled. As far as I know, he isn’t going to answer to anyone. Not you, not me, not the Justice League. It’s just not going to happen. It’s either you talk to me, or you can leave in peace.”

The wind is howling and the sound of traffic is too far. What surrounds two of them is a suddenly inescapable dead silence. Clark can hear Nightwing’s heart rate pick up a touch. Neither of them really enjoy the conversation they have.

“I’m not going to leave until I get a solid reason. And ‘he is not available’ is not a good excuse.” Clark evenly says. He can be stubborn and two can play a game. He doesn’t know what gets to him, but one of a sudden, he is very tired of feeling frustrated, being left behind and waiting in vain for a never coming answer. He is entitled to know what’s really going on. “What happened?”

“ Funny .” Nightwing cracks a humorless short laugh. “You didn’t seem to care when you voted him out. Why now?”

“Who told you that?” Clark frowns, in an instant he flies closer. They are only at arm’s length apart.

Nightwing holds himself perfectly there without moving an inch. He stares at Clark in the eyes without fear or regret. When he talks, lip curls, showing too many perfect white teeth. “Why did I have to be told? I’m Batman. ”

“That’s not funny.” Like a bucket iced water dumped onto him, Clark feels both bone deep chill and furious. “How did you know?” 

There aren’t so many ways that Nightwing can know. It’s either someone tells him, which is very unlikely considering how strained the relationship is between Batman and the League, or he is tapping.

Is he dealing with another leak or breach of security of the Watchtower right now?

Clark doesn’t like the idea but his suspicions arise and he can’t help it. He must have the panic-induced anger showing on his face, for Nightwing starts eyeing him coldly. There is also a slight change in his stance as he puts his center of weight forward, ready to bounce.

Alphas, they tend to mimic each other’s postures. An imaginary hoarse voice growls in Clark’s mind, repeating the diplomacy 101 he painfully grates into him. You play hostile and threatening, they copy and escalate. That’s how fights start, and so do wars.

But warring with his instinct is so damned hard, a fight sometimes Superman won’t win. It’s just the sheer impulse of desperation, and the itch of the infection wound, the small gesture of anger, a nudge from the wrong side, tips him off.

It must be the same feeling on Nightwing’s side. Clark figures.

“Does it matter? I may not know half the shits B’s done on that space station orbiting the earth every second, but I promise you that I knew enough. And I was not the man who voted his colleague out then forgets all about it and comes back for a talk . You made your decision Superman and I respected that. I just don’t know if you respect yours.”

De–escalate and down play. The voice grumbles. Repeat the fact until the other listens. But most importantly, show your hands and present yourself as no threat.

Clark forces himself to take a deep breath when he doesn’t even need the air to function. The simple gesture simply reminds him to be human , which is essential when he has to deal with another human. He lays out the facts. “You knew that I put down the final vote and cut the tie. You know how it went and how it ended. The meeting was confined for a reason and therefore you are not supposed to know that. ”

“So what?” Nightwing flares his cape in a dramatic swing and throws out his arm, body slightly bends and suddenly gets on all defensive. “I didn’t say he didn’t deserve it!”

“You only provoked me because you are mad at me. It’s not like you doing so-”  Empathy, they call it, walking in someone else’s shoes. The realization strikes Clark like a lightning. “You are mad at me because I said you were not him.”

“Fuck!” Nightwing curses out loud. Clark must hit a nerve that the other doesn’t even know exists. But it’s bad. He can tell from the sharp inhale and rigid posture.

Nightwing raises a hand and tries to run through his hair out of a habit but he only touches the smooth cowl. He drops his hand and paces on the edge of the rooftop. “Why can’t you just leave?” He hisses, abandoning all the attempts to conceal his frustration. “I asked you to leave.”

“I told you. I am here for an answer.” Clark says, forcing his hands to drop at his sides. “I am not going to leave without one.”

“I gave you one but you didn’t like it!” Nightwing yells at him, he suddenly freezes in motion, head turned and tipped toward Clark. “What’s the point of all of these? You either trust us or not. Make up your mind! You don’t get to do both at the same time!”

“I don’t distrust-”

“Isn’t that clear? Isn’t this all about?” Nightwing suddenly marches toward Superman and only stops when they are literally face to face, toe to toe. He is a few inches shorter and a couple sizes smaller but his anger and rage makes up for it. A finger, gloved and padded and cold, stabs at the S crest on Clark’s chest.

“I said: he is not here. Which word you don’t understand? He is not going to answer. Have you considered why he can’t answer it? Okay I get that you’re all upset about what happened last year and you are more than welcomed to do so. Because I got angry every goddamned single time that he lied to me, kicked me out, hid things from me. Important things! I didn’t care what kind of reasons he must come up with. Because it hurts!”

This must be the last straw.

“You want to see him, want to talk to him in person and make sure of what? A guarantee, it’s the exact thing you are looking for right now. A promise that he won’t do anything you don’t approve of and then you can go back to being best buddies like nothing ever happened. But things have happened. What the past is. You made your decision then stick to it.”

They stare each other in the eyes for a stretching silence. The white lenses betray no emotion of Nightwing but the erratic and fast beating of his heart reveals all his anger and pain.

Clark sees his own frustration and insecurity in the reflection of the other. He bursts out. “What if I want to amend things?” 

Clark doesn’t regret that he put down his vote on revoking Batman’s membership. He has done what the time and the situation required him to do and he doesn’t tend to walk back on his words and actions. There is no use arguing.

But he is also sincerely wanting to fix things up.

Diplomacy, is an art of compromising. Like foreseeing what’s going to happen next, the voice cracks to life, again. You compromise when you can, and when you can’t, honesty is your last resort.

He is pretty much at the bottom of his wits. Clark thinks. Super brain doesn’t do any better when dealing with something so messy and emotional. Clearly knowing doesn’t equal understanding, and also pretty far away from comprehending or excelling.

Gosh, Clark realizes, it’s either they get over this feeling of betrayal or they bid their farewell for good. He is not ready to say goodbye. That much Clark knows by heart, for he still hearing the imaginary voice brutally critiques all his flaws in his engagement of this conversation. It’s ridiculous. Clark never thinks he will miss someone so much so he internalizes the other’s voice in his head.

You don’t miss me. The voice grunts. You just don’t want to deal with this alone and prefer it’s me to be in this mess with you.

Because you’re going to know what to do. Clark thinks. You always know. And that’s why it hurts so bad when you seem to be not on our side. You make things bearable.

The voice stops. Clark hates when the Bats fall silent.

Nightwing is taken aback by Clark’s sincerity. He breaks off the eye contact and paces away. “I’m not supposed to be the one to tell you what to do. I’m just here to help.” He murmurs under breath. “A temporary replacement.”

“I don’t think it’s the word he would like to use.” Clark says. “I am here because others back in the Watchtower thought you were the real deal, and I hated to pop their bubbles.”

“Really?” Nightwing is eyeing him suspiciously.

“Really.” Clark confesses. “I mean it, every word I have said, that I want to fix things up. I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings.”

“Huh. Ugh.” Nightwing gives a trail of noise that makes no sense. It’s so easy to tell where he picks this habit.

“How about I let go for now how you know something you aren’t supposed to know, but you give me an honest answer about what’s really going on with Batman.” Clark says. “Or I will have no choice but to let the League know whoever runs down the street is not the who-you-know they think. I don’t think you like that choice either.”

“Considering how noisy some of you are? The Gotham rogues will certainly know it in under twenty four hours.” Nightwing gives out a dry chuckle. “So no. No thanks.”

“So we have a deal?”

“Okay, okay.” Nightwing crouches down again, back at the corner of the roof edge and contemplating. Clark has no idea why it’s supposed to be a comfortable and soothing place to perch for him. “Give me your trouble and I will see what I can do. I will leave him a message if there is no record or plans back in the cave or I have no clue how to deal with it. Then we can cross our fingers and hope he will reply to us sooner than later.”

“You still have not answered my question about what he is doing.”

“Why do you have to know?” Nightwing gives him an odd look. “You are in love with him or what?”

“What the-” Clark stumbles while flying - how that’s even possible - but he can’t help the blush creep on his cheek. He is never so glad that they are surrounded by the dark night. “No!”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Nightwing murmurs under breath. “You can never be so sure.”

“Oh for that part I am certain.” Clark coughs to remind the other he has super hearing. He has no idea where this sudden matching making comes from. Probably just to mess with him so he will drop the question.

Anyway, it’s not like Clark knows what really gets him either. He will let the question go, temporarily .

“So you say.”

Clark tosses a flash drive to Nightwing, and the other catches it in mid air without looking up.

Cyborg downloads all the damaged files originally created by Batman from the server to this flash driver. The League did their best to verify everything they could get in the past few days, but the results were not promising.

Amanda Waller is a secretive person and knows how to keep a secret.

“I’ll be in touch.” Nightwing puts the flash drive in his utility belt, and gets up. “Now if you excuse me, I have a ten-year-old depending on me.”

Chapter Text

Waking up is similar to falling asleep. One second people are awake and the next they are dreaming. Or one moment they are dreaming then the next they wake up. It’s impossible to distinguish between being awake or dreaming because one won’t ever know what happens between one blink of an eye, and that’s the trick, one won’t fall into a dream or wake up without that blink of an eye.

One second, Bruce is peacefully sitting on the couch and taking the Krypton equivalence of daily vitamin and supplements for health pregnancy without a care about the world - then he blinks - the next he is hyper aware of he is currently living under Superman’s roof, drinking his milk, eating his food, carrying his pup inside of his own womb and fucked with the Man of Steel last night which, frankly, is not a bad experience.

It’s good. Actually. Amazing.

His back and legs are still a little sore from the sex, but it’s a good and satisfying kind of soreness, not going to make him weak or funny one bit but grounding his heart and soul.

Making him feel belonging.

All an illusion. Facepalming, Bruce let out a soft sign. Probably it’s the pregnancy hormones that work things out in their funny ways. He doesn’t know. 

For pregnancy he only knows the basics about human pregnancy and what he is supposed to do when encountering an emergency with someone pregnant, less along an extraterrestrial one.

Bruce never dreamed about himself being pregnant... Okay, that may be a lie, but not after he entered teenage years. 

The chance is so low in statistics it’s a laugh if he could get knocked up while sleeping around without the proper protection, because it doesn’t mean to happen. 

Not with his underdeveloped reproductive system, not with the dangerous vigilante life, not with the stress coming with his double, if not triple lifes considering being Batman the Dark Knight, Brucie Wayne the airhead billionaire and Bruce the head of Wayne family and who is in charge of the family fortune.

Nothing, practically nothing Bruce does for a living, promises a succeeding pregnancy to happen in the first place, but here he goes. Probably more thanks to Clark’s Kryptonian heritage.

It doesn’t matter.

He has a pup growing inside of him. That’s the only thing that matters.

It’s also the only thing that seems to stick on top of his mind in the past few months.

Guessing Clark’s treatment finally kicks in after a over two-week session of continuing injection. The last bit of influence of whatever the weird effect this pregnancy has over him has been flushed out of his system. Bruce finally feels more like his usual self and could re prioritize his life. Gaining back his ability of thinking freely without consistently over thinking how to ensure the survival of the baby.

The survival of the unborn pup. That’s the cause of it and Bruce is sure about it.

Lois Lane didn’t seem to have experienced the same side effect when she was pregnant with Clark’s son, Jonathan Kent. May it be due to Clark’s intervention in the early stage of pregnancy or its different circumstance is unknown. Bruce’s opinion is leaning toward the latter. He remembers Clark nudges him to go to Fortress for a full body check almost every day.

He needs to talk to Clark, but that could wait.

Moving his tensed jaw, Bruce looks down at the tiny harmless white pills lying on his palm. Too many different thoughts surface at the same time, inevitably souring his mood. There were too many jobs left unfinished, too many loose ends begging to be tied up, too many cases demanded to be closed, when Bruce was unfortunately drowning in that cold, murky water of Gotham River with debris of the west wing of Arkham Asylum.

He remembered the fights and explosions coming right after he was drugged with the new scarecrow toxin and other poisons. Whatever came after he lost consciousness due to sheer exhaustion, injury, hypothermia, or combination of those, was an inconsistent blur.

The earpiece installed in the cowl was cracked during the fights, playing unstable high pitched noise half the time, but Bruce figured the kids safely made it out of the blast range before the comm totally junked.

Then Alfred... Bruce sent a message to him when he deemed Clark’s apartment was safe enough to lay low for a while. It’s a simple message only intended to let the other know he was alive. Nothing less nothing more. He hopes Alfred found it sufficient. 

Not that he could go back and change history.

Another soft sign draws out from his throat. This time Bruce doesn’t know how many wrongs he would like to right if he could go back in time.

He is not a man indulged in what-ifs. Planning and strategy doesn’t count as what-ifs because it’s necessary and useful.

One step at a time. 

Bruce swallows the pills and finishes the entire glass of milk. 

A half hour ago Clark flew back here, taking the liberty of his early lunch break and travel time from the office to the fringe of Metropolis for an assignment, to prepare meals for Bruce. He murmured about some after school activities he must participate in which left him no time to check upon Bruce after work while cooking a large pot of stew, which is currently safely sitting in a slow cooker to keep warm. He told Bruce to call him if he needs anything and he will be back in seconds.

For calling, it’s hard to tell Clark would like Bruce to yell “Superman” loud enough to wake the dead or simply dial the saved number on a spare cell phone he left on the coffee table. The outdated phone is fully charged and Clark checks it everyday before he leaves for work.

That’s not the only things, cell phone or food to feed an army, Clark left for Bruce when he had to go.

TV is consistently on but with a turned down volume, currently playing the perfume commercial Bruce volunteered for fundraising, which is a pure coincidence but has Bruce wincing at the half naked and definitely absent minded self on the screen. 

That’s probably what he looks like for a good few months, dream walking, he begrudgingly thinks, ridiculous. And remembering every bit of this lucid dream only embarrasses Bruce further. Like using a truck used for a traffic ring as a means of transportation to get away from Khan...

Oh, Jason is probably never going to let him live down with the fact that he ran away from him because he feared that his family doesn’t like the unborn half breed Kryptonian baby and wants it gone, which may not be entirely wrong, considering Khan wished basically the same thing. He even went as far as reaching out to Superman. Ghost-Maker is a proud man and won’t ask for external help even if it's a must.

Come on, it’s just a baby . 

A baby can hijack its carrier to maximize its chance of survival. 

Bruce winces, forcing himself to look another way.

There is a tablet Clark used to read e-books and news lying on the other side of the couch. Clark downloaded Air and Spider Solitaire for Bruce’s entertainment and Bruce doesn’t know what he’s supposed to think about it. A large stack of local newspaper nicely folded on the kitchen counter next to a basket of fresh fruits and a plate of finger food wrapped in plastic wrap. Bookshelves are stuck with books, magazines, small plants and souvenirs from all over the country, if the world.

The living room is nothing fancy but cozy, comfy and warm. A place to live. It’s all the smalls things like the hand knit blanket covering at the back of the single couch, ten different Kansas themed mugs hanging on kitchen’s wall, a handful of sticky notes on freezer, giving the apartment of a homely feeling that a five star hotel deluxe suit doesn’t dare to dream of.

It’s a good place to live.

But sadly, it’s not Bruce’s place to stay. He is a mere stranger looking for a shelter.

Signing, Bruce shifts in his blankets, reaches to the cell phone on the coffee table, dials a number he remembers by heart.

It gets picked up as the exact third ring.

“Wayne Manor. Greetings. This is Pennyworth. What may I help you with today?”

The familiar ever polite voice with an English accent brings a ghost smile at the corner of Bruce’s lip.

“Are you still with me, Sir or Madam?”

Bruce clears his throat, “hey, Alf.” 

It comes out more awkward than he anticipates. Most feeling like the first time he made contact with Alfred after running away and spending years traveling abroad with no call, no letters, not even a word indicating he was still alive, out of there and breathing, and deciding to come back to Gotham to become something bigger than life. He didn’t say goodbye either time before he disappeared from the world.

The lament of not being able to do a simple thing like saying a proper goodbye stings. Not being able to properly apologize hurts more.

He is going to buy that set of china and silver Alfred eyed in last year’s furniture exhibition or something. Wayne Manor gets plenty of room for storage and Bruce has too many kids to break the old ones anyway.

Alfred probably already knew he had gone with Superman from his kids, but none of these relieves Bruce from the faint shyness of making the call.

“Master Bruce.” Alfred’s voice slightly wavers with the hint of surprise and relief, There is undeniable warmth in his tone. “It’s so refreshing to hear your voice.”

“Same for me.” 

Bruce can’t tell the old butler how much he misses hearing from him. He knew he sent a message to the League and they should be able to come to Alfred’s rescue as soon as possible. But it’s not until hearing from Alfred, safe and sound, relieves him.

“How are you doing, Master Bruce, may I ask?”

“Doing my best.” Bruce caresses his baby bump without thinking. The baby twitches under his belly and moves against his palm. A strange bundle of emotions hit Bruce, bringing tears to his eyes one of sudden. This is not the time he experiences the movement of a baby, but with his clear mind, yes, it’s the first time.

It’s hard to believe it grows so fast and so big in a few months. What did he miss?

“Alfred?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Could you give me a lift?”

“I will be able to meet you in approximately two hours. Is it sufficient, Master Bruce?”

Bruce has absolutely no idea how Alfred is going to manage to drive from Gotham to Metropolis in under two hours without breaking a couple of laws, he needs to finish whatever currently occupies him right now, washing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen most likely considering the time of the day, and he doesn’t question the old butler.

“That’s enough.” Bruce says, “thank you Alfred.”

True to his word, Alfred’s signature van he used for picking up groceries or running other tasks outside of the Manor parks right next to Clark's apartment building in two hours. Alfred, in his crisp black and white butler attire, is ready by the back door when Bruce, dressed in Clark’s oversize flannel shirt and a pair of old jeans, shows up at the building entrance. 

“A refreshing look, Master Bruce, I must say.” Alfred raises an eyebrow, commenting while holding the door for Bruce.

“Come on Alfred.” Bruce murmurs, getting into the car. “Cut me a slack.”

“Please fasten the seat belt and alert me if there is any sickness during driving,” Alfred closes the door and returns to the driver seat, “so I could be prepared.”

“Noted.” Bruce nods to him through the reflection of the back mirror.

Bruce is glad it’s two o’clock in the afternoon, the street is almost empty so nobody would bat an eye at them. Whatever they look like, is not fitting in this nice, middle class neighborhood.

The engine turns on with a click, then they hit the road. Alfred smoothly drives out of the neighborhood and onto the main roads.

Shops and pedestrians along the streets are passing quickly. Everything in Metropolis is bright and shining, almost dazing when showering in the two o’clock sunlight. The entire city moves at a hectic pace. Cars, passengers, clerks in the shops, dogs and cats, all seem smiling and happy. The only missing sight is a blue and red blur flying across the perfect blue sky, up and away.

Until they get on the highway, Bruce asks.

“How is Gotham?”

“Same as usual, I would like to say.”

To Bruce’s relief, Alfred replies without any hesitance. His eyes are focused on the road. Hands steady hold the wheel.

“Master Dick has moved back to Manor to help with family business. Master Jason and Master Tim were helping too. Master Bruce, your city is under capable hands.”

“I knew. I knew. ” Bruce says, smiling fondly. “They are good boys, aren’t they?”

“You raised them to be good men.” Alfred says without making eye contact with Bruce in the back mirror. “I would like to suggest saving all the compliments until we arrive home.”

“I want them to be safe and happy.” Bruce looks away from the mirror, from Alfred. “They shouldn’t shoulder my burden. Gotham is my responsibility.” 

“From my point of view, I shall say, Master Dick at least needs to shoulder this responsibility of yours for an extended few months. What do you think, Master Bruce?”

“Not if I could help with it.”

“Then I must remind you that your current condition doesn’t suit you for your nightly hobby.”

Now they lock eyes in the mirror. The stoic expression Alfred always wears, forever the professional, doesn’t fool Bruce no more. He knows the instant the old butler would do everything he can to prevent Bruce throwing himself in the first fight he sees, even if it means secretly manipulating his children to gang up on him.

Bruce leans back on the back of the seat, both hands protectively resting on his bump, flashing a perfect Brucie smile to Alfred.

They both know too well nothing will get in between Bruce and his beloved city. Crime doesn’t rest.

But it doesn’t mean there is no way to go round it. They just need to figure it out.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred calls for Bruce’s attention, “there is another thing I shall inform you before we arrive home.”

Bruce hums with acknowledgement that he is listening.

“Miss Talia  paid a visit to Manor not long ago, when you’re away. She brought a ten-year old boy with her and left him in your care.”

Alfred says with calm, but Bruce knows better than that placid front.

The timing for Talia’s appearance is uncanny, for sure she knew he was not in town when she dropped by, not counting bringing a child with her.

Talia doesn’t deal with children. He never saw her with one before. The League of Assassins is not a place full of children either. Teenagers may be and there are plenty of youths eager to be trained and become a deadly assassin. It’s a harsh environment even for grown ups to live in.

“...what’s his name?”

“Damian Al Gaul.”

“Is he hers?”

“Yes, and yours, sir.”

Ah, what a surprise. Bruce looks down at himself, both hands cradling his unborn pup growing in his womb. In one day, or in a few hours, he finds out he has two children on their way waiting for him, what a life, when he thinks he could never have one of his own if not through adoption.

“You said ten years old?” Bruce repeats with a small inquisitive noise.

“That’s right, sir.” Alfred confirms and asks. “Does it ring a bell?”

“The last time Talia was in Gotham for something major was twelve years ago. She wanted me to go back to the Arabian peninsula with her. We fought and there was blood, until she gave up.” Bruce quietly adds. “That’s a half year later after I officially announced I was fostering Dick in public.”

“Do you believe these two facts are connected?”

Bruce admits. “I think it inspired her, but who knows.” He looks out of the window, just to avoid Alfred’s inquisitive look. “Who am I kidding?”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“Yes, I’m surprised.” Bruce grimaces. “But doing things like this. That's very her.”

“Are you ready to meet your son, sir?”

“Why am I not? Like you said, he is my son.” 

Bruce replies.

 “I’m always ready.”

Chapter Text

The time taken driving back to Wayne Manor is doubled compared to the one Alfred got to Metropolis. Alfred insists that Bruce should take a couple of breaks at the gas station to stretch legs and breathe some fresh air. The drive is uneventful otherwise. The benefits come with living outside the city area so that they don’t get to slow down for the off work traffic rush.

It’s a blessing.

“The children won’t set the Manor on fire, if that’s what you have been worried about, Master Bruce. Please be rest assured” is the exact words Alfred uses on Bruce.

“They are behaving well most of the time, I believe.” 

Yeah, like Bruce’s kids don’t punch gangsters every Tuesday and sabotage illegal drug deals for fun on Friday. It’s a miracle the Manor stands this long with all three of them living under the same roof.

Four. Bruce reminds himself. Now it is four. Cass doesn’t count because she isn’t usually around and she doesn’t cause troubles.

His gut instinct tells Bruce that Damian is a handful if he is anything like Bruce. He doesn’t know how Alfred managed to tolerate him when he was young. Too many tantrums, run away, calls from Principle, fights with the peer... Bruce was still a semi-normal child back that time, at least he wasn’t trained by Talia or any kind of the best teachers could be found in the League of Assassins or the world, which speaks volumes. Bruce knew to kick hard at balls for self defense and bite, but mostly he only read and sneaked out to do the investigation he deemed will answer to the void in his heart, the very reason why there was evil and crimes, in some shitty part of Gotham Alfred would never allow him to visit.

It’s not always that bad, Bruce thinks, when his parents were around, Gotham was not that bad. But after the murder, Gotham finally revealed its dark nature to him. The dark alley was a dark tunnel, leading him into a world full of deranged minds and madness.

Bruce was desperate to comprehend. It must mean something, in every doing, in anything.

“Master Bruce, we are almost here.” Alfred says. 

Not that Bruce needs someone to tell him that he is getting closer to his own home, but it’s still a nice reminder from Alfred.

Bruce takes a deep breath when the car passes the black iron gate and slows down on the driveway spiral down the hill where the Manor is located. The familiar smell of fresh cutting grass, woods and flavors beds fills his nose. 

Yeah, he is back home.

-x-

It surprises Tim when Damian pops out from nowhere (it’s actually from Bruce’s study, he has been keeping an eye on this brat ever since he stepped into the Manor) and asks: “Where is Pennyworth?”

“Kitchen?” Tim automatically replies, purely out of sleep deprivation, an educated guess. 

It’s just past lunch time. Almost one in the afternoon. Alfred usually has lunch ready by eleven thirty. When Tim woke up and crawled down the stairs to the kitchen, there was his share of cucumber sandwich and chicken soup right on the counter. Alfred was in the kitchen by then, cleaning or something. 

After saying hey, Tim took food back to his bedroom and ate there, enjoying the precious peace of the day. 

He is desperate for coffee right now. Food coma is no joke, but he gets work to do.

Damian crosses his arms in front of his chest, impatiently says, “tt. He is not. Where is he?”

“Why the hell do you want to know? He forgot to feed you or what?” Tim snaps, way passed the time being friendly, because it’s impossible when dealing with the demon spawn. For the first time in his life, Tim agrees with Jason on this term. ”He could be anywhere in this house. Go figure yourself.”

“He is not in the Manor.” Damian stubbornly stands by the door. “He took the van.”

“Getting groceries for dinner.”

“He has done shopping yesterday,” The brat spills it out like spitting out a nasty bug accidentally swallowed, “certainly you’re too imbecilic to notice.”

Okay, Tim can live with a ten-year old who insults his observation skills, which used to lead him to discover Batman and Robins’ secret identities and serves him as the world's best detective second only to Bruce... No, he would never live that one down. 

Tim sends him a nasty look, having no effect on Damian’s attitude, not that he expects anything, but he does notice something else.

Likely sensing the change of Tim’s demeanor, Damian looks faintly alarmed and uncomfortable, but too proud to back down from inquiring eyes.

“You know what? You are right that it’s odd Alfred went out today.” 

Tim affirms. He at least has a sense of decency to admit the kid had a point. 

It’s not like Alfred leaving Manor without a word these days. The old butler plays like the center of the cohesive in this house, or pack, anything they were now, instead of Bruce, holding everyone close. Tim doesn’t like to think about the days when both Bruce and Alfred were missing. It only lasted a few days at maximum until Superman escorted the old butler back. Alfred only said he was helping Bruce and was glad to be back home without too much of a hassle, which was debatable in Tim’s opinion. 

Nonetheless, Alfred is the only consistency in this chaos. They all look up to him, relying on him, one way or another.

Alfred will let them know if he must be out for an emergency, but he doesn’t.

Then the reason for leaving in such a hurry must be weighted more important than anything could happen on earth combined that he is not willingly to waste a second to be there. It’s not a world ending scenario because they could help. They’re all trained and prepared to save a fallen city for at least half of their lives.

What they couldn’t help and also so immensely important to Alfred?

Oh. That one is easy.

Tim could tell Damian was thinking the same thing but didn’t dare to voice it.

Child.

And Tim wonders all these time what could be possible to get under the demon brat’s nerve.

He almost rolls his eyes. Almost .

He will give Damian the credits for being a fast learner and well adapted to all the unspoken rituals and rules in this family.

Damian’s jaw tenses. He looks rigid. Growling, he demands. “What’s it, Drake.”

Tim shrugs. “ He will be back.” Without saying who he is.

“Tt.” 

Frustrated, Damian turns and leaves, without shutting the door. His footsteps gradually disappear around the corner. Probably heading downstairs.

Tim rolls off from his bed, rushing to Dick’s room, which is empty. Tim is not disappointed but hell like he knows why he wants to see his older brother’s face but also knowing by heart he won’t be there.

Dick doesn’t only take over the responsibility of Batman but also the Wayne family. Someone must sign all the legal papers and Tim is a couple of years too young to do so. 

Okay, Tim will call him. No. Message him. He can do that and will do so, after he runs down to the kitchen and checks if Alfred truly left the Manor without a note, (he knows it’s true because Damian doesn’t do jokes and children always know the nuance change in the house ,) then gets back to his room and secure the comm. He sends a peculiar look to the close door of Jason’s room while walking back to his.

Jason is nowhere to find. Watching Superman left with Bruce must do a number on his Alpha’s animistic brain. He reeked of Alpha Anger Rage every time he dropped by.

In Adopted Birds Adapt group chat (the one sans Damian, like, he is not adopted; same reason for Stephanie; Cass is not even a Robin to start with; they have standards): 

- 1:13 PM -

Timbird: Bruce is coming back home

Dickiebird: WHEN??!

Dickiebird: I’m on my way just a second

Barb the bird of prey: No, you’re not.

Timbird: Not sure, but soon

Barb the bird of prey: How do you know that Tim?

Dickiebird: WHY???

Timbird:  Alfred mysteriously disappears with his van without a word, your guess will be as good as mine.

Barb the bird of prey: You must sit with lawyers and get the legal paper done for Damian. Today, this afternoon. Or it’s another TWO WEEKS all over again.

Barb the bird of prey: That made sense.

Dickiebird: I won't be back until dinner noooo

Barb the bird of prey: They won’t be back until dinner then.

Barb the bird of prey: I have eyes on Alfred’s van and it’s heading to Metropolis.

Timbird: Okkk, that’s it

Dickiebird: 

Barb the bird of prey: Good.

Timbird: What are you doing in this group chat Barb?

Timbird: It’s the *adopted* *robin* club.

Barb the bird of prey: Moral support, obviously.

Barb the bird of prey: And I’m pretty sure the “adopted” part comes in just you have a place to gossip without girls.

Timbird: 

Dickiebird: 

Barb the bird of prey: You *boys* are HELPLESS.

- 2:06 PM -

Jaybird:

As Barbara claims: they are helpless .

Damian is lurking in the first floor, between the great room and the den, seems troubled to decide which is the best place for walking out when the first second someone pushes open the door and walks through the front entrance.

And Tim is watching him on surveillance on his laptop and also nervously tracks down on Alfred’s van. Since it’s not an undercover mission, the tracking down part is easy. But it’s hard to tell who is inside of the van because the windows are all rolled up and made of one-way glass.

This is so much an overkill when the van is making a beeline to Wayne Manor on map, Tim realizes, but he won’t be able to do anything else if he doesn’t have both windows open and on top. He can prioritize and multitask, thanks to God.

Dick is utterly quiet despite all the whining he made in group chat. The clock is ticking and he makes no sign of going back home soon.

Yes, the clock is ticking. The dinner is usually served at six thirty, when the sun is about to go down, so they will have enough time to suit up and go out when it’s completely dark outside.

It’s almost six. Alfred tends to prepare bigger meals for dinners, steak and lobster, Boeuf Bourguignon, and have some snakes and shakes ready when they back from patrols. Tim loves white chocolate and raspberry cookies he made. They are the best and he knows Bruce devours those cookies too, but he would never admit it and is too cautious to eat too many of these little sugar devils in front of his kids. Alfred will save him a plate when he has a tough night and only comes back to Manor on the break of dawn. Speak of favouritism .

But there is not going to be enough time to prepare something big. Maybe spaghetti with meatballs. Could they make meatballs from scratch in thirty minutes? Tim doesn’t run to the kitchen to check if Alfred has anything in preparation for dinner but he bets whatever Alfred has in mind is not spaghetti. Alfred always orders the ingredients prepared in advance from the catering company owned by W.E., if they are not easy to fix at home. Tim should check the list Alfred sent to the catering so he could be prepared... to cook?

Scratch that. Just call Dick and order takeout. Nothing to be ashamed of.

Tim has personally witnessed Bruce survive on takeouts when Alfred flew back to England for vacation. They will live.

The grand clock chimes loudly at six. Following it, the wooden double doors of the front entrance are pushed open from outside with a smooth motion.

Tim’s head jerks to the direction. He only sees the walls, but he knows what’s happening at this exact moment.

Shutting the laptop, he tiptoes around the pillar of the grand staircase and descends a couple of steps and crouches down, so he could see the entire grand foyer of the first floor without standing out like a sore thumb.

The position is a bit tricky because he doesn’t have a view of the entry terrace but the look on Damian, who pretends to be walking through the corridor to God knows where, is sufficient to tell what’s happening.

In hindsight, Tim wishes he could install enough hiding cameras around the Manor to capture all the good angles of Damian’s face, because it's damn good blackmail materials.

Damian doesn’t move from his spot, saving for a slight turn of his head to look at the entrance. He fully turns around only when there is a pair of footsteps rebounds on the hard wooden floor.

Bruce. Yeah. Bruce, in a horrible oversize flannel shirt and blue jeans which will condemn all the high society to eternal madness if it’s going to be the next trend of fashion for this coming year, strolls across the grand foyer like any other days he just gets back from office with a light mood, to Damian, who stands still and automatically puffs out like a young rooster.

Despite the distance and awkward angle and oversize flannel shirt, the baby bump is nowhere to hide. It must be as clear as day to Damian. The boy looks shocked and speechless.

Well, hard to blame when nobody told him the news. Don’t shoot the messenger. My Ass. But Tim only could think of “thanks God he is not carrying the fucking damn sword ”.

Bruce approaches the kid and crouches down, in one smooth motion, meeting with Damian’s eyes.

“You must be Damian.” He says, with the soft voice belongs neither Batman or Brucie, but Bruce his true self, which carries the warmth and gentleness none of his other identities could grasp. “I’m your father.”

Damian looks at him in the eyes, voice strangely calm,“I thought you’d be taller.”

“You have your mother’s eyes.” 

Bruce reaches out with one hand but stops before he could touch the boy’s face. Tim has no idea what his expression is like, but he could imagine. He could image the warmth and heat radiating from the palm only centimeters away. Damian is unconsciously leaning toward it, no matter how small a fraction it is.  

“May I?” Bruce’s quiet voice takes a while to register in Tim’s mind, probably in Damian’s too.

Damian gives a jerky nod, then Bruce proceeds, placing his palm on Damian’s cheek and cupping it. The pad of thumb ghostly caresses across the emerald eye before lowering.

“Thank you.” Bruce signs.

The warm hand lifts a little so Bruce could drag his wrist down and properly scent the pup. He scents him with a grace like having practiced a thousand times. It’s too far away for Tim to catch any scents drifting from them, but deep down in his heart, he knows how this goes: the nice and sweet cinnamon sugar well mixes with the milky pup scents, like a lovely dough baking in the oven...

What was the last time Bruce scented him? Tim finds the answer is too long to remember, he doesn’t care, he is not a pup anymore-

Damian is practically melting at the touch while pretending to stand still as unaffected as a glacier.

It only lasts a moment then Bruce draws his hand back. Damian’s eyes follow his hand back to Bruce and down while Bruce lowers his hand to rest on his knee.

Damian’s gaze freezes on Bruce’s midsection.

“What’s this?”

He asks in an innocent voice only a child could have.

Tim panics.

Chapter Text

I’m sorry kiddo that you need to find out that you are not the only child anymore in this house, but like you have never been one because there are three adopted brothers came before you, but yeah you could keep that blood son card up close to your chest until the first time meeting your father in real and knowing you lost the privilege. Real life sucks but welcome to it.

Yikes.

Tim doesn’t like what’s going on, what he is thinking, what he might be going to see in the next second. One bit.

He is horrified .

Because there is no way Damian doesn’t know what this is. He is a ten-year old not a three-year old and Tim thinks even a toddler will know the answer when they see an extended stomach.

Hello, you are going to have one lovely little sibling, if not two which is rare but still happens, congratulations!

How far is Bruce in? Couldn’t be more than four, five months right? Any time more than this Bruce should know he was pregnant before he jumped in the fight to stop the massive Arkham break-out back in December. That’s totally irresponsible for the pup.

Bruce looks like well past the second trimester in Tim’s opinion, but he is not an expert.

What’s the chance for a seven month premature baby to survive outside a womb? Probably not great. Maybe eight months sounds better. Come on, Damian isn’t carrying his god damned sword-

Everything plays in slow motion now.

Bruce doesn’t flinch at the sudden question. Does he see it coming? He slightly lowered his head, and seemed to check if the bump is really here.

“Your future little sister or brother.” Bruce gently says, no fever pitch or anything, cool as a cucumber, some sort of tranquil voice. “I would prefer a girl, really, but babies come as they are. How do you like a baby sister?”

He must look back into Damian’s eyes now.

“I don’t know, father.” Damian replies, a bit of automatic, in awe, or helpless even, so hard to pin down when he puts up a blank face. “I never truly have one.”

“It’s going to be okay. You have plenty of people to rely on. Dick, Jason, Tim, they all could show you a couple of tricks of being a big brother.”

“Not Drake.” Damian wrinkles his nose. The nerve, brat. “He is inadequate.”

Bruce chuckles, “well, he is new to this business, much like you.”

“I will be much more competent than him.” Damian huffs, speaks with renewed determination and competitiveness.

Like being a big brother is some sort of competition. Tim rolls his eyes. Breathing through his nose and letting his rigid shoulders drop. 

“Would you like some refreshment, sir?” Alfred appears from nowhere, one hand holding a silver tray with two cups of tea, and other hand folded behind his back. 

Bruce stands up and takes one cup. “Thank you Alfred.”

“How about you, Master Damian?” Alfred lowers the tray and presents it to Damian.

After a few seconds of silent staring, Damian begrudgingly takes the left one and nods at him.

“I take the privilege to prepare some more fitting clothes for you, Master Bruce, if you would like to change,” says Alfred.

“Okay, I will change. And shower too.” Bruce replies, gives him a tired look.

Certainly no one escapes Alfred passive requests in this house.

“Then I must inform you that dinner will be ready in thirty minutes. Is lemon chicken good with you, sir?”  After he receives an affirmative nod from Bruce, Alfred adds on “the desert will be key lime tarts then”.

Then Alfred retreats back to the nowhere he comes from, with the tray tucked underneath his arm. Kitchen, probably.

“I will see you later in the dining room, okay?” Bruce turns back to Damian.

Damian replies with a low “yes, father.” Then Bruce sees the kid walking away in peace.

No fuss, no further questions, no disbelief or scream match, most importantly, no fights.

Like a miracle . Everything plays out so nicely. A few words and a sincere question redirects the most deadly situation to a most common family conversation. Tim is dazed. The charm of Gotham’s favorite son is magic , and people call him Prince.

That’s probably a bomb shock to Damian. It’s too much information unrevealed in ten minutes for a ten-year old to grasp. 

Ten-year old deadly assassin is still a ten-year old kid.

Anyway, Bruce starts to climb the stairs when Tim kind of sprawls over on the few steps on the top and connects to the second floor. 

He tries to pull himself up as quickly as possible but there is no way Bruce doesn’t see him awkwardly hiding behind columns and handrails and spies on him.

And now they are meeting gazes.

Bruce doesn’t seem to be surprised. 

Yeah, the benefits of being Batman and also a father to three, now four, if not five, boys and one or two girls. Tim is not sure what statues Sethpany is, like, she changes her mind every once a while and there is the unborn pup.

Tim doesn’t have a particularly preferred gender for Bruce’s unborn pup. He would love anything not like the Demon Spawn. One is surely enough. He couldn’t imagine a world filled with all these small devils.

But they are Bruce’s kids. Real love is tough. What could he say? 

Guessing being a big brother takes more than Tim ever thought. No wonder Dick always seems both on cloud nine and bone deep tired at the same time.

“Hey, Tim.” Bruce is getting closer. He reaches out to Tim. “Need a hand?”

“Yeah. No. Not really.” Murmurs, Tim scrambles onto his feet and scratches his hands clumsily on both sides of pants. He watches Bruce take the last few steps to close their distance. Tim steps aside to give him room to pass.

Bruce pauses next to him. “You're not coming?”

“Yeah?” Tim is confused, then a hand is placed on his shoulder. A warm hand of Bruce, he realizes.

It’s the same time he gets a good sniff of Bruce’s scents. The nice and sweet cinnamon scents are just as good as he remembers, bringing back memories of cold winter time spent in front of the fireplace and nibbling on fresh baked cinnamon rolls. A little spicy and a bit burnt, that’s new, with a special note for pregnancy. He smells good, like home, and almost Omega .

“Come.” Bruce says and gives his shoulder a firm squeeze.

Tim obediently follows him down to his bedroom.

The door clicks shut behind them.

Alfred hangs up a few pieces of clothes specially tailored to have them slack around the waist on the stand close to the door of the dressing room. Forever the thoughtful. Tim won’t be surprised if everything in Bruce’s dressing room is up to date to accommodate his current condition.

Bruce stands in the middle of the room and takes in every small change. Tim never spends much time in Bruce’s room, so he doesn’t know what changes or not. He waits and ponders on what he is supposed to say. 

Nothing. 

He couldn’t put all his thoughts into one coherent sentence. It’s simply too much.

Tim doesn’t know when Bruce turns around and gets in front of him. He is only an arm's length away.

“Are you alright?” Bruce checks. 

A hand is placed on Tim’s shoulder again, but doesn’t take off so quickly. It stays there. Warmth radiating from Bruce’s palm and it feels so real .

“Yeah. Yes.” Tim answers, he tries to pull up a smile, but it’s so hard, the corner of his lips twist. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“You look tired.” 

Bruce puts another hand on his other shoulder. To use Tim as support or to ground him, Tim doesn’t know. Not like he cares. He looks up at Bruce, who continuously says: “terrible, actually. The bag under your eyes is growing its own bag. How much caffeine are you having now everyday?”

“Oh. My. God. Is that all you need to say Bruce?” Tim bursts, laughter and tears. “You have been missing for God damned three months and you are criticizing my caffeine intake. We almost thought you’re dead. But that’s Dick and Jason, you know? I didn’t think you’re dead, but it got close.”

Bruce pulls him into a hug, wrapping one arm tightly around him, and another reaching up to hold the back of his head.

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, forehead resting on the crook of Bruce’s neck. He sobs, making an ugly sound he is not proud of, because he shouldn’t be crying. But it’s so hard to resist now when all the stress and burden he doesn’t even know he holds on suddenly lifts, he has no idea how to handle himself. He knows Bruce is alive like more than a half month ago, but knowing is so different compared to seeing he is alive and breathing with his own eyes.

And Bruce’s comforting and sweet scent doesn't help either. If anything, the warmth and caring and gentleness is the last straw on his final breaking down.

He can also feel the heavy baby bump this close and it’s super awkward to try not to squeeze it when they are so close.

It feels forever when Bruce releases him, but they are still holding onto each other.

“You did a good job.”

“For what?”

“Don’t fish for compliments.” Bruce smiles, the small and genuine one actually spelling for “I’m proud of you”. Tim feels a stupid grinning is threatening to break on his face.

Oh, his face must look hilarious now.

“Not trying too.” Tim answers quickly, using his back of hand to wipe away tears, schooling his face back to neutral as much as possible. “But how are you doing Bruce? I didn’t know you’re heavily pregnant like this. How many months are you in?”

“Well.” Bruce looks down to himself, grimaces. “Not as long as you’re thinking.”

“You didn’t know, back when we fought in Arkham.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“So it’s really alien .” Tim gives a timid but awe look to his baby bump.

Bruce chooses this moment to let Tim go, completely, and turns around too, to hide his embarrassment. He might roll his eyes too but Tim doesn’t catch it.

“Okay, if you don’t want to talk in detail then you don’t need to.” Tim pulls his hands up to cross in front of this chest. “I don’t want to know either.”

No. He definitely doesn’t want to know all the details of how the baby was conceived and he has a workable laptop, alien or not, he could do all the research later on his own, and frankly, Tim believes there is very little difference when it comes down to this “conceiving” part.

Yeah, it’s super awkward now. Tim makes a disgusting face. He blames Bruce for redirecting the conversation this way.

“Good,” says Bruce, clearing his throat to cut a sentence to one word.

“You get to shower, get to change, get ready for dinner, and so on and so on. You know what?” Tim says, “I’m going to get out of your hair.”

“You’re not bo-” Bruce takes a step toward him, but Tim stops him with one hand up.

“Yeah I know.” Tim cuts him off with a smile. “Just take your time and I will meet you downstairs-”

There are footsteps bounces downstairs, faintly, but getting louder every split second. Bruce frowns at the noise. 

“Do you hear that?” Tim quietly says, not to cover the footsteps with his own voice. He turns back to face the door. The heavy footsteps only disappear for a few seconds then come back with full intensity.

Someone is running in the Manor, which is unspokenly prohibited in this house by Alfred, definitely going to ruin the forever shining ancient wooden floor and carpets by the end of the day.

The footsteps ascend really quick. Whoever gets up here probably skips a few steps when climbing on stairs. Another rule of Alfred is broken.

It’s too heavy to be Damian’s. Tim realizes. And the pattern and sounds are too crisp to be Jason neither-

The bedroom’s door swings open, hard, and bounces back immediately after hitting the spring door stopper, but the agile figure effortlessly ducks the door and crosses the doorway in that split second.

Dick, in his hazardous wrinkle ruined navy suit and brand new dress shoes, shows up in the entrance of the bedroom. His eyes are locked on Bruce the very moment he steps into the room, and lights up like the star on top of a Christmas tree. Next moment, he charges at Bruce with the ferocity of a freight train.

“Wait-” Instinctively, Tim tries to stand in between them, but he is completely ignored and may be pushed out of the way.

“Hey, chum-”

Bruce doesn’t get to finish his sentence either before pulling into a crashing hug.

When Tim whips his head around, Bruce is awkwardly pulling into Dick’s hug and Dick’s two arms tightly locking around his shoulders. They are like a pair of disposable chopsticks breaking wrong at the middle instead of all the way up, with the upper part stuck together and bottom separated, leaving good enough space for Bruce’s extended belly.

How considerate.

But also super uncomfortable. Tim could imagine, but Dick doesn’t care.

“For God’s sake Bruce I was in the kitchen and no one was there, I was thinking I didn’t make it. Somebody really needs to tell me we have a late dinner tonight.”

Dick pulls back a little, pauses to take in Bruce’s look, and then claims.

“It’s so nice to see you again.”

Chapter Text

Bruce wraps his two arms round Dick too, but in a much slower motion. Not really due to hesitation, Tim suspects, just super uncomfortable when you must lean forward by bending your upper body to do so when accidentally there is like an extra twenty pounds hugging your waist and pulling down. He winces. That’s a ton of extra weight on his waist now. Oh his back!

Dick doesn’t seem to realize the awkward position he is posting to both of them, but since he can soundly sleep in twisted yoga poses so there isn’t much to argue. He is literally beaming like a star on top of the Christmas tree now. The grin on his face is too large and it starts feeling painful.

Tim fakes coughing next to them, then one of sudden, Dick notices him being around the same room the first time this whole heartwarming homecoming.

“I miss you too Timmy!” He claims, and extends one of his arms and wraps Tim into this hug. Tim is squeezed against Bruce’s shoulder. He can feel the bone grinding into his forehead.

“Geez guys. I just saw you out this morning.” He whines and Dick giggles.

Gosh, giggles, like a teenage girl .

Bruce lets out a small puff of air, blowing up a few loose strands of hair on top of Tim’s head. It’s hard to tell if he is signing or laughing. Bruce’s hand sneaks around Tim’s side to hold him close.

Dick lets both of them go with one last strong squeeze. He finally takes a step back to keep a much more appropriate distance between him and Bruce, which gives him leeway to look down Bruce’s midsection.

“Hello there.” He says with a beaming smile. 

Not on any day your mentor is having a child baked in an oven with your idol. Tim surmises. It must be like a dream coming true.

“Have you thought about the name, B?” Dick asks. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“Don’t want to spoil the surprise.” Bruce says. “Let’s get you changed out of this wreckage, chum, before Alfred finds you.”

“Not my finest day. Sitting with lawyers and government officers and talking and waiting all day. I probably signed enough papers for the rest of the year and it’s only April.”

“I thought you get used to dealing with lawyers and officers for your job, officer Grayson.”

“Oh come on. You are going to give me a nightmare.” Dick waves his hand. “Anyway. I got the documentation finalized for little D. You’ve met him right? I didn’t see him either when I came in but I would say he is good to go to school with Tim after the spring break ends.” 

Tim squawks. “He goes to elementary school and I go back to senior high!”

“Not much of that difference if you ask me,” says Dick.

“I didn’t,” Tim throws him a nasty look, “ask.”

Dick’s hands pat down on his suit and he curses, “fuck, I must left the paper in my car.”

“Language.” Bruce says, purely out of habits. 

“Yeah, Daddy’s back home.” Tim murmurs, loud enough for Dick to hear.

Now it’s Dick’s turn to send him a funny look, and there is a ghost of a smile on the corner of Bruce’s lips.

“Okay boys. I still need to shower and change.” Bruce is massaging his temple now, though there is still a ghost smile on the corner of his lips. “Please get lost.”

He sounds like a tired daddy too.

Then they get lost.

“Good boys.”

Tim thinks he hears a whisper before the door clicks shut from the behind.

-x-

After both boys leave, Bruce spends a couple of minutes simply standing in the middle of his bedroom and relaxing.

The departure from Clark’s apartment, the long drive back to Gotham, the small talks with most of his boys drain him both physically and mentally. It’s nice to see his family again, that’s the upside, but dealing with the unspoken pressures coming alone with the family matters is totally another thing.

It's like stepping on a giant spider web. No matter how small the movement is, it quickly becomes an earthquake to the center. Fortunate or unfortunate, Bruce is the center, as he always will be, the head of the family and the leader of the pack.

Bruce doesn’t need to know the exact words Talia told the boy when she decided to bring Damian into the spotlight. It's bad timing, or an excellent one, depending on who was weighing it. The power vacuum in Gotham’s underworld and when Batman is temporarily down and his older boys were hesitant to take over the mantle, it made the perfect stage to introduce their heir.

If it means Batman to become a history and be forgotten like one, then so be it. Bruce doesn’t need any of his boys to inherit all these... sadness, wrongness, madness... and broken hearts. He has done what needs to be done, and that’s it. End of the story.

Damian has no idea what’s waiting for him to become Batman. He is not born or raised in this city and he has no idea what Gotham will ask him, cost him, and give back to him. It takes time and guidance. One misstep and he will fall hard. That’s too much of a price to pay. 

From all the anger and rage of the tragedy he must endure, Dick cultivates something better and brighter. He grows up to be a great fine man. Bruce is both glad and relieved Dick could be there for Damian. Together, they are making a promising and good future. 

But that’s if Bruce hasn’t come back and with another baby baked in the oven.

Damian may expect Bruce to come back home someday, because no matter what Talia has been telling him, alive or dead, no body has ever been found, so there always will be a glimmer of hope. But with another baby of Bruce’s blood? A potential competitor? That’s totally another story. 

As far as what Bruce heard, Damian doesn’t seem to have a good start with Tim and Alfred only allowed him a plain and quick summary of what happened between these two for a heads up, which is... he has no word for this.

Ra’s Al Ghul is... kind of a family man but his sanity is certainly doomed after bathing in the pit so many times to live on forever, which later on lays a shadow on his principles, his empire, his offspring and his family. He encourages competitions, through blood and by all means, since there always is an ultimate resolution to salvage the loss: the Lazarus pit.

Resurrection devalues the meaning of life. Bruce is afraid that lives could be put on the line, thrown away or taken away too easily without even a slight consideration, to a boy who knows there is always a shortcut to fix things.

That’s not how it’s supposed to work. No one can walk away from death, less alone their own death, like nothing happens. Jason can probably tell him something about death in this case much better than Bruce, sans why murdering the bad guys will make the world a better place if he would like.

Ten-year old shouldn’t be too old to start to change. It’s never too late but Bruce can only hope.

Right now, the boy is shocked and needs time to process what he learns. Time is the only resource Bruce could utilize and hopefully not work against him.

Then there is Tim, stressed out, reeking of nervousness and insecurity, and consistently holding back the urge to look at other people’s way. Bruce wonders what’s the last time he sleeps properly on his bed for over six hours. 

Betas in a pack feel the strong impulse to serve and it’s in their instincts, but serving won’t solve any issues running in this family, and it’s also too much for a teenager to handle.

He really needs a break. Bruce thinks. And the same is for Dick.

Even Alfred seems to ask every half an hour or so about his well being on the way back home.

I only want them to be safe and happy, but God damned it’s so hard.

His disappearance clearly did a number on everybody.

He had no intention for all of these to happen, but there he is, nothing but a burden, with limited ways to help them, if not to worry them more.

And he has not yet seen Jason yet. Jason probably has a ten pages long speech on why continuing this pregnancy is dangerous, prepared and memorized by heart and would like to deliver to him at the first sight.

Bruce can only hope Alfred won’t be there when Jason does so, or someone is going to donate a thousand dollars to the swear jar.

Stares down on himself, without self-awareness, his hands drifting back to his belly. Under his palm the baby is soundly sleeping, without even a stir.

All the self-loath and sadness starts souring his scent. Bitter and acrid, his own scent makes Bruce grimaces. A warm bath suddenly becomes so appealing. He shakes his head and walks toward the bathroom. Sadly he only gets time for a quick shower.

Bruce doesn’t realize how much he misses the perfect pressure and temperature of the hot water of Manor until the water hits him. Clark really could use some extra bucks to upgrade his apartment. Being a superhero is taxing and draining, and so does try to be a good Dad. First hand experience.

The steady hot streams of water takes some stress away from Bruce, also Clark’s old scent. Loneliness creeps its way to Bruce now. When he steps out of the shower the first thing Bruce does is to take a sniff at Clark’s old flannel.

The scent is old and mostly mingled with Bruce’s but the shirt still smells like Clark.

Resisting the urge to put them back on, Bruce drops the worn clothes into the laundry basket and proceeds to change.

All his boys, saving for Jason, have been waiting for him in the family dinner room. They are making small talk when Bruce enters, or it’s just Dick’s trying to figure out what his brothers did when he was away. Tim is clearly not paying any attention and Damian is half annoyed.

All eyes fall on him when Bruce steps in and all talking halts to a stop.

“You look refreshed, Bruce.” Dick makes a weak attempt to lift the atmosphere.

“You too, chum.” Bruce replies, taking his usual seat at the end of the table, and he means it. Dick changes to an old plain gray T-shirt he wore back in his college days and he looks more like himself and comfortable in that. His hair looks a bit damp too.

“Did you find the paper?” Bruce asks.

“Right on the passenger seat. Not gonna lose something like that.” Dick turns toward Damian, with a wicked smile promising troubles. “You are going to school, baby bat.” He songsings.

“This isn’t necessary.” Damian huffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest to make a point. “I hacked into NORAD when I was 6. It was easy.”

“Well, you cannot inherit Wayne Enterprise without at least graduating from Elementary school.” Dick winks at Damian. “And I believe it’s more about the experience rather than what you can learn from a textbook.”

Damian is not swayed. “I will take home school and pass the test.”

“Sorry for interrupting, gentlemen, but I believe it’s dinner time.”

The appearance of Alfred with a food cart of dishes stops the playful conversation potentially developing into a heated debate. Bruce wonders what Talia trained Damian but that could wait for another time. 

Alfred serves lemon chicken for main course, mixed green salad, basmati rice and bacon flavored green beans as the side dish. For dessert, Alfred keeps his promise with lemon tart but with tea. Bruce still prefers to have a cup of perfect pour-over coffee Alfred brews when he is in a good mood, since his day is far away from ending.

When Dick finishes his dessert, about standing up and taking the dirty plates back to sink, he says, mostly to Bruce rather than others, “I will be downstairs and head out in thirty minutes. Damian, you go with me.”

“I don’t take orders from you, Grayson.” Damian’s protest only earns a sloppy “yeah, yeah” from Dick.

“Are you alright?” Bruce asks Dick.

“I’m taking over all your toys and car, why shouldn’t I?” Dick smiles and waves his hand. “Don’t worry Bruce. Everything is good. Even the night is quiet.”

Well, that’s hard to believe. Bruce might plant himself on Clark’s couch in the past twenty or so days but he still had access to the Internet. 

Ghost-Maker hasn’t left Gotham yet, Bruce figures. He doesn’t believe Khoa is only waiting for him to come back to say goodbye.

Something else is happening in Gotham just without many people realizing it.

“Tim, do you have any plans for tonight?”

Tim jerks his head up, looking at Bruce with confusion. “No. Not really?”

The silver spoon drops at the plate with a crisp click under Bruce’s finger. “You go with them.”

Tim’s eyes widen. “Why-” He covers his surprise pretty quick. Smart boy. “Never mind. There are some places I need to check out anyway, sooner rather than later. On my own. ”

Dick gives him a peculiar look but Tim chooses to ignore it. Damian walks past both of them as the first one out of the room. Tim takes this as his clue to leave, taking his finished plates with him and leaving. Dick’s shoulder tenses, holding back the urge to look at Bruce. It’s for seeking comfort or support or simply for looking at him, to which Bruce has no idea. Dick leaves without a word.

That leaves only Bruce in the room, then Alfred mysteriously materializes at the back of him and tries to take his plates away.

One hand over the plate, Bruce stops him. He looks up in order to give Alfred a small smile to show his appreciation of the gesture, but he is pregnant, not disabled.

“I’m okay.” Bruce murmurs. “It’s okay.”

Alfred retracts his hand like nothing has happened. “Very well sir. Would you like another pot of tea?”

“Later in my room. Please.” 

“Shall I brew for two?”

Apparently there is no such thing as a secret or privacy in this house.

-x-

Damian spent quite a time in his study, Bruce could see. There is no obvious evidence of messing around, just small details indicating every object in this room has been turned around, inspected, and carefully put back to its original place. 

Kinda like some ritual. Going through your old man’s stuff and wondering what he was thinking when he put them here but not there. Bruce used to do the same after the infamous murder of his parents. The study of his father became a sanctuary full of memories. And so did his parent’s bedroom. He consistently debated whether to run into these rooms and searched for evidence that they’re still alive and with him, or turned and ran away for good and all.

In the end, he took over these rooms as his, when he came back and became Batman.

His computer in the study is connected to the server down in the cave. Bruce uses the access to give a quick run of the major reports and journals his boys filed when he was away. 

About a month ago Dick started to enter his entry as Batman and Damian as Robin. Tim still does this as Robin too but with a color code red . At least there is something to distinguish these two, but Bruce doubts this small difference will last long.

It’s about time. Bruce is aware. Hitting puberty and the present of caste is a tricky period. For Alphas they get bold and rebellious, unconsciously challenging every known and unspoken rules, to test the resiliency and limits, for preparing either starting building their own little pack or finding a suitable position in the existing one. It’s a dangerous time, too. Without proper guidance they will step over the lines that they could never return. 

Betas generally don’t go through puberty and present as violent as Alphas, but there is no lack of competition and feeling of loss. Everyone fights for their place. Us against the world. Hellish years, but bittersweet.

Bruce has gone through his, witnessed and helped (as much as he could) with Dick’s and Jason’s, but there is no guarantee he will do better for Tim. Girls are totally different stories and Barbara contributes a lot.

Bruce would like to think he knows what Tim could use for now. A little push may be. He will talk to him.

There are so many people lined up he needs to talk to.

Bruce grabs his tablet and goes back to his bedroom. Alfred has a pot of hot tea and shining silvers, nothing short than perfect, ready on the tea table. There is also a plate of fresh baked cookies, nice and warm, to go with the tea.

Bruce opens the balcony doors before he gets back to pick up a cookie.

“Clark.” He calls.

Then he bites down, letting the soft chewy pieces melt on his tongue and bringing up the sweet satisfaction.

And wait.

Chapter Text

It only takes a couple minutes, not even enough time for Bruce to get enough of Alfred’s signature chocolate chip cookie in months, he hears the telltale sign of the gusting wind. Then there is soft footstep falling on the wooden floor, getting closer to him each passing second but stops at an arm length.

Swallowing the rest of the cookie and licking his lips, Bruce turns around. What he sees is neither Superman nor the capable investigative reporter of Daily Planet standing there. Fidgeting the obsolete black frame glasses and giving out a timid smile, it’s more about the mild mannered Clark Kent born and raised in Smallville, growing up to be a fine man, something that is so rare and probably considered extinct in high society of Gotham.

Clark wears a light blue dress shirt, sans the tie and with top two buttons undone, showing the neckline of white undershirt. Long sleeves rolled up to the elbow and the shirt tails isn’t tucked in, clearly given up after a long day spent behind the desk. There is no stain of coffee or sandwich sauce, which is both a relief and concerning.

“Are you still working?” 

The alarm on the nightstand reads ten and twenty-five. There are no major natural disasters on going or any League meeting scheduled, but Bruce certainly does not anticipate him working overtime. Clark was always back to the apartment before six, even though he was required at some other places he still dropped by.

“Yeah. No. Just thought I could tight up with a few loose ends at work. Do a bit of editing. Polishing.” Clark explains. His hand moves from his glasses to massage his temple. “I don’t... have other things planned for tonight.”

“I’m glad I don’t interrupt anything.” Bruce chances a step closer.

The familiar soft refreshing evergreen forest scent drifts toward him. Bruce takes a deep breath, unconsciously. He could almost hear the rustle of trees behind his eyelids. The wind caresses his bare skin. All in Clark’s scent and his imagination.

“No. You’re not.” Clark leans toward him too. A hand almost reaches out to steady Bruce, but holds back at the very last moment - much to Bruce’s disappointment. His voice softens too. “I’m glad you called.”

Bruce looks up into Clark’s eyes, which has this vivid inhumanly blue even in the dim light of the bedroom. The couple inches of height difference between them becomes so damn hard to ignore when they could feel each other’s breath falling on them.

After a beat of silence, Clark continues. The nervousness stirs the false calm in his scent, pain and loss bleeding out. “When you left in the afternoon, I heard you’re leaving. You didn’t take anything with you or left me a note. I was wondering...”

The small smile Clark cracks at the corner of his lips never reaches his eyes, instead it’s the small sadness nestled in there, like groom storm clouds hanging low above the ocean.

He is adjusting his glasses again, but isn’t willing to break eye contact with Bruce.

“I knew you’re listening.” Bruce almost rolls his eyes. Dramatic Alphas. A few hours outside he feels like being abandoned by the entire world. Is there anything new around him? ”When are you not?”

“ Well ...” A sheepish smile automatically switched on on Clark’s face. “That’s a fair point.”

”Do I get to keep the privilege of homemade chicken noodle soup?”

“Yeah.” Clark answers with subtle surprise, “anytime.”

“Then I must introduce you to the famous Alfred’s special chocolate chip cookies. It’s a secret recipe only shared in the family. You will love it.”

Bruce grabs Clark’s arm and gives him a pull toward the tea table, gesturing to the delicious cookies.

Clark sniffs. “It smells good.” 

“It tastes better. How do you like your tea?” 

“Bruce, you don’t need to-”

“I insist.”

Bruce turns, ready to march toward the tea table and pour them a couple cups of tea, but Clark is in front of him next blink of eye with a gust of wind. His two large hands grab both of Bruce’s shoulders. Warmth radiates from his palms and seeps into Bruce’s bones. A single touch but has started dissolving some tensions in his rigid shoulder before Bruce’s even known.

“Bruce.” Clark holds him there, there is despair in his pleading eyes, to what, Bruce has no idea. He never intends to make Clark miserable, but the other is obviously in some agony.

“You don’t need to fix anything for me. I-” Clark is at loss of his words for a moment, then he tries to put himself together. “I’m just glad you still want to see me. After- after everything.” 

His words are clearly failing for Clark, to that much Bruce could tell, but he gets what Clark means.

Bruce grabs one of Clark’s hands and puts it on his stomach. Clark’s fingers twist, but finally settle on his extended belly. Cradling it with one hand. It’s nice to have his hand there, satisfying some deep instinct back in his mind.

The baby squirms under Clark’s palm. They are always more active when Clark is nearby. They can sense their father’s presence, it seems. Smart pup.

“Feeling that?” Bruce whispers, and Clark could only nod.

“You don’t know half the troubles I have gone through to keep them.” Bruce huffs.

Clark murmurs, “I’m sorry...”

“Sorry for what ?”

“Everything.” The kicked puppy returns with full force. He looks more like a toddler who only knows something is horrible wrong and the adults are angry but not really know why . It always starts with “I’m sorry” but the sentence never really finishes. Like a vague gesture toward nothing could be magically sufficient, making things better.
“I should be there for you.”

Okay. Maybe Clark could crack a couple more words than an actual toddler, but that’s about it.

Bruce doesn’t need Clark’s apologize to make him feel better. If it’s anything, it pisses him off.

A deep breath has done nothing to lift Bruce’s mood, so he comes down to give Clark a weary look. “Believe me, you’ve been there.” 

“... did I?” Clark is speechless, a bit shocked too.

He didn’t remember. Not that Bruce expects him to be. Kal-El was drugged, and lost all his elements back in that bunker. Not that Bruce was better because he for sure was dragged into a false heat by the strong Alpha rut pheromones clouded his judgement and fucked stupid. He isn’t going to retell the story and embarrasses himself. Clark could connect the dots and figure it out later on himself. Who doesn't like a little good mystery and thrill?

“Not that’s how a child was made? First with a nice roll in the hay...” Bruce flashes a fake Brucie TM sweet smile, asking in a dangerously innocent way. Then he rolls his eyes. “Yeah, in short words, we fucked. Would you like me to go into details?”

“No. Please not.” Clark winces and whines. Blush creeps on his cheeks. 

Bruce murmurs. “That’s what I’m thinking.” 

“Bruce-”

“What I’m saying is, it’s not your fault.” Bruce signs, giving into the soft and apologizing scent Alpha pushes out. He drops his eyes. “If there was any, it’s mine .”

Frankly, He fucked up a lot of things and he knew it. Now Bruce is dealing with the consequences.

“I know you never consented to any of this.” Says Bruce, shrugging off Clark’s hold. “I can raise the pup on my own. I get all the money and resources. You don’t need to-”

“Bruce!” Clark’s hands back on his arms immediately. The panic raises on the Kryptonian's face. Bruce never sees him, Clark Kent or Superman, panic so hard like he suddenly is sucked into a brand new world with nothing he ever knows stands true anymore. Or somebody just slaughters his dog in front of him and he could literally do nothing but watch. He is horrified.

“I would be more than happy to parent the pup with you, if you would let me, I will be over the moon. It’s nothing I could have ever dreamed of. Not even in my dreams, I could have a child with you. Please let me be part of it. Be part of your life.”

Clark confesses, hot on his tongues. He rushes through all his words, practically begging.

It almost sounds like... he is in love with him.

Bruce should know better. He really should know.

Breaking eye contact suddenly seems so hard. Bruce swallows. Hard. Then he clears his throat.

“Well then, I’m glad.” He says in a dry voice. “We co-parent.”

“Really?” Clark asks, but his expression changes already. His face lightens up and eyes narrow with pure happiness. He could flow in the air if not with both hands on Bruce now.

Okay. That’s not what Bruce plans for tonight. He gets his points needed to be crossed. Better move to the next topic, or this suffocating emotion session would kill him once and for all.

“But with conditions.” He must say. But what he says doesn’t discourage Clark.

“Sure.” Clark repeats. “ Sure. ” He is very much glowing right now, shining with joy.

He is not listening . For a man who can hear the growth of a seed in the darkest corner on earth, Clark stops listening. Why is Bruce not surprised?

This is getting old. Time for business.

“You said you want me to go to the Fortress for a full body checkup.”

“Yeah, Jor would like you to be there since the blood test could only do so much. He also says there is something he wants to go over with you before the baby arrives.” Clark quickly says, then backtrack a bit. “Jor is my AI of the Fortress. He is like a father figure to me and he has the face of my biology father. Just you know.”

“Does he say what he wants to talk about?”

“... no.” Clark tries to recall, but nothing seems coming to him, so he shakes his head. “He doesn’t say much to me. He only states it’s important.”

“Okay.” Bruce contemplates.

“If you don’t want to go, Bruce, it’s okay.” Clark gently says, and he means it. He never forces Bruce to do anything if he didn’t want to back in his apartment, when he had all the means and reasons to do so. Bruce believes him.

“How much control do you have over the Fortress?”

“Like everything? Since I’m the last Kryp-” Clark stops at mid sentence, slightly turning his head and listening. “Hey, Bruce?” He sounds confused, but still polite. “I think you have a visitor?” he whispers.

Now it’s Bruce’s turn to be confused. His eyes meet with Clark’s for a brief moment, then darts toward the bedroom’s door. But the subtle change of lines in Clark’s face tells him that he looks in the wrong place.

Before Bruce can ask, the door of his dressing room is suddenly kicked open with a deafening bang. The thick wooden door hits the wall hard enough to crack the hinges, and it doesn’t swing back onto the intruder.

Bruce’s eyes are wide open, before he can get a better look at the intruder, Clark is in front of him, blocking him entirely. 

Clark’s scent changes immediately. Anything pleasant or calm is thrown out of the window now, instead it’s a sharp tang of protective and defensive. The scent sends shivers down Bruce’s spine and puts him on high alert without thinking. His hand snaps back to his midsection to add another layer of protection. His entire presence automatically shrinks down to hide behind the alarmed Alpha too.

“Red Hood.”

Clark grits his teeth, his voice low and dangerous. A warning rumbling starts building at the back of his throat, threatening to escalate into a full growl at any second.

Bruce has to peek over Clark’s shoulder to see. It’s truly Jason who stands over the broken door, in his full Red Hood gear, leather jacket over tactical vest and steel toe heavy boots, covered from head to toe. It’s impossible to miss that full face mask under the red hoodie and crimson bat symbol on his chest plate. 

Two enhanced pistols are raised, holding high and aimed at Clark, one for head and another slightly down at his heart. 

Bruce’s heart sinks. He bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, in order to stop himself yelling out Jason’s name.
There is a slight waver in Clark’s scents, like he could smell of Bruce’s blood when the skin broke. He probably could, with superhuman sense. The rusty tang must ignite some feral instincts of the protecting Alpha. There are violent and aggressive notes in his scent slowly seeping through Superman’s iron control. 

Bruce pushes out as much clam scent of his as he can to comfort the Alpha, but his used iron control over his own scents is somehow slipping. His instincts are all over the place. Scent pulls back involuntarily, hiding his presence behind the Alpha, more in tune with Clark’s over-expanding intimidating aura than his own mind.

There is no way he could pass Clark and reach Jason, if he stays behind, like a liability.

Jason is not one easy to scare. All Bruce’s children are proficient in this little game of intimating. Fearless doesn’t begin to describe them.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Jason whistles. “Did I interrupt something? I’m not about to apologize. Just so you know.”

There is no scent, absolutely nothing , from Jason. No way to decipher what’s going on his mind. The heavy scent blocker must conceal everything. But Bruce doesn’t need to sniff the air to know Jason is furious. Rage and hatred is pouring out from his rigid posture. Wrath is burning deep down that pair of bright emerald eyes behind the white lenses.

But this doesn’t cancel out one bit of the agony caused by being ambushed by his own pack member, his own son. Being pointed at the black barrel of the gun conjures dark memories, especially when there is Clark - another significant one - standing in front of him and shielding him from any potential harm without even slight hesitation. Knowing Clark is Superman and bullet proof doesn’t lessen any complicated feelings his braveness and selflessness bring up. Nor dull the pain . He probably never gets over this phantom pain, the few very last things his parents left him.

But he doesn’t let fear freeze him anymore.

“What are you doing here, Hood ?” Bruce growls. Voice drops an octal and dangerously close to the harsh voice of Batman.

He is not eight years old anymore, nor the one he faces right now is some random burglar who wants some easy money.

“What the fuck are you doing Bruce?”

Jason snaps back, just as pissed.

“Get fucked up is not enough, you had to bring the alien home ?”

Chapter Text

It always elicits a particular proud feeling deep in his heart, when any of his kids refers to the Manor as home. Not simply a place they come back for food and shelter while fearing they would be kicked out or punished if they misbehave. It’s the home they could always come back to when they are tired, sad, needing a hug, sharing the day, or most importantly, if they simply want to come back and stay.

A place protects them from the world, and at the end of the day, they returns the favor.

Home is supposed to be safe, without intrusion or danger.

Apparently, Jason views Clark - Superman, the Kryptonian, the alien - as a threat. Bruce failed to shield him from this unnecessary fear and anguish. 

It’s all his fault.

“So you knew,” Clark says with even breath, despite what his scent may suggest otherwise. 

Jason’s attention flicks back to Clark. “Oh come on.” He snorts. “You tripped thirty alarms in a single second by flying straight to this room. You woke up the dead.”

Bruce has personally checked and changed his alarm system before calling Clark in. There would be a few - apparently no way to be a thirty - silent sensors turned on in case that Clark flies by, but none of them are supposed to notify Jason. 

Bruce is not yet ready for his kids to meet Clark. That’s going to be a long talk, preferably happening down in the cave, for what they are going to deal with is not just a seasoned investigative reporter but also Superman.

A sick feeling lurches through Bruce, and does so a wave of rising insecurity.  Someone, someone in this house, hacked into his system and re-route the alarm system, if nothing more. 

It could literally be any of his kids. Who is he kidding? He has been missing for over three months. This is bound to happen. But the realization doesn’t make Bruce feel any better. There is a sudden and irrational wanting of going back to Clark’s apartment waking inside of him. At least down there, Bruce knows that he is safe and away of prying eyes. 

“You have to leave.” Clark demands, voice low and drenched with authority, very close to slip into Alpha commend. “Now.”

“You are just another random guy the old man brings back here every other day to snuggle with.” If Clark’s voice does anything, it pisses Jason off. Malice laces his voice and he sounds bitter. “Fucking him didn’t make you the boss. Alien.”

“You have no right to say-” Genuine anger bleeds into Clark’s voice. His scent becomes spiky too, no way to pull back at an assault and too eager to bounce on the first sign of incoming attack.

Bruce has to get this quarrel under control. The least thing he needs now is that his son challenges Superman for a dominance fight in his damned bedroom. “Drop the gun.” He growls. Jason and he can sort out their differences whichever way he likes later in the cave and without Clark presenting, but Bruce needs him to drop the goddamned guns. Right now. 

“Hood.” Bruce barks out his name like an order.

But Jason barely tolerates him on good days, right now he is down right enraged.

“We are going back to the code name now, Bruce?” Jason says mockingly. The guns in his hand haven’t moved an inch. “How cruel! You wound me.”

He doesn’t mean it. Bruce’s eyes widen. But hearing Jason saying it out loud that he wounds him does a number on his mind, even when Bruce knows better. He calls out his code name only to protect Jason’s identity. Clark doesn’t need to know all the secrets in this family before Bruce has this conversation with them. 

However, telling Clark their existence or not, honestly, Bruce can imagine his kids are going to be mad either way he does.

A whine, forced to cut short purely because of Bruce’s will power, turns out like a choked gasp.

Bruce could feel Jason’s eyes linger on him for a fleeting moment. There is also a brief motion of Jason squaring his jaw. Jason doesn’t make more acknowledgement to Bruce’s inner turmoil. His only focus is a hundred percent on Clark.

Because Superman’s patience is running short quickly. “You cut off this nonsense, or I will-”

This certainly isn’t going to stop Jason challenging him, testing his limit and daring him to make a move.

Jason spits. “Or what?”

Clark draws back, no matter how slightly it is Bruce notices. Superman is ready to punch, to fight back and to eliminate the threat. He doesn’t know the threat is in fact Bruce’s own son.

His pup is in danger.

“Wait!” Bruce grabs Clark’s arm without thinking. Clark freezes under his touch, rock solid.

“Do it!” Jason’s fingers clutch tight on both triggers. Every muscle in his body locks rigid, coiled like a string about to snap. “I will shoot you straight through your eye, you fucking monster!”

“Jay!” Bruce shrieks, lunging forward and wrapping himself onto Clark’s side, acting on a reflex to stop the Alpha charging at his son. 

Clark is unprepared for Bruce pressing at him. He lets out a gasp of surprised noise then stabilizes himself to avoid stumbling forward at the sudden push. His arm instantly coils backward to hold Bruce in case he loses his balance and falls forward.

They are so close. Bruce’s tip of nose is smashing at the joint of Clark’s neck and shoulder, centimeters away from his scent gland. The scents - DangerProtectMate - are so strong, it’s suffocating.

“You need to leave.” Bruce shakily whispers in Clark’s ear. Why is he shaking? “I need you to go.”

His pup nervously squirms inside him. A phantom of pain spreads across his midsection, intensifying every passing second. No, no. Not the time. Bruce can’t deal with more bullshit that his body or pups throw at him at this moment if he wants to keep this rising panic at bay.

Clark turns - revealing his vulnerable side to Jason and takes his eyes off of someone he deems dangerous and threatening - to be able to actually hold Bruce in his arms. “Bruce? I can’t, I-” He jerks his head back, forcing himself to keep watching over Jason.

“I got Kryptonite bullets! A full load!” Jason snarls, moving one step closer. “Get your hands off him, or I will empty them on you!”

There isn’t that much distance between them to begin with. Six or seven long strides, they will be literally face to face.

If Jason fires, the bullets will not only hit Clark, but more likely penetrate him and then hit Bruce. God forbid that Jason uses bullets with mild stopping power. Bruce has been there in person to witness how much damage these two enhanced guns can deal.

Clark’s eyes flick back and forth between Bruce and Jason. Even he doesn’t know what kind of modification Jason used for his guns, but if there are real Kryptonite bullets loaded in those guns, the possibility that the bullets penetrate him and hit Bruce is skyrocketing.

The hesitation on Clark’s look tells Bruce that there is something, probably lead lined, because Clark is not sure what it is.

The unknown evokes fear.

Clark’s entire body tenses more. Bruce doesn’t know how it’s even possible. There is one split second Clark almost let him go, to push him away and to jump in front of the gun, taking the bullets.

Stupid. Stupid. How is this even happening?

“Clark.” Bruce whines. He cannot stifle it anymore.

Jason is getting closer. Another stride closer. The threat gets dangerously closer. Clark’s instincts are warring his reasons. Bruce could tell every thought passing through Clark’s mind right now because of the sudden expansion of intensive scent. And it’s all over his face too. How much it pains the Alpha for holding still and not fighting back.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

“He doesn’t mean it.” Bruce can’t push down the pathetic whining building at the back of his throat. He presses his belly on Clark because he runs off hands to hold on to it. “Clark-”

“I meant every fucking word.” A thump of boots. Another step closer. Jason’s voice is cold. The dark hollow of the gun barrel grows larger, sucking all the air and light away. 

“- go. Please.” Bruce chokes, taking his hand, himself, off of Clark. The scream comes off at the top of his lungs. “Just go!” 

Clark gives him a shocked and pained look, like he can’t believe himself he is doing it, before he suddenly vanishes in front of Bruce. 

The glass doors of the balcony suddenly shatter. All windows of the Manor rambles. A large boom roars low at the sky a second later. A gush of wind fiercely whips at everything in this room and knocks out all the small decorations off their usual spots. Some frail ones are dropped on the ground and smashed. Alfred will be pissed. Bruce watches everything fall into a mess around him in slow motion. Oh Lord, how many people is he going to piss off for one single day?

Bruce drags the hill of his hand down his face, squeezing his eyes shut.

He can’t believe he is doing this, either.

The room is quiet for a long moment. Bruce doesn’t hear anything except the loud ringing in his head. The pain spreading from his midsection dulls over time. Hopefully it means the pup is going back to sleep.

Then there is footstep. Quiet footstep. A presence comes closer to him when all he can see is the pulsing red underneath his eyelids - a bad headache slowly building at the back of his head - and so does a timid voice.

“Bruce?” It’s Jason. His voice cracks, like he is fearing - for what? “You alright?” He murmurs in a quivering tone. He doesn’t get close enough to touch Bruce. He stops nearby, like giving him space. Maybe air too. “You look awful.”

 “Urn.” A low humming is all Bruce manages before looking at Jason, who stands in front of him and awkwardly extends his hands out in the middle of the air.

No guns. Thank Lord.

Bruce lets out a shaking breath.

“You smell awful, too.” Jason mindlessly says, lowering his gaze but not turning away. He carefully scans Bruce, gazing up and down. Nostril flares to capture any scent drifting near him. 

Bruce’s sensitive nose is overloaded by Clark’s overwhelming, strong scent. He smells nothing. He has no idea what Jason is looking for. He is not physically injured, and it takes a lot to scare Batman.

He is not mad at Jason. Really. He should see this coming. Jason and Clark, they didn’t have a great first impression of each other the other night in the middle of a random road.

One of a sudden, Bruce becomes too tired to care. All the strength is drained from him. He can barely stand.

It’s not Jason’s fault. Some part of him desperately holds onto that thought. The other parts, the primitive instincts, are all over the place and desperate for a way out.

Insecure Threat Danger Danger Danger Where Is Alpha-

It screams “run”.

He is not going anywhere. There is home. His home.

“Okay.” Bruce takes a deep breath, hands dropping back to hold his belly. The pup gives him a weak move. Definitely not sleeping then. Bruce thinks they will be okay. “I’m okay.”

Everything will be okay.

He just needs a minute to calm down, and take another deep breath.

Jason doesn’t sound convinced. “You are not okay.” He adds. “You look like shit.”

“Uhm.”

Looking around, the cookies on the tea table still look delicious, but somehow lose their appeal to him. A cup of warm tea will be good. But currently, Bruce doesn’t have enough willpower to walk past Jason and sit down on chairs next to the tea table to enjoy. Oh, he better find a place to sit down. The bed must be sufficient, so he turns around and walks down there.

The mattress dips under his weight. Flipping onto the soft bed becomes very appealing. All he wants to do now is to curl up into a tight ball under the weighted blanket, let the silky smooth envelops him, shut out the entire world.

Unfortunately, it has to wait. He has a distressed overgrown pup desperately begging for attention.

Jason looks uncomfortable as hell standing over there, but doesn't dare to move.

Bruce looks up to Jason. It always amuses him how fast and large Jason grows up now. He is easily the same size as Bruce, by no means small, built like a solid wall. He may get bigger too, one inch taller, considering he just entered his twenties. Boys generally grow until their mid-twenties or something. He still has a couple of years to go.

Jason stands there, and doesn't follow Bruce to the bed. Bruce has to wave at him to come over.

Hesitantly, Jason comes to him, doesn’t question why.

“Closer.” Bruce says, reaching out his hands. Jason kneels in front of him, so Bruce doesn’t need to get up or strain. His fingers first brush against Jason's forehead, smoothing back a stray lock of hair before tracing down to the mask's hidden seal at the back of his head. Click. The mask loosens in Bruce’s grip.

Bruce throws the mask over his shoulder, and it lands on the bed with a soft thud. His hands hang in the midair for a second, before proceeding to remove the protecting collar on Jason’s neck and peel off the scent blockers.

The skin is irritated and angry red when the blockers are removed. Bruce moves his thumb in small circles to soothe the damaged skin. 

Strong scent, ragepainfear, pours out of Jason immediately, leaving a bitter taste on Bruce’s tongue.

Jason winces, involuntarily, like he can read Bruce’s mind. He doesn’t flinch at Bruce’s touch. He leans toward it.

He may become an open book now, Bruce signs, if he continues to let his scent and emotions run wild.

Getting that control back is equally difficult as letting it go.

Bruce scents Jason for a prolonged period of time, just to take the bitterness of fear off his pup’s scent.

He also takes the time to calm himself. He doesn’t need to smell like a sour wet mess just gets dumped by the Alpha. It’s him, who demands his Alpha to leave. Get hold of it, instincts.

“Better?” Bruce whispers.

Jason quivers at his question. “I don’t know Bruce-” He almost draws back to avoid Bruce’s touch, like it burns him. His scent pulls back too, unconsciously making him look small, also bracing him for the predicted punishment.

Jason looks so young when he is so lost to his feelings and everything going on around him. He doesn’t know what he did. Bruce realizes. It’s all instinctive impulse. He is so scared.

“Damn it!” Jason suddenly curses out loud. A feverish flush paints his face. “You know what? I shouldn’t be here-”

He tries to get up but fails because Bruce places a hand on his shoulder and holds him there.

“Jason.” Bruce pleads. “Please stay-”

“Why do you want me to stay?” Jason’s knees drop to the ground with a loud bang. He looks at Bruce at the verge of tears. “I fucked up. I won’t deny it. I tried to kill him. Didn’t care I shoot you too if you won’t move out of the way, which you didn’t. You fucking suicidal idiot. I could kill you!”

”You didn’t shoot me, and you didn’t shoot him.”

”You had no idea how tempting it was.” Jason lets out a humorless laugh. “Dick is right. You won’t get rid of that damned monster in your womb. I can tell that even before I stepped into this room and smelled you. You didn’t fucking know what yourself smelled like when you were with that alien.”

Jason scrapes his face with the back of his hand, but his face is dry. He watches Bruce with red smeared eyes. “But you gotta know that little fucker growing inside of you. That thing. It’s going to kill you.”

Bruce holds his face in both his hands, says in a gentle and calm voice. “You don’t know, Jason.”

But fear has rooted deep in that pair of emerald eyes. Jason bites on his bottom lips, unsuccessful in holding back a choked whine. “Don’t lie to my face. I saw it. You saw it. You know what’s going on, and you know I’m fucking right.”

A beat of silence. “It’s just a baby.” Says Bruce.

“Really?” Jason says quietly but sarcastically. Anger creeps back into his look and his voice. He is fuming under sad eyes. “Why not schedule an appointment with Leslie and check it out. Dick will be thrilled to have a copy of the ultrasound scan. You know he is the type who can’t resist cute baby photos, even though they're alien.”

“I’m planning to have one with Clark in his Fortress.” Bruce admits. It’s what he originally planned to speak with Clark before Jason raised havoc.

“That fucking alien doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t care if this thing kills you!”

“It’s not a thing.” Bruce corrects him. He never thought one day he would have to deal with the xenophobia of his own son. They have been through more weird stuff together in this city. He never knew Jason had a problem with aliens. But it’s not like they have one in Gotham. “It’s just an unborn pup.”

“No, it’s not.” Jason stubbornly refuses.

“A pup will be your future sibling. A little brother or sister.”

“There are enough little demons running loose in this house. We don't need more.”

“The pup is there, and I won't trade off any of you. If you were the pup, wouldn't you want me to do the same?”

“No. Fucking no!” Jason jerks his head up, staring at Bruce with widen-eyed. Horror suddenly fills his look and his scent shrinks in seconds, like a bucket of iced water is suddenly dumped at him. “You can’t just say it! Like- You’re not allowed to say it!”

Bruce says without any hesitation. “I'm sorry.”

“You’re not!” Jason accuses him. Anger ignites in his eyes. His lips are pulled to reveal sharp canines. A low rumbling sound builds up at the back of his throat.

Bruce pushes out as much calm and safety as he can in his scent. He holds Jason in his place until the trembling terror finally passes. The threatening rumbling turns out to be a sad whine.

“I’m not going to have an abortion, or send Clark away.” Bruce evenly says. “You understand?”

“Then what?” Jason replies. “Are you expecting us to make friends and play house?”

It will be nice. His traitorous mind finds it quite entertaining. Two alphas, both over six feet tall and built like a solid wall, squat down on the floor with dolls and tiny clay tea cups in hands and pitch their voices to speak to each other. 

“Knock it off, old man.” Jason makes a face and pulls back his upper body away from Bruce. “You disgust me.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, you didn’t.” Jason rolls his eyes. “Your current scent gives me a living nightmare.”

Bruce lets out a few quiet chuckles. They fall into a comfort moment of silence.

Jason doesn’t smell like burning acid and aggressive gunpowder and warm ash. Now he is more like the version of himself reading last century’s novels and enjoying the quiet and lazy afternoon. He smells like the collection of thick first edition books stock on high shelves in the Manor’s library and an old brand navy blue ink for pens. Nice and nostalgic.

Before his scent wavers. 

Fire from deep in his soul licks the pages. The books are burning, slowly turning into ashes. Again. And only the ashes are left in the end.

Bruce’s fingers move on their own account, brushing Jason’s cheeks and caressing his hair.

Jason grabs his hands.

“I don’t want to lose you.” He quietly says. “To a-” He stops for a moment. “Whatever it is.”

“You are not going to.” Bruce reassures him. “I promise.”

But Jason gives him a long look. 

You can’t make some promises you can’t even keep. You remember what happened last time you broke your promises? I died. In the end, it’s all on you. Don’t ever do that to me again.

“Fine.” Jason gets up. He pushes back the loosened hair hanging on his forehead. Squeezing his eyes shut, he spits. ”Fine.”

Chapter Text

Not long after Jason leaves, there is a knock on the door.

Normally, it’s still a bit earlier for his other kids getting back from patrol, but Bruce isn’t so sure right now.

If Jason could bypass his alarms and hide in his dressing room without tripping anything, others certainly can do the same.

Please let it not be another emotional outburst from his kids. Bruce really can’t do another one tonight. He is too exhausted, and he will drop dead on his foot if they take turns to torment him.

Brace himself, Bruce clears his throat and says. “Please come in.”

The door is pushed open, coming in Alfred with a plate of tea.

Thank God.

Bruce drops his shoulder, letting out a long breath.

Alfred walks into the bedroom and takes a look around. ”Quite a quarrel, sir. It seemed.” There is a hint of amusement in his voice, but more is genuine concern. “I must say you handled this well.”

”Um.”

Alfred puts the plate down on his nightstand. “Would you like a cup of tea, Master Bruce?” He doesn’t wait for Bruce's response before pouring the steamy hot tea into the single cup he brings with him.

A cup of tea. Okay. Maybe he can do it. Bruce nods to Alfred, accepting the tea with both hands.

The refreshing smell of tea soothes his nerves. And the warmth radiating in his palms grounds him.

”Thanks, Alf.”

”I will draw you a bath. Is there anything I’m supposed to know before I proceed?”

Bruce lets out a noise which he doesn't even know what it is supposed to mean.

But Alfred understands. The old English butler, who watched him grow up, has always known better.

“Very well, sir.” Alfred smiles. “While you enjoy the bath, I will clean the floor and remove the broken pieces. But unfortunately, the rest of the restoration won’t happen overnight, so you have to sleep with this mess. We will see how things are going tomorrow morning.”

“Sounds good.” Bruce forces himself to push out a positive confirmation. He would collapse into the bed any moment now, but if Alfred deems he needs a bath, okay, who is he to object?

His boys have a long way to go to learn who is the real boss here.

With a “very well” and small nod, Alfred heads to the bathroom. Inevitably, he stops at the hanging open door of the dressing room, since past that door is the bathroom. He kneels down and gives its broken hinges a quick inspection. The inquiry stays on the crack of the surface door, which is certainly done by the powerful kick from Jason. Alfred gets back up with no comments. Bruce lets out an inner sigh he doesn’t know he unconsciously held.

Alfred takes a left turn, entering the bathroom. A moment later, the sound of water running comes out.

Bruce doesn’t realize how much time has passed when Alfred comes back, drying his hand with a hand towel. He only finishes not a half, more like one third of tea.

“The bath is ready,” says Alfred. “Would you like me preparing you another cup while you enjoy your bath, sir?”

And seeing his naked butt? Bruce looks down at himself. The soft curve of his belly blocks his view. There is definitely something new Alfred hasn’t seen yet.

“No. Thanks. No.” Bruce shakes his head, passing the mug to Alfred. He gets up and suddenly remembers. “Did you see my phone?”

“I can look for it.” Ever slightly, Alfred raises one of his eyebrows. Now he is interested, but he won’t ask. Not out right loud. He nudges Bruce to move. “Go, Master Bruce. A hot bath will do good on your mind.”

“Ahem.” Bruce drags himself toward the bathroom.

He purposely slows down his pace so when Alfred comes back with his phone in hand, Bruce is not completely naked. If Alfred sees something interesting, he doesn’t voice it. Bruce will worry about all his subtle twists of the corner of his eye or lifting one eyebrow when he wakes up next morning, preferring if he has already forgotten everything that has happened in the past half a day.

You wish.

Bruce signs when submerging himself in the luxury hot bath. A special brand of homemade bath salt with mixed essential oil and Epsom, Bruce has no idea how Alfred managed to find the import from France, and has been well dissolved in warm water. He will smell like roses. Bruce facepalms. Not that he really needs it.

Picking up the phone left on the short stand, Bruce keys in Clark’s number, sending him a message.

- 9:58 PM -

Bruce Wayen: I would like to see you around tomorrow the same time we met today, but another place, if you are okay with it.

No message comes in right after that. Bruce puts this phone down and dazes in a distance.

He soaks for a good twenty minutes. Water turns lukewarm, and all his muscles loosen up. Bruce checks his phone before stepping out the tube.

- 10:06 PM -

Clark Kent: Are you alright?

Clark Kent: Please let me know you’re not hurt.

Clark Kent: I can hear your heartbeat calmed down, but I can’t see you through all the lead painting in the Manor.

Clark Kent: Anytime. Anywhere. I’m one word away.

Clark Kent: Good night, Bruce.

- 10:14 PM -

Bruce Wayen: Good night.

-x-

Embarrassingly, Bruce sleeps in the next morning.

Alfred not only lets him do so but also serves him a brunch consisting of scrambled eggs and toast, yogurt, fruit salad, and a perfect cup of English breakfast tea at his bed.

He must do something extraordinary to deserve this.

When Bruce descends downstairs, his kids have made themselves scattered. Alfred informs that Dick is currently out to deal with the rest of the documentation and legal procedures to ensure Damian could smoothly enroll in the elementary school after the spring break when school starts.

Damian certainly objects to this horrid idea of going to school, like most children do, but for a different reason: “I’m superior to those morons.” Bruce would have to have a talk with Talia about their son’s vocabulary, if not with Ra’s.

Ra’s al Gaul. They have so many unresolved businesses. Bruce doesn’t regret feeling childish gloating, when he deduces Ra’s is very likely in deep trouble, so that Tilia feels compelled to send Damian over to him, even when she knows that he hasn’t been around for a prolonged time and is unlikely to provide any assistance that may be required.

But if Ra’s is in trouble, it means Damian isn’t a hundred percent safe here either. Bruce needs to be careful of any mysterious outsiders entering Gotham. The possibility of them being sent out by either Ra’s to retrieve his grandson or his successor to eliminate a future threat is unsettling.

Damian only gives Bruce a jerky nod when they cross paths downstairs before he heads out toward the garden with his katana. Another round of training, the boy says. Bruce doesn’t believe him. It looks more like another round of physical and emotional venting through, well, cutting down all the bushes.

There are no more roses this summer, it seems, or pines for Christmas. 

It only leaves Tim sticking around in the living room.

There are bays under Tim’s eyes. The anxiousness and discomfort spread all over his face. He keeps his eyes focused on the laptop screen while Bruce passes by.

“Good morning, Tim.” Bruce greets him.

“It’s actually two in the afternoon, but.” Tim shrugs, looking up from the screen and to Bruce. He gives him a faint smile. “Good morning, Bruce.”

“Even though school starts the day after tomorrow, I suggest you take a good nap and get enough sleep, so you would feel energized back in class.”

Tim sips on his coffee from the ugliest one-liter sports bottle Bruce has ever seen and squints. “Don’t worry. I still have tomorrow.”

Bruce takes the seat next to Tim. “If you say so.” 

Tim looks surprised. He fumbles with the latch on the sports bottle, watching Bruce with inquisitive eyes. “What do you want?”

Clever boy. Bruce praises him in his heart while fishing out a small piece of bugging device in his pocket. 

“I think this belongs to you.”

He did a bit of swiping in his rooms after the hearty breakfast. Tim is smart to install only one listening device, dramatically decreasing the potential of being found.

But there he is.

“Yeah.” Tim says while looking at the device. “If you ever decide to come back for a brief moment and you forget to tell us, we will know. But I assumed the cave would be a better option since it has all the gadgets and equipment. One can’t be so sure.”

Bruce hums. “Um hum.” 

After a while, Tim opens up. “I heard your conversation last night.” He quietly admits. “You with Superman and Jason.”

Bruce purposely keeps staring at the painting hanging on the wall across from them.

“Is that true?” Tim hesitantly asks. “What did Jason say? The baby…”

“It’s half Kryptonian. We have established that.”

“It is just me kinda feeling the size of your stomach is a little off of… the chart,” Tim lets out a dry chuckle, “is there anyone else?” then goes back to be silent.

“The pup grows fast. Faster than I expected.” At least Bruce doesn’t need to lie on this part. 

Faster than Alfred expected, too. That much Bruce could tell. Clark doesn’t seem to be concerned with the rapid development of the unborn pup, so it’s either a Kryptonian thing or he is not the wiser. Then there is Jon, who is born under a normal forty-weeks of pregnancy and has well passed all the examinations of a normal earthling baby. 

Alfred knows the situation of Jon, too. He may not have all the tech skills of his children to crack his computer for information, but for sure he knows too well of Bruce. In addition, he has access to everything. There is very little Bruce could hide from him.

“Okay, that makes sense.” Tim rambles. “The photos Jason sent us didn’t capture any good angles. It’s trash. You can be like three months in or six months at the same time. Six months are definitely too long, because you must know you are pregnant before you, well-”

Tim stops and quickly peeks at Bruce. 

“Well?” Bruce asks.

Like shaking off a spider that suddenly drops at his shoulder, Tim awkwardly shrugs, a bit forced. “You decided to have, um, please don’t make me say it. It’s disgusting.” He wets his lips and sends a pleading look to Bruce. 

Bruce raises one of his eyebrows to silently require him to continue.

Signing, Tim holds up his hands. One sticks out one finger and goes in and out of a circle made by the other hand. Very figuratively. Before he wiggles his fingers in the middle of air and makes an invisible quotation mark. 

“Do this. Okay? We didn’t know who that person was; by the time you came back from whatever the League matters, you must attend. Now we know it’s Superman. Oh my gosh, please tell me it was Superman . Because this is going to be so fu-”

“Yes. It’s him.” Bruce says. “And no inappropriate words, please.”

“Me talking about all of these is inappropriate , Bruce.” Tim gripes, but obediently continues. “People were upset because you left. One of the sudden, you are gone. We only knew what happened because it kind of landed itself on TV. Then you completely disappeared for unknown reasons. Alfred was not there either. You didn’t pick up the calls or return a text for three straight days. We knew you were waist-deep in League troubles that they’re under attack, and you thought it’s your fault, but-”

Tim briefly gives him a pained look before he suddenly is aware of it and claps his face with one hand and rubbers his temple to cover his expression. “Anyway, then you came back and smelled like-”

Sex . The inner voice of Bruce finishes the sentence for him. He smelled like rough but satisfying sex.

The strong rut scent of Clark must trigger a false heat in him for him to act so incoherent and heat drunk in those three days down the underground base. It rarely happens in Betas, but is not unheard of.

Or it’s another Kryptonian thing.

At least Bruce woke up before Clark gained his conscious back. Dragging the more than two hundred-pound Kryptonian across the entire underground base and onto the Batwing was a nightmare, but it was still easier than transporting a delirious Superman back to med bay on Watchtower without running into anyone. Bruce didn’t need someone shockingly looked at his eyes and asked, “What the fuck ”.

The rut and heat scents were so strong, he had a hard time scraping them off. A sanitizing and decontamination shower barely made it bearable, and it’s not enough to fool his family. 

They knew it the instant he walked into the cave. His two oldest are Alphas, and Alphas are born territorial, one way or the other. It definitely did not help with his case. Shouting match didn’t even begin to describe what happened.

Tim wiggles his fingers again to make another vague quotation mark. He looks up to the ceilings, staring afar. 

“They were worried .” He concludes. “I think that's most of it.”

“I knew .” Bruce says.

Tim huffs. It’s hard to tell if he believes in Bruce or not, but there is little Bruce can offer to comfort him. Tim himself has done most of the job of self-comforting. He is persistent.

“Okay, then. That’s good.” Tim nervously twitches on his spot. “When is the due date, by the way?” 

“I’m going to find out.” Bruce says. “Hopefully tonight.”

Chapter Text

Bruce contacts Clark for time and address for their next meeting. A penthouse he owns downtown, and Bruce asks Alfred to drive him down there an hour earlier before their meeting time, so he can have enough time to make sure this time none of his kids is listening on the other side or has the opportunity to sneak upon him.

Bruce doesn’t like the repetition of history, especially when he can avoid it. 

Later in the afternoon, Dick messages him that Damian has to have a whole list of vaccines done before he can enroll in the school, which cannot be accelerated first because there are so many of them and second because it requires time between the shots.

There is also some paperwork that needs to be gathered too. The paternity test can only wave a part of them. It seems Damian doesn’t need to go to school till May.

It actually gives Bruce plenty of time for the entire night, tomorrow morning even, if he needs extra hours staying in Fortress learning all Kryptonian things . He has a feeling he is going to need it.

Now he is standing in front of a giant glass wall and looking into the seldom-clear night sky of Gotham. Gordon would have a hard time making the Bat Signal visible in the dark sky since there is absolutely no cloud.

But Bruce doesn’t need to see the Bat Signal to know if Batman is required.

After so many years, tears and blood and pain, he can feel it. The city is calling him. The empty howling and crying never stop. Even in the silence of nights, it reaches him with phantom claws, like the pull of gravity.

The cry for help grows louder. Touching the cool glass, Bruce can feel the vibration. The city has its own chaotic mind, and it’s whispering to him. A storm is coming, and it may not be far. But tonight it is not Bruce who tends to her and eases her pain. His kids would share the responsibility, so he can get some personal issues sorted out.

Balancing is such a pain. Sometimes Bruce wonders how Superman manages that. He gets a daytime job, friends and family, and tons of duty needed to fill as a superhero who consistently saves the day. Clark always looks so sunny . He makes it easy.

Taking a deep breath, Bruce calls. “Clark.”

A gust of wind, the bright red and blue is drifting on the other side of the glass wall. 

That’s fast .

“Hey, Bruce.” Puts his hand on where Bruce puts his. Breath leaves a small patch of condensation on the glass. Clark smiles. “How are you doing?”

“Door is on the left.” Bruce backs away, taking his hand off the glass panel and gesturing to the balcony door. “It’s unlocked.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Next blink of an eye, Clark is next to him, right there when Bruce turns to face him.

“I’m sorry about yes-”

Bruce puts a finger on Clark’s mouth to stop his nonsense. He takes the finger off when the trick works and is pleased to see Clark gasps like a fish out of water, silent.

“I’m not here to hear you berate yourself about what happened last night. It’s not your fault, Clark. We need to continue what we didn’t finish.” 

“Yeah. We were talking about my control over the Fortress… But Bruce.” Complicated feelings surge on Clark’s look, but mostly he still looks worried. “We need to talk about your safety first, and that’s the most important.”

Bruce huffs. “I am safe. Never the safer.” He really can use a drink. Where does he put all his drinks? Oh, in the mini bar over the room.

Ignoring Clark calling his name in confusion, Bruce walks down there and crouches down to reach the fringe underneath the island table. However, he doesn’t need to get down, since Clark does the job.

The Kryptonian shuffles the various bottles and cans in there, and a moment later, a bottle of iced tea is poured into a tall glass before shoving into Bruce’s hand.

Bruce stares at the glass in his hand for a moment. Iced tea is not exactly what he wants, but he doubts Clark will approve anything else, despite the soda water. He signs to himself and takes a drink.

“Bruce, I don’t want to put you in any danger if I can prevent it. What happened last night - I didn’t know how Red Hood found out you’re back home, and I suspected him watching you - gave me a heart attack.”

“Then you definitely want to keep your guard up and be aware of Hood.” Bruce snips on his drink. “He is a wildcard. I’m not going to promise he won’t show up in your apartment without an invitation.”

Clark looks at him with wide-opened eyes. “So you knew him?”

Bruce raises one of his eyebrows. “And?”

“You are not in, uh, like in some kind of...” Clark stutters, a furious blush spreading on his cheeks. Burning, it looks like. The tips of his ears are crimson, too. “He is overprotective of you, from my point of view. You and him-”

But the delicate pink on his face can’t fool Bruce; he smells how Clark’s scent changes, Alpha competition-mate-mine , rapidly surging to the surface. And so does a brief and subtle note of hostility , not because Jason threatened him with Kryptonite bullets, but—

“No!” Bruce bursts. His face uncontrollably twisted into a scowl before he forces himself to school his expression back to a bitter grimace . “What the fuck are you thinking about, Clark Joseph Kent ?” 

Bruce facepalms, but that doesn’t stop the growl coming out of his chest. “God forbid you have any imagination . He is my son !”

“Oh.” Clark is dumbfounded, pulling back his scent all at once, clearly doesn’t want to risk enraging Bruce any further. “Uh, oh .”

Clark takes the sweet time to let the words wash over him, but as far as Bruce can tell, he is confused.

“Okay.” Clark clears his throat, finishing doing his mental counting of Bruce’s sons. “But he doesn’t look like any-”

“Enough.” Bruce cut him off. One more word suggesting he has an incest with Jason, he will choke Superman with his bare hands. 

The murderous glare does the trick. Clark gives him a sheepish smile. ”Just checking.” His scent slowly expands, taking over the empty space around Bruce and dropping over him like a weighted blanket. Genuine sorry is everywhere.

“Let’s talk about the Fortress of Solitude.” Clark changes the topic. “Yes. I have full control over the Fortress. It’s in the Arctic. I can fly you there in twenty minutes. It’s pretty cool looking from the outside, and inside. I have a zoo to keep all the alien animals I rescued until I find a better place to relocate them.”

Talking about something he is proud of certainly catches Clark’s attention. He sounds existing too. “I can give you a tour if you want.”

The exact location of the Fortress is listed in the League’s server as Kal-El’s physical address. Clark talks about the Fortress a few times back in time, and he also uses the Kryptonian technology to help crack a few cases. Bruce has searched it by satellite but returned with no results. There must be some advanced camouflage. Through other means, Bruce confirms that the building is there, but he never gets invited in.

Until now.

Not the most ideal time he has in mind to explore Superman’s secret base.

“I want a private check.” Bruce says.

“Okay?” Clark is confused. “There will only be you and me there. No other visitors, I promise.”

“You said there is an AI.”

“Yes. Jor. You can call him Jor. Actually he is the one who sets up the checkup and walks you through.” Clark gives him this one kind of comforting smile. “I have no expertise on medical stuff, but I will be there for you.”

“What if I don’t want you to be there?”

“Wha-what?”

Bruce replies in a measured tone. “What if I want to do this checkup all by myself? Jor can be there, obviously, to run the equipment and all that.”

Clark whines, like a kicked puppy. “Why am I the only one left out?” He gives out the sad puppy eyes too, shocked by the unfairness.

“Because I don’t want to spoil the surprise?” Bruce redirects. “What if Jor announces something like your future daughter or son or something? You didn’t know, did you? Tell me you didn’t cheat.”

“Well…” Clark definitely cheated. Bruce knows. He remembers all the time Clark spent blankly staring at his stomach. The Kryptonian didn’t even try to be subtle. 

Bruce is also a hundred percent sure that Clark doesn’t know the gender either. There is one time he caught Clark reading the supermarket flyers, troubled to decide which color he would like to get for newborn clothes. The fashion trend for having different colors to highlight different genders of children comes back with full intensity after sixty. If it is hard to tell if the kids are Alphas, Betas or Omegas, at least it can tell they are boys or girls.

Clark grimaces. “Let's just settle that I didn’t know.” 

“Okay. But that’s what I mean.” Bruce says, subtly snuggling to Clark. “You see?” They are so close that Bruce can feel the warm breath of Clark brushing his cheeks. His baby bump almost bumps into Clark, too. “Do you think you can manage that?” And let his voice be sweet and slow.

Clark backs off one step, clearly aware of the bait Bruce lying out for him. “If that's what you want.” He speaks in a soft tone, resting both hands on Bruce’s shoulders, looking him in the eyes. “Hey, hon. You don’t need to do anything you don’t like, okay?”

“I-” Bruce presses his lips thin, finding no words out of himself.

“I’m just confused, but I will get over it. I promise.” Clark says, in a serious but kind voice. There is also a tiny trace of sadness in his blue eyes, but Clark hides it well. It’s mainly the fault of Bruce's sharp observation tends to leave nothing out. “If there is something you don’t feel comfortable with, you say it, we can deal with it together, okay?”

“A true gentleman, aren’t you?” He lets out a quiet smile. The charisma Brucie Wayne cultures and welds as a weapon is drastically failing on this dorky, mild-tempered man. Bruce can see that now. 

Bruce lowers his eyes. Sometimes, Bruce wonders if they meet under another situation, as Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent, will the other bat an eye on him. 

Oh, he knows the answer to this one. That’s quite a long time ago when he made a visit to Daily Planet to seal the deal. A mini party was thrown out in that afternoon for celebration, and both of them made an appearance. Nothing happened.

All of these, whatever they are having right now, it’s painfully clearly a pure accident.

Clark shakes him a bit, gently asking. “Are you alright?” 

Bruce must be lost in his thoughts. It’s a dangerous habit. 

“Yeah. Why not?” Bruce steps closer, into the embrace of Clark. “When are we supposed to take off? You said you would fly me to your secret base?”

“I’m ready,” Clark’s hands drop to his waist and hold Bruce there. “When you’re ready.”

-x-

The flight to the Fortress of Solitude is, surprisingly, quite comfortable, considering Bruce is collected in Clark’s arms, bride style. 

Superman used to grab his wrist or the cape to carry Batman across the battlefield. But this is an experience so different when he doesn’t need to calculate the projectile angle and all other problems waiting at the end of the flight, even when it’s only seconds away.

The night sky is beautiful. The Fortress, made of shining crystal, standing on the forever frozen and white wasteland is magnificent from the outside, vibrating the other-world vibes.

The Fortress opens the gate to let them in.

Everything is huge inside, also more crystal decoration, but it makes sense for the last son of Krypton to live in.

When Clark touches down, a hologram construction of a middle-aged man, wearing a long robe and armor with Superman’s sigil on his chest, flickers into life in front of them.

Bruce can see the more similarities in facial structure between Clark and him upon close observation. 

“Welcome back home, Kal.” After greeting Clark, the hologram construction nods to Bruce. “Welcome. I’m Jor-El, the AI of the Fortress. It’s a pleasure to be able to meet you in person, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce, please. Mr. Wayne is my father.” Bruce smoothly says. It’s good they are so far away, so Bruce doesn’t need to extend his hand for a handshake. “Pleasure is mine.”

“Hey Jor.” Clark lets go of Bruce and walks closer to Jor. “One word?”

Both Clark and Jor are gone the next moment.

Bruce takes his time to explore the equivalent of the living room of the Fortress. A floating robot comes over to him and asks if he wants something to drink. Bruce says no.

In a five-minute maximum, Clark is back with a gust of wind. Jor re-constructs himself alone with Clark.

“It’s ready.” He grins at Bruce. “Hopefully I don’t keep you waiting too long.”

“This place is very inspiring.” Says Bruce.

“That’s one way to say it. How about I give you a tour after the check? Maybe some Kryptonian food. Do you like it?” Clark picks Bruce up, bride style again. Bruce doesn’t protest, but raises one of his eyebrows. This time, Clark flies at a walking pace. Down the corridor, until they are in front of a huge door.

“Down this way to the laboratory. Jor can show you in.” Clark lets go of Bruce. He cracks a nervous smile. “You sure you don’t want me there?”

“Is this checkup dangerous?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Clark sucks in a breath. “Jor will explain everything before proceeding, step by step.”

“I will.” Jor goes along. “Please be rest assured.”

“Then you stop worrying.”

Clark chuckles. “Can’t promise on that, but I will try. I will keep myself occupied in the meantime. Maybe a flight to the other side of the earth. Who knows? Is there anything you want?”

“Go.” Bruce waves at him. “Up and away.”

Clark does so and flies away. 

A few moments of silence, before Jor speaks up.

“Currently, Kal is out of the territory of the Fortress. I will inform him once the checkup is finished.” 

Bruce turns to look at Jor. The AI looks at him with a slightly worried but yet strange expression. 

“Mr. Wayne, I took the liberty of scanning you when you entered the Fortress.”

Bruce doesn’t wear his cowl or anything to hide himself. He doesn’t bring anything, despite his cell phone. It’s practically the idea that he comes here to have the Fortress scan and check him out. 

But the tightness in Jor’s voice and the insistence of formality needles Bruce. Bruce knows the tone - people tend to be polite when they think you are dangerous  - he has too many people speak like that to him, in and out of cape.

Bruce doesn’t let any thoughts crossing his mind show in his expression. The first step of negotiation is to keep calm and a tight hold of what he thinks. 

The AI is either smarter than Clark gives him the credit for, or, simply not so biased.

“Is there anything I should be concerned about?” Bruce casually asks.

“You don’t seem like the man the public claims you are.”   Jor replies.   “Or the man Kal-El would like to believe he knew, neither.”

Chapter Text

“What can I say? We are strangers to ourselves.” Bruce smoothly says, flashing Jor a smile with perfect teeth, while the other watches him unimpressed. “One penny for your thoughts?”

“It struck me odd when you specifically asked for this check to be totally private, even excluding Kal, who is no doubt the sire of the pup you’re carrying and has a right to know, in case there is any problem rising.” Jor says. “You went as far as making him leave you alone here and not returning until the checkup is over.”

“I believe that’s not my exact words.” But Bruce doesn’t deny he wants Clark to be away. If this AI thing can scan him afar, then no doubt he can tell if Bruce lies.

Lying only when it’s unavoidable. All lies, white lies, or whatever, they all blow up sooner or later, which has the potential to sink any deal the player tries to make.

Jor says. “But it’s something that has to be done to ensure you get what you demand.”

Bruce laces his fingers in his front, naturally resting on his baby bump. There is no squirm from the pup, which is good. He takes a deeper breath and breathes through his nose. “Then what are you accusing me for?”

There is a brief moment of silence. It’s difficult to tell if an AI is upset or worried—a hologram who has perfect control of everything and no breath nor heartbeat to reveal anything.

“I apologize.” Jor shifts, briefly lowering his stare. “For making you feel accused. It’s never my intention.”

“Then you have to be clear and straightforward.” Bruce says evenly. “I tend to take things at face value.”

“Mr. Wayne, a conflict arises from the total privacy you would like to enjoy during your check. As the AI of the Fortress of Solitude, there are rules I have to follow. Any action that may cause potential harm to Kal is strictly prohibited. For any safety concerns, I have an obligation to report.” 

Is he running into a weird Kryptonian version of three laws of robotics, or Jor acts in the best interests of Kal? Bruce can see it goes in both ways.

Bruce hums, keeping their eye contact. “Will you report to him the conversation we are having right now?”

Check.

The crisp click of the chess piece resonates in his mind. The set he has in his study is older than Bruce, and he likes the smooth and cool feel the pieces have. He can show it to Clark. They can play a few rounds and admire the pure simplicity of a game.

Life is messy. Even an AI running on pure logic and calculation seems to be hesitant to make decisions.

After a brief silence, Jor collectedly replies. “It’s not necessary.”

Good. That’s what I think. 

“Then the rest won’t be either.” Bruce says. “I suppose.”

Investigating what Kal does when he is free and away from humanity is the least concern for Bruce. He doesn’t come here as Batman, and he would like to keep it that way.

Jor steps aside and reveals the path behind him. “This way, Mr. Wayne. Please follow me.”

Bruce follows him.

-x-

Clark is slowly drifting in the wind and bathing in the golden, warm sunrise of the other side of the earth. He keeps his distance so he doesn’t accidentally eavesdrop. 

But he still can hear the steady heartbeat of Bruce, like a lullaby humming when the moon hangs low and the night is still young but quiet.

“How does the checkup go?”

The duration of the checkup is totally based on the condition of the pregnancy, but it has been a few hours since Clark left the Fortress, and it’s well past the estimated time Jor gives him. 

“Will you let me know if there is anything wrong?” Clark gives a few nervous chuckles.
Jor, who is on the other side of the line, calmly replies. “The check is almost done. Currently, I’m answering Mr. Wayne’s questions regarding the result of the checkup.”

“What questions does he ask?” 

“According to the agreement we have reached before your departure, I’m not allowed to reveal any of this until Mr. Wayne gives me further instruction. You can always ask him yourself, Kal, when you come back.” 

Clark scratches his nose and signs. “You are not mad at me, aren’t you?”

“My actions are guided solely by your welfare."

“That, definitely, is mad.”

Jor doesn’t say anything, but the silence speaks. Clark can feel his worrying eyes resting on his back. Everything I’ve ever done for you - every line on Jor’s face screams, even if he is an AI and a hologram construction - I only ever wanted the best for you. Why can’t you see?

Clark understands. He really does. He is a father to an eight-year-old boy who would whine and puppy eyes at him for one more spoon of ice cream. But that’s… Bruce. Clark has a responsibility to make him happy.

A little privacy wouldn’t hurt.

“Just let me know if he is doing good.”

Clark doesn’t pay attention to Jor’s silence here, thinking he is still mad at him. He continues. “Let me know if the pup is good, okay?”

”Sure.” Finally says Jor.

-x-

“You didn’t seem to be surprised.” When the real time scan of the pup is enlarged and projected in holograms, Jor asks while Bruce examines all the new information dumped at him. “I assume you have already performed and seen some scans of the pup?”

The pup is sound asleep, curling into themselves with a long and thin tail nicely wrapping around the body, only twitching a bit every once in a while. They look… more humanoid and well-shaped than any unborn under twenty weeks. 

The pup is almost there.

The realization strikes at Bruce, hard, almost knocking him off balance.

That’s… just too fast. He doesn’t even look that big, and Bruce is sure.

But there they are. He mindlessly caresses his baby bump. There they are.

“They look larger than the last time I saw them” is all Bruce offers to Jor’s curiosity.

The real-life feedback keeps refreshing. The image changes every second. Numbers and figures are pulled up for monitoring. Bruce has Jor explained everything in detail. Jor obediently does so, although Bruce can see the questions rising in his eyes.

And also concerns.

Looks like Bruce is not the only one holding something back.

“Actually, the fetus lands on the lower part of the range of size for their weeks.” Jor says. “But rest assured, they are healthy for both Kryptonian and Earthling standards.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Bruce looks at him.

“The fetus is doing fine.” Jor reassures; his face betrays nothing.

But they all knew Jor was hiding something. He is worried; that part is as plain as the daylight to Bruce, and the other knows it.

Can’t they just cut the crap out and straight to the point?

“It’s about me.” 

Even a deduction is not required to make this call. From the first second he steps into this crystal and alien base, the AI so-called Jor-El has a problem with him and barely holds it back. Clark doesn’t notice it because - why not- sometimes Superman can be blind as a bat and his overoptimism gets on Bruce’s nerves. May it’s the results that this is his ultimate secret base, or he is the Man of Steel who is almost indestructible. Almost.

Bruce doesn’t like feeling vulnerable, but it’s a necessary evil to come in that way, so he preserves his secrets. Vulnerability, as annoying as it is, is still a double-bladed sword.

What will Jor-El react to if he comes in with his full Batman gear? Bruce has been tinkering with this special advanced armor, which can potentially let him throw a good fight with Superman or Wonder Woman, if not to beat them, in his cave.

Bruce would like to keep himself entertained because his patience wears extremely thin with every second Jor gives him this dubious attitude.

Bruce snaps. “You didn’t seem to have any issues with Clark’s last partner.” 

Jor looks taken aback. “How-I-”

Why can all the Kryptonians lie so horribly? Must be a trait running in the family.

“Save it.” Judicious display of anger, Bruce calculates, serves as a productive catalyst to drive conversations forward. He doesn’t have all day, and this checkup tires him out faster than he expects. His patience is wearing extremely thin. “I know I’m not the ideal mate you desire to have for your son.”

The words ring true in so many ways. Bruce has to bite his bottom lip to conceal the phantom pain caused by admitting this fact out loud. Saying it is so different from knowing it, for simply knowing won’t share with the other the same knowledge that can hurt him back.

“It’s not what you think, Mr. Wayne. I don’t-” Jor quickly denies.

”Spill it.” Bruce mockingly says. “I’m all ears.”

”You are human-“

”Is it a real problem now? Being a human?“

”Yes.” Jor snaps. ”That's the exact problem.”

Bruce drags a hand over his face. “Bullshit.” He snarls. “Me being a human is the exact problem in your eyes. That’s the worst lie I have ever heard, because we all knew, his last partner was no doubt a human!”

“That’s different.” Struggling to take over the control of the conversation, Jor steps closer to Bruce, while the other hisses at him immediately. He throws his hands up, a universal gesture for meaning no harm, but Bruce doesn’t buy it. He has too much experience with someone who tries to lower his guard and to hit low.

“The pup you are carrying is mutated because of the need to survive in an extreme condition. The mutation activates an ancient trait of Kryptonian and will accelerate the growth and development of the fetus and prepare them for surviving in a harsh and hostile environment. They will be born as fighters, survivors, and they will claw their way out before they barely open their eyes if it’s meant for survival. The mutation-” Jor quickly explains. “Gives them superpowers under the yellow sun, even before the pup is born. Do you understand what this means, Bruce?”

Without waiting for Bruce’s reply, Jor asks. “Do you know what the first few superpowers Kal developed when he was young?”

“The super strength…” 

Bruce murmurs under his breath. Somehow, Bruce feels that he has seen this coming from afar, but is still too stunned to move. In the end, shock washes him over like a tsunami, loud alarms screaming in the background and people scrambling away, leaving only himself standing there and facing the disaster slowly creeping in, like the outdated disaster movie produced half a century ago.

“And the indestructible skin.” Jor adds, the facade he's desperately holding to crumpled and failed, the fear and panic surging in his eyes. “The indestructibility actually developed first, serving as the foundation for all the powers that would eventually emerge, but super strength came right after the indestructibility and could easily be taken as the first superpower developed.”

A robot carries a Kryptonian style wingback chair to him. Bruce doesn’t sit down, but grabs the crystal-hardened edge of the tall back to hold onto. He takes a deep breath, not because he feels fainting, but to hold back the urge to throw the chair square at Jor’s face.

“You didn’t think this is something important to bring up before you wrap up this so-called prenatal checkup?” Rage spikes, burning bright and hot. Bruce squeezes the hardened edge under his hand so hard, his knuckles turning white, and sharp pain cuts through his palm. “Did you do this to everyone who walks in and carries your son’s pup? Or you simply save the explanation,” Bruce bitterly fumes, “when the pup is ready to both literally and figuratively tear their carrier, claw their way out of the bloody womb?”
“That’s never my intention.” Jor denies.

Bruce snarls. “What’s wrong with you?”

Several alarms are triggered and scream for attention. Red lights flash around them, and the numbers on multiple real-time monitoring diagrams skyrocket, as do readings of Bruce’s vital signs.

“You have to calm down, Bruce.” Jor inches closer again but freezes mid-step when Bruce growls at him. 

Now we are friends, and on a first name basis? Some part of his mind furious hisses at Jor’s sudden warming up. The unsettled attitude of the Fortress AI cuts on Bruce’s nerves, and he is irritated—so bad, he wants to fight him. Such a primary instinct snarls at the back of his mind, demanding payback and vengeance. No one messes with him. No one threatens him nor his pup.

The pup is awake now, anxiously squirming inside him and twisting, likely feeling threatened too. The world is not a friendly paradise, not welcoming them with open arms and warm hugs, sweet praises, and hearty encouragement. It’s so dangerous that the baby must be born with tough skin and powers to defend themselves to survive the unkindness.

The sadness and despair trigger anger and rage, an unstoppable collapsing of dominoes, and loop back to more and new sorrow and grief. It hurts so much. For one moment, Bruce can’t even distinguish where it starts and where it ends; he can’t tell the pain he feels so bad is coming from his feeling or his body, since the mental and physical pain is running down on the same nerves and lighting up the same receptors in the brain. 

But God, that’s hurt.

“You have to calm down, or you will hurt yourself.”

Jor repeats, tone sincere and dripping with worry, hands high in the air, but means nothing to Bruce. This God-damned hologram can practically manifest itself in any place in this Fortress. 

Isn’t that obvious? Bruce would like to bite back. But he is damn sure what Jor didn’t tell hurt more than anything.

And it hurts. The real-time monitor displays how uncomfortable the pup wiggles themselves inside the tight space of the womb, trying to move around and avoid being hurt. 

He must calm down. Bruce takes a shakingly deep breath - his brain runs out of oxygen so fast that he doesn’t even realize he is feeling dizzy - and exhales through his nose. He pushes the warm memory of Clark, Clark holding him and spooning him from the back, protecting him from all the danger. Oh, oh, why it must be Clark, why it must be a Kryptonian thing that his baby -

“Fuck!” Bruce roars. “Fuck off!” He pushes the chair he grabs, and the chair slides far away with a screeching sound that rips a loud ringing in his ears, and he can’t hear any other things.

It feels like hours, until Bruce comes back to himself. Jor is standing a good dozen yards away from him, carefully maintaining the distance and not disturbing Bruce.

Shooting the AI a disdainful look, Bruce walks to the wingback chair and drags it back and sits down. The holograms of diagrams of vital signs and other readings shift and follow him, providing the real-time feedback and silently informing him that he wrenches that control of his temper back under his fingers. 

“Jor-El.” Bruce calls out, in a strained voice, purposefully ignoring the refreshment the robot timidly brings him. “Let’s talk.”

Jor simulates walking toward Bruce, instead of re-constructing his image in front of him. 

When he is close by, Bruce clears his throat and asks. “What other details about this pregnancy are you hiding from me?”

Jor gives a weak protest of “it’s not what you assume” before Bruce cuts him off. 

“I don’t want to hear more stories you like to put together. You Kryptonians are terrible liars, so cut it.” Bruce wets his bottom lip and bites down hard, for the pain it brings from biting, both a good distraction from his frustration and also bracing him for what comes next. ”Straight to the point and get over it. What will happen, exactly, when the child is born?”

Another robot comes up with a small tray on which lies a familiar syringe filled with clear fluid. Jor turns aside to show Bruce the syringe, he says. “This is a sedative, mainly focused on calming the fetus and putting it back in semi-dormancy. You need to take this before we can continue.”

Bruce stares at him. “I’m taking no such thing until you finish the explanation.”

“You will risk provoking the fetus, which may very likely lead to a premature birth, and this risk is-” A few diagrams have been called forward and displayed in front of Bruce; a few readings haven't calmed down since the outburst a few minutes ago. “Considerately high for the current situation we are unfortunately in.”

Bruce doesn’t break eye contact. “Do you really care?”

Anger flashing on Jor’s face, he frowns and scorns. “Of course I do.”

“Care about me? Or my baby?” 

“That’s not a question.”

“Then humor me, because somehow I feel there is a distinct difference between the two,” Bruce bares his teeth, putting on a fake smile that can only be described as aggressive, “please.”

Chapter Text

“You are the carrier of the baby.” Jor says, face still and cold, like sculpted from stone. He and Clark are so annoyingly alike, saving for a splash of gray in his temple and crow's feet at his corner of eyes. “Of course, I care about you. Both of you.”

“And you feel you are not obligated to tell me the risk of this birth.” Bruce retorts. “You don’t even tell Clark; that much I can tell, too.”

No more emotion betrays the AI’s perfect facade. Jor must deactivate some simulating features so he can answer all Bruce’s rebukes calmly. “You only assume the worst-case scenario. It won’t be necessary to end in that way.”

“If you say so. I would very much like to hear Clark’s opinion.”

The facade breaks, and anger resurfaces. The very downside of being human, Bruce figures, is that you can’t have perfect control even over your very own emotions. Either you feel it or nothing, for being in both statuses will hinder the evaluation of the situation and also the decision-making. 

People won’t sympathize with rocks, so Jor is going to need to feel something in order to talk with Bruce. Bruce can see how the gears are turning in his brain. He knows what he is so concerned about.

Their goals are aligned, but that doesn’t mean Bruce has to make it easy on the other. 

Taking a moment to recover, Jor eventually and evenly asks. “What do you want to know?”

Bruce shifts to comfortably leaning on the back of the chair. “The possibility of a C-section?”

“Unlikely for now.” Jor says. “I don’t know what you put yourself through, but I detect the mutation happened in a very early stage of the pregnancy. The umbilical cord bypassed the placenta and directly entwined with your artery; therefore, it became extremely risky and dangerous to separate when performing a C-section. However, the main risk is coming from the pup. As I mentioned, the superpower can manifest even before birth. The C-section is no doubt going to provoke the pup, and then… the worst-case scenario will happen.”

Since Jor doesn’t reject the idea of C-section, the pup is probably mature enough to survive outside the womb. The balancing between carrying his pup to full term and surviving this birth himself is so delicate, Bruce can feel the panic slowly building at the back of his mind. 

He has kids at home. Thinking about them. Thinking about Alfred and thinking about his dead parents. What would they say if he let himself die because he can even fucking handle a pregnancy?

Oh, you don’t want to disappoint them. Tough it through, like you always did.

Bruce takes a deep breath and suggests. “Sedative in operation?”

“Not recommended.” Jor shakes his head. “If the indestructible skin has been developed, there is no safe way to inject the sedative into the pup. Any medicine running through the blood will likely kill the human carrier before taking effect on the half-Kryptonian. You also have to be awake during the operation. The real-time feedback is irreplaceable to separate the umbilical cord, for I fear there are neural connections between you and the pup.”

Bruce narrows his eyes. “So you are saying there is no way out.”

“There are always other methods. Practical ones.” Jor folds his hands in front and says. “But it requires your cooperation, Mr. Wayne.”

“I will see what I can do.” There are a lot of things Bruce can’t promise; staying out of trouble clearly is one of them, and he hates making promises that he can’t keep.

“I can give you medicines, which will help to slow down the growth of the fetus and keep them under a longer and deeper dormancy. When finishing the treatment, it will give us time for performing a successful C-section.” Jor says. “And there is always the chance of carrying the pup till the full term and delivery. You are almost there.”

“This was your plan.” Bruce says. “Waiting until I give birth and then see what happens. A good plan.”

“The supplement you have taken all this time contains the same medicine but a much lower dose.”

“So you have predicted this will happen. You knew all along.” 

Jor frowns. “Simply a caution that I took.”

“If you say so.” Bruce huffs. That's the exact reason why Bruce doesn’t like his AI to mimic human reactions; they become paranoid and skeptical, sly and deceitful, and only learn the worst part of being human by giving their actions an honorable name. He would rather deal with their makers, at least when the makers have beliefs and faith when building such things.

“Which way would you prefer, Mr. Wayne?” Jor asks. “I shall get started on preparing.”

“You know, there is also a last resort.” Bruce casually says, caressing his belly. “A very last one, but you never bring it up.”

And it’s the same reason you don’t want me talking this with Clark, Bruce adds in his mind—the reason you don’t even want to talk about other treatments either.

Jor’s jaw is tense. “I’m afraid that I don’t understand what you are talking about.”

Flashing a perfect smile at Jor, Bruce gets back to his previous question and says. “Let’s try the medicine first. I would like an estimated time for this treatment to take effect and a thorough explanation, leaving no details out.”

-x-

Clark loses track of time when Jor finally notifies him that the checkup is done and he can come back to the Fortress.

”Rao.” Clark murmurs, letting out a long sign that he even realizes himself holding. “It took forever. Are you sure if there isn’t anything wrong?”

Jor doesn’t reply, but Clark doesn’t mind. He caresses his suit, smoothing the invisible wrinkles and flaring the cape, shaking down all the non-existing dust, then he takes off and flies back.

It takes much shorter time for him to come back.

”Bruce!”

Clark calls before he enters the lab.

Most of the mobile laboratory equipment and machines are being put away. The lab is almost empty, a grand platform with white crystal high ceilings and a white crystal floor, expanding on itself to the infinite. Bruce is sitting on a wingback chair, a chair that is also made of white and crystal material, making him look more like sitting on ice. Bruce’s dark outfit stands out but is also compressed by this never-ending white crystal. He looks so small.

Kinda feeling like he is the silhouette waiting on the snow ground and waiting for a storm to come.

Clark slows down and drifts to him. Bruce doesn’t seem to hear his call, too deep in his own thoughts, so Clark kneels in front of him. He places a gentle hand on the other man’s knee and tries to decipher Bruce’s expression.

”Hey, hon, I’m back.” Clark whispers, shaving all the worry to the back of his mind.

Bruce stirs, and his steel blue eyes meet with Clark. The eyes falling upon him, like the stormy night sky in which the gray and dark clouds hang so low that they almost touch the ground and conceal all that beautiful clear pale blue of a sunny winter sky behind them. Only periodically, lightning flashes and strikes across the thick clouds, lighting up only part of them, casting silhouettes and shadows dancing in the dark, revealing there are other things hiding behind.

Why do you try to hide from me? What did he do wrong and what did he miss?

There is his Fortress, a place supposed to be one of the safest places on earth. Clark doesn’t detect any danger or threats, and he can’t fight something invisible and intangible that he can’t even lay his finger on. He doesn’t feel aggressive or overprotective, just sad and pathetic, for his mate not feeling good, and he can’t help with it.

Clark swallows all his whine and whimpers, threatening to escape his throat. 

At least he can be strong and supportive for Bruce when the other clearly has enough to bear and shoulder.

“You’re back.” Bruce says, sending him a weird smile. He puts his hand on Clark’s. Cold and callous, so different compared with Clark’s warm and smooth skin.

“Yes, I’m.” Clark gives his knee a weak squeeze. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.” Bruce says, vaguely gesturing at everything around him. “As you can see.”

“Okay.” Clark takes a look, and the first time he finds this lab is so unbearably large and cold. Lonely . He thinks that’s the right word.

I shouldn’t leave - Clark thinks - He really should stay here with Bruce, but.

What’s done has been done.

He rips his eyes away from the empty laboratory and back to Bruce. “How do you like some nice hot chocolate with marshmallows? I have some stocked in the kitchen. I can cook you some Kryptonian dishes, as I promised. I get all the ingredients ready, and you will eat like a king in ten minutes.”

“I’m not hungry.” Bruce lifts his hand and flicks a loose strand of hair on Clark’s forehead away from his eyes. “But something hot sounds good.”

“Let’s do it then.” Clark gets up on his feet, extending his arms to help Bruce get up. He collects his human in arms and is ready to fly them both to the dining room—no, on second thought, they can have breakfast in his bedroom. Clark always likes his bedroom warm and cozy. A perfect copy of the room he has back on the farm. It’s nothing like the rest of the Fortress.

Clark flies at a low speed, merely faster than walking. Bruce asks if he had some fun when he was away, and Clark rumbles a bit about his doing. It’s really nothing. He helped here and there, but spent most time flowing in the clouds and sunbathing.

“You smell good.” Bruce rests his head on Clark’s shoulder and snuggles closer, giving Clark a hard time to let him go. But with a few minutes more snuggling and scenting, Bruce is successfully transferred to the soft bed, and Clark speed runs to grab a few extra weighted blankets for him.

The room temperature is dialed up to the perfect temperature for Omegas, which is a few degrees higher for Alphas, but there is nothing Clark can’t manage. He can bathe in lava or freezing cold water under ten feet of frozen wasteland outside the Fortress, and he doesn’t care.

Bruce is half sitting and half lying on the bed, with his back and head leaning on the pillows piled high to hold his sight, slightly turned to watch Clark zipping around in the room and sipping the hot cocoa.

“You know.” Bruce casually mentions. “There is something you never told me.”

Freezing on the spot, Clark almost drops the blanket in his hands. His super brain plays out Bruce’s words in slow motion to give him enough time to put himself together. 

He has no idea what Bruce found out when he was away, but his guts are telling him whatever it is, it’s down right bad.

It makes sense why Bruce looks exhausted and distant when Clark comes back. Anything he finds out about Clark or about Krypton, they are all strange and alien. There is no better word to describe, because, frankly, he is an alien.

Whatever this thing they are in is nothing that Bruce is supposed to experience. Clark can take some harsh words, some punches, and some blames, but he can never muster enough courage and brace himself if there is fear or hate in Bruce’s eyes.

When Clark turns, he looks sheepish and cheery. “Well, there are a couple of things…”

“You never tell me you have a tail.” Bruce drastically signs.

“What?” Clark blinks.

“A tail.” Bruce wiggles his fingers, waving an invisible crooked line in the air, a poor and silly demonstration of what he tries to describe. “Like a long, thin… tail. I didn’t see one on you.”

“Maybe I don’t have one?”

“But my baby does.” Bruce is sulking, exhausted but sulking. “What am I supposed to do when I enroll her for class? Kids will make fun of her.”

“Oh.” So the most thing Bruce worries about right now is that their baby has a tail. Of course Clark knows their baby has a tail, and also scales and tiny pointed claws, which is the least thing Clark is concerned about, but. “Oh.” He repeats.

”Children can be cruel.” Bruce is not happy when he finds out Clark is not paying attention. He puts the mug down and struggles to turn his back to Clark; the extra weight of the pup hugging on his waist definitely does a number on his back. “You don’t understand.”

“It will shed, eventually, the tail.” And the scales and the claws—they all will be gone. Clark has looked into that part and consulted with Jor. It’s kind of a side effect for the baby to grow so fast, a regression to better survive at a younger age. “In a few years, before you can think of elementary schools. Nothing permanent.” Three or five years is the maximum, based on the calculation of the growth rate of a Kryptonian baby under yellow sun.

“And I do understand.” Clark adds. “There was the time when I was back in… middle school? I was called out and made fun of by a few mean kids. Very mean. You won’t like what they called me.”

“Okay.” Bruce looks suspicious at him. Now he is lying flat on the bed with hands folded on his belly, looking at the ceiling.

“You don’t believe me, don’t you?” Clark sits next to him on the edge of the bed.

“Why should I?” Bruce mockingly says. “You’re Superman.”

“I was not when I was little.” Clark doesn’t want to continue this meaningless argument, so he changes the topic. “You just said ‘her’?”

Thanks to his x-ray vision, Clark can check the pup anytime he wants. He has his suspicion, but it feels nice to be confirmed.

“I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“Well.” Bruce says, eyes half-lidded. “I always want a girl.”

“We can try again if it doesn’t work this time.” Clark cheekily says.

Bruce hums. “Don’t get cocky. You will land yourself right in trouble.”

“Sure. Your Majesty.”

Bruce cracks his eyes open and stares at Clark for a moment. Clark snickers while getting up.

When Clark comes back with a steaming breakfast, Bruce is fast asleep, curling into himself under the blankets. 

Clark leaves the tray of food on the nightstand and kisses him on his hair. He leaves the room and walks down the corridor, to anywhere his feet like to carry him. He ends up in the control room.

“Good morning, Jor.” Clark greets the empty deck. With his call, Jor manifests from the thin air and nods to him.

“I haven’t seen you around since I came back.” 

“I figured that I wasn’t the one you’re so eager to see at that moment.” Jor says in lieu of greeting. “What can I help you, my son?”

“Everything alright?” Clark asks. “Bruce looks exhausted.”

“A prenatal checkup along with multiple tests lasting several hours long can be tiresome.” Jor smoothly replies. “It’s suggested to take some rest afterward.”

“He is resting now.” Clark shrugs. “I don’t think he has anything planned this morning, and I won’t wake him up unless the world is going to end.”

“He needs to take his time.”

Clark paces on the deck. Pacing gives a different feeling compared to drifting. When he moves like a human, Clark tends to think like one.

“How is the pup?”

“Healthy and content.” Jor says. “For that much, I can say.”

“Come on.” Clark grunts. “When are you going to get over this?”

“You’ve done this to yourself.” Jor signs, expressions, flickered with unreadable emotions. ”You shouldn’t make a promise when you don't know what you sign up for.”

“Fine.” Clark flies away. “I can figure it out on my own.”

Chapter Text

Bruce is drifting in sweet blackness—the sleep is deep and dreamless and comforting—but slowly waking by the delicious savory smell of food. The weariness keeps his eyelids heavy and ignores the angry grumble of his stomach. 

Yes, he is hungry, but he doesn’t feel the appetite coming to him. The meal can wait.

Bruce lazily turns around and buries himself deeper in the soft blanket. Then he hears a few chuckles coming—weird—directly above himself, which is supposed to be impossible because the bed is huge and he is in the middle of it; nobody can climb on top of him without dipping the mattress. But— 

What is the use of a flying alien mate/partner/boyfriend/ thing…? 

Annoyed, Bruce cracks his eyes open. The room light is dim, so there is no need to squeeze his eyes to see the surroundings, but Bruce does it anyway, for dramatic points, indicating he is not impressed.

“Good morning, sunshine.” There is nothing brighter than Clark’s smile, and this man is dazzling on so many levels. 

Bruce frowns and stares at him for a few seconds before he gives up—he normally is more vindictive than this, but there is always the "but"—because Clark has this “I’m so glad to see you, and there are other things better than the world besides seeing you around” kind of smile, and somehow Bruce feels the Kryptonian means it.

Clark Kent probably smiles like this with everyone he meets head-on. The middlewestern charm or something, he used to greet every person met at work, every dog passing by, every cat hissing at him on the tree… whatever.

“What?” Bruce barks, voice dry and husky. 

Clark blinks at him, like he is asking an obvious question. “Breakfast is ready.”

“I don’t want it.” Words come out before Bruce can think straight.

“Okayyy. If you sit up a bit, I will give you this.” Clark withdraws a bit, or drifts a bit higher, then displays a large straw tumbler to Bruce. “Iced cappuccino with decaf espresso, triple milk, and a sprinkle of cocoa powder. Congratulations on finishing your checkup, and everything is good, so you are approved to enjoy a cup of coffee every day. I know you want it. You used to shoot me death glares, literally daggers, when I made myself a cup back then.”

“Fuck off. What’s the use of espresso if it’s decaf?” Bruce grunts. He hates to admit the coffee does sound so damned appealing. He can’t remember when it was his last time to have a cup of coffee. All these days the most he has is herbal teas, not even English breakfast tea Alfred used to boil for breakfast. Apparently, black tea also has a lot of caffeine in it. “What about the pup?”

“The pup can handle a few milligrams of poison.” Clark coos. “She has Kryptonian genes.”

“She?”

Clark smiles mischievously. “A lucky guess.”

“Huh.” Resting his eyes, Bruce weighs his options. Then he grabs Clark’s hand and uses him as a glorified rope to help himself get up. “I will take a sip.”

A sip it is. Clark at least fills this 24 oz tumbler with three quarters of milk. It tastes nothing like the hot liquid Bruce used to gulp down three cups straight. Bruce likes his coffee black as night.

“It’s not coffee.” Bruce grumbles and facepalms, thumb drawing little circles on his temple.

Clark laughs in silence; that much Bruce can tell even without lifting his eyes before the Kryptonian leaves Bruce alone to retrieve the breakfast.

The breakfast is plenty, colorful, nutritious, tasty, and Kryptonian style. Clark brings food to the bedroom, and they share it on the bed. After that Bruce takes a shower, and when he comes back in a bathrobe, his clothes have been cleaned and are ready for him.

There is a small thumb drive sitting on the pile of clothes.

“Jor said that’s for you.” Clark is in tights, a red cape running down his shoulder like water. “Contained all the numbers and figures of the checkup with a thorough explanation going with every one of them. It’s a practical Kryptonian and Earthling hybrid medical textbook. Hundreds and thousands of words.”

“Guess I don’t remind you of a person who enjoys reading?” Bruce buttons up his shirt in front of the mirror while Clark passes accessories to him.

Clark says in honesty. “I really have no idea what you do for passing time.”

“My father was a doctor.” Bruce says. “I used to enroll for a pre-med major in college, and I was thinking that I was going to pursue the same career.” It’s actually under another name, the same as his attempt to enroll in a police academy, but Clark doesn’t need to know these. 

“How did it turn out?”

It turned out that Bruce was more interested and learned more about autopsy and first aid. Now he has enough knowledge and experience to pass as a general doctor, but Bruce has no expertise as Leslie. 

Bruce shrugs. “Not working out.” 

A large and warm hand caressing his spine, Clark smooths the wrinkles on his back. “You still find other ways to contribute to the public.”

“Looks like someone did his homework.” Bruce smirks. “Found anything you like?”

“You mean a good dozen scandalous photos you leaked to the public?” Clark jokes. “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

“You apparently are.” Bruce smirks. “Even without me trying.”

“Okay. But what I gotta say is”, A pregnant pause. “All these so-called public opinions don’t do justice to you. They don’t even capture half the good you did.”

“Now our ace reporter from Daily Planet will make a few corrections?”

“I’m still debating if it’s a conflicted interest for my case to write anything about you.” Clark grabs a deep grey silk shawl radiating like mother-of-pearl and drops it on Bruce’s shoulders. “Here.” He looks proud of his work in the reflection in the mirror.

Bruce touches the cool material. It’s not like anything he has contacted before. A touch heavier than regular silk but the same smooth and soft. “What’s this?”

“A gift.” Clark smiles in satisfaction while sliding another long and thin box into Bruce’s coat pocket. “Made of some synthesized traditional Kryptonian materials I accidentally crossed going through the encyclopedia. The color reminds me of you. So does the strong, resilient, and beautiful iridescence of mother-of-pearl.”

“Pearl.” Bruce murmurs.

“Yeah.” Clark looks like he’s struck with some new ideas, but he doesn’t voice them out. He rests his hand above the pocket for a moment before retreating. “I also make a neckerchief out of whatever is left if you, I don’t know, prefer something smaller? But this looks good on you.”

“Thank you. That's very nice of you.” Bruce says. “I’m good to go.”

“Stay warm.” Clark plants a phantom kiss on Bruce’s hair before picking him up.

Showering in the bright morning sun, they fly back to Gotham. Clark drops him at the penthouse where they departed last night and then heads to his work.

Bruce looks through the data and files Jor gathers for him regarding his checkup and the wayward Kryptonian pregnancy he is in. He isn’t sure if there is anything the AI holds back, but what’s on the drive is enough for Bruce to build a baseline to monitor his condition back in the cave. He has enough to go on to figure out if this is everything he needs.

Bruce sets up the program and transfers the data, then leaves the computer running. He goes on reading all the piled-up legal papers and financial reports from WE from his three-month vacation. The computer finalizes all the calculations when Alfred comes to pick him up.

Alfred has the lunch prepared and baked in the oven while Tim watches over the kitchen before he leaves for Bruce, so when they come back, the food is ready.

Tim is drinking coffee from the ugliest sport bottle and the fresh and strong smell from the dark warm liquid he is gulping… is mouthwatering.

Bruce really shouldn’t take a sip of Clark’s offering. He is screwed. 

Lunch is quick and quiet. Bruce goes down to the cave and transfers the results of the analysis to the BatComputer and sets up a portable scanner and monitor. Then he shuffles the small device away from the table in case his children stumble on it.

Bruce spends the rest of his day working on cases. He has a rough idea what’s going on in Gotham, calling it a hunch, but he needs information and evidence to support his theory. Children have done a good groundwork, and now it’s up to Bruce to put things together. To read all the subtle details and changes of his glooming and discerning lady, Gotham would like to throw them at them.

No need for superpowers; this job requires detective work and a determined mind.

Dinner passes peacefully—or as peacefully as it can be. Damian throws a few jabs at the bags under Tim’s eyes, and Tim retaliates. Dick looks half amused and tries to diffuse the situation, while Bruce feels a migraine starting to build at the back of his head—and quickly, too. 

Bruce connects himself on the lines. “Batman, I have a few locations I would like you to stop by before continuing the scheduled portal.”

“Jeez, that’s weirder than I thought to hear you call me like this.” Dick gasps, wind gushing next to him. “Making me want to peel off the cowl right now.” 

Then there is Damian. “Father. Why are you on the line?”

“Monitoring, guiding, and assisting.” Bruce says.

“Yeah, like we are two lost little birds. No. That’s two bats. One bat and one bird…”

Bruce doubts if Dick really wants to be called “little” anymore; even in his mind, he is always the boy wonder who claims he is going to fight crime with him as an equal and partner. A colorful and squawky little bird.

“And codename only from now on. We are being watched.”

The cave is soundproof in general but there is still the risk of Superman eavesdropping. Bruce doesn't want to be completely off the grid of Clark’s hearing right now because it’s going to be suspicious, and he knows Clark develops a habit of listening to his heartbeat. Therefore, they need to be careful.

“Fine.” Damian huffs. “What shall I call you then?”

Considering Dick is running around beneath that cowl, it’s better to choose something not Bats to prevent confusion.

“I think ‘B’ will be pretty sufficient.” Dick pipes in, with a hint of laugh. “Am I right, B?” He snickers. 

“Sure, charm.” Bruce signs into his palm.

“Okay, B, I just swung by one location you sent to me. The place is quiet and empty. Nothing out of the usual. Is there anything specific you want me to look up?”

“No. Keep going.” Bruce says. “Let me know until you run into something or when you finish.”

The few locations Bruce sends to Dick are proximate to swing by in thirty minutes. Nothing major happens, but Dick gets the odd feeling of being watched. He messages Bruce that he gets a hunch there is something fishy going on and he would like to do a deeper swipe.

“No need.” Bruce says, looking at the little white ghost icon that lights up and blinks at the corner of the screen. “I got the result. You can continue to patrol.”

Dick sounds alarmed. “My gut’s saying you’re not going to tell me the result.”

“Trust your gut then.” Bruce says, Don't wait for Dick’s reply. “B’s off.”

He puts the line at the corner and then clicks on the little ghost. 

There are few people who can bypass his security and firewall, but unfortunately the Ghost-Maker is one of them.

A new window with two waving lines representing the voice of speakers pops up. The microphone clearly catches even the tiniest hitch in his breath, and the line representing him on the window shakes a bit.

“You are looking for me.” The Ghost Maker says, a deep voice perfectly played out by the speaker and echoed in the cave.

It’s a good thing that he persuades Tim to go to bed earlier so he doesn’t need to feel dead on his feet when he is back for school after the spring break. 

Alfred is nowhere to be seen; he probably keeps himself busy with some chores. Through the years, the old butler apparently cultivates unspoken agreement with Bruce, so he won’t come back and check on Bruce until, like, a good couple of hours later.

It’s good to have some quiet and alone time.

Bruce says. “You’re still in Gotham. Why?”

“I've been telling you all this time. This city is falling, and you’ve failed it, Bruce.” Ghost-Maker replies. “I’m here to clean up your mess and save it from its own destruction.”

“You broke our truce.”

“The truce was broken the exact moment when you got yourself in trouble bigger than what you could pull yourself out of. You made the world witness your incapability.”

“What happened with the League had nothing to do with Gotham.” Bruce growls. “You were seeking an excuse to meddle in my city.”

“Oh I’ve heard the crisis of your little league started exactly in your fallen city.”

Bruce grits his teeth. There is no denying that he was the first one being attacked, and the logic behind it is simple: taking him off the picture so others won’t have a chance to grasp what’s happening.

“It’s not your business.”

Ghost-Maker ignores him. “You should pay people who live here to move out and burn it all to the ground so they can start over. This piece of land needs to be scorched before being reborn as clean.”

“How many innocent people have to suffer? What’s the price to pay till you deem it as clean?” Cold anger boils deep down in his soul and every word coming out feels ripped from his throat. “Have you ever considered them before you started killing in this city?”

“I only punish the evil.” Ghost-Maker makes saying it easy. “I only take out the bad guys.”

There is no way to prevent the deep snarl vibrating at the back of his throat. “You think you are!”

“I’m doing you a favor, Bruce.” Ghost-Maker is irritated. “I’m better than you and finish what you’re so afraid to finish. For every rogue you let run loose because you refuse to take action, for every life that dies because of your inaction, it’s on you, and you know it. I have accomplished more than you can ever imagine in the past four months.”

“Actually I do. I have the list of people you have killed in the past four months right next to me.” Bruce says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “The list runs long, but the overall crime rate of Gotham skyrockets after your massacre.”

“This city is–”

“ Killing is no fucking solution to anything!” Bruce growls. The voice line representing him jumps and spikes, and the other, representing Ghost-Maker flats. “You cut off more leads of the cases that I’m—my children are working on. The leads can save more and eliminate the possibility of crime coming back. You poke and irritate the criminals and push them to lash out. Blood for blood. Death only invites more death. You are right that if there are people who died because of this, it’s on you!”

“You can’t even save yourself.” Ghost-Maker argues, voice rough and filled with agony. “You’re mad because I’m right. If I let you drown with those lunatics back on that island, you have no chance to deliver your pathetic speech.”

Bruce can’t believe the other is saying it. “You ruined my escape plan!” 

“I improved it.”

“By hijacking my underwater vehicle, which was parked right next to Arkham Island to collect intel and as the last resort to get me out there? Brilliant.” Bruce spits. “Because after you hijacked it, I didn’t have time to arrange another one for replacement.”

“That’s because you fucked up with your little league—”

“It’s on you.” Says Bruce, one hand running through his own hair and grabbing and yanking so he can have the dull feeling of pain of pulling. The pain, in the end, is so much better and sweeter and more welcomed than all the mess currently happening in his life. He can see it now. All of a sudden, he understands. 

“Fuck, that’s the reason you can’t let me go when I was compromised, isn’t it? You can’t let me walk out there knowing it’s all your fault for fucking this one up.”

“You were poisoned, delirious, and couldn’t even walk straight.” Ghost-Maker’s voice sounds distant and oddly cold. “You've been bombed by multiple nasty neurotoxins, in which it’s actually a miracle they didn't drive you mad and kill you on the spot. All the detox I put you through didn’t work.”

“Because that’s not poison.” Or it’s some kind of poison, just not the same ones he got from the battle in Arkham Island; this special one comes before them and runs deeper in his blood. “It’s the pup .”

“That little parasite is going to kill you.” Suddenly, Ghost-Maker sounds tender and sincere, sounding like making a difficult bargain with an unwilling and stubborn child. Minhkhoa doesn’t deal with kids, and he has never really known about being a kid, even when he was young. “Don’t you get it, Bruce? I’m saving you. From your city and from yourself.” 

Bruce blinks. “I don’t need you saving me from anything.” And it’s better to stay that way. “I need your help to save Gotham.” For this, Bruce will be very appreciative. 

There is silence on the other side. Bruce can see the irritated expression of Minhkhoa in his mind, like all those years back when they still were teenagers and he was annoyed by something stupid Bruce brought up. And that’s them, naive and stupid. Or they still are, experienced but still stupid.

“Are you coming or not?” Bruce huffs. The storm is coming, and he needs all hands on deck.

“You’re stupid.” Grudgingly says Ghost-Maker. ”I’m not a babysitter.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “I never asked you to be one.”

Chapter Text

A few days later.

Tim and Dick reach the destined location for the zeta boom like half an hour earlier than they are supposed to be there.

Tim jumps out of the Batmobile and solemnly believes now that the only reason Bruce hasn’t revoked Dick’s access to his precious vehicle is that Dick currently wears the cowl, and it’s going to be suspicious as hell for him driving around in a Nightwing-branded bike. 

“Are you sure this is the place?” 

Tim would rather take his own bike; he likes his bike, but Dick doesn’t give him a choice. It’s quite embarrassing, actually. Like having his parents insist on accompanying him to school when he is, like, fucking thirteen years old. 

It’s even more embarrassing when Tim knows that Dick really means him good for doing it at where his parents used to settle more on a public show of affection.

Having someone with him feels nice too. Tim isn’t willing to admit it. He looks around and walks away from Dick to check out the surroundings.

“Ask yourself.” Dick replies with a cheesy smile. “You are the boss now.”

Tim bites down a “fuck you.” He doesn’t need to descend on the same level as Jason. No, thanks. He may not be the perfect role model in school, but he is not that desperate either. He blames this on Damian. The little brat gets on his nerves and keeps bringing the worst out of him. 

But this time, it’s not Damian who draws the devil out of Tim.

“You alright?” Dick yells at him, then Tim realizes how far he has walked away from his brother.

They are in the empty and abandoned storage room somewhere along the Gotham River. One of the secured places reserved for beaming someone into space on the long list Bruce provided. It’s not the usual one Bruce used, but it’s equally safe. 

It’s not going to hurt if Tim checks it out by himself. Just to make sure. Or give him something to do rather than rocking back and forth in front of the huge screens of the Bat Computer while Dick paces at the back of Bruce and seeks opportunities to snap at him.

Tim spins on his heel and makes a sharp turn. “I’m good.” He squeezes out an even worse cheery voice than what Dick has, and it’s giving him a mad roar in his stomach.

“Okayyy.” Not that Dick believes him. Dick doesn’t like what he is about to do, and he puts up an argument with Bruce back home. Tim thinks it’s just the awkward and overprotective Alpha instincts rearing their ugly heads. Having a pregnant pack member messes with Dick’s head. His instincts must go haywire and expand the protective envelope to cover up Tim, a newly presented Beta member. Tim doesn’t think of himself as a pup, but he is not going to be able to argue this with Dick’s instincts.

Now is the time he could use some distraction.

“You know the other day, when you called B saying that the little demon won’t be able to go to school until much later?” 

Tim scratches his gloved hand on his thigh, purely out of habit. A gesture of nervousness. He knows, but he can’t help himself. He also knows that Dick is carefully watching him.

You don’t need to do it if you don’t feel comfortable. Oh, Dick is that kind of brother who will accept him back down at the very last minute because he is nervous and scared. But Tim gets to do it. He must do it. Dick also understands this feeling of necessity, too, because he has been in the same position numerous times. Because Bruce believes he can do it.

It’s not every day Bruce will call him over in the cave and look in his eyes and say, “I have an important task for you,” and it’s not some task like staking out for Two-Face goons or other ridiculous babysitting errands. 

It’s the real job.

“Yeah?” Dick keeps beating and kicking anything across his way in the empty warehouse, making consistent background noise. “Baby Bat needs time to take all the vaccines the school requires, and B doesn’t let him fake a record.”

“Like he really can catch a nasty flu of the year. I’m sure he is strong enough to survive the end of the world. He can stare at the virus and say, ‘I despise you,’ and puff. He is fine, happy, and healthy.” Tim rolls his eyes. “Anyway. After announcing the news, B started talking about the possibility of school tours and summer camps. And you know him; he is serious when he talks about school. The brat was like-”

Tim pitches his voice. “‘Last time I checked, Father, you don't fancy the current education system either. Why are you so determined to send me to school?’” He adds. “Exact word by word.”

Dick snickers first, then he can’t hold himself, so he bursts into full laughter.

Tim continues. “Then B said something like, ‘I would like you to set a good example for the little one.’ You know what I’m talking about. Yada and Yada. The brat complained. Here, the exact words again: 'Todd didn’t finish school, and he is fine.’”

“Gee.” Dick wheezes. “That’s gold.”

“I would say B foresees it’s coming.” Tim shrugs. “He commented, ‘Currently he has no social status, and his official identity remains as ‘dead’. Not finishing school is the least problem for him to have a meaningful, normal life. Being a vigilante or crime boss is hardly a profession you can write on your resume. If you desire to inherit Wayne's business, you have to do better than that’. Now you imagine the face the brat made. I regret I didn’t take a picture.”

Dick laughs so hard that he seems to be having a hard time catching himself. It’s so weird seeing him in a Batman suit and laughing like a lunatic. The worst part of it? His laughter rings and echoes in the empty converted warehouse, multiplying itself to no extent.

“And you knew what? It worked.” Tim says. “I can’t believe it, but it worked. Somehow B successfully persuaded the little demon to go to school when all the documents were ready and something like that.”

“He is such a manipulative ass.” Dick comments. “Little Wing has to know this.”
“You tell him.” Tim says. “I can forward you the voice recording.”

“You recorded it? No way. You didn’t take a photo, but you did record their talk. How many bugs did you install in the Manor? Huh? I guess B is impressed.” Dick coos.

“He was not.” Tim shrugs. “Impressed. He removed most of them the first day home. And the few he left untouched? I think he wanted a shared record too.”

“So you say.”

There is a light buzz on his wrist. Tim flips his wrist to purposefully knock it off. 

“I guess that’s my cue.” Dick says.

“It’s about time.” Tim steps into the invisible circle on the ground, the final designated place to have him beamed into space. All in five more minutes.

He is going to be the first one among his siblings to actually work with the Justice League. A real job . Geez. Not even Dick gets the privilege, and Damian is sulking over his loss. Not that the little shit really cares about the context of the mission; it’s more about competition . 

If there is competition about being competitive , Damian is going to win. Period.

“You know what you are going to face up there?” Dick asks, uneasiness suddenly crossing his face, a certain worry rising despite his best effort to hide. He offered to go when he heard the news but got turned down by Bruce. Dick gets his plate full of work and responsibilities, and there is no point in adding more on his shoulders.

“Except helping those imbeciles hunt down a couple of secret agents and an illegal operation that pulls in millions of dollars a year?” Tim answers while gauging Dick’s expression. He can tell the content of the mission is not the exact thing Dick worries about. It’s something besides that. 

“They are going to judge you, reject you, and talk you down, I assume, not in an unkind way, but…” Dick trails off, but Tim gets it.

Anything related to Batman is still a sore point in the League. That Bruce decided to hack into their monthly meeting and announced that they needed external help to solve the rising crisis is a total sucker punch. 

But in Tim’s opinion, the League clearly asks for it. They are the first ones who come and ask for help when Superman approaches Dick the other night, even though the help may not be delivered in a way that they enjoy.

“I don’t need people to like me to do my job.” His jaw tenses for a second before he forces himself to relax. “I never need it.”

“Okay.” Dick softly smiles. “It’s not your fault if they do. You know?”

“Oh yeah.” Tim rolls his eyes. “It’s all B’s fault, apparently. He messed up so badly because of his huge paranoia that the League wanted to kick his ass. They kinda did that through the vote. But they never got to the end of it, like, B was not even there to know he had been voted out. So it became bullshit and a laugh to their face. What kind of punishment would it be if the one being punished walked away like water off a duck? They felt ignored, neglected, forgotten, left behind, betrayed, disrespected, and ghosted . Geez, that’s awful, but whatever . And at worst, they have to admit they are inadequate for this job and come back to ask for help. Humiliating as fuck. They are not going to like me, a teenage boy, telling them what to do. But you know what? I don’t give a damn what they think about B, about me. I’m a man on a mission .”

“Good.” Dick grins. “That’s the spirit. Get the job done and get out there. Agent A baked cookies for tonight. The raspberries with white chocolate ones. Come back before Jay eats them all.”

“Crap.” Tim doesn't think there are going to be any cookies for him . Cookies are special treats now. What did they do right this time to deserve a treat?

“You are spending too much time with Jaybird. Don’t say this in front of Agent A.” Dick waves his hand as if to dismiss some unpleasant memory.

“Oh, come on.” Tim says, feeling the alarm buzzing for a second time. Thirty seconds left before the designated time. “You know I hate him.”

“You adore him.”

When Tim levels his left arm about his chest level, the hologram on his wrist lights up, displaying the passcode page and asking for confirmation.

“Don’t project your feelings on me. That’s gross.”

“I’m only telling the truth.” Dick songsings. “You are one big softie as B, as Jaybird, as the rest of the family.”

“Ugh.”

Tim types in the code Bruce gives him, and before hitting the green confirm, he looks up to Dick one last time.

Dick grins at him. “Are you ready?”

Tim flashes the other a smile. “Gonna find out.” Then he hit the button.

A blinding light pours down from nowhere and washes him. The disorientation stretches his sense of time to make the transport feel insufferably long. It only takes seconds –Tim repeats what he has read about the zeta boom in his head – to transfer one back to the Watchtower. 

Finally something solid resurfaces under his feet. He tenses his body to hold himself still for the first couple of seconds to get used to his new gravity on the space station.

“Robin.” Superman calls his name in lieu of greeting. Tim assumes. He opens his eyes, finding not only Superman but most of the Leaguers are present at the zeta boom deck and, well, staring at him.

Surprised doesn't even start to scrape the surface to describe their expression. "Shocked" is more like the word they are wearing now. Shocked in an unpleasant way.

Wonder Woman presses her lips thin. But before she can voice her opinion, the Flash beats her.

“Is that a… kid?” He super-speed circles around at Tim for a few rounds. So fast that there is barely a break before his next line. “You are really a kid.”

“Looks like one to me.” The Green Lantern's halfhearted comments. He crosses his arms in his chest. “I got to ask. What the fuck?”

Disapproval and frustration are condensed and solidified in the room.

Tim wants to ask the exact same thing too.

What the fuck?

If this is the crap that Bruce deals with on an everyday basis, no wonder he turns prematurely gray.

The Martian Manhunter, the mind reader, likely senses his irritation but also struggles with words or the priority of whether he should placate his teammates first or Tim in front of them. After a second, he inevitably is drugged into the infertile arguments of Flash and the Lantern that if Tim is a legit kid.

Earth’s mighty heroes, the last line of defense, are dissolving into a bunch of quacking kindergartens. Who is gonna believe that?

“Urh? Guys?” Cyborg, someone who actually has some common sense and self-preservation, takes a look at Tim and turns around to look at his teammates. There is a hint of uncertainty in his voice while he whispers. “Do you really need to say this? Like right now?”

“What?” The Lantern gestures. “You got eyes. Look at him yourself. We simply pointed out the fact.”

It takes forever for Superman to step in and call them out. “Enough. That’s not how we are supposed to handle things. Be nice.”

Or you scare the kid. Tim adds the unspoken line for him. Don’t tell him that’s what Damian feels. Please don’t tell him that’s what Damian feels, like being looked down on every moment and by every bystander.

No wonder the brat is murderous.

The Martian Manhunter, forever the peacemaker, mildly offers. “Our apologies, Robin. My colleagues were simply surprised. Do you mind me asking what we can help you with?”

“I’m here at the order of Batman.” Tim calmly speaks. No twitching at the spot. No wavers in his voice. He is not nervous. He is furious . “Which, apparently, is to assist the Justice League to find out what Project Cadmus is about and what Amanda is currently scheming.”

“You must be fucking with me.” The Lantern groans. “Since when do we need help from a kid to save the world? At least Cyborg is over eighteen.”

Now Cyborg is angrily staring at the Lantern, and the latter shamelessly asks. “Are you over eighteen?”

“I’m turning twenty-one.” He hisses.

“Still under the drinking age.” The Lantern huffs. “But that’s a close call.”

Wonder Woman speaks up, and fuming, apparently. “Batman stated that he would send his partner .”

“I am his partner.” Tim answers. “I’m Robin.”

Wonder Woman narrows her eyes. “You are a child .”

Tim snaps. “Last time we met, you didn’t seem to have a problem.”

“You guys met before?” This time it is Flash gasping in the background. 

“The last time we were in Gotham and checked on Batman, we met a few of his associates. Yes, we met before, for a brief period of time.” Superman explains to them in a low voice, pretending they are having a private conversation, but they really aren’t. Then he turns to Tim. “But that’s under the supervision of Nightwing. Even if he is not the second in place in the leadership in your organization, at least he is a grown-up. I’m sorry, son, this is a job for adults .”

Oh, you have no idea who is at the top of the leadership in our organized family. Tim thinks. Certainly it’s not Batman.

“How is your progress on cracking Batman’s files?” If they are going to play it this way, sure, he can. Time to deflect. “I guess you are having a lot of fun. Putting the puzzle pieces together and figuring out what’s going on. B gets a little chatty if he thinks no one sees what he writes down. Have you seen his snarky comments? Because I loved what I’ve seen.”

Everyone’s eyes focus on Cyborg, the tech expert on the Watchtower. Martian Manhunter and the Lantern must have helped, too. But Tim has faith in Bruce’s encryption. 

Or paranoia . Whatever.

“It takes time.” Cyborg grudgingly murmurs. “I’ll get there.”

“How about the search for Project Cadmus then?” Tim continues, bombing them with questions. “Have you located at least one secret base of Amanda despite the few B handed to you on his, waiting to be cracked , files? Or where is Amanda? What’s she working on? Who is she connected with other than Lex Luthor? This man is just a given . He reeks of trouble and malice when you have a Superman on your side. Any luck so far?”

Tim swirls his thumb drive on his index finger. Bruce gives him some ideas where to start looking and Tim unearths some dirty little secrets on his own. It’s a challenging, fun job, but nothing that Tim can’t do.

Oh, he is so ready to kick some asses . He doesn’t care if it's the Justice League or Lex Luthor. The idea of slaughter never sounds so appealing.

Superman straightens his posture. Good. To be seen as an opponent of Superman can be a little scary, but Tim gets the thrill of it. The rush of blood. The bitter taste of adrenaline. The pounding heart beating crazy against his ribcage.

“You get warriors, soldiers, scientists. You get royalties and politicians coming along with it, and alien tech support. Peacemakers. But none of you strike me as intelligence agents, spies, strategists, or, simply, detectives. Do any of you know how to read a financial report and know what’s fishy going on with all these perfect numbers?”

Flash looks like he wants to add his two cents, but he shuts up after a moment of hesitation.

He needs better performance skills to be qualified to work under intelligence agencies. A connection to law enforcement agencies? Possible. But more like a roundabout way, since he doesn’t dare to announce he is exactly a detective. 

Shayera Hol used to be a policewoman, but the circumstances are so different from Thanagar to the earth, making her more like a soldier or commander than an actual cop.

It doesn’t matter as long as Tim gets his point across.

Catching the thumb drive in his hand, Tim says. “Because I do.” 

The noise made by someone gritting their teeth is heaven-sent. 

“What did you know?” Superman stares at him in the eyes. Now he sounds serious. 

“More than you know.” Tim replies. “Now are you going to show me the way to the main control, or do I need to help myself? I get a job that needs to be done, and time ticks.”

Nobody moves. Some watch him with fascinating eyes. Yikes.

Fine. Not that he doesn’t know the way through the Watchtower. Tim jumps off the transport deck and strolls toward the main control.

“You have to work under our supervision.” Superman zips to drift in front of him, adding conditions.

“Fine.” Tim rolls his eyes. He swears if they stall him for one more minute longer and ask ridiculous questions, this will be the beginning of his going rogue. 

Ohhh, this is so much better than Jason’s. Who needs to die before knowing the world is a fucking shit? Dick will be so proud, and Jason will be jealous. 

“I got a curfew back home. If you don’t mind, we better get started,” Tim flashed them a fake smile. “Right now.”

Chapter Text

The moment Clark steps in the office, he instantly knows he is deep in trouble. First, Cat is standing and leaning on his desk, and secondly, Lois is sitting behind the one right across from his and smiling like a cat that gets her cream.

“Good morning, ladies. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Of having two of you targeting me like a bird of prey with a delicious dinner waiting ahead of it?

Clark grimaces when his traitor mind completes the whole sentence.

Lois is sitting on the side of the swivel chair and has one arm resting on the back of the chair and one leg over the other. Her smile widens like the Cheshire Cat's. “Good morning to you, Smallville.”

“Why don’t you come over and see for yourself?” Cat says, in lieu of greeting, patting his desk’s top. “This is your seat, isn’t it, Clark?”

“Well, if you pardon me.” Squeezing himself and passing through the narrow passage created and surrounded by these two is a hard task that even Superman finds difficult, but Clark manages, somehow, holding his breath and crashing his messenger bag under his arms in front of his chest and tiptoeing. It’s just a couple of steps but feels like forever, while Lois gives him the wildest grin that he has ever seen.

“Phwee.” Clark takes a deep breath before he turns around and faces his desk.

Usually Clark would like to keep his desk clean and organized. He stacks all the paper and files in a couple of neat piles, and he has bookends and desktop file racks to keep larger files and binders in line. Therefore, if anything new arrives on his desk, Clark will know immediately-

And there it is. A crisp white envelope sealed with a wax stamp that has a luxury red color, like good aged wine. Clark can imagine that the wax seal stamp with a wooden handle and shining metal end is pushed into the warm and half-liquid red wax, held there by a steady hand of the old English butler for a long moment, and then lifted, leaving a simple but styled W on it.

“What’s this?” Clark picks the envelope up.

“And that’s my question.” Cat throws her head to the side and rolls her eyes. “What’s this, Clark?”

Clark turns the envelope back and forth in his hand. The envelope is quite light and feels like it only contains a folded card inside. Clark automatically activates his x-ray vision and checks.

“Open it.” Lois pipes in, probably knowing he is cheating.

Clark does so. It’s indeed a folded card, white and stylish. He opens the card. There are only a few lines indicating time and location and a message that he and a plus one are invited to Bruce's private gala.

“There is this rumor this morning that only a select few trustworthy newspapers have been invited to this upcoming private Wayne gala, but the Daily Planet is not invited. People are wondering why, because those who are less than us have been invited but not us.” Cat whispers. “Do you know why, Clark?”

Clark looks at Lois, and the latter grins at him. “No worries. Perry already knew there was an invitation on your desk waiting to be opened. I think he gets the idea, and you know the deal.” She pauses for a moment. “Congratulations, you solved the great mystery of where Bruce Wayne is!”

Technically speaking, Clark solved this mystery almost a month ago, and Lois knew it.

“Ahh, I can’t believe this!” Cat frustratingly says, giving him a snarky glance, potentially meaning she is well considering kicking his shin. “Why you! How did you get invited to his gala? Have you guys ever met?”

“I can’t say we haven’t ever met, but… I don’t really know why he sent this to me, and I have no idea what this gala is about.” Clark doesn’t think Cat is really after him. She just wants a meat punch bag very badly now, and she prefers it to be Clark Kent.

“The Wayne doesn’t say anything.” Lois winks. “But a rumor said that there will be a new and little Wayne coming to the party.”

Clark is dumbfounded and speechless.

“I will be your plus one.” Cat suddenly declares.

“What?” 

“You heard me.” Cat squeezes hard on his bicep- not that doing anything to Clark - and says. “Put on your best suit, and we are going to party.”

“Wait, wait a second!” But before Clark can stop her, Cat ditches him and walks away on her warpath.

There are snickers coming from his back, and Clark turns. “Lois?” 

“What shall I say?” Lois pats him on where Cat pinches and whispers. “Do you have the name ready?” 

”No? But—”

“I will help you with the baby shower. I promise.”

With that, she saunters away.

-x-

The gala happens to be at the end of April, so there is plenty of time, leaving Cat berating his outfits and Lois sitting next to this miserable sense and snickering.

Then a mysterious large postal box, in the same secretive manner as the invitation, arrives on Clark’s desk, but this time it’s obviously taking over almost all the empty space of the desktop due to its sheer size.

“What’s this?” Cat is eyeing him suspiciously.

Clark sheepishly smiles. “I think it’s some old files that my lead sent me.”

But there is no label, absolutely nothing to confirm. Before Cat has another idea, Clark is quickly moving the box out of the way.

“It’s not, is it?” Lois sips on her coffee.

She is right. It’s a pair of navy blue checked suits with a ruby tie, crisp white dress shirt, leather dress shoes, gold cufflinks, and a tie pin—simple but stylish, all classic but never outdated, with the extra bonus benefits of looking professional and so much above his pay grade that Clark has no way to know how much these clothes even cost, because there is no tag or anything to indicate the price.

Clark doesn’t know whose idea to wrap everything in a large postal box, but at least he won’t need to explain why he suddenly starts to receive expensive gifts from Bruce. Well, it’s not uncommon for random reporters to receive gifts from Bruce Wayne; Lois and Cat all did, but Clark is sure that he himself is not going to survive the sheer embarrassment. Now he is very thankful for the disguise.

Seeing Clark busy himself with putting the box away and purposefully ignoring the question, Lois gets up and walks away with her coffee. A few moments later, when Clark gets off under his desk, the person who actually sits in the seat Lois always takes comes back. 

“Women.” The guy murmurs in half awe and half something else. The Daily Planet, unfortunately, is full of journalists who are curious and noisy; it becomes darn impossible to keep any secrets. People among Clark are sure they know how the relationship goes between him and Lois.

Clark takes his seat, turns on his computer, grabs his phone, messages Bruce, and then waits. 

Sometimes Bruce gets up earlier, and sometimes he won’t reply to anything until well past noon. Clearly the notorious sleep cycle is a bad habit rooted way deeper down in his life than Clark can imagine. It’s hard to predict when this man is awake and when he is asleep, but Clark wishes he can get all the sleep he needs.

And Bruce looks like he is going to need more to keep functioning every time they meet in Bruce’s penthouse. It’s only happened a couple of times, actually. Bruce would set up the time and place and ask if Clark would like to come. Clark comes every time he asks and brings the supplements and injections Jor prepares with him. Clark never visits the Manor again, so no privilege of escorting the other back home, but he will keep his hearing open until Alfred is there to pick Bruce up.

This time Bruce replies around eleven, right before the lunch break. Clark calls him instead of messaging back, and Bruce picks up before the first ring ends. They have a short but sweet conversation of nothing, neither answering Clark’s questions regarding who buys the suit or whose idea it was to put the clothes in the box, but it lights up Clark’s day.

His good mood continues after getting off work, after babysitting Jon, and after paying a visit to the Watchtower and talking with Robin, who gives him odd eyes and backhands, offering snarky and vague comments regarding his good mood.

Speaking of Robin, the teenage boy has shown up almost every night for a few hours to work with whoever is on the Watchtower—J’onn and Cyborg mostly, sometimes Diana and Flash—for cracking the secrets of Project Cadmus and Amanda Waller. The insights and experiences he brings to the case prove to be beneficial and priceless. It’s more about the mindset and methodology than tools and manpower. Some mysteries only get to be solved if you look at the right angle.

This also makes him wonder how much quicker things will be settled if they have Batman on their side. There is one occasion when the Lantern straight asks where the hell Batman is, and the boy looks him dead in the eyes and says, mind your own business.

Clark is glad that they are making some solid progress, and any progress brings relief to the team.

“We have a problem.” 

When Clark steps into the control deck, Robin suddenly speaks up while furiously typing on the keyboard, strings of code and data rolling like a downpour on the monitor screens.

A world map displayed on a piece of screen near Clark shrinks and zooms in, the geography grows increasingly familiar to Clark.

“All the current investigation shows and things we tracked down—data, money flow, manpower, supplies, you name it—all come down to this particular location. It’s an abandoned genetics research laboratory but was later converted to some office building that never sells. People are coming in and out, passing by all the time, but none of them notice anything. Preliminary research indicates the laboratory probably has an extension, buried deep in the ground and much larger than anyone can imagine, which is why it can block all the suspicious noise and hide away from your x-ray vision, serving as the perfect headquarters of Cadmus. Hiding in plain sight.”

Robin stops typing and turns toward Clark. “It's not far away from Metropolis, as you can see, a good distance that Luthor still can cover up under his influence and control.”

“I see.” Clark’s jaw tensed. Fingers roll into fists, pressed tight to his thighs. “I will take a look-”

“No.” Robin bluntly cuts him off. Clark’s head snaps to him, but he says nothing.

“You call a meeting.” The boy looks at him with confidence but no fear. Deja Vu, they say, is the feeling of living through the present situation in the past. Except sitting in that massive swivel chair is not the tall and dark knight, but a slim and colorful teenager. “Gather others and make a plan. Plan of attack. If you go near that place and alone, as Superman or not, Luthor is expecting you, and he would be prepared. Risk is too high. The League only gets one chance to take it down. If you fail, then what comes knocking on your door is going to be the government. It’s not going to be pleasant.”

“You get some nerve, boy.” The Lantern whistles and enters the desk without interrupting the conversation. He lands next to Robin and asks. “Learning that from Spooky?”

Robin gives him a flat and unimpressed look, then ignores him while waiting for Clark’s answer.

“How do you deal with the investigation from both the public and authority back in Gotham?” Asks Clark.

“We don’t.” Robin smirks.

The Lantern does another whistle. “What’s our next move then, boss?”

“We call a meeting.”

Then the next day, the League has a meeting. A plan is drafted and sealed, and a decision has been made.

-x-

Cat and Clark arrive in Gotham before noon and check in at the hotel Daily Planet books for them. They have the entire afternoon to spare, and Cat takes her sweet time to do hair and nails. Clark uses the time to write articles that he meant to finish an embarrassingly long time ago. He goes and picks her up an hour before the gala officially starts.

“You look amazing.” Cat awes him, in a faking flirtatious and teasing way, for him dutifully putting on the suit Bruce gifted him. “You should dress like this more.”

It’s a small miracle she never asks where he gets this.

The weather is gloomy, and dark clouds hang low in the night sky, but none of this matters to the dazzling celebrities crowded in Wayne’s gala. The gala happens to be in the same hotel where Bruce's penthouse is. Once they are inside the ballroom, they separate. Cat clearly has a lot of questions that need to be thrown at the faces of Gotham’s finest ladies and gentlemen.

Clark is not here on assignment, but when he catches a couple of familiar figures, he can think of something quick to ask. Then again, he reminds himself he is not on assignment.

Bruce is nowhere to be seen. Neither do any of his boys. There are a few who fall off the list of celebrities, maybe family friends, present and chat with others. Three girls, one with short black hair, one with long blonde hair, and one ginger with a ponytail, stand in a small circle, enjoying the finger food. Clark vaguely hears them mention Bruce and other boys’ names while chatting, sounding like they are close.

Wait, there is also a young man, black hair with a streak of white, built like a solid wall but looks barely twenty, awkwardly squeezing himself behind a pillar. He wears an annoyed expression indicating that he wants to blow up this place any passing second, but he ultimately stays. For a split second, they lock eyes. The young adult’s eyes are intense emerald blue and sharp and fierce, like a predator ready to pounce. Alpha, spilling from his look and posture, dangerous and menacing, and vaguely familiar. Clark flashes him an awkward smile and fiddles with thick black-framed glasses, a trick he learns to lower others’ guard. Soon the young Alpha loses his interest and rolls his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” The ginger-haired girl, a young lady, seems to be a few years older than the Alpha and in charge of this small group of mixed teenagers and young adults, alarms.

“A stupid disguised reporter.” The young man grunts. “How many of them, old man let in?”

When Clark carefully looks around and checks, there are indeed quite a lot of reporters, embarrassingly plenty for such a private event, well mixed in the crowd and waiting for their cue.

The blonde girl tosses a glass of bubbling drink high in the air and grins. “The more, the merrier.”

A good twenty minutes past the official start time of the gala, with some awe and exciting chatter, Bruce finally makes a show. 

Spotlights follow him, revealing not only the Gotham favorite son but also three boys trailing behind him: Richard Grayson, sunny and smiling, his oldest and first foster child; Tim Drake, quiet and used to social events like this, once a neighbor kid but adopted a year ago when his father passed away and left him an orphan; and then a ten-year-old kid, frowning and all serious, who looks like a darker-skinned and green-eyed version of a carbon copy of young Bruce upon a minute of close inspection.

Unknown to the guest and the public, the boy is no double Bruce’s.

Now Clark starts to understand.

Chapter Text

Both relief and frustration wash over Clark.

Lately Clark was busy with the League stuff, but if Bruce had asked or arranged anything so that they could meet up and talk about the upcoming gala before it actually rolled in, Clark would happily comply. He wanted to check with Bruce if the rumor of him introducing a new family member to the public was true. Bruce deflected and didn’t answer any of Clark's questions on the phone. He is more secretive than Clark has ever imagined. 

Truth to be told, Clark won’t outright object to the idea of announcing that they are expecting a baby, but there are too many complications that they need to sort out before the news is released. First of all, and the easiest one: how is Bruce going to answer who the sire is? That’s a big and obvious question that Bruce would have a hard time dodging or deflecting. People want to know. 

Clark would be honored to stand beside him and defend him. Yes, that’s my baby, and he is my mate. If you get a problem, then keep it to yourself. There is a fleeting joy when he imagines saying it out loud. However, Clark is more worried about what Bruce is thinking. Is he ready to move their relationship forward and make it public? What really are they? Protector and victim? Pre-co-parenting partners? Secret lovers? 

At least it’s love , not an affair. Clark is sincerely hoping so.

Clark has given their relationship quite a thought recently, but he has not yet talked about it with Bruce. All these times they spent together seem fleeting, ending before Clark even noticed. They never have enough time.

If Bruce does tell the public he is having a baby, then which Clark’s identity would he like to go with? Telling the media he is having a baby with Superman is going to make Bruce himself a target, and telling the media he is dating a nameless reporter can be potentially scandalous and troublesome. No easy life for a billionaire who lives in the center of never-ending spotlights. Certainly Clark is going to be grilled by his colleagues and his peers. Especially those from Gotham. They are totally a different species.

The infamous billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne was finally impregnated by a nobody and expected to deliver a baby who would be the sole and future heir of the Wayne fortune very soon.

Clark winces at his own imagination. Any good editor would frown at the horrible, long, and poorly phrased headline, but no one would reject one that is going to sell. The sire being practically a nobody is merely an extra bonus. Clark can foresee how much trouble it will bring to both his life and day job if Clark Kent is known as the sire of Bruce’s baby. 

Frankly, when Clark turns around, he doesn’t see the pretty faces of Gotham’s finest celebrities and curious journalists, but the smiles of sharks who wait for the first drop of blood spreading among the sea.

Whatever Clark is worried about before the gala starts, he is relieved from that worry. The boy standing next to Bruce is no doubt his blood son, and he definitely is not Clark’s concern. The boy holds himself high and is not intimidated by all the flashlights and exciting screamings.

Bruce walks through the crowd like he is entitled and owns this bloody sea, effortless and elegant, smiling and charming. He looks a little pale under constant flashes of cameras, grinning a bit too wide and showing his canines. He is always a step ahead of his boy, captures the center of cameras and people’s attention, and hides the boy under his shadow, even though there is not much room to hide. A primitive instinct to protect the pup from potential predators, the crowd surrounding him doesn’t notice or care.

The sight, seemingly exciting to others, makes Clark's heart hurt. He wants to stand in front of Bruce and shield him from all the wandering eyes, all the malicious thoughts that those sharks project on him, and all the danger and threats until he feels safe. 

A growl starts to build at the back of Clark’s throat and threatens to escape any second when so many eyes land on - his - the dazzling man walking across the hall. It takes every control Clark has to hold the growl back. Fingers roll into fists, heat pooling behind his eyes; suddenly he is too eager to fight .

But tonight, it’s not Clark’s job to protect Bruce, and Bruce doesn’t ask him to be there by his side. Grayson’s guarded eyes fall on him for a moment, which snaps Clark out of the roaring instincts. Bruce’s oldest Alpha son. Clark dodges his sharp stare and takes himself to the far corner of the room. 

It’s not going to affect his ability to see or hear; Clark is still able to jump in the very second any danger or threat shows up, but the distance gives him some space to calm down.

In hindsight, Bruce never confirms nor denies if he is introducing a new member of the family or if this new member is their baby but casually assures Clark not to worry during their calls. The most ridiculous part of this is that Clark accepts everything at face value. Any worries or hesitation evaporate like water when he hears the other say he takes care of it and everything is under control. Bruce talks, and Clark listens, like on some instinctive level that Clark believes in him, a fact being told over and over and eventually becoming the truth, Clark’s new reality .

Love makes people a fool, but not a believer, right ? What’s wrong with me?

Or rather - his mind whispers - what’s wrong with him?

Clark really needs to talk with Bruce before something like this happens again. Bruce is going to give him a heart attack and make him prematurely gray. Superman is bulletproof, but his heart isn’t.

The internal turmoil takes Clark’s attention away from Bruce’s short opening speech. When he focuses on the man on the stage again, it’s well past the first or second round of toasts and applause. The reporters start to ask all kinds of questions.

“Damian, say hey to the audience.” Bruce’s voice pierces the crazy noise of reporters and cameras.

The boy apparently hates being watched like prey or the expansive Christmas gift behind the showcase; therefore, he refuses to entertain the audience. “I would rather not. Father.” He rebukes, but Bruce only laughs his rebellious behavior off.

“Who is the sire, Brucie?” Someone screams to ask.

Bruce blinks and smiles. “Why can’t I be?” 

A loud nonsense shoots up to the ceiling, but one female voice gets on top of the chaos. “Who is the sire of the baby you are carrying?”

Fuck . Clark tenses, with wide-open eyes.

“I don’t know what you mean, dear.” Bruce smoothly answers. He doesn’t take the long, thick, and loose trench coat off by the door, which is a little odd considering he enters a room with a perfect sixty-eight-degree temperature, like he is preparing to leave at any minute now.

The coat obscures most of his body shape and leaves an impression of tall and broad. The dark color also makes his extended belly not so obvious, and the grey neckerchief with an iridescent hue does a good job of drawing people’s eyes to itself and the pretty face above it.

“You got a baby bump!” The words are coming out like someone screaming at the top of their lungs. Now suddenly everyone is super focused on Bruce’s midsection.

Some paparazzi creep too close for Clark to be comfortable taking some weird-angle photos, but most of them get blocked by Dick and Tim, who stand on each side of Bruce, and Bruce himself stands behind a wooden lectern. Damian’s eyes are shooting daggers at those who dare to come any closer.

Those who want to try their luck and sneak at the back of the stage get punched by the grumpy young adult with a streak of white hair and are soon escorted off the building by security. 

Bruce looks down on himself and raises one of his eyebrows before looking back at the crowd. “What can I say? I indulged at Christmas, feasted through New Year's, celebrated every holiday, and now Easter's come and gone in a blink of an eye.” He grins. “I hate to admit that I got slack with a couple of things, but I will tell you the chocolate was good.”

The audience laughs. Some other questions regarding where he has been in all those holidays - that’s Cat - and his feasts are shooting up, mixed with questions about his baby bump. Bruce answers a few with vague answers of being out of the country and other nonsense, then he raises the last toast and tells the guests to enjoy the night.

Bruce gets off the stage with the company of his boys, and Clark’s eyes follow him. 

The gala resumes. Music is played, and food is served. People chat while breathing alcohol and gossip about the new Wayne boy and the possibility of Bruce being pregnant.

Surprisingly, not so many of them believe in that. Some even think it’s a prank.

The walls, fortunately, are not lead-lined or lead-painted, can be seen through with X-ray vision. Bruce and his boys separated after a few minutes of walking deep in the maze of the halls and rooms. Bruce takes a private elevator to the top. He looks more relaxed when he enters the living room of his penthouse.

Clark walks off the ballroom and off the building, into a dark and empty alley. He quickly changes and flies up to the balcony of Bruce’s penthouse. The blinds of the balcony are rolled up and the heavy curtains are drawn to the sides, giving Clark a clear view that Bruce leans on the center island and pours himself a drink.

“Hey.” Clark mouths, giving the glass a double tap. Then the door automatically opens for him.

Clark wants to ask what all this is about, ask why Bruce invites him over but does not do anything, why there is a little boy clearly his but only shows up until now, why he is hiding his pregnancy, and why Clark has to stand at the back of the crowd and watch…

But what comes off from him is “You look like you can really use a seat” and a soft sigh, while he approaches the other.

“Aren’t you mad at me?” Bruce sips his drink and does not move from his spot. 

“Recently I’m finding it’s pretty darn hard to stay mad at you.” Clark honestly says. “Are you sure you don’t poison my drink or have magic or something?”

“Uh.” Bruce grunts.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bruce gives him a weak smile, eyes creased and a pale blue of the winter frozen sky.

It’s always the cold winter that reminds Bruce of him. Everything is frozen and hidden under the thick, half-transparent layer of ice. You know there is something underneath it: the roots of vegetation, the fish and hibernating animals, the warmth of soil, gold even, lives, all the good stuff, but they are all buried deep under snow, waiting . 

But Clark doesn’t know what Bruce is waiting for. There are so many things that he doesn’t know. He wants to figure it out; he wants to know. 

One by one, step by step. 

He thinks he can get there and understand.

Clark touches his cheek and feels the cold, soft skin under his finger. He frowns. “You alright?” 

The loose trench coat is nowhere to be seen, but Bruce wears an extra layer of loose sweater underneath the suit right now, probably to smooth out the curve of his baby bump. Clark quickly checks the room temperature, and it’s dialed high. Bruce shouldn’t feel cold.

“A side effect of the new supplement, I guess.” Bruce leans into Clark’s palm. Clark moves closer to him, lending him his body heat. “I can look into it and maybe do a few adjustments.” 

“No need.” Bruce murmurs. “It will pass.”

Clark doubts if the side effect will go away by itself, considering Bruce has taken the new ones for a while now. He doesn’t voice his concern but snuggles closer, presses himself on the side of the other, and wraps one arm around Bruce’s waist.

They are practically hugging when Bruce starts to talk.

“Don’t overthink the entire thing. Today is for Damian. His presence has to be acknowledged by the public, by the world, as my son, as part of Wayne. Therefore, when things come up, he will be connected to the family…”

“You are not fighting custody, are you?”

Bruce gives him a flat look and huffs. “If it’s that simple .”

Now Clark is curious. “So, his carrier, I mean, if you say you are the sire, so there must be a carrier, but I didn’t see they were here tonight…”

“It’s complicated, but,” Bruce smirks, “you don’t need to get jealous of someone who is not even in the picture.”

“Who says I’m jealous?” But truth be told, it’s nice to hear Bruce saying the other is out of the picture. Clark doesn’t care how many children Bruce is going to declare as his or how many he makes with others, as long as he is with him right now. He can’t stop himself from wrapping the other arm around Bruce’s waist too.

Bruce twists a bit, rubbing himself against Clark to make his point. “Whatever this thing that is hot and thick and bothers me is totally irrelevant to what you’re feeling, right?”

“That’s bullshit.” Clark moans, hopelessly. His suit has a protection cup over his crotch to prevent any embarrassing erection. Bruce should feel nothing!

But he knows how strained and trapped he feels right now. The cup is practically torturing him, and being aroused sexually is so different compared with adrenaline-ridden hardness. It’s messy and hot and leaves him needy and twisty.

He should let Bruce go. Clark really should, but his hands firmly grab the other’s waist, and he likes what Bruce smells like—the honey and milk well mixed with cinnamon sugar, warm and sweet and baked, fresh out of the oven, making his mouth water. He smells like he is interested in whatever Clark is thinking.

And Clark wants to warm him up by any means that’s necessary.

“Yeah, tell yourself that.” Bruce rolls his eyes, putting his hand on Clark’s. His palm is not as cold as when Clark first touches his cheek. His cheek is a bit flushed right now. If Clark concentrates, he can feel that Bruce’s body temperature rises a tiny fraction and his heart races.

He is definitely interested.

They had sex while they lived under the same roof, but during these times Bruce was straightforward with his needs. He would be the one to kiss first and touch first, and he won’t back off until he gets what he desires. When he was determined, he was the sexiest creature Clark had ever seen. Clark couldn’t say no to him.

Right now, Clark still feels that same appeal, attracting himself to the other, but in a more secretive and lewd way. When Bruce smirks, when he bats his eyes, lowering his gaze to Clark’s crotch but never saying a word about wanting it, Clark feels the pull, like gravity pulling him toward the other, like he is a bird flying high but he always is going to land there, a place he belongs to.

Clark feels the sudden rush of blood and undeniable raising of desire, so he kisses. A quick and brief one on the tip of Bruce's ear. Clark lets his hot breath brush the skin under his jaw.

“May I?” Clark whispers, listening to the rush of blood in Bruce, the tiny twists and shudders his body involuntarily makes, the stifled moan in his throat, and his shaking breath, feeling the sudden squeeze Bruce gives to his hand.

“Is that supposed to be a question?” Bruce licks his bottom lip before he turns and seeks Clark’s. “Why are you even asking?”

“Because I’m a good man?” Clark loses his hold so Bruce can turn around, front to front. Too many layers of clothes between them, tugged and wrinkled, the suit is definitely ruined. “I want to ask for permission?”

“You’re ridiculous.” Bruce answers. “The bedroom is on the left.” He shamelessly moans. “In case you don’t know.”

Clark lifts him by grabbing his ass and thigh. “Trust me. I know.” And he carries him there.

“Why did you want me to be here tonight?” Clark feels he is compelled to ask. It may not be the sexiest question to ask when you peel off layer after layer of clothes from your partner and kiss them drunk. “Why did you send me an invitation?”

“Don’t you like me wearing this?” Bruce hooks one finger under his neckerchief, the one Clark gifted him when he visited the Fortress. The neckerchief comes loose easily and slides off his neck like running water. Clark kisses his exposed neck. He loves seeing it so much on Bruce, so he saves it for the last one to remove.

“You knew I loved seeing it on you, hon, but that’s not what I asked.”

“You are ruining the moment.” Bruce grunts. “I want you to be there. Isn’t that simple?”

“You never want simple things.” Clark murmurs, and the words ring true in his ears, and his instinct agrees. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“If you want to brood, outside in the freezing rain is perfect, f-.” Bruce squirms and grumbles when Clark pushes two fingers in his tight heat and curls in at the sweet point. “Fuck!”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Trailing down a pale line of scar on the curved belly, Clark can feel the slight movement of the pup underneath layers of strong muscles. “You can trust me on that.”

And Clark means it.

He means every word he has ever said to Bruce. He whispers love and protection and makes too many sweet promises that he can’t count until Bruce tells him to shut up and fuck him with a nice husky voice of his.

Clark is riding high on life. For this moment, that’s what he really believes.

Three days later, Superman is on the mission of taking down Project Cadmus, while hell breaks loose in Gotham the same night.

Chapter Text

The chaos actually starts the next day of the gala, but by that time, nobody seems to notice it except Batman and his birds.

It all starts with something simple: looting and burglary, store robberies, an old grudge desperately begging to be sorted out, murders… something random. Like the approaching storm, when the gust of wind fitfully swipes down the street, people only feel a chill but do not anticipate anything more than a cold and windy day. 

Then all those random and small things are built upon each other to create something worse and larger, changing quantity into quality, rapidly growing into a disaster.

The clouds turn dark miles away before them, fast approaching and covering up the entire city, hanging so low that they are touching the tips of the wings of gargoyles standing high on the Wayne Enterprise’s tower, blinding the watchful eyes of the dutiful guardians.

In the morning of the second day past the gala, far away in Metropolis, the Daily Planet hands over a brief warning of travel to its readers that Gotham has bizarrely seen its crime rate skyrocket in one single day in a side column. Nobody treats it seriously, since through the years, they have witnessed more weird things happening to their neighbor, and frankly, Metropolis is sunny, so why bother?

Superman himself is a bit concerned with the development of the situation, but he is tight with the League mission that’s coming up very soon. Nightwing replies that he gets all hands on deck and ready for fights, and Bruce comforts him that he is totally fine and he is going to stay in the Manor for a few days until things are cleared out.

Clark is never so glad that the Manor is located on the outskirts of the city and separated from the main town by a river. It’s a practically small castle by itself.

The entire morning and afternoon of the third seem to be calmer and quieter than the previous two days. Despite the dark and gloomy clouds hanging so low, almost crashing everything underneath them, everything is mostly okay. Cars after cars of low-rank henchmen and goons, thieves and mobs, offenders and transgressors, are shipped into the GCPD and waiting for integration, but not the culprits, not the big bosses, not the major players, not the supervillains. The GCPD is flooded with people, all sorts of people, good and bad; they are all here. 

Waiting.

Bruce, in front of the Batcomputer and keeping close watch over twenty surveillance cameras and all his kids, would say.

They all are waiting for the storm to come, waiting for the signal to go on a rampage.

Robin is antsy while preparing for tonight’s stealth attack on the laboratory where Project Cadmus is supposed to be located. Clark can relate to that with him, for they all have a place they would rather be than there. He tries to talk the boy off. 

“B wants me to be there with you.” Robin clenches his jaw. “There must be at least one person who actually knows how to be stealthy in this team if you want to make it count.”

The others who sign up for the mission smartly keep quiet. They are set to strike after midnight. They have to go radio silent and depend on J’onn’s telepathy for communication.

And then it comes.

The storm comes fast and violent.

-x-

2:48AM.

A citywide EMP goes off near in between GCPD and Gotham City Hall, nearly knocking off anything transmitting electrical signals on this island, and then is followed by a major power outage that easily envelops the entire Gotham in impenetrable darkness.

All the surveillance - all the eyes - Bruce has tapped and planted across the entire city through the years is gone in one blink of an eye. Even the satellite images have been disrupted and unfocused for a prolonged period of time.

The Batcave is operated in a separate and independent power system from the Manor and from the public, but Bruce can hear the loud roaring when the backup diesel generators in the garage and basement kick in and fuel the aboveground structures with renewed power.

Then there is silence. Prolonged and deafening and suffocating silence in his earpiece and the speaker of the Batcomputer. The bats hanging deep in the cave are also oddly quiet now. They are sensitive creatures, and they probably know something just goes horribly wrong.

“Master Bruce.” Alfred calls for him but says nothing more. A simple reminder, to let him know that he is not actually alone.

But it doesn’t make Bruce feel any better, if not worse.

All his children are out there, scattered to cover up the entire Gotham and hell-bent on taming this violent city and night. 

Khoa is out there and keeps an eye on everything, but his presence is not enough for Bruce to feel comfortable.

Bruce is supposed to be there with them, for them, and to protect them, but not sitting behind the monitors and screens and waiting. 

Taking a deep breath, Bruce says. “Dick and Damian are in the center of EMP.”

“I believe the young masters are just doing fine.” Alfred calmly replies. “It’s simply going to take a while for them to get back online. You should sit, sir.”

“Hmm.” Bruce paces on the deck, occasionally eyeing his workbench set a floor lower while focusing on the giant screen of the Batcomputer.

After one minute or so, the surveillance, over fifty live-stream videos spreading over the screen, slowly blinks back to life. Most surveillance videos are shimmery at best. Some of them seem to be permanently out. Some of them finally give Bruce a glimpse of his kids and small assurance that most of them are doing just fine. 

Bruce is back at the keyboard and working in no time. 

Most of them means there are still some that are missing, which is never good enough for Bruce.

The sigil of Oracle pops up, and a static, distorted voice of Barbara speaks up. “B. How are things going?”

“I still can’t get any signals from Dick or Damian.”

“The trackers implanted in their suits are likely killed by the EMP,” Barbara says. 

Her quality of audio is slightly improved with time but overall congested and coarse, probably due to her close proximity to the EPM’s center. Every jumping static cuts into Bruce’s nerves.

“It took out at least half of the devices in my tower.” Barb says it as a matter of fact. “But I found something suspicious before everything went down. I’m sending it to you. While you are looking at them, I will see if I can find someone to check on the boys.”

The files that came in are damaged and encrypted. When opened, a few images of pieces of scripts and maps show up. Bruce is certain those are something he never saw before, but somehow he finds them strangely familiar. 

Perhaps it’s the way they lay out and line up that looks so familiar to Bruce. He knows who used to encrypt their intel exactly the same way. Therefore, even before he realizes what he is looking at, he knows the answer, jumping to the conclusion before he thinks it through.

And he doesn’t like the conclusion he comes up with. The dislike - anger and hatred, and if he dares to be honest with himself, fear - spurs him into action.

“Master Bruce!” Alfred is jolted and whips his head toward him, but Bruce is marching toward his workbench. He yanks the case shuffled underneath the table and throws it on the top and opens it.

Bruce has been working on this reinforced and adjusted version of armor since he got back to the cave. Nothing too fancy or sophisticated, but sturdy and quick to dress, covering up the most vulnerable parts of his body while giving him the most agility in his condition, which basically translates into protecting his chest and hiding the swollen belly.

“God forbid you think of going out like this!”

It’s so rare to see Alfred so outright protest and dislike something these days, and the cold fury present on the old butler’s face gives Bruce chills.

But nothing slows Bruce down from putting on the simple armor that Alfred loathes so much. 

“I have to go.” Bruce swallows, buckling up and tightening the strap. The sudden pressure on his slightly swollen chest makes him frown. “It’s a trap.” His own anger rears its ugly head and threatens to explode. 

“I believe Miss Gordon is quite-”

“Give me a hand, please, Alf. Ready the Batwing!” Dick has taken the Batmobile but left the jet. Bruce wraps his utility belt on his left thigh and searches for other gadgets. “I recognized it. The clues they left behind. They are from the League of Assassins.”

Bruce clicks at his earpiece. “Oracle, give me the status of Bane.”

“Isn’t he in -” Barbara cuts herself off. After a painful minute, she is back. “He broke off Blackgate at an unknown time and was nowhere to be seen.”

Just what I thought. Bruce thinks and turns the comm off.

He fishes out a couple of injections from the hidden drawer- the one Jor specially made to pacify the pup at the maximum in case of an emergency - and jabs one in his own neck. It feels like injecting a shot of ice into his hot blood. Then comes the dull pain, like someone puts immense pressure on his chest and squeezes his heart.

He squats on the spot, ducks his head down, and braces himself. Bruce clutches onto his unborn pup with both hands for a moment. 

Going out, he is putting not only himself but also the life of his baby on the line. Bruce is very aware of the situation he is in. If he reads the pieces Bane left to him right, time is working against him. Therefore, if he doesn’t go, Damian would be finished.

But bad or worse, Bruce has to choose.

When do I ever have a choice?

Bruce gets up and proceeds with what he has left. Shuffling the left injection into his pocket, he puts on the boots and cloak hanging next to the table. He grabs a pair of goggles along the way while trudging toward the bike.

Alfred is now standing in front of the runway, frowning with disapproval. He is the last obstacle Bruce has to figure out how to pass before he can go and track down his boys.

“Bane is after Damian.” Bruce says. “I have to save my son.”

“You are going to get you - both of you - killed.” Alfred argues. “This is suicide, not rescue. You have other-”

“Their hands are tied. I checked. All of them.” 

“But-”

“Bane is too arrogant to kill me. When I’m-” Bruce gestures to himself. “I’m like this.” 

“Oh, shall I be glad that you are aware that you currently are no match for fighting with a chemically enhanced supervillain?” 

Alfred doesn’t move, so Bruce has to walk around him to reach the gate.

“I just need to pull Damian out of this trap.” He ignores the angry-mixed-worried glare from Alfred. 

“Master Bruce, you never knew-”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Putting on the helmet, Bruce flashes the old butler a weak but assuring smile. “She has her father’s superpowers .” 

Frankly, if there is only one person who can survive all the hell that Gotham is going to throw into his way, it’s going to be his baby girl.

There is shock on Alfred’s face. Before the old butler digests what Bruce means, Bruce has shot out and is long gone.

-x-

The destination is on the west coast of the island, the opposite side of the highway from where the Gotham City Hall is. 

It’s going to take forever to get there by car or bike, but with Batwing it’s only a few minutes, not even enough distance between here and there for Batwing to push to its maximum speed. 

But Bruce has the plane set on autopilot and stealth mode, then drops himself in the close proximity of his destination, which is an old, half-retired plant.

The night is eerily quiet on this side of Gotham after all the power went down and all the lights are off. Only a scattering of dim lights or bonfires flicker on the ground, and the noise people make - screams and yelling - sounds coming from far away. 

The night vision of the goggles switches on automatically. Bruce grapples at the edge of the roof and pulls himself there. This plant is practically ancient, so there are not so many drawings that Alfred can pull out for him. Bruce is very much on his own for this rescue mission.

He finds the old, buckled roof window, cuts it open, and gets in. Inside is so dark that Bruce feels like he is descending into some kind of manifested darkness. The pillars and beams stand out in the night vision like abstract branches, and the dead machines and equipment like crawling monsters. Bruce walks silently on the beams. The plant is not huge but a maze of itself. Too many obstacles and too many random unmoved things. A perfect place for hide-and-seek.

Bruce finds his boy right in the middle of this disastrous place, tied up and wired to a giant machine and knocked out cold. The machine, somehow, is powered, and there are a few red lights blinking in the dark. The weak red light poorly illuminates its surroundings, casting an obscure shadow of Damian and the machine, which eventually blends into the darkness.

It seems Dick is left out there, where the EMP blows off every single electronic device. Bruce doesn’t know what he should make out from this piece of information, but he prays Dick is okay.

Bruce sees no immediate threat lurking in the background, nor does he find Bane. He quickly calculates his exit options, and then he drops down from the beam right above Damian.

“Robin.” 

There is a cut on Damian’s forehead and half-dried blood smeared everywhere on his face. A quick check reveals there is no serious open wound, but the damaged suit shows that he has been through some difficult battles. 

“Damian!” 

After a few shakes, Damian stirs. His domino mask breaks at the edge but still covers most of his eyes; it’s hard to tell if he blinks awake. 

“Father?” His voice is too low and raspy; what comes out from his throat is barely a whisper.

“Hold on.” Bruce turns his focus on the machine and looks for ways to free Damian from his binding. “I will get you out-”

A spotlight turns on and is directed at them, blinding their views. Damian recoils at the sudden brightness. “Ugh ah!” The bare wire cuts into his exposed neck and leaves a thin red line.

Bruce stretches out his cloak and shields his boy. He looks toward the light source. A silhouette stands in the concentrated darkness next to the bright spot lamp.

A figure, inhumanly tall and broad. 

Bane.

“I thought you weren’t going to come, Batman.” Bane says, but does not reveal himself in the darkness. “You barely make it.”

“Bane.” Bruce growls; he inches forward, completely covering Damian from the malicious stare. “What do you want?” 

“When they said you’re pregnant, I didn’t believe it. But when I got out of there, I didn’t see you, but this imposter of you—I knew it was true.” Bane doesn’t move an inch in the dark. “And it disappointed me.”

Bruce snarls. “What did you do to my sons?”

Bane doesn’t really strike Bruce as a rambling type. There is also something wrong with him standing backstage and holding back to fight and destroy. They still have a score that needs to be settled. Bane won’t waste an opportunity to beat Batman and get revenge for his bruised ego. But it’s also his pride that comes in the way because fighting a pregnant one is no honor nor glory.

It must leave Bane frustrated.

“Someone out there wants this brat gone, taking out the competitor, so they exchange my freedom for a favor.” Bane says malice laced his words. “They want the brat gone in a way that can make an example. An incident that you know they are there but you can’t know for sure. But I can do better.”

“Enjoy your last goodbye, Batman.” Bane retreats into the darkness. “I will come back for you. Later .” 

His footsteps thunder in this confined place, and there is a beep. An alarm turned on, counting down for three minutes.

Damian has unbound himself from the rope while Bane was monologuing, but there is the wire wrapped and cut into the boy’s bare skin.

“It’s energizing.” Damian reports. His eyes trail the wire into the giant machine it is hooked on. “I believe it’s connected to the countdown.”

“Listen.” 

Bruce rips off his glove and holds on to the bare wire. He can feel the tiny numbness when the electricity passes through him. He holds onto the very end of the wire and continues to loosen the rest of the wire from Damian.

“I left marks on my way in. When I get you off the wire, you grapple to the top and run.”

The wire is pretty long. It’s taking longer than Bruce anticipates to untie Damian, and he doesn’t want to break the wire unless it’s a must.

Damian doesn’t seem to understand, but he is helping. Being small gives him advantages to squeeze himself and scrawl away when the wire on his neck loosens up. Bruce continues holding it until Damian is completely out and scrambles up.

Damian is a bit shaky on his feet, but he looks mostly okay. He unconsciously reaches into his pocket but can’t find his grappler. Must be taken by Bane. Bruce can clearly see the panic quickly sprawling on his face.

“Here.” Bruce presses his into Damian’s hand. “Now go.”

“You're not coming?” Damian looks up at him, shocked.

“Someone has to hold onto it.” Releasing the wire, Bruce fears they will trick whatever Bane - or whoever frees him, most likely who opposes Ra’s or Talia more specifically in the League - planted in here and eventually kill both of them.

Damian whips his head at the machine and the counting down. “There is not much time.” one and a half minutes or so. Bruce is aware. Damian stumbles and reaches out to the wire in Bruce’s hand. “You should go. I-”

He is pushed back by Bruce, stumbling on his feet, almost falling down on the ground.
“Run!” Bruce growls at the boy.

Damian freezes. He looks so small and scared.

“This is an order!” Bruce gets up on his foot and snarls again. “Get off here!”

Finally Damian turns, more out of instinct, and he pulls the trigger of the grappler, and the next moment, the fizzling high-strength cable pulls him out of the spotlight.

With Damian out of sight, Bruce takes a deep breath and focuses on his own survival. He takes the wire in his hand and walks toward the spot lamp. The wire is several feet long, but not really enough to get to where Bane used to stand.

Bruce turns on his flashlight and examines the surroundings. 

Bane didn’t tie Damian so tight that he couldn’t break out on his own, which basically means he wanted the boy out. Bruce can picture a dizzy and disoriented Damian waking up in the dark and being spooked, then proceeding to cut the bindings, eventually shaking himself off the wire and tricking the mechanism of the death trap.

Bane didn’t have enough time to design and prepare this trap, so he was more likely there as the executor to make sure nothing went south. But he probably got enough time to modify it to his liking, such as luring Bruce there and giving his speech. 

There must be a way out. Bane is a smart man, and he would not choose to die alone with other people’s schemes. He must find an exit or a weak point he can use to survive what comes next.

Bruce calculates the distance and angle. The time is running out. He almost hears the little ticks of passing seconds.

Three. 

Bruce lowers his center of weight and steadies himself.

Two. 

He runs, lets go of the wire, and leaps toward the very spot next to where Bane used to stand.

One.

The light lights on the machine are frozen, as is the countdown.

Bruce is leaping in the middle of the air, and he shuts everything out and only aims at his destination.

There is a moment that even the still air in the plant freezes. Everything slows down. Then there is a yearning, like the plant suddenly wakes up and complains of the cruelty of time, coming from the very deep and every direction of the structure.

It blows up.

Bruce touches the land and rolls, and when flames lick the floor and invisible waves send everything flying, he slides into the narrow space between two pieces of giant, bulky machine-

-x-

“BOOM!”

Damian almost loses his foot when the entire building shakes under him. He stumbles forward and then tries to grapple onto the nearby buildings. The strong pull from the grappler drags him across the roof in an instant. He is flying across the middle of the air in a sense when the roof crumples and collapses and folds inward underneath.

“Father!”

His eyes widen. A hand stretches out into the wreckage, which used to be an old and ugly process plant.

Then more explosions take place around him. The cable suddenly loses its strength, and Damian drops toward the ground. A good thirty-foot free fall. He barely has time to adjust his landing, so he braces for the impact.

When Damian gets himself out of the ruin and fire, there is not much left standing in this area.

He is standing on a scorched land.

Chapter Text

Tim puts on his earpiece just in case there is an emergency. He doesn’t like emergencies, but it feels like his life is now a black box full of emergencies. Who knows what comes next?

Therefore, he is not that surprised when his earpiece suddenly cracks to life and broadcasts the jumpy voice of Damian.

“Put Superman on the line.” The demon brat screams, if not screeches. Tim can hear the shallow breath on the other side, or it’s just his imagination because the quality of comm is so bad Tim can barely make out what Damian is saying. 

“What the fuck?” Tim hisses, leaps and rolls, and hides under a half-blown-up pod so he can give one second of his attention to Damian. “I am on a mission.”

He is in a fucking battlefield, and Damian wants what? Tim never knows they have another Superman fan in this family, and frankly, Damian strikes him as nobody’s fan except power.

The teen, who looks like a ten-years-younger version of Superman and has a code name of Project Kr, is thrown across the room by his counterpart with an even sicker code name, Project Match, crashing into the back of the room and hitting some equipment, causing a big bang not far from Tim.

“I don’t care which mission you are on.” The panic rises in Damian’s voice, and then it turns into rage. “Tell the alien he is demanded-”

Who the hell knows what the crazy scientists feed Match? They said he is the first attempt at cloning Superman, but despite the humanoid appearance of a younger version of Kal-El, otherwise the thing is a total monster. With Superman’s strength and ability, he is extremely hard to take down. The Martian Manhunter can’t reach him with all his psychic tricks. Match is an unstoppable force now and becomes everybody’s problem.

And on top of that? Some mad scientists must push a big red button and give Match some nasty booster to make him go on a rampage. The clone is literally destroying everything now.

This is not going to work. Tim strategizes and pushes his thought through the psychic link the Martian Manhunter creates; they need to take the battle to open ground. Preferred somewhere far away from population so the League would have enough space to regroup and fight. A confined underground facility like this, Match will take them and the bunker out like a rolling ball and eventually get them buried alive.

The link ripples and hums with agreement.

Superman sends out an image of his x-ray and lets everyone know that he is going to punch a hole to the surface so they can get out.

The Green Lantern shifts his focus to catching the running civilians with green bubbles and is ready to transport them when Superman is in position.

Tim runs off from his cover and seeks shelter. He gives the stumbling teen a hand while passing him and drags the other across the room to another corner. With a sickening and loud crash, Superman breaks layers of concrete and ground, punching the rampaging Match out of the underground.

His comm must be cut off for a brief moment, because the next thing Tim hears from his earpiece is Damian's panicked wail. Why is his brother panicking? ”-ant collapsed on him, and he is buried alive-”

An injured Bruce. An image suddenly surfaces in Tim’s mind. Heavily pregnant and hurt, and buried somewhere deep and dark.

Kr - if the scientists are to be trusted, he only has half Kryptonian genes, which may not make him as powerful as his twin but definitely more communicable - pushes Tim to the ground when splintered concrete and rocks rained on them. He groans when taking the hit but never looks away from Tim’s face.

He hears. Tim can tell from Kr’s expression. He knows something is wrong on the other side of the line, and he knows from the wrong look Tim has on his own face.

And a red and blue blur suddenly appears behind the clone teen. Superman shoulders a large piece of concrete and freezes in the middle of the air. He is staring at Tim too, wide-eyed and clearly shocked.

Fuck! His control over his thoughts slips, and now the whole team knows. He is so not used to this psychic thing, and now they all know. Tim doesn’t get to say no more before Superman throws the concrete away and picks both him and his clone up to the outside.

The disorientation and sudden relocation throw Tim off. Damian’s voice is distorted and garbled, and he is repeating a coordinate. It’s on the west edge of Gotham, past the City Hall and the highway and close to the coast. Tim can’t stop fucking thinking.

Kr struggles like an angry cat in Superman’s grab, hissing and growling next to Tim.

Kal, you go. The Martian Manhunter calmly says through the psychic link. To your mate. We can handle this.

The next thing Tim knows is that he is dropped to the ground with the clone.

Battle resumes around them, loud cracks and booms and war cries.

Tim can’t stay here. He has to get back to Gotham as soon as possible, but he can’t walk away from the battlefield, so there is only one way out -

He grabs the clone by the collar and snarls. 

“You are going to help us, help me, defeat that thing!”

The clone looks at him with wide eyes. 

“You understood?!”

-x-

The image, or the simple idea, of Bruce being in danger skirting across the psychic link immediately sinks into Clark and elicits unimaginable pain and panic. His hearing expands on its own, and he hears the familiar but erratic heartbeats of Bruce and also the hissing and cracking of fire, the yearning of failing structures, and the continued but muffled explosion-

Suddenly everything becomes too much and overwhelmingly overloads Clark’s senses.

He freezes. 

He is split into two: his body is still on the battlefield where he fights a clone of him with his teammates, but his mind has totally gone to the scorched land where Bruce is.

But Clark can’t be in two places at the same time. He must choose.

But does he have a choice?

He should not abandon his teammates and his battle, for he is the leader and their cavalry. Superman has a responsibility to his men; he owes it to them, and he has an obligation he has to fulfill, but if he doesn’t go, he will abandon Bruce, and the consequence is also unthinkable-

J’onn’s words come like a warm blanket shielding him from the loud cries of the battleground, giving him a space to breathe and think.

Go. Diana sends her will through the link, like a gentle nudge. The exact tiny force to tip Clark over the edge.

Superman disappears.

-x-

Bruce doesn’t really feel much when he gains back his consciousness. 

His flashlight dropped out from his mouth and rolled over to somewhere underneath the bulky machine when Bruce was knocked out by the heat waves seeping through gaps and the consistent vibrations in such a confined and small space due to explosions. Now the concentrated light is only smeared like some thin liquid on the ground, lighting up the dust, and small pieces of debris kept dropping down from above.

The world is continually shaking, it seems to Bruce; the world is trembling and moaning and can’t stop falling apart, but he is semi-safely tucked in a dark and small corner and being forgotten by the outside.

He doesn’t feel safe, but he doesn’t feel the urgency to run, either. Bruce can stay at this corner and be forgotten by everything else for a little longer - that’s what he feels now - and wait.

Something is happening; it’s just that he isn’t aware of it yet.

Between now and then comes the sickening sound that steel is lifted, bent, and scratched against each other. It’s supposed to make Bruce frown and scowl, but he doesn’t feel it. He simply curls into himself, holds his breath, like some rodents or rabbits think they can hide away from the predator if they stay small and still.

There is also this: everything happening around him is now in a dreamlike quality. A bit surreal. So familiar-

Oh. Bruce blinks. He is slipping back to that half-paralyzed and numb stage, right? He is high on that special neurotoxin that the pregnancy produces when the surroundings become too stressful and harsh, so it switches into survival mode.

That’s not good. Bruce clasps a hand on his midsection. He still has the harness on, so he is really not supposed to feel anything under his palm, but.

There is a movement. He can tell. His pup is pushing back against his palm, like she wants to be out.

“-Bruce!” A restless and worried voice shoots through the wreckage. “Bruce! Please! Answer me!”

Another big chunk of metal is removed from the top and thrown far away and lands with a deafening boom.

The voice gets closer and clearer. “Bruce-”

Okay, he knows that voice.

“Umm.” Bruce murmurs in lieu of reply. He tries to get up from his position, but there is not much room to move. Warm blood trailing down his temple, Bruce blinks to avoid getting it in his eyes. He curls into himself again and twists. Before he can manage to land on all fours, maybe crawl out from his confined corner, all the obstacles above and around him have been either removed or pushed aside; things happen in one blink of an eye, and then a dark silhouette drops in front of him.

A pair of hands grabs Bruce’s shoulder, and then he is lifted and pulled into a tight hug. Bruce’s head bumps into the other’s chest, and the other’s chin drills on top of his head. The scent of the Alpha - angst, worry, fear - is so strong that Bruce is almost choking on it, but he knows the scent.

“Rao, I-” Clark cries out, choking on his own words and raw feelings. He squeezes his arms and brings Bruce closer to him. Bruce can hear his heart beating erratically and wildly in the Kryptonian’s rib cage. Clark is restless and literally rubbing himself into Bruce. Waves of thick scent, keeping changing the stubble notes but mainly switching between fear and relief, are pushed out by the Alpha. 

He will be dripping with the notorious Alpha scent in the coming days. Bruce is aware.

But listening to the other’s heartbeat feels nice, as does scenting him and hearing him calling his name. Bruce can never grow bored with these. He drives himself into that embrace and tugs his tip of nose under Clark’s chin, taking a deep inhale of the spicy and burning scent.

“You are giving me a heart attack.” Clark finally makes a squeal. His rigid body subtly relaxes a bit. He doesn’t let go of Bruce or change their position, even when this position becomes awkward and stretches Bruce in a wrong way.

Now Bruce wriggles and weakly protests; with his upper body stretching out, he can feel the pup is pushing and thrusting inside him. It’s such a weird feeling; even in this half-numbing stage, Bruce can tell it becomes extremely uncomfortable. He wonders what he is going to think if he gains back his lucid mind.

Ohhh, no. That’s not good. Bruce thinks. He is in trouble.

Baby is awake, and his baby doesn’t want to stay inside. She would rather be out there and claw her own way against this stony world.

 Well, claw.

The tiny points of pressure, Bruce thinks that’s what he feels now. He can’t let go of this feeling once he is aware of it. He can’t slip far into this blessed numbness and ocean of instincts. They won’t save him, save Clark, or save the baby. They won’t do any favor for anybody.

Keep your head level. 

“Cl-Urgh.” Bruce tries. “Ahh-” Only groans come out of his throat.

Clark jerks his head up and stares at Bruce in horror. “Bruce?”

Bruce pushes Clark away and pushes himself up. Clark automatically backs a bit to give him space, but he has both hands firmly planted on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce manages to bark out a “move,” and that finally makes Clark leave him.

Bruce shakes his head and kneels on the ground. He finds himself shaking and strength slowly seeping out of him. He is tilting but only almost falls to the side; Bruce becomes aware of what he is doing. Clark steadies him, but Bruce shakes him away. Knees spread wide, and he is now kneeling on the ground. Bruce keeps pushing the Alpha aside and fishes out an injection. He stabs it on his side with Clark at the other.

First the injection feels like ice, then it becomes fire, cruising down his veins and fast burning out any numbness and sweet dreams the neurotoxin creates but leaving pain and agony behind. Clarity resurfaces in a groan.

Bruce screws his eyes shut for a few seconds. He sees red before he sees the modified expression on Clark.

Bruce finds that look ridiculous. He is not dying. At least he is not now.

“Adrenaline.” But with some extra chemicals to make it kick in immediately, not that Clark needs to know it. 

His explanation doesn’t sit well with Clark. “Why?” Clark asks, purely out of shock, and he puts himself on Bruce in an instant when he realizes there is nothing dangerous except Bruce himself. “What’s going on-” His eyes flash in a way Bruce knows the x-ray vision must kick in so that Clark can scan him head to toe.

You are so messed up. I’m sorry but - Bruce thinks - but it’s not a really good time to go through this damned Kryptonian Interspecies Gestation 101.

Clark lowers his eyes for a second, and then he looks up to Bruce. Then he looks down at his belly and freezes there, widened eyes catching all the flicks and glints of white bright light that come from Bruce’s abandoned flashlight. 

Actually, that’s the only source of light among them. Clark’s well-defined and prominent features cut shadows on his own face. Shadows don’t look good on Superman, making his face look too gloomy and even desperate.

A stifled whimper, or the wheeze of a difficult breath, comes out from Clark. When he speaks, he sounds like he is strangled, hanging there and struggling within an inch of his life.

“Bruce? I think-” Clark stammers. The hands holding Bruce in place tremble. “The pup-it wants out.”

Well, that fact has been established, hasn’t it? Whenever is there anything new in his life?

“Fine.” Bruce sucks in a breath, bites out the words. “Fortress. Now.”

Clark’s eyes bulge, and Bruce has no idea how they can grow larger, like he is questioning how this hell is going to be just fine. The next second, what Bruce knows is that he is gathered in between Clark’s arms and the other shoots toward the sky.

“Alright.” Clark tucks Bruce’s head in under his chin. His voice is muffled by the high velocity he is flying at. “It’s - alright.” 

Wind blasts and snarls past them. The sudden dislocation and G-force make Bruce’s stomach drop. He groans in protest. Something hot rolls off from his forehead, and Bruce isn’t sure if it’s blood or sweat.

The pup squirms and twists and claws inside of him. Gosh. He can feel that. Every tiny, pointy little nail of her claw. He can feel that. The kicking and thrusting and struggling, that’s all he can feel now. Membranes are torn and vessels are ruptured. He can feel that. His own muscles and tensions tense and relax and cramp, making room for the little pup prying her way out. The silent screaming for air he hears and the dark and red are all he can see-

I fear there are neural connections between you and the pup.

The panic and fear and dread are not his feelings, but his pup's. She is so scared because there is no fucking way out.

The birth canal won’t be ready and wide open after hours into the labor, and that says Bruce must be in the labor to first begin with, which he apparently is not.

“S-stop!” Bruce hisses. “Land now!”

“Wha-”

“I said. Land!”

They drop out of the sky in one instant, plummeting into the depths of a dark sea of high grass. The impact of the sudden landing blows off some of the plants and creates a bare but clean area for Clark to drop him on the ground.

The Alpha doesn’t let all of him go, having both arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Clark is scanning the surroundings for potential threats and danger before laying his eyes on Bruce. It’s almost completely dark where they are. No lights, no bonfires, so far away from civilization that it feels they are trapped on an island.

Bruce hurriedly reaches to his sides and back, fumbles with the hidden latches, but Clark beats him and rips the protecting plates open. The sudden removal of pressure makes Bruce sign in brief, then he groans at a violent kick from inside.

Without goggles - when did he lose it? - It’s impossible for Bruce to make out Clark’s expression, but he has a nose to make up for it. And now Clark doesn’t smell nice or sweet. He is now the most awful, suffocating thing Bruce has ever inhaled, like a giant hammer hit on his forehead.

“Fuck.” Bruce chokes. “Get yourself together!”

“Bruce!” Clark tries to pick him up again, but Bruce pushes him off. They are not going to make it to the Fortress, not with Bruce and the pup in this condition. He has provoked the pup. They have provoked the pup. The damage is done, and now they face the consequence.

“Clark. Kal-El.” Bruce half hisses and half growls. “I need you to listen to me.” 

“I need to get you help.” Clark whines. His hands are shaking, or it’s Bruce himself shaking; Bruce isn’t sure, and he ignores it.

“I need you to do an incision and get the pup out. Now!” Every word comes out shaking, but this is like his new reality; Bruce deals with it like a pro. “Using heat vision!”

“I will hurt you!”

“Do it now, Kent!”

Two tiny red lights flicker in where Clark’s eyes are supposed to be. The pain suddenly intensifies and skyrockets. Bruce’s body involuntarily buckles and folds inward, disregarding the pain that is actually ignited from the weakness it wants to protect the most.

Bruce yells. “Hold me down and do it!”

Then he is pushed down, and a piece of cloth is pushed into his mouth. Bruce stares into the night sky, boundless and expanding on itself, a dark velvet that’s so beautiful and clear in a way almost transparent. There are stars, twinkling and flicking, and a silver crescent.

There is no light that shines upon them so that Bruce can see Clark properly.

But he smells the burning and feels the gap opening on him. Liquid gushes out, and pressure is finally gone. Something wet and heavy is slowly dragged out, and then there is a mewl.

Bruce squeezes his eyes when Clark is trying to catch and hold something slippery. The thing is clearly fighting him; a long and thin shadow impatiently whips in front of Bruce. The tail, he recognizes. Somehow this makes Bruce want to laugh, but what comes out of him is more like a wet cough.

His pup, healthy and vivacious. Isn’t she a cutie?

“Shhh-“ Clark is bubbling with no coherent words. He half holds the pup down, and another holds on to Bruce. More wet and squashy is slipping out from Bruce. Now he is feeling a bit empty.

“...Babe? Are you with me?”

Clark’s voice sounds like it is coming from over another country, somewhere foreign, so far away that they must come across continents and seas. 

Bruce blinks awake. He doesn’t know when he lost consciousness. It can’t be more than a few seconds. A minute at the top.

“I’m taking you to a hospital.” Clark softly speaks. He talks in complete darkness. Strange. “You’re with me, right?”

“Not hos- hospital.” There is some renewed energy in Bruce so he can order his Alpha around. “Fortress.” The double “s” is more stressed than necessary.

“Bruce, you-”

Oh, he certainly is not making it. 

The umbilical cord bypassed the placenta and directly entwined with the artery. They are so tricky to separate even if they do it right, and Bruce believes they were torn up back when they still were in that wreckage in Gotham.

He is not going anywhere.

“Fortress. You insufferable, dumb Alpha.” The strength seeps away fast, Bruce demands. “Fortress.”

They are going to the Fortress.

Clark can cry him a river there in peace.

-x-

The gate of the Fortress isn’t fully open, so Clark chooses to crash through the slim gap and more doors, walls - he doesn’t care as long as he has Bruce and the pup in his arms safe and undisturbed - until he lands himself in the medical bay.

The Fortress is forever illuminated by those white and half-transparent crystals. It’s hard to tell where the source of light begins and where it ends. It almost seems no shadow shall exist in this cold sanctuary.

Oh, Rao, it’s so cold. 

The fact suddenly emerges in Clark when he finally lets Bruce down on the operating table. He lets go of Bruce, but he doesn’t remove his hands from him. The pup is clinging to his neck, and its tail wraps around Clark’s upper arm. It’s the only weight that grounds Clark now, or he doesn’t know if this is the reality or a bad dream.

Please let him wake up if this is such a cruel nightmare. Clark numbly thinks. He is torn into two parts by some unknown force; one part is hovering high and watching everything unravel in front of him and somehow anticipates what’s going to happen next; the other is screaming Jor’s name and has tears trailing down without even realizing he is crying.

“Kal-El.” Jor projects himself on the other side of the operation table and reaches out to Clark. “You have to calm down.”

“Help.” Clark chokes. “Help me.” 

Oh, it’s cold.

He looks down at Bruce, who now lies on the table without even a slight stir. He is so quiet. Too quiet to make Clark feel comfortable. It’s so cold, and that’s all Clark can think for one moment. Bruce looks so very pale, and his lips lose all the color. The jet-black eyelashes completely cover up the beautiful steel-blue eyes that Clark so cherishes.

“Please. Let me take the pup away.” Jor says in a soft voice, almost like a whisper. “Please stay still.”

The pup twists and hisses at robots that dare come closer. Clark unconsciously raises a hand to hold on to it, to comfort it. Then some half-dried, viscous thing smears across his palm. Clark automatically turns and looks at it.

It’s blood.

The dark crimson punches Clark back to his reality.

“Get me some help!” Clark snarls out of desperation and frustration. His vision blurs, and he blinks. Fat tears come out. He sees things clearly for one moment. He sees Bruce, lying there and not breathing, blood on his face, on his ragged clothes, and on his stomach. On his stomach. There is so much clotted blood, it’s impossible to tell where his drenched shirt starts and where his skin ends.

It’s so cold and quiet.

He can’t hear Bruce’s heartbeat.

A ring, long and high-pitched, rings and echoes in his mind. Clark swallows, but he can’t hear anything else. Things start to move strangely and on their own record. He can’t tell when Jor is getting closer and when he himself sits on the table and has Bruce in his arms. A few robots somehow manage to lure and pry the pup off him, then they all disappear in the background. 

“Why aren’t you helping me?” He hears himself ask, in a hoarse and ugly voice he can’t tell if it’s his.

“There is nothing I can help with.” Jor apologies, sounding sincerely in their own strange way and sorrowful too. “I’m sorry, son.”

“Think something, just- Please-” Clark sobs. “You have to help me.”

Jor is reaching out again. A hand made of phantom is about to rest on Bruce if not Clark’s arms work on their own record and pull the other closer and avoid the touch. Clark doesn’t understand why he is doing this, but frankly, there is nothing he understands anymore. But Jor clearly gets the memo; he rests his hand on Clark’s shoulder instead.

Clark feels nothing. Yeah, it’s supposed to be nothing.

“I’m sorry.” Jor says. “He was gone.”

No. He is with me. Clark’s stubborn mind refuses to accept it as a simple fact. He is with me but-

He looks down, and he sees - Rao, Bruce, who is just as gorgeous and pretty and elegant as he was in his dreams and all the dazzling photos he did for the magazines, and when he wears Clark’s oversize shirt and broods on his couch, he is just a bit paler and more colorless than usual, but he would take a long nap and wake up later in Clark’s lap and groan all he wants - Bruce lying there lifeless.

How is it even possible for Clark to believe that he was gone?

When he is holding the other’s hand, when they are together.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Clark.”

Bruce’s voice snaps Clark out of the maze made of his own thoughts and memory.

There is Bruce, or a projection of Bruce - there is this special surreal quality at the edge of him, and this glint in his eyes gives away the answer- sitting in a high chair across the room and looking at him.

“Jor!” Clark wants to snarl, but he is too exhausted to do so, so whatever comes out of his mouth is barely a whisper. The AI is nowhere to be seen. His whisper echoes in the empty medical bay and comes back to hit him hard.

He has Bruce in his arms, and Bruce sits in front of him, but for once in his life, Clark feels so lonely.

Bruce, in a projection, seems to give him time to process his situation. There is sympathy and care in Bruce’s strangely lightened pale blue eyes - it must be some side effect of being projected - Clark suddenly becomes aware of it. The Bruce sitting in front of him is none other than a ghost from the past, which makes him tear up.

After a long pause, Bruce certainly takes this into consideration when he records this; Bruce starts to talk again. “Clark, we have to talk.”

So you say. Clark thinks. He doesn’t trust his voice now, so he only watches, clutching his human a little tighter.

“You are seeing this because,” A pause. “I don’t make it.” Bruce says that as a matter of fact. There is no fear or remorse or relent in his eyes or expression. He accepts it as another Tuesday in his life. “There is no other way I can sugarcoat it.”

So pull it through. Clark hears the underline. Somehow this becomes some déjà vu. Clark has heard the unspoken lines so many times during his down and antsy that he knows them by heart now, but he can’t put his finger on where he has heard them so often. He lets it go.

“I’m sorry.” Bruce sighs, and Clark knows he means it, and that destroys him.

He screws his eyes shut, but tears come down freely. Now it’s just silent sobbing.

“Please don’t.” Clark murmurs.

 There is another pause in Bruce’s monologue. A dark curiosity rises from his empty mind, and Clark wonders how it’s possible for Bruce to predict this - his reaction and the fallout - for his timing is terrifyingly accurate.

“Let us continue this conversation in another place.” Bruce says. “I will wait for you in the control room. Take your time, but meet me there. Leave the body here. You understood?”

With that, Bruce’s projection vanishes. Clark is startled by this sudden disappearance and jerks to reach out to him. Then he remembers this is just a ghost talking to him.

Clark sits here for a while. There is not much thought in him. He doesn’t know what finally gets him, but Clark gets up, puts the body down properly, and walks toward the control room.

He wants to see Bruce and hear his words, so he has to choose. Picking up a choice means letting the others go. Bruce is forcing him to leave part of him behind; Clark is hyperaware.

It’s a long walk from the medical bay to the control deck without flying. True to his words, the Bruce sitting in the highchair waits for him down there, but facing the monitors, not the entrance.

“You don’t know what you did to me.” Clark whispers when he comes closer. Bruce doesn’t hear him, or he hears but chooses to ignore.

“I used to think I would die in a dark alley and alone in the early days. I didn’t mind it. It’s sort of expected.” 

Bruce says when Clark is next to the controls and keyboards, looking into monitors and mundanely checking all the little warnings and notifications. The setup in the Fortress is quite different from the Watchtower, but Clark falls into habits, and routine brings comfort. 

“Then there came kids. Then there came you. My kids, sometimes they make me think dying alone isn’t a horrible way out. I don’t want them to see-” A brief pause. “It’s not going to be pretty, and I accepted this ending a long time ago.” 

Clark stands there in silence. He doesn’t chance a glance at Bruce’s expression, because somehow he knows what the other looks like at this brief moment of vulnerability. He can picture that in his mind when he closes his eyes.

“But with you it is different.” Bruce quietly says. “You make things better.”

It’s one heck of a roundabout way to say, “I need you, B-”. His thought halts to a break. Clark takes a shallow and shaky breath. He doesn’t know he has more tears to shed; he thinks he gets all of them off back in the medical bay, but there he is, fast blinking his tears away.

“I never thought we’d become this close, but never say never, apparently.” Bruce shifts a bit and gives a dry chuckle. Clark’s peripheral vision catches him clutching his belly with one hand. “I never thought I would carry a child either, but there we are.”

“There is the thing, Clark, you have to know.” Bruce calmly says. “I knew this pregnancy was a high-risk one long before you would know. I have been warned multiple times, but it never occurs to me to stop it. I am one hundred percent consenting to what it brings me, and what it brings me, the joy, is more than I could imagine and ask for. Don’t blame this on yourself. You did nothing wrong. You make me more than satisfied.”

Clark doesn't respond. Bruce continues his speech after giving time to let his words sink into Clark.

“If there is anything to blame, Clark.” Bruce whispers. “Blame the stars. It’s the fault in our stars.”

The fault, dear Bruce - Clark substitutes the names; his mind reads the rest of the words, clear and loud in his head - is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Bruce stops talking and sits there for a long time, and Clark stands next to him in silence.

Finally, Bruce gives his last words. “Go rest, Clark. Go get some sleep.”

So Clark follows his instruction.

-x-

Clark dreams no dream while he sleeps. When he wakes up, he notices himself still wearing the suit covered in blood and dirt from the previous day.

He also makes a mess in his own bed and room, but the robots can take care of that. Clark gets in the shower and gets changed. When he gets down to the medical bay, Jor is waiting for him there.

“Good morning, Kal.” Jor greets him. “How are you doing?”

A robot brings Clark a cup of water in a tray. Clark accepts it as the Jor looks at him, apologizing and with silent condolence. 

“Your pup is awake.” Jor says. “Would you like to check on her?”

“Her?”

“Yes.” Jor confirms. “She is as healthy and strong as a half-Kryptonian can be under a yellow sun, passing all the health clearances. She has developed indestructibility and super strength. Other abilities are still in question. A further evaluation is required to both determine how strong she is now and the possibility of developing other powers. Currently, you can focus on nurturing her until she is properly weaned.”

Clark listens without a word. Jor leads the way to the nursery, or what’s supposed to be a nursery for a superpowered baby. To Clark, it’s just a rather empty but bright space.

A naked baby girl, impossible to know her sub gender since it’s too young to tell the difference, wiggles happily in the corner of the large space. She flips herself onto the floor and jerks her head up when the door hisses open. She looks at the incomers nervously, mouth slightly open, faint eyebrows pitched together, and stays still on all fours, concentrating.

“She has not yet learned how to control her strength. Also I am in the process of manufacturing proper clothes and toys.”

Clark doesn’t know an infant can be this expressive, but on second thought - she doesn’t look like she was just born yesterday.

She is small and with delicate and elegant features, like those expensive dolls displayed on the store’s shelf with unthinkable tags and earning all the praise and amazement from anyone who passes by. She looks months old and so perfect that baby commercials would go crazy for her.

With half-transparent dark scales scattered among her limbs, pointed claws, and a thin and long but lithe tail that seems to move on its own record, she doesn’t look vulnerable and helpless as a baby. She is a little fighter and ready to face the world bravely.

Clark opens his mouth, but he can’t find words. Then he notices there is a flicker of red in the baby’s eyes.

Oh, Rao. He thinks.

“She has heat vision.” Clark murmurs.

When heat vision doesn’t work as she expects, the baby changes her stance, flashing her tiny white teeth and ready to bounce. Brutal strength seems to be a favorable and desirable choice.

“Noted.” Jor nods. “She is going to grow up fast in the first year, building her shape so she can survive in the wild independently, but the growth rate shall slow down after that, until it hits the same level of growth as the normal earthling would have.”

Clark doesn’t listen to Jor’s rumbling. He just lets the AI dump all the information on him. A clear shield rises to separate the baby from them. He watches the baby lash out on the clear shield, and then she grows bored and slides down on the shield while staring at Clark with a baby scowl so familiar that it hurts to look at.

“So it’s a girl .” Clark finds Jor stares at him before he knows he says it out. He bites on his own tongue while saying, “Bruce said he wants- wanted a girl.” 

“Female Omega, to be precise.” Jor says. “She is the firstborn in the-”

“Where is Bruce?” Clark interrupts him. He doesn’t feel like being polite for now. He doesn’t have much energy to even try.

Jor stares at him for a moment before he says, “This way,” and leads Clark back to the medical bay.

There is a pod lying on the table that Clark didn’t see when he came in earlier. Come closer, Clark finds Bruce lying in the pod with his hands folded in front of him, expression neutral, like falling into a dreamless sleep. All the blood and debris have been removed. The cuts on his forehead have been taken care of, and now they are faint, thin lines that are so hard to pin down if not with super vision. Bruce is now in a long white gown covering him from his collarbones to his toes. There is only a bright red, gold, and blue entwined silk band flexibly attached right below the neckline, naturally catching all the attention, so the glances won’t drift lower to his now flat midsection.

But the image has already burned in Clark’s memory. He has perfect night vision and eidetic memory. Clark doesn’t think he would forget one bit of what happened last night. It would come back and knock on his door night and day, whether he prepares or not.

Nonetheless, it’s nice to see Bruce painless and at peace. Clark has no idea what his expectation is; somehow he loathes the idea he lost his chance to bathe and care for Bruce one last time, but he also doubts if he has enough courage to do so.

“Okay.” Clark has to clear his throat and force his words. “I’m going to- going to take him home.”

Jor only backs a couple of steps, giving Clark enough space to take off.

The pod is made to be easy to carry. Clark picks it up, and he flies back to Gotham.

-x-

Clark lands in the garden located at the back of the Manor, fearing causing any turmoil if landing at the front. He doesn’t want to bring any unwanted attention, so he proceeds with caution and in stealth. 

However, when he touches down, all three boys are there watching him descend from the sky.

Somehow, all the boys looked beaten up; the smell of blood and smoke lingered on them despite the clean clothes. Richard has a nasty bruise on the left corner of his lip, and Timothy has a bandage on his head. Even the youngest is in the cast, but he swings the cane like a weapon, emerald eyes burning bright with rage. They mysteriously emerge in the Manor and show up in the garden, all looking a bit shocked while staring at the pod.

“What you did to Father-” Damian is furious and ready to charge at Superman if Richard doesn't catch him by pure reflex. He tries to shake his brother off, but Rachard doesn’t budge. “Let me go, Grayson!”

“Master Damian, please refrain from attacking our guest.” The old butler comes last in his crisp attire. He sounds strained. One look in the eyes, and he knows why Clark is here with a pod and what kind of news he is bringing to the family.

“Superman.” The old man says, in an acknowledgment of what happened and what’s about to happen.

“Alfred?” Richard calls out to the butler with uncertainty while hugging Damian from the back and practically using all his weight to stop the youngest from murdering Clark.

“That can’t be.” Timothy murmurs under his breath. All blood drains from him, and he looks so pale and scared too. “No.” He whispers.

“Release me!” Damian yells.

“Quiet, children.” Alfred says, and then all of a sudden, the garden is so quiet that the only sound Clark can hear is the gusting of spring wind and erratic heartbeats around him.

“I’m sorry.” Clark says looking at the butler’s eyes is so hard, but dropping his gaze is unthinkable. “I- I brought him home.”

“Thank you.” Alfred sounds old. He quietly gestures the way leading to the back door. “This way, please.”

They all move into the Manor and down the staircase to the basement. Alfred opens the door to a half-empty wine cellar. It’s freezing in this windowless room, but there’s plenty of space.

Clark gently sets the pod on the ground, and then he backs a few steps to give space for the family. The boys come closer and stare. He can see how sorrow and horror creep on their faces and steal all the color and hope away. It’s a rather silent moment.

“You should leave.” The butler stands at the back and by the door quietly says.

“Sure.” Clark nods and walks. “Sure.”

But before he can get out, Damian grabs his cape while Clark passes him.

“Where is the pup?” The boy snarls. He drops the cane and grabs the cape with both hands, yanking Clark toward him. “Where is she?”

“How you knew…” 

“Give her back, you alien!” The boy scowls angrily. There is no tear in his eyes, only boiling anger and rage. “Father would like to see her!”

“Damian!” Richard reaches out to him, holding his tensed shoulder. “Let Superman go.” But he looks at Clark with mixed feelings. “Does she?” 

“She is under observation at the Fortress.” Clark blurts. “She is healthy, but she has powers.” And these powers kill Bruce -- he can’t help but shiver when the thought simply emerges from nowhere on its own and is gone in next moment. Clark continues, “I can bring her here once her powers are stable…”

Alfred comes forward and pries the cape off from Damian. He doesn’t say one more word, but Clark gets him. He carefully backs off a couple of steps and backwalks until he reaches the door. Then he speeds and flies away.

-x-

Clark doesn’t realize how much time has passed until Diana breaks into the Fortress to check on him. She is worried about someone, maybe from the government or Luthor, trapping and hurting him, since he didn’t answer any calls from the League and his friends, and the human world has not seen Superman since he left from the battle. One look at Clark's eyes is probably sufficient to answer any question that she may have in mind. Her expression turns into sadness and sympathy while slowly approaching him, giving him a tight hug that Clark doesn’t know is what he needs the most at the time.

“My condolences.” Diana says. “You should go home and rest. Your family would like to take care of you, and you should let them.” 

But here is his home and his family- mate -

Clark doesn’t really say much, or he completely forgets what comes out of his mouth. He doesn’t know how he sends Diana away either. 

The days blur out. Meanwhile, Clark receives a voice message - apparently his phone is completely dead and out of reach, but Jor makes the arrangement and keeps the communication open ever since the visit of Diana, so Clark won’t miss another major thing happening in the outside world - from Alfred. The old butler asks him to meet up at Bruce’s penthouse and go through a few matters related to Bruce’s death.

The matter turns out to be some contingency plans in case Bruce doesn’t survive the labor. Clark has no idea why in the world Bruce could think of making these plans. Even hearing the word “contingency” gives him a bad feeling. 

Basically, Bruce is giving Clark the choice: either he can step up and raise the pup on his own, and there is a sort of trust fund that has already been set up as parenting support, so he doesn’t need to worry about the money for the rest of his life, but the Wayne family is going to keep the rights of visiting; the child is not going to be associated with Wayne until she is old enough and can make her own choice if she wants to be part of Wayne. 

Or, Clark can keep the right of visiting but leave the pup in the care of Wayne. He doesn’t have anything to do despite being there and being with the pup once in a while. Wayne would do whatever they can to cover up the pup’s alien heritage to give her as relatively normal a childhood as they can until she is mature enough to understand the importance of her heritage, and then she gets to decide her future on her own.

The obituary and the funeral - considering Bruce being an infamous celebrity, this is a necessity even to give a plausible reason for death to avoid prying eyes  - is going to be postponed until an estimated six months later. Depending on Clark’s choice, the family can claim Bruce is dead because of dystocia and the pup is a stillborn or not.

For the pretending and performance at that gala introduced Damian to the public, Clark, numbly processing all the information, now provides perfect cover for whatever action would come next in dealing with Bruce’s death. Clark has the feeling that Bruce was staging something back then, but he never considers that it’s for now . 

For all the time Clark spent with Bruce, he never thought of the other as an airhead or dumb, as the public and paparazzi thought of him. But did he ever give the man all the credit for his intelligence? Clark now doesn’t think so either. Bruce was a man who had a lot of secrets. He was a mystery that Clark used to think he had all the time and patience in the world to unravel and enjoy. 

Until Bruce brought all his secrets and mysteries to another side, leaving Clark with a strong feeling of being lost.

In hindsight, Bruce handed out a lot of clues, but Clark just kept missing them. He missed a lot of things. Or things he never thought he should question or think about. There is too much layered information or meaning in Bruce’s words that Clark simply didn’t get them. Too much of something that he knew , but he didn’t understand .

Knowing is suddenly so foreign and far from understanding.

“I don’t know.” Clark honestly says, maybe desperately too. He looks at the old English butler and hopes he can convey his thoughts and feelings of being so deeply lost. “I’m sorry, but I-”

“It’s fine, Master Kent.” Alfred says in a compassionate way. He looks old, but he talks and holds himself in a graceful manner, like he has practiced or prepared for this day to come a long time ago. “You have up to half a year to ruminate. No matter which path you choose, Master Bruce trusted your judgment. Meanwhile, I will be waiting for your decision.”

About a week later, Clark is invited to the private funeral of the family. It’s obvious he only gets the invitation because Alfred acts on Bruce’s behalf. 

There are a few more people around this time. A few young ladies that Clark recognizes from the gala are here, as is the young Alpha with a streak of white hair.

Red Hood.

With the signature streak of white hair and the murderous and furious glares that promise if Clark dares to turn his back to the young man, he would certainly die on the spot, the facts finally click in Clark. 

So he really is Bruce’s anonymous son, it seems.

Clark doesn’t know what holds Red Hood back from attacking him on sight - there must be a lot going on in the family, and a lot of rules have been made for this funeral to proceed in peace - same goes for the youngest boy of Bruce, Damian, who is strangely quiet and strained while purposefully ignoring him, but Clark is grateful. Fighting, or simply defending himself, sounds unthinkable for this moment.

Everything proceeds in a quiet, almost silent, manner.

They bury the coffin in a piece of land located at the back of the Manor and avoid the public eye. You must have someone lead the way to get there.

Clark stands in front of the plain tombstone until everyone else leaves and until nightfall.

The weather is clear and dry. With most factories in Gotham still shut down due to the recent crisis and power outage, the air is fresh and filled with the spring sweetness.

Everyone leaves a piece of roses, so there is a small loose bundle of flowers on the grave. The wind shuffles them and carries a few petals away.

This is probably for a memorial, Clark gathers, so they don’t need to dig this out when the day comes. However, the primitive part of him yearns for one last look at his mate, so he stares at the ground.

Staring at the empty casket.

Chapter Text

Five months later. Tuesday.

After wrapping up the discussion about potential new members being interviewed and introduced to the Justice League with half of the founding members, Clark meets up with Lois at her place at exactly five o’clock.

There is a gala tonight held by Lex Luthor at his headquarters in downtown Metropolis. The main theme of this gala is something about the future. It’s not like Luthor has some other better ideas to browse. Clark bristles. His past is dirty and painted with blood and schemes. Luthor is one of those lucky bastards who happened to have enough money and make many friends who have influence in the system so that he can almost walk away from anything by pulling his strings or paying them off.

Clark thought he got Luthor good and square for Project Cadmus. The Justice League collected enough evidence, and they also brought the subjects of Project Match and Project Kr back to Watchtower. They pretty much managed to nail Lex Luthor on the spot for all his illegal experiments, including both those that were approved by the secret operation and those that weren't. Amanda Waller didn’t look happy when she had to show up during the cleanup.

The cream on the top, Superman testified in court for Luthor’s violation of his privacy: using his biology materials and stealing Kryptonian technology without his consent and using them for unethical human experiments. The case was processed and closed within a month, since there was not much to debate, ending with a penalty that Luthor had to pay Superman a large sum of various compensations and fines (which directly went to donation) and also go to jail for a few months. The government looked embarrassed when the news broke out.

However, since Project Cadmus was operated by the shadow government, the government made a lot of sly moves to avoid the real consequences. Clark believed that was one of the primary reasons why the case was closed in such a hurry: to avoid more publicity and salvage whatever was left in that Project the government could. 

The government promised it would conduct a future investigation about Project Cadmus, but the Justice League hadn’t received any real feedback since then. The government now almost dropped the case and pretended nothing happened. Whenever the Justice League submitted inquiries for an update, they would receive this polite but aloof response that the authorities had been working on the case, and please be patient with them.

To most of Clark’s annoyance, this trick worked. The fumes of the case slowly receded, and people’s interests died down. Nobody cared about Project Cadmus except those who looked for thrill and chill. Luthor also stayed low for the past few months after he somehow cut short his sentence and got out of jail early, which gave Clark a hard time putting him back in the prison where he truly belongs.

The relationship between the League and the government—not that they have the greatest start, and Clark doubts the government always eyes them with suspicion—has grown strained, and the League has to adopt countermeasures to defend themselves. 

Like a Cold War, Clark hates to think like this, but trust is a mutual thing. Right now the government is definitely reconsidering what relationship they should have with the Justice League. 

Meanwhile, the Justice League expands for the first time in so many years. They have take in a few heros that they have worked in the past and are looking for more heroes to join their ranks. Or strategists, to be more specific, to fill up the blank left by Batman.

The Project Cadmus is a good lesson for the importance of strategy and stealth. Robin—the boy who goes by Red Robin now—proved to be a huge and necessary help. Batman made a good decision. There is no use denying it.

Speaking of Batman, there was no more update about him other than the last time he sent Red Robin to help with cracking Project Cadmus. Apparently, the other Leaguers went to Gotham and checked on him again later when Clark was grieving. They met the new Batman, who was really just Nightwing in Batman’s costume, and were told practically the same thing as the last time Clark went after Nightwing and demanded the whereabouts of Batman. 

Since this time there was no more emergency and J’onn, who was always polite, calm, and a true peacemaker, led the conversation, the meeting at least was not as unpleasant as the previous meetings. However, J’onn didn’t bring any good news back. He confirmed in a roundabout way that the Batman they knew probably was not going to come back.

Clark caught up with what J’onn meant immediately. The sorrow, grief, and realization drown him in another different way than losing Bruce. It broke his heart, again, nonetheless. He didn’t talk about it with anyone. Not even Diana. Not even when she insisted.

Because she just won’t understand.

It took Clark too long to put all the puzzle pieces together and even longer to understand what he was looking at. He didn’t tell anyone what he found out, either.

Later, Clark talked with Nightwing and asked if he would like to take the place of Batman in the League. Nightwing rejected the idea with an excuse that he had his plate full, which was true, but he would be glad to help if he was needed.

Tonight’s gala is the first major event after Luthor was convicted and released. Luthor gave a short statement regarding this event earlier last week. It's said that he had sincerely apologized for his misconduct, and in this event he was going to show all the citizens what he had learned and moved past his old self and mistakes to a brighter future.

One thing Clark is sure of is that Luthor never learns to move past anything except perfecting his schemes and performance. There is no such thing as redemption to him, but another chance for retribution and climbing higher on the never-ending ladder of power.

Lois practically wrested this assignment from Perry and added Clark as her plus-one when registering for this event because Perry refused to give Clark anything that even had an “L” in it for how bloodthirsty Clark got in the past few months toward the bald businessman. 

“We are not prosecutors or damn executors, Kent.” Perry said, “And this is business, so everything stays as business.”

Perry saw right through Clark and knew what bothered his reporter to no end was personal, which Clark was impossible to deny.

There always is this thought—maybe as irrational as it sounds—that Clark blamed Project Cadmus and Luthor hogging him so he couldn’t be there for Bruce, even though he knows very well, and the others around him keep telling him, that’s just a tragic coincidence.

So yes, everything becomes inevitably personal.

The event is not going to start until seven thirty, but Clark and Lois are meeting up to strategize. 

Or, according to Lois' words, “to take a deep breath and calm down,” since Clark is so ready to bring Luthor’s arrogant ass down another time and send him back to prison to rot.

Jon is off school right now, but he has a sleepover party with some neighbors’ kids. Clark doesn’t know how Lois manages that, but certainly she can be very persuasive. They can have an entire night to plan and snoop on Lex Luthor’s dirty little secrets.

When Clark walks in, the jazz is playing and Lois is humming with it. She is standing in the full-length mirror in her bedroom and trying on a piece of a new dress. The lavish crimson is hugging her nicely and snugly, bringing out her creamy skin and bright lavender irises. Some branded paper bags haphazardly lay on the bed, and some have emptied out. Lois has not yet put on her jewels, but she is glowing.

“You're totally decked out.”

Clark stands a step behind Lois and reveals himself in the reflection of the mirror. He is in one of his many ill-fitting, huge, and out-of-date suits, with a pair of thick, black-framed glasses and his hair slicked back. Instead of a handkerchief or a flower, the reporter ID card is tucked in the chest pocket, with the blue lanyard dropping out.

“And you, my darling.” Lois takes a look at him and comments. “Stands out like a sore thumb.”

“Please remind me why we are friends in the first place?” Clark follows Lois’s gestures and helps her with earrings.

Lois tilts her head to check if the earrings fit. “Because you admire my work and are stunned by my personality.” She brushes a few strands of hair back, smiling at her reflection in the mirror, but only finding the sight does not please her. “And most importantly, you like me.”

Clark signs and helps her to take the piece of small jewel off. “Yes, I’m very much aware of all the troubles I invite myself into.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

“Indeed.”

Lois rushes back to her bed and dumps two other pairs of dresses out off the paper bags, one in each hand, and back in front of the mirror in one second, brings the dresses to herself, and compares them. Clark would wear a flannel shirt and old jeans to an interview just to disgust Lex Luthor, but he understands the perfect and professional outfits are simply a power play to intimidate your opponents. 

Lois wears her fancy attire like Superman wears his cape, all for battles and bloodshed.

“How is the boy?” Lois asks while changing. Clark politely looks away. “Did he like your little castle on the high hill?”

“It’s a fortress on the Arctic.” Clark mutters. “Fortress of Solitude.”

“Yeah, solitude.” Lois mercilessly comments. “I wonder how lonely it gets now.”

With his pup wandering around and happily exploring everything to her content, Clark fears that there is no such thing as “solitude” in his Fortress. She is so energized all the time, like a lightning ball that can burst in any second.

“I think he likes it.” Clark shrugs.

The clone boy, or half-clone considering he has half human genes in him, now has an alias of Superboy, a human name gifted by Miss Martian, Conner, and a Kryptonian name, Kon-El. 

Somewhere in the middle of the past few months, when Clark was grieving and busy balancing his life as a new dad (being a dad was not supposed to be that hard since he has experience with Jon, but a superpowered baby with a whole billionaire family consistently lurking in the background and watching complicates things), a new group of teenage heroes and vigilantes formed and was supervised and guided by Miss Martian, who is Martian Manhunter’s niece.

It’s hard to tell if Clark is Kon’s mentor or father or brother or whatever this mess is, but Clark doesn’t object when Miss Martian finds him and talks to him about providing more family support or helping Kon with building more meaningful relationships.

Kon has been seen with Ma and Pa Kent and Lois. Jon is left out of the meeting but mentioned as Lois’ pup, because it’s going to be hard to explain all the superhero stuff if they meet, and Kon pretty much sucks at acting like a normal teenager. He is worse than Clark, which is fair because he is only, like, a year old. It’s also to avoid the questions about all the superpowers. Jon still doesn’t show any sign of developing any powers and doesn’t know his daddy is Superman, which is not that big a deal, considering he adores Batman more (a fact that makes Clark feel sad for various and multiple reasons). 

This grand tour of “knowing your family” naturally ends with the last stop at the Fortress and the introduction about Krypton heritage.

“We flew to the Fortress as a little exercise. I gave him a tour and played a few clips of Krypton documentaries. Jor introduced himself as the AI taking his appearance after my biological father and so on. Did the body check and saved the data on a flash drive so he could bring it back to Red Robin for future analysis. They really grow on each other, don’t you think? I used to think they would end up fighting and avoiding each other, but apparently I was wrong. Or Diana was wrong. She thought Red Robin traumatized Kon at the beginning because Kon kept intensely staring at the other boy with wide eyes like an owl…”

Clark rumbles about Kon’s social life for a while before he summarizes their little adventure with “I showed him my zoo. He was a bit awkward when playing with animals. I would say it went well.”

“Did he meet Ruby?”

“Yeah, about that.” A soft smile emerges at the corner of his lips, and Clark can’t help with it. “She was in the zoo when we came over.”

The name that the pup really preferred is actually “Red,” or it’s the word that gets her attention. There are a few instances that Clark seriously considered naming her “Redd,” but he dropped it because every time he pondered why she loves the color and the sound so much, the flashback of Bruce and the newborn covered in blood under the crescent moon would emerge and give him a bone-deep chill.

There is always this hidden dread of the possibility that red was the first thing and concept the pup recognized in this world and associated it with life.

“Ruby” is the next word Clark can use to get the pup’s attention after the time he showed her different kinds of jewels. He works hard to associate “Ruby” with a name so that the pup should recognize it as her own. Clark doesn’t know if it really works because the pup doesn't like to listen to him. She has a rather short attention span, which Jor comforts her is normal for pups at her age, but she can be very determined and insistent about what she desires.

“Kon found her hiding behind a pillar and spying on us. I actually gave him a heads-up that there was a baby living in the Fortress when we came in. But he was so surprised when he saw her and kept asking if she really was only five months old and saying she didn’t look like one. He didn’t pay his full attention to the pup. Frankly, I had told him to brace himself and be careful, but oh boy, he didn’t listen. So Ruby decided to teach him a lesson. When he turned to me, Kon was totally not prepared. Ruby jumped on him and knocked him over and would very much like to use him as a glorified trampoline before I caught her in the middle of the air. You really should be there and see his expression. It’s hilarious.”

Lois hums. “I guess the baby girl really put the fear of God in him?”

“She nailed it.” Clark purrs, so proud that he can’t hold it back, fishing out his phone and showing Lois photos of the pup wearing a white ball gown made of the same material as Superman’s suit and cape, so the baby won't tear it to shreds when she loses control over her strength. Ruby has a fluffy alien animal collected in her arms and looks at the camera with sweet innocence. The long sleeves and high collar hide the scales that haven't shed on her neck and limbs. The tip of the tail pokes out of the dress like some gothic decoration. She can be passed out as a normal human toddler in the photos.

“She is so cute.” Lois stops in the middle and coos at the photo. “She grows fast.”

“Jor said the rapid growth should slow down soon and make space for mental growth. I—I’m expecting she will start learning how to speak very soon.”

“That’s one big milestone, right?”

“Yeah.” Clark stares at the photo. “But there is one thing. It’s… She is a lot smarter than I think. Somehow, she taught herself how to play dead, like holding her breath and lying very still, not moving even when I poke her. But I can always hear her heartbeat, you know? She is always good at ignoring anything she doesn’t want to be part of, like—like…”

Clark leaves the name out of his unfinished sentence, but Lois knows what he leaves out anyway. She gives his arm a firm squeeze. Clark returns her a weak smile but not the thoughts briefly crossing his mind. They stay in comfortable silence for a while, mainly Clark giving a hand here and there to help Lois dress. They talked about what they should do after they arrive at the event.

Finally, Lois decides which dress is her favorite for tonight and finishes her make-up. They head out together around six thirty.

Quite a lot of reporters have gathered and waited in the queue for check-in when they arrive around seven. They get into the line while waving and smiling at their peers. Clark doesn’t need to switch on the X-ray to tell the staff is performing a rather strict patting down for anyone who is going to enter. Everything electronic has to go through a security machine if not left before entering the event.

“What is he worried about?” Clark murmurs.

“Okay. Now I think it’s about time.” Lois whispers and only continues after she makes sure she has all of Clark’s attention. “I know you were pissed off when Luthor decided to invade the Arctic with an excuse of exploring mines and natural resources, but we all know he is literally building secret bases under your nose. You are spending a lot of time and working hard to sabotage his plans, and I understand that. But you know what we are going to do tonight?”

“Yeah?”

“We come in to see, to observe what Luthor is about to offer. We take back what we learn. We analyze and evaluate before we make a move.” Lois hisses under her breath. “And when we strike, we take him down once and for all.”

Clark winces. “That’s too optimistic even for me.”

“My point is.” Lois stabs her finger into Clark’s chest. “Do. Not. Cause. Any. Trouble. Smallville, do you understand me? Or Perry would never assign you anything that has an ‘L’ in it.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Clark signs. He knew how much trouble Lois went through so he could have a proper chance to be there. At least what Clark can do for her is a simple promise.

“Good evening, madam, and good evening, sir. May I see your invitation?” 

A few staff members in black suits circle them when it’s their turn to check in. Lois fishes out the invitation card from her purse and goes ahead to let one female Beta staff member proceed to pat her down. Clark follows suit and leaves his phone, camera, and notebook in the bin for a security check without a worry. The Superman suit does not consist of any electronic devices, and Clark squeezes it to make it look more like a red pressure ball. The earpiece for the League business is a tricky part, but Clark figures the possibility of having some kind of emergency is low, so he leaves it at home. The small device will send off a special frequency that only Clark can pick up. Problem solved.

Clark walks out of the security check without raising an eyebrow. Lois leaves most of her belongings at the fancy checkroom; in exchange, the staff over there gives her a wrist corsage, which has a hidden numbered chip for receipt. 

Lois puts the wrist corsage on her left wrist. She quickly walks next to Clark, and then they cross the front and reach the elevator. The elevator takes them to the floor where the event is located. There is still a long corridor leading to the event hall. Along the corrida and next to the wall, there are a few recipient tables. More staff stand behind the table and guide the guests to their destiny.

The style is a bit deviated from Luthor’s usual high-tech and efficient one, but a true show of power and wealth. It takes Clark and Lois a few turns until they find the entrance for the ballroom. It feels like they are walking in a maze. Clark has been in Luthor’s HQ a few times, both as the reporter and Superman. He doesn’t remember it looking like this. Luthor probably spends millions to get it reconstructed and decorated for today’s event.

A quick scan of the X-ray reveals the building is indeed a labyrinth. Luthor must have the entire floor and the one above it remodeled. Half of the ceiling of the current floor has been removed to create more space for this new converted ballroom. A pair of grand staircases joins both floors together. Clark can picture how Luthor saunters down that staircase with his overflowing confidence and ego while delivering his speech. A series of rooms serving various duties and passageways have been circled around the center ballroom like the crest of icing hugging the cake. The number of staff serving tonight’s event can easily exceed a couple of hundred.

Clark doesn’t know how many guests Luthor invites for tonight, but one look at the floorplan tells him it’s a lot.

The more, the merrier. 

It’s clear Luthor is yearning for a big celebration to wash away all the misfortunes that he experienced in the past half a year.

The center ballroom is named Song of Songs. 

“I don’t know that he is religious.” Lois gives a particular look while staring at the name.

Clark shrugs. “Only when he compares himself to God.”

“Oh, come on.” Lois murmurs while entering the ballroom. “Remembering what you promised.”

A wave of sounds—people’s chattering, crisp footsteps on the dancing floor, and the soft background music—hits Clark headfirst, along with both natural and artificial scents. They wash him off like tides. Clark takes a deep breath to both calm himself down and reinforce his control over his senses.

“... you can’t be more right about that I’m not a local, darling. But that’s the point, isn’t it? I come to a wonderland to have a chance to meet some lovely lady like you.”

A voice, smooth like silk and rich like chocolate, rides on the waves of sounds and reaches Clark. It’s so familiar and yet so foreign. His hearing uncontrollably narrows and focuses on that voice.

“And my name? I would like to keep it a secret or a surprise.” The voice, deep and flirtatious, purrs happily. “But my gut tells me that you have recognized me.”

Clark recognizes that voice without a moment of hesitation, but what makes him hesitate is that it’s impossible for him to hear it once more in this life.

“Clark?” 

A tug at the elbow causes Clark to jerk his head down. He stares at Lois with wide eyes.

“What the hell?” Lois squints and hisses. “You froze.”

“I think I hear something.” Clark halfheartedly murmurs. After making sure Lois is totally fine, his senses turn to follow that voice again. 

There is not much time left before the beginning of the event. More and more guests walk in the ballroom, and Clark is drowning in a sea of people. Due to this brief distraction from Lois, Clark loses his focus on him.

Panic silently creeps in. Clark swallows hard. He has to focus, or he is going to—if he has not yet done so—lose him. Again.

Clark doesn’t protest when Lois drags him over to the corner. He doesn’t hear what she is saying, for all his attention is back into that sea of people. He stumbles after her like a lost puppy.

Then the voice speaks again. Clark’s full attention zooms in and pins the source of the voice. Then he sees him. A slender figure clad in black Armani casually leans on the handrail on the mezzanine across the entire ballroom near the backstage. Clark doesn’t make out his face at first sight, since the man has his back toward Clark. But his voice is no doubt familiar.

“Yeah, I guess you can call me Bruce.”

Chapter Text

”...Earth to Smallville.”

When Clark comes back to his senses, he finds that Lois is holding a flute of champagne and hissing under her breath. She looks more concerned than actually angry, and she is obviously relieved when Clark replies to her with a muffled and confused “Yeah?”

“Everything alright?” Lois says this while handing Clark a dish of smoked salmon bites. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“I see Bruce.” Clark says it like he is in a dream. “I think I see him standing over there…”

“Oh. I guess this is your first gala in the past few months. He liked parties, didn’t he?” Lois looks at him with sympathy. “But you know what you saw is not real.”

“He is standing over there, on the mezzanine across the room.” Clark automatically replies. “He just ditched the ladies and walked away. I guess he wants some privacy. Maybe some fresh air, too.”

“What the hell?” Lois’s head whips around, and she stares at him like he just grew a second head.

Like a sunflower pursuing the sun, Clark's head slowly turns as he follows Bruce across the mezzanine.

“There are some people trying to follow him. Catch a chat, maybe? But he walks fast. Now he is hiding at the back of a pillar. They just walk past him. That’s close.”

Lois smacks at Clark’s forehead. “Are you sure you’re not seeing things?” She drops her voice, whispering in a way that only Clark can hear her. “Or does Luthor have some weird Kryptonite hidden somewhere and mess up your brain?”

“Lo, give me some credit.” After securing Bruce’s position, Clark lowers his head and looks at Lois. She looks a bit pale now and deeply worried. “I know what I’m seeing. From what I can tell, he is real and very much breathing.”

“Okay, that’s an improvement.” She doesn’t sound very convinced.

“I think—” Clark turns back to look at the man who chills at the rail again. There is something dangerous about this man. The way he watches over the dance floor or the way he holds himself. Clark can’t put his finger on it. It’s a different kind of danger that Clark sometimes used to feel when he was around Bruce in the past.

What he can do is give the guy a distant X-ray scan. 

Bruce’s body used to be littered with scars. Many of his bones had once been fractured or broken and had now become calloused. It used to both worry and fascinate Clark what kind of life the billionaire who gracefully entered his middle age was truly living. Of course Clark had heard about all the ski or car accidents Bruce caught himself in, and there were also kidnappings and hostage situations. Even with years of effort and devotion from Batman, Gotham is still a ruthless and dangerous city. 

Clark never had a chance to ask Bruce this question, and now he can never bother himself to ponder the possibilities, since in the past few months, no matter how deeply Clark yearns for him, he can’t recall Bruce without conjuring the bloody image of him lying limply in his arms.

And the coldness of his body.

Clark has held onto the dead during missions and rescues countless times, but he doubts that he can ever let go of this. For this time it’s his dear love that he had gathered in his arms.

The guy who stands on the mezzanine and leans on the rail again doesn’t have that many scars on his flesh nor calluses on his bones. There are a few cuts and healed wounds here and there, but nothing seems severe or life-threatening. No pins, rods, or plates drive into his spine. Overall, he looks almost unblemished under the luxury suit. He can be any young man who grows up in a generous environment and occasionally happens to be in a fancy gala and looks for some fun.

The black suit hugs his body perfectly, bringing out the broad shoulders and the slim waist. Especially when he leans at the rail and looks aside, giving the audience a pretty show of his strong jawline and slender neck. People like him are impossible to hide among others. He captures the spotlight by only being himself. It’s only going to take a minute for the next man or lady to muster enough courage and ask him for a dance.

Something about him doesn’t settle well in Clark. It does not necessarily have to do with the fact that this man is almost a perfect carbon copy of Bruce, save for scars and calluses and faint crow's feet at the corners of his eyes and slight early gray in his temple. There is something unsettling and dark hidden beneath the pretty face. Something violent.

This kind of ominous feeling is suddenly dialed up to one hundred when the man stares right at Clark in the eyes.

It suddenly strikes Clark like lightning that this man has the same pale blue eyes as Bruce. Instead of familiarity, there is only mild curiosity and cold evaluation.

Like he doesn’t even know who this stranger is so intensely watching him from afar.

Clark almost whines at this cruel realization. He never knew one day that Bruce would look at him like a mere stranger. No. Not until the day Clark picked him up at some random back alley in Gotham did Bruce never look at him like a mere stranger. Bruce always knows him with or without the cape.

Seemingly losing his interest, the man turns his gaze away before Clark can react.

“I have to take a closer look.” Clark murmurs under his breath.

“Like hell you are.” Lois tries to stop him, but she is no match when Clark is determined.

Clark shoots her an apologetic look, shoving his camera into her reaching hand. Then he backs up for a couple of steps and turns. Lois finger guns at him but does not come after.

Clark quickly walks away.

-x-

A few minutes ago.

The scents are messing with him.

Frowning, Bruce resists the urge to loosen the top few buttons of his shirt or the urge to throw a punch at the next guy who dares to get closer and eyes him lewdly. Neither of these actions would necessarily make him breathe better, but being able to think about actions brings the phantom of sweetness to the tip of his tongue.

It’s the first time after his resurrection that Bruce is crowded by such a large group of people. There are so many people wandering around that they practically take up every corner in this grand dance hall. Even after so many years of training and fighting, Bruce still runs into the trouble of not being able to find a corner in which he can completely hide away from the crowd and be left alone. 

This is ridiculous. Bruce huffs. Eyes are everywhere. Scents—natural or artificial, faint or strong, consistently wafting off from so many different people—wash over the entire space like waves and never-receding tides and slowly tighten their hold on Bruce and suffocate him. Never once that Bruce remembers was he reacting so badly toward scents.

May it be the downside of being Omega.

-x-

Bruce didn’t know what happened or how that’s even possible, but ever since his resurrection, his body and second gender were presented and settled as Omega. There was no turning back or cure for his new condition. As the doctors who checked both his old medical files that Ra’s somehow managed to obtain and his current condition said, he used to mean to be presented as an Omega, and the Pit simply fixed that error for him and brought him back to his peak condition.

Bruce had no idea of how being an Omega would be his peak condition.

There was also another theory: the pregnancy had messed up his body and made him temporarily high on all the hormones, so during the resurrection, his body was mistaken as an Omega, so he was brought back in that way.

It’s not like knowing all different theories and possibilities would do any favor to Bruce. What’s done was done, and that’s about it. Bruce was not crazy to find out what actually caused the change. Becoming an Omega was his new reality, and he just had to live in it. Bruce was not going to commit suicide just to have the Omega problem fixed, and who knew what he was going to lose in another resurrection? Ra’s always kept his Alpha identity through resurrections after resurrections in the past few decades, but Bruce was sure he lost most of his sanity. Bruce was not so eager to lose his.

Despite one of the sudden he smelled much sweeter than he used to be, Bruce didn’t notice much change in himself at first. He was still the same height and built like a brick wall, all broad shoulders and impressively strong biceps and thighs. The pit de-aged him to his twenties and took away all the scars and pains from the old wounds and fractured bones. It even erased all the sequelae from the broken back. That’s definitely a plus in resurrection. With all the youth, renewed energy, and twenty years experience in crime fighting, Bruce now fought like a terrifying and unstoppable hurricane and wildfire. 

And that’s what he did for almost a month straight when he was first brought back. Fighting. Or beating all the shit out of Ra’s best soldiers until no men were left to fight and the madness and rage were finally worn off. In Bruce’s defense, he couldn’t think clearly during that time, and he felt threatened by all the aggressive Alphas and Betas thrown into his direction. They made the first move of attack, and Bruce was playing defensive. An escalated and out-of-control dominance fight. 

Ra’s was amused, but Talia was bitter. She lost her few rounds of fighting him when Bruce was feral and also the chance to mate with him. To that, Bruce was glad. He might have a history with her, but he didn’t feel like rekindling the old flame. Knowing Tilia made a son with both of their DNA did not help her case at all.

Ra’s might never admit the League of Assassins was an overgrown pack of his, but the League certainly worked in a twisted ancient pack way. There always was hierarchy. One had to fight for their place. Defeating most of Ra’s men and putting them in their places, even in his feral stage, made Bruce on top of that hierarchy. Later, he successfully challenged Bane, beat him to an inch of his life, dethroned him, and left him to rot in a pit that always was used to rid off the failed disciple. All of these greatly brought Bruce up in the League. He was second only to Ra’s; not even Talia could match all the respect he received anymore. Ra’s only smiled. Who knew what this ancient man was thinking about nowadays.

When Bruce was so high above on top and being an Omega, things became different and interesting. He used to attract all the attention of Ra’s men even back in his training age. But now it was a different kind of attention. Alphas stopped wanting to fight him. They showed off to get his attention. It didn’t help that Bruce was new to all these Omega instincts, and he had trouble keeping his scent at bay. 

Bruce always had a sharp nose back in the day, even without presenting as an Omega, and being presented as an Omega after the resurrection didn’t make his nose any sharper. How his brain and instincts interpreted the scents was key to his problem. There was no word that could describe being an Omega in a world filled with different scents despite becoming one. Bruce had never noticed so many nuances and subtle changes in one’s scent before, and there was so much information carried in the scents. It’s overwhelming at the least. Sometimes it got so intense that he wanted to kill everyone near him, even though the death would leave an awful stink behind.

Bruce could practically taste Alphas’ desires from the scents. It’s both disgusting and horrifying, and so different from being stared at when he pretended to be a playboy. Bruce used to consider himself to be behaving well and could stand with people thinking lewd things about him, but it’s just different between knowing people thought him lewd and understanding how far that could go. 

In some hidden panic and probably primitive instinct, Bruce went down with beating them out to make sure they never got that idea again. Talia was not happy, but somehow she was also very proud. Bruce tried to pay her no mind, but it became harder when she was more determined to win him over.

In the past five months staying with the League, despite spending most of his time training and getting his new Omega instincts and the pit madness under control, Bruce also meditated, so hopefully his memory of the past year would come back.

When he first woke up in the pit, Bruce was sure that he didn’t remember anything about his past. He didn’t even remember who he was. He was the feral animal who snarled and clawed at anyone who dared to get close to him. Later on, when he was improved, his memory started coming back to him in an incoherent order. After a couple of months of recovery, Bruce obtained most of his memory but not much luck with what happened in the past year in the beginning. That one year's worth of memory was vague and scattered. He had some impressions about how things happened but never in great detail. Especially the part about his own death. 

Not knowing how he died bothered Bruce to no end. 

Ra’s said that’s a common side effect of the resurrection, and Bruce would eventually get over it. But the way he talked about it, it more sounded like Bruce would not care about the loss of memory anymore. Anyway, Ra’s did offer to tell him something happened during the time of Bruce’s loss of memory. Some nonsense about how the Justice League and his family failed him.

Bruce did his own research about the Justice League and his family. Ra’s had a strong hold of everything around Bruce, and any intel about the outside world was one of them. But Bruce was nothing but resourceful. From what he could put up, it seemed that the last sighting of Batman with the Justice League was during a crisis that happened toward the end of last year. And there was a few months gap between that crisis and the scattered appearance of Superman in Gotham, which happened mostly after Bruce’s death. As far as Bruce’s digging could tell, the Justice League was not on friendly terms with Bruce before he died, so they stopped seeing each other, and his family—most likely Dick, who donned the cowl after his death and inherited the cape and a lifelong Superman fan—amended the relationship with the Justice League when Bruce was away.

Maybe there were more stories behind these, but whatever Bruce had ever heard had not deviated far away from the version that Ra’s told him. Talia sometimes would reassure him that eventually her father and she would help Bruce get everything back. Together, they would clean the world and put humanity on the right track and all that world domination crap. Bruce had a hard time distinguishing which part of her speech originated from her father or which part belonged to her obsession with the fact that she couldn’t own him.

However, some part of Bruce, the more primitive part of Omega, was deeply pleased and flattered by being consistently pursued by such a strong and loyal Alpha. Bruce sensed that it’s not only him feeling this way. He could tell that Talia was playing a game and patiently waiting for her turn.

Bruce was not sure which one was more annoying: the fact that Talia could pull such a stunt and wait for him to crack, or the fact that he certainly would be cracked and compromised one day.

And that day might be so far and out of reach.

The heat.

The speedway to descend any Omega to hell, and a huge and consistent risk that would generally last thirty to forty years if continued without some cruel medical procedures that could greatly ruin the patients’ health and shorten their lifespan. Still so many Omegas choosing to have the surgery spoke volumes.

Anyway, the heat was bound to happen ever since the resurrection fixed Bruce’s presentation error. And it’s already kind of postponed for too long for Talia’s liking. A first heat generally happened when Omega was newly presented. In Bruce’s case, that would be shortly after Bruce was out of the pit. However, his first heat didn’t come right away, and it hadn’t come a few months later, even though Bruce clearly felt the heat was hovering over him and he was sitting on the fence of falling into one at any minute.

The doctors who checked Bruce over didn’t find out the exact cause for why he kept missing the presentation heat. They talked about some medical gibberish, like his reproductive system was still in the category of underdevelopment, which was a fairly common symptom for male Omegas and generally resulted in more irregular heat and failure of conception. Stress would also contribute to a postponed heat. Survival was always the first priority. 

Some hormone therapy was suggested but ignored by both Ra’s and Bruce. As long as he could fight and breathe, Bruce was not worried about his biology. No heat that hindered his mind and judgment meant no suppressant that messed up his head and created more health problems in the future. It’s actually a win-win. Bruce could live like this for the rest of his life. Who cared if he could birth another pup? The sheer number of kids he currently has back home now, both through legal procedures and emotional attachment, would give a bad headache to any weaker man.

He could push the heat and Talia problem down the line for now, but there was another major and more urgent matter that required Bruce’s attention: his funeral. 

There were always these contingency plans containing all the details and procedures about how to handle things if Bruce died in different situations. Bruce had pictured his own death in thousands of different ways and meticulously cataloged them. For his current situation—since Bruce had trouble remembering the actual cause of his own death, so he could only guess—the most suitable plan that his family adopted was to postpone the funeral and obituary for an extended period of time to separate the death of Batman and Bruce Wayne.

Bruce had been dead for five months now. His estimated postponement would be around a half to a whole year. It should be plenty for his family and friends to make the necessary arrangements and cover up all the trails that were left behind. Basically it’s saying, if Bruce didn’t take any action soon, he would be declared officially dead. That’s going to bring a whole lot of problems if he wanted to walk in daylight as Bruce Wayne and get back his own fortune—billions of dollars of personal wealth and the sheer power and influence coming with simply owning Wayne Enterprise. Something that has dramatically changed as he started training under him.

The potential of losing so many valuable assets could make Ra’s hesitate.

Bruce took this chance and argued with Ra’s. Ever since he crawled out of the pit, Ra’s kept an annoyingly close leash on Bruce. It’s different from his training days now. Talia was practically following him everywhere, day and night. But Ra’s and Bruce all understood that Bruce had to leave the territory of the League one way or the other. It’s useless to keep him here all the time. Going back to Gotham to reclaim his assets and sort out all the old debts was a good one.

And there was also another reason why Ra’s had to send Bruce away, a more shitty and unspoken one: that Bruce was messing with at least half of his good soldiers. It’s funny to end like that: if Ra’s wanted to keep Bruce under control, he needed to send his best men to keep an eye on him, and then the biology interrupted and messed everything up a bit; if Ra’s wanted to keep his best men sane and in check, he should have them stay away from Bruce, and then Bruce might attempt to escape. Bruce didn’t think he did anything wrong by putting all Ra’s men in their places, but as an Omega, doing that to Alphas had consequences.

In the end, Ra’s decided to let Bruce out to help Talia with some business. He sent them to Metropolis. 

-x-

Someone is watching him. 

It’s a different kind of watching from others surrounding him who look at him with hunger and want a night off or more, and it’s different from being watched by an apex predator whose stare always sends cold chills down his spine, but it still makes his hair suddenly stand on end and sends his instincts haywire. 

If Bruce were less trained and with less experience, he would turn back and try to locate his stalker purely out of reflex. One would want to keep the danger and threats in check. But Bruce is better than that. The chance that anyone goes on a rampage and attacks in broad daylight is strikingly low. So the risk is manageable. Bruce continues his conversation with a few ladies who clearly recognize him as Brucie Wayne and shortly excuses himself and goes away.

Bruce loses his watcher for a brief moment when he hides himself in blind spots, but soon he feels he is being watched again. Guess there is no way to shake it off. Bruce turns around and boldly looks out for it. To his surprise, the watcher doesn’t even hide himself or doesn’t think Bruce would find him. He stands there in plain view.

Their gazes lock like magnets. For a long moment, they simply stare at each other.

It’s a large man in a cheap suit and a pair of thick, black-framed glasses. A reporter, it seemed. His partner or colleague has her back to Bruce, and from her gesture, she is trying to get the man’s attention. It’s not working. That much Bruce can tell. This man is hyper-fixated on Bruce.

Sure. Watch as much as you want.

If there is anything that lately Bruce gets very good at, it’s being watched.

Chapter Text

Bruce doesn’t stay leaning on the rail for long. He stands straight for a second and then leads the way to another end, the side opposite of the twin grand staircase where Luthor probably descended from in the next ten minutes or so. There are some people gathered there and lost in their talks. A few waiters and waitresses come by and go with a tray full of glasses of bubbling champagne. Bruce takes a flute with him when he passes one of them. 

It’s no problem for Clark to shoulder his way through the crowd. He has enough experience murmuring apologies and firmly pushing his way through people. Rarely would there be someone so pissed off at being pushed aside and wanting to punch Clark. People would be annoyed, but they have eyes. No one in their right mind would like to go on a fight with an Alpha in Clark’s size, even though he looks tamed and mild-mannered.

Clark finds his way to the upper level and meets Bruce in the eyes when the other saunters by. Clark stops him by blocking Bruce’s way, and Bruce casually stops at arm’s length so they wouldn’t run into each other.

“Bruce.” Clark calls out, his voice a little shaken, like he can’t believe he is standing in front of his dead mate, like he is expecting himself in a nightmare. 

But the man, Bruce, standing in front of him is so real. Clark can hear every breath he takes in and out, every beat his heart beats against the ribcage, pumping the blood down the veins and circulating in his energized body. There is nothing more real than this. Living and breathing. So much like in a dream.

Clark greedily takes in all the sights of this man. There is still the doubt and the details that don’t match. This man looks too young, like a decade younger version of Bruce who can only be seen in the old photos, almost unblemished, and Omega—

His Bruce was a Beta. Even though the pregnant hormone must change his scent in a way and make it almost passable as an Omega, he was a Beta. Clark could always tell the difference when he was set to sniff and distinguish. The slightly burnt sweetness of cinnamon. It smelled like home.

This man also has this sweetness of cinnamon, sans the slight burnt, almost identical to Bruce, but pure sweetness in his scent has the right and undeniable undertone of Omega. The man doesn’t wear any scent blocker or disguise. There is no mistake in his caste when his scent flows freely and openly in the air.

Maybe not that free anymore, the man poorly manages to pull his scent back like the presence of Clark puts him on alert. The gesture of staying on the alarm hurts Clark.

I would never hurt you. His traitorous mind screams. I would never hurt you again.

Some primitive part of his brain goes crazy and yells at Clark, this is Bruce, even when all the evidence goes against it. He can’t do anything, even if it's as simple as averting his eyes.

The man sips on his drink, subtly sniffing the air, takes his time to check Clark out, and then flashes Clark a polite but fake smile. “Excuse me, sir. But do I know you?”

“Uh, yeah.” The question throws Clark off. Clark realized something was amiss when they stared at each other a minute ago, and he takes in all the subtle but important differences now when they stand at an arm's length, but it still strikes him hard when the other outright admits that he doesn’t know Clark.

“You know me,” Clark says, or desperately pleads, “I mean—” 

The man—Bruce, his mind corrects; he doesn’t react much when he is being called by the name, so he must be Bruce—blinks and patiently waits for Clark’s response. 

Clark forces himself to take a deep breath and puts on his mild-mannered journalist act as best as he can. He doesn’t want to go too far to poke Bruce or make him think Clark is crazy, even though it’s pretty crazy if one has to be stopped by a stranger who claims they know each other. He gets to be careful and watches what he is saying. 

“We met before, and there have been a few interviews about Wayne Enterprise...” 

Clark has intentionally left the sentence stretching and hanging in the air. Now he looks at Bruce with the earnest expression he can manage, like he is an unremarkable nobody who wishes to have a talk with a high-profile celebrity. Frankly, it’s so true to some degree that it hurts.

Clark bets if Bruce doesn’t remember who he is, he won’t recall all his interviewers. And from the rumors that Clark finds himself hard to believe, it said that Bruce was hardly remembering anyone in journalism without a pretty face, even for those who repeatedly came back to interview him. Now it’s time to put this piece of knowledge to the test.

Like a light bulb struggling to turn itself on, Bruce fakes his surprise and enlightenment by saying, “Ah, yes, and you’re…” He sophisticatedly leaves his sentence unfinished.

“Clark Kent. The Daily Planet.” Clark fills in the blank for him, and his heart sinks when there are no sparks or recognition in those pale blue eyes.

Contrary to his indifferent appearance, Bruce’s heartbeat is slightly escalated but still very much in tune with the same and calm rhythm he used to have back in the days when he crashed down in Clark’s mediocre apartment. The rhythm is music in Clark’s ears, as it always used to be. Clark can’t tell him how much he misses it.

Clark stretches his hand out, smiling sincerely at Bruce, who, after a second of consideration, carefully shakes Clark’s hand. It’s a rather strong handshake, one that people would not imagine a playboy would give.

Bruce’s palm pulses and radiates warmth in Clark’s hand. There is no mistake that he is alive and doing well. Clark doesn’t think Jor would lie to him about something as important as Bruce's death, and there is no point for him to lie about it. But there he is, seeing the man with his own eyes, hearing his heartbeat, and feeling his body heat. No illusion could be that real.

There must be something wrong. Clark reckons. Very wrong.

“Yes, Mr. Kent,” Bruce softly says, charming as usual with an impeccably innocent smile, “it’s been a while.”

You have no idea. Clark would like to say, but instead, he says, “It’s a long time. You can just call me Clark, Mr. Wayne.”

“And I think I heard someone call me Bruce?” Bruce jokes. He looks a bit flushed after he withdraws his hand, and his control over his scent slips. 

For a brief moment, he smells like he is amused.

Before Clark can look over it, the scent is pulled back again. The rhythm of Bruce’s breath changes. Much slower and more controlled. Although it’s hard to tell just from his appearance.

“Yes. Uhm. If you don’t mind, Bruce,” Clark fumbles out of his pen and notebook, “May I ask you a few questions?”

Bruce blinks. “I’m thinking tonight is supposed to be saved for our dear friend Lex?”

“To me, you’re always more interesting than him,” says Clark honestly. “Please?” He adds.

It takes Bruce a moment to consider, but it’s a fake and clumsy consideration as Clark’s gesture of taking down his notes. 

“Will you let me go if I say ‘no’?” Bruce halfheartedly asks. But he doesn’t wait for Clark’s reply. He sighs. “Ask away.” In a tone sounding more like “Let’s get over it.”

“Thank you very much, Bruce.” Clark starts jotting down on his notepad. Scrabbles. Meaningless things he probably doesn’t even recognize when he gets back home. He never breaks eye contact with Bruce this entire time. “You have not been on any paper for quite a long time. People miss you.” I missed you, Clark thinks but doesn’t let it show on his face. He can’t afford losing him to grief right now. “Where have you been all this time?”

“Vacations.” Offering no further explanation, Bruce tilts his head in a way that asks if Clark is done.

Clark ignored it. “Do you mind being more specific?”

“What shall I say? I’ve been to so many different places in the past… Let’s just say it’s the past half a year. I’ve forgotten all their names. It’s not the names that are important; it’s the memory of being happy and feeling good. That’s what vacation is for, isn’t it?”

In order to cover up the sudden non-existence of Bruce in public, the Wayne family updated Bruce’s social media regularly with vague words and sometimes with some vacation photos. There were also these obscure photos flooding in trashy magazines that proved Bruce was out of the country and suggested he was on another grand world tour, enjoying beaches and sunshine, girls and cocktails, drinking and wasting away just like what he did when he was a young adult. Clark has no doubt about who feeds the paparazzi the photos.

Seemingly Bruce is playing the same agenda, too. Whether it’s done by accident or intentionally is unclear. 

Clark plays along with him. “Like the time before you came back to Gotham and inherited the family business?”

Bruce hums. “Something like that.”

Clark doesn’t always try to find out if people lie to him normally, but to those who are consistent in his life, he simply knows because of all the time they spend together. He can be a living lie detector because of all his super senses. 

But Bruce used to be good at avoiding and dodging any questions that he didn’t feel like answering. Whatever he decided to answer, the answers seemed to be genuine and true. He never gave Clark enough to go on to establish a baseline to detect when and whether he lies. Clark wasn’t particularly interested in knowing if he lied back then, either. It for sure comes in handy if he has one right now.

The man currently standing in front of Clark—Bruce, his mind hisses—is a smooth talker and liar. Clark can only sense the three words' causal response seems to be speaking more truth than his little talk about his vacation.

Like reading Clark’s suspicion, Bruce takes a sip of his drink and drily says, “You don’t believe it?”

“Yeah? Well.” Clark gives him a sheepish smile. “A lot of rumors about where you have been in the past few months have been circulating in the press lately. One of them is that you had a successful pregnancy and now are expecting another child—”

“Do I look pregnant to you?” Bruce curtly interrupts him, no real heat in his voice, but he sounds a bit alarmed, one hand gesturing to his slim waist and flat midsection. 

“Well.” Clark fumbles with his glasses and stares at his stomach. He used to x-ray this part of the other man’s body so many times, it’s now becoming an instinct for him to switch the vision on and check. Clark doesn’t know what his organs look like when he is not pregnant, since Clark picked him up on the street, Bruce was already obviously pregnant. What Clark sees here looks healthy enough for an Omega male. There are no signs of pregnancy, nor the scars of the horror incision on layers of muscles and skin that Clark performed on him, either.

“Not really.” Clark hesitantly admits. When he looks up, he barely catches Bruce concealing a flash of annoyance under a perfect smile. “You look as gorgeous as usual. If not more so.”

“Great, I definitely tried to catch up on my beauty care when I was away.” Bruce murmurs this to himself. An outright lie. Clark detects. And a hidden eye roll when he steps aside and tries again to walk away from Clark.

Not so fast, Mr. Wayne. Clark thinks and smooths blocks Bruce one more time. The smile on Bruce grows a little wider. A little dangerous. He is losing his patience. Clark notices. Something, probably more than just Clark’s presence, bothers him. 

“You smell good, too.” Clark honestly says. Hyper aware that he is borderline creepy now. “Like a true Omega. Is that…”

“Just a personal selection of perfume.” Involuntarily, Bruce curls his lips and shows too many white teeth to Clark for one brief moment. Normal reporters wouldn’t know what they just saw but certainly would feel warned and intimidated. Clark was just being warned and intimidated. “But, yes. It’s the product that came out last year if you ever paid attention to commercials. Now if you excuse me, Mister Nosy…” Bruce picks at his own tie and looks over Clark's shoulder for a second before looking at Clark’s eyes with his fake politeness, “I have to go.”

Clark bought the product, and he is damn sure. “It’s really not that one, trust me—” 

“Beloved,” A female voice directing Bruce rings behind Clark and cuts him short, “Are you alright?”

Clark turns and looks over his shoulder. A lady, with a darker skin tone and a slight accent indicating she is a foreigner, wearing a gorgeous one-piece green dress that matches her emerald eyes, walks past Clark and stands next to Bruce. 

She looks about the same age as Bruce. Maybe a little older from the protective way she talks to him and holds herself. She is also no doubt an Alpha, even though there is no obvious scent emanating from her at first. Scent blockers. Then, Clark catches it with his super sense. A tiny hint of a strong and authoritative Alpha. She raises one hand and rubs her wrist under Bruce’s chin without asking for permission first, almost touching his scent gland if not for the collar and tie covering it up. A bold demonstration of courtship and intimacy. Immediately draw out the simmering anger inside of Clark.

Bruce certainly has a second opinion about this sudden and inappropriate behavior. “Talia.” He hisses in warning, tilting his head away from her fingers and waist. He doesn’t back away or step away, though, even when he clearly hates this gesture.

Talia smiles and smoothly drops her hand down. A knowing and doting look slowly emerges on her face. Bruce gives his tie another frustrating pull, like finding this room is getting too hot and humid, screws the poor thing, and refuses to meet Talia in the eyes.

They keep doing this silent exchange of microexpressions and body language for a few seconds before Talia finally decides to acknowledge the presence of Clark.

“Good evening, sir.” The cool confidence in Talia makes Clark want to straighten his posture and go into a full Alpha mood. He can be very intimidating if Clark wants. “You’re a reporter, right?”

Her gaze lowers to Clark’s chest for a brief second to scan his badge. 

“Yes, Clark Kent from the Daily Planet.” Clark extends his hand, “And Miss, you are…”

Talia ignores both his hand and his question. “I believe Mr. Luthor is about to deliver his opening speech very soon. It’s better you go back and get ready for your work.”

Bruce huffs. He purposely looks away when both Talia and Clark turn to look at him. 

Talia dismisses Clark with a firm “You should go.” Not exactly an Alpha command, but it feels the same nonetheless. 

Despite his roaring instinct, Clark decides to retreat for now. It’s not wise to rush things when he still doesn’t know much about Bruce’s situation. He gives the two a small and mild smile in a true reporter’s way and then leaves the two alone. Bruce pushes out a wave of scent that smells like amusement and being pleased when Clark turns. It's hard to tell whose action makes him a bit happy.

Clark keeps his hearing open and listens to their conversation.

“Bruce.” Talia says after Clark is far enough that he can’t eavesdrop on their talking if he is a normal human. “Are you alright? You look flushed.” Her voice sounds much more sincere than when Clark was around.

Bruce grunts in frustration. “You haven’t been gone for too long.” He doesn’t sound like he really cares about her concern. “Is that bad?”

“Luthor is prepared for me.” Talia’s voice becomes colder and lower, then she purrs. “But he would never see you coming. It’s your turn now, beloved. Go get everything you can. Father will be pleased.”

Bruce grunts again and starts to walk away. His footsteps get lost in the crowd. Clark has to hold on to the urge to look over his shoulder and check on his whereabouts. He focuses on finding Lois instead. He locates her soon and goes to her.

True to Talia’s words, people start gathering in front of the twin grand stair after two lines of staff descend down from there and set up everything for the opening. Clark makes it back to Lois just in time when Luthor reveals himself at the top of the stairs and stands there for a long moment just to receive the thundering applause.

“So you found him.” Lois mutters in claps, angling the camera and hoping to catch a few photos to go with the news. It doesn’t matter, Clark; like it or not, Luthor’s gala probably ends as the headline for tomorrow’s paper.

When applause recedes, Lois asks, “Is he really the one?”

With numerous people surrounding him, it’s safe for Clark to turn around and zoom in on Bruce again. However, Bruce is nowhere to be seen.

“I think so,” he says while keeping looking and ignoring Lois’s “Holy shit,” “but there are some details that don’t line up. There is also this Talia.”

“A lady.” Lois sounds interested.

Clark ignores her; he listens for Bruce’s heartbeat now. Bruce is still close by. In this building, he is in a quieter place and moving very fast. His footstep is lighter than the feather dropping on the ground. He moves like a determined ghost, phasing through the walls and floors.

“An Alpha.” Clark says, “She is onto him, acting like…”

“A girlfriend,” suggests Lois teasingly.

Clark frowns. “A warden.” It feels like the right choice of word. Clearly there is a man—her “father”—who is behind all of this and controls them like puppets. The mastermind. 

“What does she look like?”

“Green dress, dark hair, green eyes, dark skin like she is either from the Middle East or Asia, hard to tell—” Clark’s head gradually turns as he listens to Bruce. Finally, he finds him a few dozen floors above them now, where all Luthor’s upper management and probably business secrets are located. No visitor is allowed to wander freely. “Shit.”

Lois tenses, whispering, “What’s wrong?”

Clark looks at Lois with wide eyes, having no idea how Bruce sneaks into those highly guarded floors so quickly. Since Bruce moves with a destination in mind, it’s easier to guess where he is heading.

“I think he is heading to Luthor’s office.”

Chapter Text

As far as Bruce knew, Ra’s used to make some deals with Lex Luthor in the past, and those deals seemingly extended to today. Their cooperation went so far and deep back in time that it made Bruce feel uncomfortable. 

Luthor was a smart businessman but had a god complex bigger than the sun. His adamant hatred toward Superman was both confusing and troublesome, which most times served him no good and landed him directly in trouble. 

Ra’s didn’t need a partner who lost his cool every time a red and blue blur flew across the sky. And even with their entwined business and shared interests, Ra’s suspected that Luthor was inclined to break their deals when the time came due to his nature of opportunism.

Talia was sent out to check and ensure Luthor kept up his end of the deals. It basically meant going spying and finding out Luthor’s little dirty secrets so that Ra’s could have an upper hand if his suspicion about Luthor was proved to be right. Or it came down to something as simple as collecting blackmail materials.

She was given the access to all the assets and manpower to accomplish her mission and took charge of everything.

Bruce was supposed to be simply alone on the ride to make some appearance and sent out his own message to the public so that everyone back home would know he was not dead anymore.

However, Bruce speculated whatever mission Talia received directly from Ra’s was more than just going out and checking. There had to be something particular that Ra’s had in mind and wanted to have in hand. Something that was specific and he didn’t want Bruce to know about.

Ra’s was a discreet person, and there was little he cared to share with Bruce even in the past few months they spent together. He said that Bruce had already known his biggest secret, and whatever was left was mere details. Bruce was also told that he could have everything once he was ready—once he mated with Talia and sealed their bond. 

The League of Assassins operated like the way that a family business did. There was one and only requirement for everything—joining the family. The one and only thing that Bruce didn’t find himself particularly interested in.

However, he did intend to find out what Ra’s was interested in. Anything that Ra’s didn’t wish to share became Bruce’s business to know.

Curiosity killed the cat. Might be bats, too. 

Bruce and Talia’s arrival in Metropolis didn’t go unnoticed by Luthor, and that’s part of the plan to see what Luthor’s reaction would be. The result was quite interesting. Luthor was more or less on edge because of their presence. After a couple of days, he sent out his personal assistant, Mercy, and invited them—mainly Talia, and Bruce came alone as her plus one—to visit his headquarters. There was no reason for them not to accept his offer. 

The next morning, Mercy had the car ready and waited for them at the entrance of the hotel they booked. She took them directly to Luthor’s office on the top floor, where Luthor waited for them with a smile just a little bit strained and forced.

The surprise on his face when Luthor saw Talia bring Bruce alone for this invitation was genuine. He tried to poke and prod to find out why Bruce was hanging with Talia, but neither of them gave him an answer. Luthor was always more interested in Wayne Enterprise than Bruce Wayne the person, but he certainly caught up with the nuance change in Bruce’s scent. When he showed his interest in it, Talia got offended, which probably gave Luthor some ideas about their relationship. He had a nasty smile that made Bruce want to punch him in the face.

Later, Luthor suggested he and Talia should go downstairs, to the lab, and “see the good progress with her own eyes,” and “it makes more sense if he can explain as she sees it.” 

Bruce was not asked to join them. He was pretty much ignored in their entire conversation about obscure experiments and trials. Even though he thought Bruce was an airhead playboy, Luthor was tight-lipped about all his illegal business.

“Everything you need, Mercy will get for you.” Luthor smiled at Bruce before he ushered Talia out of his office. “Including my personal selection of alcohol. Enjoy your time, and we will be back before you miss us.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Frankly, I don’t have any faith in your mini bar, but I guess I will hang on to whatever I can do.” He jumped off the sofa and sauntered to the mini bar, hearing others’ footsteps shuffling out of the room.

Most of the alcohol that Luthor stocked was bourbon and a few other expensive whiskeys. Bruce used to see Luthor drinking wine and champagne in public or dining. His bar only contained a few elementary drinks for cocktails and basic tools. Not enough to make a Jack Rose. So Bruce settled on mixing two cups of gin and tonic.

Bruce carried the drinks to Mercy, who stood by the door and guided the office with a stony face, and handed her one.

Mercy eyed the drink like she was staring at viper poison. “Thanks, Mr. Wayne. But no thanks.” She said with a cold voice.

“No drink at work, huh?” Bruce sipped on his own drink. Mercy didn’t reply to him but kept her sight on him. When Bruce turned, he could feel her eyes on his back. He started walking around the room, stopping by Luthor’s desk and taking all the small details in, wandering in the large office open area again, and talking nonsense.

Mercy was not chatty. She didn’t reply to Bruce at all and watched Bruce with cold eyes.

“Does Lex have other secretaries? Bring them in, and we can chat a bit.” While passing in front of her, Bruce caught the annoyance briefly flashing on Mercy’s face. “It gets a little boring, don’t you think?”

Mercy didn’t say anything at first, but Bruce added, “Please?” and that did the trick.

In a few minutes, a few young and nice-looking ladies were called upon and entered the office. All of them were submissive and quiet Beta girls. Lex Luthor definitely had an interesting theory about workforce and gender roles, or sub-gender roles. Those girls probably never spent a long time in Luthor’s office, and they looked lost and uneasy. They stayed in the sofa area and won’t come over anywhere near Luthor's desk. But they were deferential enough to answer all the ridiculous questions that Bruce threw at them.

When Luthor and Talia came back an hour later, Bruce had worked his way with the girls and got them relaxed and laughing freely with him.

“Um hum.” Luthor faked coughing. “Ladies and gentlemen.” His corner of eyes twitched when he saw Bruce turn his office into a nightclub. He gave a particular look to Talia, but Talia only smiled.

“You look like you are having a good time, beloved.”

The girls silently left Bruce and stepped out of the office when Luthor showed up and gave them a stern look. Bruce shrugged. “It’s gold.” He tilted his head and looked at Luthor, smiling. “You should invite me over more, Lex. I can make you a drink.”

Luthor was very much ready to strangle Bruce with his bare hands. Honestly, Bruce had no idea what offended him more. The girls, or the drinks, or simply his presence. But he didn’t care. He got what he came for anyway.

The layout of Luthor’s office and how people navigated here.

-x-

Yes, Bruce is prepared to come back and pay Luthor a visit any time soon. 

Luthor inviting them to his gala was just another excuse to keep an eye on Talia and watch her closely. Talia sneaking into Luthor’s illegal underground laboratory—a place guarded twenty-four seven and with security that might take hours to crack or bypass—was more of a show. Bruce was supposed to be the one carrying out the mission seriously for today.

Right now, everybody’s attention is either on the gala or on the underground laboratory. The security of the top floors brings no trouble to Bruce. He is in Luthor’s office in no time. Thanks to all the clues Luthor’s secretary girls unconsciously dropped. They don't know half a thing about how the security of the top floor works, but certainly they know places that they should not be in and times that they shouldn’t hang around. Help Bruce narrow down a lot of things. It’s just a reversed mind game.

Luthor’s office is empty, as expected. Once he is in and secures his surroundings, Bruce makes a beeline to Luthor’s desk and computer. Never mind the password and bioscan. Bruce fishes out a chip specifically made for this one mission and plugs it in. It’ll take a few minutes to capture and download whatever Ra’s is pleased to see, then Bruce will get out of here like he has never been there before.

Well, he will. If things work accordingly.

And it works out fine as far as the download part goes. Bruce simply waits there and watches the screen do the countdown. In a few minutes, everything is set and done. Whatever Ra’s holds dear interest is saved, and the chip is automatically ejected. Bruce collects the chip on the tip of his finger and is ready to safely put it away, and that’s the time when he hears—

Knock-knock.

Curling his fingers into a loose-fitting fist and hiding the chip in the palm, Bruce straightens his posture and avoids looking over his shoulder for a brief moment. Then, another short repeat of knock-knock happens. The sound doesn’t come from the entrance door. It’s too far away to hear the knocking sound so clear. And the knocks don’t sound like a knuckle knocking on the wood—it’s a rich, dark-colored walnut wooden door that Luthor installed for his office. The sound is dull and muffled.

Like knocking on the high-performance double-glazed windows at the right back of Bruce.

Turning around, Bruce masters a bright and charming smile and relaxes as he owns the place. He looks right at the drifting figure outside of the window, adding a tiny bit of surprise into his expression.

“Wow.” Bruce pitches his voice, eyebrows rising. “It’s really a pleasure to meet you here, Superman. But what are you doing here?”

The red- and blue-clad hero has his arms crossed in front of his chest. No usual sunny smile or charm. The frown on his face makes him all serious and business.

“I could ask you the same, Mr. Wayne,” says Superman, his voice muffled by the glass and reduced to almost nothing, but Bruce can read his lips with no problem. “What are you doing in Luthor’s office?”

-x-

It takes longer for Clark to get all the way downstairs and out of the building so he can change into Superman and get back and find Bruce.

When he is ready, Bruce has already reached and broken into Luthor’s office. It’s a state-of-the-art kind of work. He stands behind Luthor’s desk like he owns the place. When Clark flies to his position and has a better look at him, whatever Bruce is here to do is almost accomplished. 

Well, at least he is not late. Clark thinks, politely waiting for Bruce to wrap things up before he gets his attention.

Then the attention he gets.

Bruce doesn’t look bothered when he is caught red-handed. Definitely radiating an air that he simply wandered into the wrong place and is ready to get out of it right now. He gives an apologetic smile, but not an ounce of shame shows up in his expression. Typical drunk playboy behavior. Even though Clark believes he is sober as a stone.

And the flirtatious tone he greets Superman with. It makes Clark frown and frustrated.

Behind the curtain wall, Bruce makes a gesture to his ear and shrugs. “Sorry, I can’t hear you.”

The soundproof curtain wall doesn’t prevent Clark from hearing what’s going on inside, but a normal person probably won’t be able to hear anything coming out of Clark’s mouth. Clark doesn’t think Bruce, who just happened to sneak past the top security and break into Luthor’s office, has no idea about what he just said.

Sure, Clark thinks, two can play the game.

Clark has to get near him to obtain whatever Bruce downloaded from Luthor’s computer. Knowing your enemy is never a wrong choice. And Clark is also curious about what catches Bruce’s interest.

Smashing all the glass panels would be an exaggeration. From his experience—Clark visited Luthor’s office a good handful of times, and Luthor is tired of fixing all the broken glasses after the first few unhappy meetings they had—there is a button that can open a secret door (or window, more exactly) and let Clark in. Clark motions Bruce to find it. It’s pretty obvious.

Bruce finds the button without any trouble. He looks down at the button, then looks up at Clark, slowly raising his eyebrow. Are you sure of this? is written all over Bruce’s face. Clark reads a silent challenge in it.

Go ahead. Clark gives him a firm nod. Bruce shrugs and pushes the button. If the button is wired in security—not that Clark is certain—Bruce certainly isn’t worried about it.

A double-door-sized glass panel seven feet above the floor hisses and slides open. Wind gusts in when Clark descends from the sky and enters the office. 

Bruce doesn’t move away but leans on the desk and watches Clark slowly drifting closer to him until they are almost bumping into each other, in a distance so close and deeply unsettling.

Clark is already two inches taller than Bruce. The drifting makes the height difference even greater. Staring down the pair of unmoving pale blue eyes feels like staring down a bottomless lake hidden in a remote mountain forest. The coolness it carries is both calming and deeply perturbing.

“You know, if you just want to look at me at a closer range,” Bruce reaches Clark with one hand—the hand without the chip hidden in his palm—and touches the sigil on Clark’s chest, holding him there. He gives a show of ogling by slowly raising his gaze from Clark’s chest to his eyes, batting his eyelashes. His scent subtly changes, too. Not entirely pulled back, but in an inviting way curling around him. “You can always say that, and I’m more than happy to help.” He whispers. “In a private place, my place, of course.”

Bruce looks gorgeous as sin when he is set for seducing, and it brings out complicated and mixed feelings in Clark when Superman is at the receiving end. This is his mate, who doesn’t know him anymore and would very much like to deploy seduction as a way out when Clark is merely a stranger to him. In a split second, Clark’s logic has to battle with his instinct of whether he should play alone or he would be better off just flipping the table and cutting the crap out.

In hindsight, letting the feeling and instinct guide the course is probably the worst mistake Clark had made in the past half a year. It cost him dearly, and he won’t repeat the history.

So the logic wins.

“Of course we can talk about what you just downloaded from Luthor’s computer in a more private place, Mr. Wayne.” Clark drifts a tiny bit closer, barely enough to make Bruce feel the push. Bruce leans back, and the hand holding the chip is on the table and shores up his weight. “Do you mind just handing over the chip to me and saving us both the trouble?”

“I do have a type about active ones, but I also like to leave a little surprise until the second date. Don’t rush things, but let it come to you. What do you think about it?” 

Bruce leans back more as Clark gradually pushes forward. He bends back dangerously. Clark has a hand cross him and holds on the table, locking him between his arms. Clark works his way and reaches Bruce’s fist. There is a thin and tight black glove over it, but he can feel the warmth radiating from Bruce’s skin. And also his fluttered pulse.

Staring at Bruce’s eyes, Clark says, “I’m not sure we get enough time.” His fingers now lock with Bruce’s. With a little more push, their fingers will be laced together.

“Oh, there is plenty.” Bruce whispers. 

His hand under Clark’s hand suddenly twists, grinding down a little, pushing the button the second time. It’s only thanks to his super sense that Clark feels a wave of buzzing sending him off immediately. The hum of electricity and equipment all change at this instant. The security is alarmed, and the office is locked down. Rustling clothes and heavy steps ring down the hallway.

It won’t take more than a minute for all the security guards to break in here.

Before Clark can get them both out of here, the hand holding on to Clark’s chest goes limp, and the sudden loss of support makes Clark crash forward. Bruce doesn’t try to get away from Clark at this moment. He comes closer. His face is all Clark can see for one second before their lips smash together.

There are also a couple of things happening simultaneously: Bruce shakes off Clark’s hand when he is distracted by the kiss and wipes it a little below the small of his back, where the lead-lined hidden pocket nestled on his expansive leather belt. Clark’s hand traces Bruce’s movement only a second slower and finds that pocket; fingers ruthlessly poke in and fish that chip off. Their kiss becomes heated and messy. Bruce shuts his eyes and swallows Clark’s tongue and moans shamelessly, like he forgets everything happening around him. Clark bends him over on the desk in one fluid motion, like it's the most natural thing to do, and kisses him senseless, feeling like a bomb goes off in his mind and shatters all the thoughts he has at that moment.

It clicks. Clark doesn’t know how much he misses—he wants—to have Bruce in his arms. With the right weight pressed against his chest, hot breath mingled with his own, scents tangling and mixing with each other and enveloping them, it's the most toxic thing that Clark has ever breathed in, and he can never expect it… it just clicks. Feels so right. Like heaven-sent.

The heavy walnut double door swings open with brutal force and a big bang. Half a dozen highly equipped security guards rush into the office howling and screaming “Freeze” and “Hands up.” Most of them freeze for a moment when they lay eyes on the couple spread on the desk. The red cape and blue suit are very recognizable in Metropolis.

Clark breaks the kiss and wipes his lips with the back of his hand before he looks up at the security guards. In peripheral sight, Bruce pants and puffs and is all flushed under him. He doesn’t bother to get up but tilts his head to the side and glances at whoever comes in and interrupts their small activity.

The security guards slowly draw closer and hold Clark at gunpoint. The leader reports in his comm. “Madam, we have Superman in Mr. Luthor’s office and also another…” He either doesn’t recognize Bruce or can’t get a good look at him, but he at least has a functional nose, “Omega.”

Instinctively, Clark draws his cape and shields Bruce behind him, drawing all security’s attention to himself and giving enough time and space to Bruce so he can roll off from the desk.

“Good evening, sirs.” Clark greets. “No need for violence.”

“Don’t move!” The leader yells at him, fingers firmly holding at the trigger. One more slight pressure and he would shoot. 

“Sure.” Clark lands on the floor with a tiny thump, then stands over there and stays still.

“You! Don’t move!” The leader turns and yells at Bruce, who pays him no mind and takes his sweet time making his cloth and getting down on the floor with both his feet.

“What’s the matter?” Bruce’s voice is husky and low in a lazy and lewd way. It makes Clark thrilled as electricity runs down his spine. Clark slightly turns to check on Bruce but only finds out he winks at him.

“Stay put!” The leader barks.

Bruce has no sense of self-perversion, either. He walks out from behind Clark and saunters to the bar across the room. Somehow his cloth looks more screwed and wrinkled after smoothing. His belt definitely is too loose to hold his dress pants in place. The pants dangerously and slowly drag themselves down alone each step that Bruce takes toward the bar.

Clark definitely holds back the urge to help him dress properly. He keeps reminding himself that right now he should act like Bruce is merely a stranger. And that’s too intimate and embarrassing to lift another man’s pants.

More security guards shuffle into the office, and one-third of them hold Bruce at gunpoint and turn around like sunflowers with him.

When Bruce pours himself a drink, Mercy shows up at the entrance. 

“Superman and Mr. Wayne,” She takes in the mess in the office and coldly asks, “What the hell are you two doing in Mr. Luthor’s office?”

Chapter Text

“Come on, darling, you know perfectly how this part goes.” 

Bruce murmurs, not so quietly , under his breath while clumsily gulping down the bourdon. Some liquid unfortunately spills out on his white shirt. Clark has no idea when he loosens the top few buttons, showing off his slender neck and giving a good view of his broad and flushed bare chest.

On a second thought, Bruce does look more flushed than he is supposed to be. The kiss is good. Amazing. But Clark doesn’t think it can turn Bruce on so bad .

Something is off.

Like sensing Clark’s changing mood, Bruce flashes him a smile and gives him another flirtatious wink. His eyes are a little glassy and clouded with carnal desire. He smells nice, too. Sweet like ripe fruits. Luring as Siren’s song. 

He smells like heat . The realization crosses Clark’s mind like summer lightning. A real heat. There is also a special and subtle note in his smell to make him smell like Clark’s .

Clark instinctively holds his breath. He has enough experience and self-control to work with Omegas in heat. But Bruce is different. Knowing the other man may go into heat right now panics him, but it also brings a vague and distant fear and arousal .

Mercy is not impressed by Bruce’s behavior, nor does she notice how off he smells. If anything, she looks offended. Aggression rolls off of her in waves.

“Get out of the room, now,” She hisses, “Mr. Luthor would like to see both of you downstairs.”

They move out of the room, escorted by security guards and Mercy, on to the hall, then down in the elevator. In the confined small space of the elevator, Clark tentatively takes a sniff and close inspection at Bruce, who starts lazily dragging his clothes back to their place and smooths out the wrinkles. Anyone who has eyes won’t doubt the playboy just does his usual route and has his fun when he is barely presentable and smells like expensive alcohol.

But under the smell of strong bourbon, there is an undeniable note of heat. Clark frowns. An impending heat. Impending like a summer storm. Lurking on the horizon of the ground. Threatening to break down at any minute. He closely monitors Bruce, discreetly assessing his condition.

For now, Bruce doesn’t seem to be bothered. It’s hard to tell if he is aware that his heat is so close.

Luthor is outside of the elevator when the door opens. He looks furious and barely holds his anger at bay when Bruce suddenly marches out of the elevator and to him.

Bruce moves in like lightning; when the securities realize what he is doing, they are already too late to hold him back. Clark is conveniently blocking Mercy’s way when she is about to jump in and stop Bruce. She shoots daggers at Clark when the other man beams at her and looks sheepish.

Bruce gives Luthor a tight hug and smashes his head on his collar—the part is still wet with the spilled liquid. The face Luthor made is comical, but the barely concealed hatred and disgust in his eyes also makes Clark’s teeth itch and want to snarl at him.

“Lexy, your men really have no fun at all,” Bruce dramatically claims while being pushed back by Luthor. Bruce swiftly changes to loop an arm around him like they are old friends and pats Luthor on the shoulder.

“And you have absolutely zero respect,” Luthor hisses under his breath with murderous intent. 

If Bruce has heard what he just said, he doesn’t show it. Bruce pulls off—or Luthor impatiently shakes off—him. He stares at Luthor’s eyes and says, “You should come to my parties more so I can show you how to do it right.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Luthor forces out a screwed smile, “Now, tell me why you are in my office with—” He shoots a particular look at Clark, “Superman and doing what?”

“Well—” Bruce clears his throat.

“Isn’t that a bit of invading privacy, Superman?” Luthor threatens. Normally, he would use this to his advantage, Clark thinks; it’s not any day Superman would break into his office uninvited and without a good excuse. It’s going to make an interesting story if it leaks to the press. Unfortunately, anger gets the better of Luthor now.

Or worry . Clark narrows his eyes. What is he worrying about?

“It’s exactly about privacy .” Bruce snaps his finger. In a way he suddenly finds what he is looking for to say.

“How?” Luthor asks in reflex.

“So when you were having your big speech in the ballroom, and when the room got insufferably hot, I decided to find somewhere to chill, like, you know, a place that is a bit more private…” Bruce says, like he hasn’t ruined Luthor’s mood already, giving him a lopsided smile. His words slur like he is wasted even though Clark knows he can’t have more than a mouthful of alcohol which barely gives his cheeks a pretty color. “Frankly, I just don't really expect someone would like to join me. But lucky me…”

“What are you doing there?” Giving up any communication with Bruce, Luthor directs his anger and frustration toward Clark, who stands aside and watches them intensively, biting it out word by word. “Superman.” 

“Someone must either drug Mr. Wayne or dose him with highly concentrated hormones,” Clark says as a matter of fact, carefully hiding all his thoughts and feelings. “He is about to enter a false heat. I just wanted to check him out and make sure he is okay.”

Even though Clark knows for certain the heat is the real deal, the one Omegas are expected to have, he also knows that the public knows Bruce as a Beta. Betas can and only have false heats, and most of the time it’s drugged.

“Nonsense. I’m okay.” Bruce laughs and then smiles, batting his eyes at Clark. “But don’t you worry, we can continue what we started soon somewhere else; you can check me out and make sure I’m all good…”

“Excuse me!” Luthor almost screams. Hearing Bruce shamelessly inviting Superman to fuck him probably fucks his mind. He looks outrageously mad and reddened. 

It shocks Clark, too. The most ridiculous and scandalous days for Bruce Wayne slowly fade into the background as he ages and adopts many kids, a period of crazy time that he only witnessed in papers and rumors, but it seems the playboy persona comes back in full force tonight.

“Okay. Okay. Come on, Lexy.” Bruce throws one arm around Luthor’s neck and drags him to the side and whispers, “I’m sorry that I forgot about you. It’s all my fault, and I promise you there won’t be a next time. Please don’t be so mad, okay? I know you have a thing with the big blue there…”

“I have what?” Luthor screeches. Clark winces, too. 

“The thing .” Bruce blinks. “You are obsessed with the man. Everyone who has eyes can tell you that, but I won’t blame you. He looks super indeed.”

Bruce makes it sound like Lex Luthor has had an on-and-off relationship with Superman for years and also a bastard child no one is happy to pay child support for, and it’s only Luthor who has not yet realized it.

Clark coughs behind them, reminding them that he is here and can hear them very clearly.

Luthor is speechless and shocked. Then he fiercely pushes Bruce away and shakes his suit jacket like Bruce is some kind of horrible and contagious virus that he doesn’t want to get any on him.

Bruce only beams at him when Luthor takes his deep breath and calms himself down.

After a while. “I think Miss Talia is looking for you, Bruce,” Luthor comes back, scowls, and reminds him, “You shouldn’t keep a lady waiting. And you—” He turns and glares at Clark, failing to hide the disgust in his eyes. “Mercy will show you the way out. Both of you.”

When Mercy steps closer and shows Bruce off, Bruce refuses to leave Luthor alone. “Come on, Lex,” he keeps pestering him. “Don’t you want Superman to give your party a little speech? People would be thrilled to hear that.”

“Why on earth should I do that—”

“To spice things up a little bit. People would love it.” Clark whips his head and stares at Bruce in disbelief. There is mischievous glee in Bruce’s eyes. “Not every day you can get Superman to give a speech at your little party. Thinking about the publicity .”

To make it worse, Luthor seems to seriously consider it. Err, businessman . His expression changes and suddenly becomes all smiles and professional. 

Or evil. In Clark’s opinion. 

“I shouldn’t take more of your precious time,” Clark says. “I’m leaving.”

“Not so fast.” A malicious smile is now creeping on Luthor’s face. “That’s actually a good idea. How do you like it, Mr. Superman? I know I used to walk on the wrong path, and I know you mean to keep an eye on me by coming to my gala in secret, but I’m a changed man. I’m open to all critics and welcome supervision. You could always give me your honest opinion and guidance. In public or private .”