Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Clark Kent hated Gotham. Passionately. It was a horrible city: dark, gothic and crime-ridden, corrupt to the core and perpetually raining. 

He could see why Batman thrived in a place like this. 

And Batman was why he was here: Clark had finally pitched the article in a way that made Perry sit up and take note, and had been carted off to Gotham with a promise not to return until he had something front-page worthy. 

But Gotham was horrible, and Gothamites were even worse. In fact, in the week or so he had been in the city, in the dive-bars and homeless shanty-towns, the high-society parties and every goddamn police department in the city, he had reached a single, infuriating conclusion. 

Every single person in Gotham had some idea who the Batman was, but not one of them would say it out loud. In fact, Clark was fairly certain that the only person that didn’t know was Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham himself - the man had talked a big game but was clearly covering for the fact that he had no idea. Everyone else on the other hand: from the police commissioner to the men sitting in holding cells, the children he talked to in crime alley to the diamond-adorned woman hanging off of Bruce Wayne’s arm. They all knew. 

Clark had even talked to one of Wayne’s sons, at that party, and the boy had laughed in his face for a few moments before wandering off. Presumably to sneak back onto the balcony for another cigarette. 

It was baffling. That knowledge was powerful. If they really did know, any of them could take Batman out of commission. Permanently, if they played their cards right. 

Clark glanced at the note-paper in his hand, and back up at the enormous, wrought-iron gates before him. Gotham didn’t do anything by halves, he thought with a sigh, they invested wholeheartedly in the melodrama. And Arkham Asylum was proving to be yet another excellent example of that fact. 

He was led through the building by an exhausted-looking orderly, who gave him brisk but reasonable instructions for safety: don’t touch the glass, don’t give anything to the patients (with the exception of a crayon and piece of paper, if required), don’t provoke the patients, don’t fall in love with the patients - what? Oh, don’t worry about it - and don’t panic: they can smell fear, and they’ll be on you like piranhas. 

“And who do you think the Batman is?” Clark asked the woman, curious. She frowned at her clipboard for a moment.

“You’re a Metropolis reporter?” She asked. He nodded, and her face briefly twisted into something like disdain. “Best not be asking questions like that here, Mr. Kent. We’re all awfully protective of the Bat. Including the patients here, you know. They won’t be so happy about a stranger poking around in their business. You have an hour.”

It was another strange, infuriating non-answer. She buzzed him in, and Clark found himself in a long hallway, lined with cells. The facing of the cells were glass, and Clark could see the inmates: each leaning in, curious to see the man who had come to speak with them. They couldn’t hear him, not until he permitted them to, but they could watch him. It was uncomfortable.

The first cells contained Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn - side-by-side, forever a pair - and their smiles could almost be called friendly. He pressed a small button beside each of the cells, so that they could hear him, and proceeded to ask a few questions. Names, reason for incarceration, opinions on the Batman? And jotted down their answers. Finally, he asked the important one. 

“Do you know the identity of the Batman?” He said. Both women stared at him for a moment, surprised into silence. Harley laughed, loud and bright. 

“And why would we tell ya if we did?” She said. “He’s a nice fella, we don’t wanna spoil his fun!” 

Ivy tilted her head, eyes sharp as they assessed him. “Batman does a lot of good for the city, Mr. Kent.” She paused, considering her words. “He knows what’s right.” 

“What's right? By your definition?” Clark retorted. One flawless eyebrow twitched upwards. 

“Yes. And by his. I respect him. And I understand why he does things as he does them: it would be detrimental to my own goals and to the city as a whole to betray such a secret, if I did happen to know.” Clark noted that down. 

Harley nodded along, chimed in “Besides, kiddo, if we was gonna tell, we wouldn’t tell some boring shmuck from Metropolis!”

“Yes, I’m beginning to understand that.” He murmured. With a brief farewell, he moved on to the next cell. 

Harvey Dent watched him with a detached interest. Clark greeted him, cycled through the same questions. Dent’s answers were curt and bordering on rude, but Clark jotted them down dutifully. “And do you know who the Batman is?” He asked finally. 

Dent appeared pained for a moment. He flipped his coin. Tails. “I don’t.” He said, blunt. Clark thought he might be lying - there was too much emotion on that gruesome tragedy of a face to warrant such a dull, simple answer. But he couldn’t make him talk. 

He had thought that of all the people in Gotham, these would be the ones most willing to spill the secret. After all, they spent any time they had out of jail trying to kill the Batman, or at least make him suffer - surely revealing his identity was just another way to do that. 

The next cell belonged to Mr Freeze: his question here answered with a complicated expression, and then a comment. “Without Batman, I’d have forgotten how to hope.” Which, honestly, was about as confusing an answer as he could possibly have gotten. Clark recalled watching Batman beating the crap out of Mr Freeze on the news, less than a month prior. 

And then Clayface, who for a moment flickered between faces - many strange: a surly dark child, an old man - but he caught a few familiar ones: the police commissioner, Bruce Wayne, one he thought might have been Dick Grayson, and then, for a horrifying moment, Clark himself. He didn’t answer Clark’s question.

The Penguin, who laughed at him - and his laugh was honestly terrifying. “It would be bad for business!” He said. Clark thought he might be developing a headache. 

And then the last cell in that corridor. The occupant watched him as he approached, clocking everything: Clark’s outfit, his poor posture, his glasses and his fumbling, and then laughing at it. Clark swallowed, hard, and pressed the button to open the audio line. The Joker’s laugh rang through the corridor, and he shuddered. He remembered, unbidden, the photographs of the Joker’s crime scenes. 

But Clark asked his questions, noted every answer - though they were mostly nonsense. And he reached his final question, his final opportunity in this godforsaken hell-hole to get the answer he was looking for. “Do you know the identity of the Batman?” 

“Oh this is interesting.” The Joker said. “Batsy’s got a stalker! You a fan? Keep a signed picture under your pillow? You’ve come a long way to talk to a bunch of no-good criminals.” 

“Answer the question, if you have an answer.” Clark forced through gritted teeth. The Joker’s grin faded somewhat.

“I have an answer. I have plenty, all of them, in fact, but I’ll give you one. This one: What Batsy and I have, it’s special. I’m not too hot on ruining that fun just yet. I could tell you about his kids, now, what was the name of that brat I --” And he thought about it for a moment, frowned. The smile sprung back up in a moment. “Never mind. The kids lead straight back to the big ol’ bat-daddy. Can’t tell ya that.” And he mimed zipping his lips closed. Clark wondered how much trouble he’d get into for lasering a hole through the Joker’s head, quickly decided it wasn’t worth the risk. 

“I’m done here.” He murmured, and left the room. There was no need for a goodbye. He caught Pamela’s eye, on the way out, and she held his gaze with an uncomfortable intensity. He’d read about her – a lot – and found himself uncomfortably sympathetic. Gave her a slow, deliberate nod. Hoped it conveyed the respect he intended. He knows what’s right. Not such a glowing commendation, perhaps, when uttered by a criminal. But Clark couldn’t shake the feeling that Ivy wasn’t wrong.

The orderly didn’t say much, as she led him from the building. But as they lingered in the doorway for a moment, Clark hesitant to step foot into Gotham’s undoubtedly acidic rain – god, he hated this city – she turned to him. “Did you get your answers, Mr. Kent?”

“Nope.” He said, and she raised an eyebrow. Too bitter? “More questions, if anything. My job’s on the line here, I need something.” It wasn’t entirely true. He’d get a thrashing from Perry, but he wasn’t likely to lose his job over it. But it had the intended effect, and some sympathy settled into the woman’s expression.

“Look, hun, you’re barking up the wrong tree here.” She offered, fishing for a cigarette. “We’re protective of the bats. They do a lot for us – even for the lowest of the low. You’re Metropolis, aren’t ya. Imagine if someone told’ya to betray Superman. You wouldn’t dream of it, right? Batman might not be as shiny as the bulletproof boy-scout, but he’s just as good.”

Clark wasn’t so sure about that. He remembered Batman as a surly, unpleasant character, and one he didn’t trust at all. Something about the smug set of his jaw, the violence in his stance, the fucking lead-lined cowl. But who was he to spit on their hero? “It’s a nice sentiment, but it doesn’t help me very much.” He said. She sucked in her cheeks, thinking, and flicked open her lighter.

“Alrighty, look.” She said. “I’ll give ya this one for free, as long as you promise not to tell anyone where you got the info from.”

“Of course.”

“There’s a kid, used to take pictures of the bat every night.” She said. “Look, I’m not supposed to tell anyone about this, but you seem like a nice enough guy. Timothy Drake – I used to give him free food when I worked at the bat-burger on Amusement Mile. He came through a lot, would talk, you know. Showed me his pictures. He’s a good kid, but a ninja with that camera of his. See what he has to say.”

“Thank you.” Clark said, hopeful. “I will.”

And then, with surprising strength, she seized him by the collar. He allowed himself to be pulled down, to her level. “If you touch him, or threaten him, or I hear that you’ve even looked at the kid wrong – there’s not a place in the country you’ll be able to hide from me. Capiche?”

“Ah, yes.” He steadied himself, softness blooming in his chest. Maybe the people of this city were not all terrible. “Of course. Thank you, ma’am.”

His taxi pulled up, and Clark braced for the rain.

Timothy Drake had a fascinating history. Son of millionaires, adopted by a billionaire: clever, by any account, formidably so. Clark had the uncomfortable impression, looking the lad in the face, that he was severely out-paced by a sixteen year old.

Drake stood in the doorway, expression unimpressed. His hair hung long in his face, and Clark wondered absently whether he could see for the fringe in his eyes. “Bruce isn’t in.” He said. “And he only takes interviews by appointment.”

“I, yes, I know.” Clark said. “I actually came to talk to you.” Drake looked surprised. Behind him, in the sliver of hallway that Clark could see through the open door, another boy walked past. This one paused, lingered, and Clark recognised him. He crowded behind Drake, who appeared irritated.

“You’re the journalist from the gala the other night.” He said. His voice was gruff, surprisingly so. “Any luck finding the Batman, yet?”

And Drake’s eyes darted back to him, suddenly wide. Clark plastered a soft smile on his face. “None, I’m afraid. That’s what has brought me here – I would like to have a conversation with Mr Drake.”

“Drake-Wayne.” The boy corrected, coldly. “It’ll only take a minute, Jason, you can stop hovering.”

And the boy – Jason, presumably – slunk away, expression somewhere between chastised and mischievous. Timothy opened the door wider: just enough to let Clark slip through. A power-play, and not a subtle one. Remember who’s house you’re in. Clark followed him through the manor: an extraordinary place, with wealth beyond his wildest imaginings – Clark thought of his tiny apartment and wondered how a man even achieved such ridiculous amounts of wealth in the first place – but tasteful, and cosy.

He couldn’t resist glancing through walls. Knowing it was rude, maybe, but helplessly curious about the life this affluent family lived, he watched everything. There, in a room nearby, two boys rough-housing: he recognised Jason, tackling to the floor a child half his size. Undoubtedly brothers.

In a top floor bedroom, an old man with a feather-duster. These people employed a butler. They passed the kitchen – one of them, at least – and through the door he spied two women. One was a Wayne beyond doubt. She had the dark hair, the same strange, stiff posture of her brothers. The other he recognised, the wheelchair bound Barbara Gordon, daughter of the police commissioner. He thought they might be baking, although he could smell burning.

Timothy Drake passed them all by, and led him into a room on the far side of the house. Gestured to a chair, and Clark took a seat with some mild hesitation. His attention was drawn by the dark-wood of the room, the grandfather clock so old it was lined with lead, the towering bookshelves. Timothy sat down.

“We’re not fond of reporters, Mr Kent.” He began. Clark shook himself from his distraction, focused again on the teenager.

“Understandable. I don’t intend to pry.” He said. “I have a few questions. I can’t force you to answer them, and I give you my word I won’t publish anything without your permission.”

“The word of an investigative reporter, in my experience, doesn’t mean a lot.” Timothy replied, but he had relaxed somewhat. “Jason mentioned meeting you, at the Gala. I did some reading – you’re talented, sir.”

“Thank you.” He was genuinely flattered, although he suspected that was Timothy’s intention. Clark Kent as a by-line tended to be eclipsed by the more affluent writers at the Planet.

“You’ve got a knack for finding the truth, and you seem like an honest man.” Timothy said, dismissive. “Your work does a lot of good. You have questions for me?”

He’d almost forgotten. “Yes, I do. About the Batman – I’ve been told you photographed him for some time.”

“A childhood hobby.” Timothy said. “If it wasn’t for Bruce, I would probably still be doing it.”

“He made you stop?”

“No.” Timothy fell silent for a moment. “He cared enough to want me safe. And Gotham is a dangerous place for a child alone at night.” If only Batman thought the same, Clark thought, reminded of Robin. The only Robin he’d met, the over-excitable boy in his bright costume – that boy would be in his twenties now. If he’d survived childhood, that is. Perhaps Batman replaced them every time one of them died. The thought was chilling. 

“That it is.” He murmured, jotting it down. “But you did follow the Bat, before?”

“Understand this, Mr Kent.” Timothy said. “I was a lonely child. Batman and Robin were my heroes.”

“I have to ask.” He took a breath. “In your years of following them, did you ever get any clues as to their identity?”

“Nobody knows who the Batman is, Mr Kent.” But his tone was on the wrong side of too calm. Clark caught his eye, held it.

“You and I both know that isn’t true.” He said. Timothy raised one eyebrow, unfazed.

“And what do you intend to do about it?” He said. “Clark Kent – you’re an interesting man, aren’t you. Raised in the middle of nowhere in Kansas, moved to Metropolis where you’ve made something of a name for yourself: but you don’t ruffle feathers, do you?”

“What are you implying?”

“There’s more to some men than meets the eye, Mr Kent.” Timothy smiled – the smile of a wolf having caught the scent of blood. “Even the most keen-sighted of eyes.” And a chill crawled up Clark’s back. He knew, with dreadful certainty, that Timothy Drake knew exactly who he was. But how? Clark’s identity was iron-clad. He held the boy’s gaze. Outpaced by a sixteen year old.

“I don’t take bribes, if that’s what you’re implying.” He said. His voice was not as certain as it should have been. Drake smiled, again.

“You and I are smart enough to speak frankly. It’s mutually assured destruction.” He said. “I know who you are, and you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know that B—”

The door opened. Bruce Wayne strode in. “Tim, have you seen Damian’s phone?” He saw Clark, frowned. “Who’s this?”

And Timothy stood up, cast a final glance at Clark. “A reporter. He came to ask me some questions for a Daily Planet article. We’re done here, anyway. You can show him out, B, I’ve got other things I need to be doing.” And he stalked from the room.

Baffled, and more than a little concerned, Clark rose from the chair and smiled his usual smile - genial, but vague – at Bruce Wayne. Wayne returned it with a broad, plastic smile of his own. A few moments passed, supremely awkward.

“Well, I’d best be going.” Clark said. “I should be on my way home, now, anyway. The Gotham weather will give me lung problems if I stay here much longer.” It wouldn’t, obviously, but Clark was sure any ordinary man would suffer from inhaling Gotham smog for any period of time. No wonder Gothamites were all so bizarre.

Bruce raised a smooth eyebrow, his lips twitching slightly. “I’ve always thought that Metropolis breeds weakness. It’s too… clean.” He did smile, then. His teeth were incredibly white. “But to each their own.”

“I’m not from Metropolis originally, you know.” Clark blurted, suddenly wanting to prove he wasn’t weak. The part of his brain that was still functioning told him that he was being ridiculous. “Kansas, born and bred.”

Bruce ushered him out of the office door, and began to guide him back down the hallways. “Good lord, you’re a country boy. I might have known,” He winked. “Those shoulders of yours are just extraordinary.”

Unsure how to reply, Clark just shrugged. He glanced around him, looking through walls with quick eyes for Timothy, but he couldn’t see the boy anywhere – there was the possibility that he’d left the house in the five minutes since he’d spoken to Clark, but that seemed improbable. The other boys were still fighting in the lounge, although the tiny one now appeared to have the upper hand. And a baseball bat. Clark decided that was better left unquestioned.

Wayne didn’t make much more conversation as they walked to the door, and they made it to the foyer in slightly awkward silence. He paused at the door. “Can I ask you what you were talking to Tim about?” He asked, and Clark started. Wayne seemed earnest, and maybe even concerned. Clark tried to smile.

“Nothing, uh, nothing personal.” He said. “I’m writing an article about the Batman—”

“Yes, I recall our conversation at the gala a few nights ago.” Wayne murmured.

“And someone mentioned that Timothy Drake made a hobby of photographing the bats.”  

“He did.” Bruce Wayne’s smooth expression faltered slightly. “I… strongly discouraged it. My children are my first priority, Mr. Kent, and Tim was putting himself in unnecessary danger.”

“Your ability to take care of your children was never in doubt.” Clark said. “Not to me.”

A strange look passed over Wayne’s face, but he supressed it with practised speed. He could not so easily disguise the stuttering of his heartbeat, though, that Clark would attribute to distress. “I’m glad.” Wayne said. “I don’t trust reporters, Kent, and if you publish anything that might negatively effect my son, I can and will make your life very difficult.”

Clark felt a spike of fondness. Wayne, he was beginning to think, was a better father than people gave him credit for.

A better father than Clark himself was. He shook himself from his thoughts, and smiled his first genuine smile at Wayne. “I understand.” He said. “And, Mr. Wayne – your son is fearsome. You should be proud of him.” He stepped onto the porch. It was still raining.

“I am.” Bruce said. “I’m proud of all of them.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Wayne.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Kent.” Wayne paused. “I hope to see you around.”

Chapter Text

The first thing he noticed when he stepped into his apartment was the leather jacket slung over a chair. The second thing he noticed was the sound of the TV, just low enough to be a comfortable level for a boy with super-senses. “Kon?” Clark called, shucking off his shoes. “I’m home!”

“I obviously knew that!” Kon yelled back.

Clark rounded the corner, seeing his teenage son sprawled colt-limbed across the sofa, watching him with a glare. “How long have you been back?” He asked. Kon’s scowl deepened.

“Since Wednesday.” He said. “I had to find out from Lois that you were in Gotham. What were you even doing that took so long?” Clark winced.

“Chasing a story.” He said. “If I’d known you were coming home early, I would have been here.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kon turned his face back to the television. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

“How was Kansas?”

“Dull.” Kon said. “It’s always… dull.”

“I thought you liked helping out on the farm?”

Kon closed his eyes, briefly. “I do. Sometimes. But all my friends are in Metropolis. I don’t understand why you keep packing me off to the middle of nowhere for weeks on end.”

Because, Clark thought, Martha Kent was far better equipped to raise a boy like Kon than he was. Something must have shown in his expression, because Kon was glaring at him again, eyes sparking. “It’s—”

“Oh my god, if you tell me it’s for the best, I’m going to – I’ll – I’ll go wreck something valuable. Like your laptop. Or the Mona Lisa. I don’t fuckin’ know.”

“I was going to say that it’s your choice, Kon—”

“Connor!”

“Connor. It’s your choice whether you’re here or at the farm, or wherever else you want to be. I don’t care.”

Kon curled in on himself slightly. “I wish you did care.”

Clark frowned. “Have your powers stabilised yet?”

“No.” Kon’s expression collapsed. “I think it’s getting worse. I don’t even – I can’t even leap, any more, in case it fails and I just… fall. You told me kryptonite wears off.”

“We’ll figure it out, Connor,” Clark tried for a smile. “I promise we will.”

“You’ll figure it out.” Kon retorted, surly once more. “I’m useless in a fight like this. I can’t even take a punch.”

Choosing not to reply to that, Clark pulled out his phone, intent on calling his ma. He had a couple of messages from Lois, asking whether he got home safe – comical, really – and when he would be back in the office. It took a few seconds to compose a reply. In that time, Kon relocated to his bedroom, slamming the door with a resolute thud.

Clark remembered with no small amount of envy the relationship Bruce Wayne appeared to have with his children. He wondered whether Wayne would be willing to offer any advice on parenting difficult teenage adoptees. It would probably be fruitless: none of Wayne’s kids were superheroes in their free time, after all. Or half-human clones. Kon posed… unique challenges, and so far Clark had failed to meet them.

The fridge was disappointingly empty. Several days of takeaway leftovers had been shoved in, and Clark threw away all of the tubs that smelt of salmonella without even opening them. There were no vegetables anywhere.

Giving up on food, Clark decided he needed to clear his head. The easiest way to do that, usually, was to fly.

So he did. After donning the cape, and tackling a couple of small-time crimes with lazy ease, he found himself drifting in the clouds, just listening.

He could hear Kon’s music, thumping from his bedroom in Metropolis. He could hear Lois’ typewriter, and her soft thoughtless humming as she wrote. Hear their steady, healthy heartbeats. It was… grounding, in its own odd way, and though he spent most of his life blocking out everything he could hear, some days it was best to let it all in. Let it wash over him.

But Clark was a curious person, and he inevitably found himself concentrating in on Gotham. It was a riotous mess of shouts, revving engines, frantic heartbeats and clinking bottles. A ceaseless, chaotic hum of life. He listened, amongst it all, for the surprisingly soft, low voice of Bruce Wayne.

There. Quiet, but present, accompanied by a slow but endlessly steady thud of a heartbeat. Clark, for a moment, forgot about privacy. “Flex it. Like that. Does that still hurt?”

And he could just pick out the reply, the accented voice of a child. “It’s fine, father.”

"I didn’t ask if it was fine, I asked if it hurts when you move it.”

“…yes. Only a little, though.”

“Try not to strain it. I’ll wrap it for you now, and – please – take it easy for the next week or so. You’re allowed to give it time to heal, Damian.”

“Yes, father.”

The voices fell silent. Clark listened for a moment longer, waiting for something more, before the rocking vibrations of an explosion echoed in his ears and he was waylaid by duty.

He’d saved seven lives – including that of a cat – and prevented another explosion, by the time he had decided to seek out the Batman directly. Kon’s heartbeat still ringing in his ears, he resolved to kill two birds with one stone. He handed the cat carefully to its weeping owner, double-checked that the wannabe arsonist was fully unconscious, and shot up into the sky towards Gotham.

From his place in the sky, Clark watched the sunset across Gotham’s bay. As the sky darkened into the dim grey of a Gotham night, and the clouds rolled in until everything was cast in blue-black shadow, he listened for the Batman.

He couldn’t pick out a heartbeat, through whatever the batsuit was made of. In years past, he would track the bird-like heartbeat of Robin, but lately that noise had been silent. Clark tried not to think about why Robin’s body armour had doubled, then tripled, in recent years. He only knew Batman still had a Robin from the glimpses that played on the news.

But he could hear, when he got lucky, the hiss of a grapple-line, the shink of a batarang, and it was these noises that he followed to the rooftop of the Opera House, where the Batman was perched, watching him approach with open hostility.

Clark had forgotten how much he fucking hated talking to this man. “Batman.”

“Superman.” Batman stood. “Get out of my city.”

“I’m here to talk to you.” Clark raised his hands, a gesture of peace. “I haven’t touched or spoken to anyone. I haven’t even let anyone see me.”

“Red Robin saw you in the Bowery, fifteen minutes ago.”

Red Robin? “Fine. I haven’t let any civilians see me.”

“What are you here for, Superman?” Batman’s scowl might have relaxed, or Clark might have imagined it. He’d probably imagined it. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“We did. Do! We do.” Clark smiled, a little sheepish. “I’m not here to interfere. I actually need your help with something.”

“What could you want from me?” Batman asked, cynicism leaking into his tone. “You’re far more powerful than I am, after all.” Clark flushed, slightly, remembering their painful first meeting.

“I apologised for that,” He said, “Years ago.”

“I recall.” And the shadows on Batman’s face almost made it appear as if he’d smiled, slightly. “It amused Robin, if nothing else. He’d never seen anyone dare to condescend me before.”

Clark smiled, weakly. Batman’s face shuttered, again.

“Why are you here, Superman?”

“It's about Lex Luthor.” And at that name, the Batman visibly tensed. “I need something of his. It’ll require more subtlety than I’m usually capable of. He’s expecting Superman, so I need to defy his expectations.”

“I’m not a thief.” Batman bit out.

“There’s a kid,” Clark paused, wondering how much to say, and feeling the way Batman straightened when he said kid. “He’s… sick, and it’s Luthor’s fault. The only way I can help him is with technology that Luthor created.”

A long moment of silence passed. “Lex Luthor owns a large quantity of kryptonite.”

“I’m aware.”

“You’re not attempting to take it?”

“Not this time.” Clark frowned. “Actually, I’m sort of doing the opposite.”

Batman tilted his head. It conveyed the same tone as a raised eyebrow. Clark wondered, idly, how he’d learnt to express such a range of unimpressed emotions through the cowl.

“The… kid,” He started, “Was hit with a chemical weapon created by Luthor. It contained high concentrations of kryptonite. Luthor must know how to reverse the effects. He has to.”

“This kid. He’s Kryptonian?” Batman asked. Clark gave a sharp nod. “I’ll help you. I’m not fond of Luthor.”

“Thank you,” Clark said. “Seriously.”

“Get out of my city.”

“Fine.”

Lois had left a fresh coffee on his desk, and Clark downed it in one long gulp. From her expression, he gathered that it had probably been too hot for any human to reasonably drink. He didn’t care. She pushed herself up to sit on his desk, a burgeoning smile on her face.

“How was Gotham?” She said.

“Damp.” Clark grumbled. “I don’t think it ever stops raining.”

Lois huffed a laugh. “It’s part of Gotham’s charm. Rain, gargoyles, and a statistically abnormal amount of famous murders.”

“Speaking of famous murders,” Clark said. “I met Bruce Wayne, while I was in Gotham.”

"How did an article about Batman lead you to Wayne?”

“It was one of his kids, actually. Wayne isn’t… I expected him to be more of an airhead. You know, the sort of man that Cat writes about. But he wasn’t.”

“If I didn’t know better, Smallville, I’d say you’d been charmed.” Lois’s smile was knowing, and he scowled at her. It was weaker than he’d intended.

“I just think he’s been underestimated.”

“In what regard?”

Clark narrowed his eyes. “Are you mocking me, Lois?”

“Only a little.” She gestured at him. “Of all the people for you to develop a crush on, I wouldn’t have expected America’s third-most-famous douchebag.”

“This is what I mean, he’s not—hey, it’s not a crush, I met him once!”

Lois just gave him a look. Then her face softened. “On a different note, have you spoken to Connor yet? He’s still looking rough.”

“I’m working on a solution.” Clark scrubbed at his face with a hand. He glanced around, but no one was in earshot. “Kryptonite usually wears off within a few hours. The fact that Kon is still sick… scares me. I can’t help but wonder if it’s because he’s not pure Kryptonian.”

Lois studied his face, lips pinched. “Your solution better pull through, Kent. Connor is a good kid.” And he deserves a better father. The words were unspoken but he could see it in her eyes. He looked away. “Did you find your answers, in Gotham?”

“No.” Clark confessed. “Just more questions.” He opened his laptop, stared for a long moment at the blank page before him.

“And your article?”

“Will be taking a different direction, for now.” He shrugged. “I need something to appease the boss with until I can figure this out.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Lois pushed herself from the desk. She cracked her knuckles. “I’ve got an exposé to write.” He watched her stride away with warmth blooming in his chest, a fondness for his closest friend that lingered long after she’d left the room.

But Clark had barely typed a hundred words before there was the rap of impatient knuckles on his desk. He looked up into Perry’s ruddy face, and smiled tightly. “Boss?”

“There’s some rich kid here to talk to you.” Perry said. “Make it quick.” And then he was gone, leaving Clark staring awkwardly into the exhausted face of Tim Drake. Before he could get a word out, Drake lifted a hand.

“I honestly didn’t intend to turn up like this, I promise I don’t make a habit of stalking vigilantes. It actually took a bit of doing to find out when you would be here.” He paused, took a breath. “B asked me to give you a message, after your conversation the other night.”

That made Clark blink in surprise. “He did?”

“Yeah, he wanted me to give you his personal number.” Drake handed him a folded piece of paper. “He said you could ask him for help with anything. I’m surprised, honestly. You must have left a better impression than I thought, because – no offence – I was always pretty sure he hated you.”

Clark took the number, feeling a little numb. He hadn’t really thought he’d left any impression at all – and maybe he hadn’t, if he’d sent one of his kids instead of giving Clark his number in person. Drake lingered for a moment.

“Look, I probably shouldn’t have threatened you.” He said, suddenly timid. “I haven’t told anyone who you are, just so you know. And I won’t, unless you ask me to – which, when I say that out loud, sounds incredibly unlikely.”

“I appreciate it.” Clark said. Then, a little impulsively, “I have a son about your age.”

“Oh. Is he…?”

“He’s half human.” Clark offered.

“I always wondered whether it was biologically possible for aliens and humans to breed.”

“You… did?”

“Yeah.” Drake frowned. “I mean, it shouldn’t be possible, but if Kryptonian, uh, equipment, is biologically similar enough, then perhaps—”

“He wasn’t born.” Clark said, then winced. They were both aware that the conversation had gotten incredibly weird. “He’s my clone, technically.”

“Ah.” They lapsed into silence again. “If he’s a clone, where did the human part come from?”

Clark hesitated. “Lex Luthor.”

“Huh. Poor kid.” Drake ran a hand through his lank hair. “I mean, talk about adjustment issues.”

“Yep.”

“Like, I thought I had it bad, but—”

“Stop talking now.”

“Ok.” A moment passed. When he spoke again, it was as if a wall had gone back up. “Are you still writing that article?”

“I’ve changed the topic slightly,” Clark said, turning his computer to allow Drake to read what he’d written. “Less sensational, maybe.”

“The people’s vigilante?” Drake read aloud, incredulous. “This is way too flattering to be about Batman.”

“I learnt a lot, talking to the people in Gotham. And—” And Pamela Isley’s sharp eyes, her quiet confession, ‘he knows what’s right’, “And I’ve been doing research. Batman does as much to fight the Gotham elites as he does the common criminals. It deserves to be known.”

Drake was studying his face, intense. “It does.” He said. “I’m… grateful, I think.” His face was screwed up, like the confession was a painful one. Clark smiled.

“Thank you for the number, Timothy.”

“It’s just Tim.”

“Tim.” Clark repeated. “I’ll be in Gotham again before long. I hope you’ll be willing to give me a formal interview. No secret-spilling required.”

“I’ll add it to the calendar.” Tim smiled, and it was a little goofy. “Superman still isn’t allowed in Gotham, by the way.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

Chapter Text

Can’t breathe.

“Jason.”

Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t scream

“Jason.”

It’s dark, it’s so dark, everything hurts, can’t BREATHE

“Jace!”

Jason sprung awake with all the violence of a startled animal, slamming his forehead into the nose of the man hovering above his bed. Dick reeled backwards, swearing violently. “Fucking hell, Jay!”

“What did you expect?” Jason grumbled, shaking off the last of his grogginess. “You startled me.”

“You were having a nightmare.” Dick replied, slightly muffled through his pinched nose. And – huh – that was a lot of blood. “I was trying to wake you up.”

“I can handle a nightmare, Dickie-bird.” Jason said. Dick tried to smile, and winced. “Fuck, is it broken? Let me see.” And then he was scrambling from his bed, gently prying Dick’s hand from his rapidly purpling nose. “Damn.”

“I’ve had worse.” Dick mumbled. “It wouldn’t even be the first time you’ve broken my nose.”

Jason smiled, a little weakly. The moment he felt Dick let his guard down, he reached up and snapped his crooked nose back into place. Dick yelped, a little strangled, and slapped Jason’s hand away. “That was uncalled for.”

“Don’t be a baby.” Jason retorted. “Now, what the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

“Well, I’m back in Gotham for the week and I thought I’d come and see one of my favourite brothers!”

“And your other favourite brothers are…?”

“Tim and Damian.” Dick’s grin was sheepish. “Hey, you’re all equals in my heart.”

Jason grimaced. “You’re unbearable.”

“Just come with me to the manor for the weekend. I promise we won’t suffocate you too much, but it’ll be good to have everyone in one place for a while. Apparently Damian’s injured so he couldn’t avoid us if he wanted to. And you know Alfred would be thrilled.”

“Don’t you use Alfred against me like that.” But Jason was already gathering his things, shoving them into a ratty backpack with a sort of grouchy determination.

“Have I missed anything fun in the past few weeks?” Dick threw himself onto the bed, visibly vibrating. Jason raised an eyebrow.

“No.” He said. “Babs and Cass decided they wanted to learn how to bake, and somehow managed to incinerate Alfred’s favourite oven gloves. They’re still trying to make it up to him. Tim’s on his way back from Metropolis now. Bruce asked him to deliver a message to Supes, and something about a Daily Planet reporter. Damian got an A on his book report, but that’s because I wrote most of it for him.”

“Hold up. Bruce willingly contacted Superman?”

“Yeah, it’s a whole thing.” Jason zipped up his backpack. “Supes asked the Bat for help, and as much as Bruce pretends he doesn’t care, he obviously melted at the first sight of that chiselled jawline.”

Dick huffed a laugh. “How do you even know this?”

“Oracle let Tim and I watch the whole thing. It was great.” Jason shrugged. “And afterwards, Bruce told Tim to go give Supes his private number.”

“And because he’s Tim, he’s probably known Superman’s home address and legal name since he was ten, or something.”

“Bingo.” They left the apartment side-by-side. Jason didn’t bother to lock his door, and Dick didn’t mention it. As they left the building, stepping out into the dreary Gotham light, Jason found himself drifting a little closer to his brother. In spite of himself, he’d missed Dick’s company.

The manor was quiet, when Dick and Jason arrived, which was never a good sign. Sharing a silent look of agreement – figure out where everyone is, now – they walked with forced calm towards the entrance to the Cave. As they approached, though, they began to hear raised voices.

Dick frowned. “Is Bruce yelling?” And they broke into a run.

Bruce was, indeed, yelling, at a harried-looking Tim. Jason ducked out of view, and Dick quickly followed. They shared another glance, this time of concern.

“—reckless, irresponsible—”

“—I was just doing what you’d asked me to do—”

“—you know better, Tim, you’re the—”

“—I’m not a child, it was a calculated—”

“—you’re supposed to be the one I don’t have to worry about!” Bruce finished, explosive. Jason winced. So did Dick. And Damian, who was watching from the medbay across the cave. Tim’s face crumpled for a fraction of a second, before smoothing into a mask that put Batman to shame.

“I apologise.” Tim said, voice level. “It was my mistake.” And he strode out of the cave, sparing a glance at his brothers as he passed.

“It was.” Bruce’s expression was pinched, and grew impossibly grim as Jason and Dick emerged from their hiding spot. He faltered, for a moment, and then stalked off. The boys watched him leave, tense.

“What the hell happened?” Jason asked, something sour curling in his gut.

Damian glanced up. “Drake confronted Luthor. Father called it an ‘unnecessary risk’ which is pathetic, frankly.”

Jason gaped. Beside him, Dick sucked in a tense breath.

“It wasn’t as bad as it sounds.” A voice grumbled. Tim had returned to the cave, now clutching an energy drink. He slumped into the chair before the batcomputer. “I went on behalf of Wayne Enterprises. I was already in Metropolis, it made sense.” He took a long swig of his drink.

“That sounds… incredibly reckless, Tim.” Dick said.

“And now you sound like B.”

Dick shuddered. “That wasn’t what I meant and you know it.”

“Whatever.” Tim muttered. “How are you holding up, Dames?”

Damian scowled. He’d been forced into bed, where he had been bandaged up and now languished in equal parts pain and indignation. “I don’t see why this is necessary.” He grumbled, pulling at the bandages on his legs. Dick shot him a look.

“Stay put. We’ve gotta make sure you weren’t hit with anything too weird.” He said. “And those burns are nasty, Dames.”

Jason snorted, in spite of himself. “Yeah, you’re lucky that your uniform actually has real pants, brat. Any other Robin and we’d have lost our legs.”

Tim glanced across from the computer, an expression of vague amusement on his face. “I did always wonder about that. I used to get some serious wind-burn on my legs and I, at least, wore tights. It’s not a very practical design.” 

Dick spluttered. “Hey, I’ll have you know it was a perfectly fine design!” All three of his brothers stared at him, incredulous. 

“Dick, you know the Robin costume is ridiculous, right?” Jason said. Dick’s expression grew more offended.

“Yeah,” Tim offered, thinking, “Almost like it was designed by a nine-year-old who grew up in the circus.”

“It was Dick’s fault?” Damian said, incredulous.

“Did you guys really not know that?” Dick asked, rubbing at his face. “You think Bruce came up with something like that? I stole most of that costume from my old Flying Grayson leotard. I thought it was cool!”

“Dick, you thought discowing was cool.”

“Shut up, Tim. I mean, you all wore it, you can’t think it’s that bad?” He seemed a little defeated, and his brothers shared a glance. Damian cleared his throat, offered a weak smile.

“It is an honour to wear the Robin suit.” He said. Dick beamed. “Although I would not ever fight crime with bare legs.”

“Dick, it’s a traffic light nightmare.” Tim said. “I hated wearing it. But I didn’t care about the costume, I cared about Robin. And Batman. That’s what matters.”

Dick turned to Jason, expression hopeful. Jason shrugged. “The costume is one thing on a long list of grievances I have with Robin,” He said. “But, y’know… Robin was magic.”

The grin Dick gave him was wide and toothy, and something deep inside Jason eased, a little. Damian’s hand crept towards his bandages again, and Jason smacked it away. “Do you want permanent scars?” He said, incredulous. Damian scowled.

“Why did Batman allow it?” Tim asked absently. They all turned to him. “The Robin costume, I mean. Nowadays, it’s three layers of body armour and defence mechanisms. When we were Robin, it was just fabric. Very skin-tight fabric.”

Dick’s eyes flickered to Jason. They all fell into silence. Jason wanted to believe Bruce had been forced by his death to protect Robin better, but Tim hadn’t had any more protection than Jason. Tim’s face twisted somewhat, a flicker of doubt that Jason didn’t miss. He felt a surge of pity: Tim still hadn’t shaken that sense that Bruce just cared less about what happened to him than to his brothers. The one he didn’t have to worry about.

“That was on me.” Jason offered. “Pretty sure the old man got plenty more paranoid after I came back from the dead and started my second life by beating the crap out of a Robin.”

Tim scowled. “You caught me on an off day.” He muttered, but something of the tension in his face had eased. He squinted at the computer screen. “Hey, my plan worked.”

“And what plan was that?”

“This.” He typed for a moment, and the screen filled with images and text. “Full access to the parts of Luthor’s network that Oracle couldn’t get to.”

Jason peered at the screen. “This is… impressive.”

“As I said,” Tim cracked his knuckles, “Calculated risk. I’m doing this for Superman – surely that justifies pretty much anything.”

Damian tilted his head. “Is father really assisting the alien?”

“To an extent.” Tim said. “I mean, he would never admit it, but he trusts Supes as much as I’ve seen him willing to trust anyone. He’s even trusting him with his identity, that’s a big step, right?”

“What?” Dick said. “Why now?”

Tim frowned. “I thought it was kinda weird, but I didn’t question it.”

Jason paused. “Tim,” He said, something dawning on him. “You’re certain that Bruce knows Superman’s civilian identity, right?”

“Yeah. If I figured it out then Batman definitely did. Besides, he told me to go to Metropolis and give Superman his… number…”

“What?”

“I’m trying to remember if he mentioned Clark’s name at any point.” Tim’s face scrunched up. “But if he doesn’t know then why would he give Superman his personal number? The only people that have that number are family – but all the family are vigilantes so maybe he – oh. Oh God. He doesn’t know. Guys, I think I fucked up.”

Dick was visibly cracking up, and Jason raised a smooth eyebrow. “Bruce doesn’t know who’s on the other end of that line?” He said. “But it doesn’t matter because Superman knows who we are, right?”

“I thought he did.” Tim looked distressed. “I thought – with the super-hearing and the x-ray vision – but maybe he really was just trying to write an article!”

“Oh, Timmy,” Jason grinned. “You’ve created the most convoluted fucking dilemma I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something.”

“What do I do? Bruce is already mad at me!”

“You want my advice,” Dick chipped in, “Let them figure it out. Bruce deserves a little humiliation, and they might actually come out the other side of this friendly with each other.”

Tim glanced at all of their faces. Jason was thriving in the potential for chaos, and Damian just looked vaguely baffled. Dick was still grinning, his cocksure smile that was guaranteed to make Timmy cave.

“Fine.” He cracked his knuckles, turning back to the batcomputer. “Back to work. It’s time I found out exactly what CADMUS is.”

--

Kon’s face didn’t change.

“That sounds normal, right?” Clark asked. Again. “Is it alright? Should I send it?”

“You. Are. So. Weird.”

“I just don’t want to make a bad impression.” Clark glanced down at the phone he had in a tentative grip. One side of it was slightly buckled, from a previous incident of thoughtless-super-strength.

“Clark, he gave you his number, he probably wants you to use it.” Kon’s voice was flat. He’d sat through Clark’s fretting before, and as always was unimpressed. “Only thirteen-year-old girls overthink a text message.”

“Fine.” Clark hit send.

Tim gave me your number. thank you

Maybe not his most smooth line, but it functioned. He tossed his phone onto the counter-top, face down. Hopefully Bruce was in no rush to reply.

“I don’t get what he sees in you anyway.” Kon grumbled. “I bet it’s your muscles. You’re too thick to draw anyone in with your wit, or your shining personality.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “What’s with the attitude?”

“I’m sick of looking at your face.” Kon said, slouching further into the ratty couch. “And I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to.”

Kon’s kryptonite poisoning had been getting worse. He was functionally powerless, with barely enough tactile telekinesis left to lift the weight of a brick. He’d cut himself on a kitchen knife the day before, and spent the rest of the day locked in his room listening to painfully loud music and sulking. “I’m working on it, Kon.”

“Are you?” He seethed. “Because I don’t see you out there now, trying to get my life back. You’re in here, fretting over a text message to your crush like you’re in high school! And you know my name is Connor!”

Clark frowned. “I’m not doing this with you.” He said, strained.

“You’re not doing anything with me!”

“I didn’t ask to suddenly have responsibility for a teenager—”

“Believe me,” Kon interrupted. He rose from the couch, cheeks flushed. “I’m very aware of that.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.” Kon stormed to the doorway. “Away from you.” And then the door slammed, and Clark was alone.

“Shit.”

His phone buzzed. With slight trepidation, he picked it up.

You’re welcome. -B

Have you made any progress? -B

He must mean the article. Clark thought for a moment before answering.

i hit a dead end, so I’m changing tactics. You have Tim to thank for that

Yes, I’ve spoken with him about his interference already. -B

he’s a smart kid. frankly i’m a little intimidated by him, but he does good work

Still. He should not have interfered. -B

go easy on him, he had the right intentions and it actually might be for the best

There was a much longer time, then, before Bruce messaged again.

How’s your kid? -B

He spared a moment to wonder how Bruce knew he had a kid, then remembered that Bruce Wayne was one of the world’s richest men. He’d probably done six separate background checks on Clark Kent, unassuming country boy.

we argued, he stormed out. not for the first time, either

A teenager? -B

something like that

Technically, Kon wasn’t even two years old. But for all intents, purposes, and legal documents, he was seventeen.

I’m new to the whole ‘parenting’ thing

It doesn’t get easier. -B

That was… reassuring.

Chapter Text

Batman was waiting for him, ghost-like and solemn at the docks. Clark touched down gently, but he knew the Bat had heard him. He always did. Sometimes it was impossible to believe that man didn’t have superpowers.

“What is Project CADMUS?” Batman asked, without looking at him. His voice was flat, but confrontational, and Clark winced.

“A research facility owned by Lex Luthor. Specialising in clones.” Clark said, “But you already knew that.”

Batman finally met his eyes. “I did.” He said. “Only because Tim risked his own safety and put our identities in jeopardy in the name of gathering information. Superman, if we’re going to work together, I expect that you’re honest with me. That includes lies of omission.”

“Maybe your paranoia was rubbing off on me.” Clark retorted. Batman conceded that with a tilt of his head, and something that might have, in the right light, looked like a slight smile.

“But you understand the threat that a facility like CADMUS poses.” He said. Clark frowned.

“Obviously. That’s why I destroyed it, and took K—the clone—away from Luthor.”

“You destroyed it?”

“Razed it to the ground. I’m not as stupid as you seem to think I am, Batman. It would have been impossibly dangerous to allow Luthor to keep—”

“And yet, according to the data we’ve pulled from Luthor’s network, CADMUS continues to function.”

Clark froze. “What?”

“So you didn’t know.” Batman’s voice was grim. “That’s both reassuring and disturbing.”

“Do you have a location?”

“First—”

“I need a location, Batman, now—”

“Slow down, Superman.” Batman’s voice was raised, but softer than he was used to. “You said yourself that Luthor is expecting you. Rushing into a conflict unprepared is what gets vigilantes killed. Even the ones that think they’re invincible. Trust me on that.”

There was something about the tone of his voice, unyielding, with an edge of pain, that cleared the panic from Clark’s mind. Instead, something in his chest twisted. “Where’s Robin, Batman?” He hadn’t seen the kid – and which kid was it these days? The surly, violent one? – for a worryingly long time.

Batman’s face darkened. “That does not, and never has, concerned you.”

“Is he injured? Dead?” Clark said. He was pushing, and he knew he was pushing. He should stop. He shouldn’t start a fight. “How many child soldiers are too many? And now – with Tim – you’re getting children involved outside of the capes as well?”

“Do not talk to me about my children,” Batman seethed. “Do not.”

Clark’s lip twisted. “How do you live with yourself?”

He deserved the punch. It was a shock, though, that it rocked his head sideways. Pain rocketed through his jaw. And when he raised his hand to his face, his finger came back streaked with blood. Batman shook out his fist, and Clark noticed the green ring on his gauntlet. He rubbed at the wound, stunned.

“We had an understanding.” Batman said. “You violated that agreement to ask for my aid. You are in no position to be criticising me.”

“I don’t like you, Batman.” Clark said, carefully. “I never have. But I do need your help, and while I do, I won’t fight you on the way you do things. I just need to know that Robin is alive, at least.”

“He’s got moderate burns on his legs, but he’s healing smoothly.” Batman was rigid. His expression was cold, aloof. “He’ll be back in the field by the end of the month.”

Clark didn’t push it. There were so many things he wanted to say – to spit – at Batman’s face, but he held his tongue. He thought about Bruce Wayne’s honest concern for his children, how his priority was keeping his sons and daughter safe. A contrast to the callous asshole stood before him. But… but Batman had his morals, and he was helping Clark despite their tensions purely because there was a kid in danger, and something about that eased Clark’s resentment. Because, at the end of the day, Clark still believed that Batman was a good man.

If he didn’t, he would have put him away many years ago.

“We need to take down CADMUS,” Clark said. “For good, this time.”

“I have a few ideas.”

-

The gala was in full swing, but Clark had found himself tucked away in a quiet corner. It would have been peaceful, if not for the two sets of eyes that were glued on him.

They weren’t even trying to be subtle. Two of Bruce’s kids, Dick Grayson and Cassandra Wayne, had sat themselves at a table nearby. Both were watching Clark with an intensity that was starting to make him nervous. Seeing him notice them, Dick waved brightly.

Clark pulled out his phone. This had been Batman’s plan, and he hated it, but maybe there would be a saving grace in the form of a handsome billionaire.

Are you at the gala?

There was no response for a moment, and Clark was beginning to give up hope of being swept off of his feet by Bruce Wayne. He was here for the mission, anyway, and he shouldn’t let himself be… distracted. His phone buzzed.

Luthor has been talking my ear off about superyachts for fifteen minutes. Requesting extraction. -B

I’m not above begging. -B

Clark huffed a laugh. He decided it was probably a good idea to leave his hiding place and actually try and get the intel he’d come for.

Dick and Cassandra cornered him immediately. “You’re Clark Kent, right?” Dick asked, beaming.

“That’s me.”

“You’re not as tall as I thought you would be.” Cassandra said, eyes narrowing slightly. Clark frowned. Last time he’d checked, he was 6’3”.

“Yeah, he’s kinda dorky.” Dick added. Clark was beginning to feel a little insulted.

“Is there something I can do for you?” He asked, carefully. Dick met Cassandra’s eyes, and they both turned to him with concerning synchronicity.

“We’re big fans.” Dick said, holding out a hand for Clark to shake. His grip was worryingly strong. “If you’re looking for Bruce, I saw him over by the champagne table a few minutes ago. I think Lex had him cornered. He’s been watching the crowd all evening, looking for you.”

And then they were gone. Clark blinked. He hadn’t even noticed them disappear, but they were just… not there anymore. His phone buzzed.

Luthor mentioned a ‘project’ off the East Coast. That mean anything to you? -B

Probably the not-so-secret base he’s got set up on an abandoned Atlantic oil rig. The Planet exposed that one a year or so ago, it’s been inactive since then

Why did Bruce care? He did know that Clark was an investigative reporter, though – maybe he thought Clark would be interested. And it was in Wayne Enterprises’ best interest to distrust Luthor at all times.

You know for certain that it’s currently inactive? -B

Clark glanced around. He’d migrated across the room somewhat, and there were currently no eyes on him. He took a deep breath, preparing for the onslaught, and slowly began to focus his hearing.

Through Gotham (car horns, conversations, shattering glass, a gunshot), across New Jersey (electrical humming, a concert crowd, the beeping of a cash machine, a thousand private moments), and out, out across the ocean. To the faint metallic creaking of the oil-rig that he’d destroyed single-handedly some time ago. Luthor had been using it for some gruesome experiment that Clark had rather efficiently put a stop to. He expected silence – nothing more than the splashing of the ocean and the settling of the metal structure. Instead, there was noise: footsteps, the press of fingers on a keyboard, someone singing in the shower.

It was active.

I’m not certain of anything.

In fact, I have a hunch that this ‘project’ is bad news.

I thought the same. -B

Luthor rarely deserves the benefit of the doubt. -B

For Brucie Wayne, that was outright jaded. Clark tucked his phone away, and tried a little harder to identify the billionaire amongst the crowd. Seeing the broad shoulders and tousled black hair, Clark maneuvered his way through throngs of people and settled beside Bruce.

Bruce, who turned to smile brightly at him. Clark melted a little under the glare of that giga-watt smile. “Clark!” He said, and Clark clocked the tension in his face at the same time as he clocked Lex Luthor stood before them, looking as he always did – a smug asshole. “I wasn’t expecting to see you!”

“I’m here with the Planet.” He fished a notebook from his pocket. “Ms Grant is on vacation.”

“I see.” Bruce said. “Lex, have you met Clark Kent?”

Luthor raised an eyebrow. “I’ve had the pleasure.” He said coldly, likely remembering Clark’s article – LEXCORP CORRUPTION SCANDAL SHOCKS CITY – and the multiple weeks he’d spent as an unflattering front-page story. Clark smiled tightly.

“I apologise for the interruption, but I was hoping to talk to Mr. Wayne.” He held up the notebook. “Can’t disappoint Cat, I promised her an exclusive.”

Luthor bared his teeth. “By all means, reporter. We’ll talk later, Mr Wayne.” And then he was striking up a conversation with the nearest interested faces.

Clark and Bruce ducked away, finding themselves in a moderately empty hallway. The noise of the party was dim, here, a faint bass vibrating under their feet. “An extraction, as promised.” Clark grinned. Bruce blinked, his expression spasming, but then his face smoothed into a passive smile. His eyes had gained an intensity, though.

“And I’m unfathomably grateful.” He said, smoothing his tie. “That man is odious.”

“Big word.”

“Alfred is rubbing off on me.” Bruce shrugged. “It’s good to see you, Mr Kent. It’s been, what, a month?”

“Something like that.” Clark realised he’d been grinning, a little giddy, and tampered his expression. “Your son sent me over.”

Something changed in Bruce’s expression. Clark could almost call it disappointment. It passed quickly, though. “Dick?” Bruce surmised. Clark nodded. “The others detest these events. I imagine Jason and Tim have snuck off to get into a fist-fight somewhere they won’t get in trouble for fighting. They’ve been insufferable all week. I’m this close to just bashing their heads together.” And Bruce looked every bit the tired father, his playboy persona easing away.

“They seemed like good kids to me.” Clark said. “But I don’t have much experience. I’ve only got the one, and he fights me on everything.”

Bruce raised his champagne glass. “To difficult children.” He toasted. “We can’t help but love them, even while they’re turning us grey.” And he downed his drink in a single swallow. It was… attractive.

“Bruce, I wanted to say—”

Bruce’s phone began to vibrate. He winced, pulling it a little frantically from his pocket. “I’m sorry, it’s Damian, I have to take this.” And he turned away, slightly. “Damian?”

“We require assistance.” Clark shouldn’t be listening in. He didn’t stop, though. “I think Todd is genuinely attempting to smother Drake to death.”

Bruce pinched his brow. “Is Dick there?”

“Yes. He is not strong enough to pry them apart.”

“Well, are you helping him?”

“No. It is entertaining to watch.” There was a distant thud, and a battle-cry. “Drake has acquired a folding chair.”

“I’m on my way. Don’t let them kill each other. I mean it, Damian.” Bruce ended the call, buried his face in his hands for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Clark.”

“No, I get it.” Clark said. “I think.”

Bruce laughed. It was gruff and deep, and it sent a thrill through Clark’s whole body. “You definitely don’t. They’ve been at war for a week – Tim stole, and then crashed, Jason’s bike. Jason retaliated, and so forth. I’m amazed there’s been no blood yet.”

“Huh.”

“I would say Tim deserves a little shake-up for that one, but ever since Jason… went missing, he’s been prone to escalating things.” Bruce shrugged. “The best I can do is keep them apart until they cool off. Which they will, when they remember that they’re brothers and that they actually like one another.”

Bruce’s phone began to vibrate again.

“I get it.” Clark said. “Please, go sort out your kids before they do some damage.”

And Bruce raced off down the hall, leaving Clark slightly shell-shocked and alone. Again.

He didn’t stick around much longer, after that. Batman was somewhere around, amongst the throngs of people. Let him get the intel – Clark couldn’t stand another minute of small-talk with rich snobs. And if he had to talk to Luthor again he would probably do something stupid, like freeze him to death. He was sure the Atlantic oil-rig was a lead, though. Hopefully Batman would be satisfied with that.

He flew back to Metropolis without bothering to change. Part of him – the part that saw Bruce and his sons and thought he could learn something from them – was looking forward to seeing Kon. The other part was dreading another confrontation.

But he needn’t have worried, because the apartment was empty. There was no sign that Kon had been there recently. He settled onto the couch with a sigh. Maybe he’d gone back to Smallville. It would be for the best.

Productive evening? -B

not like I’d hoped.

Me neither. -B

--

Connor had been waiting at the stupid bus stop for almost an hour, and the bus still hadn’t arrived. He was barely sheltered from the torrential rain. He checked his phone, again. Two missed calls from Clark – fuck that – and a text from Lois. He ignored them both.

Gotham was grimy. It was the only word he could think of to describe it. The water that ran down the pavement was grey-brown with muck, and on the floor by his feet was a used needle. He kicked at it, disgusted. Everything was illuminated by the pink-and-green lights of the Amusement Mile ferris wheel, adding an eerie discomfort to the already seedy street.

There was a teenager sat at the far end of the bus-stop bench from Connor, in a fancy suit that had probably looked smart before he’d been dragged through a bush backwards and then soaked through by the rain. He clutched a black umbrella between his knees, and was frowning at his phone. His fringe covered his eyes. It seemed impractical.

From somewhere nearby, several gunshots went off. Connor flinched, but the teenager didn’t react. Connor wished, somewhat violently, for the miraculous return of his powers. He wasn’t used to having to worry about what would happen if someone shot at him. Usually, it would just… bounce off.

Not to mention that his powers meant he’d never had to take the fucking bus.

“You’re not from around here?” The teenager was looking at him, now, from under that long black fringe. Connor shrugged.

“Metropolis. My d — uh — my DNA donor and I argued. I needed to get away, and Gotham seemed like the place to go.” Wow, when he said it out loud, it sounded incredibly stupid. But the teenager smiled, and wow – he had a pretty smile.

“I get it. Parents suck.” He said. Then his smile dimmed. “Trust me, I’ve had a few of them, and they’ve all been bad. Some – some worse than others.”

“Tell me about it.” Connor muttered.

“Gotham seems an extreme choice, though. Even for a runaway.” The teenager offered. “I’ve never known anyone to come here willingly.”

“It sounds stupid, but I wanted to see the Batman.” Clark had told him that Batman agreed to help. Connor had hoped that he could cut out the middle man and just talk to the Bat himself. That he could fix his issue without having to rely on Clark’s help. But it sounded so dumb to say out loud, and he felt his cheeks heat. The teenager’s face brightened, though.

“Awesome!” He said. “I used to be obsessed with the Batman. It sounds a little lame now, huh. Wait, let me—” And he produced a wallet from his jacket pocket. “Look!”

It was a blurry photograph, worn and peeling at the corners, of two smudges: one black and pointy-eared, the other yellow and red, mid-flip. “I took this when I was a kid!”

“That’s impressive.” Connor admitted. “Cla – uh, the man that’s supposed to take care of me, hates Gotham. I figured I’d be able to hide from him here.”

“You had a really bad argument, huh?”

“He doesn’t want me.” Connor said, a little weakly. “And he’s not afraid to show it.”

“Two of my brothers have tried to kill me.” The teenager blurted. Connor whipped his head around to stare at him. “Our dad didn’t really, um, know how to handle it.”

“They tried to kill you?” Connor repeated. The teenager shrugged. Connor noticed, for the first time, the purpling bruise that marred one pale cheek.

“We mostly get along now. It just took some time.” He said. “And dad – he’s not the most emotionally literate person. He gets things wrong. A lot.”

Connor held out a hand. “I’m Connor.”

“Tim.” And the teenager grasped his hand. For someone as short and… gangly, as Tim was, his grip was strong. But maybe that was just Connor trying to adjust to the lack of super-strength. Still, the palm in his was warm, and when he met Tim’s eyes he thought, wow, this guy is perfect.

Tim checked his watch. “I don’t think this bus is coming.” He said. “I know a good pierogi stand not far from here. It should still be open. Do you… want to go get some food?”

“Sure.”

And as they stepped from the bus-stop and into the rain, Tim pulled Connor in until they were both huddled, a little damp but surprisingly warm, under the shelter of his black umbrella.

Chapter Text

For a guy so small, Tim could put away food with a vigour that rivalled Clark.

They’d found shelter under the awning of a closed café, the warmth of their street-food a distinct comfort in the cold, damp night, and Connor could honestly say that he was having fun. Tim was funny, in a cynical, witty kind of way. He was dorky, sure, but so was Connor.

And he’d never found conversation so… easy, before.

“—so Dick is stuck up there, right, but he’s not going to admit it—” Tim was waving his arms around, and dangerously close to flinging his pierogi into the street. Connor fought a laugh. “—and Jason starts to slip, obviously, because of the ice, and we all see it but no one can do anything because we’re all too far away—”

 “I thought you said that Damian was with Jason?”

“Oh, yeah, by that time he’d abandoned Jace because he thought that Dick needed help – which he did – so there wasn’t anyone there.”

“Oh. What about your sister?”

“I’m getting to that!” Tim said, “So Jace eats it on the ice, and falls off the roof—”

“Was he ok?”

“He’s tough, trust me.” Tim paused, frowned. “I mean, he did break his ankle.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yeah. Dad was furious.”

“Your brothers sound intense.” Connor said. He sombred a little, then, and Tim noticed. He tried to force a smile, but it felt stiff on his face. “I wish I had a family like that. It’s just me and my dad, and he ignores me most of the time.”

Tim lapsed into silence. “Yeah,” He said, raising a hand to rub at the bruise on his face. “They’re pretty cool. I’m lucky, aren’t I?”

“More than you know.”

“Have you told your dad that you want him to spend more time with you?” Tim offered. Connor raised a brow.

“No. Have you told yours?”

“Touché. The difference is, my dad has five other dysfunctional kids relying on him. He doesn’t have time for all of us.”

“Five?”
“I’m counting Steph because he’s the only father-figure she has.”

“Oh.” Connor took another bite of his food, thinking.

“Trust me, we’re pretty damn far from sunshine and rainbows.” Tim said. “I love them, but we have our issues. More than the average family.”

“At least you know that you’re loved.” That came out a little too bitter.

Tim huffed. “I’m going to smack your dad through a wall. Trust me, I’m capable.”

“I severely doubt that.” Connor said, lips twitching. “But I appreciate the sentiment. I can’t wait until I’m old enough to get my own place. Away from him.”

Tim looked at him for a long time, assessing. Connor started to squirm, a little. “If that’s what you really want, I have connections.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Tim shrugged. “Did I not mention that I’m really rich?”

Connor narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No, I—” Tim blinked. “My last name is Wayne, Connor.”

“Oh.” Connor scowled into the remains of his food. Tim picked up on his shift in mood, expression closing off somewhat. Connor decidedly did not feel guilty about that. He had billionaire trauma, it was totally valid.

Tim crammed the rest of his food in his mouth, apparently giving up on manners. It was a drastic change in demeanour, and Connor snorted. “Do you wanna see my favourite gargoyle?” Tim asked, mouth still full.

“Your—what?”

“Gargoyle.” Tim grinned. “Gotham is full of them. Everyone in my family picks a favourite. It’s tradition. We started it after—after Jason—” His face fell.

“You’re telling me there are enough gargoyles in this city for every member of your family to have a favourite?” Connor clarified, a little incredulous. Gotham was so weird.

“You haven’t spent much time here, huh?” Tim stood from his seat, offered Connor his hand. “Metropolis kid. We’ll have to fix that, together.”

Connor really liked the sound of that.

Dawn was creeping in at a snail’s pace, the sky dulling to a wash of grey that cast sharp shadows on the neon-soaked streets. There were no cars, now, and the clocktower that could be seen even from that dreary corner of town chimed for 4am.

Connor was content to let Tim lead him through the city. It was clear that, however rich Tim might be, he knew even the roughest parts of the city inside and out. And that he loved it.

Tim had something to say about everything. He pointed out the fire escape he’d fallen off when he was ten, the batburger he’d frequented as a kid, his sister’s favourite gargoyle – ‘she calls him Marvin, for some reason’ – and landmarks: the GCPD building, the distant, flickering lights of ACE chemicals, the opera house, and as he pulled Connor onto a rooftop, even the patch of gloom that obscured Arkham Asylum.

They were wandering down a narrow street, shoulder-to-shoulder, when a gunshot rang out. It was close enough to make Connor’s ears ring. Tim tensed.

Several more gunshots followed. Shouting, too, rapidly increasing in volume. The squeal of tires. “Something’s wrong.” Tim said. He manhandled Connor into an alcove, where they fell into agitated silence.

“What’s going on?” Connor hissed. His body was taught, and he felt suddenly useless. If something went wrong, he couldn’t protect Tim. Not in his squishy body, with the pathetic strength of a 17-year-old human. He desperately, desperately missed his powers. He took Tim by the forearms, dragged him a little closer. Connor was still considerably bigger than him, he could at least be a human shield.

That way he would go out doing something good. Something heroic.

Tim didn’t seem too concerned. “It’s probably just a robbery.” He said. “Or a gang scuffle. If it’s a rogue, we’re in trouble, but so far all we’ve heard is gunshots, not—”

Close, too close, came voices. Whoever the shooters were, they were coming towards them. And Tim and Connor wouldn’t be able to get out without being seen. They’d cornered themselves. Tim’s face paled, and he sagged in Connor’s arms.

“Oh, god.” He said, nearly silent. His voice wavered. “Not him. Please, not him. He’s supposed to be in Arkham.”

Among the voices coming ever closer was the sound of shrill, relentless, cruel laughter.

-

Superman wasn’t answering his messages. Bruce thought he’d found a lead in the CADMUS case, finally, and he’d been waiting to share it with Supes for hours now. It was a worrying response time.

And, though he’d never admit it, Bruce was a little disappointed. He’d been looking forward to working with Superman. He liked knowing there was someone watching his six. Someone he didn’t have to worry about.

It was nine in the morning. Bruce was on his third coffee. He was alone in the Batcave – well, Dick was there – well, Dick and Damian – and that was the sound of Jason’s bike roaring through the hangar entrance – he was in the Batcave, pouring through increasingly worrying files.

Superman had failed to mention that his Kryptonian kid was half Luthor.

“Heya B.” And that was Jason. Bruce acknowledged him with a grunt, focused in untangling the information before him. “Who pissed in your cereal?” Jason peered over his shoulder for a moment, but quickly got bored – the words on the screen were near illegible. From the corner of his eye, Bruce watched his second son toss his helmet and jacket haphazardly, sauntering over to his brothers. Damian was ignoring them all, studying his laptop. Oracle had been keeping him in the loop with cases, knowing that letting the kid get bored was just plain irresponsible.

Jason headed in that direction. Bruce tensed, anticipating a fight. All of his sons had been on a hair-trigger lately. He blamed it on cabin fever: Damian hadn’t been able to leave the house thanks to his injury, Tim and Jason had been working on a case that kept them in slightly too close proximity, and Dick seemed to revel in pushing buttons, sometimes.

Bruce adored his children, but he knew better than to trust them. Even Cassandra, who he was moderately certain was in the cave somewhere now, had a surprising talent for – well, for raising cain.

i need a favor

And there was Superman. Bruce spun in his chair, turning his focus to his mobile. He had to pull off his gauntlets, and that drew the attention of his ever-perceptive sons.

What do you need? -B

you have resources in Gotham? my son is missing and i think he’s somewhere in the city

he won’t want to see me, but i was hoping you could make sure he’s safe

Huh. For Superman, that was surprisingly respectful. Bruce would have expected him to just barrel in, flashy costume and all, and find the kid himself. Maybe this was his version of a peace offering, after their… altercation, the other night.

I’ll do what I can. I can keep him safe, at least. -B

thank you. his name is Kon, but he answers to Connor. he’s a good kid, but he can be impulsive

I owe you for this

Don’t you forget it. -B

Now he had to add searching his city for a super-powered teenager to his ever-expanding list of things to do. His ‘no metas in Gotham’ rule had been bent too far out of shape, lately. But Bruce was weak in the face of Superman’s genuine gratitude. Maybe there was still hope for a friendly relationship.

Connor. Half Superman and half Luthor. Bruce could only imagine how unbearable that kid must be. If he had the combined god-complexes of his two… fathers… and the temperament of a teenager, there were some tedious conversations in Bruce’s near future.

let me know if you find him. please.

“Who’re ya texting?” Dick leant over his shoulder, suddenly beside him. Thank god for Batman reflexes, Bruce thought, swerving Dick’s attempt to snatch the phone from his hands.

“Don’t be a child.” Bruce muttered, but it only broadened Dick’s smile. Never a good sign.

“C’mon, B, tell me!” Dick said, slowly collapsing onto Bruce’s lap. Bruce pushed his chair backwards, letting Dick slip, disgruntled, onto the floor. Dick pouted. Bruce wasn’t impressed. “You’re the worst.”

“Tell him, Dickie!” Jason cheered. He was rooting through the med cupboards, Bruce noticed. Jason seemed to notice that he’d drawn attention, and fell silent. It was too late. Bruce could see the way he kept his weight off of his right foot, the stiffness of his torso.

“Jason.”

“Old man.”

“You’re injured.”

“Injured is a very subjective term, y’know.” Jason started. “I’m f—”

Bruce levelled him with a flat stare. Jason flagged.

“It’s just a graze, really—”

“Black Mask shot him!” Damian cried, slamming his laptop shut. Jason cursed. “I was reviewing Oracle’s footage of the encounter.”

“Jason Peter Todd.” Bruce rose from his chair. “You promised me you wouldn’t go in without backup.”

Jason’s expression darkened. “It’s not my fault the little shit bailed on me.” He muttered. “We’ve been working this case for a month, I wasn’t going to miss a good opportunity just because he can’t do his job.”

“Tim bailed on you?” That seemed unlikely. Tim was the most reliable of any of his boys, he’d never abandon a case halfway through. A thrill of concern shot up his spine. “Have any of you seen your brother today?”

And the cave was too quiet, suddenly. “When was the last time anyone saw him?” Bruce glanced at each of their faces. “Answer me!”

Dick frowned. “I spoke to him after the, uh, argument at the gala.” He said. “He was going to follow up on something at the downtown WE building.”

“And none of you have heard from him since then?” Bruce asked. That would make it about 28 hours since Tim had checked in. Not unusual, but Bruce’s instincts were telling him something was seriously wrong. Tim had been obsessed with the Sionis case for weeks, he wouldn’t have missed that fight if he had any choice. What had kept him? Bruce’s gut had never been wrong before. “Oracle.” He turned back to the computer. There was a moment of tension before she responded.

“B.”

“Have you got a location on Red Robin?”

“Give me a moment.” Barbara sounded tense. Bruce frowned.

“Is everything okay, Oracle?”

“Fine.” She bit out. “I’m just busy. Onyx is following up on a disturbance at Arkham.”

Arkham. Bruce’s instincts were screaming at him, now. “Details, Oracle.”

“There aren’t any yet, B. Just a temporary blackout.” She said. “Onyx and Batgirl are looking into it, there’s no reason to think there’s a crisis. Ok, got a location on RR. He’s… in the cave. Wait. Did you say he was in uniform?”

Bruce glanced across the cave. The Red Robin uniform was folded with uncharacteristic care in its usual spot. “Not this time. He left on Wayne Enterprises business.”

“And you’re worried about him?” Barbara’s voice softened slightly. “He can take care of himself, B. He’s not a kid.”

“Oracle.”

“Fine. I’ll look for him. But my priority is—” She faltered, hissed a breath through clenched teeth.

“Oracle, report.”

“Shit, shit. Steph—wait—I said wait. I’m making the call, you need backup.” She switched to the main comms channel, now. Every vigilante in Gotham could hear her. “We have a problem. There’s been a breakout at Arkham. There are three rogues unaccounted for. Ivy, the Riddler, and—and the Joker.”

--

Perry White looked pleased with him, and it was slightly unnerving.

“You’ve done well, Kent, I’ll admit. It’s not what I asked for, but it’s solid work.” Perry bared his teeth in an intimidating smile. “Gotham agreed with you, clearly.”

“I wouldn’t say that, sir.” Clark said through gritted teeth. Lois, from where she was not-so-subtly listening in, barked a laugh.

“That’s rich.” She crowed. “Please, Perry, send him back to Gotham. He’ll be thrilled.”

“Lois.” Clark shot her a quelling look.

“Well, you might hate Gotham,” Perry allowed, “But there’s no denying that you understand her.” With that, he strode off, Clark’s article in hand. Clark heaved a sigh, head thudding onto his desk with a grim finality.

“He’s going to send me back now, isn’t he.”

“I believe so.” Lois said, amused. “Perry’s right, you know.”

“About what?”

“You understand Gotham. I’ve read your article, Smallville, and it’s impressive. It might just be your big fat crush on Bruce Wayne—”

“—would you stop with that—”

“—but you’ve tapped into this world that most of us have never even thought about before.” She laughed. “A city that protects their vigilantes as much as their vigilantes protect them. It’s romantic.”

“If you say so.” Clark said. Conflicting feelings on the Batman aside, he admired the… tenacity… of Gotham’s people. Gotham. He frowned. “Connor still hasn’t contacted you?”

“Give him time, Clark.” Lois chided. “He’s a teenager, he needs space. And he’s young but he’s not naïve. Trust him.”

“I don’t like the idea of him alone in that city.”

“You said Bruce Wayne agreed to keep an eye out for him?”

“Yeah.” Clark shrugged.

“Then you know he’s as safe as he can be. Wayne’s probably the most protected man in the city, behind maybe Batman himself. He won’t let anything happen to Connor. And you can swoop in and get him whenever you like, right?”

“In theory.” Clark allowed. “But I don’t want him to think that I don’t trust him.”

“Clark.” Lois levelled him with an intense look. “You’re his parent. Don’t—don’t object to that. You are. And that means that you’re probably going to spend the rest of your life worrying about that kid. That’s just how it goes. But you’re never going to be what he wants and what he needs at the same time. The most you can do is your best.”

“He doesn’t have any powers, Lois.”

“Neither do the rest of us, Smallville.” Lois said, flat. “And we get along just fine.”

“But—”

“If you’re so worried, Clark.” Lois said, forcefully. “Do something about it.”

Chapter Text

“We’ll be okay.” Tim gasped. “We’re going—we’re going to be okay.”

Connor blinked, eyes making a valiant effort to adjust to the pitch darkness. His chest ached, and he prayed that the sharp pain he could feel wasn’t a broken rib. Gathering his bearings, he dragged himself closer to the sound of ragged breathing, feeling through the dark until his hands made contact with a warm body. Tim’s hands grabbed his own, pulling him close until they were huddled together.

“How long do you think we have before he comes back?” Connor asked. His voice was hoarse.

“A while, probably. We’re pretty insignificant.”

“Which also means he doesn’t care if we live or die.” Connor surmised. Tim’s grip tightened, briefly. His hands were clammy. Connor fought a sob. “We’re going to die here.”

“No,” Tim said. “No, we’re not. There are—there’s someone coming for us.”

Connor felt for Tim’s face. It was damp, the tacky dampness of drying blood. A fresh thrill of terror shot through him. “I should have been able to stop him from hurting you.”

“You couldn’t have—”

“I could.” Connor said. “If it wasn’t for Luthor’s stupid kryptonite gas, I should have been able to—”

Tim shifted. “Kryptonite?” Then he sucked in a breath. “Oh my god, you’re Clark’s kid.”

“You know Clark?”

And Tim began to laugh. It was light, on the edge of hysterical. “We’re saved.” He said. “Holy crap, we’re gonna be okay. Superman’s coming.” He sounded painfully relieved. It hurt, a little, to have to disappoint him.

“He doesn’t know where I am.” Connor said. “He knows I’m in Gotham, I think, but he’s not omniscient.”

Tim tensed. “But he’ll hear us.” He said, weakly.

“If he’s listening.” Connor said. “If he knows he’s supposed to be listening.”

“And he doesn’t. He doesn’t know that we’re in trouble.” Connor could feel the frown lines on Tim’s face. “It’s okay, Batman’ll be here. Batman always comes for us. He always comes.”

“But what if he comes too late?” Connor said. Tim stiffened. His breaths quickened, and Connor felt the fresh tears that traced his cheeks. He didn’t have any comfort to offer, not in their cold dark cell, bloodied and beaten. The most he could do was tug Tim into his chest, and try and figure out how to make Clark hear them. Without drawing the ire of any hostile company.

“This happened—” Tim’s voice was low, thick with tears. “This happened to my brother.”

That was unsettling. Connor wondered if it was a ransom thing, or plain bad luck. Tim had said the words like a confession, like they pained him.

“The Joker, um, beat him. Blew him up.” Tim swallowed. “Batman was too late.”

“I’ll die before I let him hit you again.” Connor vowed. Tim huffed a laugh.

“You’ve known me for less than a day.” He said, teasing. Connor shrugged, knowing Tim would feel the movement.

“Yeah, well, I’ve always been the heroic type.” He said. “If we’re going to die anyway, right?”

“And to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.” Tim muttered.

“You did not just quote the Smiths at me,” Connor said, incredulous. “As we’re about to be murdered.”

“Y’know, if we’d had more time, I think we would have been great together.” Tim said.

“Together? Like, together?”

“Yeah.” Tim said, wetly. “We would have been spectacular. Total couple goals.”

“This is the worst first date in the world.” Connor muttered.

“I was always told that it’s the company that matters.” Tim offered, wry.

“And yet, for some reason, the location has still ruined the mood.”

“Typical. We should complain.”

And they were both grinning, in spite of their aching bodies and the cold fear that still threatened to drown them. “So we’re going to fight?” Tim asked. There was a grim edge to his voice.

“I’m going to fight.” Connor corrected. “You’re going to sit there and look pretty until it’s safe.”

Tim fumbled in the dark until he found Connor’s arm, and thumped him. Hard. “Not a chance. You’re as human as I am right now, which means I stand a better chance in a fight. At least I know how to kick ass without powers.”

“You—” Connor felt for Tim’s face again. Something clicked into place in his head. “You’re Robin, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Tim said. “I was.”

“So Batman really is coming?”

“That’s the idea.” Tim said. “But we’ve been here for hours. It’s safe to assume that we’re on our own.”

“Two teenagers against a homicidal maniac and his hundreds of cronies.”

“Two superheroes.”

“Blaze of glory?” Connor offered. Tim reached for his hand, squeezed it.

“Yeah. Blaze of glory.”

--

Bruce was frantic. Dick had rarely seen him this way.

The last time, he remembered, had been—well, it wasn’t a fond memory. Dick had suited up a few hours ago, and had been idling since, waiting for any news. Any orders, any leads, any…thing. Anything.

Everyone was in the cave. With the exception of Oracle, who was busy tearing her hair out in the clock tower. Dick could have used her there, beside him. She was grounding.

Bruce had maintained an open line with the Commissioner since the breakout had been reported, and was talking in a low, grim voice to him now. Dick couldn’t quite make out the words, but it didn’t seem like anything had changed.

The Joker had gone to ground, too quickly. It wasn’t too far from his usual MO, not for a planned breakout, but they couldn’t afford to wait for him to reveal himself this time.

Not while he had Tim.

Jason was whaling on a punching bag. He’d smashed two mugs, his phone, and a batcomputer monitor before he’d brought his rage under control, and had been quietly seething since. It was fair, Dick supposed. The circumstances were unbearably familiar. He could only imagine the turmoil in Jason’s head.

Cass dropped from somewhere. She stood a little adrift beside him, body leaning in towards his own. It was a comfort-seeking movement, when she needed physical touch but couldn’t ask for it – drifting close to him, until he reached out first. And he did, sweeping her into a crushing hug. Cass melted into it, and they stayed like that for a long moment.

“He’ll be fine.” Dick murmured, knowing she could hear. “Tim’s resourceful. He’ll be fine.”

Cass pulled back slightly, studying his face. She pulled her cowl back, hair springing free. Her face was pinched in concern.

“Too late.” She said. Her voice was flat, like she’d forgotten how to emote.

“No,” Dick said. Jason and Damian were listening, too, and he wouldn’t let them lose hope. “No, it’s not too late. We’re not going to give up.”

Cass tilted her head. “Don’t give up.” She said, “But too late.”

Dick looked desperately to Bruce. He was hunched, in such a way that Alfred would usually scold him for, cowl off and hair mussed from the hands he continually dragged through it. The commissioner’s face was grave, flickering in and out of signal on the screen. They weren’t making any goddamned progress.

“Too late.” Cass said. “We need help.”

Jason sauntered over, placing an uncharacteristically gentle hand on Cass’s shoulder. “Everyone’s helping, Cassie.” He said. “We’re doing everything we can.”

“No.” She said, frustrated. She turned on her heel, stalking towards Bruce. They watched, confused, as she swiped Bruce’s phone from where it lay discarded on the desk. Cass presented the phone to her brothers, expectant. “We. Need. Help.” And she placed the phone in Dick’s hand.

Damian, who had decided he was well enough to walk again, hobbled over. He made a grab for the phone, but Dick held it out of his reach.

“Give me the phone, Richard.” He said. “If Cassandra wishes to contact the alien, I am best suited to send the message.”

Dick’s eyes widened. “You want us to call in Superman?” He asked Cass. She nodded firmly, faint exasperation crinkling the corners of her eyes.

“Help.” She emphasised. “Otherwise – too late.”

Dick glanced at his brothers. “She might be right.” He said. “Superman might be our only chance at finding Tim before—at finding Tim.”

Jason snatched the phone from his hand. Dick squawked, lunging for it. Damian pushed the advantage, too, prying it from Jason. They fought over it for a moment longer, before a gauntleted hand wrenched the phone away from them.

Bruce tucked it into his pocket, weary. “Stop squabbling like children.” He said, hard-edged. “And do something productive.” And then he was walking away again.

Jason frowned. “I think his eyebags have eyebags.” He said. “The old man might actually be cracking.”

“Don’t push it, Jason.” Dick scolded.

“Well what do we do now?” He muttered, anger leaking back into his tone.

Dick bit his lip. “I’m going to get Superman.” He said. “I think I know how to get his attention. I’ll be on the roof. Cover for me?”

His three siblings – there should be four, it was all wrong – glanced between one another, in silent agreement. “Be quick.” Damian said. His ears flushed pink. “I expect Drake safely home within the hour.”

Which was practically an exclamation of love.

Dick didn’t bother with stealth as he left the cave. Bruce was otherwise engaged, and it wasn’t like he’d ever be able to sneak past the Batman anyway.

And climbing the manor was child’s play. Literally. Dick had made the climb regularly since he was a child. The manor was by no means a skyscraper, but it was tall, and paired with its location it had an expansive view of the city. And it was tall enough for Dick to stand, at the highest point, and begin shouting at the sky without fear of being overheard.

“Superman!” He cried, as loudly as he could stand. “We need your help! Nightwing needs your help!” God, he hoped that was enough.

A sudden gust of wind nearly bowled him over. Blinking in the wake, Dick saw that Superman had touched down on the roof before him. “Nightwing?” Superman said, taking in Dick’s suit.

“I designed it myself.” He said, stretching his arms out to let Superman see. “Do you like it?”

“You’ve grown up, Robin.” Superman said, slightly breathless. “Grown up and become a hero of your own.”

“Well,” Dick said, flushing, “It just seemed like the logical thing to do.”

He’d only met Superman twice. It was on that second occasion, with Batman occupied across the city, that they’d actually had an opportunity to talk. And Superman had told him a story about Kryptonian heroes that had stuck with him. At the time, Dick had been a kid, hero-worshipping and impulsive. Now, he was… different. But maybe not that different.

“We need your help.” Dick said. “Desperately. You know Tim Drake?”

Superman’s eyes widened. “Is he in trouble?”

“We think the Joker has him.” Dick said. “Batman has been scouring the city for hours and we can’t—we can’t find him, or the Joker, anywhere. Can you listen for him?”

Superman’s face had paled. “Batman won’t approve of my interference.” He said, gruffly. Dick fought the urge to facepalm.

“Batman won’t care.” He said. “Not if it saves Tim’s life.”

Superman nodded sharply. “Give me a moment.” He said, closing his eyes.

Dick waited.

And waited.

Superman was beginning to frown. Dick went cold.

Superman’s eyes opened. They were sad. “Robin..” He started, hesitant. Dick was going to throw up.

“No,” He said, blinking through rapidly blurring eyes. “No, no, no, you’re just listening for the wrong thing.”

“Robin,” Superman tried again. His voice was too soft. Gentle, like he was talking to a spooked animal. “I can’t hear his heartbeat.”

Dick wondered if this was what it felt like to suffocate. One hand clutched at his chest, as if he could ease the vice that was rapidly tightening around his lungs. “Can y—” He started, hoarse. He cleared his throat, and tried again. “Can you locate the Joker?”

His brother wasn’t dead until Dick had seen the body himself. Dick couldn’t let himself believe otherwise. He needed to hold it together. For his brothers, for Bruce. Just until the Joker was back behind bars.

Superman nodded, falling silent again. “There’s a building to the East of the city proper,” He said, “It’s got several stories of underground structure. I don’t know Gotham well, but I could mark it on a map. I can hear… his laughter.”

Dick thought for a moment. “He’s in the East End.” He said, thinking, “But what building—oh, you have to be kidding me.”

“He’s under the Monarch.” Came a growl. Dick whirled around. Batman was crouched on the roof, glaring at the both of them. Superman must have known he was there, but he was unreactive. “His base is under the theatre.” The theatre. A few feet away from Crime Alley. Dick took a shuddering breath.

“B—”

“Don’t say a word, Nightwing.” Bruce growled. He turned to Superman. “You’re here to help?”

Superman hesitated. “Yes, I am.” He said. He paused. “My son is somewhere in the city as well.”

“I’m aware.”

“Of course you are.” Superman muttered. He glanced at Dick, and back to Bruce. “I’m doing this for them. Not for you.”

“Fine. Follow me.” And they both dropped from the roof, leaving Dick alone.

He sagged, dropping to his knees. His ears were ringing, and for a long moment Dick couldn’t breathe. How had things gone so wrong, so quickly? He tried to remember the last thing he’d said to Tim. Realised with renewed nausea that he hadn’t even told him he loved him, that their last conversation had been so insignificant, that he’d never—

A hand alighted on his back, pulling him from his disassociation. “Dickie?”

It was Jason. Dick blindly followed the voice, pulling his brother down into a crushing hug. “We’ll find him.” He said, not letting go despite Jason’s squirming. He pulled back, studying Jason’s face. “We’re going to find him and he’s going to be fine.”

Jason hesitated. “Are you alright?” He said, uncomfortable.

Dick shrugged. “I don’t really know.”

Another hand closed around his wrist. A small, strong hand. Damian pulled him to his feet, face hard and determined. “Drake is far too capable to have fallen at the hands of that lowlife.” He said. “Unlike others I could name.”

“Hey, I didn’t stay down.” Jason retorted. Damian was in full Robin gear, Dick noticed, and walking without trouble. Jason’s helmet swung in a loose grip. Cassandra was crouched watching them, eyes keen. They were all ready for a fight.

“Steph is on her way.” Jason said. “She’ll meet us in Crime Alley.”

Dick took a breath, steadied himself. “We’re not waiting for Batman?”

“When have any of us,” Jason gestured to the group of them, “Ever done a sensible thing like wait for Batman?”

His earpiece buzzed. “I’ve got eyes on the theatre. No one enters or leaves without us knowing. Working on getting eyes inside, shouldn’t be long now.” Babs said. “Go get him, Dick.”

“Together.” Cassandra said. She slammed her fist into her hand, smile dangerous. “Revenge.”

Dick supposed it was as good a plan as they were going to get.

Chapter Text

“I know that you don’t approve of the way I handle my children.” Batman said, “But I would rather die than see them suffer. You don’t have to believe me, you just have to help me. Now get in the damned car.”

“I can fly.”

“Get in my car, Superman, or so help me—”

“Fine.” Clark crammed himself into the batmobile, which was really more of a tank than a car, wondering why he was letting Batman order him around. They tore from the Wayne estate, in tense, awkward silence.

“I couldn’t hear his heartbeat.” Clark confessed. Batman spared him a glance.

“That means nothing.” He said. “There are a hundred reasons why you could be incapable of hearing him. You can’t hear my heartbeat either.” But that was deliberate on Batman’s part. Clark doubted that Tim had decided on a whim to wrap himself in enough body armour to hide from Superman.

Clark swallowed. “I just think we should consider the worst-case scenario—”

“No.” Batman’s voice was sharp. “Emotion will impair judgement and acting irrationally could get someone killed. We’re on a rescue mission, Superman, and we’ll treat it as such.”

And Clark realised suddenly that Batman was scared. Genuinely, impossibly, scared. It was a cold realisation, like seeing your parents cry for the first time and understanding that they’re not nearly as infallible as you thought they were. Batman really was just a man, underneath the armour.

Clark lapsed into uncomfortable silence. In the quiet, he took a moment to listen for Kon. He was somewhere in the city, too, and he knew all too well Kon’s ability to find trouble wherever he went.

But when he heard that familiar heartbeat, through the noise of the city, it was wild and irregular, terrified, and it was coming from the same building as that ceaseless laughter. And almost as soon as Clark had found it, his son’s frightened heartbeat, it stuttered out.

Clark clenched his hands into fists, feeling the sharp, small pain of his nails digging into his palms (if you punch yourself and it hurts, are you strong or weak?) and trying to focus on the city passing by through the window. Batman was right. He couldn’t let himself imagine what might have happened. Superman would be no good to anyone if he was too busy grieving.

“What’s our plan?” Clark asked, clipped.

“You can scout the building in an instant.” Batman said. “Which means you can locate Tim with your x-ray vision. Once you’ve found him, use your speed to get him out. Leave the Joker to me.”

“You’re not seriously asking me to let you handle the Joker by yourself?” Clark asked, incredulous. “And God knows however many others might be in the building?”

“It’s called prioritising.” Batman spat. “And believe it or not, I have experience in these matters. The last thing Gotham needs is for Batman to start relying on metas to win for him. I don’t need your help in a fight. I do – I do need your help saving Tim’s life.” That was a confession that Clark had never expected to hear. It was warming and chilling at the same time.

“I’ll get Tim out.” Clark said, “And then I’m helping you fight, whether you like it or not. And my son – my son is in there as well. It’s not just your revenge anymore.”

Batman glanced at him, a little surprised. “Your son?”

“Yes.” Clark said. “I heard his heartbeat.” Past tense.

“I see.” Batman’s fists clenched around the steering wheel. And the batmobile sped up.

When they arrived, though, it became horrifically apparent that things would not be so simple. The building was echoing with the cacophony of a battle in progress. Clark told Batman this, and the man’s face darkened. He raised a hand to his ear, and Clark listened in. To hell with privacy.

“Oracle. What’s going on in there?”

“We were running out of time, Batman.” Oracle said. “I made a decision to get things moving as quickly as possible.”

“That was irresponsible. You know better than anyone who we’re up against.”

“I do.” The woman – Oracle – returned, “Which is why I know his strength is in his plots. He’s best when he has the element of surprise, or time to plan an escape. We’ve got the jump on him, and he couldn’t hope to beat any of you in a fair fight. I wouldn’t risk any more lives than I have to, B. Especially not to him.”

“We’ll discuss this later.” Batman said.

“Very well.” Oracle replied. “I’m sure you’d like to know that the skylight is your best point of entry. The theatre is almost cleared, and the base is below the building – there’s a stairwell to the northern side. There are about thirty men left at my count, but they’re dropping like flies. I don’t have eyes on Joker, but I know he’s in there. I’m monitoring every entrance.”

“Understood.” Batman glanced at the roof of the theatre, and then, inexplicably, behind them. To the darkened, graffiti-covered alleyway that they’d left the batmobile in. His gaze lingered there for a long moment. Clark frowned, watching Batman shake himself from the momentary stupor and pull his grapple from his belt. “Are you coming?” He asked. Before Clark could answer, Batman had launched himself towards the roof.

As they lowered themselves in through the skylight, Clark watched with some horror as Nightwing fought with a brutality he’d never seen from a superhero. He wasn’t holding back, and his escrima sticks flashed with a voltage that Clark wasn’t entirely sure was safe. His face was splattered with blood, but Clark couldn’t tell whether it was Nightwing’s own blood, or that of… someone else.

Clark blinked into x-ray vision, scanning the building. He needed to know what they were dealing with.

Two women in bat-suits were fighting in the hallway beyond the main theatre – where Nightwing was – both small but powerful, and tearing through the thugs before them with practised violence.

A man in a red helmet fought on the floor below him, backed up by Robin. He dual-wielded guns, which was a shock, but he also fought defensively, creating openings which Robin would take keen advantage of.

He looked harder. There was another floor, below where Robin and red-helmet fought, occupied by a scattered few goons but otherwise empty. He couldn’t see Kon anywhere. He couldn’t see Tim anywhere. The only dead bodies he could see were grown men and women – some slumped in the hallway, others strung up in gruesome display. He couldn’t see the Joker—

--oh, but there he was, climbing the stairs. He held a crowbar, and even through the floors Clark could see that it dripped with blood. The Joker was humming to himself, that curling, awful grin firmly in place.

“Superman.” Clark snapped back into focus. Batman was scowling at him. “This got complicated. We can’t risk the lives of the other vigilantes.”

“I can handle the Joker.” Clark said. “I know exactly where he is.”

Batman paused for a long moment. “You can’t see the children?”

“No.”

He thought for a moment. “Then we deal with the Joker.” He said. “And we do it together.”

“Fine.”

Batman lifted a hand to his ear. “Fan out.” He said. Clark saw Nightwing, below them, react to the words. “Your priority is finding the Joker’s hostages as quickly as possible. Superman and I will deal with the Joker. If you see him – do not engage.”

Nightwing ducked under the punch of a goon, dropping him with a well-placed hit of his escrima to the neck. He ran from the room.

Clark and Batman dropped into the theatre. It was a moment’s work for Clark to drop the rest of the thugs in the room. Batman appeared unmoved, already striding towards the door. Clark scanned the building again. Joker was heading at a leisurely pace towards where the batgirls fought. He’d taken the long way round, avoiding the man in the red helmet completely, it seemed. “This way.” Clark said. Batman followed unquestioningly. It was concerning, but Clark was realising that he didn’t know Batman nearly as well as he thought he did. He’d just made assumptions. Clark swallowed his pride “I owe you an apology.”

“Is now the time, Superman?”

“Yes.” Clark said firmly. He watched Batman punch a goon, cheekbone crumbling under the full strength of that gauntleted fist. “I’m sorry for misjudging you all these years.”

“You are.” Batman’s voice was strained.

“And for never bothering to try and understand you.”

“Superman.” Batman said, tense. Clark tossed three men through a wall, sparing Batman a glance. Unsurprisingly, he was holding his own just fine.

“And for ever thinking that you don’t care about anyone but yourself.” Clark said. “When this is all over, I’d like to start fresh.” They rounded a corner, finally reaching the batgirls. The two women were stood over the unconscious bodies of their assailants, exhausted. Clark and Batman had arrived just in time.

From the other end of the hallway, Joker met Clark’s eyes. His grin widened, and he waved, jaunty, with the bloody crowbar. Clark’s stomach churned. He tried very hard not to think about whose blood that was, dripping from the metal.

Batman had already moved, while Clark had been frozen under the gaze of those cruel bloodshot eyes. He’d put himself between Batgirl and the Joker, and Clark moved instantly to his side. “Batgirl, Black Bat.” Batman ordered. “Find the hostages. NOW.” Because Batman had seen the bloodied crowbar, too, and his face had blanched.

The girls split up. Batgirl disappeared down the stairs from which the Joker had emerged, Black Bat flying around a corner and out of sight. Once they were gone, some of the tension leaked from Batman’s shoulders.

“Superman?” He muttered. “You’d better have my back.” And he launched himself at the Joker with a roar.

Clark sprung into action, too, barely remembering to pull his punches. The Joker, at first, swerved and maneuvered his way out of the worst of the hits. He caught Clark in the face with a swing of the crowbar that would have collapsed his skull, had he been a normal man.

Batman was relentless. And the Joker was only a man, and not a particularly formidable one. He realised quickly that he was beaten. No one could beat Superman in a fist-fight, after all.

The crowbar clattered to the floor, and Joker raised his hands. “I surrender.” He said, spitting out a tooth. Batman snarled, but didn’t move to hit him again. “What? Disappointed that it’s over so soon, Batsy?”

“Shut your mouth, Joker.” Batman said, manhandling him to the floor to snap a pair of unusually sturdy handcuffs around his wrists.

“Oh, I’m just so frightened of the big, bad, bat. Save me, Superman!” Joker cackled. Then he narrowed his eyes, examining Superman. “You look awful familiar, y’know. Have we met?”

Clark didn’t deign him with an answer. He glanced towards the stairs, hearing rapidly approaching footsteps. A fight, still taking place nearby.

“Oh! I know!” Joker said, wriggling in place on the floor. “You look just like that kiddo I just finished beating on! Oh, I do hope he wasn’t yours. He was clearly a dud. He bled far too much to be related to the man of steel. And boy, was that one was a screamer. I always like the screamers, personally—”

Batman brought his fists down on the Joker’s head, effectively cutting off his speech. Clark wasn’t used to feeling powerless, but now the feeling paralysed him. Batman rose from his knees, grabbed Clark by the forearm. “Superman. Superman. Focus.”

“Batman?”

“You need to focus. We can’t help them if we break down.” Clark wondered whether Batman had first-hand experience of that. Instead, he nodded, mutely.

The footsteps increased, and Robin and red-helmet spilled from the stairway into the hall. They froze, taking in the scene. Batman checked them over, though it was subtle, and eased further when they appeared unharmed.

“We’ve yet to see any sign of Drake, father.” Robin offered. Father. That was interesting – like an itch in the back of his brain, but one that he couldn’t quite scratch. Red-helmet was walking towards them. He paused at the Joker’s feet, giving his limp body a nudge with his boot.

“You got him.” He said, tone gleeful. “Are you sure I can’t put a bullet in his head and end this here?”

“Hood.” Batman reprimanded. But Hood wasn’t paying attention. He’d faltered, staring at the floor.

He reached down, and took the bloody crowbar from where it had been left abandoned by Joker’s feet. In one swift movement, Hood wrenched his helmet from his head, revealing a young, haunted face. He touched a glove to the bloody metal, flinching as he realised the blood was still wet.

And he met Batman’s eyes. Even under the domino-mask, Clark could see the young man was fighting tears. “I—” He tried, jaw tensing. “If—” And he swayed on the spot.

“Son.” Batman said, then, stepping forward, “Jaybird—”

Three comms buzzed at the same time. Superman listened, though he knew he shouldn’t. He was glad he did. The voice that leaked through was that of a young woman – Batgirl – frightened and urgent. “I’ve found them!” She cried. “Oh my god. Someone get here now! I’ve found them!”

They all glanced at one another, and took off running.

--

Tim was limp in his arms and Connor was really trying not to cry.

The crowbar came down again, square between his shoulder-blades, and he felt it tear through the fabric of his shirt, and through the skin of his back. He folded forwards under the pain, head close to Tim’s own, still holding him close as if it would protect him, somehow.

Although he was probably beyond protecting, now.

“That one looked like it hurt.” Tim muttered into his ear. Kon groaned in response, not up to the task of forming words. Tim’s hand squeezed his wrist weakly. It was too cold, clammy, but somehow still reassuring.

Joker circled them like a vulture, bloodied crowbar in a loose grip. He was grinning, and Connor hated that grin. “Kiddies these days have no respect for their elders.” He said. “Didn’t your parents teach you the value of discipline?!” And he swung the crowbar. That time, it caught Tim’s jaw, the blow carrying through to strike Connor in the already broken ribs. Winded, he spent a moment gasping for breath.

“Fuck. You.” Tim gasped out. The words were garbled, thick with pain. Joker cackled.

“Really, boys, I’m disappointed.” He said. “You were so up for a fight earlier! What happened to that fighting spirit? Are you really just going to lie there and take it? Taking after your brother, eh, birdie?”

Tim twitched.

“If you’re going to kill us, just do it.” Connor spat. They wouldn’t last much longer, anyway. He could feel the way his lungs struggled to pull in breath, the taste of copper in his mouth.

“Aw, you’re no fun.” Joker lamented. He opened his mouth to say something further, but from somewhere else in the base came a smattering of gunshots, a shout. Joker snapped his mouth shut. He turned to the goons that hovered idle by the door. “Alright, I’m going to see what that’s about. The kiddos were getting boring anyway. Chuck ‘em back in the freezer.”

Connor swallowed. “Wait—”

And the Joker rounded on him. “If you’re lucky, I’ll pay you a visit later.” He said. Then he cocked his head. “If you last that long. Ha, even if you don’t, there are still plenty of fun things to do with a corpse!” He laughed. And laughed. And Connor let himself be dragged back into the freezer, grip barely strong enough to keep hold of Tim. The door shut before them with a thud, blocking out the noise of that laughter.

Connor struggled to his knees. He crawled – shuffled, really – towards Tim, who had propped himself up against the wall. “Wow.” Tim muttered. “I am never mocking Jason for his crowbar thing ever again.”

“Are you okay?” Connor asked, then winced. “Stupid question. How, um, how bad are you doing?”

Tim smiled. It was crooked, and couldn’t disguise the open pain on his sweat-soaked face. “Jaw’s broken.” He reached up to prod at his purpled face. “Ow. Broken badly. So’s my leg, I think. Um, probably bleeding internally, too.”

“Shit.” Connor mumbled. “My ribs are… very broken. I can’t breathe properly. Um, I think..” He poked at his hip. “Is this my pelvis?”

Tim grinned in spite of himself. “You don’t know where your pelvis is?”

“Shut up. Whatever it is, it’s broken.” Connor pulled up his shirt slightly, revealing a vividly red-and-purple bruise. Tim winced in sympathy.

“You’re bleeding.” He said. “Your arm.”

“Oh?” Connor raised a hand to his bicep. His fingers came back sticky with blood. At the sight of it, his breath caught, and he found himself struggling to contain terrified sobs. Tim made an aborted grab for him, face scrunching in pain. “Oh.”

“At least this freezer isn’t… cold, anymore.” Tim said. It looked as if it hadn’t been used in decades, and though the room was cold, they wouldn’t freeze to death. Just… “We’ll suffocate in about two days, maybe?”

“If we don’t die of our injuries first.” Connor said.

“Yeah. It’s not going to be fun.” Tim said. He paled suddenly. Bending double, he retched, and fresh blood dribbled down his chin. An alarming volume of blood. He tried to wipe it away, but only succeeded in smearing it across his cheek.

“Was that…” Connor shuddered.

“Yeah,” Tim said with a wince, “Definitely bleeding somewhere I shouldn’t be.” And then, finally, Tim’s face crumpled, the terror catching up with him. Connor pulled himself closer, tucked their bodies together as best he could. Tim entwined their hands, holding him like a lifeline.

“Hey.” Connor said. His voice was hoarse, and his words slow. Breathing.. hurt. “When we’re dead, I’m taking you on a ghost date.”

“Wh—” Tim cracked a small grin. “What makes it a ghost date?”

“Well, it’s like a normal date, but we’ll be ghosts.” Connor said. “Maybe we could haunt people, but like, romantically.”

“We could get ghost married.” Tim suggested.

“And have ghost babies.”

“I want at least two ghost cats.”

“Figures that you’d be a cat person.”

“Ghost cats, Connor.”

“Ghost cats sound good.” Connor said.

“We’d have the best ghost life.”

“We would.” There was no response, and he glanced over. Tim’s eyes had fluttered closed, the unhurt side of his face resting gently on Connor’s shoulder. He was still breathing, only just, a rattling sound that came slower with each breath he took. Connor drank in the sight of his face, still warm and barely alive. “Yeah. The best life.”

Connor could feel his heart struggling to keep up. It was becoming harder to keep his eyes open. Tim’s hand went lax in his. And Connor decided that he could probably let go, now, too.

Through the haze of his fading consciousness, Connor heard the all-too-familiar sound of the freezer door dragging across the floor. He forced his eyes open as much as he could, body going cold at the thought that Joker had come back for a final encore.

Instead, there was a purple-and-yellow blob, lingering in the doorway. Connor squinted at it.

“I’ve found them!” It screamed. Connor frowned. The blob seemed scared. “Oh my god. Someone get here now! I’ve found them!”

Chapter Text

“—and Perry told me to tell you to take all the time that you need. Do you need anything? I should bring flowers… right, that's it, I’m going to write a list – hey, put that down, I’m not done with it yet – and Jimmy wanted to know if there was anything he could do. He said – leave it, Olsen – that he, uh, sends ‘thoughts and prayers’, that is such an asshole thing to say, I swear, but he’s genuinely pretty torn up about it—”

“Lois.”

“—what about toiletries? Does the hospital have any of that nice soap that you always use? Hold on, I’m adding it to the list—”

“I only use that soap because you buy so much of it for me.” Clark said, shifting the phone from one ear to the other. “Lois, you’re fretting.”

“—or, oh, Connor will want his own clothes, I’ll pick them up for you when I can, I—hey, I am not fretting.”

“You are.” Clark smiled in spite of himself. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Smallville.” But she stopped rambling, voice softening slightly. “How are you holding up?”

Clark glanced around. The worn chair he sat in was a little too small for him, crammed into a quiet waiting-room in Gotham General. There were two other people in the room, an elderly man who kept casting nervous glances at the doors, and a young black woman, glued to her phone. They paid him no attention, which was a small relief. He hated hospitals. Even at his most practiced, Clark had a hard time blocking out the sounds of pain, the tears and panicked heartbeats, when they surrounded him so completely.

“I’m… coping.” He said. Lois made a sympathetic noise.

“I’m sure you are.” She said. “But are you taking care of yourself?”

“Do you want the honest answer?” He said, wry. Lois huffed.

“You’ll be the death of me, Kent.”

“Don’t – please don’t say that, Lois.”

“Oh, Clark.” Lois’s voice was too gentle. “He’s going to be okay.”

“Yeah, I know.” He said, a little choked. “But – god, Lois – for a moment I really thought I’d lost him.”

“I know.” She said. “It’s a shitty situation. But we’re going to make it through this. Do you know how the other kid is doing?”

“Tim?” Clark said. “Last I heard he was in critical condition. A lot of – a lot of internal bleeding. He doesn’t have a spleen, apparently that complicates things.”

“They told you that?”

“I was listening.” Clark hunched further into his chair. His glasses slid down his nose, and he shoved them up hastily. “While they were in the operating theatre.”

“That’s not going to help you relax, you know.” Lois scolded. Clark shrugged, before remembering that she couldn’t see him.

“Yeah, I know.” He said. “I just needed to know what was happening. I’ve stopped – mostly stopped – listening, now.”

“Keep your chin up, Smallville.” Lois said. “I’ve got to go put out some metaphorical fires. I’ll call again later. Keep me updated. And – do you have a preferred toothpaste? Ah, screw it, I’ll just get the most expensive brand. What about—”

“Lois. Fretting.”

“Point taken. See ya, Kent. Take care.” And the line went dead. Clark lowered the phone from his ear, staring at the blank screen. At his reflection on the screen. He was pretty sure the last time he looked so ragged, he’d just been nuked.

“The wife?” A voice asked. Clark glanced over – the old man was studying his face, now. He shook his head.

“Just a friend. I’m not married.”

“Ah.” The man shuffled in place slightly. “Who are you here for?”

Clark hesitated. “My son.” He said. “He’s seventeen. Reckless. Got in a pretty bad accident.”

“Poor kid.” The man offered. “I’m waiting on my wife. She fell down the damn stairs again. I keep telling her, a stair-lift ain’t giving up, it’s compromise, but she’s so damn stubborn.”

Clark smiled, a little hesitant. “She sounds like a force to be reckoned with.”

“That she is.” The old man’s face was fond. “I spent thirty-five years in the GCPD, and I never met anyone half as bull-headed as her. There’s nothing we ain’t fought about at least once. But I couldn’t live without her.” Clark was reminded, unbidden, of Batman’s unwillingness to compromise. He shoved the thought away. But trying not to think about Batman only made him think about Kon again, and that made his throat tighten.

“Son,” The old man said, leaning closer, “I’ve raised three children, and every one of em’s given me scares. I woulda wrapped them in bubble-wrap and locked them in their rooms forever, if I could’ve. But, unfortunately for us all, it doesn’t work like that.”

“Tell me about it.” Clark muttered darkly.

“What I’m trying to say—” The man shook his head, chuckling grimly, “Is that kids will always surprise you with their resilience.”

The doors opened. Two nurses walked through, assisting an old woman. She was grumbling at them, but they appeared to take it in stride. The old man’s face brightened, and he moved to stand. “Take care of that boy of yours.” He said, turning back to Clark. “And make the most of the time you do have with him. It goes quick, and take it from an old man – you’ll miss it when it’s gone.”

And Clark watched him embrace his wife, glowing. They left the room together, and the waiting room was quiet once more.

He’d really gotten it wrong, hadn’t he. But now – Connor was going to recover, and Clark had a second chance. He wouldn’t fail that kid again.

It wasn’t Connor’s fault that he was half-Luthor. It wasn’t his fault that he’d been created in the first place. And it had never been Connor’s fault that Clark had been too much of a coward to step up and be his parent.

He wouldn’t let his chance slip away.

Clark pulled out his phone, and spent a long time trying to figure out what to message Bruce. Eventually, he settled for something simple.

how’s Tim?

Alive. His condition is too fragile for him to be moved from the hospital, but he’s been placed in a private room. -B

Waynes and their money. Clark wondered if there was any problem Bruce couldn’t solve with the right application of funds.

If you like, Connor can be moved to the Waynes’ suite also. -B

It might be a reassurance for both the boys if they were close. -B

Clark swallowed the sudden emotion in his throat. Bruce’s son had almost died, and it had been Clark’s own negligence that had put him in that state, but after everything he was still thinking about Connor’s wellbeing. It was… well, it was what Clark had come to expect from Bruce Wayne. Some inherent selflessness that clawed its way to the surface no matter how hard Bruce would try to hide it.

thank you for thinking of my boy

It’s the least I could do. -B

Time passed. Clark spent much of it staring at the ceiling, or through the walls at the patients in their beds, the constant movement of nurses and doctors. The other person in the waiting room, the formidable-looking woman with a buzzcut and broad stature, drowning in an enormous purple hoodie, was talking quietly on the phone. Clark didn't listen in. He had a perfectly well-developed sense of privacy, no matter what Lois had to say about it. The woman shot Clark the occasional glance, but had made no attempt to start a conversation.

“Mr Kent?” The doors had opened, and a nurse was looking at him with a slight smile on her face. “You can come and see him, now.”

Clark shot to his feet, reminding himself just in time to hold back on the super-speed. The young woman faltered in her phone call to watch him hastily gather his things from his chair. As he left the room, she offered him a small nod. An expression of understanding.

Connor was asleep when Clark entered the room. He was still in the main ICU ward, so Clark kept his voice soft as he talked to the nurse, afraid of disturbing the other patients. “Do you know how long it’ll be before he wakes up?” He said, settling into the seat beside Connor’s bed.

She paused. “A while, likely. He hasn’t woken yet, and he’s under heavy sedation, so I’d give it at least another four or five hours. And he likely won't be lucid when he does wake, for the first time.”

“I see.” He reached for Connor’s hand. It was limp, but warm, and his x-ray vision showed the intact bones, the steady pumping of blood through his veins. Clark squeezed the hand, gentle. “Thank you.”

“Mr Kent,” The nurse said, “Your son had some severe injuries. Recovery is going to be a long process. And there’s no telling how his mental state will have been affected, either. But… he’s strong. Stronger than any other patient I’ve ever treated, and his doctors agree with me there. Call it what you will, lucky genes or natural resilience, but he’s healing extraordinarily quickly from wounds that should have killed him. I have a feeling he’ll be good as new in no time.”

“Really,” Clark said, “Thank you.”

“Press that button if you need anything, and I’ll come running.” She said, and left them alone.

And Clark stared at his son’s sleeping face, and swore to him that he’d be everything Connor needed him to be.

“Knock, knock.”

Clark barely turned his head, just enough to see the casually-dressed figure of Dick Grayson peering around the curtains. “You can come through, Dick.” He said, and Dick did just that.

“Bruce sent me.” He said softly, examining Connor’s sleeping face. “He looks so peaceful.”

“He does, doesn’t he.” Clark smiled slightly.

“Even when he’s unconscious, Tim still looks stressed.” Dick laughed, but it was strained. “Speaking of, I was talking to the doctor – we can get Connor moved into Tim’s room whenever you’re ready.”

Clark finally moved his eyes from Connor’s face, meeting Dick’s eyes. “Thank you, Dick.” He said. “How are you doing? And the others?”

Dick sighed. “You’ll see them soon enough, I’m sure.” He said. “This isn’t the first big scare we’ve had as a family – it’s probably not even in the top five – but it hit some… sore spots. Everyone’s just shaken.”

“And you?”

“I’m the eldest.” Dick said, with a self-deprecating laugh, “And Bruce is cracking. Which means I’m holding myself together for everyone else’s benefit.”

Clark rose from his chair, and gave into some parental instinct he wasn’t aware he’d even possessed. He opened his arms, letting Dick fall into his chest with surprising trust, and wrapping his arms firmly around him. He tightened the hug, holding Dick there for as long as he needed. “You’re so strong.” He said. “You’ve always been so strong, Robin.”

Dick’s shoulders shuddered, and he buried himself deeper into the hug. Clark didn’t let go. Not until Dick began to pull away, blinking through reddened eyes. “You figured it out?”

“Of course I did. You have the same heartbeat that you did as a kid.” Clark said, gentle. “Now, I don’t know if Bruce approves of you running around after Batman, but—”

“If Bruce…?” Dick frowned, and then pinched his lips together, ducking his head. Confused, Clark stepped back slightly, giving him space. “You don’t need to worry about what Bruce thinks, Clark. Trust me.”

Clark frowned, but let it go. “Regardless, I’m proud of you, Dick.” He said. “You’re a great hero. I always knew you would be.”

“Now you’re just flattering me.” Dick huffed, moving to examine the charts at the foot of Connor’s bed. “For what it’s worth, I had two great role models.”

--

He woke slowly, pulling himself to consciousness with stubborn determination.

And when his eyes did, finally, blink open, the first thing he saw was his dad.

Clark looked wrecked, like Connor had never seen him. His eyes were red and raw, his hair a mess. His skin, usually so warm and tanned, was ashen and pale. But when they met eyes, Clark smiled with an earnest expression that Connor had never seen directed at him before.

“Hi, Connor.” He said, softly. He ran a gentle hand through Connor’s hair, comforting.

Connor tried, and failed, to sit up. His whole body felt… stiff. “Hi?” He said. His voice was hoarse, throat scratchy. And he realised suddenly that he had no idea where he even was. “What… What happened?”

“You were pretty beat up, Connor.” Clark said. He raised a hand to rub at his face, exhausted. “It was up in the air for a while. We weren’t sure whether or not you were going to pull through.”

“Oh.” His head felt foggy – like he was trying to swim through syrup, unable to grasp at a concrete thought. “Sorry.”

“Hey.” His dad said, hand still carding through Connor’s undoubtedly disgusting hair. “You have nothing to apologise for. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Connor sucked in a breath, nodded. His eyes stung.

Clark gathered him close, for a gentle but overwhelming hug. “I’m not going to rest well until you’re invulnerable again, kid.” He said. “You scared me.”

“Sorry, dad.” He muttered, before he remembered that Clark didn’t want him to apologise. But Clark was giving him a look, a gentle, overwhelmed look, that he didn’t think was anger. Connor relaxed into the hug.

And then a thought forced itself through the fog in his head, and Connor jolted upright. “Tim.” He gasped, suddenly fighting to free himself from the tangle of blankets and pull the IV from his arm. Clark gently pulled Connor’s hands away from his arm, and Connor didn’t have the strength to fight him. He was so tired. “Where’s Tim?” He was frantic, choked up. Clark frowned.

“He’s right there,” He said. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Across the room was another bed, with a small figure hooked up to any number of machines that beeped with reassuring regularity. Connor couldn’t see Tim, though, because he was shielded from view by a broad, hunched figure. It took Connor a moment to realise that it was probably Bruce Wayne.

“He’s alive?” Connor asked. Clark glanced over.

“Yeah.” He said. “He’s going to make a full recovery.”

“Oh.” Connor wanted to see the proof of it, but Dad’s words would do fine for the moment. He was too tired to do much else. “I’m glad.”

His blinks were getting longer, and his body felt stiff and sluggish. “You can go to sleep, kid.” Dad hummed, fingers stroking through his hair once more. “I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

So he did.

--

Onyx glanced up from her phone call long enough to give Kent a brief nod. The tension was already easing from his eyes, she noticed, as he followed the nurse to Connor Kent’s room.

“—and Ivy’s set herself up in Robinson Park. Again.” Barbara continued. Onyx frowned.

“Do you know what she’s doing there?”

“As far as I can tell, she and Harley have built themselves a love nest and don’t plan on moving.” Babs sighed. “I’m not going to do anything about it for now, but someone’s going to have to go down there and figure out what the hell is going on at some point.”

“Oh boy.” Onyx deadpanned. “I very much do not volunteer as a tribute.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m more concerned about Riddler anyways. I can’t get a pin on him. Did you see the card he wrote for Tim?”

“The—what?”

“Hold on, I gotta show you this nonsense.” There was a pause, and Onyx’s phone buzzed. Barbara had sent her a photograph of a ‘get well soon’ card. It had been scrawled on – thoroughly – with black sharpie. “I guess he heard about the Joker thing. None of us have cracked the cipher he’s written, so we’re waiting for Tim to wake up and solve it for us.”

“You didn’t just incinerate the thing on sight?”

“Nah.” Babs said, voice laced with amusement. “He’s usually not the type to try and kill you outright. If you’re dead you can’t even try to solve his riddles, right? I honestly think he’s a bit worried that Tim won’t be around to outwit him anymore. He even sent flowers. We vetted them, obviously, but they were just ordinary daffodils.”

“Weird.”

“Right?” Babs exclaimed. “He gives me the creepy-crawlies. I can’t wait until he’s back in Arkham. I could do with a little less crazy in this city.”

“I recommend Metropolis.”

“Don’t even joke about that!” Babs gasped. “What self-respecting Gothamite would even consider moving to Metropolis?”

“I hear it’s very nice in the summer.” Onyx continued. “Very low crime rates. It even gets several months of sunlight per year.”

“If you keep insulting my dirty, rainy city, I’m going to cut you off completely.” Babs griped, but she was laughing.

Onyx huffed something that resembled a laugh. She rose from her chair, deciding that her vigil was over. Clark was with his son, now, and even she could admit that she wouldn’t be much use as a protection detail for the man of steel. Time to find something better to do.

“I’m heading to Robinson.” She said.

Babs snorted. “Have fun. I know how much you love to play third wheel. Oh, and Harley’ll want to know that the Joker’s back in isolation. Let me know how it goes!”

Onyx ended the call with a jab of her finger. Maybe she would move to Metropolis. Yeah, she could see it now. Lazing in the sun, a well-paid job doing something mundane, taking down the odd two-bit bank robber without having to worry about a crazy in a themed costume trying to murder her in some gruesomely creative way.

…it sounded boring.

Chapter Text

He woke up to Bruce’s scowl, and immediately decided that he’d preferred being asleep, actually.

“Can we do this later?” Tim muttered, squinting under the stark lights of… wherever he was. Bruce sighed.

“No, we can’t.” He said. “You almost died, Tim.”

Oh. It was one of those conversations. “I know.” He mumbled. Forming words was hard. His jaw felt lopsided, numb. He tried to poke at it, but a sharp pull in his arm prevented much movement. Glancing down, Tim registered the IV. Damn. “Did someone numb my jaw?”

“It was shattered,” Bruce said. “The numbing was necessary.”

“Ugh.” Tim slumped his head back onto the bed. “I feel sick.”

“If you’re going to throw up, please let me know in advance.”

“Will do.” How many drugs was he on? It must be a lot, because his tongue felt heavy in his mouth and he kept forgetting that he had a body. Despite that, everything still ached.

“Timothy.” Bruce said. “Look at me.”

Tim did.

“What went wrong?” Bruce asked, and it was his Batman voice. “You were trained better than this.”

There it was. How often had Tim and his brothers heard those words? You were trained better. You’re smarter than that. You should have known better. “I was a civilian.” He mumbled, trying to gather his thoughts. “I was… protecting a civilian? Joker took us by surprise. He – I think he shot me?”

“You did have a bullet wound in your left leg.”

“Yeah.” Tim had forgotten about that. When he spoke again, it was a little surer. “He shot me when we tried to fight back. So we couldn’t run away again.”

“You fought back?”

“Uh-huh. We were already pretty beat up, but we tried anyway. Didn’t wanna… take it lying down. He locked us in the freezer after that. Hit us with a crowbar. A lot.”

“Freezer.” Bruce said, thinking. Tim knew Bruce’s thinking face. “That freezer must have been there since around… 1953? Which means it wouldn’t be unlikely that it was lined with lead.”

“Oh.” Tim said, not understanding. His stomach really hurt. To try and control the nausea, he focused on a single point on the ceiling, letting his mind drift. “Hurts.” He mumbled.

“I’m not surprised, bud.” Bruce said. For a moment he didn’t look so angry. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“I failed, didn’t I?”

“You made a mistake.” Bruce allowed. “A serious one. But we can address it once you’ve recovered.”

“Oh.”

“Tim.” The Batman voice was back.

“Yeah?”

“I can see the face you’re making. You said you’d warn me when you’re about to throw up.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry. I’m gonna—”

--

Clark had spent about three days in the hospital, and was beginning to get seriously paranoid about how bad he probably smelt. His only reassurance was that Bruce had moved even less than Clark had. He wasn’t sure he’d even seen the man sleep, and Clark himself had only slept about two hours total.

Both the kids were asleep – they’d done little else – and Clark was drifting, eyes glued to Connor’s still pale face, when a coffee appeared in front of him.

“You look like you could use it.” Bruce murmured. Clark took the mug with a grateful smile.

“Thanks.” He said, finally looking up to meet tired blue eyes.

“You should get some sleep, Clark.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Pot,” He said, gesturing with his mug, “Kettle.”

“Point well made.” Bruce pulled up a chair, adjusting it to sit beside Clark and still see Tim. “I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“Not keeping Connor safe.” Bruce frowned into his own coffee. “If I’d just acted sooner—”

“Nope. Spending any time thinking about what-ifs will drive you mad.” Clark responded. “They’re alive. Our job now is to deal with the consequences of what did happen, not to waste our time imagining what might have happened.”

“That was…surprisingly wise.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve had some experience.” He’d learnt the hard way, starting out as Superman, that dwelling on failure didn’t save anyone.

Clark took a long sip of his coffee. It was the expensive kind, the stuff that he only drank when someone else was paying. If he wasn’t careful, Clark could get a little too used to the luxuries of a friendship with Bruce Wayne.

Friendship. Ha, who was he kidding. Clark glanced up at Bruce’s face – his bruise-like eyebags, the lank, greasy bangs that hung in his face in a way that reminded Clark of Tim’s own unkempt hair. The sweatpants-and-buttoned shirt combo that shouldn’t work but that he was still somehow pulling off. His clear blue eyes, strong nose, a jawline that could cut steel.

Even dishevelled and exhausted, he was still the most handsome man that Clark had ever seen. More handsome, even, than he was when he was scrubbed up and dressed to the nines. Because this was Bruce – not the playboy, not the businessman, not the billionaire. Just… the man.

Clark looked away. It took more effort than it should have. “How are the other kids?” He asked, trying to think of anything else to say.

“They’re alright.” Bruce said, a smile tugging at his lips. “Most of them are getting back to their normal lives, now they know Tim’s going to recover. I worry about them, but they’re strong. Stronger, maybe, than I’ve ever been.”

“I think Connor will be thrilled to meet them.” He said. “He’s always been good at making friends.”

“They’re excited to meet him.” Bruce allowed. He quieted for a moment, drinking his coffee. Then, like a confession, “I never thought I’d have… this. A big family. So many people that I loved.”

“Oh?”

Bruce met his eyes again. Those blue eyes burned. “You know how my parents died.” He said. Clark gave a hum of assent, and Bruce continued. “Very few people don’t. I spent the rest of my life building walls, after that. I thought that if I pushed everyone away, I’d never feel pain like that again.”

“Life never turns out how you’d expect, though, does it?” Clark said, soft. Bruce’s lips quirked.

“Never.” He said. “I met Dick – and I’ll tell you that story, one day – and after that it was like… dominoes, falling, breaking down every wall I’d built. Like perpetual motion – once it had started, I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t go back. And I found out that there was a pain worse than losing your parents. The pain of losing your children.”

Clark took a sharp breath.

Bruce cleared his throat, swallowing hard. “It was – you’ve met Jason? He… he was presumed dead. We held a funeral. It was the worst experience of my life. And… it was a miracle that he came back to us.”

“Bruce…”

“And when I thought I’d lost Tim, all I could think was not again.” His grip was white-knuckled on his mug. “That—that this time I might not be so lucky. And I’d lose him for good. I couldn’t handle it. If the other kids hadn’t been there, I don’t know. I just – I don’t know.”

“I never would have been able to say it before,” Clark said, reaching out to take Connor’s hand, “But I understand.”

“As I said,” Bruce said roughly, “My kids are stronger than me. Stronger, smarter, more capable, kinder people than I’ve ever been.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short.” Clark said. “I mean, if they’re all as wonderful as you say – which I don’t doubt – then the common denominator there is you. Your influence in their lives.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered to Tim. “Sometimes I think that all I do is hurt them.”

“I’m going to tell you what someone told me, recently.” Clark said, downing the rest of his coffee. “If you’re so worried, Bruce, then do something about it.”

Bruce’s face twitched into a frown. He fell quiet, for a long moment, and Clark could practically hear him thinking.

“But what if I do the wrong thing?” He asked, and it was the most hesitant that Clark had ever heard him sound.

“Then you try and do the right thing the next time, I guess.” Clark said. Connor shifted in his sleep, and Clark watched him carefully. He didn’t wake. “And the time after that, and the time after that, and so forth until you die of old age.”

Bruce chuckled, low and rumbling. He ran a hand through his hair. “Where have you been all my life?” He said softly. Clark shrugged, flustered.

“Metropolis?”

“That would explain it.” Bruce said, nose scrunched in mock-disgust.

“I will never understand what you people have against my city.” Clark mumbled, grinning. He turned his head to meet Bruce’s eyes. Bruce caught his gaze, held it with an intensity that surprised him. Clark faltered slightly under the attention. Bruce blinked, catching himself, and looked away.

“Metropolis.” He said, scathing. “No city needs that much… brightness.”

“I’m starting to think that you people are all vampires, or something.” Clark said. “Actually, you know, that would explain so much about this city. Are you sure—”

“We’re not vampires, Clark.”

“Damn.” Clark said. “And you’re not just trying to stop me from discovering your secret?”

“Hm.” Bruce paused for a moment. “Did you know there’s a bat man in this city?”

“Uh… yeah. I am, in fact, aware of the existence of Batman.”

“Well, yes, there’s Batman, but there’s also Manbat. He’s literally half-man, half-bat.”

“You’re joking.” Clark studied his face. “Are you joking?”

Bruce pulled out his phone. After a few seconds, he turned the screen to Clark. The video was blurry, but that was… a bat man, alright. Clark blinked. “I hate Gotham.”

Bruce laughed, loud and bright. For the first time, the tension that was ever-present in his face leaked away. His eyes crinkled, head thrown back, and he laughed openly, loudly, genuinely. Bruce had let his guard down completely.

And Clark felt something click into place. Something permanent. Something perpetual.

--

He woke with a gasp, shooting upright.

It took a few moments to gather his bearings, the room dark, and to clear his head from the last clinging remnants of his nightmare. Tim squinted through the dim light.

“Connor?” He rasped. There wasn’t an answer. He raised his voice slightly. “Connor. Are you awake?”

Still no answer. Tim could just make out Connor’s form in the bed across from him. He wasn’t moving. What if he’d died in his sleep and no one had noticed?

Resolving to check on him, Tim struggled to swing his legs from the bed and stand up. Something in his abdomen pulled, and he had to pause, waiting for his head to stop swimming. He pulled the IV from his arm. He would put it back in, once he made sure that Connor was okay. He just had to know that Connor was okay.

Walking was no small task, but Tim managed a slow shuffle, unsteady on his feet. He crossed the room with agonising sluggishness, finally reaching Connor’s prone form.

“Connor.” He hissed, reaching out to shake him gently. Connor groaned, shifting slightly, and the relief that flooded Tim was better than morphine.

Connor lifted his head. “Tim?” He mumbled. Then, waking up, “Tim? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just.. nightmares.”

“Oh. Me too.” Connor lifted a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. “Where’s Dad?”

“I don’t know. I guess they’re not here all the time.” Tim wobbled on his feet. Catching him by the arm, Connor dragged him onto the bed.

“Stay.” He said, shifting in his bed to make room for Tim to tuck himself beside him. “I hate it when you’re so far away.”

Tim buried his head into Connor’s chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart. It was reassuring. “I’m glad you’re here.” He said. Connor’s chest shook with a quiet laugh.

“Luthor once said I was like a cockroach. I reckon he's right.” He said. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you wanted to.”

“Fuck Luthor.” Tim muttered. “He’s just a hard-boiled egg with a god complex. I could take him.”

“That was… passionate.”

“Yeah, well, it’s his fault that you got hurt in the first place.”

“Tim?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad that we’re alive.”

“Me too.”

“Tim?”

“Yeah?”

Connor fell quiet. Tim lifted his head from his chest, to meet his eyes. Connor shrugged, the movement jostling them both. “Never mind.” He said, but his arms tightened around Tim. “Go to sleep.”

Chapter Text

Clark had been waiting on top of the clocktower for about twenty minutes before Batman arrived. For the Bat, that was downright sluggish. But he relaxed, as he heard the near-silent weight of boots on solid ground, and the settling of the heavy fabric of Batman’s cape.

“Clark.” Batman greeted. In shock, Clark nearly slipped from the turret he’d seated himself on, catching himself with his flight just in time.

“You—how do—what?”

“I checked the medical records for Connor Kent.” Batman said, smooth. He seated himself beside Clark, uncharacteristically relaxed. “It really wasn’t hard to put the pieces together from there.”

“Oh.” In hindsight, it was pretty obvious. Clark felt a little like he’d just been punched in the gut. Shake it off, Superman. “I—anyway, that’s not why I’m here.”

“Explain.”

“I’m going to destroy CADMUS.” He said. “And I’m going to cure Connor of his Kryptonite poisoning. And that starts by finding out what’s happening on that Lexcorp oil rig. I’m going tonight. You can help me or not.”

Batman studied his face for a moment. “By now, you should know what my answer will be.”

“I know you said not to rush in, but—”

“No, Superman.” Batman huffed. “I’ll help you. Of course I will.”

Well, that was a relief. Now, there was just the matter of… “Piggyback or bridal?”

“I’m taking the plane.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re no fun?”

“Often.”

In the end, Clark opted to fly alongside Batman’s plane, trying not to let the impatience suffocate him. He knew that Connor was safe in his hospital bed, but it didn’t stop the worry from creeping in.

It would be easier, he told himself, when Connor’s powers were back. He wouldn’t have to worry so much if his kid had bulletproof skin.

For some reason, he wasn’t convinced.

Clark loved flying over the ocean at night. It was dark, as dark as the vacuum of space, and above them the stars were visible in their hundreds of millions. A cloud of needle-point lights. Beautiful and distant.

The only other lights were that of the plane, and as they neared the oil-rig, even those lights flickered out in favour of stealth.

The plane slowed to a stop, hovering near-silently in place. Batman climbed from the cockpit, and Clark drifted down to join him. “This thing seems scientifically improbable.” Clark said, touching down onto the black metal of the wing. Batman’s expression didn’t change.

“You’re a walking, talking scientific improbability. I don’t think you have much room for judgement.” He said. “Now, are you going to complain about the Batwing all night or are you going to do your job?”

“You call it the Batwing?”

Batman reached up with a gauntleted hand to rub at his face. “Robin was a little overzealous with the bat theme. The name stuck. Surveillance, please, Superman.”

He blinked into x-ray, scanning the oil rig. One half of it was melted, charred wreckage: the result of Superman’s previous interference, still clearly abandoned. The other half, though…

“There’s enough ammunition for a small army in there.” Clark muttered. “Brute force isn’t usually Lex’s style. What’s he doing with so many guns?”

“Focus, Superman.”

“Right. Looks like a skeleton crew, but well armed. They’re concentrated in the corner furthest from the wreckage – there might be something important there, but if so it’s been hidden from me. Knowing Lex, he’s prepared for Superman, which means they’ll be armed with kryptonite or something like it.”

“Any particularly strong defences?”

“Nothing excessive.” Clark blinked into normal sight. “If I didn’t know Lex was involved, I’d say this was just some arms smuggler’s trading post.”

Batman was quiet for a moment. “You can’t see everything, Superman.” He said. “And Luthor knows it.”

And then he was gone.

Damn it, Batman, some warning would be nice. Tampering his irritation, Clark pushed off from the plane and into the air. It took a minute to seek out Batman, crouching like a wraith on the steel body of a crane. How had he even gotten down there so fast?

“This is reconnaissance only.” Batman said softly, hearing Clark touch down beside him. “Ideally we get in and out without being seen. It might not be your style, but it’s the most efficient approach.”

Clark bristled. “I can be stealthy.” He protested. Batman turned his head to look at him pointedly.

“Just follow my lead.”

And he moved with awe-inspiring dexterity, slipping from place to place like he was made of the same shadows that hid him. Clark glanced down at himself: the red-and-blue costume. “No point being stealthy when you’re indestructible.” He told himself. It didn’t really make him feel any better.

So he followed Batman’s lead, keeping to the shadows and out of sight as they navigated the enormous metal structure. And they ducked inside, after Clark had determined the halls were clear, into narrow, grey walkways.

Things got complicated, though, the closer they got to where the most people were gathered. They opened more than one door into rooms filled with nothing but crates of guns and explosives. Batman was muttering into his earpiece, and it took Clark a moment to realise that he was reciting the serial numbers that each of the crates were marked with. He wondered who was on the other end of the line. Oracle, maybe?

But there was nothing else of note in those rooms, other than the worrying implication of some deeper plot, so they kept moving. More than once, they were forced back by approaching footsteps, or the sound of bored voices, but they waited in silence until the voices faded and they could keep moving.

“Here.” Clark said suddenly, pausing in front of a wall. “I can’t see what’s through here.”

“Lead?”

“Likely.” He frowned. “It’s hard to tell from a distance – you don’t know what you don’t know – but here… it’s like trying to see in the dark before your eyes adjust.” He shook his head, coming out of his x-ray vision. “It gives me vertigo if I try and stare at it for too long.”

“Then I recommend you stop trying.”

But he didn’t dispute what Clark had said. Now they knew they’d found something, though, it was difficult to get close. There were more men, all armed – and though Clark couldn’t see any kryptonite, it didn’t mean there wasn’t any. Stealth was necessary, however much Clark wished it wasn’t.

But they made it to the door with few close-calls, and Clark watched as Batman efficiently subdued the two men guarding the door. He was… a little too good at that.

Batman spent a moment unlocking the door, and Clark watched their surroundings uneasily. He picked up the weapon that one of the men had been using. It didn’t seem abnormal. Just an ordinary assault rifle. Clark melted the barrel for good measure.

But rifling through the man’s pockets produced something more worrying. Clark held the small object with a delicate hand. “B.” He hissed. “I found a gas bomb. It’s the same as the one that incapacitated Connor.”

Batman held out a hand. “I’ll take care of it.” He said. “Even if there’s nothing here to find, I can work on examining this and making a cure for Connor myself.”

Clark placed it in Batman’s hand. He closed his fist around it, movements gentle. “It means our hunch about kryptonite weapons was correct, though.”

“It does.” Something in the door mechanics clicked, and the door began to hiss open. “Did the gas have any significant effect on you?”

“About as much as very low exposure to kryptonite.” Clark remembered. “I couldn’t hit as hard, and a lucky shot could wound me. The effects faded quickly, but I wasn’t exposed nearly as much as Connor was.”

“Why would they arm themselves with ineffective weapons?”

“Because a poor weapon is better than no weapon?” Clark said. “Maybe it’s all they have. Kryptonite is rare, and without it they stand no chance at beating me.”

“Hm.”

The door was open, now. Batman pressed himself to the wall, out of view of the doorway. “It’s clear.” Clark said. “There’s no one in there.”

And they both stepped inside.  

Clark sucked in a sharp breath. Beside him, Batman had stiffened.

The green glow of the room cast sharp shadows on Batman’s face, the tension of his jaw. “Is it affecting you?” Batman asked softly. Clark paused.

“I don’t feel anything.” Then he turned to face Batman. “Hit me.”

“What?”

“Do it.”

Batman punched him, hard, square in the solar plexus. Clark folded, coughing. “Okay,” He wheezed, “Definitely felt that.”

“Odd that you couldn’t feel the effects.” Batman said. “Is that usual for different levels of exposure?”

Clark frowned. “Not that I go out of my way to expose myself to kryptonite,” He said, “But usually I feel it even from a distance. It’s like – like the flu, in a human, I suppose. And if I’m exposed for too long, it’ll weaken my immune system to the point of organ failure.”

“I didn’t...” Batman frowned. “I didn’t know that exposure alone was enough to kill you.”

“I don’t advertise the fact. I don’t even know if Luthor knows that.”

“So there’s something different about this Kryptonite.” Batman stepped further into the room, examining the lab equipment that was strewn everywhere. Clark hung back, hesitant to get any closer to the enormous green rock the other end of the room, and watched Batman. He didn’t know enough about science to identify much of the materials and equipment in the room, but he had no doubt that Batman did.

That was a glaring hole in his knowledge, though, and Clark resolved to do some reading when he got home. But ‘science’ was a broad subject, and he didn’t exactly know where to start. Biochemistry? Maybe Bruce would have some contacts that would be willing to help.

Shaking himself from his distraction, Clark scanned the room with his vision. Nothing stood out – beyond the worrying size of the Kryptonite rock – but there were cupboards of chemicals and the filing cabinet in the corner was full of files and paperwork.

“They’re synthesizing Kryptonite.” Batman said.

“That’s impossible.” Clark retorted. “It’s been tried.” Synthesized Kryptonite wasn’t green, and its effects were often… unpredictable.

“And he’s trying again.” Batman said. He held up a notepad. “It has a short half-life: it’s only effective for a few weeks before it loses any irradiating effects completely.” And he grabbed something from the desk, tossed it. Superman caught it instinctively.

It was a dull green-grey rock. Small, harmless.

Batman continued. “It’s also not as effective as genuine kryptonite.” He said. “From these readings, I’d say it won’t kill you. It will weaken you, though, enough to do some damage.”

“I knew Lex hated me, but this seems like a little much.”

“There’s also this.” And Batman handed him another file. Clark flipped it open.

“Ah. So it can get worse.”

“Always.” Batman said, sounding exhausted. “If I’ve learnt anything from this job – things can and will always get worse.”

Clark closed the file, swallowing hard. “I can’t use my heat-vision in this room. Do you mind?”

And Batman gave a sharp nod, planting several small explosives throughout the room. “They’re remote.” He said. “We’ll get back to the plane, and we’ll destroy this place.”

“And the crew?”

“Will be fine, provided they’re not too close to the blast.” Batman said. “We can’t risk destroying the ammunition – that’ll be risking lives. But we’ve found what we came for. The rest can wait.”

--

“I’ll play you for it.” Jason said, expression grim.

“Fine.” Damian hesitated. He reached for his knife. “Traditional rules, or No Mercy rules?”

“Okay, and I’m going to stop you right there.” Dick yanked Jason back by his hood, ignoring the offended yelp. “We’re not going to find out what No Mercy rock-paper-scissors looks like, not today, not ever.”

“You’re no fun.” Jason grumbled.

“It would have been an honourable way of settling this dispute.” Damian argued. Dick raised his eyebrows.

“What dispute would that be?”

“Covering Tim’s patrol routes tonight.” Jason said. “Steph has other obligations, apparently, and you’re about to develop a stress ulcer so we’re not gonna make you do it. So it’s between Dames, Cass and I.”  

“I’m not that stressed.” Dick protested.

“Oh, so he’s a liar now, too.” Jason said, sarcasm leaking into his tone. “You’ve changed, Dickie. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“I am not that stressed!” Dick reiterated. “And you’re deliberately being an asshole.”

“He’s just getting impatient.” Damian said, unimpressed. Cass, from her seat across the room, nodded frantically. “Father promised we’d be able to see Drake by now.” And Damian didn’t look too happy about it, either. They’d been stuck in the waiting-room for the better part of four hours. None of them coped particularly well with idleness – especially when they were worried.

“Maybe he fell asleep,” Jason said, sounding hopeful. “God knows the old man needs it.”

“He won’t sleep until one of us sedates him, Jason, don’t be a naive idiot.” Dick muttered. “Don’t you have casework to be doing?”

Jason shrugged. “It’s no fun without Tim.” He said. “He was so damn excited about getting to beat on Sionis that I’d feel bad for doing any more without him.”

“That just sounds like a very convenient excuse to not do your casework.”

“It’s like you don’t even know me.” Jason said, faux innocent. Dick narrowed his eyes at him.

The door slammed open, and a haggard Bruce walked out. He fixed his gaze on them, suspicious. “He’s awake and lucid.” Bruce said after a moment, content that they weren’t causing an unacceptable amount of trouble. “Don’t crowd him.”

And the four of them scrambled into the room, ignoring Bruce’s half-hearted chiding to slow down. Predictably, Dick was last through the door, herding his siblings through. He met Tim’s eyes across the room and the razor-wire knot in his chest finally unravelled. Tim smiled, wan, and Dick grinned back.

Damian didn’t waste any time, climbing onto Tim’s bed and carefully positioning himself to cause minimal jostling. Cass and Jason seemed less sure of themselves, lingering as close as they dared. It was sweet, watching each of them try to overcome their instincts in the face of an overwhelming desire to be – well, affectionate.  

Dick had no reservations in that area, though, and didn’t hesitate to carefully manoeuvre his brother into a hug. “It’s good to see you, Timmy.”

“Don’t call me that.” But he was grinning.

“How are you feeling?” Dick asked, easing away from the hug. Tim tilted his head.

“Achy. Rough.” He said. “I tore some stitches the other day, Leslie wasn’t happy about that. I’m better than I was, though.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“How long before you are in fighting shape once more?” Damian asked. Dick shot him a look, but Damian pretended not to see. Tim shrugged.

“Not long.” He said. “It didn’t take me too long after the… um, the council of spiders thing.”

“That wasn’t exactly healthy, Tim.” Dick said, cautious.

“Yeah, you were like a zombie.” Jason grinned, toothy. “And that’s coming from me.”

“Whatever.” Tim muttered, but he shuffled in bed slightly, allowing Damian to bury himself closer. Dick fought a smile. It was rare that they allowed themselves any affection – Tim must have seriously scared Damian.

“Hey, Timmy.” Jason said. “What do you make of this?” And he handed him the Riddler’s card. It was an ominous-looking thing, and Tim studied it for a moment with that worrying glint in his eye. The one he got when confronted with a puzzle that wouldn’t be easy to crack.

Tim frowned. “Do you have a pen and some paper?”

“Uh, somewhere. Hold on.”

“Thanks.”

And Tim hunched over the card, scribbling furious notes. They let him work, each so relieved to see him alive that they didn’t need to say anything more. It was a rare moment of peace, between them. A silent agreement that yeah, this is good.

They glanced up at the sound of the door opening. Clark walked in, holding a to-go cup that was presumably filled with coffee. He froze in the doorway, eyes flickering between each of them.

“Hello,” He said, “Where’s your dad?”

“Who knows.”

“Who cares.”

“Jason!”

“Right.” Clark walked across the room and slumped into the chair by Connor’s bed. He was still glancing between them. His face settled into a vague, confused frown. “Shouldn’t there be a blonde… girl… with you?”

“Steph?” Tim said, confused. “She said she’d come visit on Friday.”

“Oh.” Clark’s expression faltered, and he took a long swig from his coffee. Dick bit his lip to keep from grinning. Clark glanced between each of them again, unabashedly staring.

Bruce walked in.

Clark froze. His eyes widened – deer in the headlights – and even from across the room Dick could see the flush rising on his cheeks. Clark adjusted his glasses, springing to his feet.

“I – I just remembered I have a phone call to make.” He said. “It’s nice to see you all again!” And he sped from the room.

Dick snorted.

“What the fuck was that about?” Jason muttered. Dick beamed at him.

“No idea.” He lied.

--

The man strode down the hallways of Arkham like he owned the place. He didn’t.

He could, if he wanted to.

Nobody stopped him. They unlocked doors for him to pass through, nervous smiles plastered onto tired faces. They didn’t care enough to stop him. They weren’t paid enough to care.

He didn’t stop at any of the cells. Inmates pressed against the glass of their cells, pestering and peacocking for his attention. He didn’t give it to them.

The last cell. He glanced at the timid orderly that had been trailing him. The orderly swiped his key-card, and the cell door unlocked with a buzz.

He stepped inside.

The inmate was restrained, muzzled, but his eyes were alight with a gleeful curiosity. They rolled wildly in his skull, trying to convey some message that the man didn’t particularly care about.

The man pulled a handgun from his waistband. He loaded it. The prisoner’s eyes grew frantic.

“It’s nothing personal.” The man said. “I’m sure you understand. It’s just good business sense.”

The safety clicked off.

“Not that you would know, but cloning technology is a bitch to get right. A successful clone is a very valuable thing. And I really don’t like it when people damage my things.”

He pulled the trigger.

Chapter Text

Lois wasn’t picking up her phone.

Damn it.

Clark buried his face in his hands, trying to figure out when he’d become so stupid.

He was never going to be able to look Bruce in the eyes again. Bruce – Batman – Bruce – fuck.

It made too much sense. As if Clark had been wilfully blind to it, knowing that his life was already too complicated to handle a revelation of that scale.

He stared down at his phone. He’d opened it to his text thread with Bruce, intent on sending him something. But what would he even say?

Hey, so I noticed that your kids match up a little too well with Gotham’s vigilantes, and I was wondering if you happened to be the Batman?

Stupid.

But at least that way he’d get a straight answer.

If Bruce was Batman, did that mean he’d known that Clark was Superman? That didn’t make any sense, because Clark knew that Batman disliked Superman, but Bruce…

Well, Bruce brought him coffee when he looked tired, and Bruce gave him that soft, barely-there smile when he said something funny, and Bruce would have quiet conversations with him in the middle of the night when they were both too wired to sleep.

It didn’t add up.

Clark thought he might have a migraine coming on.

He stared at his phone for a moment longer. Imagined a hundred terrible ways he could ask Bruce for the truth. As he was about to turn it off, to leave the toilet cubicle he’d locked himself in and return to the real world, his phone began to ring.

It was Bruce.

Of course it was.

After a few seconds of panicked hesitation, he answered. Bruce’s voice was gruffer than he was used to, and it was too easy to imagine Batman’s cowl on the other end of the line.

“Clark. There’s been an incident at Arkham.”

“An incident?”

“An execution.” Bruce sighed, exhausted. “The Joker is dead. Bullet to the brain, point-blank.”

Clark’s throat tightened. He thought, unbidden, of Red Hood and his guns – are you sure I can’t put a bullet in his head and end this here? – and went cold. Because he wasn’t just Red Hood anymore, he was Jason. Bruce’s beloved prodigal son. If Jason had—

“Do you know who did it?” Clark dreaded the answer.

“Lex Luthor.”

Well.

“Luthor was in Arkham?” Clark’s voice was more of a wheeze, winded by shock. On the other end of the line, Bruce paused.

“Are you with the boys?”

“No. I, ah, took a break.” Fled the room and spent an hour hiding in the bathrooms, more like. Coward.

“I’ll send you the footage. I don’t want them to see this.” Bruce paused. “But keep an eye on them. I don’t think they’re out of danger yet.”

And he hung up before Clark could say anything more. A few moments later, his phone buzzed. Bruce had sent the security footage from Arkham, and Clark watched it, tight-lipped and pale.

He spared a thought to wonder how Bruce had got hold of the footage, but supressed it when he realised the answer was probably – well, bat-shaped.

Let’s just say Clark was coping excellently.

He returned to the hospital room to see that the Waynes had left, and Tim had crawled back into Connor’s bed. No amount of gentle scolding seemed able to keep them apart, and Clark wasn’t about to push the matter. Not when both of them looked so much happier when they were within touching distance.

Connor glanced up at him as he walked in. Tim had fallen asleep on his lap, and he was running his hand gently through Tim’s lank hair.

That black hair, so similar to Bruce’s. Clark wondered what it would feel like to run his hand through Bruce’s hair, to have Bruce’s head on his lap, and quickly decided that was a dangerous train of thought.

Besides, it’s not like Batman would ever allow Clark something as trivial as casual affection. For some reason, that ached.

Connor smiled at him, but it had an edge to it. “You’re not gonna make him go back to his own bed again, are you?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.” Clark said, settling into his seat. Connor’s smile sharpened.

“Good, ‘cuz everyone knows you’re not allowed to move when you have a cat sleeping on you.”

“And Tim is a cat?”

Connor glanced down, his hand stilling in Tim’s hair. “Pretty much, yeah. Have you even met him?”

“Hm.” Clark smiled. He had a feeling that the boys had forged some unbreakable connection, and that he and Bruce would suffer for it – for the rest of their lives, likely. But what was a few grey hairs in the face of his son’s happiness? “Don’t jostle his injuries too much.”

“Honestly, Dad, as if I would.”

“He tore his stitches climbing into bed with you last week.” Clark raised a brow.

“Yeah, well, that was on him.” Connor shrugged. “I know how to take care of him, even if he can’t do it himself.”

“Connor.” Clark’s hand tightened around his phone, remembering the footage of Lex shooting the Joker. How was he supposed to break this news to his son? Not with the whole truth, that much he knew. “Do you remember the last interaction you had with Luthor?”

Connor’s expression dropped. “Yeah,” He said, suddenly cautious. “I punched him in the face and one of his cronies gassed me.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Uh,” Connor paused. “He swore a lot after I broke his cheekbone, and he called me ‘defective’ which was honestly plain insulting. I’m not defective, he’s just the worst. Why?”

“I’m not sure that he’s done with you just yet.”

“You mean he’s going to try and, what, kidnap me? Send me back to CADMUS?”

“Maybe.” Clark slumped. “He was in Gotham last night.”

“What?” Connor jolted upright, barely remembering to brace Tim with his arms. “Why?”

“That… isn’t relevant.” Clark offered. Connor scowled. “But I was worried that he might have tried to contact you.”

“I haven’t heard anything.” Connor said. “Dad – you’re not going to let him – I mean, you can’t – won’t – please don’t let him take me away.”

Clark’s chest tightened. “Never, kiddo.” He said. “As long as I’m here, he’s not going to get anywhere near you.”

“Oh.” Connor shifted, eyes fixed on Tim’s sleeping face. Both kids looked shattered – they were still suffering, however much they seemed determined to downplay it. Clark placed a hand on his son’s head, ruffling his hair and ignoring the irritated squawk.

“We’ll keep an eye on you.” He said. “And I hope it won’t be long, now, before you have your powers back.”

“Finally.”

“I’ve missed having Superboy backing me up.” Clark said. “Don’t tell him I said this, but Batman’s not nearly as much fun as a sidekick.”

“I was never your sidekick.” Connor grumbled. “If anything, you’re my sidekick. You’ve just got better brand recognition. For now.” And wasn’t that… ominous.

“Planning on usurping me, kid?”

Connor narrowed his eyes. “Just watch your back, old man.” And he cracked a grin.

Clark laughed, too. It felt like a weight off, like Connor was telling him that he was forgiven, in his own strange way.

“Connor, I—there’s a lot I have to show you.” He’d held back from really teaching Connor what it meant to be a Kryptonian. But now he had a chance to change that. He might not have been born on Krypton, but Connor deserved to know about his culture and his people as much as Clark ever did. Kon-El. Clark hoped, more ardently than he expected, that Connor would accept that name, one day. “I never really showed you the fortress.”

“One step at a time.” Connor said. “First off, I’ve missed punching bad guys. Hey, maybe I can start with the Joker.” He slammed a fist into his hand, grin slightly manic. Clark faltered.

“Maybe.” He offered, weak. Connor picked up on his tone, but didn’t push it. Clark was glad – he wasn’t sure he’d be able to lie if Connor asked him outright. “I’m going to go and get some food. Are you hungry?”

“Get some of those little tubs of ice cream.” Connor said. “I want chocolate, and Tim wants butter pecan, obviously.”

Clark glanced down at Tim’s sleeping face. “Obviously.” He muttered.

He bumped into Bruce on his way out of the hospital shop, arms full of ice cream.

It was safe to say he was pretty unprepared for a conversation with Batman. Clark fought to keep anything from falling on the floor, painfully aware of how much of an idiot he always seemed to become every time Bruce Wayne was in the room. Bruce, to his credit, didn’t comment on Clark’s fumbling.

“You’re spoiling them.” He said, brow quirked. Clark shrugged.

“They almost died. I’m pretty sure they deserve ice cream.”

Bruce sighed. “I can’t argue with that.” He said. Then, rubbing his brow, “And Tim knows it. Do you know how much crap I’ve bought for him this week?”

“No, I can’t say I do.”

“Too much, Clark, too much.” And wow, the way Bruce said his name sent a shiver down his spine. Pull yourself together, Clark.  “Still, it could be worse. When Jason came back, I bought him three cars and a motorcycle. Alfred held an intervention.”

“Sometimes I forget that you’re atrociously rich, Bruce.” Clark said, blunt. Bruce grimaced.

“So I’ve been told.” He said. “Have you met Stephanie?”

“Not yet.”

“She’s made it her mission to bring me down to earth at… every possible opportunity.” Bruce said. “Effectively and with much enthusiasm.”

“Sounds like a character.”

“She’s my favourite child.” Bruce said lightly. “Don’t tell any of my actual children.”

Clark laughed. “I’d like to see you live off of a reporter’s salary.” He said. “Especially with rent in Metropolis being what it is.”

“Gotham has the lowest rent in the state.” Bruce offered. “In the country, actually.”

“Gotham has an unchecked chemical plant polluting the water supply and the highest crime-rate in North America.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Buried under my desire for an apartment building that won’t collapse under me at any given moment.”

“Ah, you could handle it.” Bruce winked, and strode off ahead of him. Clark found himself frozen to the spot. Was he sure this man was Batman?

“Bruce!” Clark hurried to match pace with him. “What – what are we going to do about Luthor?”

And Bruce’s face darkened. There, Clark thought, is the Bat.

“I’m working on it.” Bruce said. “We’ll keep him away from the kids, for a start, and – and I believe I’ve developed a cure for Connor’s poisoning. Once his powers are restored, we know he’ll be able to defend himself should Luthor make any move.”

“Once he’s cured, I’ll be taking him back to Metropolis.” Clark said. His voice was firm – he’d decided it some time ago. “We’ll be safer in my city. And – thank you, Bruce, for your help, but this isn’t Batman’s problem anymore.”

“I see.” Bruce looked like he wanted to say something more, but faltered. If nothing else, there was Clark’s confirmation. Batman really had been right in front of him the whole time.

And he couldn’t stand it.

“Give him the cure, Bruce.” Clark said. “Connor deserves to go home.”

And Bruce studied his face for a long moment, before walking off. Leaving him stood in the hallway, arms full of ice cream, feeling like he’d ruined something, somehow.

--

They were sat together on the same bed, again. Pressed up as close as their still-healing bodies could handle.

Tim had called it a ‘trauma bond’. Connor thought he was just being dramatic, but there was no denying they’d developed a little co-dependency over the weeks they’d spent in hospital together. Not that he particularly minded. Connor squeezed Tim’s hand.

“You’re not paying attention.” Tim murmured.

“No, I am!”

“Then what’s happening?”

“Uh,” Connor frowned at the screen of the laptop they’d propped up on the bed. “They’re about to win the battle with the power of friendship?”

Tim thumped him gently on the arm. Though he didn’t look over, Connor knew he had that scowl on his face – the one that made his nose scrunch. “That was just a lucky guess.”

“It’s shounen anime, not rocket science.”

“Yeah, but this bit is important.” Tim hissed. “It’s the bit where he finally embraces his full power, you need to see it to understand the next few seasons!”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a nerd?”

“Shh. You’re talking over the good bit.”

Connor huffed a laugh, tilting his head to rest on top of Tim’s. He focused on the screen before him – there was a lot of yelling about ‘unlocking potential’ and ‘what it means to be a hero’ – and tried to remember what, exactly, the plot was.

The door opened. Bruce strode in, carrying a briefcase, which was… odd. Connor and Tim met eyes, mourning their moment of peace. Bruce was stricter than Clark about making sure they were in their own beds.

But Bruce only raised a brow at their closeness, and didn’t otherwise comment. “Connor.” He said. “I’ve got something for you to try.”

And he sat in Clark’s usual chair, opening the briefcase across his lap. Tim sat a little straighter. “I can’t believe you’ve been working on this without me.” He whined. “Let me see!”

“Later, Tim.” Bruce deflected. “Connor. I’ve talked this through with Clark, but I don’t want to give you anything without your informed consent.”

“What exactly are you going to do?”

“I’ve been working on reverse-engineering the gas that Luthor poisoned you with. I believe that I’ve created an anti-measure that should completely reverse the effects, and return your biology to normal.”

“That’s – you did that for me?” Connor said, shocked. Bruce smiled, his most real smile, so faint you could almost believe you’d imagined it.

“I did.” He said. “Now, it hasn’t been tested, for obvious reasons, but I’ve run plenty of simulations, and I firmly believe that it’s safe. There is the risk of adverse effects, but I’m confident that would be extremely unlikely.”

“Give it to me!”

“Connor.” Bruce frowned. “I need you to understand that this might change nothing. And if that’s the case, we’ll have to start from scratch.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Connor said, holding out his arm. “Now stab me, Bats.”

Bruce gave Tim a glance. One that even Connor could read as are you sure that he’s the one you want? Tim shuffled a little closer into Connor’s chest, a glint in his eye.

“Alright.” Bruce pulled a needle from the briefcase, unwrapped it carefully. The liquid in the syringe was clear, innocuous. Connor was almost disappointed. What was the point if it didn’t look at least a little radioactive?

He barely felt the needle go into his arm. All that torture had done wonders for his pain tolerance, Connor thought, considering he’d never even felt pain for the first two years of his life.

And then it was done, Bruce studying his face with an intensity that made his cower backwards slightly. Just slightly, though. Connor wasn’t… scared, of Batman. That would be stupid.

Tim’s dad, though? He might be a little scared of him.

“Do you feel anything?” Tim asked. Connor shrugged.

“Nothing yet.” He said. “But it would take some time anyway, right?”

“We’ll leave it twenty-four hours,” Bruce said. “If nothing’s changed by then, we’ll start considering other approaches.”

“Right.” Connor said, uncertain. Hopefully it wouldn’t take that long for his powers to come back. Tim brushed their shoulders together, silent support. Bruce watched him for a moment longer, before standing with a sigh.

“I have to go and find Dick and Barbara.” He said. “Clark should be back soon. If anything changes, Tim, contact me immediately.”

“Always, B.”

“Alright.” He hesitated for a moment. “I’m glad to see both of you looking so strong.” And with a stilted nod, he turned on his heel and left the room.

Connor watched him leave. “Your dad is kinda awkward, huh.”

“I did warn you.” Tim said. “He’s allergic to emotion.”

“So he has no idea about my dad’s massive crush on him?”

“Nope.” Tim said, laughingly. “He’s so obtuse. Even Selina had to spell it out for him. After they’d already made out a bunch.”

“Gross.”

“You’re telling me.” Tim said. “It’s a little pathetic, but kinda sweet. Clark would be good for him, I think.”

“I don’t know about that. Dad can be pretty dense, too.” Connor said. “He’s so used to making people not notice him that he doesn’t know what to do with himself when someone does.”

“Maybe as Clark, but who doesn’t have a crush on Superman?”

Connor choked. “Tim, that is the worst thing you have ever said to me.”

“Yeah, well,” Tim shrugged, supressing a laugh. “He’s hot!”

“The worst. Thing. Ever.”

 “Everyone knows Superman is hot.”

“I’m never going to recover from this.”

“Name a single human being that hasn’t thirsted over Superman at least once.”

“You’ve killed me. I’m dead. I’m not coming back from this one.”

“You know it’s true.”

“Where’s the Joker with a crowbar when you need him?”

“Connor! You can’t say something like that!”

“Nope. Not talking to you. Go and ogle my dad instead, clearly you want to.”

Tim was gasping with laughter, and despite his words, Connor couldn’t help but hold him a little tighter. A moment passed. “You know,” Tim said, a little softer, “I don’t think Superman’s all that.”

“Yeah?” And suddenly he noticed that Tim’s face was… very close to his own. That smile was still tugging at his lips, and his eyes met Connor’s, burning blue.

“Yeah.” Tim said. His cheeks flushed, and Connor brought a hand up to cradle his still-bruised jaw. “You see, I’ve met this guy.”

“Oh?”

“And he’s really hot. Hotter than Superman.” Tim’s smile was dimpled, and he leant into Connor’s hand. “I haven’t known him for very long, but…”

Tim leaned forwards, slowly, like he was unsure. Connor had no idea what he had left to be unsure about. It was with no doubt, no hesitation, no shyness at all that Connor closed the gap.

And kissed him.

And kept kissing him.

It was awkward, messy, and neither of them had regained enough of a range of motion for it to be comfortable, exactly, but Connor felt like he was floating.

Tim broke off with a yelp. Connor caught him by the forearms, eyes widening in worry. “Just pulled my stitches a bit.” Tim said, breathless. Then, exhilarated, “Connor. We’re flying.”

“What?”

They dropped back to the bed with a thud. Both of them groaned. Tim flopped across the bed. “If I just re-broke a bone I am never forgiving you.”

“We were flying!” Connor said. “I can fly again!”

“You—oh my god. Oh my god!” Tim said, scrambling upright. “It worked! Your powers are back!”

“Ha! Super-healing, here I come!”

“Lucky bastard.” Tim grumbled, but he was beaming. “Now come here, I want to kiss you some more.”

And Connor wasn’t going to complain about that.

Chapter Text

“Look at you! It’s so good to see you!”

“Don’t crowd him, Lois.”

“Kid, you’re looking better than ever. Have you grown? I’m pretty sure you’ve grown. You’re taller than I remember.”

“I don’t know if I even can grow.” Connor said, fighting a smile. “And I think you’re exaggerating.”

“What?” Lois said, feigning offence. “I would never!” She pulled him into a hug, squeezing tight enough that if he’d still been powerless, Connor was pretty sure he would have been suffocated.

Their apartment was almost the same as they’d left it. Lois had started to clean, but clearly given up halfway through – there was a trash-bag abandoned in the middle of the floor, and every chair had been dragged slightly out of place. It was the thought that counted, Connor supposed.

Clark dumped their bags on the floor and Connor watched him falter in the doorway. A strange emotion stuck in his throat, watching his dad hesitate. He wanted it to be anger, at Clark and at himself and at being dragged so suddenly from Gotham, but he found himself mostly just relieved to be home.

It felt like… like a clean slate.

A fresh start.

Lois had retreated into the kitchen, making coffee, and Connor followed her a little dazedly. He could hear Clark unpacking in the other room, and their neighbours through the walls, and voices from the bar across the street. He blocked it all out, and felt a thrill run down his back at the re-gained control of his powers.

“Do you want a coffee, kid?” Lois asked. “I think there are some fancy English teabags here too, if you want that. Unless Clark used them, but for some reason I doubt that he has. That man has no taste.”

“No thanks, Lois.” He said, rifling through the cupboards. There wasn’t a lot of food left, but Connor was determined to find something. Anything edible would do, really.

“Are you alright, kid?” Lois said. Connor paused.

“…yeah?”

“Kid—Connor.” Strong hands twisted him in place, and he met Lois Lane’s keen eyes. “Don’t insult my intelligence with such an obvious lie.”

He sucked in his cheeks, stubbornness failing. “Dad’s probably listening.” He said, in lieu of an answer.

“Let him.” Lois dismissed. Then, a little louder, “If he hears something he doesn’t want to hear, it’s his own damn fault.” And she smiled at him. It reminded him of Ma Kent, and Connor wondered why every woman in his life was so… sharp.

And Lois was – well, she was the closest thing he’d ever have to a mom. Connor knew it, Clark knew it, and Lois definitely knew it. He blinked through rapidly blurring eyes.

“I just – I miss Tim.” He said. “I know it’s only been a day, but I can’t stop thinking about him all by himself in hospital, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to see him again, and Dad’s being so weirdly stubborn about being in Metropolis, and I know he hates Gotham but I thought maybe – maybe because of Bruce – but. I don’t know.” He shrugged. His thoughts were disordered, conflicting, a little embarrassing. “Everything is.. too much.”

Lois ruffled his hair. Connor leaned into the touch, slightly. “You’ve been through a hell of a lot, kid. No wonder things are too much.”

“I’m glad to be home, though.” Connor confessed, genuine. “I am. It just feels weird.”

“It probably will for a while.” Lois said with a shrug. “But we’ll push through. And I have no doubt that this boytoy of yours won’t be far away for long.”

“Ew. Tim is not my boytoy, Lois.”

“Right.” She turned away, fishing out their mugs from the cupboard. “I forgot that he’s rich. That would make you the boytoy, hm?”

“Please stop talking.”

“I’m just teasing, kid.” She said, and her voice lost its edge. “Give Tim a call, tell him how you’re feeling. It might be painful but I think it would make both of you feel better.”

“I guess.” He said. “I hate that Dad made us leave Gotham so quickly. I know there was no reason to stay, but I…”

Lois pressed a steaming mug into his hands. “Your dad is a class-A moron. I’ve been dealing with his pig-headedness longer than I could even bear to admit at this point.” She cocked her head slightly. “If he wasn’t as gay as the fourth of July I’d have married that man. Hell, if you got me drunk enough I still might. But that’s… definitely not the point I’m supposed to be making. What I’m trying to say is that Clark’ll come around eventually. His heart always knows what it’s supposed to do long before his brain ever catches up. It’s probably why he’s such a good hero.”

“So he’ll take us back to Gotham?” Connor said. “He’ll stop avoiding Bruce?”

“Eventually. Maybe.” Lois frowned. “If he doesn’t, I’ll force him.”

“You can’t force Superman to do anything.” Connor grouched. Lois’s eyes flared.

“I think you’ll find I’m the only one who can.”

--

Dick knew that the Kents would be leaving eventually. They didn’t live in Gotham, after all, and they had their own lives to get back to. Lives that weren’t quite so tangled up with the Waynes.

But he hadn’t expected them to be gone quite so soon.

The room seemed so much emptier without Connor in his bed. It was just Tim, by himself, looking a little greyer and a little more ragged than he had a couple of days before.

At least Tim had enough siblings to fill the room. Make it a little less lonely.

Steph and Cass had claimed Connor’s abandoned bed, huddling together and staring down anyone that would dare to question it. The others founds themselves as close to Tim as they could bear, teasing and squabbling with the (mostly) easy nature of siblings.

And in the middle of it all, Alfred Pennyworth watched them with exasperated fondness.

Dick pulled out his phone, hoping that there would be something to keep him distracted from Tim’s eyebags, from Bruce’s foul mood, from Jason’s acerbic comments – it was like he was trying to start a fight, honestly – and from the general atmosphere of… unease.

Instead there was a single text from Barbara.

New riddle. Left on Dad’s desk at the GCPD. See what Tim or B make of it. xx

And a photo attachment. Dick rubbed his face, wondering what it would take to get at least a few days of peace. Maybe he could sedate Bruce, and they could kidnap him and all fly to the Maldives, or somewhere equally sunny and far from Gotham.

Knowing their luck, whatever holiday destination he chose would be right next to Penguin’s second home, or something.

“Dickie?” He glanced up into Jason’s narrowed eyes. “You zoned out.”

“Just tired.” He said. “The Riddler left the Commish a riddle. Babs wants one of the smartasses to take a look at it.”

“The old man’ll be back in a minute.” Jason said, slouching closer to Dick. His lips quirked into a cruel smile. “He’s in a mood.”

Alfred reached forward to swat Jason around the head. “Watch your attitude, Master Jason.” He said. “Unless you’d enjoy helping me scrub every bathroom in the Manor.”

“You’re no fun, Alf.” Jason grumbled, but his face eased into something gentler.

“It’s not my job to be fun, lad.” Alfred said. “It’s my job to keep you boys alive and well, and you do make it bloody difficult.”

Tim huffed a tired laugh. “We can’t be that much worse than Bruce was as a kid, right?” He said.

“Quite. At least when Master Dick attempted to leap from the chandeliers, I knew he was capably trained. Young Master Bruce, on the other hand…”

“The mental image of Bruce swinging from the chandeliers is one I’ll treasure forever.” Steph said, grinning. Dick, however, scowled.

“I used to get into so much trouble for doing that. He’s such a hypocrite.”

“Regardless, boys, I find myself run ragged no matter how well-behaved you may or may not be.”

“We really are sorry about the drawing-room wallpaper.” Damian grumbled.

Alfred just quirked a brow. They all cringed, a little.

The door opened, and Bruce strode in. He carried two coffees, and faltered only for a fraction of moment before giving the second one to Tim.

“You look worse.” Bruce commented, as Tim reached sluggishly for his coffee. The room felt quieter than it had a moment before, everyone listening with renewed tension to the conversation. Tim shrugged, not meeting Bruce’s eyes.

“I’m fine.” He said.

“You should be out of that bed by now.” Bruce continued. His voice carried that hard edge that they all recognised too well from their training. “You were on track a few days ago, Tim.”

“I know, B.”

“We need you back in the field in minimal time.”

“I know. I’m trying.”

“Are you, Tim? You’ve been lax, lately, and I’m not happy with—”

“Bruce!” Dick blurted, seeing red. “He can’t control how quick he’s healing. Do you think a lecture is going to help anything?”

For a long, torturous moment, everything was silent.

Dick rarely stood up to Bruce in such a direct way. He’d usually take what was given, and bend the rules as far as he could afford behind Bruce’s cloaked back. Even Jason wouldn’t often contradict Bruce to his face in such a brazen way – he liked to act like he did, but his rebellions were often loud but hollow. They didn’t fight with Batman.

It was, and always had been, a fight none of them would win.

Bruce studied his face for a moment, jaw twitching. He turned back to Tim.

“Whatever is preventing you from getting back on your feet – fix it.”

Dick saw the way Tim blinked a little too rapidly, staring at his hands and not at any of their faces. “Yes, sir.”

Bruce’s face was unmoving. “Good.” He began to leave the room, pausing before Dick. “Next time, remind Barbara that case information goes directly to me. Not to you.”

“Fine.” Dick spat.

Bruce raised his voice, still looking at Dick, but words pointed towards… someone else.

“Relationships are a liability.” He said, and Dick felt a pang as Tim winced. “You must not let them affect your field work. I trust Barbara, therefore I tolerate your relationship, but do not let it begin to hinder the mission.”

There was an unspoken jab, there, that Dick knew Tim was feeling keenly. I trust Barbara. I don’t trust Connor Kent.

And then Bruce was gone, and Dick noticed Steph pry her hand from Cass’, and shuffle away from her, putting some distance between them on the bed they had claimed. Dick felt a near-blinding rage fill him for a moment, let it wash over him and fall away until he was left with a low, brewing frustration.

Bruce and his aversion to any positive emotions would be the death of them all, he was sure.

Alfred was frowning at the door. “I know it’s little reassurance,” He said to the room at large, busying himself with tidying the remains of their lunch, “But he comes from a place of concern. I believe Master Bruce was deeply effected by Master Tim’s injuries, and by – by his own conflicting emotions about the Kents. I understand that he’s not the most sensible of men, but he loves you all. Deeply.”

They all absorbed that. “You’re right, Alf.” Jason said, coldly. “It’s not a reassurance.” But Jason clambered onto Tim’s bed, slinging his legs across Tim’s middle with gentleness calculated to look careless. He began to poke at Tim’s face, persistent until Tim cracked a small, irritated smile.

“Y’know, I don’t think he was even this upset when Selina left him.” Jason said, slumping into Tim’s side.

“I guess he really has it bad for Clark.” Steph said. “I mean, Clark could at least call. He didn’t need to cut us off completely.”

“Connor said they’re busy with the Luthor case.” Tim said. “And Clark’s back at the Planet, so he’s probably pretty swamped.”

“He’s got super-speed.” Jason retorted. “He can definitely make time for a visit. Or to give Bruce a fucking phone call. For all our sakes.”

Tim shrugged. “Maybe Bruce chased him off somehow.”

“He does it to everyone eventually.” Dick said, surprising himself with the hostility in his voice.

Alfred frowned. “Now, Master Dick, you know as well as any that’s far from the truth. Master Bruce is a complicated man, certainly, but he has always inspired loyalty. And love, though he’d be loath to admit it. Look at yourselves, at Jim and Barbara Gordon, or even at Selina Kyle.”

“He inspires plenty of anger, too.” Jason grumbled.

“He’s your father, Master Jason. That might be the case, but you know as well as any that families are complicated beasts.”

--

Clark had forgotten how much of a drag writing could be. He’d been staring at him mostly-blank document for what felt like hours, but had probably been about fifteen minutes, and Jimmy was giving him increasingly concerned looks.

But every time Clark let his focus drift, he could only think about Bruce.

About Gotham.

About how, illogically and unwillingly, he missed sitting in that dreary hospital, listening to rain hammering on the window, with a cup of that fancy coffee in his hands and Bruce at his side. Knowing that his son was safely asleep in front of him.

Instead he was here, in the Planet’s bullpen, sun streaming in through the windows in a way that would usually energise him, but today made him ache with the thought of something missing.

Clark was beginning to wonder if Gotham was infectious.

His phone was a weight in the pocket of his jeans, and he kept itching to text Bruce. To say anything – though he suspected a confession would not go down well. But logic won out each time, and he reminded himself that Superman was not of Gotham, and that Batman was not for him.

And he refused to drag Bruce and his children into his messes for the sake of a crush.

So he sat and stared at the few words he’d managed to write, dissatisfied with all of them. His fingers twitched above the keyboard, imagining and discarding sentences as fast as his brain had ever worked.

Perry wandered past, peering at him with concern disguised as disdain, and Clark waved him off with a smile that felt brittle on his face. He knew, if Perry got the opportunity to have a conversation with him, he’d have to stumble through excuses: why, exactly, he couldn’t go back to Gotham right now.

Clark missed Bruce. He tapped out another handful of words. Couldn’t think of the right word for this damned sentence. He switched to google. Synonyms for excessive.

Disproportionate. Redundant. Unreasonable. Indulgent.

Clark closed the tab. He could probably just use excessive.

He let his attention drift a little, seeking out Lois’s heartbeat. Then Connor’s heartbeat. The same grounding, regular sounds that never failed to ease his worry. As long as they were alive, there was no problem he couldn’t solve.

Connor was talking to someone. Clark’s attention was split enough that he caught a small part of the conversation, and immediately felt a little guilty for doing so.

“—and I wasn’t supposed to be back yet, but Dad didn’t want me to miss anything else.”

“I would’ve milked the injuries for all it was worth if it meant more time off school.”

“I tried, trust me.”

“Did you get number 16?”

“Yeah, it was B. I think? I’m not great at calculus.”

“No, I think that makes sense.”

“I’m glad to be back, don’t get me wrong, but it sucks that I have to catch up on all this stuff.”

“Just be glad you missed midterms.”

“Clark.”

He blinked. Jimmy had leant over his desk, and was waving a hand in front of his face. “Oh, Jimmy, hi.”

“You zoned out for a moment there.”

“Sorry.” Clark muttered, trying to draw his focus back to his body, but still keeping the sounds of Connor and Lois’s heartbeats in his ears. “Maybe I’m not… doing as well as I thought.”

“You can say that again.” Jimmy said. “It’s only been a coupla days, but we’ve been worried about you. Your kid might be fine now, but that doesn’t mean you’re not… effected, y’know?”

“I know.” Clark said. His friend offered him a warm smile, and Clark felt some unexpected confidence rise in his chest. “Have you ever been in love, Jimmy?”

Jimmy gave him a strange look. It lingered, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Sad, maybe. Soft. “What kind of love?”

“There’s more than one kind of love?”

“Come on.” Jimmy reached out and poked him in the forehead. Hard. “I thought you were supposed to be smart, Kent.”

Clark batted his hand away, already feeling lighter. “Yeah, yeah. What about romantic love. But… the kind that you know won’t ever be returned.”

Jimmy swallowed, glanced away for a second. “I’m intimately familiar.” He said. Then, brighter. “Who hasn’t felt that at least once, right? Are you really so broken up about a crush? That’s unlike you, Clark.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.” Clark offered.

Jimmy leant in. “Do you really think it’s unrequited, Clark?”

“Yes.” But he was hesitant.

“Are you certain? Be honest. I know you well enough to see when you’re lying.”

“I’m not… sure.”

“Ha!” Jimmy slammed an eager hand on the desk before him. “I know you’re not sad because it’s hopeless. You know it’s not hopeless. So what’s really got you moping?”

“I told you it’s complicated.”

“Complicated is whatever Lois had going on with that Maggie Sawyer chick last year.” Jimmy grinned. He was always so bloody bright. A worryingly large part of Clark missed Gotham. At least the people there weren’t always at full-beam. “In your case, Clark, complicated is an excuse. You’re good at uncomplicating things. It’s your job.”

“He isn’t… who I thought he was.” Understatement.

“And it’s bothering you?”

“Yes.”

“Enough to stop loving him?”

“…No.”

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

“Olsen! Kent! Get your lazy asses back to work!”

“And that’s my cue.” Jimmy pulled himself upright, flicking Clark a jaunty salute. “Think about what I said, Clark. And don’t… don’t let something pass you by because you’re worried about complicating things. There isn’t a single thing on the planet that ain’t held together with faith and metaphorical duct-tape.”

And Clark turned back to his writing, thinking.

Chapter Text

Bruce couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t a new problem, exactly, but a particularly troublesome one lately. He stared at the wall, trying to convince himself that he could carry on as he was.

But his head felt – muddled, in a way that he wasn’t used to. A buzzing in his ears and a tightness in his chest that he thought he’d finally beaten back for good.

Deciding that sleep was a fruitless venture, Bruce climbed from his (enormous, cold, empty) bed. He moved silently into the hallway. The only one of his children that might hear him was Cassandra, and she’d have to be awake and alert for that to even be a possibility. There was no risk that he would wake them.

The door opposite his own was Dick’s. When Dick wasn’t home, they’d taken to leaving the door open. It made him feel… closer, for some reason. Reminded them that his absence was never permanent. The door was shut now, though, because Dick was asleep inside, and wasn’t due to leave until he was confident that Tim was back to normal.

Bruce cracked the door, enough to see the sleeping face of his eldest son.

Dick hadn’t been speaking to him lately. He knew it was his own fault. Dick was protective of his siblings, and soft on them: something that Bruce had always been secretly approving of.

When Bruce got it wrong – which he often did – Dick was there to make sure they were taken care of. He let them be soft, when Bruce just couldn’t bring himself to.

Soft gets you killed.

He wondered who had truly taught him that. Ra’s, perhaps, when he was still a teacher and not an enemy. Or Selina? Or maybe it was a lesson he’d learnt on his own, spending a lifetime trapped in a pit with the worst of humanity and finding out exactly what happens to any glowing spark of vulnerability in the stifling darkness.

Bruce closed the door slowly, wondering if Dick would ever truly forgive him for the burden he’d long placed on his shoulders. If Dick even truly realised how much Bruce had failed him.

He stood before the closed door for a moment longer, dreading the day that Dick would decide he had no reason to come home.

And then he moved to the door beside Dick’s, where he knew Damian was asleep. He opened the door with the same ginger quietness, and Bruce entered Damian’s room with silent footfalls. He ran a soft hand through his son’s course hair, marvelling at how similar it was to his own.

There was a sour sort of guilt in his chest when he thought about Damian. A part of him wished that he’d been able to raise the boy from birth – though that part existed for each of the others, too – but a part larger still wished that Damian had not been born with the burden of Bruce’s legacy.

Yet Bruce knew that Damian was happier now. Happier than he ever would have been with the League.

At least being a Wayne had benefitted someone, he thought bitterly. It had given Damian a childhood – more of one than he had before, at least.

Bruce didn’t open Jason’s door for a long time. He stared at the wood, the chalk-paint name painted in the sloppy hand of an eager child, and allowed himself a moment of buoyant happiness. Because despite how he’d made a hundred missteps and errors with Jason, he hadn’t lost him completely. He was still there.

And while they were all alive, and all in the manor, Bruce couldn’t help but feel that nothing was broken. Just… bent.

Eventually, he peered into the room. Just enough to see Jason’s face buried in his pillow, softened by sleep and safety. He found himself desperately thinking the words I love you, as if Jason would pick up on them by sheer force of will.

Maybe he would. Jason seemed to understand Bruce better than anyone, sometimes.

Tim’s door was slightly open, at Alfred’s insistence. It was his first week back in the manor, and everyone remained unnecessarily hyper-vigilant about his wellbeing. As if Tim couldn’t take care of himself.

But he’d always taken care of himself, hadn’t he. Bruce’s resilient, intelligent, reliable son. Tim had crashed into his life, a sad little boy with a saviour complex, and spent years desperately clawing a place for himself without realising that he’d never needed to.

Because from the moment they’d become Batman and Robin, Tim had proved himself as much as he’d ever need to. Bruce wondered how to tell Tim that – remind him that he didn’t need to fight for a place that was already his.

Bruce took a breath, relieved to see the regular movement of Tim’s breaths, reminding himself that he was truly out of danger, now.

Cassandra was awake. She had curled her blanket around herself, and watched Bruce with large, dark eyes as he opened her door. He began to back away, but she beckoned him in. A little stiffly, Bruce sat at the end of her bed.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?” He asked softly. She shrugged.

“Worried.”

“About what?”

“You. Dick. Jason. Tim. Damian.”

“Everyone?”

She thought about it for a moment, and nodded firmly.

“Why?”

“Why do you—” She scrunched her face up, thinking. “I see… you are worried. About Tim. But you act angry. You tell him it’s his fault. And that makes Dick sad, but he acts angry at you. I don’t understand.”

Bruce blinked. “People show their emotions in different ways, Cassie.” He said.

“But—” She paused, and the silence stretched. She seemed to be building courage. “Is it Tim’s fault that he got hurt?”

No, it wasn’t. “If Tim had trained harder, or not allowed himself to panic, or thought a little smarter, he could have escaped with less injuries.” It wasn’t his fault, Bruce, and you know it.

Cass’s expression twisted. “And when Jason died it was because he wasn’t good enough, either.” She said, slowly. Like it was a puzzle she was trying to solve.

No. No, no, no. Never. “Jason’s death was avoidable, yes.”

Cass frowned. “And…” She paused, studying his face. Bruce knew that Cass was seeing something there that he couldn’t hope to disguise, no matter how controlled his expression. “When your parents…”

Ah. “Also avoidable.” No it wasn’t, Bruce, you were eight. “It’s why we must be strong. So we don’t repeat our mistakes. So that we can keep ourselves and the people we love safe.”

You’re a fool, Bruce Wayne. No matter how strong you are, people will get hurt and people will die and sometimes those people will be people you care about.

Strength isn’t enough yet you force it upon your children anyway.

But what would be enough?

 “I think you’re wrong.” Cass said quietly. “Superman’s the strongest, but Connor still got hurt. Do you think… is being strong more important than being happy?”

She asked it uncertainly, like she was afraid of the answer. Bruce felt the guilt burning his eyes and drying his mouth. He lent forward, and pulled Cassandra into his arms.

Like him, Cass had never had a choice but to be strong. And if he told her that strength was more important than happiness, then she’d listen, because that was what she did. And she’d probably never allow herself happiness again. And then where would she be?

He knew where she’d be. She’d be just like him.

Bruce tightened his arms around her, feeling Cass melt into his chest. His daughter. His little girl – and she was little, so slight, innocuous but dangerous. And he murmured softly into her ear.

“All I want, Cassie, is for you to be happy.”

It was the truth. It had always been the truth. For all of his children, since the day he’d introduced himself to Dick and decided to give him a home. Before anything else, he just wanted them to be happy.

So why did it feel like such a revelation?

Cassandra slumped, and he wondered how frightened she’d been of what he’d say. Instead, a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. It was soft, warm, and Bruce blinked back the dampness in his eyes.

“I’m glad.” She said.

Bruce closed his eyes, bent his head to rest his forehead in his daughter’s hair, and wondered if Clark had it right all along.

He’d keep trying for the right thing. Maybe, eventually, he’d find it.

--

Luthor’s smile was slimy. It was the wrong side of satisfied, and it made the hair on the back of Clark’s neck raise with the sort of unease that usually preceded a nuclear strike.

“Really, Superman.” He said. “I’m a little disappointed. I thought you had more restraint.”

Clark rolled his shoulders, forcing his expression into something even, something not quite so vitriolic. If Luthor knew he was getting to him, Clark had already lost.

“I don’t see a need for restraint, in this case.” Clark said, calm. Always calm.

“You wouldn’t.”

“When you’re playing with innocent lives?” Clark fought the urge to sneer. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“So headstrong.” Luthor shook his head, condescending. He wasn’t dressed for a fight, in a business suit worth a small fortune and sat with perfect poise behind a sleek desk. Behind him, through the enormous windows, Clark could see Metropolis, small and toy-like from such a height. The building they were in was on the outskirts of the city, one of Lex’s excessive skyscrapers.

And it was on fire.

It was only a small fire, in Clark’s defence, and he was keeping vigilant for any lives at risk. But while no one was in danger, Clark was content to let the place burn.

Let it all burn. The building and every half-formed experiment that had been locked away inside. Clark was worried he was beginning to get a taste for destruction. He wondered if he could blame it on Batman, somehow.

“You still don’t understand my perspective, Superman.” Luthor said. “But I doubt you ever truly will, and I’m getting bored of trying to explain it to you. Where’s my boy?”

“He’s not your boy, Lex.” Clark hissed.

“I’d have thought he’d be with you. Or is he still powerless? I was sure your ally’s impressive brain would have succeeded in solving that problem, but perhaps I overestimated him. And the boy did take quite the beating from that madman in Gotham. I wasn’t happy about that, believe me.”

“You don’t get to know where Connor is, Lex.”

“I do hate when you make things difficult, you know,” Luthor rose from his desk. “But never let it be said that I’m unprepared. I suspect you and your ally know a little of this already, but perhaps you’d like to see my newest project in action?”

Luthor began to reach for the wall. Clark sent a blast of laser, barely missing Luthor’s hand. To his credit, Luthor barely flinched, but he paused in his movements. “That’ll be your only warning, Lex.” Clark said, cold.

“Oh, come now.” Luthor said. “It’s fascinating, I promise. I flatter myself in thinking you’ll even be impressed.”

“Don’t move.”

“Fine, fine.” Luthor raised his hands, slow and deliberate, above his head.

And then he cocked his head slightly, as if listening. Something like a smile crawled onto his face and died there.

“Oh, this is going to hurt.” He drawled. 

Clark had enough time to think what? before something slammed into his back and he was crumpling to his knees.

He gasped, pain shooting through his body in a way he was keenly unfamiliar with. Like acid lacing his veins, and he was suddenly drowning in the sound of his own heartbeat. Luthor had moved, and was stood before him with a look of false pity on his face. Clark struggled to raise his head enough to look up at him.

“So impulsive. I wonder if being indestructible makes you so arrogantly blind, or whether it is wilful ignorance.” He tutted, barely sparing Clark a glance. There were other figures in the room, now, but Clark’s vision was blurred and he was using all of his energy to cling to consciousness. Connor shouldn’t be in the building anymore – the plan was that he leave once they’d finished destroying the place, and Clark was to confront Luthor alone. So that Connor would be safe. All that mattered was that Connor was safe.

Clark tried to breathe in, but something wet and warm choked him. He raised a hand to his chest. There was something sticking out of his chest. He couldn’t get a grip on it, slick and hot with blood as it was, but it was sharp.

Shit.

“I’m glad to see the cavalry has arrived.” Luthor was talking, but not to him. Clark needed to listen. How had he been injured? He didn’t feel any Kryptonite nearby. He didn’t hear anyone else enter the room. No one snuck up on Superman.

Except for Bruce. But he was the exception to every rule, wasn’t he.

Clark fought a whimper, trying to listen to Luthor’s conversation. He could save himself in a moment. He just needed to find out what was going on.

“Do you have the clone?”

“He was here, but we can’t find him now. Either he’s hidden better than we predicted, or they split up and he got out.”

“He’ll be back. The stupid little hero won’t leave Superman to die.”

“If you’re sure.” The second speaker paused for a moment. “What if he brings the bat?”

“He won’t. He's no friend of the bats. He’ll come alone, and we’ll be ready.”

Clark’s body buckled slightly, but he found himself… stabilising. He wasn’t collapsing, and he wasn’t going to black out.

He recalled the synthetic Kryptonite that he and Bruce had found on the oil-rig. It wouldn’t kill him, if Bruce was correct – and he would always trust that Bruce was correct – but it would do some damage. And Clark couldn’t feel it. Not, he thought wryly, until it was far too late.

“The clones have been destroyed, sir. All our research. It’ll take years to rebuild what we’ve lost.”

“Not once we’ve reclaimed the successful one. He’ll be our blueprint.”

Beginning to feel certain that he would be fine, Clark focused on trying to get his legs to cooperate. He wasn’t going to let this monster take his son apart. Not when he’d promised Connor that he’d be safe. He couldn’t let Luthor lay a finger on his boy.

Luthor had walked back to the wall. Clark could see him, silhouetted in the afternoon sun. He typed something into a keypad, posture relaxed.

Like he thought he’d already won.

“We’ll have to dispose of some evidence.” Luthor said. “Once we’ve secured the clone, that it. There are several names – friends of Superman that know of the clone’s existence – that I’ll need removed from the equation. It shouldn’t be too much of a task.”

“Of course, sir.” Clark blinked. There were three other men in the room. Two held glowing green objects, though Clark’s vision was too blurred to identify them, and the third stood a little too close to Clark, hands bloodied.

Luthor glanced away from the safe he’d opened, towards Clark. His expression was taunting. “We’ll start with our Ms Lois Lane, I think. She’s caused me some considerable trouble in the past. Then, of course, it would be best to ensure the clone has as few connections as possible, so I’ll have to remove that young Tim Wayne he’s grown so attached to. I suspect it won’t be much of a loss.”

Clark shifted his weight slightly.

Luthor reached into the safe.

Clark took a breath, steadying.

Luthor began to pull something out.

Clark roared, and with the last of his strength he pushed himself from the ground at a leap.

He crashed into Luthor, and then all he heard was glass, shattering, and the rush of wind around his ears – he was so unfamiliar with the concept of falling, wasn’t he supposed to be flying? – and then he hit the ground and everything went black.

“Clark!”

The shout echoed in ringing ears. Clark couldn’t remember – couldn’t – wouldn’t –

There was so much noise. Explosions, gunshots, the roaring of flames and the rumbling of engines, and frantic shouting. Clark forced his eyes open.

He was on his back. His body ached. He was alive. He was on hard concrete, and around him a battle waged: one that he couldn’t keep track of through the thudding in his head. He wondered where Luthor had gone. And then the world came a little more into focus.

Above him, the sky-scraper towered. He could see the shattered window that he’d thrown himself through. He could see smoke pouring through the windows of the lower floors, where he and Connor had started fires. He could see the batwing, suspended above everything like a shroud. He could see… There. Like a figure from his worst dreams and his best nightmares.

Bruce, staring down at him, bloody and battered and beautiful.

“Hi.” Clark choked out. Bruce’s frown deepened. Clark noticed that in one hand he held what might have been a spear – long, dull green, dripping with what was quite obviously Clark’s own blood.

“—been unresponsive, but he’s waking up. Clark?”

“Hi, Bruce.” He said dumbly. “You’re here.”

“Glad to see you’re alive.” Bruce said, curt. “We thought we’d lost you for a moment.”

“How are you here?”

“Superboy asked for my help.” Bruce said, his face softening a little as he thought about Connor. Clark was suddenly hit with a pang of emotion so strong it eclipsed the pain. He swallowed, ignoring the taste of copper in his suddenly dry mouth. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Bruce’s face.

Screw complicated.

There was one very simple way of uncomplicating things, and Clark was sick of waiting.

“I’m in love with you.” Clark’s ragged breathing suddenly felt like the only sound in the world. “I feel like you should know that before we die.”

“You’re concussed.” Bruce cocked his head. “Or delirious from blood loss.”

“Bruce.” Clark struggled to his feet, catching Bruce’s arm and stopping him from turning away. “Even if I was. It wouldn’t – change, that. How I feel. I’ve felt it for a long time.”

“So you’re not delirious, you’re just a liability.”

Clark’s heart twisted. “…what?”

“A liability.” Bruce’s face fell into a faltering sneer. “Your l—your feelings will impair your judgement. Supress it, before you get us both killed.”

And the twisting became tearing, and Clark’s heart began to bleed. He swallowed. “You’re something else, Bruce.”

“Move. We need to finish this. For good, this time.”

“It can wait for a moment.” Clark said, planting a hand on Bruce’s chest. “Goddamn it, Bruce, your crusade can wait for one fucking moment.”

“Superman. Move.”

“You’re allowed to feel, Bruce. Did you know that?” Clark said, voice raising to shout over the din that surrounded them. He stepped forward, feeling how his body swayed a little too much to the left, how his breathing was still laboured. He didn’t care. “You’re allowed to have emotions that aren’t grief and rage. Not every decision you make has to be calculated for the sake of your fucking vengeance.”

“You’re being irrational,” Bruce said, and his voice was beginning to rise, too. “Back off, Superman.”

“No. No, fuck you. Fuck this.”

And he grabbed the collar of Bruce’s cape and pulled, Bruce stumbling closer.

And Clark kissed him.

Chapter Text

“Are they still…”

“Yeah.” Connor wiped the sweat from his forehead, glanced sideways. “They’ve been… at it for a while. I’m not sure whether they’re kissing or trying to kill each other.”

“My money’s on both. They’re dysfunctional in ways I’ve never even considered before.”

“Thank you for your input, Jason.”

“Hey, just calling it how I see it.”

“At least they’re figuring it out, I don’t think I could have stood the tension for a moment longer.”

“Tell me about it. And it means you two idiots can finally stop being so miserable all the time.”

Connor’s eyes met Tim’s, stood across from him – still a little out of breath from the fight, a bruise on his brow and blood in his mouth – and he couldn’t help but smile. Tim always looked so handsome, but like this, with fire in his eyes and a stubborn set to his jaw, he was the most beautiful person Connor had ever seen.

The fight had slowed to a predictable victory: Connor had brought the cavalry, and all of Luthor’s men didn’t stand a chance against the combined forces of multiple bats with a grudge. Not to mention Connor himself, who had enjoyed kicking Luthor’s teeth in a little too much.

And showing off to Tim, who was impressed enough by his tactile telekinesis to make it all worth it. Connor thought, not idly, that he would probably blow up the moon if it would impress Tim. And then he wondered whether he was physically capable of blowing up the moon.

He should ask Tim.

A hand planted itself on Connor’s head. He swung around, preparing to fight, only to deflate as he found his dad smiling at him. A little too casually for a man who’d just been kiss-fighting with Batman. Gross. And for a man who, and Connor winced, still had a sizable hole torn through his chest. It wasn’t bleeding, now the kryptonite had been removed, but it wasn’t… healing, either. It reminded Connor of what it had been like when he lost his powers.

Oh shit.

“Dad.” Connor said, hesitant. “Can you… use your powers?”

Clark’s smile froze in place. Connor realised with a chill that Clark hadn’t even considered it, caught up as he was in the relief of being alive and in love. Beside him, lingering a little too close, Batman’s expression darkened.

“Clark?” Batman asked, and Connor could feel the exasperation through the cowl. There was a long, tense moment. Clark looked vaguely perturbed. He was presumably trying, and failing, to use his powers. They watched his expression in tense silence, as it flickered through the stages of grief before setting on tired acceptance.

Clark poked at the wound on his chest, winced. “How long will it take you to make more of whatever you used to heal Connor?” He asked Bruce, sheepish.

The cowl’s energy turned from mildly irritated to annoyed. “I’m angry at you, so approximately six days.”

“Thank you, Bruce.”

“I don’t want to see you again until then.” The words were hard, but Bruce’s tone was strange. Fond, Connor wanted to say. “I mean it, Clark. Cool off. Heal. I’ll see you in a week, and not before.”

And he was gone.

“Wow, for the old man, that was practically doting.” Jason drawled. Clark dragged a hand down his face.

“I’m sure it’s not supposed to be this difficult.” He said. “Is it something I’m doing wrong?”

Jason paused. “Yes.” He said. “You haven’t bashed his head in yet. Which would be the sane response to the shit the old man pulls. But hey, that just means you’re a part of the family.”

Clark looked a little like he wanted to cry. He pulled Connor into a half-hug, glancing at the wearied but intact faces of the Waynes. “You’re all alright?”

“As we can be.” Tim said. “I’m more worried about you, though. You did just get impaled and then fall out of a skyscraper.”

Clark shrugged. “I’m not used to feeling vulnerable.” He said. “And I could really use a nap.”

“Me too.” Connor said. “I guess I’ll see you in a week, Tim?”

Tim’s expression faltered, but he still found it in him to smile. “Yeah. I’ll make sure B makes that antidote as fast as possible.”

“You’d better.” And, trying to pretend his dad wasn’t watching, Connor leant forwards and kissed Tim on the cheek. Tim’s face turned a rather adorable splotchy sort of red. “We’re leaving now. Dad needs rest.”

Before Clark could complain at the manhandling, Connor swung him clumsily onto his back and pushed off the ground into flight.

-

The trainline that linked Gotham and Metropolis was overcrowded, filthy, and distinctly Gotham in smell and color. The seats were grey with dirt and the floor uncomfortably sticky. Most commuters who took that particular train were leaving Gotham for better work in cleaner cities, which meant the route from Metropolis to Gotham was nearly empty so early in the morning.

Clark slumped into his seat, Connor beside him. His son was still visibly unhappy about being there, but putting up with the arrangement for the sake of seeing Tim again. “I hate the train. You should’ve learnt how to drive.” Connor said, twisting his body to plant his sneakers on the already dirty seat. Clark didn’t bother chiding him.

“I have a tractor license?” He offered, mostly because he knew it would irritate Connor.

Connor’s scowl deepened. “Maybe I should’ve learnt how to drive.”

“You still can. Lois would love to teach you.”

“Have you ever been in a car with Lois?” Connor looked at him, expectant. Clark shook his head. “I knew it. She drives like a crazy person, Dad, I’m not letting her teach me. We’ll end up in a ditch or a police station.”

Clark laughed. It was probably true. There was a reason, after all, that he’d never been in a car with Lois. Then, softer, “I bet Bruce would teach you.”

“Yeah, he would.” Connor’s eyes lit up. “Holy smokes, do you think he’d teach me to drive the batmobile?”

“I’m going to guess not.” The motion of the train was surprisingly soothing, although the occasional jolt agitated Clark’s heavily bandaged abdomen. Both Lois and Connor had insisted on examining the wound, and in their well-meaning vigour had wrapped it in so many layers of bandages that Clark wasn’t sure he could’ve broken through it even with his full strength.

“Sucks. Maybe in one of the Lamborghinis? Tim said that they have four.”

Clark let his eyes drift closed, listening to Connor ramble about rich people and fancy cars and we should buy a mansion, I hear real estate is ridiculously cheap in Gotham which wasn’t the most subtle way of reminding Clark that he wanted to live in Gotham. It had come up in every conversation, lately. Connor would send ads for Gotham-based jobs to his work email, which Clark then had to struggle to hide from Perry. He would bring up how Gotham had better food, or better schools, or cheaper real estate, and then wait for Clark’s reaction, comically eager. Clark wasn’t about to uproot his life to be closer to his son’s boyfriend, but the sentiment was sweet.

Eventually, the stilted crackling of the intercom burst to life, announcing their imminent arrival in Gotham City. And they were soon stepping off the train onto Gotham Central Station, bags in hand, searching the crowd for black hair and blue eyes. Clark had never realised how many people in Gotham had the same features. It was eerie.

But then, across the platform, his eyes met Bruce’s. Beside him, Connor yelled something that might have been ‘finally!’ and raced across the platform. Clark couldn’t tear his eyes from Bruce’s, but in his periphery watched as Tim and Connor collided with a force that would’ve shaken the bones of any less-hardy teenagers.

Bruce’s arm was linked with Cassandra’s, and he pried her arm from his with a gentle smile on his face. To Clark’s eyes, something in the lines of Bruce’s face was – different. Softer. Like the ice had melted, slightly, and with it had lightened the shadows and erased the premature wrinkles that had weighted his otherwise handsome face. If Clark were prone to optimism, which he was, he’d say that Bruce looked happier.

And he caved to his instincts. Placing his suitcase on the platform, Clark let himself race across the platform and throw himself freely into Bruce’s raised arms. Bruce pulled him into a tight hug, holding him there. Clark buried his face into the nape of Bruce’s neck, trying to pretend he had any dignity left after his embarrassingly impulsive display of affection.

“You’re as bad as your teenage son.” Bruce murmured, and Clark laughed.

“I could say the same to you.” Because Bruce had definitely been about to meet him halfway.

Bruce pulled away. His hands lingered on Clark’s arms. “It’s good to see you, Clark.” He said. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m never taking the train again.”

From behind them, Tim huffed. “It must be nice to have superspeed.”

“It must be nice to be rich.” Connor retorted. There was a smacking noise and a short grunt of pain, followed by several more dull thuds, and Clark refused to turn around and check that they weren’t brawling.

“Boys.” Bruce chided, but amusement was clear in his expression. His eyes flickered back to Clark’s face, like they couldn’t stay away. “Let’s go home.” He said. “I’ve got the antidote waiting, and more than one child eager to see you again.”

They walked side-by-side from the platform, and Bruce’s hand was tantalisingly close to Clark’s own. Their fingers kept brushing. Clark couldn’t tell if it was accidental, and he wanted to reach out and grab Bruce’s hand. To hold it tight, probably forever. Yeah, forever sounded good.

Bruce’s car – black, tinted windows, doors that opened upwards instead of outwards – was considerably more comfortable than the train, and Clark relaxed into the front seat. He glanced behind him, to see their sons sharing a pair of headphones, whispering urgently to one another with faces pressed close to one another. Bruce saw him looking.

“They’ve missed each other.” He said. “They’re close.”

“Closer than I ever was with my teenage girlfriends.” Clark grumbled. Bruce laughed.

“They give me hope.” He said, genuine. Clark couldn’t help but be warmed by that. He felt it too, somehow. That their children had found something soft in one another. Joy was self-preservation, Clark thought, if they wanted to survive the life they lived. And Connor deserved to cling on to every piece of joy he found. So did—

 “You look happier, Bruce.” Clark said.

“I am.” Bruce glanced back, too, meeting Cassandra’s eyes. She grinned at him. “I’ve been trying to do better. Learning how to be a father, properly, this time. It’s not always working but I think we’re all doing better. Jason’s even – well, we still argue, but Jason’s moved back in. He's been helping. And I’m slowly patching things up with Dick.”

“I’m really glad, Bruce.” Clark said. “You deserve to be happy. So do your kids.”

Bruce was quiet for a long time. “So do you.” He said. “And I think it’s time we both stopped pretending that this wouldn’t make us happy.”

“This?”

“Are you going to make me say it out loud?” Bruce grumbled, but there was no heat behind it. He pulled into the driveway of Wayne Manor. The gates slammed shut behind them with a definite thud, and Clark grinned at Bruce. This time, he was going to make him say it. Out loud.

Bruce was quiet as they made their way up the excessively long drive. He was quiet as he pulled the car to a stop, and turned the engine off. He was quiet as the kids scrambled out of the backseats, leaving Clark and Bruce alone in the car. He turned to Clark, then, and said,

“I’m in love with you.”

“You are?” It was supposed to be teasing, but the tone was more sheer relief.

Bruce swallowed. “I have been for years.”

“Years?”

“Since I met Superman for the first time. You called me weak and old and you made Dick laugh. You were so completely good. How could I not fall in love with you?”

“But – I thought Batman hated me!” Clark said, “For years!”

“I lied.”

It was so deadpan, Clark couldn’t help but laugh.

“I love you too,” He said. “I loved Bruce before Batman – but I know now that you’re not one or the other, even when you pretend to be. You’ve always been both, and I love every aspect of you, Bruce. Hell, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“We’re doing this properly.” Bruce said. “Alfred instilled some very stringent rules about dating in me, and even though my children have disregarded it completely, I intend to follow his advice to the letter.”

“We have a lot to do, then.”

“We do.” Bruce said. He leant in to kiss Clark, properly.

Before he could, though, they both started at the sound of an enormous crash, and then the very distinctive roar of flames. Over the noise, someone yelled desperately,

“Dad!”