Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ballroom gleamed like something out of a dream — or maybe a nightmare, depending on how one felt about chandeliers heavy with crystals, and enough perfume in the air to suffocate a small city.

Clark thought it was a bit of both.

Gotham never did anything halfway, least of all a Bruce Wayne event. The marble floors reflected the chandeliers’ brilliance so sharply that Clark could track every bead of sweat tricking down someone’s temple. Waiters drifted through like practiced shadows, balancing silver trays loaded with champagne flutes and canapés so tiny he had to squint to tell what they were.

The lighting was a bit too much for his taste, though he suspected most of the guests couldn’t see what he could — the powder melting at the edges of foundation, the careful contour smudging as it clung to damp skin.

He adjusted his tie, resisting the urge to tug at it again.

Clark had attended enough of these events to know the choreography: a guest would scream at the staff for doing their job, someone would spill their drink, and someone else, inevitably, would laugh a little too hard at one of Bruce Wayne’s jokes.

He didn’t love covering galas. The Daily Planet liked the prestige of sending reporters to cover Gotham’s endless fundraisers, but Lois usually managed to avoid them.

“No patience for small talk with men who call themselves 'philanthropists'," she said once, shoving the assignment at him. Tonight she’d played the “early morning meeting” card, and Clark hadn’t pressed her. He didn’t mind. Gotham wasn’t Metropolis, and every trip carried the possibility of running into someone he couldn’t help but want to see.

Gotham meant Batman.

Clark would never admit that this was part of the draw of these assignments, but it was. He told himself it was professional curiosity. He told himself it was duty.

He tried to be subtle about it.

Tried to.

The truth was, he enjoyed spending time with Bruce. A lot. More than he’d admit to anyone, maybe more than he could admit to himself.

They’d known each other long enough that “colleagues” didn’t cover it anymore. More than a decade of rooftops and ruined suits. Of quiet meals eaten in uniform on cold ledges. Of a language built out of half-words, glances and silences that meant as much as words ever could. Of breaking down, and rebuilding, and getting back up. Always together. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being just about missions, or even about Gotham.

He wanted to spend his time with Bruce.

And he didn’t mean Brucie Wayne, Gotham’s darling, idiot billionaire, who would eventually make an appearance tonight, drunk on charm and champagne.

He didn’t even mean Batman, his teammate, who definitely had a gravitational pull for him.

No, Clark meant the man that somehow lingered in the middle. Bruce.

There was something in him that was always searching for that man. If there was a meeting with the League, Clark caught himself looking for Bruce’s reaction. If there was a mission, he found himself waiting for Bruce’s opinion, weighing it heavier than his own sometimes. And any time Bruce gave him even the smallest sliver of undivided attention, Clark took it in like he was starved.

Sometimes Clark hated how many people wanted Bruce’s attention — hated how easy it was for the world to claim pieces of him, to pull him in a dozen different directions until there was barely anything left for himself. It wasn’t jealousy, not really. It was the simple, selfish wish to hold his focus just a little longer, to be the one Bruce turned to first, the one who could make that guarded expression soften. He didn’t want to share those rare, unmasked moments with anyone else. Sometimes he just wanted to see Bruce.

Maybe he wished for it too much, because right then the crowd shifted, and Bruce Wayne made his entrance.

The tuxedo was immaculate, cut to fit his frame perfectly, emphasizing broad shoulders and narrow hips like it had been cut from Bruce’s very silhouette. His eyes sparked with just enough mischief to suggest he’d already gotten away with something.

Clark recognized the performance instantly — this mask fit as snugly as the cowl.

People flocked to him like moths to a flame, drinks tilting precariously as they crowded close. Women leaned in with conspiratorial whispers; men clapped him on the back with exaggerated cheer, letting their hands linger for a few more moments than necessary.

And Clark, shamefully, wanted to do the same. To claim a portion of his attention, even if just for a moment.

He would’ve found it funny if it didn’t spark something sharp and uncomfortable in his chest. Everyone wanted a piece of Bruce Wayne, a fragment of his gaze, the brush of his arm, the curve of his smile.

“Hey!”

Clark startled slightly when a hand clapped his shoulder. He turned to find Dick Grayson grinning at him, bowtie slightly crooked, posture casual in a way only Dick could manage in a tux.

“Didn’t know you were covering tonight,” Dick said, balancing his champagne glass in one hand with easy grace.

“Lois asked me to. She hates traveling at night, and she’s got another event in the morning.”

Dick tilted his head knowingly. “Ah, right. The convenient ‘travel hack.’ Not all of us can go from Gotham to Metropolis in two minutes, you know?”

Clark chuckled, adjusting his glasses. “It’s a hassle sometimes, having to stay out of local air traffic.”

“Mm-hm,” Dick said, raising an eyebrow. “Pretty sure it’s less inconvenient than a three-hour drive from my place. Man, I hate Monday traffic. Do you even own a car?”

Clark opened his mouth to answer, but the words stalled. His gaze had drifted back across the room, zeroed in on the woman in the silver dress leaning just a little too close to Bruce. She draped her hand across his arm like it belonged there, her nails tracing patterns on the cuff of his sleeve.

Dick followed his line of sight, and his grin turned mischievous.

“Careful, Kent,” he said, low enough so only Clark could hear. “You’re gonna set Ms. Silver Dress on fire if you keep glaring at her like that. Not figuratively, either.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Clark responded, looking away quickly.

“Oh, come on. I’ve watched you two dance around each other for years. Don’t play dumb.”

“We don’t–” Clark cut himself off, scowling. “We don’t dance around anything.”

Dick gave him a look, all raised brows and silent judgment.

Clark huffed. “I just don’t like seeing people get touchy with him. You know he hates that. The only ones who can get away with it are you and your family.”

“Maybe, but he knows what he’s doing. So back to my point: why is it bothering you so much right now?”

Clark’s mouth opened, then closed. “I told you, it’s not– never mind.”

He cut himself off, frustration prickling under his skin, and before he knew it he was moving.

Three bodies away. Two. He slipped through with focused ease, a polite excuse-me, and then he was at Bruce’s side, opposite to Silver Dress.

“Excuse me,” he said smoothly, flashing his press badge, notebook already in hand. “Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Mister Wayne, can I ask you a few questions about your new literacy program?”

The woman froze, her carefully painted lips curving down. Bruce turned, and his eyes lit with a trace of something Clark couldn’t name.

“Mr. Kent,” Bruce drawled, surprise feigned to perfection. “I didn’t expect you here tonight.”

Of course he did. Clark knew Bruce memorized every guest list days in advance.

“Well, you know how the job is,” Clark said, smiling politely.

Bruce launched into an explanation of the initiative, dense enough that the woman beside him wilted. Her smile faltered when she realized she was no longer the center of attention.

“I’d like to continue this conversation,” Bruce said smoothly, turning to her. “If you don’t mind?”

Her eyes narrowed, but she stepped back, gathering what dignity she could as she walked away. Clark winced, suddenly aware of how rude he’d been.

“Subtle,” Bruce murmured under his breath.

Clark grimaced, “I tried?”

He expected a smirk. Instead he caught that fleeting look Bruce rarely let slip. Unguarded, sharp, amused, almost grateful. It was gone in an instant, masked by calm neutrality.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Bruce said softly.

“I know. Sorry if I overstepped.”

Bruce’s expression shifted, caught between responses he didn’t quite voice. “Don’t worry about it.”

He stepped closer, reaching for Clark’s tie.

“It’s crooked.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s crooked,” Bruce repeated, fingers straightening the knot with impersonal precision. He didn’t meet Clark’s eyes while he did it.

Clark swallowed. “Thanks.” His voice came out steady by some miracle.

Bruce’s fingers fell away, the knot sitting neat and centered. For a second, the noise of the ballroom thinned. Clark could hear the soft clicking of Bruce’s cufflink, as if the room had gone quiet for it. He’d spent years learning Bruce’s language: commands, grunts, codes, the way a single word could move an entire team. It felt ridiculous that a tie could do the same thing.

Bruce’s lips curved. “Did you want to ask actual questions, or was that just a diversion?”

Clark blinked, cheeks warming. “Right. Questions. Totally.”

Later, Clark found himself on the balcony with a plate of something small and unidentifiable. Below, Gotham’s streets glowed in reds and whites. The city was alive even at this late hour.

“So,” Dick said, appearing at his elbow and stealing half of whatever Clark was pretending to eat without asking, “on a scale of one to ten, how much did you hate Silver Dress touching his arm?”

“I didn’t–” Clark sighed, defeated. “Seven.”

Dick grinned. “Just messing with you. So, did he chew you out for ruining his Brucie act? Give you the Stare?”

Clark shook his head. “Not really. He said not to worry about it, but I’m not sure…”

Dick froze. “Wait. Bruce told you not to worry about it?”

“Yeah?”

“You guys are fucking unbelievable.”

“Hey, no swearing,” Clark teased weakly.

“No, shut up, I’m calling Jason. This is insane,” Dick groaned as he took out his phone.

Before Clark could argue, the balcony door opened again.

“Other reporters are making their rounds,” Bruce said, his voice directed squarely at Clark. “Didn’t see you in there.”

Dick stared between them, then threw up his hands. “I can’t do this tonight. Bye. Good luck, Kent.”

“Okay? Goodnight Dick?” Clark called after him. He caught the faint murmur of Dick on the phone as he left — I swear to God, Jason, he was even looking for him — and shut it out.

Bruce stepped closer, leaning casually on the railing. The mask slipped just enough, the corners softening, the tension easing from his shoulders. Not gone completely, never in public, but enough that Clark could sense the difference.

“Don’t worry,” Clark said lightly, holding up his notepad. “I think I have everything I need for tonight. Even got a quote from Bruce Wayne himself.”

Bruce huffed, amused.

They were silent for a moment. Then he said, “Are you staying in Gotham tonight?”

Clark shook his head. “Probably not. I was thinking of sneaking out in a couple of hours. Flying back.”

“You could stay at the Manor,” Bruce said, casually, as if it meant nothing.

Clark’s heart stuttered.

When they first met, they hadn’t liked each other.

Bruce was too pragmatic, too cold, his realism clashing with Clark’s optimism until sparks flew. Clark had thought the rift between them would be permanent.

And yet.

Somewhere along the way, Bruce had let him in. Not all at once — never all at once — but little by little. First came nights in the Cave, where Bruce would let him stay after missions instead of sending him home. Then came mornings where Alfred started setting an extra mug on the desk without asking, as though Clark’s presence was expected. Eventually, the invitations to stay the night stopped being rare.

Sometimes Clark still wonders how they got here — how they went from clashing at every turn to this easy, steady partnership. How they learned, somehow, to fit. How natural it feels now, like the two of them had been designed to hold each other in balance. How much sense they made together.

He thought of his earliest nights at the Manor — not just the Cave, but the house itself. How cavernous it had felt, like the silence had teeth. He remembered lying awake in one of its many rooms, the space pressing down, thinking he didn’t belong.

He also thought that feeling would be permanent.

Then one by one, the kids had filtered in.

It was always easier with Dick around, on the days he lingered at the mansion instead of staying at his apartment in Blüdhaven. Clark had known him since he was a boy — bright, restless, and endlessly energetic. That boyish wonder Dick once had for Superman had softened over the years into something warmer, something like familiarity. He was one of the faces Clark instinctively looked for whenever he visited, a steady anchor.

Jason brought a different kind of noise. Sharper, louder, but no less necessary. Clark still remembered the first time he came back to the Manor: unsure, hesitant, hovering at the threshold like he wasn’t sure he was still family. He also remembers the way Bruce had to turn his head away, like looking at Jason was painful and relieving at the same time. He spends a lot of his time thinking about how both of them are trying to build something together again.

Tim brought a quiet gravity with him, a center the others naturally moved around. He fit so seamlessly that Clark sometimes forgot there had been a time before Tim lived there, before he’d claimed his place at the table. Cass, too — quiet, but never absent. Her quiet companionship felt like a mirror to Clark’s own silences, as if they understood each other without needing to put much into words. She reminded him of Bruce too much at times.

Even Damian, with his sharp words and sharper glares, had, in his own way, learned to tolerate Clark. Sometimes even seeking him out when he thought no one else noticed. 

Steph and Duke came and went more freely, orbiting the family without ever feeling outside of it. They weren’t bound by papers or last names, but they never needed to be. They slipped in and out of the Manor’s rhythm like they’d always known it.

The kids turned the house into something alive. It breathed again. It laughed, argued, slammed doors, stayed up too late, and left cereal bowls on the table. They all came and went at their own pace.

Clark had grown to seek Bruce’s face in those moments, his attention drawn wholly toward his family, his expression softened in ways he didn’t let anyone else see.

The Manor filled, until the silence was gone, until it felt less like a mausoleum and felt more like…

Somewhere along the way, Clark had started thinking of it like a second home. Sometimes more than his own apartment.

But he’d always been too careful to not overstay his welcome. To not be too much. Too close, too touchy, too loud, too overbearing.

He knew that rhythm all too well: the warmth that cooled, the patience that wore thin, the invitation that never came again.

So, the Manor.

He measured himself out carefully, a guest when he was welcome, always ready to pull back before he tipped over into being a burden.

But now Bruce was offering, unprompted. No mission. No reason. No excuse. Just… offering.

Clark hesitated. He could fly back to Metropolis in minutes. Back to his empty apartment, his empty fridge, his silent walls. Or–

“Sure,” he said finally. Selfish, maybe, but honest.

A moment passed.

“I’ll call Alfred,” Bruce said simply.

The Manor at night was quiet enough that Clark could hear the bones of the house — pipes humming, old wood shifting.

Alfred showed him to the guest room. It was the same one as always, the guest room that wasn’t officially his but carried his fingerprints anyway. No brass plaque, no name on the door, just the touches that had accumulated over the years until the room recognized him when he stepped inside.

The window faced the back gardens, the part not visible from the entryway. If Clark wanted to slip out, he could float past dark hedges and trees and be in the night without a single camera catching it.

He never did. 

He respected Bruce’s carefulness, but the fact that he had arranged it — had thought of it at all — made a feeling bubble up inside Clark’s chest.

There was a stack of freshly laundered comforters at the foot of the bed, and on top of them lay a folded shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Clark recognized them as his, from one of the times he stayed in the room previously.

They carried that unmistakable scent of clean laundry — soap and sun-dried cotton — even here in Gotham, where the sun rarely broke through the clouds.

He changed into his clothes, then lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

The quiet pressed around him like a comforter. Under it, steady and far, he could hear the soft thunder of Bruce’s heartbeat, unhurried, controlled. He wasn’t in his room. He was deeper below, down in the Cave.

Clark let the sound wash over him. He tracked it without meaning to. Eventually, the sound lulled him to sleep.

The kitchen in the morning was chaos.

Dick was already there sitting at the table, hair sticking up. He was pouring orange juice with one hand and using his phone with the other.

“Morning,” he chirped, not looking up to see who entered the room.

“Good morning,” Clark said, reaching for his mug from the upper cabinets and then sitting down. “I remember someone complaining about having to drive back to their place last night. Something about traffic?”

Dick grinned. “Ha ha. Being a Wayne has its obvious advantages.”

Damian, seated at the table already, scoffed. He lifted his eyes to Clark. “Why are you here?”

“Good morning, Damian. How are you, Damian?” Clark replied with a smile.

“You did not answer my question,” Damian said, scowling.

“Long night,” Clark replied, “I stayed over.” 

Jason shuffled in at that moment, clearly having woken up just now. “Ugh, please keep the details to yourself. We have children at the table.”

“For the love of God, shut up,” Dick said without looking up. “I didn’t realize you stayed over either.”

Tim wandered in, bleary-eyed, cradling a laptop under his arm. “If you guys drank all the coffee, I’m killing everyone in this room and then myself.” He sat down between Dick and Jason and opened his laptop.

“Wow, a walking cliché,” Jason said. “Calm down, no one touches your overpriced coffee maker.”

“You say that,” Tim muttered, “but I found a cup in your hand last week that clearly smelled like–”

“Please,” Jason said sweetly. “Unkindly, shut the fuck up, Tim.”

“Hey, Tim,” Clark interjected with a greeting. “We didn’t drink your coffee.”

Tim cut him a look over the laptop lid, one eyebrow climbed. “Hey, Clark. Didn’t know you stayed over.”

Cass slipped in and sat beside Clark. “Hello,” she nudged his shoulder once and settled, reaching for a glass.

“He said they had a long night,” Jason answered for him, tone purposefully loaded.

“Please,” Steph said as she bounced into the doorway, “there are children here.”

Clark felt heat rise to his face. “Okay, now, come on guys.”

Duke arrived last, earbuds in, only tugging them free once he realized the place was over capacity. He took in the crowded table, the overlapping voices. “Wow,” he said, genuine, “whole squad’s here. Must be the end of times.”

“Feels like it,” Clark said, aggravated.

“Master Clark, do calm down,” Alfred announced, appearing with a tray of food. He set a plate in front of Clark with satisfied authority. “Eat before breakfast goes cold.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Clark said, because gratitude was the only appropriate response to Alfred at any hour of the day.

Bruce walked in right then, suit immaculate (of course he looks like that all the time), expression set to neutral.

He paused at the sight of the table. Most of the family was here, in various states of wakefulness, and Clark sat at the end with Cass pressed lightly to his side.

Something moved across Bruce’s face, not surprised, not exactly. Almost wistful, as if he’d caught sight of a well-loved photograph.

“Coffee?” Clark asked.

“Already on it,” Tim replied, protective of the pot.

“You’re an addict,” Jason declared.

“Thanks, I try,” Tim said, pouring Bruce a cup.

“Please,” Bruce said mildly, “we have a guest.”

“A guest implies that he only visits sometimes, you know,” Dick said, tone teasing.

And Clark knew it was a passing joke, nothing more. He knew it.

And still, the word lodged under his ribs. You’re overimposing. He tried to not look like he’d hear it, not let the old anxiety wake. Too much, too close. The sting was small and silly, and very real. He focused on his eggs. He chewed. He swallowed.

“Pff, yeah right. Says the guy who’s always asking after ‘Uncle Clark’. I think you want him to move in more than Bruce.”

Dick turned pink. “Hey, that was from the group chat!”

Damian’s head snapped up. “What group chat?”

“Great,” Tim sighed, resigned. “Good job, Dick.”

“He says,” Jason cuts in, “as if he wasn’t added literally two months ago.”

“I think Damian is old enough to–” Duke began diplomatically.

“Absolutely not,” several voices said at once, including Alfred’s.

“Point is!” Steph barrelled on. “If ‘Uncle Clark’ wants to move in, he should do it as soon as possible.”

Cass nodded once, solemn as a judge.

Clark’s ears roared, and he kept his gaze off Bruce on purpose.

“Alright, everyone,” Alfred said, clapping once. “Please be civil. Eat your breakfast — yes, you as well, Master Tim. If I see you only drink coffee, I will ask Oracle to suspend your server access.”

Tim made a noise of protest, “Ugh, fine.”

“Ha, ha,” Jason said, grinning at Tim.

“Children,” Damian said looking at them, “All of you.”

“You are literally a child,” Duke said, not unkindly.

Clark finally let himself look at Bruce and found, luckily, amusement. The corner of Bruce’s mouth had bent upward by half a degree, and in Bruce’s case that was practically a smile.

“I have to go,” Bruce said, setting his cup down. “But please stay as long as you like.”

“It’s fine,” Clark said. “I have to leave soon anyway. I don’t want Perry to chew me out for being late again.”

“You have superspeed, and you can fly,” Bruce said, eyebrow lifting a notch. “But you’re still late to work?”

“Hey,” Clark said, smiling. “You can’t solve everything with powers.”

“This is one of the only instances where having powers is a reasonable solution,” Bruce replied, bone-dry.

“I’m just a man, Bruce,” Clark said, aiming for light banter.

“No,” Bruce said, and the word carried more weight than he expected. “You’re not.”

Bruce’s gaze softened, his eyes tracing the line from Clark’s hand braced against the table up to the unruly crown of his hair.

Oh God, Clark always had trouble with his bed hair.

“Are you serious?” Jason said, theatrically. “Right in front of my salad?”

“There is literally nothing green on your plate,” Dick said, raising his voice.

“Okay,” Clark stood up, laughing a bit because he didn’t know what else to do, “I gotta go. Have a good day, everyone. Or… good rest. I don’t know when any of you sleep. Bye.”

A chorus chased him out: “Bye ” “Bye Clark,” “Goodbye, Kent,” and “Bye Uncle Clark,” followed by “Shut up, stop calling him that,” and Cass’ small, decisive wave.

Alfred pressed a brown paper bag into his hands at the front door, and Clark stared at it.

“Alfred, you didn’t have–”

“Have a good day,” Alfred said firmly, already retreating, and that was that.

Metropolis felt duller in comparison, even with the sun shining, not a single cloud in sight. The Daily Planet’s newsroom buzzed at its usual pitch — phones, printers, soft profanities. Clark’s desk had collected two memos and a plant leaf that had fallen from his dying bamboo. He set Alfred’s bag down like contraband.

He was late. Not catastrophically, but late enough that it made him square his shoulders, braced for Perry.

And he didn’t make Clark wait.

“Kent!” He roared from his office. “Get in here, bring your notebook. And your excuses.”

Clark walked in quickly with a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Good morning.”

“Don’t ‘good morning’ me, you’re late,” Perry said, and then, because he was a fair man, he added, “yesterday’s piece was good. You buried the best quote though, fix that.”

“Yes, sir,” Clark smiled.

“And,” Perry went on, peering over his glasses, “because I know you, and because I’m on the damn internet, is there anything I need to know about your proximity to Gotham’s favorite wallet?”

“My proximity–?” Clark choked.

Perry slid a tablet across the desk.

Clark blinked, caught mid-sip of his coffee. He set the mug down carefully, already wary. He dreaded an article, maybe a headline, but what was waiting on the screen this time was just Twitter.

A handful of pictures, surprisingly not grainy, taken of the balcony of last night’s event. Clark could see himself immediately, and right beside him stood Bruce Wayne, impeccably posed.

His stomach plummeted when he read what people were writing.

Ali @XRobbinX
okay but why does bruce look at him like THAT, oh my godddddd

Noodles @isthatabataranginyourpocket
guys please, who’s the other guy??? i need to find him asap. i need him biblically

Max @username02049
Of course Bruce Wayne always manages to find the hottest people at parties. Should’ve fucking known

Riddler Sucks @ratalada98
i don’t usually ship real people but…

Bruce Wayne Fans @BWGossip
remember when bruce left a gala with THREE (3) models and no one blinked, but he SMILES at a reporter and half of gotham starts to lose their minds lmao

devin @Bruceman69
ngl if bruce wayne gave me this look in public i would fold. 

Shelly @riddlemethisss
Nah bc the way Bruce is leaning in?? 

Lily | Comms Open! @plsbrucenotagain
one pic of bruce wayne looking like he’s in a romcom and it’s over for this city

CLARK KENT STAN @NightwingsRightAssCheek
BRUCE MOVE OVER IT’S MY TURN

“Excuse me?” Clark searched for the right word, “I was just taking notes of–”

Perry raised an eyebrow. “Son, you didn’t even have your notebook out.”

“I was taking notes mentally. He was explaining- he wants to fund a literacy program. I was just–”

“Staring at him like he hung the moon?”

Clark’s face turned scarlet.

Perry’s lip twitched, and he leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach. He gave Clark that long-suffering look that had both terrified and comforted reporters for decades.

“Relax, it’s just a photograph. Look–” he tapped the screen with one thick finger. “Wayne has a reputation. And you’re one of the few people he gives interviews to. If it’s not gonna interfere with your job, then fine. None of my business. But if it is…”

“It won’t,” he managed, too quickly. “I hear you.”

That only earned him a bark of laughter, not cruel, just amused. “Alright, enough with the teasing. This is what you get for coming in late.”

Clark wanted the Earth to swallow him whole, but he just nodded, helpless.

“Now get out of my office and write that article before I assign you obituaries.”

Clark escaped with his dignity trailing in tatters behind him. He had barely settled down at his desk when Lois’ chair creaked and swiveled sharply towards him.

“So,” she said, long and slow, with the kind of grin that never meant good things for him. “Did you finally make a move?”

“Lois–”

“I know better than to trust Twitter or the Prince of Gotham’s fan accounts,” she went on, eyes glittering with delight, “but that picture? Pretty incriminating, Smallville. I can’t believe you two actually pulled out the ‘staring lovingly into each other’s eyes’ move. Anything I should know before I start placing bets?”

“There are no bets,” Clark said immediately. His ears were burning. He was an oven at this point, with the kids’ jokes, Perry’s teasing, and now Lois’ innuendos. This day sure was getting off to a good start. “We were just talking. Staring lovingly– Lois, are you nuts?”

“What? I’m being supportive!” She leaned back in her chair, smug. “I’ve seen you dance–”

Clark groaned, “We don’t dance– oh my gosh–”

“Around each other for years. I’m just saying I’m happy for you!” She said quickly before he could add anything else. “If you finally got the balls to ask him out–”

“I did not ask him out!” Clark hush-screamed, voice jumping an octave. “We were literally just talking! It’s not going to happen, okay?”

That silenced her for a beat. She tilted her head, studying him. His mouth had snapped shut, his jaw tight. A small muscle twitched at his temple.

He wasn’t lying, and he knew Lois knew the difference, but he wasn’t about to tell her the whole truth either.

He knows how they look. Bruce and Clark, Batman and Superman, World’s Finest. They trusted each other more than most of the League, leaned on each other more than they ever admitted out loud. And still, in all the time since they met, Bruce had never done anything to suggest that what they had was anything more than partnership.

“Okay” she started, placating. “So we’re continuing the denial. Great. No, everything’s fine. I can do this.”

Clark sighed. “Lois…”

“Don’t ‘Lois’ me, Kent. Listen, you were just talking? Sure. But you’ve seen the picture, right? People don’t look at each other like that unless it means something. Even you have to admit that.”

“They take photos of him all the time,” Clark muttered. “Leaving places with women hanging off of his arms. Photos go viral, but the buzz dies quickly, and everyone moves on the next headline. Suddenly one image of him looking at me means something? Come on. Even you have to admit that doesn’t make sense.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t look at anyone else like that,” She said it quietly, knowing full well he’d hear it anyway.

Clark’s throat went tight. He blocked out the thought, shoved it into the corner where he kept all the other impossible things. 

He let his hope rise for everything else except this. He couldn’t let hope touch this.

“You know that–”

“Yes, yes,” Lois interrupted, waving a hand. “You’re practically in love–”

“I’m not–”

“And he doesn’t feel the same, and will never feel the same, because his ‘true love’ is a literal city.” She sighed exasperated. “Clark, you need to open your eyes. Look, I love you, but maybe you should be open to the possibility that your feelings are mutual? You spend most of your time at your ‘other job’ with him, and most of your free time too.”

Am I taking too much of his time–

“I’m not pushing you to do something you don’t want to do. I’m just saying, maybe take a leap of faith?”

Clark let out a quiet, resigned laugh. “That would be so much more than just a leap of faith, Lois.” His voice had gone soft, almost sad.

Her grin faltered. She reached out, squeezed his arm once, then leaned back.

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave it alone. For now. But I’m sending you the photo anyway. It’s… it’s a good photo.”

Clark groaned but didn’t argue. He turned, slumped over his desk, and pulled out his phone. The message was already waiting for him.

The photo filled the screen; Bruce and Clark leaning against the balcony railing, shoulders brushing. Clark, mid-sentence, looking down at his empty plate. Bruce, looking only at him, a soft smile tugging at his mouth.

Clark stared at it longer than he should have. Then, guiltily, he turned his screen off.

Just as quickly, he turned it back on and saved the photo before forcing himself to put down his phone, open a blank document on his monitor, and start typing.

It was a good picture.

Chapter Text

He’d tried to message Bruce later that night.

Clark settled down on his bed after a long day of everyone in the office having something to say about the photo — snickering, nudging, smug grins. That’s what he got for working with reporters.

He stared at his phone until the screen dimmed, then turned it on again. He finally opened the encrypted messaging app Bruce had designed himself, because of course Batman didn’t trust commercial platforms. Always anticipating security breaches, always one step ahead.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard in a private chat with Bruce.

[10:22] Clark: Hey, I wanted to apologi
[10:25] Clark: Hi B, I wanted to say sorry for the photo
[10:26] Clark: PLea
[10:30] Clark: Can Tim hack everyone’s phone and delete twitter
[10:30] Clark: Can Tim delete twit

He hadn’t sent any of those. Too desperate. Too ridiculous. He was still staring at the unsent drafts when a new bubble appeared, neat and calm, as if Bruce had been watching him fumble in real time.

[10:30] B: If this is about the photo, don’t worry about it.

Clark blinked at the screen, heartbeat stuttering. Then, before he could talk himself out of it:

[10:30] Clark: can you still get Tim to delete twitter?

There’d been a pause. Clark could almost see Bruce’s dry expression through the screen before the answer pinged back.

[10:30] B: Probably.
[10:31] Clark: I’m serious.
[10:31] B: So am I.
[10:31] B: I could probably do it myself, Tim would charge me.

Clark blinked. Was that a joke?

[10:32] Clark: charge you??
[10:32] B: He’s entrepreneurial.
[10:32] Clark: Lol
[10:32] Clark: Okay but, seriously, sorry about the extra attention :(
[10:32] Clark: I just want to be sure we’re okay?
[10:32] Clark: People had a lot to say
[10:32] B: People always talk.
[10:32] B: Let them.

Clark’s fingers froze, reread that twice.

[10:33] Clark: I just don’t want this to reflect badly on you…
[10:33] B: You worry too much.

Another pause.

[10:33] B: I didn’t mind the picture.
[10:33] Clark: ???
[10:33] B: I looked good.

Clark startled out a laugh at that, shoulders shaking.

[10:33] B: You should wear that tie again.
[10:34] Clark: Lol
[10:34] Clark: The red one you criticized a few months ago?
[10:34] B: It suits you.
[10:34] B: Maybe I’ll match it for our next picture.

Next picture? Clark chewed the inside of his cheek, answering too fast.

[10:34] Clark: And ruin a perfectly good Brucie candid? No way haha
[10:34] B: You didn’t ruin it.
[10:34] Clark: Sureee haha
[10:35] B: The only thing that ruined it was the quality.
[10:35] B: We’ll get a professional photographer next time.
[10:35] Clark: Ah yes, the picture that everyone’s dying for: billionaire Bruce Wayne and some guy from Kansas
[10:35] B: Exactly. And stand a little closer next time. You were barely in frame.

Clark laughed harder. Bruce had the weirdest sense of humor.

[10:35] B: Just thinking about the photographers.
[10:35] B: Makes their job easier.
[10:36] Clark: Right, efficiency. Noted.

He figured that was the end of the conversation, so he reached for his charger, but then, his phone buzzed again with a new message.

[10:38] B: Photographers appreciate cooperative subjects.
[10:38] Clark: I’ll keep that in mind for the next time I ruin one of your photos haha
[10:38] B: Again, you didn’t ruin it.
[10:38] B: Don’t worry Kal, I don’t mind being seen with you.

His pulse jumped stupidly. It always did, when Bruce used that name instead of Clark. He typed, erased, and typed again.

[10:39] Clark: …that’s good, I guess
[10:39] B: More than good.
[10:39] B: Good night.

Clark should’ve seen it coming.

Perry had been eyeing him sitting at his desk all morning, which was never a good sign. Sure enough, Perry appeared at his elbow, tablet in hand.

“Kent. Event in Gotham tomorrow afternoon, Wayne’s going to be there.”

Clark’s stomach twisted as he turned his seat to face Perry. Of course.

Perry tapped the screen as he talked. “Neon Knights. Big fundraiser. Mentorship programs for at-risk youth, education initiatives, training, the whole nine yards. Right up your alley.”

It was exactly the kind of story Clark liked covering — kids finding structure and purpose, real programs that could change lives. He should’ve perked up. Instead, all he could think about was Bruce.

Bruce, who had looked at him on the balcony like–

“Chief, I don’t want to question you–”

“And you won’t.” Perry snapped back instantly. “Don’t call me chief. Also, you already got the connection. Wayne trusts you. You’re one of the only reporters who can wring a coherent statement out of him.” He paused, then shot a sly look at Clark. “And a picture.”

Clark opened his mouth, only to close it again. He thought about the messages from a few days ago still sitting on his phone.

If Bruce said not to worry about it, then it should be fine. Right?

Still, the thought of seeing him again out of the cape sparked something sharp and restless in his chest. He hadn’t gotten to look at him properly last time.

Perry was still speaking. “So that’s settled, you and Lane are covering. Main event starts at three sharp, press check-in opens at two-thirty. Don’t be late, they’ll lock you out if you miss the pool call. I want the donor list on my desk before Thursday.”

Clark blinked and snapped back to the instructions. “Wait– me and Lois?”

Perry continued as if Clark hadn’t interjected. “Get me a clean quote from Wayne.”

“Chief, I could go by myself, you don’t have to–”

“Like hell I don’t.” Perry’s tone brooked no argument. He looked up from his tablet again. “Two reporters, two sets of eyes. Lane gets color, the anecdotes. You stick to copy. She asks what people actually want to read, you keep Wayne from bolting halfway through. Don’t fight me on this, Kent.”

Clark deflated in his seat. “Yes sir, I understand.”

After Perry left, Clark ducked into the break room, empty coffee mug in hand. He was sure he would be getting a headache if he could get headaches.

He’d just poured a second cup when Lois appeared through the doorway, sharp grin already in place.

“So, partner,” she said, leaning her shoulder against the frame like she’d been waiting to corner him, meaning Perry had already talked to her. “Here’s the plan for tomorrow.”

Clark groaned into his coffee. He was already tired, and the day had barely begun. Lois, meanwhile, looked like she’d just found her second wind. He had the sinking feeling tomorrow was going to be worse.

The next afternoon, the press vans were already lined up outside the refurbished Gotham Community Youth Center when they arrived. Clark adjusted his jacket as he and Lois threaded through the crowd, Daily Planet badges already clipped to their clothes. They’d cleared security with time to spare, which meant they scored a decent spot in the press pen near the stanchions and space enough to actually see the stage set up in front of the exterior entrance to the center.

Photographers jostled for position, their lenses tracking the donors’ arrivals as they walked by the pen. The banners hanging above the stage read Building Gotham’s Future. Kids and teens in bright volunteer t-shirts were handing out flyers and escorting guests toward their seats or the standing area. The air buzzed with a mix of chatter, camera shutters, and the thin thrum of anticipation.

Clark took it all in — the red ribbon stretched across the new double doors, the polished dedication plaque to the side of the entrance gleaming under the late-afternoon light, the rows of chairs set up nearest the stage for the speech.

He heard the excitement climax as the Wayne car pulled up to the curb.

Tim Drake-Wayne stepped out first, tailored suit offset by a Neon Knights lapel pin. He smiled easily for the cameras, already fielding a question about the program’s expansion with practiced cadence. The press leaned in instinctively. Tim had become the most approachable of the Wayne family, and it showed. After all, he was the founder of Neon Knights, the one who’d turned a half-formed idea into a citywide youth health and education program.

Then Bruce emerged from the vehicle with Damian at his side, one hand steady on his son’s shoulder. Where Tim had polished charm, Damian was stiff and visibly annoyed, tugging at the formal jacket forced onto him.

Bruce didn’t look at the cameras — he didn’t need to. The cameras looked at him.

As the Waynes approached the stage, Lois gave a low whistle under her breath. “He sure knows how to work a lens without even trying.”

“He’s definitely trying.” Clark murmured. He knew better than most that everything Bruce Wayne did was deliberate. Every gesture, every movement was carefully planned three steps ahead.

Bruce and his sons joined the cluster of city officials and Neon Knight representatives making their way to the ribbon line on the stage. The crowd swelled with anticipation, shuffling closer, photographers calling out for angles. Tim paused to shake hands with a row of young volunteers before mounting the steps; Damian scowled and pressed on when someone tried to crouch down to greet him. Bruce ignored it all, his gaze scanning the crowd like he was cataloging every face.

Clark shifted his stance, notebook and pen out, scanning the podium area with practiced eyes. He clocked the arrangement instantly: the biggest donors gathered closely behind Bruce at stage left, the City Commissioner to his right and Damian to his left. Tim walked toward the podium at center stage while the Knights reps were filed in a line at the back stage right. Clark started scribbling notes, partly for Lois, partly to give his hands something to do so his gaze didn’t look too fixed on a specific person.

Lois leaned closer to Clark. “You’re the only guy here who looks like he’s diagramming a football play instead of watching a billionaire cut a ribbon.”

Clark hummed, still writing. “They’re positioning the donors up front. It’ll be important for the follow-up piece on funding priorities.”

“Mhm. And who’s dead center — the companies that just landed redevelopment deals with the city. This isn’t charity, it’s investment.”

“Or making sure the papers frame it that way.” Clark said, glancing up.

Lois tipped her chin. “And over there? You’ve got two council members facing re-election. Didn’t expect them here, they’ve been laying low since that budget scandal I told you about last month. Now they’ll want to play the part of visionaries, which makes them the easiest quotes you’ll get all day.”

Clark scribbled, already noting it down. “Today’s visionaries, tomorrow’s liabilities.”

Lois smirked while looking at the stage. “See, you do know how to write a headline.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “That’s your line, not mine. I’m just setting the record straight.”

“And I’m making sure people actually read it. That’s Perry’s line,” she shot back, already angling for a better view of the ribbon.

The crowd pressed tighter as staff moved people into place. A microphone squealed, then steadied, drawing everyone’s focus toward the front.

Tim stepped up to the podium, smile firmly in place. Clark felt that familiar tug of pride before he started speaking. He knew how much work Tim had put in when no one was watching. This wasn’t a ribbon-cutting stunt for him; it was the kind of fight most people with money never bothered with.

“When the Neon Knights program started,” Tim began, voice carrying cleanly over the crowd, “it was an idea to give Gotham’s youth a chance beyond their circumstances. Too many kids here grow up surrounded by crime, and for too long the city’s answer has been to punish instead of prevent.

“We decided to try something different. Instead of waiting until a kid is in handcuffs, Neon Knights offers them shelter, mentorship, and a place to belong. What began with one community center and a handful of after-school programs has grown into something citywide — proof that when you give young people tools, they build futures. But let’s be honest,” he paused, “real change doesn’t happen just because a few big names write checks.”

Clark glanced towards the donors, watching them shift uneasily, some faces tightening. Subtle, but telling.

“Real change happens when every corner of Gotham decides that its youth are worth investing in. They are the future of this city, and we have to start acting like it.”

The applause rose quickly, filling the pause that followed. Some clapped politely, others with real conviction; the cameras ate it up all the same.

Pride lingered in Clark, sharper now. Most men twice his age couldn’t speak that clearly, or that honestly, in a room full of people waiting to be flattered.

And then there was Tim, steady at Bruce’s side, chin lifted just so, like he belonged there. Clark had watched him grow into that steadiness, had seen how he held his home together when grief was threatening to tear it apart. Seeing him here, being recognized for the work he’d done, made something ache warm and tender in Clark’s chest.

The staff moved quickly, lining up the oversized scissors and nudging donors toward the ribbon. A picture-perfect arrangement, meant for the cameras: Bruce in the middle with Tim, Damian to his right, and the commissioner at his left, donors fanning out behind them.

Lois tipped her head toward the arrangement. “Watch this part, everyone wants their hand on the handle.”

Sure enough, three different executives angled in, trying to wedge closer to Bruce’s side. Clark noted it down automatically, his pen catching details almost faster than his thoughts. Who leaned in faster. Who laughed too loudly. Who tried too hard. It was choreography dressed up as civic duty.

The scissors opened in unison, Bruce steadying the center grip. The cameras flashed in a storm as the blades cut the ribbon, and the crowd erupted in cheers.

The moment dissolved as staff began ushering donors toward the entrance, eager to parade them through the new building.

Lois tapped her notebook against her palm. “Come on, Smallville. Ribbon’s cut, now the real story starts.”

They were swallowed almost instantly by the churn of the press line filing into the building. Lois slipped into motion the way she always did, sharp questions ready, zeroing in on a council member before he’d even finished shaking hands.

One interview bled into another: a donor all but reciting his press release, a young volunteer with wide eyes and a nervous grin, a corporate rep whose cheery smile faltered when asked about redevelopment.

Clark finished a line in his notebook, but his pen slowed as his focus shifted. Just ahead, a young reporter — the kind who filled more gossip columns than real stories — leaned in close to Bruce. The reporter threw one hand casually onto Bruce’s shoulder, spreading his fingers on the fabric.

“...everyone knows what Bruce Wayne is like in public, are you this charming behind closed doors, too?”

Clark’s jaw tightened. Was that even supposed to pass as a question?

Bruce’s smile stayed broad and easy, but Clark caught the subtle twitch of his jaw. Damian stood stiff at his father’s side, arms folded, glaring daggers into the reporter’s head. His ears flushed red, though his voice stayed clipped and formal when he muttered, “This is hardly the place for that kind of remark.”

The reporter either missed it or didn’t care. “Maybe I could get a private comment later?”

Clark knows Lois didn’t get to hear everything the young reporter said, but she took a look at his face, and rapidly grabbed his arm. “Alright, let’s go.”

He didn’t need more than that. 

His stride lengthened, carrying him ahead of her and straight toward Bruce and Damian.

“Hello, Mr. Wayne,” Clark greeted as he reached them. He saw Bruce turn to him, but Clark angled his smile toward Damian. He lifted his notebook in quiet introduction. “Clark Kent, Daily Planet. This is my partner, Lois Lane. We were wondering if you had a moment to talk about your support for the new Community Center?”

Damian blinked, taken aback by being addressed first. “Ah– yes, of course, I mean–” His gaze flickered instinctively toward his father before snapping back to Clark, expression tightening into practiced seriousness. “I apologize. Of course, Mr. Kent, what are your questions?”

The interruption clearly ticked off the reporter hovering nearby, but Clark barely registered it. His pen was already posed. He heard Lois making a question to Bruce, and a remark to the young man, but whatever reply the reporter scraped together, Clark didn’t give it any attention.

He was already tuned into Damian, scribbling as the boy explained, crisp but earnest, how he was consulted on the design of the Community Center and gave input on how kids his age might actually use the space.

“...sometimes adults underestimate what engages younger people.” Damian said, voice steady. “I made it clear that structure matters, but so does giving them choices. If you don’t give them that, they won’t stay.”

Clark found himself leaning in, pen catching every word. Lois asked a sharp follow-up about student leadership, and Damian responded with quiet authority. Clark asked a few more questions, unable to help himself.

When he finally capped his pen, Clark said, “I think we’ve got everything we need.”

Lois’ brows shot up. “Uh, shouldn’t we ask Mr. Wayne questions?”

Clark blinked at her. “What do you mean? We already did. Perry asked for a Wayne quote, and we got it.”

Lois looked at him in disbelief. A rich laugh broke from Bruce, not a hint of sarcasm.

Clark turned back to Damian, smiling. “Thank you so much for answering our questions. And thank you for the work you’ve put into the program. I’m sure it’ll help a lot of people.”

Damian didn’t smile, not exactly, but his eyes sparkled with something that might’ve been pride.

A photographer approached their group, camera already raised. “Mr. Wayne? Could I get a photo of you and your guests?”

Damian, without prompting, shifted closer to Clark and looked squarely at the lens. Bruce stepped to his other side, one hand brushing the small of Clark’s back like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Clark immediately locked this away in his mind to think about later in the safety of his hotel room.

Lois immediately backed out of frame. “Oh, I’m not in this one,” she said with a smile. She shot Clark a sidelong look — smug, knowing — as the camera clicked.

The photographer thanked them and moved on.

“I need to find Timothy,” Damian said hurriedly, running away as soon as the camera was off him.

“Stay in the building,” Bruce called after him, voice firm but even.

Clark bit back a grin. The kid was literally a vigilante.

Lois slipped her notebook into her bag. “I’m going to track down one last source, and I’ll be back,” she said, and with a glance that somehow managed to be both casual and conspiratorial, she left Bruce and Clark standing alone

Silence stretched for half a beat, then Bruce said simply, “Thank you.”

Clark frowned. “Ah, sorry for interrupting again. I wasn’t trying to–”

“Not about that,” Bruce cut in. “Thank you for talking to Damian. He doesn’t like these events, but… it’s important he attends. And that someone actually listens to him while he’s here. So, thank you.”

Clark’s expression softened. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I genuinely had questions for him.”

Bruce’s mouth curved into something between a smirk and a smile. “Of course you did.”

“What can I say? I’m trying to be a good uncle,” Clark huffed a laugh.

“Mm.” Bruce’s gaze lingered on Clark. “Ever considered being a good dad?”

“Lois says I’d be too permissive, actually. Children love, uh,” he didn’t want to say Superman in case someone was listening, “my other job. But I still wonder if I would be a good role model.”

Something flickered across Bruce’s face at that — quick, unguarded. Clark wasn’t sure if he’d said something wrong. Just as quickly, his face changed into something neutral.

Bruce looked away for the first time in their exchange, his voice low. “Do you ever get used to it?”

Clark blinked. “Used to what?”

“The noise. Crowds. Expectations. People pulling at you from every direction.” Bruce’s mouth slanted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Feels like standing in the middle of a storm sometimes.”

Clark’s brows softened. “Sometimes. But it has gotten easier.”

“It has?” Bruce looks back at him.

“Yeah. I remind myself of who I’m standing there with. Makes the noise easier to tune out, less heavy,” Clark said softly, voice barely audible.

A hum of acknowledgment left Bruce. “I’ll have to try that.”

“Don’t tell me that’s advice you needed,” Clark teased gently.

Bruce’s lips twitched — small, almost imperceptible. “Maybe I just wanted to hear how you manage it.”

The warmth that rose in Clark’s chest startled him.

Bruce was still looking at him… like in the picture. Again, that expression — steady, unflinching, as if Clark was the only thing worth focusing on in the room. It was the same look he caught in that photograph. The barest curve of a smile on his lips. There was no pretense in Bruce’s eyes. 

Bruce kept looking at him like that, lately.

The realization hit him low and deep, and before he could think better of it, he wanted, achingly, to close the small space between them and–

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Bruce said quietly. “People trust you. Damian wouldn’t have spoken like that if he didn’t.”

Clark swallowed, his throat dry. “Well, you seem to be doing fine too. Damian clearly looks up to you.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, something fond passing over his features before he could stop it. “He’d rather eat glass than admit that.”

Clark chuckled softly. “Guess that means you’re doing something right.”

For a moment, neither of them looked away from each other. It wasn’t tense, it was… comfortable. Like standing close to a fire you didn’t know you needed until you felt it.

And then–

“Smallville!” Lois’ voice cut through the moment, brisk and teasing as she approached them, breaking the moment. “I’ve got everything I need. You ready to go?”

Clark hesitated, disappointed. It feels like he and Bruce had barely gotten to talk.

“Actually,” Bruce said, almost too smoothly, looking towards Clark, “I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me before you leave Gotham?”

“Oh my god,” Lois muttered under her breath in front of them, just loud enough for Clark to hear.

He gave her a puzzled look. He realized that Lois would probably love the opportunity to have more time with Bruce, she never turns off her journalist mind.

“Yeah, I think we still have time?” Clark said, looking at Lois earnestly.

Lois stared at him in surprise. “We? Clark–”

“Yes, Ms. Lane, if you have time?” Bruce interjected, eyes widening just slightly. It was… a strange look.

Lois returned it with one of her own. It was, oddly, like they were having a stare contest. “I hope you know I’m not forgetting about this. Yes, we have time for dinner.”

Clark’s confusion only deepened, but the idea of more time with Bruce lit something warm in his chest. “Are Damian and Tim coming too?”

“Tim has a meeting with the team tonight,” Bruce said evenly.

Patrolling, Clark thought, amused. The bats never stop working.

“I should find Damian, though,” Bruce added, looking around them.

“I can do that,” Clark offered. “I’ll meet you outside?”

Both Bruce and Lois nodded — still a little wide-eyed.

“There’s a VIP exit on the east side,” Bruce said. “We’ll wait for you there.”

Clark turned to go, catching only the start of Lois’ low hiss to Bruce: “Listen, if you don’t do something soon I’ll–”

His attention shifted, scanning the crowd to look for Damian. The donors and officials blurred into a wash of suits and polite laughter until he caught sight of a small figure near the end of the hall.

Clark wove through the people in the hall, finally spotting Damian and Tim off to the side. They were mid-conversation, Tim’s voice low and amused while Damian’s posture was relaxed but his expression — flat, unimpressed — suggested he was already emotionally done with the day. Both of them looked up as Clark approached.

“Hey Clark,” Tim greeted with a small wave. Damian didn’t say anything, just gave him a brief look that felt a little too knowing for a kid his age.

“Hi,” Clark returned, smiling at them both. “Great speech earlier, Tim. You had those donors standing up straighter than I’ve ever seen. Guess you rattled them just enough to finally listen.”

Tim huffed a laugh. “High praise coming from you. Thanks. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it would land. Half those people looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.”

“Trust me, they were listening,” Clark assured him. “I’ve sat through enough events like this to know when the room’s checked out. You had them.”

That earned a wider smile from Tim, the kind that reached his eyes. “I appreciate it. So… did you end up saying yes to Bruce’s invitation?” His tone was deliberately light, but his eyes slid over to meet Damian’s, like they were sharing some private joke.

“Yeah,” Clark said easily. “Lois and Bruce are waiting outside in the car. I told Bruce I’d grab Damian since you couldn’t come. Shame, though — I wanted to ask more about the program, but I figured you’re probably tired after a day of pitching it to every person here, haha.”

The reaction he got was… odd. Tim just blinked at him, then let out a quiet shocked laugh under his breath, while Damian sighed — long-suffering, like someone who’d had enough of people missing the obvious.

“What?” Clark asked, glancing between them.

“Nothing,” Tim said smoothly, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

Damian let out another sigh, and Clark didn’t miss the little shake of his head.

Clark frowned. What was with everyone today? Lois had been giving him weird looks, Bruce kept… doing things, and now Tim and Damian were acting like they were in on some joke he hadn’t been told. Was there something on his glasses?

“Right,” Tim said finally, eyes still suspiciously amused. “We’ll talk more about the program later, if you are still interested? There’s more to it than I could fit in a two-minute speech.”

Clark’s expression warmed. “I’d like that.”

Tim gave a single, approving nod before flicking a quick look at Damian. “Enjoy family dinner, Damian,” he said, tone light and just shy of smug.

“Shut up,” Damian replied flatly, though he was already turning toward the side entrance.

Clark glanced between them again, bemused, but decided not to ask. “Alright, I’ll see you later Tim!” He called as he walked away, earning a small wave in return.

He caught up to Damian easily, matching his quiet stride as they slipped through the last of the lingering guests. Damian’s hands were tucked in his pockets, posture loose but purposeful.

The buzz of conversation dimmed behind them as they pushed through the side door and out into the cool Gotham evening. The VIP lot was mostly empty now, save for a few parked cars. Bruce’s car was sleek, unmistakable.

Lois stood by one of the rear passenger doors, arms crossed, chatting easily with Bruce. She looked relaxed, amused even, head tilted in that sharp, assessing way she had when she was enjoying herself. Bruce, for his part, was listening with a delicate, practiced half-smile he gave in public, but without the usual edge of performance.

Then his gaze lifted and found Clark across the lot. Something in his posture shifted, something subtle, but unmistakable. His eyes found Clark almost immediately.

“Got him,” Clark said as they reached the car, motioning to Damian.

“Obviously,” Damian muttered, but his voice lacked any real bite as he went straight for the back seat.

Lois climbed in after Damian, settling comfortably into the back seat and leaving Clark momentarily alone with Bruce outside the car. Without a word, Bruce stepped around to the passenger side and opened the front door for him.

Clark blinked at the gesture, unexpected but undeniably polite. “Ah– thank you,” he said, ducking his head as he slid into the seat.

Bruce didn’t move until Clark was seated properly, waiting with a quiet patience. When Clark’s long legs finally folded into the car, Bruce closed the door with a firm, controlled click — careful, never abrupt. 

Inside, the slight sound of Damian’s fingers tapping rapidly on his phone broke the moment. His face was carefully blank but his thumbs flew across the screen. Lois, beside him, buckled her seatbelt with a faint, knowing smirk in the rear view mirror.

Bruce slid smoothly into the driver’s seat, the leather creaking softly under his weight. He glanced sideways, briefly, to check that Clark had buckled up, only turning the key in the ignition once he confirmed it.

“Ready?” Bruce asked, voice low but even, as if the question was directed to Clark alone.

Clark nodded. “Yeah.”

With that, Bruce pulled the car from the parking lot, the streetlights washing across his profile as they merged into Gotham’s night.

The drive didn’t take long, barely ten minutes through the heart of Gotham, though it was enough for Clark to watch the city shift around them.

The youth center’s bright banners and scattered volunteers gave way to narrow streets lined with brownstones, then to a quieter block of polished brick buildings and old ironwork. The car slowed in front of an understated restaurant with tall windows glowing gold against the night.

Bruce pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. He was out of the car almost immediately, his door shutting with the same precise care as before.

Clark reached for his own handle, only to find it opening from the outside — Bruce standing there, holding it open.

Damian had already emerged from the back seat, giving the restaurant a critical once-over. Lois joined him a moment later, a similar look on her face.

Inside, the restaurant was warm and elegant without being ostentatious. Dark wood, soft lighting, and the low hum of conversation created a sense of privacy even in the open room.

A host appeared instantly, greeting Bruce by name and leading them to a small table slightly apart from the others. Clark noticed the way Bruce’s hand hovered — not quite touching — at the small of his back as they followed, guiding him forward.

The lighting grew warmer as they stepped further it, the glow from pendant lamps pooling over each table in a way that made the room feel intimate. Their table was set in a quiet corner, half-shielded by a tall screen of carved wood that softened the noise from the rest of the restaurant. Clark found himself across Damian, with Bruce to his right and Lois settling on his left.

Once they were seated, the menus were handed out, leather-bound and minimalist. A server appeared with an easy smile, taking drink orders before leaving them to look over the food. Silence settled briefly over the table, broken, as always, by Lois.

“Nice place,” she said, glancing around with a quick sweep of her sharp eyes. “Not exactly the image I had for Gotham’s favorite billionaire.”

Bruce’s mouth curved. “I try to avoid being predictable,” he said, tone dry but almost, almost, teasing.

Clark caught himself smiling. He’d half-worried Lois might turn merciless in front of Bruce, but so far, they seemed to be finding common ground. Lois was good at this, and he knew Bruce respected her. She didn’t play games; she was only after the story, no hidden agenda.

Lois sat a little straighter, and Clark could almost picture an invisible notebook in her hand, ready to fire off questions.

“So,” she began, all business. “Neon Knights has grown faster than anyone expected–”

Bruce held up a hand, not dismissive, but gently halting her. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he said, voice even. “And we can schedule a full interview for next week, if you want. But tonight, I was hoping to ask about you.”

Lois blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“And Clark,” Bruce added, his gaze cutting briefly toward him. “I’ve read your work. I know the Planet’s perspective. What I don’t know is what drives the people behind it.”

“You want to interview us?” Lois asked, a wry smile tugging at her mouth as she leaned back slightly in her chair.

Bruce’s mouth twitched at the corner. “Something like that. So, humor me. Why journalism?”

Clark glanced toward Damian, worried the conversation might be leaving him out. The boy was bent over his phone, fingers flying across the screen, but every so often his eyes flicked up toward the table. Listening. Engaged in his own quiet way. Clark wondered if he was already reporting the entire dinner to his siblings.

Lois tilted her head toward Clark, curiosity sparking. “You know, he’s right,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually asked you that. Why journalism, Kent?”

Clark leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as he considered the question.

“I guess it started simple. I grew up in a place where everyone knew everyone. My parents taught me that when something was wrong, you didn’t look away, you tried to fix it. Even if it was small. Especially if it was small.

“I guess that never really changed. The world’s… a lot bigger than Smallville. Problems are bigger, too. Sometimes they’re loud and obvious, but most of the time they are quiet. The kind no one bothers to look at.”

Clark’s voice softened, almost thoughtful now. “I care about the world, sure. But there’s something about knowing someone — really knowing them. Learning their name, what they’ve been through, what they’re hoping for. Journalism gives me a way to find those people. To make sure they’re seen.”

He exhaled lightly, thumb brushing the edge of the menu, grounding himself. “I know I can’t fix everything. But this… is something I can do without a suit or a cape.”

The words hung there, soft but steady, as though they’d settled over the table itself.

For a moment, Clark thought about apologizing for talking too much, but he didn’t. This was something he would never apologize for.

Lois gave him a look she rarely offered: warm, proud, but not surprised. Damian, across him, had gone still, his usual restlessness calmed. His gaze was steady in a way Clark hadn’t expected, like he was seeing him differently.

And Bruce… Bruce hadn’t moved, but his eyes stayed on Clark, unwavering and intent, every word tucked away somewhere behind that calm exterior. The hard line of his mouth had softened. Damian noticed it too; Clark caught the way the boy’s eyes flickered to his father, then widened, just slightly.

His attention was on Clark, unwavering and earnest, as if filing every word away.

“Looking out for the ones who can’t protect themselves,” Bruce said at last, his voice low and deliberate. “The ones without a voice. That’s a good answer.”

Clark felt the words perch in his chest with a weight he hadn’t expected, something warm threading through the simple acknowledgment.

Bruce’s gaze lingered on him for another beat before he shifted, turning smoothly to Lois. “And you?” he asked. “Why journalism?”

Lois arched an eyebrow. She thrived under direct questions. “Honestly?”

Bruce inclined his head. “Honestly.”

She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table and chin on her interlaced hands, her tone lighter than Clark’s but no less sure. “Because I like pulling back the curtain. Showing people what someone doesn't want them to see. Corruption, lies, I can’t stand any of it. So I dig in. And when I find something, I put it in the spotlight. No spin, no sugarcoating. Just the truth. Even if it makes people uncomfortable. Especially then.”

“Necessary work.” Bruce’s lips curved at that, polite, approving.

A server appeared at the table with impeccable timing, a small leather-bound notepad in hand. “Are you all ready to order?”

Lois glanced down at her menu, flipping it open with practiced ease. “Almost, give me one second.”

Clark, on the other hand, realized with a start that he hadn’t looked at his menu once. He fumbled it open, scanning the unfamiliar dishes.

“Take your time,” the server said smiling, turning to Bruce.

“I’ll have the grilled salmon with seasonal vegetables,” Bruce said without hesitation. “No sauce.”

“And for you, sir?” The server’s pen waited over the page as he looked at Damian.

“The truffle cavatappi with aged cheddar. And a side of steamed broccoli.”

Clark’s mouth twitched. Wasn’t that just mac and cheese?

Lois closed her menu, decisive as ever. “The steak, medium rare, with the garlic mash.”

Clark scrambled for something safe. “Uh, the roast chicken. With… whatever the side is.”

“Herb risotto,” the server provided.

“Right, that.”

When the server left, Lois smirked at Clark across the table. “Smooth, Kent.”

Clark rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

“You took just as long deciding on a steak,” Damian cut in, with a hard stare at Lois. “The difference is, he wasn’t pretending to be decisive about it.”

Bruce let out a loud chuckle at that, like he hadn’t meant to, and tried to mask it with a sip of water.

Lois leaned back in her chair with crossed arms and a mock-sigh. “Great, I’m getting roasted by the Waynes. This is going in my notes.”

“Make sure you spell my name right,” Damian said immediately.

That earned a loud laugh from Clark before he could stop himself. Damian didn’t look at him, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward, and when he did flick his gaze at Clark, there was a glimmer of something conspiratorial there.

Bruce’s mouth was curved in slight amusement as he set his glass down. “Looks like you’ve recruited an ally, Clark.”

“Someone has to keep her honest,” Damian replied evenly, lifting his glass of water with all the composure of a much older man.

Lois let out a theatrical scoff. “Unbelievable. It’s three against one now?”

Clark chuckled. “I think you can hold your own.”

“Oh, I can. Which reminds me,” she leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes glinting with mischief. “So, Clark. If I’ve known you forever and still learned something new tonight, what’s something Mr. Wayne here wouldn’t expect about you?”

“Something he wouldn’t expect?” Clark repeated with a slightly surprised look, buying himself a second.

“Yes,” Lois said, clearly enjoying herself, “surprise us, Kent.”

Bruce’s brows lifted just slightly, his attention flicking from Lois to Clark. Damian glanced up from his phone, green eyes bright with interest, before looking back down as if the screen suddenly mattered more.

Clark scratched the back of his neck and looked up, considering the ceiling as he thought. “Something unexpected? Well… I grew up on a farm.”

“Okay…” Lois urged him to continue, as they all already knew this.

“I don’t know, I guess I’ve done just about everything you can do on one — fixed fences, hauled hay bales, mucked stalls, patched up tractors when they broke down. I don’t think I’ve talked much about any of that outside of just saying, ‘I lived there.’”

“Wow, so you really had the farm boy experience,” Lois teased.

“Yeah, I guess so. I chased more than a few runaway pigs at dawn, milked cows-”

Damian, who had been idly picking at his napkin, perked up. “You had cows?”

“Yeah, a few,” Clark answered. “Oh that’s right, Bruce mentioned you have a cow now, right?”

Lois blinked at Clark, then turned to Damian. “Wait, what?”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t interrupt.

“Her name is Bat-Cow,” Damian continued, as if this required no further explanation. “I rescued her from a slaughterhouse.”

Clark’s face lit up. “That’s amazing.”

“Of course,” Damian said, sitting up a little straighter. “She lives at the Manor now. She’s the best cow in the world. Smarter than most people I know.”

Clark laughed. “I believe it. We had a cow, Mrs. Mac. She–”

Lois cut in, eyebrows raised. “Mrs. Mac?”

“Short for Mrs. MacAllister,” Clark explained with a grin. “Big black-and-white Holstein. Smartest animal I’ve ever met. She figured out how to unlatch the pasture gate with her head. Not just once, but repeatedly. Every time we fixed it, she would just… examine it. You could see her staring at the latch, nudging it with her nose until — click — it popped open and the gate swung out.”

“You’re telling me a cow outsmarted you?” Bruce asked, voice low with amusement.

“More than once,” Clark admitted easily. “We even tried putting a carabiner through the latch…” He paused for effect, catching the way Damian was leaning in. “She learned to pull it open with her tongue.”

“No way,” Damian breathed, almost excited.

“I swear she was proud of herself too.” Clark said, laughing at the memory. “Used to lead the whole herd straight into the orchard.”

“That’s wild,” Lois murmured, genuinely surprised.

“She remembered people, too,” Clark went on. “Pa scared her once as a calf by accident. Two years later? He walked into the barn, and she backed him into a corner. Honest to goodness, just stood there and stared him down. Wouldn’t do a thing to anyone else. Just him.”

“So she held grudges?” Bruce asked, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Absolutely.” Clark replied. “But she also had favorites. If she liked you, she’d come over and nudge your pocket for treats. Sometimes she’d rest her head on your shoulder. Almost like a dog. I’ve never met another cow like her.”

Damian’s mouth curved, faint but certain. “Bat-Cow figures out which pockets have apples in them before you even take them out.”

Clark chuckled. “Mrs. Mac was the same with peppermint candies. You’d just think about reaching for one, and she was already there.”

Damian’s eyes lit at that. “Bat-Cow’s the only one at the Manor who doesn’t interrupt me when I’m working. She just stands there. Quietly. It’s nice.”

Clark nodded, his grin softening.

“Didn’t take you for a farm animal enthusiast,” Lois said to Bruce, tilting her head at him.

“I’m not. But I can appreciate anyone who earns Damian’s respect that quickly.”

“Mm,” Lois hummed, sipping her water, her eyes still sharp. “Seems like someone else has a knack for that, too.”

Their meals arrived not long after, plates of carefully arranged dishes set down with practiced precision.

Conversation flowed easily over the quiet clink of cutlery. They talked about a strange headline Lois had chased last week, Damian dryly critiqued Gotham’s new public art installation, and Bruce recounted (with a straight face) the time a WayneTech board member got locked in their own smart office.

Clark found himself relaxing. It felt good, familiar. To sit beside Bruce and talk about nothing earth-shattering, nothing laced with expectation. 

Dinners with Bruce weren’t rare, not since the years when Bruce had started letting him stay in Gotham’s rooftops. But there was something different about tonight. Maybe it was Lois laughing beside him, Damian’s quiet commentary cutting through the conversation, the table warm and full.

And Bruce was — Clark wouldn’t deny it — kind to him tonight. Attentive in the quiet ways that mattered: asking his opinion on small things, meeting his gaze and holding it, making sure his glass was never empty. 

This was how Bruce cared. Through presence. Through deliberate, wordless, attention.

Clark knew that, of course. He’d learned over the years that Bruce’s actions were his answers, his way of saying the things he couldn’t put into words. And yet, every time, it still caught him off guard. Made something in him ache in a way he refused to name. His pulse stuttered, a quick, ridiculous thing, and he forced himself to focus on his fork, on the conversation, on anything but the way it felt to be on the receiving end of Bruce’s attention.

Damian occasionally broke the rhythm to check his phone, thumbs moving quickly under the table, but always looked up again, chiming in when he had something to say.

Lois, for her part, smiled more as the evening wore on — at their banter, at Damian’s quick wit, at Clark and Bruce falling into an easy back-and-forth she hadn’t quite seen before.

By the time dessert plates were cleared, Bruce had already taken care of the bill, dismissing Clark’s attempt to split it with a quiet, “My invitation, my treat.”

As they walked outside, into the cool night air at the curb, Clark tried once more. “At least let me cover the tip–”

“No,” Bruce said simply, unlocking the car.

Lois smirked. “Told you not to bother.”

Damian slid into the back seat with a small, “Thank you for dinner, Father.”

“Thank you,” Clark added, earnest. “This was… nice.”

“Yeah, thank you. I didn’t expect today to turn out like this,” Lois said smiling at Bruce.

“I’m glad,” Bruce replied, returning the smile. “It’s late. Are you heading back to Metropolis tonight?”

“We booked hotel rooms,” Clark said. “Dropped our stuff off this morning before the event. Don’t worry about us.”

“You could stay at the Manor,” Bruce offered without hesitation. “I can have a room set up for Ms. Lane as well.”

“I think we are way past last names, aren’t we?” Lois grinned. “But thank you. We’ve imposed enough for one day. I’ll call us a cab.”

“It’s fine, Bruce,” Clark added, tone casual but warm. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the meeting?”

Bruce’s lips pressed together, like he wanted to argue, then he inclined his head. “At least let me call the cab,” he said simply.

Clark nearly smiled at that. Of course he would.

Bruce waited with them outside until the cab rolled up to the curb. They said their goodbyes, and only when they were seated inside the car did he step back, watching as they pulled away.

Lois let out a sharp exhale the moment they turned the corner. “Oh my god, Clark. He’s obsessed with you.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Clark said weakly.

Lois gave a disbelieving snort at that. “Exaggerating? Kent, the man spent half the night looking at you like you hung the moon.”

“He did not,” Clark muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“He did,” she shot back. “I can’t believe you don’t see it. Every time you opened your mouth, he immediately paid attention to you. Not just polite listening — he was watching you. Like you were the only person in the room. Romantic, sappy, heart-eyes, the works.”

Clark’s stomach gave a traitorous little twist. He forced himself to look out the back seat window instead. “You’re reading too much into it. He’s… polite.”

“He was polite with me. That? That was more than politeness,” Lois said flatly.

Clark tried to keep his face neutral. “Very funny.”

“I’m not joking, Clark. I’m being so fucking serious right now it’s physically painful.”

He swallowed and focused on the blur of city lights outside. If she’s right…

He shut the thought down. He was already in too deep. Wanting more, risking that, felt like standing on the edge of a tall building in a storm.

“Even if you were right,” he said finally, voice low, “it wouldn’t matter. He’s not… something I want to risk being wrong about.”

Lois let out a loud groan. “I hate this for you. I hope you know that. It was cute at first, but now it’s infuriating.”

Clark felt a flicker of irritation but let it go. He knew her well enough to know this came from care, not mockery.

“I know,” he eventually said.

She didn’t push again. The rest of the drive passed in silence.

The car pulled up to their hotel. They grabbed their bags from the concierge desk, got their room keys, and rode the elevator up to their floor. At their doors, Lois paused.

“Alright, partner. See you tomorrow,” she said, keycard in hand. “And, hey… sorry if I was a little harsh. You know I don’t mean to be.”

“I know,” Clark said, all the disagreement gone from his voice. “Goodnight, Lois.”

She gave him a small wave before slipping into her room.

Clark took off his jacket and tossed it over the chair before he dropped onto the bed. For a moment, he just laid there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the night replay itself in flashes.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Clark reached for it, thumb swiping across the screen to open the notification.

[11:21] B: Did you make it to the hotel?

Clark blinked, unexpected warmth stirring in his chest. What a weird message, wasn’t it? He was used to sending that one, not the other way around. It wasn’t like someone could mug him or hurt him.

[11:21] Clark: Yeah. Just got in. Thanks again for dinner :)
[11:21] B: Thank you for accepting the invitation.

Clark stared at that for a second, then put his phone on the nightstand and headed for the shower.

The message lingered in his mind. Like he was the one doing Bruce a favor. Something about the phrasing made him pause. 

After he changed into fresh pajamas, he finally grabbed his phone again to reply.

[11:36] Clark: Haha

Smooth, Kent.

[11:36] B: Damian hasn’t stopped talking about your cow.
[11:36] Clark: Lol not sorry about that
[11:37] Clark: I’ll invite him to the farm one of these days. He’d love it
[11:37] B: Are you inviting me to meet your parents?
[11:37] Clark: Actually I was just inviting Damian, but I guess you can tag along
[11:37] B: How generous of you.
[11:38] Clark: Don’t mention it :)

The typing bubble appeared again almost immediately.

[11:38] B: What’s it like?
[11:38] B: The farm.

Clark hesitated.

[11:41] Clark: Quiet. Open skies. Fields that look like they go on forever
[11:41] Clark: You’d probably get bored in ten minutes haha
[11:41] B: Doubtful.
[11:41] B: Sounds like somewhere worth seeing.
[11:42] Clark: We’ll go, one day
[11:42] B: I’d like that.
[11:43] B: Σ :)

That made Clark laugh under his breath.

[11:43] Clark: Hahahaha alright, alright, you’re invited
[11:43] Clark: Goodnight B
[11:43] Bruce: Goodnight, Kal.

Clark set his phone down, but the idea stuck in his head — Bruce Wayne in Smallville, standing under endless blue skies. He let the thought sit, warm and steady. As sleep pulled him under, it felt almost like he was there beside Bruce, quietly sharing the horizon.

Chapter Text

Of course there were comments again.

Clark found himself scrolling with a peculiar kind of detachment — the kind that only someone who insisted they didn’t care would have, especially after doing it non-stop for the past ten minutes.

The Gotham Chronicle’s website had the official photo from the ribbon-cutting on their feed. Alongside that there were a couple more, taken by other photographers at the event.

And there it was, his picture with Bruce and Damian. Clark was front and center, looking a little stiff, as if something had startled him mid-pose. To his left, Damian stood with that composed pride only he could manage, posture neat and controlled. And Bruce — well, Bruce was the picture of professionalism, if you ignored the hand he’d placed unmistakably on Clark’s back.

Of course people noticed.

The photo had barely been up before the internet swarmed.

Twitter was already a frenzy. Threads lined with candid shots from guests, every angle of the event pinned down and dissected like it was evidence in a trial. Clark laughing mid-question at something Damian said, the boy’s hands cutting the air with sharp, confident gestures. Bruce just behind them, arms loose at his sides, expression carved into something neutral — or maybe not neutral at all, depending on the interpretation. Lois lingered in one frame, just off to the side, her eyes flicking toward the trio with an unmistakable spark of amusement.

The comments were merciless in their curiosity.

Some pored over Bruce’s posture: was he leaning in toward Clark, were his eyes softer in this picture compared to other ones? Others pointed out Damian’s ease, remarking how rare it was for him to look so comfortable with anyone outside his family. Sometimes, even with his family.

And then there were the comments about Clark himself. His body language. His looks. Far too many of them, far too specific, and far, far too complimentary.

He exhaled sharply when he got to an edit where someone had replaced his suit with a perfectly fitted henley and flannel.

“Jeez,” he muttered, barely audible to himself.

He hadn’t even noticed his thumbnail pressed against his teeth until the voice came from behind him, smooth and unhurried:

“You’re going to chew that finger down to the knuckle.”

Clark dropped his hand instantly. He didn’t need to look to know Bruce hadn’t so much as glanced up from his console.

“Shut up,” he shot back, more reflex than real annoyance.

It had been a weeks since he and Bruce had monitor duty together.

The Watchtower was hushed at this hour, the observation deck silent except for the steady hum of machinery. Outside, the starfield drifted endlessly, Earth a soft blue curve below. Sunlight entered through the other side of the deck, always present in the Monitor Room.

It should have felt isolating, this endless silence only broken by the other man working beside him. Instead, Clark always found it… grounding. Like Bruce’s presence was a weight keeping him tethered in all that dark.

On his console, seismic readouts pulsed softly over Southeast Asia. Across the room, Bruce’s monitor painted Gotham in points of light, streets glowing like veins in the night.

He should’ve known not to check social media around Batman.

“‘I can take them both.’ ‘In a fight?’ ‘Yeah, sure, that too why not,’” Bruce read aloud suddenly, tone light with humor.

Clark’s stomach sank. He turned his head — and there it was. A small window on Bruce’s screen, Instagram comments streaming by.

“Bruce, no. Stop reading those, come on,” he said, too quickly and whiny. He could hear the mortification in his own voice.

“‘It makes me angry when men make me feel this way,’” Bruce continued as if Clark hadn’t spoken, his amusement growing.

Clark stared at him. “Do these people even think about what they leave on the internet?”

“‘Please, someone get Kent a good suit and a new pair of glasses.’” Bruce’s voice didn’t waver. “See? I agree with that one.”

Clark dragged a hand down his face. “For the last time, they’re my disguise, B,” he said, rolling his eyes hard enough to hurt. “They don’t need to look good. Why are people so hung up on them, anyway? That’s like the twentieth comment about them today.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Interesting. And here I thought Superman didn’t indulge in social media. What was the line again? ‘Superman doesn’t have time for selfies’?”

“Unbelievable. What did Lois tell you in the ten minutes I was gone? I’m going to kill her.”

He flicked his phone screen off as if to prove a point, but his eyes lingered on the blank display. He really did try not to get caught up in this stuff. But Lois kept sending him links and screenshots, and he kept… clicking.

“And here I thought you liked the threads about our torrid love affair,” Bruce said stoically, so bland he had to be doing it on purpose.

Clark twisted around in his chair. “That would imply you’re already married,” he shot back. “Is it still an affair if we’re exclusive?”

Bruce finally glanced at him, brow arched in mock curiosity. “So you’re admitting exclusivity?”

“I don’t know, am I?” Clark looked back, face blank.

Bruce let the silence stretch for a deliberate moment before adding, with the faintest theatrics: “Are you confessing you’ve been unfaithful? Something you want to tell me?”

Clark snorted, shaking his head. “Gosh, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Bruce smugly grinned, “here you are.”

Clark’s mouth tugged upward. “Careful, Wayne. People might start thinking you actually enjoy my company.”

“Careful, people will start saying I know you too well,” Bruce murmured, eyes on the monitor. “And for the record, I already knew about the cows.”

That earned a soft hum from Clark.

“Running out of secrets to share?” Bruce asked, still not looking at him.

Clark hesitated, then shrugged lightly. “I’m running out of things I haven’t told you.”

Something in the air shifted — just slightly.

“You did it for Damian, didn’t you?”

Clark’s shoulders sagged with a sigh. No point in deflecting; Bruce saw too much. “I didn’t want him to feel left out.”

From beside him came a small exhale — steady, but with a tremor Clark didn’t miss.

“He was on his phone a lot,” Clark went on, voice quieter. “I just wanted him to feel… included. And I know he likes animals.”

He heard a soft hum from his side, already knowing Bruce wasn’t going to say anything else.

Over time, Clark had grown used to the comfortable silences between them. He knew he was the kind of person who always wanted to fill quiet with small talk, stories, anything. When they’d first started getting to know each other, he did most of the talking.

Bruce had definitely been annoyed at first, Clark could tell. But at some point, he stopped cutting in. He started listening. Really listening. And something else shifted: Clark realized he didn’t need to say much for Bruce to understand him. There was no expectation to fill the silence anymore. Right now was one of those moments.

Still, sometimes he couldn’t help himself.

“You know…” he started.

A groan drifted from his right. “I already regret this.”

“The internet practically thinks we’re–”

“Lovers?” Bruce cut in flatly.

“Partners,” Clark shot back, deadpan. “Lovers? What am I, some medieval mistress? A concubine?”

“You don’t live in the Manor yet,” Bruce returned smoothly.

Clark laughed, low and genuine. “Well, you’re stuck with me either way. No use fighting it.”

“I don’t fight inevitabilities,” Bruce said, quiet and matter-of-fact.

The words landed heavier than they had any right to. Clark pressed a hand to his chest in mock swoon, hoping it hid the real flutter beneath. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. What will I ever do?”

“Don’t get used to it,” came the faint reply, touched with humor.

“Too late,” Clark teased. “First you pay for dinner, then call me a cab. What should I expect next?”

“A punch in the face if you keep distracting me.”

Clark grinned, leaning an inch closer. “That’s practically a love letter from you.”

Bruce finally glanced over, one brow arched. “You wouldn’t recognize a love letter from me if I carved it into stone and dropped it on your desk.”

And wasn’t that a thought. A love letter from Bruce Wayne.

Clark tried to picture it and came up strangely blank. Would it be written on heavy stationery, sharp and minimal, the kind of thing only a billionaire could casually keep in his desk? Or would it be stripped of all pretense — just a few spare lines, direct and cutting in the way Bruce always was? Maybe it would stretch longer, dense with meaning, layered with metaphors no one else would ever get to read.

And if there was a letter, what about everything else? A first date with Bruce Wayne. Would it look like the glossy image the world expected — a Michelin-star dinner, a private jet waiting on the tarmac, Paris glittering beneath them before dessert? Or would it be something no one else ever saw — something quiet, hidden, guarded as all of Bruce’s private life was?

Would he ever let a partner close enough to see behind the mask? Close enough to walk the Manor halls? To step into the cave itself and see the part of him the world was never supposed to touch?

“What would it be like? Your… hypothetical love letter?”

The words were out before he could stop himself. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. Why did he ask that?

He started to get nervous when Bruce didn’t answer. Clark turned back to his console, pretending not to care, but he could feel the man’s attention sharpen.

Bruce’s voice dropped, low and deliberate, like every word had been waiting just under the surface.

“I would tell them,” Bruce began, “that one of my greatest honors is knowing them. That it’s a privilege to be able to stand at their side. That they are one of the reasons I go to sleep hoping I’ll wake up in the morning.”

Clark’s breath caught.

“You asked what I would write in a love letter,” Bruce continued, tone maddeningly stable — even his heartbeat was steady. “If I’m already writing one, then they’d already know who I am. They’d know that when I’m with them, I’m… myself. That I can’t help but take the masks off — every single one of them. And it’s infuriating, because it’s something I didn’t know I wanted to do. Or could do.” He drew in a breath.

“It’s infuriating because I can’t stop it. I don’t want to be anyone else with them. I can’t be anyone else with them. And I don’t need to. They make me better. Every. Day.” He punctuated each word like a vow. “They make me… real. In a way I didn’t know I was capable of being until I met them; from that moment, I knew they’d changed me.”

His eyes didn’t leave the screen in front of him, but the words kept spilling out. Clark listened in a trance.

“I’d tell them,” Bruce went in, voice lower now but certain, “that there isn’t a single minute I want to be apart from them. That if I could, if I was allowed to, I would watch over them every second of the day — not to control, but to be sure they’re cared for in every way. I would tell them that I want to talk until there’s nothing left to say, and then keep talking anyway. 

“That I want to hear every single thought they have, even the smallest — a cloud they noticed, a stray detail no one else would care about. Because every piece of them, every unguarded word, is a gift I didn’t realize I was missing until it was right in front of me.”

The steady hum of the Watchtower filled the silence that followed. Clark realized his hands had gone still over the console.

“I’d tell them they are what I was missing,” Bruce finished at last, softer now, but with a finality that made Clark’s chest ache.

It was the longest Bruce had ever spoken to him without a single deflection.

And what was he supposed to do now after hearing that? Like Bruce hadn’t just tilted his entire existence on its axis. Clark didn’t know what to do with the jagged pain in his chest — the ache at imagining Bruce saying those words to someone else, and the ache at daring to wonder if they were meant for him.

He wanted the moment to break, to release the pressure pressing in around his ribs. He wanted the moment to stretch on forever, to live inside it.

Clark wanted it to be about him so badly his throat burned. His eyes stung with the weight of it, like his body had betrayed him, showing feelings he’d spent years pretending he didn’t have.

He had never felt this kind of want before. This heavy, deeper, want that had rooted itself in his soul, spreading until it felt like every breath carried Bruce’s name.

“You’re staring, Kal,” Bruce said suddenly, tone smooth, unruffled.

Clark startled, the words snapping the tension in his mind. He pulled his gaze back to the console, cleared his throat, and tried to shove his reaction behind a neutral mask. “I wasn't.”

A beat of silence, broken only by the hushed buzz of electronics.

“Good,” Bruce said at last, tone frustratingly even. “I’d hate to think I was distracting you from your very important earthquake data.”

Clark huffed a laugh, genuine despite himself. “You always think you’re the center of attention.”

“Not always,” Bruce replied, eyes still on his monitor. “Just with you.”

Dammit.

Clark’s heart stuttered, and he was grateful Bruce wasn’t looking at him. He tried for levity, for the easy rhythm they always fell into. “If you keep this up, people on Twitter will keep saying you like having me around.”

“That’d ruin my reputation,” Bruce replied, his mouth twitching, almost but not quite a smile. “What would I ever do without you here to ruin my solitude?”

“That’s gratitude if I’ve ever heard it,” Clark shot back, grinning, grateful for the familiar ground.

“Call it what you like. You keep showing up anyway.” Bruce’s gaze flicked to him then, brief but steady.

Dammit, Bruce.

Bruce turned back to his console, his voice casual again, like the moment hadn’t just cracked something open. “Speaking of showing up… Dick wants to see you. He says you’ve been neglecting him.”

Clark blinked. “Neglecting?”

“He wants you to come by tomorrow. He said he needed help with training. I think he just misses you.”

Clark’s chest warmed again, despite himself. “Guess I’ve been summoned.”

“You have,” Bruce said simply, and his voice softened almost imperceptibly. “Come to the Manor.”

Clark wanted to ask if Bruce wanted him there too, but he didn’t. He just nodded, eyes dropping back to the readouts. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

He scanned the seismograph, relieved to see the world hadn’t crumbled in the minutes he’d been too busy staring at Bruce Wayne.

The Manor hadn’t crumbled either when he arrived the next day, though finding Jason sprawled out in the library with a paperback still caught him off guard.

“Kent,” Jason drawled from one of the leather armchairs in the library.

Clark hadn’t expected to see him today. Jason didn’t come by the Manor very often — especially not during the day — though in the past few months Clark had noticed him showing up more: visiting Alfred, spending time with Dick, even tolerating Bruce a little better.

Clark remembered how hard it had been after Jason was gone. How angry Bruce had become, how sharp his words turned: it felt like every sentence had been meant to wound, to drive people back. There were nights when Alfred had to call Clark because he found Bruce half-dead on the Cave floor, bleeding, barely breathing, refusing to stand down.

He’d stood in the Cave once — right before Bruce blocked his entrance — and heard Bruce say, with a flatness that made Clark’s stomach twist, that he wasn’t sure there was a point to any of this if he hadn’t been able to take care of his own son. That Gotham was just going to keep taking from him until there was nothing left to give.

It scared Clark.

He remembers how Bruce turned off their private comm, stopped going to League meetings, how he’d kept going out with broken bones and bruised ribs. Like punishment was the only thing that could keep him breathing. How he’d tried, in every way he knew how, to push Clark away.

Nothing had ever been strong enough to drag him away from Bruce.

Then Jason came back.

And Bruce changed again. It was subtle at first, almost unnoticeable — but Clark saw it. Saw him start to stand a little straighter, start sleeping more than an hour at a time, start breathing like he didn’t hate the air in his lungs.

He tried harder, after that. Tried to say the things he’d kept locked inside, tried to let the people who loved him actually stay close. Tried to say “thank you” without it sounding like an afterthought, “be careful” without it sounding like an order.

Clark was glad — fiercely, quietly glad — that he’d been there when Bruce finally let himself stop running from the grief. That he’d been there to watch him start putting himself back together piece by jagged piece.

Now, seeing Jason back in the Manor, sitting comfortably in one of the old chairs with a book in hand, it felt like something had been put back where it belonged. It made Clark smile, warmth spreading on his chest like sunlight coming through a window.

“Hi, Jason. Whatcha reading?” Clark asked, walking toward him with a smile.

Jason held up the battered paperback, his mouth tugging into a crooked grin. The Hunger Games.

Clark blinked.

“What?” Jason leaned back deeper into the chair, flipping the book once in his hand. “I wanted something to turn my brain off. Like trash TV, but in book form. Didn’t expect this to be so intense. It’s really good.”

“I’ve read it before,” Clark shared, smile widening.

Jason deadpanned, “Of course you have. Let me guess, your favorite’s Katniss.”

“Hey, she’s honest. She takes responsibility. She fights for the people she loves.”

“Yeah,” Jason barked out a laugh. “Yeah, that tracks. Also, she’s oblivious as hell.”

Clark smiled, unbothered. “Bruce complained about that too. Unreliable narrator, and all that.”

Jason stilled for a second, then blinked at him. “Bruce read The Hunger Games?”

“He likes audiobooks,” Clark said simply, like it explained everything.

Jason groaned loud enough to fill the library and thunked the book against his forehead. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Clark’s grin tugged wider. “Hey, it’s something you can bond over!”

Jason dropped the book into his lap and gave Clark a look flat enough to rival Bruce’s own. “No thank you. Hard pass.”

Clark shifted his weight, then sat down in the armchair across from Jason. The library was quieter than most rooms in the Manor — quiet in a way that felt less imposing, more lived-in. He figured he could wait here.

“You mind if I sit with you until Dick gets here? I don’t know when he’s gonna be back, actually,” Clark asked.

Jason shrugged, back to his book, flipping a page lazily. “Suit yourself.”

Clark settled in, stretching his long legs out in front of him, letting the silence settle for a moment. Jason didn’t seem put off by his presence — not anymore. That alone made Clark’s chest ease a little.

After a moment, Jason cleared his throat. “You, uh…” He didn’t look up from the book at first. “You have a BA, right?”

Clark smiled at him. “I’m sure you already know all the details but, yeah. Metropolis University. Journalism.”

Jason tapped his finger against the edge of the paperback, still not meeting Clark’s eyes. “Have you ever written a recommendation letter?”

“I have, for interns at the Planet. Why do you ask?” Clark kept his tone careful — curious, encouraging, but not pressing.

“Do you think you could… I dunno.” Jason shifted, mouth tightening. “Write me one?”

Clark blinked. Jason wasn’t the type to hesitate. He’d seen him go toe-to-toe with Bruce without blinking, seen him mouth off to people twice his size. For him to be nervous now…

“What for?” Clark asked, leaning in slightly. “I mean, the answer’s yes, absolutely. But what do you need it for?”

Jason’s jaw worked for a second before he muttered, “I want to go to college.”

“Jay, that’s great.” Clark straightened, surprised but warmed at the admission.

“Yeah, don’t get too excited yet,” Jason said quickly, voice sharp to cover the nerves underneath. “I don’t even know if I’ll get in. I finished high school this year — GED, technically. But my record’s… well.” He gave a vague gesture that could’ve meant Gotham, his past, any and all of it.

Clark also knew exactly what he wasn’t saying: he wasn’t going to ask Bruce for help.

He wondered why he came to him. He always tried to encourage Jason, even when he was young, smile bright in his Robin suit. He tried not to think about those times too much in front of Jason or Bruce, in case he got emotional.

“So now,” Jason went on, quieter, “I figured maybe it’s time to try something else.”

Clark’s expression softened. “Jason, that’s more than enough reason. You’ve already done the hardest part — deciding you want this.”

Jason huffed out a laugh, like Clark had accidentally said something corny, but there was a tightness in his shoulders that didn’t ease. “Don’t make it sound like I’ve turned my life around. I just… I don’t want my whole story to be a crime scene. I want something that’s mine.” 

“Then let’s get you there.”

Jason shook his head. “I still feel like I missed a lot. And again, my record–”

“That doesn’t erase what you can do now,” he said as he leaned forward. “Colleges look at the whole picture. They’ll want to see what you’ve been doing lately, how you’ve grown. And you’ve been working with community centers, right? Volunteering? That matters.”

“...Yeah,” Jason glanced back at him, wary but interested. “Couple nights a week. Mostly tutoring. Kids that fall behind in English or history.”

“That’s huge,” Clark said firmly. “That’s exactly the kind of thing you put on an application. It shows commitment, responsibility, compassion–”

“You sound like a brochure,” Jason rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him.

“Maybe,” Clark admitted with a grin. “But it’s true.” He tapped the armrest. “You thinking community college first? Or straight to a four-year?”

“I don’t know.” Jason shifted. “Community college seems like a joke, but…”

“Hey,” Clark cut in gently, “don’t knock it. Community college is affordable, flexible, and credits can transfer if you want to move on to a university later. A lot of students start there. I’ve had interns at the Planet who started that way, and they’re brilliant.”

Jason studied him, skeptical but not dismissive. His thumb kept tracing the frayed edge of his book. “And you’d really write me a letter?”

“I’ll write you ten if you want,” Clark said without hesitation. “Admissions, scholarships, programs, whatever you need. And if you want help putting it all together, I’ll do that too.”

Jason put the book down on his lap, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I was thinking English. Or maybe criminology. Something that’s…” He trailed off, then gave a crooked smile. “Something useful. Something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m wasting my time.”

Clark’s smile softened. “You’re not wasting your time, Jason. Both of those are solid choices. And honestly? You’d be amazing in either. You’ve got sharp instincts. You notice the small details. And you’ve got a voice people listen to, even when you don’t think they do.”

“...You’re really gonna lay it on that thick, huh?”

“Just telling the truth.” Clark chuckled.

For the first time since Clark sat down, Jason looked almost relaxed. He leaned back in the chair again, elbows draping over the armrests. “Alright. If you’re serious, I’ll send you the info. Technically, I’ve got the paper work sorted now. I’m not, y’know, legally dead anymore.”

“I’m serious,” Clark said, tone leaving no room for doubt. “You’ve got me in your corner. Always.”

Jason nodded, and it looked like his mind was in another place. For a long moment, only the ticking of a clock filled the room.

“It’s gonna be English. It’s…” he paused for a second, looking away for a moment before settling his gaze back at Clark. “It’s what I’ve always wanted. Since I was a kid. Never thought I’d get the chance, especially not after–” he gestured vaguely at himself, a shorthand for everything he didn’t say aloud.

Clark didn’t think his smile could get more gentle. “Then English is perfect.”

“Yeah? You don’t think it’s useless?” Jason searched his face. “Everyone else says you can’t do anything with it unless you wanna be a teacher.”

“First of all,” Clark said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, “being a teacher is one of the most important jobs there is. But second, English isn’t useless at all. You learn how to think critically. How to pick things apart, see what’s really being said, and why. You’re perfect for it. Also, that’s half of journalism right there, and I’d like to think I know a few things about that.”

Jason blinked, thrown by the certainty in Clark’s tone.

“In journalism,” Clark went on, earnest now, “we have to look at a sentence and ask: what’s the bias? What’s the truth? What’s missing? English is the same. You study how words work, how they’re used, what they hide. You do that better than most people already. I’ve seen it.”

Jason ducked his head, fiddling with the corner of his book. “...That’s not how Bruce sees me. He doesn’t really say I’m good at things. He just… shows it, I guess.”

“He already sees it in you.” Clark says softly. “He’s just not great at saying things out loud.”

“Understatement of the year,” Jason snorted.

“He tries,” Clark said softly.

“I know,” Jason answered, eyes looking down. He lifted his head and gave him a pointed look. “A lot more, lately.”

Clark chuckled. “You know, when I was in college, my journalism professor made us read just as much literature as news. Shakespeare, Dickens, all of it. Said you couldn’t be a good reporter without learning to listen to stories that weren’t written like headlines. That’s what English does, it teaches you to listen.”

Jason went quiet at that, his jaw working.

“And honestly,” Clark added with a grin, “half of journalism is just meeting a deadline with a halfway-decent essay. You’d crush it.”

Jason finally laughed. “Calm down Kent. You tryin’ to hire me at the Daily Planet already?”

“I’d hand over my desk myself,” Clark said instantly. “You’d keep me on my toes.”

Jason gave him a look. He almost looked touched, before dropping his gaze to the paperback in his lap. Clark wondered if Jason expected not to be taken seriously.

“...English, huh?” Jason said after a moment.

“English,” Clark repeated firmly, like anchoring the word in place.

Jason sat back, letting out a long breath through his nose. For once, he didn’t try to deflect with a joke. “Thank you, Clark.”

“Anytime.” Clark’s chest ached, but for once, it was in a good way. He missed talking to Jason.

The quiet stretched, comfortable. The kind of silence that felt like it had been earned. Dust hung in the late afternoon light, filtering through the tall windows of the library. Clark thought the Manor hadn’t felt this calm in years.

Jason flipped his book closed, thumb marking his place, and after a moment, a crooked grin tugged at his mouth. “Bruce was right.”

“Probably,” Clark huffed. Jason admitting his father was right about anything was rare enough to make him suspicious. “About what?”

“You do talk a lot when it’s something you care about.”

“First of all, rude. Second of all, you already know that. Third — why is Bruce talking about my ranting habits? I thought whatever happened on monitor duty stayed on monitor duty.” Clark’s voice hardened with mock offense.

“Monitor duty?” Jason snorted. “Please. That’s not what he calls it.”

Clark frowned, brow furrowing. “...What does he call it?”

“Best-friend time,” Jason said, leaning forward, smirk downright wicked now.

“He does not–”

“Oh, he does.” Jason’s grin sharpened, smug and satisfied.

“Jason, you want me to think that Batman himself calls monitor duty ‘best-friend time’?” Clark said with a straight face, folding his arms across his chest.

“He didn’t say it out loud,” Jason drawled, savoring every word, “we saw it on his calendar in the Cave a few months ago.”

“Plain as day,” Dick’s voice cut in as he strolled into the library. He dropped into the armchair beside Jason, casual as ever, but his smile was too wide. “Wednesday night block: ‘Best-Friend Time.’”

Clark turned toward him, caught between disbelief and dread. “You did not.”

Jason barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “You should’ve seen B’s face when he realized we all saw it.”

Clark knew — knew — Bruce hadn’t just come up with that phrase himself. It had been a joke, a throwaway line Clark had tossed out once almost three years ago, late into one of their shared shifts, when the Watchtower felt too big and Bruce looked too tired. “C’mon, Bats. Think of it as best-friend time.”

He hadn’t thought Bruce even heard him. Certainly hadn’t thought he’d remember it.

And now the idea of Bruce actually writing it down, putting it in his calendar, of all things.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, trying and failing to keep his expression neutral.

“What’s unbelievable, Kent? That the Bat thinks you’re his best friend?” Jason said, still smirking like it was the funniest thing in the world.

“Oh, no. They definitely call each other that.” Dick said, smile growing wider with every word.

“Because we are.” Clark blurted, more defensively than he meant. His arms found their way to his waist, his chin lifting like he had to double down on it.

Everyone paused for a second, and then it was like a firework exploded. He stared at the two young men laughing in front of him.

Jason barked a laugh, tipping forward in his chair. “God, you didn’t even hesitate.”

Dick was outright wheezing now. “Jay, he even did the Superman pose — please, I can’t,” he managed between laughs, wiping away tears in the corners of his eyes.

“It’s the confidence for me,” Jason added, clutching his stomach. “Like he’s been waiting for someone to challenge the title.” He looked two seconds away from falling out of the chair.

Clark felt his ears burning, but he refused to back down. “What? It’s true. He is my best friend.”

“This is so middle school, please,” Dick groaned through another fit of laughter. “Please, Jay, stop him.”

Jason just grinned wider. “No way. Clark, we were joking, we know you’re friends.”

Dick reached for his phone. “This is going straight to the group chat.”

“Go ahead. Let everyone know,” Clark said, voice suddenly mock-serious.

“I’m already on it,” Jason said, thumbs flying across his screen.

Clark straightened in his chair, earnest as ever. “A best friend isn’t just someone you hang out with,” he began, tone solemn enough to make Jason choke on a laugh. “They’re the person you call first when something happens. Good or bad. They know the parts of you nobody gets to see. They show up — every time, no matter what. And when you fight, you don’t stop being friends, you just come back stronger.”

Jason groaned loud enough to echo, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my God.”

Dick nearly dropped his phone from laughing, but Clark pressed on like he was giving testimony in court.

“And that’s Bruce and me,” he finished firmly, crossing his arms. “We’ve been through more than most people could handle, and we still show up for each other. I’ve seen the worst of him, he’s seen the worst of me, and we’re still together. That’s what makes a best friend.”

Dick was wheezing again, barely getting the words out: “You’re actually– Clark, you’re actually defining it. Please, no one is trying to take Bruce from you–”

“This took a sharp turn into homoerotic territory,” Jason was now wiping his own eyes.

“Get Tim in here,” Dick gasped, shoulders shaking. “He’s the expert on that.”

Jason barked, practically screaming now, voice cracking. “Please, not Conner. Why is he catching strays?”

Clark only straightened in his chair. “Best friends–”

“It’s still not over,” Jason threw his head back, clutching his stomach.

“Best friends,” Clark repeated firmly, ignoring him, “are family. The kind you choose. You put in the work, you stand by them, you show up for them and for the people they care about. You stay. That’s Bruce for me. No one’s taking that spot.”

“Oh no, it got serious,” Dick said, collapsing sideways into the chair.

“It got kinda sweet, it’s not even funny anymore,” Jason said, and finally set his book down like he couldn’t risk ruining it with how hard he’d been laughing.

“That’s because it’s true,” Clark said, a smile finally making its way into his face.

“You realize everything you just said sounds like wedding vows, right?” Dick sat up, grinning.

“I call dibs on this conversation for my wedding speech,” Jason cut in before Dick could say anything else.

“Hey, that’s not fair!” Dick shot him a look.

“I missed a lot of Clark stories,” Jason fired back, leaning forward with a smirk. “I’m taking this one.”

“You two are impossible.” Clark muttered, though the warmth in his voice betrayed him.

“Okay, but if you get married,” Dick continued, “does that mean you become ‘Dad’?”

Clark nearly choked. “What? No, absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Dick leaned forward, eyes glinting. “On principle, it makes sense. You’re halfway there already with the speeches.”

Jason barked out a laugh. “Please. We don’t even call B ‘Dad’.”

“Alright, yeah,” Dick admitted, lips twitching. “But still, on principle–”

“Wait, wait.” Jason snapped his fingers. “Should we go full Damian with it? Call Bruce ‘Father’ and Clark ‘Dad’?”

“Dami would kill us for that,” Dick cut in immediately, shaking his head. A slow grin spread across his face. “Wait. What if we call you ‘Pa’ instead?”

Jason dropped his head into his hands, wheezing. “Please, Dick. My stomach hurts already. Don’t do this to me.”

Clark finally threw his hands up, ears burning. “Guys, no. Absolutely not. Bruce is really trying to be a better parent figure– please don’t start looking at me to do that too.”

That only set them off again, Jason nearly sliding out of his chair while Dick smacked the armrest in delight.

It took a while for the laughter to taper off, but when it did, Clark found himself watching them in the quiet that followed. The sharp edges he’d grown used to — Jason’s scowl, Dick’s tired lines — seemed to fade. For once, they looked unburdened, like brothers teasing each other with nothing in the world weighing down on them.

Clark didn’t mind being the butt of the joke if it meant they got to laugh like that more often. He only wished Bruce was here to see them.

“You say that like you’re not already filling the role, Clark,” Dick said, voice sly with just enough weight to it. His gaze flicked toward Jason, lingering for a second too long.

“What do you mean?” Clark blinked, thrown off.

Jason groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Subtle, Dick. Real subtle.”

“Alright, what is it?” Clark laughed, though he was still confused.

“Nothing,” Dick said innocently, though his grin gave him away. “Just… my invitation wasn’t exactly my idea. Not that I don’t miss you! I still think you should move here already.”

Jason groaned, a blush making its way to his face. He answered after a few seconds, like he couldn’t wait to get the words out and get over with the conversation. “He’s saying I asked him to invite you.” Jason slouched deeper into his chair, muttering.

“For the letter? Jason…” Clark said, his voice softened. “You could’ve just called me yourself. You know that, right?”

Jason’s mouth pressed tight, but he didn’t deny it.

“That’s what I told him,” Dick said immediately.

“Shut up Golden Boy, like you weren’t excited to see him.”

“I am!” Dick shot back, unapologetic.

Jason groaned again, glaring between the two of them. “Ugh, you don’t have to be so earnest. This is your fault Kent. You basically co-parented Bruce to raise this one.”

“Aww, thanks, Jason,” Dick replied sweetly, leaning back with a grin.

Clark let the moment settle, warmth blooming in his chest despite the teasing. Jason could’ve gone to anyone else — but he hadn’t. He’d trusted Clark with something that mattered, something that said more than Jason probably realized it. It was a kind of quiet reliance Clark didn’t take lightly.

He didn’t dare say any of that out loud. The last thing he needed was to reignite the “wedding vows” and “dad” jokes they’d only just dropped. He’d take the win, quietly.

He ended up staying up for dinner, of course. There was no way he could escape once Dick insisted.

It ended the way meals at the Manor usually did — half laughter, half arguments over who ate the last bread roll, and Alfred cutting through it all. Jason and Dick slipped easily into their back-and-forth, Damian’s sharper interjections cutting through like punctuation marks.

Even though it was just the five of them tonight, the table was alive with their voices, overlapping stories, and quick-witted jabs.

Bruce didn’t add much. He never did, not when his kids were this lively. He sat back, shoulders loose, knife and fork moving with deliberate precision while his gaze tracked his boys.

Every now and then, though, Bruce leaned slightly toward him. Clark found himself leaning in too, close enough that the noise of the table softened for a moment, just them.

It was so easy, that rhythm. Bruce observing his family, Clark sharing the moment with him — neither one needing to raise their voices to be heard.

When dinner ended, they stood up in unspoken sync: Jason shrugging into his jacket, Damian reached for his gloves, Dick slung a pack over one shoulder, and Bruce lingered by the table, folding his napkin.

“Alright, I’m out,” Jason said, cracking his knuckles.

“Be careful, Jason,” Bruce said. His tone carried weight; it always did when he knew Jason was about to be out of his sight.

“Yeah, yeah, rubber bullets and all that. I remember the speech,” Jason smirked.

“Not what I meant, Jaybird,” Bruce added, quietly. Uncharacteristic of him.

Jason visibly swallowed. “Yeah, okay. I will.”

“Intel says Black Mask has been moving guns again on the Narrows.” Bruce’s voice stayed even. “Robin and Red will handle that.”

Damian’s head snapped up. “Why am I being dragged into Drake’s assignment? I work better alone.” His voice carried all the righteous indignation of a kid who believed it, with none of the patience to back it up.

“You’re not working alone,” Bruce said simply, as if the matter was closed.

“Give up Dami,” Dick cut in smoothly, tossing a wink at Clark. “No one wins against what B wants.”

“Dick,” Bruce said, firmly, the single word carrying weight.

“Alright, alright,” Dick relented. “I’m staying in Gotham for another three days, anyway. One of the gangs I’ve been tracking has started moving product through the Narrows. If Black Mask’s got his hands in it, I want to see how the pieces connect before I head back.”

Bruce gave a short nod, approval without praise.

“See?” Dick said, shooting Damian a grin as he adjusted his bag. “Cooperation.”

Damian made a noise halfway between a huff and a growl, tugging his gloves tighter.

Clark, meanwhile, had started gathering plates as quietly as he could, trying not to draw attention.

“Master Clark, I would advise against that,” Alfred said crispily, intercepting him with the kind of timing only decades of practice could bring. He lifted the plates neatly from Clark’s hands before he could make it to the sideboard.

“At least let me bring them into the kitchen,” Clark said, smiling, not deterred.

“Cooperation,” Dick called over his shoulder, drawing out the last syllable until it trailed like an echo down the hall.

“Shut it, Grayson!” Damian said, screaming after him.

“Stubborness must be contagious in this household,” Alfred muttered dryly, balancing the plates with practiced ease.

Clark chuckled, carefully setting the last bowl neatly onto the stack in Alfred’s hands.

“Clark, please. You’re a guest.” Bruce’s voice was quiet as he reached out, resting a hand on Clark’s wrist to stop him.

“I want to,” Clark pulled away from Bruce, reluctantly. His gaze shifted toward Alfred, softening. “What would Ma say if she saw me standing around, watching while someone else does the work?”

Alfred’s brow arched, but there was the smallest softening at the corners of his eyes. “Your mother raised you well, Master Clark. But in this house, service is my work, not yours.”

He swept toward the kitchen, leaving Clark half-formed in his protest.

“You’re not winning this one, Kent,” Bruce said, a quiet chuckle slipping through.

He pushed his chair back, rising with the kind of deliberate calm that usually meant he was masking something else. Fondness, maybe. “I’ll be back in the morning. Please stay as long as you like.”

“Thanks, Bruce,” Clark said, holding his gaze.

It seemed like lately, these moments were becoming more frequent. Silences that weren’t really empty, ones that pressed on Clark’s lungs like they were meant to be filled.

He knew what he wanted to fill them with. Knew it so intensely, it almost ached.

The moment stretched, then slipped past. Bruce gave the smallest nod before turning away, footsteps carrying him toward the cave.

The second Bruce was out of his sight, Clark exhaled, then bent to collect silverware.

“Master Clark,” Alfred said again, exasperation laced with long-practiced affection.

Clark darted into the kitchen before Alfred could stop him, setting the cutlery neatly on the counter. When he came back, Alfred was waiting with a deadpan stare that nearly undid him.

Clark chuckled, unable to help it.

“Heaven help me. Another stubborn man under this roof,” Alfred muttered, shaking his head as he moved toward the kitchen again.

Clark fell into step beside him, laughter still warming his breath. “Actually,” he said, tone shifting, “I want to ask you something, Alfred. Well — more like, ask you for a favor.”

Alfred slowed, leveling him with a long, measured look. There was expectation there, like he was bracing for something weighty.

Clark cleared his throat as they entered the kitchen. “Can you give me the recipe for today's dessert?”

The silence that followed was pointed enough to make Clark second-guess himself — until Alfred’s lip twitched. 

“Master Clark, are you saying you would betray Martha Kent’s apple pie?”

“Don’t make it sound like that, I swear you use something different. I can taste it. I never seem to get it right, I’ve tried everything!”

“Perhaps. But a cook never reveals all his secrets.”

“So you do have a secret ingredient.” Clark’s grin tugged wider.

“I didn’t say that.” Alfred’s voice was prim, though his eyes betrayed him.

“You totally did,” Clark pressed, grinning wider. “C’mon, Alfred. I’ll never tell a soul. You can trust me with Gotham’s most classified intel.”

Alfred gave a small huff, turning back to the kitchen sink. Clark leaned against the counter, still watching him expectantly.

“It’s Bruce’s favorite, you know.” Alfred said at last. “Has been since he was a boy.”

“Apple pie?”

“Yes.” Alfred set the dishes down neatly before continuing, quieter now. “After his parents passed, he didn’t ask much for it. He didn’t ask for a lot of anything, in those days. But when Master Dick came to live with us, Master Bruce requested it on the first day. After that, it became sort of a tradition. They both needed something… familiar.”

Alfred glanced at him, his face softened. “He tried very hard to make sure Master Dick’s grief was different from his own. The opposite, in fact. Food can’t mend loss, but it can give a child the sense that home exists.”

“Yeah,” Clark swallowed, leaning more of his weight onto the counter. “You’ve done that for all of them. Especially for Bruce.”

“I did what was needed. No more, no less.” Alfred reached for another plate, tone even.

Clark didn’t want to test his patience, so instead of hovering, he picked up the basket of freshly laundered napkins and began folding them the way he’d seen Alfred do countless times.

“That’s still helping, Master Clark,” Alfred said without looking up.

“Maybe I’m bribing you for that apple pie recipe, Alfred,” Clark replied lightly.

That finally earned a quiet laugh from Alfred, low and genuine.

“Thank you,” Alfred said after a pause.

“No need to thank me, Alfred.”

“For talking to Master Jason.”

Clark's smile softened. “No need to thank me, Alfred.”

Chapter Text

The night air clung to them as they landed just outside the entrance of the Batcave. The gate opened automatically, swallowing them into shadow. Clark’s cape settled against his boots, and Bruce pulled back his cowl with quiet precision. 

Neither spoke at first. Their breaths carried the afterburn of adrenaline, the sharp edges of choices made on the field, and the steady pulse of relief that they had both made it back alive.

“You didn’t have to take that hit,” Bruce said finally, his voice rough from hours of barking orders through comms. He didn’t look at Clark when he said it.

“Well, better than let you or Barry take it. You’re not invincible, Bruce.” Clark said, tone serious.

Bruce turned, eyes flashing. “You didn’t know if they carried Kryptonite, Kal. They work for Luthor, you can’t just–” He broke off, closing his eyes, steadying himself. “I’m just glad it didn’t escalate. But please, be careful. I could’ve taken the hit.”

“Not a chance, B.” Clark smiled at last, the tension loosening. “You’re welcome.”

Bruce’s lips twitched, the smallest shadow of amusement. “That wasn’t gratitude.”

“Sure sounded like it.”

They got into the changing room, Clark changing into the spare clothes he kept there. When he stepped out, Bruce was waiting in the hall, already stripped out of his cape. Clark followed him up the stone steps.

Their footsteps fell into rhythm on the stairs leading up to the Manor. Clark didn’t need to look to know Bruce was cataloguing every shift in the mansion above them. He also didn’t need super-hearing to know that Bruce’s heart had returned to its usual steady pace.

The Manor lights were warm when they emerged. Alfred was waiting at the top of the stairs, as though he had predicted their arrival down to the minute. 

“Master Bruce. Master Clark.” His bow was precise, but his eyes softened when they landed on Clark. “Dinner will be ready shortly. I trust neither of you skipped a meal this time?”

Bruce hummed noncommittally, running a hand through his hair. Clark smiled sheepishly. “Caught us.”

Alfred sighed like a man who had carried this burden too long and still refused to put it down. “Then I’ll make enough to account for your negligence.” He swept away toward the kitchen before either could reply.

“Can’t escape now, Kansas,” Bruce said with the ghost of a smile. “He’d haunt you down all the way back to Metropolis. And you’ve been running on fumes since the morning.”

“What about you? You’ve been awake for thirty hours.” Clark responded, shaking his head.

Bruce looked at him then, and there was something almost tired in the way his eyes softened. “Don’t worry about me.”

Clark huffed out a laugh, low and genuine. “Too late for that.”

The weight of it settled between them — not a joke, not entirely. Clark wanted to say more, but the words felt like a door he wasn’t sure Bruce would open. He was about to try anyway when light footsteps padded into the hall.

Dick leaned casually against the bannister of the grand staircase, arms crossed and a smile too wide to be innocent. “Clark! You stayed. Good. We were just saying how much we missed you around here.”

Clark blinked. “We?”

“Dinner’s on the table in ten. Don’t even think about flying off.” Dick’s smile brightened, but his eyes flicked briefly to Bruce — something sharp and knowing there. Then, lighter: “C’mon, you can sit next to me. I’ll even give you the last roll before Jason steals it.”

Bruce’s gaze narrowed just slightly at his eldest before flicking back to Clark. He didn’t say a word, but Clark could feel it: the unspoken question. Are you staying?

“Guess I’m staying,” Clark said, aiming for casual but failing to keep the warmth out of his voice.

Dick’s expression turned triumphant. “Perfect.” He vanished up the stairs, his footsteps quick, like he was off to alert someone. Or several someones.

Bruce exhaled slowly, turning back toward the dining room. “You don’t have to. I was just joking before–”

“I want to.” Clark cut in before Bruce could finish. His voice softened, quieter now. “Besides, Alfred would kill me if I skipped his cooking.”

Something unreadable flickered over Bruce’s face before he gave the smallest nod and gestured Clark forward.

Clark followed him down the hall, and he felt it again — that dangerous ease. They had danced on this line for months now, best friends who had long since crossed into something heavier without ever naming it. Clark told himself it was enough, being here like this, sitting at Bruce’s side, feeling the edges of something more pressing against his ribs.

He also dreaded that one day it wouldn’t be enough.

With each dinner at the Manor, Clark felt himself fit more easily than he wanted to admit. Tonight, the whole crew was around again. Jason, Dick, Tim, Damian, Duke, Steph, and Cass were already sitting by the time they entered.

As usual, the table was less mealtime and more battlefield: voices sparring, jokes weaponized, no one really winning, everyone too stubborn to concede. Alfred kept it from boiling over.

It took them a while to finish, and Clark tried — as always — to help Alfred clear the table. 

Somehow, by the time he’d gotten up, the dining room was spotless. Sometimes he really did wonder if Alfred was a metahuman.

When he turned back, the chairs were empty too. The others had slipped away quick as smoke. One minute they were arguing about dessert, the next it was just him and Bruce.

“Where did–” Clark started, but Bruce was already standing, folding his napkin with deliberate precision.

“They scatter fast when they fight over food, Alfred doesn’t like it. They’re avoiding the speech.” He rested a hand on Clark’s shoulder briefly. “I need to finish the report on the Cave, but make yourself at home. You know your way around.”

And just like that, he was gone too.

Clark stood, half-ready to follow, when his ears caught it: several sets of footsteps, several heartbeats, converging. Approaching.

Jason appeared first, leaning against the doorframe with the lazy grin of someone about to cause trouble. Dick right behind him, phone in hand like he was holding a piece of evidence. Tim slipped in quietly, eyes sharp (too sharp), while Damian trailed with a scowl that didn’t quite hide his curiosity. Duke and Steph lingered in the doorway, and Cass padded silently to Clark’s side.

Clark blinked. “…what’s going on?”

“Sit,” Dick said, looking like a cat who’d cornered its prey.

Clark frowned. “I don’t–”

Jason flicked the lock on the door with a click. “C’mon, Boy Scout. You could bust out of here if you wanted. So if you’re still standing here, you must want to hear what we’ve got to say.”

Clark hesitated. He could walk straight through the door, no problem. But the way they were all looking at him — expectant, scheming, united in some unspoken mission — made him pause. If this was important to them, maybe he owed it to them to listen.

So he sat back down. “Alright,” he said cautiously. “What exactly is this?”

“An intervention,” Tim said flatly, sliding into the chair across from him.

Clark raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“About you and B,” Dick added, sitting on the chair across him like this was already a done deal. “Because you’re both apparently blind.”

Jason snorted. “Correction: Clark’s blind. Bruce just sucks at saying shit.”

“Father is not bad at anything,” Damian said sharply, though his smirk betrayed him.

Clark stared at them all, baffled. “What?”

Clark’s gaze flicked from one face to the next. All of them were watching him like they’d practiced this, like it was coordinated.

“…what?” he repeated, because it was all he could manage.

Dick leaned forward, elbows on the table, grin firmly in place. “Look, Clark, we love you. We really do. But somebody’s gotta say it out loud: you and Bruce? Whatever you think you’re doing? It’s not subtle.”

“I–” Clark started, but Dick lifted a finger, cutting him off with practiced ease.

“Save it. You’re probably about to tell us you’re just friends, best friends, blah blah. We’ve heard the speeches. But we have lived with him. We know him. And we’re telling you right now, you’re missing the forest for the broody, cape-wearing tree.”

Jason dropped into a chair with a dramatic thump. “Translation: Bats is head-over-heels, and you’re walking around like you don’t notice.”

“We’re not here to embarrass you. We’re here because the evidence is overwhelming.” Tim interjected.

Steph raised her hand like she was in school. “Also because it’s killing us. Seriously, the tension? You could cut it with one of Damian’s swords.”

“It would be an honor,” Damian muttered darkly, though his mouth twitched at the corner.

Clark blinked, still thrown. His instincts told him this was ridiculous, that he should stand up and walk out — but his feet stayed planted, his hands flat against the table. They were serious.

“…so, what is…?” he asked, finally finding his voice.

“A briefing,” Dick said with relish. “We’re laying out the case. Point by point. Evidence of Bruce Wayne in active, undeniable flirt mode.”

Jason smirked. “Buckle up, Kent.”

Clark ran a hand over his face, trying for calm. “Look, I appreciate your… concern? But Bruce is not flirting. I think you’re misreading things.”

Jason barked out a laugh, sharp and loud. “Oh, please. The guy memorizes your routine so he can just happen to show up for lunch, and you think that’s just normal Batman behavior?”

Clark straightened in his chair. “He has meetings in Metropolis–”

“With the Daily Planet,” Jason cut in, voice getting louder, “you know, the company he bought because you work there?”

Clark opened his mouth, heat rising in his face, but Duke leaned forward from the doorway, tone calm like a mediator sliding in before things got messy. “Okay, okay, let’s tone down the good cop, bad cop routine.” He nodded toward Dick and Jason in turn. “It’s not working anyway. Clark looks like he’s about to fly through the ceiling.”

Steph propped her chin in her hand, a broad, delighted smile spreading. “Yeah, let’s do this in order. Good thing we’ve got other evidence. Right, Tim?”

Tim’s smirk was merciless. “Plenty.”

Clark sank back into his chair, realizing too late this wasn’t some casual ribbing. They had a plan. A trap. And he’d walked right into it.

Dick leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, confidence bright and infuriatingly. “Alright, ground rules. You don’t get to interrupt until we’re done. We’ll present the evidence, you’ll listen, and then you can plead your case.”

“This isn’t a courtroom,” Clark muttered.

“It’s an intervention,” Dick countered smoothly, voice sliding into the kind of cheer that meant he was absolutely in charge. “Think of me as your lawyer. Except I’m working against you. For your own good.”

“Terrifying,” Clark deadpanned.

Jason smirked. “Welcome to the family.”

“Please,” Tim snorted. “He’s been part of the family since before I got here.”

Dick snapped his fingers, the sound crisp. “Focus. Exhibit A.” His expression turned sly as he reached for a picture in Tim’s hand. Did they print everything? “The Brucie persona. You know it, we know it. He never, ever drops it. Except–” he held the picture out like a damning piece of evidence, “–when you walk into the room.”

The picture at the gala, coming back to haunt him. Again.

Steph leaned closer, eyebrows up. “Oh, he’s right. The voice drops, the grin fades, the whole act just– poof. Gone.”

Tim added dryly, “and considering he’s kept that persona airtight for decades, Clark, that’s not nothing.”

Jason gestured loosely, like it was obvious. “The man’s built an entire empire on selling Brucie Wayne to the public. Playboy, lightweight, drunk on champagne and bad investments. You know how many times he’s broken character in front of other people? Zero.”

“Once,” Dick corrected, amusement tugging at his mouth. “When Cass told him she wanted to take ballet. He dropped it for two whole seconds to ask if she needed new shoes.”

“That doesn’t count,” Jason shot back. “Point is, it’s bulletproof. Except with you. One second Brucie’s grinning for the cameras, next second Clark walks in, and suddenly Gotham’s favorite billionaire is Mr. Smitten. Every time.”

Clark glanced between them all, trying not to squirm under the weight of their stares. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Please,” Dick said, leaning forward, eyes glinting. “We’re just getting started. Don’t worry, you’ll leave this room fully convinced of our hypothesis.”

“It’s not a hypothesis, it’s a law at this point,” Duke pointed out. “Brucie drops for Clark. Always.”

“Alright, moving on,” Tim said, already pulling a folder out from his arm. “Exhibit B: the texts.”

Clark frowned. “Texts? Why do you have–”

Tim’s smirk was merciless. “Yes, texts. Specifically: the ones where Bruce uses more than four words in a row.”

Jason barked out a laugh. “Oh, this is my favorite part.”

Tim flipped a page, deadpan as ever. “We’ve all seen Bruce’s text style. ‘K.’ ‘Fine.’ Sometimes — if you’re really lucky — ‘On my way.’ That’s it. Entire conversations reduced to monosyllables." He slid a sheet of paper across the table like a prosecutor presenting damning evidence: a blurry picture taken from behind Bruce, his last conversation with Clark visible on his phone. “Except with you.”

Dick leaned in, beaming. “Clark, he double-texts you.”

Clark blinked, genuinely thrown. “…that’s not a crime.”

“From Bruce?” Steph cut in, dramatic. “That’s a declaration of love. He doesn’t even single-text me half the time. Do you know how humiliating it is to send the Batman a paragraph and get the equivalent of a thumbs-up emoji back?”

Duke nodded sagely. “It’s brutal. He’s so bad at texting.”

“Not with Clark, he’s not. He’s desperate,” Dick added, laughing.

“Father doesn’t use emojis,” Damian said, frowning.

“He does with Clark,” Jason said plainly.

Tim tapped the paper. “Here we have Bruce Wayne, billionaire, master of silence, sending Clark Kent not one but two texts. Sometimes three. He even uses commas.”

Jason leaned back, smile turning feral. “It’s practically sexting, by his standards.”

“Jason,” Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s not–”

“Also,” Dick interrupted, “I think he designed the whole encrypted-messaging app just to talk to you. I don’t have proof of that, but I also don’t have any doubts.”

“Dick, that’s–”

“Exhibit C!” Jason cut in before Clark could continue. He slapped his hand against the table for emphasis, grinning like he was announcing a circus act. “No metas in Gotham.”

Clark blinked. “…what?”

Jason leaned forward, voice rising. “Rule number one. The Big Bat decree. Metas don’t cross the border unless they want a personal escort out. Everybody in Gotham knows it.”

“And yet,” Dick drawled, resting his chin on his hand, “here you are. Practically living in the Manor half the time.”

“That’s not–”

“Don’t even try it,” Jason cut in, pointing a finger at him. “You’re the exception. The only exception. Do you have any idea what that means in Bat-language?”

Steph raised her hand like she was adding commentary on a sports broadcast. “It means he’s in love with you.”

“Exactly,” Jason said, snapping his fingers. “Thanks, Brown.”

Clark rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “That’s ridiculous. I’m here because we work together. We’re colleagues.”

“Colleagues?” Duke echoed, tilting his head. “So colleagues get personalized rooms at the Manor now?”

“Got ‘im,” Steph said, laughing quietly.

Clark threw his hands up, voice pitching higher than he meant. “Okay, wait, you’re twisting things. I’m not an exception — I’ve just… known him longer. That’s it.”

Jason arched a brow, unimpressed. “So you’re saying time served gets you a free pass through Gotham airspace? Come on, Clark.”

Clark pressed on, desperate now. “We’ve worked side by side for years, of course he trusts me here. That doesn’t mean anything more than that.”

Dick gave him a look so sharp it felt like being pinned to the wall. “Clark. He didn’t let Diana stay the night when she visited three years ago. Remember that?”

Clark hesitated. “She… had business in London…”

“Uh-huh.” Steph smirked. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Clark’s mouth opened, then closed again. He hated how much they were enjoying this.

Tim slid another sheet across the table with a flourish, voice cool as ice. “Exhibit D.”

Clark braced himself. “Oh, for the love of–”

“The Brucie persona,” Tim said, ignoring him. “Or, rather, the dilution of it. You’ve noticed, haven’t you? Less champagne-soaked parties, fewer ridiculous headlines, a lack of models in his arms.”

Steph nodded. “Honestly, kind of a shame. Those articles were hilarious.”

“At first I thought it was because he’s getting older,” Duke added, wincing a bit.

Damian folded his arms, his scowl deepening. “I despise seeing father act like that. It is beneath him. I understand its tactical purpose, but lately it has been–” He hesitated, eyes narrowing. “Diminished.”

“Even he notices it,” Jason muttered.

Damian’s voice sharpened, each word precise. “Father is still insufferable, but less so in public.”

“It’s true,” Dick cut in, tapping the photo Tim had laid down — a blurry shot clearly pulled from social media, Bruce caught mid-conversation at the Community Center inauguration. He was leaning slightly toward Damian during the interview, but his eyes were on Clark, the Brucie grin nowhere in sight. “He used to treat these events like a battlefield. Now? Half the time he looks bored. Until you show up. Then he looks like he actually wants to be there.”

Duke pointed at the picture. “Exactly. Look at his face. That’s not Brucie. That’s Bruce.”

Even Cass nodded.

Clark opened his mouth, flustered. “Maybe he’s just–”

“Don’t even,” Jason said, leaning forward. “That man doesn’t tone down anything unless it’s deliberate. You think it’s coincidence he started doing it around the same time he doubled his trips to Metropolis?”

Before Clark could get another word out, Tim slid a new sheet onto the table with deliberate precision.

It wasn’t a press photo, not really. It was grainy, clearly snapped in secret — Bruce standing close, one hand braced against Clark’s chest while the other adjusted his tie. The angle caught Bruce’s face mid-concentration, eyes narrowed in that surgical focus he usually saved for disabling bombs.

“Exhibit E,” Dick announced, smug as hell. He tapped the edge of the photo. “Bruce Wayne doesn’t touch people unless it’s for appearances, and this–” his grin widened “–is not for appearances.”

Clark’s ears went hot. “That’s– that’s not what it looks like. My tie was crooked.”

Jason leaned forward, a wolfish curve to his mouth. “Exactly. Crooked tie, and Batman himself couldn’t rest until he fixed it. You think he goes around adjusting ties for Gordon? For Lucius? For anyone?”

Steph whistled low. “That’s intimacy, Clark.”

Wasn’t this normal? Sure, Bruce hated physical contact, avoided it whenever possible, even with him, especially back in those first years of the League. But that was a long time ago. After more than a decade of shared rooftops, fighting side by side, surviving sleepless nights, watching each other break down and get back up again, Clark had just… assumed Bruce would be comfortable by now with those small, grounding touches.

It didn’t mean anything. It was a platonic thing to do, and it was fine.

Before he could gather a reply, Duke slid another photo across the table, this one sharper, again from the Community Center inauguration. Bruce and Damian by his side, Bruce’s hand resting low on Clark’s back. Deliberate.

“Here’s another one,” Duke said, voice amused but not unkind. “That hand placement? That’s not business. That’s Bruce saying ‘This guy’s with me’.”

Cass nodded again, firmly.

Clark shifted uncomfortably, his chair scraping the floor. “He probably didn’t even notice–”

Tim’s laugh cut him off. “No, Clark. He noticed. He always notices. That’s literally his whole thing. You really think the World’s Greatest Detective just accidentally keeps putting his hands on you?”

“You’re all reading too much into this–”

Dick leaned back in his chair, smug as a prosecutor mid-trial. “And that’s just the start, Clark. We’re working backward here — most recent evidence first. But if you want the full picture, we’ve got material for every year.” His grin widened, downright wicked now. “We can go month by month, or year by year. Dealer’s choice.”

Clark’s mouth fell open. “You’ve– what? You’ve been keeping records?”

“Detailed ones. And trust me, it only gets more incriminating,” Tim said smoothly, already rifling through another stack of papers.

Clark’s voice pitched higher, panic and disbelief tangling together. “That’s insane–”

He could feel his breaths starting to shorten, too shallow, like his lungs didn’t want to cooperate. His pulse picked up in his throat, hot and unsteady. This was too much, too fast. 

His thoughts kept colliding with each other — Bruce doesn’t flirt, Bruce doesn’t want this, Bruce can’t — and now they were telling him they had records? Organized, deliberate proof? It was like the floor had tilted and he couldn’t find his footing.

Because if they were right–

He felt himself spiraling. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t dare to even try to rationalize it. If he started examining every look, every quiet night in the Cave, every moment Bruce had let him stay — just to be wrong, to misread it all — then what? Then losing Bruce wouldn’t just hurt, it would shatter him.

It would take the one place in the word that had always felt steady, and make it dangerous. Unbearable.

Bruce wouldn’t hate him — Clark knew that — but the thought of everything tilting back to those first years, when every word felt like a clash and every silence felt like a wall, made his stomach twist. He couldn’t go back to stiff nods in briefings, to Bruce shutting him out, to having to fight tooth and nail just to be let in again. He couldn’t bear that distance twice.

He could survive a lot of things, had survived a lot of things, but losing this? Losing the fragile, careful thing they’d built between them? That would be the one thing that broke him.

He pressed a hand against his knee under the table, grounding himself, trying to focus on anything solid. But the weight of all their eyes on him, waiting for him to deny something he wasn’t even sure he wanted to deny, only made the pressure sharper.

He tried to find Bruce’s heartbeat.

The door slammed open, hard enough to rattle the frame.

Bruce filled the doorway, shoulders squared, jaw locked tight. His expression could have cut glass. He looked once at the table, at the scattered papers.

The room went still. Even Jason’s smirk faltered.

“Out,” Bruce said, low and final. “All of you.”

“B–” Dick started, hands lifting like he could explain, but the single look Bruce leveled at him made the words die in his throat.

Jason leaned back in his chair, all bravado draining into a muttered, “Shit.”

Tim opened his mouth, already ready to argue on principle, but Alfred appeared just behind Bruce, gaze cool, disappointed in a way that hit harder than Bruce’s fury ever could.

“I believe you all heard Master Bruce,” Alfred said, tone crisp. “Out.”

Damian, for once, didn’t argue. His mouth pressed into a thin line, but he stood, shoving his chair back with a scrape. The others followed, no more protests, just shuffling feet and eyes that avoided both Bruce and Alfred as they filed toward the door.

Bruce’s glare tracked them until the last one slipped out into the hall. The door shut behind them with a finality that echoed in the quiet.

For a moment, Clark just sat there, staring at the grain of the table, breath uneven in his chest. His throat felt tight, like it couldn’t decide between words or air.

The scrape of Bruce’s shoes across the floor made him glance up. The sharpness in Bruce’s face had shifted, the anger redirected, tempered into something else entirely when his eyes landed on Clark.

“Are you alright?” Bruce asked, voice low, steadier now.

Clark swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod. “Yeah. Just– caught off guard.”

Bruce didn’t look convinced. His gaze lingered, sharp eyes tracing the set of Clark’s shoulders, the way his fingers had gone rigid against the chair arms. Clark broke eye contact, staring down at the pictures dispersed across the table, before shutting his eyes.

“Are they far enough not to hear us?” Bruce asked, tone quieter still, but heavy.

Clark tilted his head, listening past the walls, past the footsteps fading upstairs. “Yeah. They’re gone.”

Bruce gave a single nod. His shoulders rose and fell once, a controlled exhale that looked more like preparation than relief.

“I’ll get you some water. Wait here.” His tone was clipped, but Clark heard it clearly — the edge of fear underneath. Like Bruce half-expected him to vanish the second he stepped out of the room.

Clark almost wanted to smile at that.

He leaned back against the chair, trying to steady his breath, to slow the erratic beat of his heart. He pressed his palms against his knees again, grounding himself, telling every muscle to stay still.

When Bruce returned, it was with the quiet efficiency of someone who needed the act of moving to stave off thinking too much. He set the glass down in front of Clark, his hand lingering on the table for a beat longer than necessary before he finally sat across him.

For a moment, Bruce just looked at him.

His voice was almost steady when it came, but Clark could hear the thin catch beneath it. “We need to talk.”

For a long second, Clark just stared at him. The words landed like a stone in his stomach — we need to talk. They were the kind of words that came before endings, before careful rejections. His throat tightened. 

Of course this was where it would go. After all these years, Clark had always known he’d slip eventually. That sooner or later, Bruce would see it. See him. The kids had only sped it up. Now Bruce had noticed, had put the pieces together, and he was going to close the door as gently as he could.

Clark braced himself. He told himself he’d nod, that he’d take it, that he wouldn’t let the ache show on his face. Bruce was his best friend — the center of so much of his life — and if this was the cost of keeping him, then Clark would pay it. He’d bury it deep, let it break him in silence if that’s what it took.

Bruce’s hand flexed once on the table, as though he were testing his own resolve, and then he exhaled.

“You probably noticed my… actions lately,” he said, tone even, though his eyes betrayed the smallest flicker of hesitation. “I had a plan. A better way of doing this. But my children know no boundaries. I’m afraid that’s something they learned from me.”

A humorless chuckle left him, almost sad. “I promise I had an entire approach worked out. Something measured. Something I thought you deserved.”

He went quiet after that, jaw tightening as though the next words refused to come. His eyes shifted away, toward the folder still sitting half-open on the table, as if he’d rather talk about anything else.

Clark’s chest ached. “Bruce,” he said carefully, voice low. “You don’t have to–”

“I do,” Bruce cut in, sharper than he meant to. He dragged in another breath, steadying. “I don’t… talk about these things. Not well. Not often. But if I stay silent now, it’ll be worse later.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, a rare sign of nerves, then let his hand drop. “You’re my closest friend. I value that more than anything. And I know what I’m about to say could risk it. But I can’t keep pretending it isn’t there.”

The silence stretched, heavy, full of things Clark didn’t dare hope. His heart was hammering so hard he was sure Bruce could hear it.

Finally, Bruce’s gaze lifted again, dark and unwavering. His voice softened, but the words struck like an earthquake.

“I’m in love with you.”

The words hung there, stark and absolute. Bruce didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat, but his hands curled against the table as though steeling himself.

“I have been, for longer than I’ll admit. At first, I thought I could control it. Ignore it. I convinced myself it was manageable — that I could stand beside you, and keep it separate. That I could bury it under the mission, under rules, under everything else I use to keep myself intact.” His voice stayed even, but there was a crack at the edges, the kind Clark had only ever heard on the worst nights.

“But it kept growing. And there came a point where I couldn’t explain my choices in the field without admitting I was biased. You. I kept circling back to you. And I realized… it wasn’t something I could disguise forever.”

His gaze lowered briefly, almost shamefully, before locking on Clark again with startling directness. “It was never my intention to burden you with this. You didn’t ask for it. I know that. But I couldn’t keep making decisions around you without telling you why. That’s not fair. Not to you. Not to the team. Not to either of us.”

He drew in another breath, steadier this time. “And yes, I’ve noticed things. The way you look at me sometimes, the way your voice changes when it’s just us. I told myself it might only be physical. Attraction. Nothing deeper. That would be… easier. Cleaner. But even then–” He shook his head once. “Even then, I couldn’t stomach the thought of never saying anything. Of letting someone else take the chance I was too much of a coward to risk.”

He leaned back slightly, like the distance could soften the blow, though his words refused to retreat. “You don’t owe me anything. Not a response, not a fraction of what I feel. But I had to tell you before I lost the chance. Because you are–” His voice broke for the first time, barely audible. “You’re one of the most important people in my life. You’re everything. And if there’s even the smallest possibility that you feel anything close to what I do… then I had to take it. Even if I’m not your first choice.”

His voice lowered further, rougher now. “I don’t expect this to be simple. I know what I am. I know how difficult it is to… care for me. But I’m not expecting anything. I just need you to know.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Bruce’s shoulders stayed square, but Clark could see the tremor of tension at his jaw, the way his knuckles had gone white where his hands pressed against the edge of the table. It was as close to terrified as Bruce Wayne ever looked.

It was like a dam broke loose.

Clark’s chair scraped back before he realized he’d moved. His hands were on the table, gripping the edge like he needed something to hold him steady. He heard a crack from the wood.

“Bruce–” His voice cracked, and he didn’t care. “A burden? You think you’re the only one carrying this?” His chest heaved, air catching sharp at his throat, choking him with words that had lived there too long. “I’ve been in love with you for years. Years. And I’ve tried– God, I’ve tried– to bury it. To pretend it was just friendship. To pretend that being beside you was enough.”

His eyes stung, and he swiped at them, furious at himself for losing composure now. “Do you know how selfish I’ve felt? Wanting more when what I already had with you was the best thing in my life? Do you know what it’s like to spend every day telling yourself not to want the one thing you can’t stop wanting?”

Bruce stared at him, unblinking, eyes wide, mouth open. Like Clark had spoken in a foreign language.

“You’re not my burden,” Clark pressed on, voice low but shaking. “You’re my gravity. You’re the thing I can’t pull away from, no matter how much I’ve told myself I should. You say you’re in love with me like it’s a confession. To me, it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.”

The room was heavy with silence, but Clark couldn’t stop now. He stepped around the table, closing the distance in a stride that felt both too fast and agonizingly slow. His hand cupped the side of Bruce’s face before he could second-guess himself, thumb brushing against a jaw tight with restraint.

“Not my first choice?” Clark whispered, breath trembling. “Bruce, you’ve always been my only choice. Loving you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

For a moment, Bruce didn’t move — frozen, like the detective in him was still cataloguing, still testing if this could be real. And then he surged forward, meeting Clark’s mouth with a force that felt like surrender and desperation all at once.

The kiss was messy, almost clumsy at first, years unraveling in a single second. Clark dragged him closer, fingers threading into his hair, terrified of letting go. He wanted more, deeper, closer, until it felt like the air itself was conspiring to keep them apart. He wanted them to share the same space, defy the laws of physics so they could somehow be fused together. 

Clark pulled back a fraction, just enough to see him. Bruce’s eyes were wide open, storm-dark but unguarded, every wall he’d ever built pulled down brick by brick. His breath was uneven, and for once, he didn’t try to control it.

“Bruce…” Clark whispered, like saying his name out loud might undo the spell.

His gaze roamed over Clark’s face like he was memorizing it, as if the years had stripped away every defense and left him standing on the edge of something terrifying and holy. His fingers brushed along Clark’s cheekbone, down the slope of his nose, over the furrow of his brow, tracing him piece by piece as though relearning him by touch.

Clark closed his eyes and let him. “I can’t believe–” he started, the words catching.

Bruce’s hand slid up to Clark’s jaw, fingers steady now, holding him in place. “Don’t you dare think this isn’t real.” His voice was quiet, but it carried the kind of conviction that made Clark’s chest ache.

Clark laughed then — a wet, broken sound that came out halfway between a sob and a sigh of relief. “I wasn’t. I just–” He swallowed, words colliding in his throat. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything this badly.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Then stop thinking.”

Clark surged forward again, and this time the kiss was rougher, hotter, a clash of years of repression snapping all at once. He hauled Bruce closer, one hand buried in his hair, the other gripping his back like he might disappear if Clark let go.

And that’s when Clark realized the floor had slipped out from under them. His stomach swooped. Bruce’s body shifted against his like he noticed too, though he didn’t break the kiss until the top of his head brushed against the lighting.

“Kal–” Bruce said between kisses, half exasperated, half laughing — a rare sound that Clark wanted to memorize forever. “Put us down. You’re going to take us both out on the light fixtures.”

“Right now,” Clark muttered into his mouth, “I don’t give a damn about your chandeliers.”

“Put us down before Alfred walks in,” Bruce murmured, giggling.

God, Clark wanted to cry again.

Clark grinned against his collar. “Fine. But if we crash into the floor, I’m blaming you.”

Bruce’s lips brushed his ear, so close it made Clark shiver. “Always deflecting responsibility, Kent.”

“Oh, we’re back to last names now?” Clark teased as his feet touched the ground, still refusing to let go.

“Only when you’re being insufferable,” Bruce said, but his mouth betrayed him, twitching into a smile.

Clark leaned in again, brushing their noses together. “Guess you’ll be using it a lot, then.”

His arms were locked around Bruce’s waist, unwilling to test the idea of distance after coming this close. He could feel the heat of him through layers of fabric, the steady strength pressed against his chest.

Bruce didn’t push him away. He never did, not anymore, he let Clark stay. One hand rested at Clark’s hip, grounding, the other still curled in the hair at his nape like he hadn’t realized he was holding on so tightly. His thumb brushed once against Clark’s skin, absent, betraying him more than any words could.

Clark’s laugh softened into something else — quieter, shakier. “You don’t make it easy to let you go, you know.”

Bruce’s gaze flicked up, steady and searching. “Wasn’t trying to.”

Clark swallowed hard, his arms tightening in response. He didn’t even try to hide it — the way he leaned closer, the way he let his head dip, cheek brushing against Bruce’s hair. He just wanted the contact, wanted the reassurance that Bruce wasn’t about to retreat.

Bruce let out a breath, almost a sigh, but his grip didn’t falter.

For a moment, it was enough. The world stayed outside, and the only thing that existed was the press of Bruce’s hand at his back and the rhythm of his heart beneath Clark’s ear.

“Kal,” Bruce murmured, voice low, like a warning and a promise in one.

Clark smiled against his shoulder. “Say my name like that again and I might not let you go.”

“You weren’t planning to let go anyway.”

“Yeah,” Clark admitted.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that — pressed together, breathing each other in, neither daring to loosen their grip. His world had narrowed to the warmth under his palms and the weight of Bruce’s hand still anchored at his neck.

After a long stretch of silence, Bruce’s mouth brushed close to his ear. “Are they near?” His voice was barely above a whisper, like even the Manor walls might betray them.

Clark tilted his head, listening. He let his hearing sweep over the house, over Alfred’s steady shuffle on the other floor, the others clustered in far-off rooms, hearts beating quick with nerves but too far to catch words. Finally, he shook his head, lips ghosting against Bruce’s hairline. “No. It’s just us.”

Something eased in Bruce’s chest at that — Clark felt it in the subtle drop of his shoulders, in the slow exhale he hadn’t realized Bruce was holding. For a man who thrived on control, this — leaning, admitting, allowing — was more vulnerable than battle scars. Clark leaned in to kiss his forehead once.

Bruce pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, then tipped his chin toward the side hall. “Come on.”

Clark followed without hesitation, their hands brushing. Bruce led him to one of the smaller sitting rooms just off the main hall — a space Alfred often used to host guests when the formal parlor was too stiff. The lamps were low, throwing warm light across old bookshelves and a long couch that looked lived in, softened by years.

They sat next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, and Bruce leaned back like his bones had finally given up the fight. Clark followed, their arms pressed along the length of each other’s sides, their knees brushing.

Neither spoke at first. The hum of the Manor’s quiet filled the space, the creak of old wood, the muted clink of Alfred in the distance. Clark let his head tip, just slightly, until it rested against Bruce’s shoulder.

Bruce didn’t move away. He adjusted, instead, tilting closer until his temple rested lightly against Clark’s hair.

They sat there, the weight of the day giving way to the steady comfort of proximity.

Clark let his fingers drift once against the cushion, brushing the back of Bruce’s hand by accident.

Bruce didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand shifted, slow and deliberate, until their fingers aligned. For a beat, they hovered there, the lightest contact — then Bruce threaded his hand through Clark’s, gripping like he’d finally decided to stop holding back.

Clark’s throat tightened. His whole body felt like cotton, like electricity had run from the top of his head to his finger tips and escaped out of him. He turned slightly, enough to catch the set of Bruce’s jaw, the trace of vulnerability etched across features that were usually stone.

Bruce’s voice was low when it came. “We should talk about this. About… us.”

Clark exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping him. “Yeah. Guess we should.”

Bruce’s thumb started brushing over Clark’s knuckles, almost unconsciously. “If we’re doing this,” he said, voice steady but low, “we need to be clear. No pretending, no guesswork. I don’t want to lose you because I wasn’t careful enough.”

Clark turned, eyes catching his. “Bruce, you don’t have to solve everything tonight,” he murmured. “You don’t even have to solve me. You could just–” he tilted his head, eyes soft, “turn your brain off. For a little while.”

Bruce huffed a short laugh, the kind that didn’t hold any humor. “You know I can’t.”

Clark hummed, tracing slow lines across the back of Bruce’s hand with his nails.

“Just… What is this? What do we call it?” Bruce’s voice wasn’t sharp, just cautious.

Clark’s lips curved, just barely. “You’re asking me?”

“You always say I assume too much,” Bruce countered, the corner of his mouth twitching. “So I’m not assuming. I’m asking.”

Clark didn’t hesitate. He’d spent years biting his tongue, years burying the want until it hurt. Now that he had it, he wasn’t about to let the moment blur into uncertainty. When he spoke, his voice was steady and sure. He didn’t waver.

“I want you to be mine, and I want to be yours. You’re it for me.”

The words sat between them, simple, immovable. Clark felt the weight of them, but not fear. Just certainty.

Bruce’s eyes flickered, dark and unreadable.

“You’re certain.” It wasn’t a question — more like Bruce needed to hear it said again.

Clark leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed Bruce’s cheek. “I’ve been certain for a decade. Longer, if I’m being honest.”

Bruce’s hand came up then, hesitating only a second before cupping Clark’s face. The touch was careful, reverent, as if afraid Clark might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.

Something broke across Bruce’s face, the softest unmasking. Clark had seen him furious, broken, bleeding, but never like this: open. No picture could capture this.

“I love you,” Clark breathed, capturing his mouth in another kiss, the latest in a string he’d already stopped counting.

“I love you too.” His hand tightened at Clark’s jaw, almost grounding himself there.

After what felt like an eternity and two seconds simultaneously, they separated.

Clark was still catching his breath, forehead resting lightly against Bruce’s. His chest felt too small for the sheer amount of joy trying to push through it. “So…” he said at last, voice low, teasing. “How long?”

Bruce’s brow furrowed. “How long what?”

“How long have you been hopelessly in love with me?” Clark mouth curved, pulling back just enough to see the flat look Bruce shot him. “Don’t act like you haven’t been. I feel like I deserve a number, B.”

Bruce groaned, tipping his head back against the couch. “You make it sound juvenile.”

“Oh, c’mon. You’ve had a crush on me,” Clark pressed, leaning closer to put a hand on Bruce’s chest, voice mock-serious. “Admit it. World’s greatest detective, mooning over me like a teenager. That’s adorable.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath.

Clark’s grin widened. “Oh my god. It’s true. You did have a crush. That’s so embarrassing.”

Bruce shot him a sharp look, though his lips twitched at the edges. “You realize you’re mocking the man who just confessed he loves you, right? And that you confessed back to?”

“Mmhm. And I’ll never let you live it down.” Clark’s voice was bright with laughter now. “Wait — did you keep, like, a diary about me? ‘Dear journal, today Clark smiled at me across the Watchtower cafeteria–’”

Bruce’s hand shot out, covering Clark’s mouth, but Clark was already laughing against his palm.

“You’re insufferable,” Bruce said, though his voice had gone rough with fondness.

Clark pried his hand away, chuckling. “Apparently, you love it.”

“I do,” Bruce said simply, without hesitation.

That quiet certainty knocked the wind right out of Clark, and he had to lean back into Bruce’s shoulder before he burst. He let out a shaky laugh, trying to cover the way his heart had jumped into his throat. “See, this is why you can’t say things like that. I’ll get unbearable.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched. “You’re already unbearable.”

Clark tilted his head up to smile at him. “Yeah, but now I’m unbearable, and I’m your boyfriend. Upgrade.”

Bruce actually huffed out a laugh at that — low, real, rare — and Clark felt like he could live a thousand lifetimes just to hear it again.

“Boyfriend,” Bruce repeated, as though trying it out on his tongue.

Clark’s eyes went wide. “Wait– you actually said it? I didn’t think you’d– oh my gosh, say it again.” He sat up and swung a leg over, straddling Bruce without a second thought.

Bruce gave him a flat look.

“C’mon,” Clark teased, bracing his hands on Bruce’s shoulders. “Once more for the people in the back.”

“No.”

“You’re blushing,” Clark said, delight lighting his face.

“I’m not.”

“You totally are. Oh jeez, you actually are. Gotham’s Dark Knight, vigilante, terror of criminals everywhere, Batman himself — blushing because he said the word ‘boyfriend.’”

“Kal.”

“B.” Clark leaned back with a smug little hum, lifting his hands to cup Bruce’s face. “I think I just witnessed history. Should’ve brought my camera. Exhibit F, Bruce Wayne blushes at the prospect of dating me.”

Bruce exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but Clark caught it — that flicker of warmth at the corner of his mouth, the kind that betrayed him more than any blush.

“You’re never going to shut up about this, are you?” Bruce asked, resigned.

Clark pretended to think. “Not in a million years.”

Bruce muttered something about regretting his life choices, but one of his hands came to rest on Clark’s thigh, thumb stroking idly, unrelenting.

Clark’s smile softened a little, though he couldn’t resist one more jab. “So what was it? The cape? The glasses? Did you fall in love with Superman or Clark Kent first?”

Bruce gave him a look so deadpan it nearly broke Clark.

“You’re stalling,” Clark teased.

“I’m deciding whether to answer or walk out of this room.”

Clark gasped, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Bruce arched a brow. “Test me.”

Clark was laughing again, half at Bruce’s tone and half at the fact that Bruce still hadn’t let go of him. “Fine, fine. Don’t answer. But just so you know, if you ever tell me it was the cape, I’m telling your kids. Every single one of them.”

“They’d believe you,” Bruce said dryly.

“They would. And they’d never let you forget it.”

Bruce’s mouth quirked, but his voice dropped lower. “I still need to talk to them.”

Clark groaned, burying his face against his shoulder, Bruce’s hand came up and started rubbing his back. “Oh god, I’m never going to live it down.”

That set them both off again — the kind of laughter that made Clark’s ribs ache, and spilled out of Bruce in quiet, reluctant bursts like he didn’t know how to stop. Clark leaned into it, into him, greedy for every sound.

When it finally quieted, Clark tilted his head, a playful curve returning to his mouth. “So… do I get to brag to Lois that I made Bruce Wayne my boyfriend? Or is that, like, a secret identity clause?”

Bruce groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “God help me.”

Clark laughed so hard he nearly toppled sideways, and Bruce’s arm came up automatically to steady him.

Clark wheezed through his laughter, wiping at his eyes. “Next thing I know, you’ll be labeling your calendar date night right next to best-friend time.”

Bruce’s mouth pressed into a flat line, but his ears went pink.

“Oh my gosh,” Clark gasped, clutching his chest. “You’re considering it.”

“I am not.”

“You totally are. You’re already planning the first one in your head.” Clark leaned in conspiratorially. “Let me guess– patrol on the East End followed by stakeout takeout?”

Bruce gave him that long-suffering look he usually reserved for Jason. “You suck.”

“Aw, poor baby,” he said, leaning to kiss him once.

Bruce didn’t dignify that with an answer, but his hand squeezed Clark’s thigh once, firm and steady, and Clark’s chest warmed in a way that told him everything anyway.

Clark pulled back just enough to smirk. “So… that’s a yes to date night then.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, deadpan. “That’s a no to you naming it that.”

“Uh-huh. You didn’t say no to the concept though.” Clark waggled his brows, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Bruce muttered.

“I am!” Clark laughed, wrapping his arms around him and lifting them both off the couch in an easy, weightless float.

“Oh for Christ’s– put us down!” Bruce barked, though his hands clung to Clark’s shoulders, steady even as the floor fell away.

Bruce shook his head, but his hand lingered at Clark’s shoulder like he couldn’t help himself. For all the chaos, all the noise, this felt startlingly simple.

Chapter Text

It had been a few days since they got together.

Everyone was waiting for them when they walked into the Manor’s conference room. It wasn’t often Bruce corralled all of them at once — usually it meant a strategy session, or a mission so high-stakes that even Jason didn’t mouth off too much.

This time, though, the tension was different.

Clark noticed it right away. Damian had his arms crossed, chin tilted just so, like he was ready to argue principle until the end of time. Tim had his laptop open but wasn’t typing — which meant he was pretending to be casual while bracing for impact. Jason leaned against the wall like he didn’t care, but his fingers were drumming on his crossed arms too quick to sell it. Steph and Duke were doing a poor job of hiding guilty looks, while Cass sat the farthest away, gaze flicking between Bruce and Clark with clear curiosity.

And then there was Dick. Seated front and center, shoulders squared, the posture of the eldest sibling about to take the brunt of the storm. He still looked sheepish — which, in Dick Grayson terms, was basically an admission of guilt.

Bruce stood tall in front of them, arms crossed over his chest. The cowl wasn’t on, but the weight in his expression carried the same gravity. Alfred lingered at the back of the room, arms folded, disapproval practically radiating off him. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

“Everyone needs to apologize,” Bruce said, tone clipped. “Now. No exceptions.”

The silence was sharp, broken only by Jason’s scoff. But Bruce’s eyes narrowed, and even Jason, for all his bravado, had the sense to shut up.

“First,” Bruce continued, “state what you’re apologizing for. Then, apologize. Simple.”

Clark shifted in his seat, about to wave it off, tell them it wasn’t a big deal — but one look from Bruce silenced him. Right. This wasn’t about Bruce letting it slide. It was about the kids learning boundaries.

Dick sighed, raising a hand half-heartedly. “Guess I’ll start. I shouldn’t have pushed you, Clark, into talking about stuff you weren’t ready to. And I definitely shouldn’t have tried to… uh… play matchmaker. That was over the line. I’m sorry.”

Clark smiled gently. “It’s alright, Dick.”

Bruce cleared his throat pointedly. 

Clark corrected quickly: “Not alright. Thank you. Apology accepted.”

Bruce’s nod was small but approving, like he was checking off a box. Then his gaze swung to Jason.

Jason threw his hands up. “Sorry for pointing out the obvious–”

“Jason.”

“Ugh, fine. Sorry for meddling, Kent. Happy?”

“Better,” Bruce said, though his eyes stayed narrowed. “Tim.”

Tim didn’t even look up from his laptop. “I shouldn’t have pushed you into talking about stuff you weren’t ready to, and I shouldn’t have tried to play matchmaker. Sorry.”

“Hey, that’s not fair! He just repeated what Richard said!” Damian stood up, voice sharp.

“Well, he didn’t say we couldn’t repeat, did he?” Tim shot back.

“Timothy.”

Tim sighed, shutting the screen with a snap. “Sorry, Clark. Shouldn’t have done that. Not my business.”

Duke leaned forward next, earnest as always. “I am sorry. I knew it was too far, but… I went along anyway. You didn’t deserve to get cornered like that.”

Clark’s heart softened immediately. “It’s alright, Duke. Really. Thank you.”

“Yeah, same,” Steph said, waving her hand dismissively. 

“Didn’t he say we had to state what we were apologizing for first? That one doesn’t count,” Tim pointed out.

“Oh, now you care about protocol, Timothy,” Damian bit out.

Steph rolled her eyes, “I shouldn’t have intervened, I’m sorry. Happy Damian?”

“You still haven’t apologized, Dami,” Dick added smoothly.

Damian bristled. “I don’t regret anything. Father has been intolerable. Someone had to address it.”

“Enough,” Bruce cut in, voice firm. “I wanted you to apologize to Kal because it’s not fair to assume his feelings — towards anyone — or to meddle in his life. It wasn’t your business, and it was incredibly disrespectful. Do you understand?” 

A soft chorus of “yes” and “yeahs” followed, some contrite, some sulky.

“Damian,” Bruce said, low, leaving no room for refusal.

The boy scowled, glaring at the table. “…Sorry,” he muttered, like the word had been dragged out of him. “I should not have participated in this. Apologies, Kent.”

It was as close to sincere as Damian got. Clark nodded back with warmth. “Thank you, Damian.”

Bruce let the silence settle, sweeping his gaze over each of them in turn. The air was taut, like the whole family was waiting to see if they’d passed the test. Finally, Bruce gave a short nod.

“Good,” he said. “Let this be the last time we have to address boundaries like this. Let’s continue.”

The kids muttered assent. Some grudging, some genuine.

And then it happened.

“Wait,” Dick said suddenly, eyes wide. “Did you just call him Kal?”

Jason straightened like he’d been slapped. Tim blinked, stunned. Steph’s grin turned sharp enough to cut glass.

“You–” Jason pointed. “You never call him that in front of us.”

Bruce froze. His jaw tightened, like he’d realized a second too late what he’d said.

“That’s his name,” he said flatly. “What’s your point?”

“The point,” Tim cut in, eyes narrowing, “is you only use it in texts. Or when you think no one else is around. You started calling him that right when you started courting–”

“We just talked about boundaries–” Bruce began.

“Nope, you don’t get to do that,” Steph interrupted, grinning wider. “Why the sudden change, huh?”

“Yeah, what gives, B?” Duke added.

Clark’s cheeks warmed, but before he could say a word, Jason barked out a laugh. “Holy shit. You two. You’re—”

“Did it finally happen?” Tim asked, leaning forward on his chair.

Clark barely nodded before the room erupted.

A cacophony that started with “holy shit, finally!” and ended with “I prayed for times like these.”

Jason doubled over against the wall, laughing so hard it sounded like barking. “Oh my god. This is gold. You two. Holy shit.”

“Yes!” Steph threw her hands in the air like she was praising the heavens. “I’ve waited years for this.”

“Not as long as I have, oh my God,” Dick said, eyes going wide.

“I can’t believe I got to live to see this,” Duke said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Tim leaned back in his chair, eyes sharp but victorious. “I told you. I told you all. The data never lies.”

Damian muttered under his breath, but it was loud enough for Clark’s ears. “Finally.”

Cass hadn’t said anything yet, but when Clark looked her way she only smiled — wide, knowing, warm. She gave him a small thumbs-up.

Clark wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Or maybe the ceiling, since flying straight through it would be faster.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “Enough.”

But the noise only dipped before it rose again.

“Oh no, you don’t get to shut this down!” Dick’s grin was practically splitting his face. “You never slip, B. Never. And you just called him Kal like it’s Tuesday afternoon? No, we’re talking about this.”

Bruce’s glare shifted his way, but Dick held his ground, all wide-eyed innocence.

“Alright,” Steph said, leaning forward, eyes bright. “Question time.”

“This is not–” Bruce started.

“Shh.” Jason waved a hand, smirk feral. “You’re outnumbered. Group democracy. Clark, you in?”

Clark opened his mouth, shut it, and then laughed helplessly because at this point resistance was useless. “Sure,” he said, voice strangled. “Why not.”

The noise started to rise again, but Dick clapped once, playing moderator. “One at a time. One question each. PG-13 rules because Damian’s in the room, and because I don’t want to know.”

“I don’t need your censorship, Grayson,” Damian snapped.

“I don’t care,” Dick said, unbothered. “I’m the eldest. My rules.”

“You’re impossible,” Damian muttered, but he leaned back in his chair all the same.

Bruce muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “this family.” Clark found his gaze and smiled at him.

“Alright, me first,” Dick said, pointing at himself. “Is Clark moving in?”

Groans all around the room.

“Seriously?” Steph groaned. “That’s your one question?”

“Of course it is,” Jason said, rolling his eyes. “Golden boy’s been tryin’ to adopt Kent as his stepdad since the early 2000’s.”

“Shut up,” Dick hissed, his ears pink.

Clark laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, Dick. Not yet. Metropolis is still my home base. And, you know… job.”

“That’s not a no,” Dick shot back, bright-eyed.

“You don’t even live here anymore, Richard,” Damian said, dry as sand.

Jason smirked, looking far too pleased with himself. “My turn. Who confessed?”

The room broke into instant crosstalk.

“Oh my god, yes, tell us!” Steph leaned forward on her elbows like she was about to start taking notes.

“Was it awkward?” Duke asked, grin wide.

“Was it Father?” Damian demanded, eyes narrowing at Bruce like he was ready to prosecute the case.

Bruce’s glare could have leveled a building. “This is inappropriate.”

“Translation,” Jason drawled, eyes gleaming, “it was definitely him.”

Clark’s cheeks heated. He cleared his throat, forcing a smile that didn’t fool anyone. “It was mutual.”

“That’s a cop-out,” Steph said immediately.

“Still counts,” Clark shot back, grinning despite himself.

Tim’s hand shot up, dead serious, like they were in a classroom. “Follow-up. Did we help?”

“No,” Bruce said instantly.

“Yes,” Clark said at the exact same time.

The room erupted again, cheers and groans tangling together.

Jason jabbed a finger toward Bruce like he’d just won a bet. “Knew it. Knew we rattled him enough to make him talk.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, looking seconds from regretting fatherhood altogether. “You rattled me enough to make me furious. That’s different.”

Clark chuckled, shaking his head. “For the record, it did help. Just… maybe don’t make a habit of it.”

“See?” Tim said smugly, tipping back in his chair. “Our methods are unorthodox, but effective.”

“More like criminal,” Damian muttered, though there wasn’t much fire behind it.

Cass lifted her hand, drawing their attention without a word. Her gaze slid to Clark, clear and direct. “First date?”

Clark blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… haven’t really had one yet.”

“You don’t get to date in the middle of Gotham?” Steph teased.

“We’ve had dinners,” Clark said quickly, defensive. “Plenty of dinners.”

Duke laughed. “Those don’t count. You’ve been doing that for years.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Patrol doesn’t leave much time for candlelit dinners.”

Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re gonna be insufferable if your idea of romance is stakeouts.”

Dick suddenly snapped his fingers, eyes bright. “Wait– do you guys call each other anything?”

“Nicknames?” Steph’s grin sharpened. “Pet names?”

The silence that followed was brutal. Clark went red fast; Bruce’s face stayed unreadably blank, which only made it worse.

Jason was the first to break, practically shouting. “Oh my god. You do. You totally do.”

“Absolutely not,” Bruce said, low and clipped.

“Absolutely yes,” Jason fired back. “That tone? Guilty as hell.”

Clark buried his face in his hands. “I hate this.”

“No you don’t,” Dick said cheerfully. “You love us. And now we’ve got you both on record.”

Duke lifted his hand quickly, cutting through the noise. “Are you happy?”

The question landed differently. The chatter dimmed, the weight shifting in the air.

Clark’s chest eased. The smile that rose wasn’t forced, wasn’t careful — just true. “Yeah. Very much so.”

Clark turned to look at Bruce, who finally let himself smile. “Yes.”

Cass gave one firm nod, as if she’d been waiting for the answer all along.

“Man, I’m gonna cry,” Duke muttered, though he was still grinning.

Jason groaned dramatically, tipping his head back. “Ugh. You’re gonna be worse now. Both of you. Disgusting.”

“Couldn’t possibly be worse than before,” Dick said, smirking.

“Oh no, it’s worse,” Tim deadpanned. “Before it was plausible deniability. Now it’s PDA and nicknames. God help us all.”

Clark brushed his fingers against Bruce’s. He didn’t flinch away — if anything, Bruce grabbed his hand, steady and sure. The chorus of whistles and grunts that followed nearly drowned Alfred’s crisp voice.

“Press conference adjourned,” Alfred declared, arms behind his back. “I’m sure everyone has a busy day, so I suggest you return to your usual activities.”

The groans and mutters filled the room as chairs scraped back and boots thudded toward the door. A few parting whistles followed Clark and Bruce’s still-linked hands, but the chaos faded quickly.

Within a minute, the conference room was nearly empty. Only three figures remained.

Alfred stepped closer, the weight of his presence grounding the space. His gaze landed on Bruce first, steady, the kind of look that carried decades of history behind it. “Master Bruce.”

Bruce inclined his head slightly, the way a soldier might accept a reprimand he knew was coming. “Alfred.”

Then Alfred’s eyes moved to Clark. Softer, though no less direct. “Master Clark.”

Clark straightened, feeling suddenly like he was back in Kansas, caught by Ma Kent after sneaking an extra slice of pie. “Sir.”

Alfred’s brow arched faintly. “So. It would seem my suspicions were correct.”

Bruce exhaled slowly, but didn’t flinch. “We should have told you sooner.”

Alfred’s lips pressed into the suggestion of a smile. “Perhaps. Though I daresay I have been watching the two of you dance about one another for long enough to draw my own conclusions. Still…” He looked between them, voice dipping, quieter but warmer. “I appreciate the honesty. And I appreciate, more than you may realize, what you bring into this house, Master Clark.”

Clark swallowed, unsure how to respond to something that felt both like a benediction and a warning. “Thank you, Alfred. That… means a lot.”

“It should,” Alfred said simply. His gaze sharpened, though the affection in it never wavered. “Because should you ever wound him, you will find that Gotham’s shadows are not quite as empty as they appear. Do I make myself clear?”

Clark blinked, caught somewhere between awe and terror. “Crystal.”

For the first time that evening, Alfred’s expression eased into something gentler. “Good. Then I shall leave you both to… whatever it is young people do after terrifying their families with emotional revelations.”

“Alfred,” Bruce said, dry but not ungrateful.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred returned evenly, though there was a trace of amusement in the tilt of his head. Then he turned on his heel, moving toward the door with his usual effortless grace.

Clark let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I think I’d rather face Darkseid than that speech again.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, “You got off easy.”

Clark laughed under his breath, leaning back on the wall. “Guess I’ll count my blessings.”

As the door clicked shut behind Alfred, the conference room finally stilled. Bruce leaned back too, shoulders easing just slightly, but he didn’t let go of Clark’s hand where it rested between them.

Clark tilted his head toward him, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “So… boyfriend.”

Bruce’s groan was immediate, low in his chest, but his fingers tightened around Clark’s. “You’re never going to drop that, are you?”

“Not even in a hundred years,” Clark said, grinning so wide it made his cheeks hurt.

Bruce gave him that look again, half exasperation, half something softer that belonged only to Clark. “Then I guess I’ll have to survive it.”

Clark’s grin eased into something steadier, his chest warm with certainty. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

Bruce’s mouth curved, the faintest ghost of a smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”