Chapter Text
Clark hadn’t imagined that, among all the obstacles of dating and marrying Bruce—the legally insane exes, the crises of trust, the silences that stretched like shadows—one of the hardest would be witnessing the relentless way the man treated his own body.
Sleep? Only when his body gave out, overcome by exhaustion. Eating properly? Only under Alfred’s watchful eye, who turned every meal into a silent battle.
And the cruelest irony was that Clark already knew Batman’s habits. Ten years of friendship, shared missions, endless late nights in the League’s monitor room… But living with Bruce was different. It was seeing up close how he wore himself down, as if his body were just a tool to be used until the last drop of energy was spent.
At first, Clark even smiled, shaking his head with a hint of resignation. "It’s just another big case," he thought, watching Bruce immersed in digital screens, fingers flying over keyboards and files. But when the coffee cups multiplied like soldiers in a losing war and the dark circles under Bruce’s eyes looked like smudges of ink, something inside him shuddered.
There was something almost violent in that neglect. Bruce didn’t just ignore exhaustion—he defied it, as if it were an unforgivable weakness. And Clark, used to seeing beyond surfaces, witnessed the toll it took: the tense muscles, the faltering breath when he thought no one was looking, the nearly imperceptible tremor in his hands after hours without rest.
And then came the question, echoing in Clark’s mind like a dull blow: "How is this man still standing?"
And the worst part? The entire Batfamily acted like it was normal. Dick patted him on the back, grinning as if Clark had volunteered to tame a hurricane. "Good luck, buddy. You’re gonna need it." As if it were funny.
Jason, at least, didn’t pretend. A tired glance, a whispered "Welcome to hell" before vanishing into the night—and Clark didn’t even want to imagine how many of Jason’s own scars came from that same bottomless pit of "push until you break."
Tim was the only one who tried to help, but even he was drowning in the same workaholic haze, typing like a maniac across three screens at once, eyes red with fatigue. "He’s actually better now, believe it or not," the kid muttered, as if that were any comfort—even as he cracked open his third energy drink.
Better? Clark almost laughed. If this was better, what were the bad days like? How many broken ribs had Bruce shrugged off? How many sleepless nights, how many skipped meals, how many times had he passed out from exhaustion only to wake up minutes later and get back to work like nothing had happened?
And what hurt the most was that Bruce didn’t even complain. It wasn’t drama, it wasn’t a tantrum—it was pure duty, as if his body were a necessary sacrifice, something to be consumed down to the last drop. And the family… the family just accepted it. Maybe because they were like that too. Maybe because, deep down, all the Robins had learned that this was what love demanded: letting yourself drain away until nothing remained.
Clark closed his eyes, his throat tight. He didn’t know how to fix it. But he knew he wouldn’t just stand by and watch.
Because someone had to remind Bruce Wayne he was still human.
And, apparently, that task fell to him alone.
When he and Bruce finally made their relationship official—after years of loaded glances and unspoken words, after the amicable divorce with Lois, after the entire League had already given up hope—what followed was less a celebration and more a whirlwind of accountability.
The entire League seemed to have bet on them. Literally. Money changed hands, laughter echoed through the monitor room, and Hal Jordan muttered something about "finally stopping the act like they weren’t obsessed with each other." But the real surprise was Diana, smiling like the cat that got the canary, counting a stack of bills with nimble fingers.
"I always knew," she declared proudly, her eyes gleaming as if she'd predicted the end of the universe. "You two were inevitable."
Clark stood there, slightly embarrassed, his ears burning, while Bruce beside him maintained his usual impassive expression—but Clark knew that man. He could read the faint tremor at the corner of his mouth, the way his fingers tightened around his own elbow, as if holding himself back was the only way not to react.
"Since when has there been a betting pool?" Clark asked, bewildered.
"Since the day you called him 'stubborn' mid-battle and he fired back with 'at least I don’t wear a red cape,'" Barry answered, laughing. "That’s when we all realized you two had the romantic chemistry of a 90s sitcom couple."
Bruce let out a grunt, but Diana simply held up a bill like it was irrefutable evidence.
No one could say it had been easy.
Bruce Wayne didn’t surrender—he resisted, as if love were an enemy to be fought, a weakness to be conquered. Clark knew every one of those demons that haunted Bruce in the dark: the whispers that trust was dangerous, that opening his hands was an invitation to be stabbed, that nothing good in his life could ever last. He saw the scars that ran far deeper than skin—the nights Bruce woke with the taste of gunpowder in his mouth, the days his silence cut sharper than any blade.
But Clark waited.
Patient as the sun that insisted on rising every morning. Relentless as the light that, no matter how thick the darkness, always found a way back.
And then, on an ordinary day, it happened.
No warning. No grand gesture.
The kitchen of Wayne Manor smelled of apple pie and fresh coffee. Alfred was washing dishes with his usual impeccable precision, the running water creating a soft background hum. Tim and Damian were fighting over the cat—again—with the youngest Wayne declaring with all the gravitas of a tiny dictator:
"No, Drake, you are not allowed to bother Alfred!"
While the rest of the family watched the spectacle with the resignation of those who'd seen it a thousand times before, something extraordinary happened.
Amid this picture-perfect domestic scene, Bruce—Batman, the Dark Knight, the legend who knelt for no one—just... dropped to his knees.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t planned. It was just Bruce, suddenly on the kitchen floor, his eyes more vulnerable than Clark had seen in a decade of friendship and two years of dating.
"Marry me."
Not a request. A plea. A confession torn from the soul of a man who’d spent his entire life barricaded behind walls. This was Bruce Wayne, finally—finally—surrendering.
Clark said yes before the last syllable had even left Bruce’s lips. Before the air could fully carry the sound. Before his brain had processed what was happening.
Because there was no other possible answer. There never had been.
The world stopped. Alfred turned off the faucet. Tim and Damian froze mid-argument. Even the cat seemed to grasp the moment’s weight, letting out a quiet mrrp.
And Bruce—oh, Bruce—smiled. A real one. That rare smile Clark only saw in the dead of night, in the breaths between sighs, when Bruce thought no one was looking.
Except now?
Now everyone was watching.
"FINALLY!" Tim exclaimed, throwing his hands up like he'd just won the lottery.
Then came a muffled sniffle, followed by a wet sob. Everyone turned to Dick, who was—oh god—full-on ugly crying, tears streaming down his face as he clutched his chest like his heart might burst from sheer joy.
"AFTER 12 YEARS OF WAITING, THIS MIRACLE FINALLY HAPPENED!" Dick wailed, dropping to his knees and raising his hands to the heavens like a sinner granted divine redemption.
"Tt. It was obvious this would happen," Jason muttered, but even he couldn't fully suppress the corner of his mouth that insisted on twitching upward.
Alfred simply dried his hands on his apron, wearing that trademark "I knew from the beginning" expression only a Pennyworth could convey without uttering a single word.
And Clark?
Clark was too busy pulling Bruce into a kiss—and for the first time in his life, Bruce Wayne didn't resist. Didn't hesitate. Didn't calculate the risks. He simply yielded, letting himself be swept away like he'd finally found safe harbor after a lifetime of storms.
It was everything Clark had ever wanted.
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Clark knew marrying Bruce meant gaining an entire family—and, apparently, a very specific list of creative threats. The BatFamily didn't joke around when it came to their patriarch's emotional well-being, and each had their own... unique way of welcoming him.
Jason arrived first, as expected. The door to Clark's study in Wayne Manor swung open without warning (because, of course, locks were mere suggestions to the likes of Todd), revealing the second Robin with that crooked grin that never heralded anything good and the relaxed posture of someone who knew exactly how much damage they could inflict.
Clark raised an eyebrow as Jason dragged over a chair and—in that familiar ritual Clark knew all too well—began loading the gun’s magazine, bullet by bullet, never breaking eye contact.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The metallic sound of each round was deliberately slow, calculated. A message as clear as if Jason had shouted it.
"Hurt him..." —Jason slid the magazine home with a satisfying click— "...and I won’t kill you."
He raised the gun, not as a direct threat, but like an artist showcasing a masterpiece.
"I’ll do worse."
As cliché as it sounded, Clark knew Jason well enough to understand the man held a PhD in making death seem merciful.
Tim was subtler, but no less terrifying. He showed up at Clark’s apartment with an impeccably organized dossier—"Methods for Neutralizing Kryptonians: A Practical Analysis"—and handed it over with a five-star-hotel concierge smile.
"Just for future reference."
The calm in his voice was almost more unsettling than Jason’s gun.
Then came Damian. The boy strode in like a tiny sovereign about to decree his edicts, crossed his arms, and lifted his chin with all the dignity his four-foot frame could muster.
"Betray my father’s trust," he declared, his voice dripping with a solemnity that would’ve been comical if it weren’t so deadly earnest, "and not even the Justice League will be able to stop my retribution."
Dick, at least, tried to be diplomatic—but even he couldn't resist a "You know they're not joking, right?" accompanied by that back-pat of his, half solidarity and half warning. It felt like he was preparing the Kryptonian for a future of metaphorical knives (and, given this family, possibly some very literal ones).
When Clark Kent officially moved into Wayne Manor, Alfred Pennyworth didn't just gain a son-in-law—he gained a walking miracle. For the first time in decades, here was someone with:
Supernatural strength to drag Bruce to bed when he insisted on becoming a caffeine-fueled zombie
Moral authority to stare down the Batfamily with that "I also fought an intergalactic dictator today, don't test me" look
And—astonishingly—Bruce Wayne now slept. Six hours. SIX. Alfred nearly dropped the teapot the first morning he saw the master of the house wake up without resembling a sleep-deprived vampire. Before, even his dark circles had dark circles! Now? He looked borderline human. Well, almost—because Bruce still growled like a bear woken mid-hibernation if anyone dared suggest he shouldn’t leap off buildings with three broken ribs.
But Clark... Clark was Alfred’s secret weapon. The man knew exactly when to deploy:
The "puppy-dog eyes" that made Bruce swallow his pride
The tone of voice that convinced the Dark Knight to accept help
The Kryptonian stubbornness that matched Bruce’s own
Now Bruce even let his kids patch him up when injured—albeit grumbling like a cornered cat.
Clark celebrated these small victories in secret, hoarding each moment like rare gems:
In the stubborn late nights, when Bruce insisted on "just one more report," his body would betray him. His head would droop slowly onto Clark’s shoulder, fingers stalling on the keyboard. The Man of Steel would smile, scooping him up like a rom-com groom (and ignoring the inevitable sarcastic remark he’d get later). Bruce would mumble unintelligible threats—maybe to imaginary criminals, or to the "excessively comfortable" pillows—but he wouldn’t wake. Victory.
During tea rituals, when Bruce would wrinkle his nose at the first sip—"Not even close to Alfred’s"—yet drink every last drop. His scarred hands would cradle the mug as if that mediocre brew were somehow precious. Clark would watch silently, memorizing it all: the steam curling between them, Bruce’s near-soundless sigh, the way his shoulders relaxed after the third sip. Victory.
But on those rare pre-9AM mornings, Bruce Wayne transformed into something mythical—hair wild like a startled cat’s fur, eyes squinting against light he’d never admit he needed, voice rough from unfiltered cigarettes and orders barked in the night. And then, in a miracle that would make the sun jealous, it happened: he smiled. One of those small, real ones, blooming like concrete flowers—as if the weight of the cowl had briefly vanished. Clark would stop breathing in those moments, becoming a Kryptonian statue—one wrong move might scare the rarity away.
And it wasn’t just that. Bruce was—against all odds and Wayne DNA—learning the language of feelings. Words that echoed through the Manor like gunshots:
"I care" uttered not during emergency surgery
"I’m proud" not followed by "but you could’ve done better"
And, on especially miraculous days—an "I love you" released into the air like it wasn’t a confession, but a universal constant
The Batfamily’s first reaction? Sheer panic.
The Batcave froze when the words left Bruce’s mouth:
"I love you all."
Jason—whose hands never abandoned a weapon, not even in his nightmares—dropped the Glock he'd been cleaning. The metal clattered to the floor like muffled thunder, but he didn't even blink. His eyes, usually so cynical, were now as wide as the street kid Bruce had found years ago—the same boy who'd pretended not to care when given his own room for the first time.
Tim choked on his coffee, coughing like a cat with a hairball, and nearly sent his laptop flying—which, for the third Robin, constituted a full-blown panic attack. His fingers, normally nimble enough to hack the Pentagon before breakfast, froze for a full second before launching into a frenzied typing spree.
Dick, ever the most expressive, turned so pale Clark almost flew him to the League medic on the spot.
"You running a fever?" Jason's voice was rough, but the hand he pressed to Bruce's forehead was unexpectedly gentle.
"Fear Gas? Arkham breakout? Scarecrow testing new formulas?" Tim already had five databases open on the Batcomputer, fingers flying like Gotham depended on it.
"Father, is this a coded message?" Damian stood at attention like a soldier on inspection, brow furrowed in that expression he'd inherited from Bruce. "Or psychological resistance training?"
Even Alfred, the eternal master of British discretion, nearly fumbled the silver tray. Nearly. His steady hands betrayed the slightest tremor—the Pennyworth equivalent of a meltdown.
But it wasn't fever. Wasn't magic. Wasn't encrypted code or modified Fear Toxin.
It was just... Bruce. Trying.
And then, as gradually as Bruce had learned to trust, they began to adapt:
Jason stopped checking his weapons every time Bruce muttered "I care about you."
Tim cut down his Batcomputer searches for "mind control" to just three times a week. On Wednesday, he even archived a folder.
Damian replaced his usual "This is irrelevant" with an almost imperceptible nod. (If that nod came with suspiciously shiny eyes? Case closed.)
Dick, of course, was already a professional hugger. But now his embraces with Bruce lasted exactly 10 seconds longer—Clark timed them.
It was slow. It was messy. But the boys were learning too—each dismantling their own traps, piece by piece.
Dick Grayson was unlearning how to smile.
It felt like a living contradiction: the eternal poster boy of cheerfulness, the acrobat who balanced pain and hope like circus rings, was finally letting the mask slip.
For the first time, he didn’t bolt after his second therapy session.
For the first time, he didn’t turn his exhaustion into a joke.
For the first time, he didn’t fake "I’m fine" when he clearly wasn’t.
No one in Wayne Manor would forget the night Dick—between bites of mashed potatoes—dropped a quiet "Not feeling great today, gonna turn in early" instead of his rehearsed "Everything’s awesome!"
The silence that followed was so thick even the antique dining room clock seemed to pause for a second.
Jason choked on his soda.
Tim froze mid-forklift, brain short-circuiting.
Damian’s utensil clinked like a gunshot in the quiet.
"Who are you and what have you done with Dick Grayson?" Jason gaped like he was seeing a ghost (or worse: an emotionally honest Dick Grayson).
And then... Dick laughed. Not that performative "Team morale!" chuckle, but a tired, genuine, human sound.
Progress.
Jason Todd was a human hurricane—the fury of the Lazarus Pit still roared in his veins, ghosts of the past whispering in his ears during sleepless nights. But something was shifting.
Before, when the rage boiled over, he’d explode. Vanish for weeks. Return with more scars and fewer explanations. Now… now he breathed. Deep. Slow. Counted to ten like Alfred had taught him in another life, back when he was still a Robin.
And the most shocking part? He and Bruce talked. No knives, no shouting, no blood on the Batcave floor. Just… trying. Two stubborn men painstakingly learning to navigate the turbulent waters they’d created.
Clark watched it all with a quiet smile. He knew the secret behind the transformation—and it wore a red baseball cap.
“C’mon, Todd. Critical mission,” Roy lied shamelessly, already dragging Jason by the arm.
These so-called “missions” always ended the same way: the two of them on Jason’s battered safehouse couch, empty pizza boxes littering the floor, some trashy 90s movie playing on the TV. Roy didn’t do pep talks. Didn’t force Jason to “talk about his feelings.” He just… stayed. Present.
Like that night Jason woke up screaming, hands trembling uncontrollably, mouth still bitter with the taste of grave dirt and Lazarus chemicals. Roy didn’t ask questions. Didn’t offer hollow comforts. Just shoved a glass of ice water into his grip and queued up Predator at full volume.
“Greatest film ever made,” he declared, with the conviction of someone who didn’t care they’d watched it three nights in a row.
Jason gulped the water down. Breathed. Looked at his boyfriend—at that accidental anchor keeping him grounded when memories tried to drag him under.
“You’ve got shit taste, Harper.”
Roy laughed, loud and unguarded, the sound echoing through the apartment. And something inside Jason—something wounded and ever-vigilant—finally stilled.
This was how Jason Todd found his way home. Not in a desperate sprint. Not in a blind leap. But step by step, scar by scar, like unraveling an ancient curse.
Like a battleship, marked by treacherous tides and countless wars, docking not at the edge of the world—but on a battered safehouse couch, among empty beer cans and the echo of easy laughter.
Damian Wayne remained, undeniably, Damian. A walking paradox of princely arrogance and lethal skill, packed into 1.5 meters of pure audacity—the kind of child who wore tailored suits and glared at adults with the disdain most reserved for irritating insects.
Yet between the lines of his insufferable behavior—if one knew to look with saintly patience and binoculars—subtle rebellions against his upbringing sprouted like weeds cracking concrete.
The first time he botched a training maneuver—a flawed spin that would’ve earned him grave injury in the League—his body braced automatically for impact. Muscles tensed, teeth clenched, eyes narrowed as he calculated the angle of the coming strike.
But the blow never landed.
Instead, Bruce said the three most revolutionary words Damian had ever heard:
“It happens. Try again.”
Three syllables that echoed in Damian’s mind for days, defying his entire programming. It happens. As if error were human. As if it were allowed. As if he didn’t need perfection to deserve existence.
Slowly, with the caution of a wild creature testing unknown terrain, Damian began exploring these new borders:
A laugh escaped during a video game match with Jon—loud, unguarded, so childishly genuine Damian barely recognized his own voice. And the sky didn’t fall. No earthquakes. No apocalypse. Just Jon grinning like this was normal. Like Damian had a right to lightness.
A shouting match with Jason that devolved into increasingly creative curses (his Arabic insult repertoire even impressed the Red Hood).
A strategy debate with Tim that almost—almost—escalated to violence. Damian listed three dismemberment methods before stopping, breathing deep, and… rolling his eyes. Tim’s victorious smirk nearly made him reconsider nonviolence.
“You’re going soft, demon brat,” Jason grumbled after one such incident—but there was an odd gleam in his eye.
“Evolving, he means,” Tim corrected, prudently stepping out of stabbing range.
Damian, of course, responded with characteristic maturity:
“I am not a Pokémon to ‘evolve,’ Drake. Mention it again and I swear—”
“You’ll stab me, yes, we know,” Tim interrupted, laughing. “But at least you give warning now. That’s progress.”
Of course, old habits die hard—especially when carved into you with daggers since the cradle. Daily stabbing threats persisted (Rome wasn’t built in a day). His posture remained blade-straight, his vocabulary absurdly ornate, his need to win every minor interaction like it was mortal combat.
But in those rare moments when he thought no one was looking, Damian became a child again:
Asking Alfred for cookie recipes.
Watching cartoons with Titus curled in his lap.
Letting Jon drag him into "adventures" that were really just… kids being kids.
And when Bruce lifted him during a particularly rough night—for no reason, just because—Damian didn’t protest. Didn’t reach for a blade. Just buried his face in his father’s shoulder.
He was learning the hardest lesson of all:
He could just be Damian.
Not the Heir to the Demon. Not Batman’s successor.
Just himself.
Among the Batfamily, Cass, Steph, Duke, and Barbara were the closest to "emotional stability"—or at least, stable enough to avoid 24/7 surveillance. Which, given the family track record, was practically a miracle.
Cass was no longer the silent shadow who spoke only through precise strikes and micro-expressions. Now, she delivered deadpan jokes as sharp as her roundhouse kicks—jokes that left Jason genuinely stunned.
“You… made a joke?” Jason once asked, eyes wide as if witnessing a supernatural event.
“Yes. Problem?” Cass fired back, face impassible but voice glinting with amusement.
The outcome was predictable: Dick howled with laughter behind them.
She still read body language better than any book—the tension in Tim’s shoulders, the clench of Damian’s jaw, Bruce’s unconsciously balled fists. But now, she also asked, out loud and clear:
"Are you okay?"
Steph, who used to vanish for weeks just to prove she needed no one, now showed up at the Manor whenever she pleased, usually to:
Operation: Snack Heist
"Jason, is your name on this sandwich?" she’d ask, mouth already full, shamelessly holding the clearly labeled "TODD'S PROPERTY - DO NOT TOUCH" meal.
"YES, DAMMIT!" Jason would roar from the next room.
"Hmm... tastes good," she’d reply, taking another deliberately slow bite as furious footsteps stormed closer.
Meme Terrorism
Bruce once found in the Batcave’s high-tech printer:
A photo of his bedhead + Comic Sans caption: "PRE-COFFEE BAT (ENDANGERED SPECIES)"
Duke no longer felt like a permanent guest in his own home. As the self-dubbed "Newest Wayne" (a title he vehemently contested—"For God’s sake, I’m older than the Demon Brat!"), it took months to carve out his place among the bats.
Official Couch Rights
The spot between Jason and Steph—a traditional warzone—where territorial disputes were settled via rock-paper-scissors.
Initiation into Brotherly Rituals
Dick finally included him in the sacred "Older Brother Training," which consisted of:
✓ Gaming until dawn
✓ Arguing over Gotham’s best burger joint
✓ Solemnly ignoring the concept of bedtimes
Barbara was, unquestionably, the sanest family member—which, given the company, was like being the least injured patient in a circus accident. But even she had her moments of levity:
"If you don’t stop squabbling like children in five seconds, I’ll disable all Batcave systems for a week—and cut the Wi-Fi," she’d announce over comms, fingers hovering dramatically over her keyboard as she watched the chaos safely from the Clock Tower.
The miracle? It worked. Instantly.
She joked that Clark was the family’s "emotional janitor"—finally giving Alfred a chance to retire. (A bald-faced lie. Alfred Pennyworth likely had a pact with a cosmic entity or was an ancient deity who’d adopted the Waynes as his own. But nothing provable… yet.)