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Chapter Text

According to the rest of the world, the League of Assassins worked only in the dark. It was an easy misconception to have. Students under Ra's al Ghul had the ability to slide in and out of the shadows as nimbly as spiders, and be just as deadly. But the ancient city of 'Eth Alth'eban had always been bathed in light. A sun all its own, propped up by the hand of its creator. A statue of the Demon himself remained ever present, lording over the subterranean city at its feet. There was no real telling how old Ra's al Ghul was. Some said centuries. Others, millenia. He walked with an air of all-knowing omnipotence. A lethal wisdom that reared its head without the man uttering so much as a word.

Strange to think that such a man was a grandfather.

Damian sat in his room. Tired eyes stared back at him in the mirror. He sat upright; his posture was often a subject for derision under Ra's al Ghul's tutelage. Despite the promise that his ceremonial clothes would make him more impressive, he hated how small he felt. How small he was. Damian lifted his head. Tried to raise his neck so that he might square his shoulders and appear older.

Today was the day his childhood ends.

The door opened. Servants bowed as a woman glided into Damian's room. Damian turned to address her, standing on attention. "Mother."

Taliah al Ghul, tall and dark with emerald eyes in sharp black paint, extended her long fingers for Damian to take. He did so, and she pulled him into an embrace. "Hello, beloved." Her voice was melodic. It reminded Damian of deep, amber honey. She pet Damian's black hair, easing the stiffness in his shoulders. "Are you ready?"

Damian stepped back. He barely reached his mother's navel. One day, he knew that he would carry himself with the poise of his grandfather. If only that day would come sooner rather than later. "Yes."

Talia stepped to one side, and she, along with her escort, walked Damian out of his room and through the halls of the palace. Serfs cowered at Damian's presence, as all beneath a certain level of standing knew better than to look the boy in the eye. Child of the Demon, they called him. Spawn of the Snake. Damian took their cowardice as payment to his family name.

He and Talia walked in silence. The smell of incense was thick today. As it should be. Out in the square, Damian could hear the strings of an instrument echo in isolation. He recognized the song; it was a funeral march. As the doors of the ceremony chamber came closer, Damian could feel his stomach squirm. He knew what awaited him. He knew what would be expected of him. He forced himself to swallow his discomfort. Weakness was unbecoming of an al Ghul.

Servants, their heads bowed, opened the stone doors upon their arrival. In contrast to the rest of the palace, the ceremony room was small and circular, with nine pillars of bone white framing each curved window. Oil lamps cast a golden glow across the floor. And at the head of the room, reverent in his splendor, was Ra's al Ghul.

Talia and Damian approached, and each one took a knee to show their respect. With their heads bowed, Ra's dained to approach them. First, he touched Talia's head. A silent acceptance of her obedience. Then, he stood himself before Damian. The heir to his empire.

"Rise."

Both stood, and Talia backed away from her son's side. The servants, sensing their dismissal, vacated through the entrance doors. The stone boomed softly at its closing. Ra's did not stray his eyes from Damian's face. Damian, ignoring the hammer in his heart, did much the same.

Ra's al Ghul removed something from his robe of gold and silk. A dagger, ancient, perhaps, as the man himself. He laid it in Damian's waiting hands. "I have waited for this day in anticipation," he said. He laid his hand on Damian's tiny shoulder. "Remember. You are my blood. Ours is the way of masters. Prove yourself to me. Prove yourself deserving of the name al Ghul."

The doors behind him opened. Servants, their heads hidden by golden cowls, wrangled in a large man, dressed in rags. Over his head was a bag of burlap. His hands were tied tightly by hemp rope, and chains jangled at his ankles. Damian pushed away the sickness in his stomach as the man was knelt forcefully at Damian's feet.

Ra's al Ghul stepped to one side. The servants kept a tight fist on the ropes tugging at the man's collar. The man made no plea, and Damian could just imagine that he had been gagged beneath the bag. Damian suddenly noticed the deep breaths of his sweating chest, and the strain of his injured arms. He noticed the pump of blood in his elevated veins. Noticed the twitch in his fingers. So many signs of life that he was meant to ignore. But now, with the dagger in his hand, Damian could do nothing but give them the attention they demanded.

This was a living, breathing soul. One that had never harmed Damian, or his family, as far as he knew. His only crime was being selected to play the part of sacrificial lamb.

Slowly, Damian unsheathed the dagger. The steel sang in the air, the oil lamps flickering against its recently polished face. The grip was worn, and Damian found his fingers in comfortable ridges along the hilt. He took a step forward. Even on his knees, the captive still towered over Damian's small body. Damian's heart thudded in his mouth as bile threatened to escape at any point. Damian swallowed it all. He could not afford weakness.

His hand trembled. He tightened his fingers on the dagger to force it still. Even so, he could not shake his body's resistance. It was as if he was being asked to dive off a cliff, attached to a rope. He knew that he would not perish, but his body did not. Damian took a deep breath in. He forced himself to retreat. Retreat into his mind, find the balance, the truth in his grandfather's words.

Ours is the way of masters.

With his eyes open, Damian shoved the dagger between the man's ribs. It sank into his heart like butter. The man did not scream. Damian yanked the dagger out, blood now gushing from the open wound. The captive gave a few helpless throes in his final moments, but before long, he went still, held up only by the taut ropes of the servants.

Damian forced himself to remain calm. But panic had started to swell. No matter how he pushed against it, it climbed up his bones and reached his mind. That sickness returned with a vengeance. It was all Damian could do to keep his lips shut tight, and ignore the vomit in his throat. When Ra's al Ghul touched his shoulder, he jumped, and turned his wide eyes to his grandfather.

"You have made me proud, al'amir. You have earned your place in the League of Assassins. Now." Ra's al Ghul took back his hand. "Remove the bag. Look into the eyes of the man you have slain."

Damian went pale. He turned his panicked eyes to the stuck corpse of his victim. "But..." he began.

"Do not defy an order, Damian. Remove it."

Damian trembled violently now. The bloody dagger was clutched so tightly in his little hands, he could feel his knuckles going white. His breath was uneven. As irrational as it was, Damian feared removing the bag. By doing so, it would all become real. He could not bury himself in denial for even a moment. But with Ra's al Ghul at his shoulder, Damian knew he had no choice.

His shaky hand reached for the sack. He could feel his palms sweat in his gloves. He wanted them off. Wanted the thick cotton of his ceremonial garb off his itchy skin. When his fingers took hold of the bag, he almost couldn't pull it. With a stilted, desperate breath, Damian yanked.

The dead face of Bruce Wayne stared at him with glassy eyes.

Damian woke with a start. Sitting up in bed, he was acutely aware of the sweat that drenched his pajamas before anything else. His breath was harried and frantic, and his eyes searched around his empty room. It took far too long for Damian to remember where he was. He was not in 'Eth Alth'eban, but Gotham. Not in Ra's al Ghul's palace, but his bedroom in Wayne Manor. And he hadn't killed anyone in a very long time.

Damian pushed back the soaked hair from his face and took a deep breath. His heart was not settled. He hadn't had such a dream in years. He thought about laying back down, but his nerves were far too agitated. He knew he would get no further sleep. He really was his father's son that way.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, his toes still barely touched the carpet. He frowned, and tried to stretch his feet so that they might land flat. He barely got the ball of his foot to the floor before he stared sliding off the side of the bed. With a huff, he folded his legs and shoved his hands in his lap.

His eyes, well trained for the dark, lingered on his door. When he first moved into Wayne Manor, Damian insisted that it remained closed and locked at all times. These days, there were some nights when it was left ajar. Tonight was one of them.

Damian got out of bed and stepped into the hall. He thought about heading down to the kitchen for a snack, but didn't want to disturb Alfred. The butler had a sort of sixth sense for when rogues were shuffling around in his kitchen. Perhaps a midnight stroll in the garden? Somehow, the idea of going out into the Gotham air didn't appeal to him. He was just deciding when he heard a shift from his father's room. He paused.

Clark had been moved in for weeks now. But if Damian recalled correctly, the two men had different bedrooms as a means of practicality. Bruce was a light sleeper with terrible habits, and Clark was not equipped for anything less than a full eight hours. However, when Damian gently pushed open Bruce's door, he saw not one form under the covers, but two.

Damian's shoulders slumped, and he huddled against the door. It was silly to think he might have found his father alone. Perhaps that walk in the garden was warranted...

"Damian?"

Clark's voice grumbled softly from the pillows. Through the darkness, Damian could see Clark lift his groggy head. He yawned and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. "What's up?"

Damian retreated a half step. "Nothing."

"Couldn't sleep?"

"I'm fine."

Clark hesitated. "You realize I can hear your heartbeat?" Damian shied his face away, and Clark propped himself up on one elbow. "What's wrong?"

"He had a nightmare."

Damian straightened at his father's voice. Bruce hadn't so much as moved a muscle, laying flat on his back with his hands folded properly against his chest. Remembering the horrid sight of Damian's dream, part of him hesitated to look too closely. But he reminded himself that even if he wanted to, there was no real harm he could bring upon Bruce Wayne.

Damian braced against the door, both hands on the knob. "It wasn't anything substantial. I shouldn't have bothered you..." His words died when he saw Bruce slide his hand to the edge of the bed and pat the sheet. Damian hesitated. But, realizing he was in no mood to return to bed alone, made his way to Bruce's side and climbed on top of the sheets. With no preamble, Damian plopped himself on his father's chest. He listened to Bruce's heartbeat, as if to remind himself that it was still pumping.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Clark asked.

Damian furrowed his brow. "It was my first kill. Back in 'Eth Alth'eban." Clark's eyes widened slightly. Bruce's remained closed. "Only, I never saw the face of the man I killed, in reality. In the dream, I... Grandfather made me remove the bag over the man's head after I killed him." When Clark didn't respond, Damian gripped Bruce's t'shirt. "It was you, father. In my dream."

A soft rumble came from Bruce's chest. "I see."

"I don't fantasize about killing you, for the record," said Damian. "At least, I don't anymore."

"Mm."

"In reality, it was likely brought on by external factors. Like a latent fever or other anxieties." He paused. "Or gas."

"Well you're not farting," Bruce pointed out.

"I suppose."

"You don't have to justify it." Bruce cracked his eyes open just a touch, and met Damian's through the dark. "I've dreamed about killing Clark more times than I can count."

Clark straightened up. "Wait, you have?" That made Damian giggle a bit, and he relaxed further on Bruce's chest. His hand slid down, and Clark, kindly, offered Damian his own. Damian took him by the fingers. "How old were you? If you don't mind my asking."

Damian's answer was dry and factual. "It was my eighth birthday. Grandfather wanted to begin seriously training me in the League. It was my initiation." It was clear by his expression that Clark had a few choice words about making an eight year old into an assassin. But Damian squeezed his fingers, and in doing so, stifled whatever was on the tip of his tongue. "It's alright," he said. "I'm not there anymore."

"It's not alright," Clark growled. "It's--"

"Clark." Bruce's voice settled him, and Clark laid back down into the pillows. Bruce rested his hand on the back of Damian's head. Damian was reminded distinctly of his mother, and relaxed at the slight pressure of his father's large palm. "It's practically ancient history. Right?" Damian nodded softly. Bruce laid a soft kiss on Damian's crown. That alone seemed to invite fatigue, and Damian's eyes started to shutter closed.

Clark shifted. "Did you want me to...?" He made to leave, but Damian's hand tightened. Clark took that as his cue to stay. He hunkered down close, his free arm tucked underneath his head. "Nighty night," he said. "Sleep good, sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs--"

"Clark." Despite his scolding tone, Damian could almost feel Bruce smile. "Goodnight. Both of you."

Damian hunkered underneath Bruce's chin. "Goodnight, father." He hesitated. In a much, much smaller voice, he whispered: "Goodnight, dad." Clark closed his eyes with a wide smile on his face. Just as Damian was drifting off to sleep, he felt something metal bump against his pinky.

Damian opened his eyes. There, in the dark, on Clark's left ring finger, was a thin, gold band, encrusted with three clear gemstones.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

"I don't see why I had to come," came Jason's loud voice from the door.

"Just suck it up," Dick retorted. "It's not like it'll kill you."

"Again."

"Shove it, man."

The two elder Wayne children walked through the foyer into the western dining hall. It had been a while since a dinner necessitated the use of such a large space. Typically, it was reserved for hosting. It was a long room with a huge mahogany table, overlooking wide bay windows. A portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne hung over the fireplace, which had since been adorned by photos of the various additions to the Wayne family. Dick posed in a Christmas sweater, Jason in a middle school photo, Tim on a fishing trip by Gotham Lake, and Damian's single baby photo all had spots on the mantle. Damian had yet to allow a photographer to take a new portrait.

Dick and Jason joined the others, who were chatting before dinner. Jason's eyes snapped immediately to the plus one clinging to Tim's shoulders from behind. "Uh, I thought this was a family dinner?"

Conner flashed Jason a casual middle finger. "Yeah, and that means me, too. So suck it."

"Be nice, you two," said Tim. "Conner, do us both a favor and don't take the bait. Or you won't be let back into the house."

Conner took extra pains to wrap his arms around Tim's shoulders and kiss his cheek. "Scout's honor."

"Gag," said Jason.

"Are we all here?" Bruce and Clark stepped through the door as Alfred wheeled in their supper. Tonight was blackened salmon (eggplant for Damian) with blanched greens and scalloped potatoes. Bruce took his chair at the head of the table, with Clark at his right hand. The boys filled in the rest of the space as Alfred served them.

"Why does this seem fancier than normal?" Tim asked. He watched as Alfred put Conner's nap in his lap for him, leaving Conner confused. "Are we expecting anyone?"

"Not really," said Bruce.

Jason picked up his crystal goblet. "B, you only ever bring out these shits when the governor is in town or something."

"No swearing at the dinner table, Master Jason," said Alfred.

Jason snorted. "Oh go fu--"

"Jason," Bruce warned.

Jason curtailed his annoyance and put the goblet down. "Sorry," he grumbled.

"Quite alright, young master."

Bruce settled in his chair. "You are right, though. Tonight isn't a normal dinner. There's something Clark and I would like to announce."

Dick leaned forward, already digging into his fish. "You're pregnant!" he declared. Jason and Conner both laughed, while Tim scrunched up his nose in disgust. "How far along, B? May I suggest 'Richard Jr'?"

Jason howled, slapping his hand on the table until his fish jumped up from its plate. "Ahahaha! Dick Jr!"

Conner leaned back in his chair, hovering slightly to keep it from falling. His hands clutched his stomach. "Oh my God! I bet it'd come out looking like an angry little scrotum!"

"Boys." Clark's voice quelled the jokes, though Jason still had a few giggles left in him. "I understand we like to joke, but please give your father a little respect?" He eyed Conner, who wiped away his tears. "Both fathers, please."

"Oh come on," said Tim, leaning back in his chair. "Knowing Bruce, this is probably just another recon mission into some kind of global criminal network. I'll give you props, Bruce, at least you let us know this time. Rather than just screwing off behind our backs."

"No," said Bruce. "No globetrotting the criminal underworld."

"Well what then?" said Dick. "Don't tell me we're out of money. Is that even possible?" Dick leaned forward on the table. "Are we going to need to resort to feet pictures?"

"They're engaged, you morons." Damian's voice cut through the noise, and the entire table turned to him. Damian's eyes hadn't left his plate. "I'm surprised they're bothering to tell any of you, if this is how you behave. Animals."

"Wait, no shit?"

"Master Dick, language."

"Er, sorry Alfie! I mean, no kidding? Are you really...?"

Clark smiled and held up his hand. He showed off the thin band of gold on his finger. "As of a few nights ago."

"Well hey!" Dick threw up his hands. "Mazel Tov! When's the big day?"

"We haven't done any planning yet," said Clark. "We wanted to run it by all of you first. You know... Get your input, I guess?"

"Wait." Conner leaned forward over his food. "If you and Bruce get married...? That would make me and Tim..." He counted on his fingers and then turned to Tim in a panic. "That doesn't make it weird, does it? Please tell me it doesn't make it weird?" He suddenly stood, his face red with panic. "Hold on! I object!"

"You only object during the ceremony, dumbass," said Jason, bored.

Tim put his hand on Conner's elbow. "Babe, relax." Conner sat back down. "It doesn't make it weird."

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes. Oh my God. I'm adopted and you're..." Tim gestured. "You know."

Alfred began to pour champagnes to celebrate. Even Damian got the smallest touch of bubbly in his goblet. Once Alfred was done, Bruce held up his glass in a toast. "There's more to this," he said. "It'll probably be a while until we tie the knot. But in the meantime, there's lots to do. Lots to plan, lots to prepare. And, of course, I'll need to pick who's going to be standing with me at the altar." His eyes settled on Dick. "What do you say? Feel like being my best man?"

Dick straightened in surprise. But after a moment, his lips split into a smile and he raised his glass high. "I'd be honored, old man. Cheers!" The table all held their goblets high and took a sip. Dick flashed a coy smile. "I can't wait to embarrass you at the reception."

"One thing at a time, chum."

Over dinner, the Waynes and the Kents spoke of nothing else. Conner took some convincing, but ultimately, he got with the program. Jason pissed and moaned about renting a tux, but it was clear his complaints were surface level. Alfred would be officiating, of course, and there was quite a bit of chatter about where it would be held. It seemed strange that the whole debacle that got them into this mess was playing out for real now. And it left Clark with a warmth in his heart.

That is, until he noticed Damian picking at his dinner.

During the whole of the evening, Damian hadn't said more than a few noncommittal words, and only when addressed. He ate sparingly, and despite the rare treat of being allowed a sip of champagne, didn't seem to push his luck. As the dinner bled into dessert, Clark nudged Bruce under the table. Bruce looked up as Clark nodded subtly to his youngest. With Damian sitting at the far end of the table, Bruce was ashamed to realize he almost wouldn't have noticed if Clark hadn't pointed it out.

Dessert was gelato in everyone's preferred flavor. Vanilla for Bruce and Clark, mint for Dick, chocolate for Jason, espresso for Tim, matcha for Conner, and strawberry for Damian. While the others dug into their ice cream, Damian didn't so much as take a bite. Instead, he elected to carve his tiny spoon into the pink scoop, making intricate designs that made sense to no one but himself.

Bruce tapped his mouth with his napkin and stood. "I think we need a little coffee with dessert." Tim perked up. "Decaf." Tim scowled. Bruce ignored him and turned to his youngest. "Damian? Can you help me in the kitchen?"

"Huh?" Damian looked up, having been pulled from his thoughts. He gave in without much fuss, and followed Bruce into the southern kitchen. Alfred was enjoying a mug of tea himself, and barely spared them a glance as they started the coffee pot.

"You didn't eat much," Bruce remarked.

Damian shrugged. "I'm not really that hungry."

The coffee machine whirred, and Bruce pulled out a small tray of mugs. "I see. So it doesn't have anything to do with your disapproval of the engagement?" 

Damian kept his eyes forward. "I don't disapprove."

"You're right, you're the picture of acceptance."

Damian scowled. He sat on a kitchen stool and folded his arms. He refused to meet his father's eyes. "I'm not rejecting your engagement, father. It isn't my place, for one thing."

"That's your grandfather talking," said Bruce. He set the mugs to one side and leaned against the counter by his hip. "Damian, you know I value your thoughts." Damian said nothing. "If something worries you about this, please tell me."

"No."

"Why not?"

Damian hesitated. "Because it isn't important."

"Yes it is. If you feel strongly about it--"

"You've already made your decision," Damian snapped. "What good would it be to discuss it further?" Bruce furrowed his brow, and Damian folded his arms tight. "I'm only wondering how long I have left with your attention. That's all."

Bruce's eyes widened. He glanced at Alfred, who also wore an expression of surprise. Rather than helping, Alfred picked up his tea, stood from the table, and made his exit into the garden. Looks like Bruce was on his own.

Bruce took a half step forward. "Damian, what are you talking about?"

Damian glanced timidly up at Bruce. He hadn't unfolded his arms. "You're getting married," he said. "It is natural for your attention to divert. The others are men. I'm still... a child. So I suppose I had gotten used to your undivided attention. That will change when you and Kent say your vows."

Bruce took his time to respond. "Are you suggesting I'm going to forget about you?" he asked.

"No," said Damian. "But I expect our quality time to lessen regardless. I hold no ill will towards you, father. It's inevitable."

"No it is not." Bruce's answer was immediate, and firm enough to rattle Damian's conviction. "You're my son."

"Your blood son," Damian mumbled.

Bruce softened slightly. "Yes," he said. "Clark knows how I feel about my kids. About you and your brothers. And he knows that if it was a choice between him or you, I'd pick you every time. And he doesn't blame me for it."

Damian's hard shell began to crack. "You would?"

"Of course I would. Always."

Damian let his hands fall to his lap. His ankles locked, hanging half way down the stool. "Father?"

"Yes, son?"

"Do you really dream about killing him?" Damian looked up.

A smile tickled Bruce's lips. "Sometimes," he said. "Not as often as I used to. But I've dreamt about killing most of the Justice League before. It's not unusual."

"Hm." Damian relaxed his shoulders. "Who do you kill most often?"

"Green Lantern."

"Oh." Their conversation lulled, and Damian stared off into space. "Have you... ever dreamed about killing us?"

Bruce's expression sobered. "In my worst nightmares," he confirmed. "Yes."

"Would you?"

The air grew heavy. Damian forced himself to look Bruce in the eye. His jaw was set, his expression unyielding. "If you had to," he said. "If there was no other way."

"No."

"What if the world was at stake? What if everything you'd ever known was going to burn down around you, and the only way to stop it was to kill any one of us?"

Bruce let the question linger. Stepping forward, he rested his hand on Damian's shoulder. "Then I'd let the world burn." A shimmer came to Damian's green eyes. Jumping from his stool, he shoved his face into Bruce's stomach. Bruce held him tight. 

Chapter Text

"Evenin', Kent. This a bad time?"

"Not at all."

"What's with the wind?"

Superman spun lazily through the air, his cellphone pressed to his ear. The sun was setting across Metropolis, and so far, it had been a rather quiet patrol. No uninvited space creatures or evil computer programs as far as the eye could see. Dare he say it was even peaceful. Superman rolled onto his back, flying upside down as he watched the stars above him start to blink awake. "Just out for a flight. I can hear you just fine."

"Well of course you can, you big git. Whatever. I just called to thank you for those aether files."

"Oh?" Superman fixed himself to fly rightside up. "You started looking through them?"

"Mmhm. Brilliant stuff. If the Bat is to be believed, it's damn near identical to magic."

"That's what Brainiac said. I thought you'd get a kick out of it."

"Well score one for the bloody Terminator then, cause he's spot on."

Superman chuckled. "I really hope you're being careful, John. This stuff, I've seen it burn through space-time like it's acid. Promise me you're not abusing it."

Constantine scoffed on the other line. "Now when have you known me to not be careful?" Superman opened his mouth to reply. "No. Don't answer that." Superman could hear the clink of a glass as Constantine sipped his evening cocktail. "Tell you what, I'm about to order a month's worth of takeaway and have myself a party. Handling this stuff, it's like playing with the fabric of the universe. I'm about to have me a grand old time, let me tell you."

"Alright. I'm trusting you to be responsible."

"When have I ever not been--? No, don't answer that either. So. How's the Man of Steel these days?"

Superman sighed blissfully and rested his chin in his hand. "He's great. No. Better than great."

"Oh yeah? What, you in love or something?"

Reaching to his neck, Superman toyed with the engagement ring on a fine, gold chain. It hid perfectly under his suit when necessary, but for now, he enjoyed the feel of it out in the open. "You could say that."

Constantine whistled. "Lucky boy. Who's the bird? Or is it a bloke? Something in the middle, maybe?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Go on then."

Superman made to answer, but stopped himself. As much as he wanted to shout his engagement to the rooftops, he resisted. Something told him that Bruce may not be entirely pleased if he went around blabbing without approval. Still, he couldn't ignore the chance to gush. "You wouldn't know him."

"Probably. You Americans all look alike to me. What's he like?"

"A little serious sometimes. Maybe a little too serious. Drop dead gorgeous, of course. Intelligent. Kind. Loves kids."

"Bleh. Sounds too healthy for me. Give me a man with daddy issues on a government watchlist any day of the week."

Superman's ear twitched, and he straightened up. Down below--precisely five miles away to be exact--he heard the click of a loaded gun. Something told him it wasn't loaded with blanks. "Duty calls. Take care of yourself, John."

"You too, mate."

Hanging up, Superman zipped across the sky and barrelled toward the noise. His eyes honed in, and from above, saw a lone gunman in an alleyway with a woman in his sights. In a split second, Superman appeared in front of the barrel, the gun now pointed directly at his S. The robber, whose hand had been held out for the woman's purse, widened his eyes and looked all the way up to meet Superman's cool gaze.

"I can appreciate that rent is going up these days," said Superman, "but you really should consider delivering pizzas instead." In a panic, the robber reared back, pulling the trigger on accident. The bullet rammed against Superman's cheek, flattening like a pancake before falling uselessly to the ground. Superman cocked an eyebrow. "Right. I think I'll have that." He plucked the gun out of the terrified robber's hand. Feeling playful, Superman actually took a bite at the end of the gun like a burrito. That scared the poor robber senseless, and he fled down the end of the alley. Superman chuckled and spat out the wad of gunmetal. "That'll teach him," he concluded.

"My hero."

Superman turned. Lois Lane, a smile on her lips and a hand on her hip, swung the purse by its strap on her finger. "Aren't I the lucky girl? It's been a while since we've cross paths, hasn't it? Not since the um..." Lois snapped.

"Xarthacian Nurse Beast."

"Right. Whatever that is. Seems like I can't seem to catch you as often as I used to. That special somebody still keeping you occupied?"

Superman's smile softened. "Afraid so. Still, I've been keeping an eye on things from afar."

"Uh huh." Lois fished out a recorder from her purse and spun it in her fingers. "How about a soundbite before you go?"

Superman felt himself tempted, but took a half step back. "I really shouldn't."

"Oh come on, Mr. Good Bar. The whole world has been dying to know who you've got at home. You should see the speculation on the internet."

"Speculation?"

"Look." Lois pulled out her phone and opened up Twitter. "There's a whole hashtag on it. #SuperSpouse."

"You're kidding."

Lois began to read off the threads. "Let's see who we've got here... There's Wonder Woman, obviously."

Superman laughed. "I'm afraid I'm not Wonder Woman's type."

Lois looked up. "She has a type?"

"Yes. Not men."

"Ah. Gotchya." She went back to reading. "Hawkgirl."

"Afraid not. She's a bit much, even for me."

"Black Canary?"

"Even more so."

"Supergirl."

Superman blinked. "Miss Lane, these people do know that Supergirl is my cousin, right?"

"Yeah, that doesn't stop them."

Superman rubbed his eyes, managing to keep his smile, though just barely. "I can say definitively that these are all incorrect guesses."

"Hm..." Lois thumbed through the thread a bit longer. "Oh, here's one. Though I think this is perhaps the wildest guess of all."

Superman's head snapped up. His heart thumped, and his stomach flipped. For a split second, he wondered. Had someone online pieced it together? Enough eyes had seen his and Batman's work over the years to find enough of a thread to pull on. Had some stranger, bored on Twitter, really started to tug?

Lois turned her screen around. "Green Arrow."

Superman blinked. He looked at the photo. In it, Superman and Green Arrow were seen smiling in a hospital room full of sick children. Superman didn't even remember when the picture was taken, but apparently, according to Twitter user ArrowsandCapes5632, the two of them were far too close together to be considered "just friends." Someone had even photoshopped it so that they were holding hands. It took everything in Superman not to bust out laughing.

"No," he said.

"No?"

"Regrettably. But Arrow and I are very good friends."

"I see." Lois pulled her phone back. "May I assume men aren't to your tastes?"

"I didn't say that."

Lois' eyes twinkled, and she held her recorder up a bit further. "Interesting..."

Superman realized what trap he'd fallen into, and was quick to redirect. "May I ask, Miss Lane? This isn't your typical story."

"Ah." Lois leaned on one hip. "I'm afraid I was drafted."

She's helping Cat with her gossip column, Superman concluded. "I see. Well, I should really be getting going, Miss Lane. My shift isn't quite over." He began to lift off the ground.

"Wait!" Lois reached up, and Superman hovered, mid-air. "Will there ever come a time when you might clue us in?" she asked. "Will Superman's sweetheart ever see the light of day?"

Superman's chest tightened. He wanted so desperately to say yes. Honestly, he had half a mind to invite Lois to the wedding right then and there, if only to see the brilliant photos Jimmy would take for the Sunday edition. But he knew the man he was marrying. And Bruce Wayne was not as open to the public as he pretended to be, for more than just the obvious. "Stranger things have happened. Good night, Miss Lane."

"Goodnight, Superman."

As Superman sped off into the sky, his hand went to the hidden ring under his suit. Superman knew the man he'd fallen in love with. He knew Bruce valued privacy among all else. Even so, perhaps there would come a time when that facade would crack. Perhaps, one day, Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne--Superman and Batman--would face the world together without flinching.

Stranger things indeed.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

What to order locally? Flowers? There were at least ten good shops in Gotham Bruce could order from, though he might want their boutonnières to be the genetically recreated Kryptonian rose that he once gave to Clark for his birthday. The bulbs were still in hibernation. He was sure he could get it to bloom before the big day. Boy, and they hadn't even decided on a date yet, had they? It would have to be when crime was at a low. Spring was usually fairly calm, given that most thefts happened around the holidays. But that left barely any time to plan. Spring of next year then? Ah, but how much time were they going to even take off? Could they? Of course they should. It was a wedding and a honeymoon. But realistically, how long could Gotham and Metropolis go without their defenders? A week? Maybe two... The honeymoon might have to be local. Though, with Clark's gift of flight and Bruce's gift of money, they could certainly get anywhere they wanted and back again in a flash. Money... should Bruce do party favors? At least for his groomsmen? Deposits were no big problem, but where were they even going to have the damn thing? Bruce's instincts told him that Clark deserved a destination wedding with all the stops. Hell, maybe they could show up to the venu in a horse and carriage and say their vows with doves or something... Whatever would make that sappy, Kansas boy happy.

Bruce stopped himself. He lifted his head from his laptop, only now just realizing how flush with sticky notes it was. A horse and carriage? Doves? Not even he was that extra...

Bruce sighed and pinched his nose. He was getting ahead of himself. He knew it was a possibility, but damn. They'd barely been engaged a week and already he was losing his mind over planning. While he was lamenting his life decisions, his phone buzzed. He picked it up from the desk to see a message from Dick.

Bachelor party ideas!
Strippers and poker?

Bruce blinked. He texted back.

Please tell me your kidding.

Oh yeah, totally!

There was a pause, and Dick's third message came in hot.

Please ignore the charges on your card.
Deposits for exotic dancers
are non-refundable.

You're planning my bachelor party
with my own credit card?

Yeah?? I don't have money???

I give you an allowance.

I'm saving up for stuff.

Bruce sighed and shook his head. Clicking Dick's name, he leaned back in his seat as the line rang.

"Yello~" Dick answered.

"I don't even know if I want a bachelor party."

"What?! Oh come on, B! You've gotta have one! I had this idea for a party bus--"

"No."

"Jeeze, wet blanket. Okay, something more... I dunno, boring? How about a weekend in the woods? We could all go to a cabin and smoke cigars."

Bruce's expression was deeply unamused. "You want our entire family in a small, secluded place for a prolonged period of time?"

"Okay, fair point."

"Dick, listen, I appreciate the effort. But you really don't need to go all out for this."

"Are you kidding? You're getting married, Bruce! I never thought I'd live to see the day."

Bruce frowned. "I could have gotten married to someone else," he said.

"Pfft, I don't think so."

"What's that mean?"

"I mean, before Clark fell into your lap--literally--you were pretty much 0 for broke, Bats. I think you went on a total of two dates while I was still living there. And it only got worse as you got older."

"I still dated."

"My point is, I'm happy for you. I want us to celebrate. This is a huge deal, you know?"

Bruce drummed his fingers on the desk. "I dunno, Dick. It feels like extra stress."

"Yeah, that's why I'm handling it. Though some input would be appreciated."

"Input." Bruce propped his forehead in his hand, his elbow on the desk. "I'm already stretched thin enough as it is."

"What do you mean?"

"We haven't even decided on a date."

"Well what does Clark think?" When Bruce didn't answer, Dick's voice grew blunt. "You haven't even asked him, have you?"

"He's busy."

"Doing what?"

"He's in the other room working on a new article for the Planet. I didn't want to bug him."

"Bruce... are you trying to plan the whole damn thing by yourself? Seriously?"

"I'm good at planning things."

"You didn't even plan to have children and you wound up with four. I very much beg to differ."

Bruce leaned back in his seat. "I just... I want to take care of him," he admitted. "He deserves everything he wants and thensome. You know?"

Dick chuckled. "Yeah. I know, trust me."

"Oh, that reminds me." Bruce filed through his endless notes. "What do you think our boutonnières should be? I have that Kryptonian flower that--"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because--"

"Bruce. Go ask Clark."

"I don't want to stress him out."

"You're stressing me out, man. Go talk to your damn fiance about wedding things and give yourself some room to breathe!" Bruce relaxed his shoulders, and Dick spoke with much more sincerity. "How can you give him the wedding of his dreams if you don't even know what they are?"

A wry little smile wormed its way on Bruce's lips. "Yeah. You're right."

"Of course I'm right. So, for the party bus--"

"Goodbye, Dick." Bruce hung up before Dick could convince him on anything vaguely bus-related. Standing, he cracked his back and glanced at the adjoining door to Clark's room. He could hear the frantic typing of Clark's keyboard, and wondered if Clark had been too busy to catch any of the conversation. Leaving his desk, he poked his head through the door.

Clark was at his own desk, which was in twice the state as Bruce's. A box of casefiles sat on an extra chair, with an old corkboard holding up note cards and old newspaper clippings. At a glance, Bruce figured he was working on an expose around political corruption. Bruce recognized a few lobbyists from their photos, and knew first hand the kind of men they were. The thought of Clark bringing them to slaughter was, somehow, wildly attractive.

"You busy?" Bruce asked.

Clark didn't look up from his work, answering only with a noncommittal grunt. Bruce approached and took in Clark's appearance. He had gone into the office that morning, and had since ditched his coat and rolled up his sleeves to write. His tie was loose and hung lopsided under his starched white collar. His hair was coiffed and untamed, bouncing every time he moved his head to make a note or find a citation. He leaned so far forward in his chair that Bruce got a perfect angle to clock the pinch of his beautiful waist, and how it curved up into a wide, sumptuous back. Clark's hair along his nape sprang upwards, leaving a mile long stretch of bare skin from collar to hairline. Bruce found himself running his tongue along his teeth at the mere sight of something so scandalous. Tearing his eyes away, he noticed the three empty mugs of coffee. With Clark's metabolism, it was very difficult for any substance to work, caffeine included. Which meant he was probably macro-dosing some of Tim's extra special stash. Espresso that could wake an army from the dead.

Bruce came in closer and picked up one of the mugs with spindle fingers. "I had a question for you. If you're not too preoccupied?"

"Mm?" Clark's eyes never left the screen, his useless glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose. "Yes, my love?"

Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but found his tongue arrested. Clark's words, casual though they were, landed on Bruce's ears with the force of an atom bomb. My love. My love. Clark had said those words once before, back when he was under the influence of the lavender bullet. Back then, Bruce had shoved his tingles away by convincing himself that Clark was not behaving naturally. To hear it again said in earnest was almost enough to knock Bruce Wayne on his emotionally stunted ass. Whatever banal question had risen to his lips died quickly, and all Bruce was left with was a happiness that left him mute and immobilized.

Realizing that Bruce had been quiet for too long, Clark finally looked up from his work. "Bruce?" Clark noticed the kiss of color on Bruce's cheeks, and the glaze in his icy blue eyes. Clark listened in and heard, to his surprise and delight, that Bruce's heart rate had increased by at least fifty percent. "Everything alright?" Bruce's eyes fell to Clark's hand. His left hand specifically. The thin, gold band on his finger shimmered in the sunlight. Bruce's eyes softened, and Clark could hear his heart skip a beat.

Clark stood from the desk and approached Bruce with a kindly smile. "Hey." He tilted his chin with the tips of his fingers. "Everything good?"

Bruce closed his eyes, momentarily recalling his ability to speak. "Sorry," he bumbled. "Just... a little in over my head."

"With what?" Clark rubbed Bruce's shoulders in comfort, urging him forward. Bruce rested his head on Clark's shoulder, relaxing into Clark's strong frame. "Wedding stuff?"

"Wedding stuff."

"I see." Clark ran his fingers through Bruce's hair. He hadn't bothered to gel it, making it much easier to comb through. Clark kissed Bruce's crown. "Why don't you set it aside for the time being? We don't have to have everything figured out so soon."

"We don't even have a date set," Bruce said, his hands gripping the back of Clark's shirt.

"So we'll figure one out."

"I don't even know where it'll be." He smiled in spite of himself. "When you had that kryptonite in your chest, you were convinced we got married in Bali."

"Oh right," Clark chuckled. "Well. There's no need to go so big."

"No need?" Bruce lifted his head with a frown. "It's our wedding. The only one you or I will ever have, hopefully. Don't you want it to be special?"

"It's already going to be special," Clark reminded him.

Bruce scoffed. "Oh don't come at me with that midwestern, salt of the earth philosophy. My parents got married in an actual castle. In Scotland. What are we supposed to do, elope?"

"No," said Clark. "But we're also not you're parents." Clark squished their noses together. "What do you want to do?"

Bruce pouted. An action which he would normally only pull for the press. Which... he supposed, he still was. "I don't know," he admitted. "Somewhere... somewhere we'll never forget. Somewhere that shows you just how much you mean to me."

Clark cupped Bruce's cheeks, his thumbs running back and forth along his jaw. "Is that what this is about? Bruce, you're already marrying me. How much more proof do you think I need?" Bruce didn't answer, his eyes shying away. Clark's smile only widened. "Let's have it here."

Bruce looked up. "What?"

"Look at this place. It's practically already a wedding venue on its own. We could get married in the garden, or the ballroom, or heck, even the library! We wouldn't need to go anywhere for it, and all our guests would have free rooms to stay in. Seems like a pretty clear solution, don't you think?" When Bruce didn't answer right away, Clark leaned forward, threatening a kiss. "If you really want to show me how much I mean to you, I think marrying in your ancestral home is proof enough. Don't you, my love?"

My love.

Bruce's heart gave another jolt, and he gripped Clark's wrists, shoving his face into his palms. How did Clark do this to him? He was fucking Batman for chrissakes, but all it took were a few gestures of sincerity from Clark, and he was transformed into a blushing teenager. If he wasn't so bothered, he'd find it all so fucking irritating. But as it stood, in the privacy of Clark's room, Bruce couldn't bring himself to be upset.

The fact that Clark was the only one to ever make him feel this way was practically the reason Bruce was marrying him, after all.

Settling himself, Bruce nodded, and slipped Clark a kiss. "Alright," he said. "Here is good."

"Excellent. See? That's so much work already done." Clark kissed the tip of Bruce's nose. "Easy peasy, lemon squeezy."

Bruce snorted. "You are fucking embarrassing," he said.

Clark's smile was coy. "I'm not the one who gets flustered at the drop of a hat. Am I? My love?" 

Bruce narrowed his eyes, ignoring the pounding in his ears. "Stop listening to my organs."

"Make me."

Their kiss burned like fire. Bruce wrapped his arms tight around Clark's shoulders, with Clark's big hands supporting Bruce's lower back. Part of Bruce wanted to object; Clark had work. But given that Clark wasn't in a rush to get back to it, Bruce supposed that he was due for a break. At some point, Clark pushed Bruce until his backend was perched precariously on Clark's desk. Their kiss deepened, and Bruce anchored himself with a hand, accidentally knocking off a stack of Clark's research. Neither noticed.

Clark pressed himself up against Bruce's crotch. Already his exceptional anatomy was begging to spring from his jeans. Bruce yanked on Clark's shirt, loosening a few buttons before clawing up his chest. Was it the middle of the day? Yes. Were they too horny to care? God yes.

Bruce's pants were off before he realized it. His cotton briefs stretched thin as Clark fondled his erection. Clark hooked his fingers in Bruce's waistband in attempts to slide them off. Unfortunately, in his haste, he ended up completely ripping them in half. He gasped, breaking their makeout to look down between Bruce's legs. 

"Ah! Sorry, I--!"

Bruce yanked him into another kiss. With his free hand, he guided Clark's between his legs. He was Bruce Wayne. He could buy an underwear factory if he needed to. Clark stopped kissing again to wet his fingers liberally. Reaching down, he began to probe and spread Bruce's pucker with expert precision. With their tongues enmeshed, Bruce wrapped his hand around both of their manhoods and started to stroke.

Clark broke for air, his glasses fogging up between them. The roll of his foreskin made his whole lower half electric to the touch. Without so much as a word, Clark sped to his end table and rushed back, this time with a bottle of lube. The whole thing took less than a second. Bruce laughed, and they started to kiss again.

With Bruce stretched and oled, Clark spread Bruce's legs wide and started to thrust. Bruce held him by the neck, arching his back so that Clark might have ample room to move. His shirt had been dramatically mussed, and now hung off one shoulder with only three buttons to hold it together. Clark took advantage to kiss the scars on Bruce's chest. The desk beneath them scratched with every hump. Clark's eyes closed, and he furrowed his brows in concentration. In his haze, Bruce noticed that his glasses were barely hanging off his nose, thick with fog. Bruce plucked them off Clark without thinking and put them on his own face.

Clark looked up, pausing in slight surprise. Bruce had retained a stoic, flushed expression beneath the frames. As if testing the waters to see if he'd ruined the mood. Clark suddenly split into a smile and held Bruce even closer to his chest.

"Cute," he breathed. Bruce's whole face went red. With their lips brushing together, Clark started moving again, this time with a fresh vigor. Bruce bit his lower lip, the glasses hanging lopsided off his nose. The slaps of their skin echoed through the room, Bruce only vaguely concerned with not being too loud. The last thing he wanted was for the whole house to hear them rattling the desk. Though that may be unavoidable...

Clark buried his face into Bruce's neck, drinking in his smell. His hips found a rapid pace, and soon, Bruce had grown numb with ecstacy. His toes curled, and his back arched sharply. As his crotch tightened, he could feel himself suddenly spilling over the edge. He came between them, soiling the embroidery on his shirt. Clark came almost immediately after, and the two of them cooled down, still connected at the hips.

Clark showered Bruce in soft and supple kisses. Bruce shivered, twirling his fingers in Clark's hair. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"For what?" Bruce gestured to the desk, and only then did Clark realize that they'd gotten biblical over his afternoon assignment. "Oh. Whoops."

"Did you... not notice?"

"Bit distracted, yeah."

Dislodging himself from Bruce, Clark brought them to the bathroom to clean up. They shared a shower to rinse off, with fresh clothes waiting for them on the bathroom counter. Bruce rustled his hair under the water, letting droplets splash all around them. Clark held him from behind, enjoying the full-coverage of the overhead faucets. When Bruce felt Clark kiss his neck, Bruce leaned into his wide chest.

"We're trying to get clean," he reminded Clark. "And you need to get back to your article."

"I'm a fast typist," said Clark.

Bruce snorted. "Sure." They shared a kiss over Bruce's shoulder. Clark swayed them softly, and Bruce sighed in content. "It's a good thing I have a high pain tolerance," he said. "I think if I was anyone else you'd be putting me in the hospital."

Clark looked worried. "I don't go that hard, do I?"

"I'm being facetious, Clark."

"Oh." Clark ran his hand up and down Bruce's chest. "Back on topic... Are we settled on the Manor for the venu? I think it's a pretty great idea, myself."

"Of course you do. You thought of it." Bruce's smile was warm. "But I do, too."

"Yeah?"

"It's perfect."

Clark kissed his neck fondly. "Alright. I guess all that really needs to happen is picking a date and a guest list. Obviously we'll have your kids, my parents, Kon, Diana, Barry..."

Bruce blinked. "Diana and Barry?"

"Well yeah. I still gotta figure out my best man. I was thinking maybe someone from the League, or even Kara..."

Bruce stepped out of Clark's arms and turned to him. "Clark," he said slowly, "you're not thinking of inviting the Justice League to our wedding?"

Clark's hands hovered in surprise. "Uh... yeah?"

"You're messing with me."

"I'm not, I--" Clark paused. "Why wouldn't we invite them? They're our friends."

"They're our colleagues."

"What? Bruce, come on. What about Oliver? Or J'onn or Hal?"

"Hal Jordan is not coming to my fucking wedding."

Clark furrowed his brow. "You can't be serious."

"As far as I'm concerned, this arrangement needs to be on a strictly need-to-know basis. And from where I'm standing, two thirds of the League definitely does not need to know."

"Why not?" Clark argued.

"Because I said so."

"I'm not your kid, Bruce. That isn't going to fly. Give me a real reason."

"I never wanted them to know me," Bruce said, turning to Clark fully. "I only allowed it once I realized there was no further use to hiding who I was. Not to mention all the logistical details of funding the League myself. But let me ask you, Clark, when's the last time I invited any of the Lanterns over for a cocktail? When's the last time the Hawks came over for Christmas dinner? Never, that's when."

"This is silly," said Clark. "You don't have any reason to--"

"My say so is reason enough." Bruce's words were biting, and it made Clark flinch. Realizing he was letting his emotions get the better of him, he reassessed. "I'm not comfortable sharing too much," he said. "I'm barely comfortable sharing what I already do with the League. I'm a part-timer, remember?"

"You're a founder of the whole dang organization."

"Sure. But on my own terms."

"This is ridiculous. No harm would come of it."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "No harm?" he said. "Let me ask you something. What would you do if you found out that two of the most powerful men in the world were going to be joined, not just in comradery, but physically and emotionally? A completely unified front, which, if they adopted more nefarious instincts, would be nearly impossible to stop? Do you think you'd, I don't know, call a meeting to have the matter publicly discussed with your fellow team members? Maybe try to put a stop to the union until everyone is okay with the arrangement? That's what I would do. And I know that's what they would do. But who I marry is not a subject for public forum. And it's sure as Hell not up for debate with the League. My public facing life is already scrutinized by the whole world. Both as Bruce Wayne and Batman. This... this..." Bruce turned to Clark fully and took his hands. "This is... for me. Just for me. Can I have that? Please?"

Whatever objection had prepared itself on Clark's lips was dead and gone by the time Bruce made his request. The hard shell of the Batman had cracked, and now, Bruce implored Clark with tender, earnest eyes. The kind that weakened Clark better than any hunk of kryptonite ever could. He sighed deeply and kissed Bruce's knuckles.

"Alright," he conceded. "J'onn already knows we're together, but I doubt he'd go off telling people."

"That's unavoidable. He can read minds."

"Yeah." Clark hesitated. "Oh, and uh... Constantine also knows."

Bruce squinted. "Why?"

"I kinda... told him? We were chatting and it just came up. I didn't tell him any specifics or anything. But I'm sure he'll figure it out with enough time."

Bruce sighed. "Well. He's not exactly core to the League. So I suppose that's fine." Settling in, Bruce folded himself into Clark's arms and rested his head on his shoulder. Clark held him as though they were ready to dance. "Thank you," he muttered. Clark answered with a soft, lingering kiss on Bruce's crown. 

Chapter Text

It wasn't often John Constantine liked to leave his little flat in Liverpool without a case, but considering the implications of Superman's aether, he'd rather not blow up the entire southport on accident. Fortunately, Clark had an apartment he wasn't currently using in Metropolis. There was no telling why, and John wasn't in the habit of asking unnecessary questions. It possibly had something to do with this mystery man he'd been seeing. He was gushing over the phone, so John could only imagine how many nights Clark stayed over. Of course, all it took was one quick scan of the place for John to find a printed Polaroid pinned to the wall above his work desk.

"Well well." John plucked the photo from its place on the wall. It was a selfie of a smiling Clark, cheek to cheek with none other than Bruce Wayne. "Cheeky bugger. Good on him for shagging Batman, I s'pose." He put the photo back and addressed the grocery bag that waited for him at the table.

As he would undoubtedly be there for a while, John had stocked up. Two handles of whiskey (the cheap stuff), a few frozen pizzas, a couple cans of beans from home, a box of his favorite tea and digestives, and a few porn mags for when things got stale. Not that he anticipated it. The files supplied by Superman were extensive, and clearly had been aided by notes from the Martian Manhunter and Mr. Terrific. With that much nonsense to parse through, it may be awhile before he cracked open his favorite issue of The Sinful Nunnery (let it never be said that John Constantine let his branding slip).

He poured himself a shot of whiskey and stood over his homework. The files came shoved in a cardboard box, with pages upon pages of historical encounters, metaphysical and alchemical breakdowns, known uses and byproduct, and the ways in which it was harnessed, both in Kryptonian tech and the occult.

Gripping the whiskey glass with his teeth, John thumbed through the hundreds of loose papers until finding something closer to his area. Reports from the 1970's where aether was supposedly used in conjunction with a bank robber who vanished out of an airplane mid-flight. Beyond that, instances were few and far between. What really got his attention was a small bag in the bottom corner of the box. Undoing the drawstrings, a glowing white crystal fell to his open palm.

"Ahh..." He held it up to the light. It wasn't that dissimilar to the crystals used in his own practice. But this had a certain air of alien to it that John just couldn't place. Even holding it, he could feel a cold front encroach from his fingertips down to his palm. It was like holding dry ice barehanded. "Must be Kryptonian," he concluded, taking another sip of whiskey.

John cleared Clark's counter of cookbooks and knickknacks and set the crystal in the center. He swirled his glass, arms folded as he observed it. It pulsed with soft, white light. John tapped his finger on the glass. Taking his free hand, he blew hot into his palm, and released it. Yellow magic fled from his fingers and encircled the crystal entirely. His fingers puppeted his energy to find cracks in the stone, but found that there were none. He was just ready to pull his magic back when something pulled his magic forward. It was as if a fish hook had gotten caught in the energy itself and was starting to yank. John tried to withdraw, but the pull only strengthened. Before he knew it, John had dropped his whiskey in order to focus more power on releasing the crystal. Suddenly--

"Ugh!" John collapsed against the carpet, his arm aching. His yellow magic had been sucked into the crystal like a sponge. The light inside gave a shudder, and then continued to pulse pure white. John pushed himself back onto his feet, fascinated. This really was something else. "Alright..."

Fingers steepled intricately, he began to incant. "Obedire." The crystal hovered in the air, standing to attention. "Revela te mihi." The crystal gave a shudder, and shot straight for Constantine's face. It halted mere inches from his brow. John tapped it with a finger and pulled. White aether pulled from the crystal like a spider's web. The threads were delicate and intricately woven, and yet, Constantine could feel its power. John began to guide it through the air. Watched as the neon white slivers extended and stretched well beyond what should have been their breaking point. John wrapped it around his fingers and blew.

In a burst of wind, the aether exploded in front of him, forming a circle the size of a hand mirror. From within, he saw flashes of different places and people from all over the world. The bustle of early morning Paris, the chaos of mid-afternoon India. John pinched his fingers together and turned them in the air, as if he was tuning a dial. He began to will the flashes to slow, until he gained some semblance of control. The aether purred against his fingers, and sent shivers up his spine the likes of which he hadn't felt in an age. He guffawed with delight.

"Brilliant," he cooed. "Bloody brilliant."

Eventually, John managed to stall the aether on a bakery. From the look of things, it seemed to be somewhere in America. Maybe the Pacific Northwest, given the pine trees outside. As John kept the aether where it was, he began to hear the fading of ambient noises, the static of the overhead radio. And the smells. John took a deep breath in. It smelled like butter and praline and freshly baked sourdough. John moved his had ever so slightly, and like a camera, the aether panned down to an open display of baked goods. Considering there wasn't a panic on the other side, Constantine was assured that he was thus far unnoticed by the bakery's patrons. He noticed a croissant, dipped in dark chocolate, and he salavated. Damn it looked good.

Licking his lips, Constantine took a step forward. He wondered... John rifled through his pocket and pulled out a 5p from his coat. He flicked it toward the aether. To his shock, the coin jumped straight into the aether and across the country into the bake shop. It rattled as it hit the parchment of the display shelf, settling in a crumby corner. Constantine peered, but the coin was undamaged.

John plucked a sandy hair from his head and held it to the aether. He expected it to singe, but to his delighted surprise, it did little more than blow a gust of cool air up his arm. Deciding that was enough of a test, Constantine reached in and swiped the croissant. His hand was a good deal colder when he retracted it, but otherwise, sustained no damage. John took a bite out of the pastry, and to his satisfaction, found that it too was unscathed.

"Mm." He wiped his lips. "What else we got?" He moved the aether around the shop like his own personal drone. He stopped on the two, massive green eyes of a fat shop cat. While its humans clearly could not see John's portal, felines were a whole other matter. It was a silver and gray tabby, with a jingly pink collar around its chubby neck. "Oh. Well hello there. S'cuse me, mate." He started to pull the aether away, when the tabby swatted at the portal, keeping it in place. John frowned. "Oy. Paws off, you little--" He pulled back, but the cat continued to bat its front paws. Before long, it jumped through the aether and landed at Constantine's feet.

John huffed, his mouth full of flakey pastry. "Right." He shoved the rest of it into his mouth and scooped the cat up with a single hand. "Off you pop." He made to push it right back to where it came from, but the moment the cat came close, an invisible force squished it as though he were trying to shove it through a wall. John blinked. "You what...?" He affixed the cat paws first and pushed. Once again, the aether refused to take the animal back. 

"Bunny? Has anyone seen Bunny? She was right here." The voices on the other side of the aether caught Constantine's attention. He looked down at the cat, who was purring in his arms.

"Your name is fucking Bunny?" 

Bunny the tabby cat meowed in response.

"Had about enough of this now. Back in you go." He tried shoving Bunny in through the aether. A hand slipped from the force and into the bakery. A cold front hit Constantine's skin, and John could rapidly detect the onset of frostbite. He yanked his hand out, watching as the ice left his fingers. "Bloody hell."

John recalled the aether, sending it back into the Kryptonian crystal. It dropped from the air and landed on Kent's carpet. Putting Bunny on the floor, he unhooked her collar and held it to the light. "Let's get you back home, eh?" He held the collar to his lips. "Redi unde venisti." Yellow magic lit the collar like neon, which then shot out and formed a new portal, this one of his own making. But when the door opened, he was met with nothing but trees. There was no evidence that anything had been built there ever. "What...?" He held up Bunny's collar. "Is this bloody thing defective--?" He stopped, and his eyes widened.

John Constantine was a man who spoke, read and wrote English, Latin, Aramaic, and Ancient Greek. And Bunny the tabby cat's licence was written in absolutely no language John had ever seen. With wide eyes, Constantine turned his attention back to the Kryptonian crystal at his feet. It thrummed with aether, completely undisturbed. Bunny swatted at it before lifting her leg to groom.

"Well... bollocks."

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"I am only going to say this once. Tonight, you are to be on your best behavior. No excuses. There will be no fighting. No swearing. No embarrassing me. Do I make myself clear?" Bruce stopped, hands at his back like a drill instructor. His four sons stood in front of him, dressed in semi-formal attire. None of them looked particularly invested. Bruce paid it no mind, and started going down the line. "Damian, I need you to keep your comments to a minimum. If you can't think of anything to talk about, ask about their animals."

Damian cocked an eyebrow, his arms folded. "I can't imagine there's much value to any conversations I may have otherwise."

"And no being a smartass."

Jason snickered, and Bruce set his eyes on him next. "Jason, you will not, under any circumstances, try to give either of them a heart attack. No stories about Crime Alley, no talking about your death."

"Jeeze, kneecap me, why donchya?"

Bruce looked him up and down and held out his hand. "Give it."

"Give what?"

"Jason."

"I don't have any--!"

"Now."

With a grumble, Jason removed a massive pistol from inside his jacket and thumped it into Bruce's hand. "Spoil sport."

Bruce detached the magazine and handed both pieces to Alfred, who was standing nearby. Dick, hands on his hips, eyed Jason with a tsk. "You were going to bring a gun to dinner?"

"I bring a gun everywhere," Jason argued.

"Bro. You're meeting the inlaws."

"All the more reason."

"Whatever. At least I don't have to worry. Parents love me."

"Dick." Dick looked up as Bruce addressed him. He pointed with two fingers. "No drinking."

Dick blinked while his brothers chuckled. "Huh? Why not?"

"Because the last time you had two glasses of chardonnay you ended up hanging from the chandelier."

Dick went red. "It wasn't two glasses! It was like... I don't know, five!"

Bruce turned to the others. "If any of you hear him utter the words 'check this out,' I need you to keep him in his chair by any means necessary."

Jason smirked. "No drinky for Dinky," he sang.

"Shut the fuck up."

Bruce turned to his remaining child. "And Tim?" All heads turned as Tim waited to receive his instructions. Bruce paused in thought before patting Tim's shoulder. "You're fine."

Tim smiled. "Yeah, I know."

Jason scoffed. "Loser."

"Delinquent," Tim replied.

"Kiss-ass."

"Meathead."

"Limp-dick."

"Headcase."

"You fuckin' square-ass--!"

"Hey!" Bruce barked, calming down the bickering before it got worse. Knowing the Wayne children, things could come to blows quite easily. "I said no fighting. Tim, don't take the bait. Jason, don't antagonize him."

"Whatever, God."

A knock came from the front door. Alfred, who had since disposed of Jason's gun, went to answer it. The Waynes watched from the other end of the foyer. Bruce spun back to the boys with one last warning. "I need to reiterate that these are good people. So I want nothing but respect out of all of you. Understand me?"

Dick stepped forward and put his hand on Bruce's shoulder. "B. Relax. They're going to love us. And they're going to adore you."

Bruce sighed. "I hope so..."

Alfred stepped aside, prim and proper as always. "Your company has arrived, Master Bruce." With the door wide open, Clark stepped into view. To his left stood Conner, dressed in a chunky knit sweater and jeans too skinny for mortal men. And to Clark's right were Martha and Jonathan Kent.

"My goodness..." Martha's twang echoed from across the foyer as she wandered inside. "Look at that, Jonathan! I think that's an honest to goodness chandelier! I bet you it's worth more than the barn."

"Heavier too," Jonathan agreed.

Bruce led his family to meet the Kents in the middle. The moment Martha spotted the brigade of handsome, black-haired hosts, her eyes went starry. "Oh, there they are!" She went to Damian first and squished his cheeks with both hands. "There's my little zoologist!" She kissed both of Damian's cheeks before he could protest. "You gettin' ready for school, young man? How're you eating? Are you minding your father?"

Damian tried not to look embarrassed. "How are your alpacas?"

"Oh they found their forever home," said Martha. "Oh!" She dug something out of her purse. "But before we sent them off, we got this from their new parents." She revealed a tennis-ball sized spool of natural fibres, threaded into a chunky yarn. "We thought you'd like to have it."

Damian took the gift with stars in his eyes. "It's so soft," he whispered. Martha giggled in delight.

Tim, spotting the wild getup Conner was dressed in, flashed a crooked smile. "Does that explain the sweater?"

But Conner, rather than shy away, spread out his sweater with pride. "Isn't it neato?" he said with full sincerity. "Ma made it for me!"

Tim examined its design with a keen eye. "I see," he said. "It's quite intricate." He turned a dashing smile to Martha. "You must be very talented, Mrs. Kent."

"Oh shucks." Martha waved off the compliment. "That ain't nothin'. You should see what I can do to a peach cobbler. Ain't that right, Jonathan?"

"Mmhm," Jonathan nodded.

Bruce approached Jonathan with a hand outstretched. "Good to see you again, Mr. Kent." Jonathan shook it.

"Likewise, son," he said.

"I hope you had a nice flight."

"Oh we did!" said Martha, clapping her hands together. "Lord but it was the fanciest plane ride I've ever had in my life. You really didn't need to do all that for us, honest."

"It's my pleasure," said Bruce. "In fact, from now on, I'd love to handle any and all travel expenses, especially if you're coming out for a visit."

"That's mighty kind of you," said Martha. She returned to her line of boys to fawn over and besieged Tim with kisses. "And if it isn't little Timmy! You know, Conner don't stop talking about you even if we ask him."

Tim chuckled. His hand was already firmly in Conner's. "That sounds about right."

"You've met my two youngest," said Bruce. He gestured to Dick and Jason. "This is Richard Grayson and Jason Todd. My oldest and second oldest, respectively."

Dick poured on the charm and took Martha's hand. "Au chante, madam." He kissed the back of her hand like the hero in a romance novel.

Martha gasped. "You hear that, Jonathan? The boy's Italian!" Damian snorted, and Tim smacked the back of his head before he could say a word. Martha smiled and wiggled her fingers. "I'm just joshin' ya. It's lovely to meet you, Richard."

"Pleasure's all mine. And please, call me Dick."

Jonathan cleared his throat. "I'll call you more than that you don't let go of my wife." Jason practically barreled over with laughter as Dick snapped his hand away from Martha's.

Martha tsked her husband and turned back to Dick. "Don't you worry about him," she said. "His bark is worse than his bite, trust me." Her eyes fell to Jason, who was busy wiping his eyes from glee. "And this handsome young man must be Jason."

Jason wiped away a final tear. "'Handsome'? Lady, you need your eyes checked--ow!" He recoiled as Tim smacked his arm.

"Oh, no, I know a handsome old soul when I see one." Just like with Damian, Martha squished Jason's cheeks with both hands. Jason had to bend down just so that she could reach him comfortably. "Look at those eyes! Why they are greener than a pasture in spring, let me tell you." Martha let Jason go, who was suddenly overwhelmed and quiet. Martha turned to Wayne patriarch. "He looks just like you, Mr. Bruce."

"Only Damian is my biological child," said Bruce.

"That don't matter none." Martha pat Clark's chest fondly. "Our little Clark looked just like his daddy growing up." The Waynes collectively looked between the 6'2" Kryptonian Adonis and compared him to the 5'6" balding old farmer in flannel.

"I find that very hard to believe," Damian mumbled. He ducked before Tim could smack him again.

"Right, now that we've all exchanged pleasantries." Clark stepped forward. "Shall we head out?"

"I'll have Alfred pull the car around."

The drive to dinner was almost as exciting for the Kents as dinner itself. As there were eight of them in one car, it necessitated one of Bruce's limousines (one of the smaller ones.) Martha was beside herself, comfortable in the leather seat. As she was quick to reiterate the entire trip to the restaurant, she had never ridden in a limo before. Bruce half expected Clark to be embarrassed by his doting parents, but the man never cracked a less genuine smile. He was clearly just as happy to have his parents as they were to be there. The restaurant was an upscale steakhouse with plenty of vegetarian options for Damian. They were seated in a private room, furnished with chic, low lighting and wonderfully plush chairs. They started with drinks and an appetizer for the table. With their orders in, Clark leaned back to speak to Bruce quietly.

"What do you think?" he asked. "Should we tell them now?"

Bruce looked across the table. His boys were getting along swimmingly with the Kents. Currently, Martha had her phone out, with plenty of animal pictures for Damian to scroll through.

"Maybe when the food gets here," Bruce muttered.

"Alright." Clark took a sip of his water. "You nervous?"

"Insanely."

Under the table, Clark took Bruce's hand. "Don't be. They already love you." Clark's smile widened. "Plus, Ma always wanted more grandkids to spoil."

"Really? I couldn't tell."

They shared a soft laugh. When they settled, Bruce was caught off guard by the tenderness in Clark's bright blue eyes. Leaning over the arm of his chair, Clark rubbed the top of Bruce's hand with his thumb. A soothing, almost hypnotic sensation that eased Bruce's anxieties like magic. "I love you," said Clark.

Bruce answered without hesitation. "I love you, too."

The waiters were at their table far too quickly for Bruce's liking. With the orders divvied out, Bruce realized that the opportunity was upon them. Unless they wanted to wait until dessert, but given how Clark squirmed in his seat, that wasn't really an option. Taking his fork, Bruce gently clinked his glass for the table's attention.

"Mr. and Mrs. Kent," he began. "I... Clark and I have an announcement we'd like to share with you. This isn't just a family visit. You see, we're... Clark and I..."

"Ma, Pa." Clark showed them the ring on his finger. "We're getting married."

The squeal from Ma Kent practically shattered their wine glasses. "What!?" Giddy, she jumped from her chair and ran around the table to take a better look at the band on Clark's finger. "Oh! Oh!" Martha showered them both with kisses that left splotches of her Mac red lipstick on every conceivable area of skin. "Jonathan! Jonathan, did you hear that!? Our little Clark is getting hitched!"

"Hm." Jonathan, as usual, remained quiet. Bruce worried for a moment that he would not be nearly as excited as his wife. Leaning back in his seat, Jonathan folded his arms, staring at Bruce directly. "I don't recall being asked for my blessing," he said, a twinkle in his eye.

Bruce visibly relaxed. "Sorry," he said. "It was... a bit of a spur of the moment decision."

"But one that's been given plenty of thought," Clark assured them.

"Y'all have a date yet?" Martha asked. "How about a venu?"

"We'll be holding it at the manor," said Bruce. "With a few select friends and family."

"Well doesn't that sound lovely?" Martha swooned. "Oh goodness, Pa, I'll need to get my Sunday dress taken in. You got colors in mind? How about flowers? My cousin Nessa had tulips. She's a bit non-traditional that way." As Martha blabbered on, Clark and Bruce exchanged satisfied smiles. Their hands found each other under the table, and they laced their fingers together.

It was a perfect night.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

It was late, and Wayne Manor was quiet. Its master had gone out hours ago on patrol, his youngest son at his side. Tim and Conner had left soon after dinner to handle Titan business. Jason and Dick also parted ways, with Dick cycling back to Blüdhaven and Jason driving back to Crime Alley. Clark handled a few rounds of patrol in Metropolis before returning to find his father seated in the southern garden of Wayne Manor.

Not bothering to change out of his bright red boots, Clark touched down on the patio beside Jonathan. His father barely reacted to Clark's appearance. He was too busy admiring the scenery.

"How does he keep a house this big?" he asked.

Clark sat next to him, his cape bunched up to one side. "He might ask you the same about the farm."

Jonathan shook his head. "Farm's got animals. Crops, land. This is..." Jonathan gestured at the topiaries and statues. "Well, it's a bit much, isn't it?"

Clark shrugged. "You get used to it."

"And have you?" Jonathan turned to Clark. "Gotten used to it?"

Clark chuckled. "Faster than I'd like to admit."

Jonathan leaned back on the garden bench. "Remind me who this fella is again?"

"Batman."

"Right. And he's off..." Jonathan gestured vaguely.

"Gotham needs a lot of help," said Clark. "He's the best one to do it."

"You don't help out?"

"On occasion. But this is Bruce's city. Feels like a bit of an overstep, to be honest." They sat in silence a bit, and watched what stars they could see from above the smog. It was nothing compared to the wide stretches of heaven out in Kansas. "Sometimes I miss the crickets," Clark admitted.

Jonathan nodded. "You should come over for Sunday dinner more often. Your mother always misses you when you don't."

Clark looked away, sheepish. "I know. I'm sorry. I just get--"

"Busy?" Clark nodded, and Jonathan smiled. He pat Clark's back. "I know, son. It's a lot to shoulder." Jonathan let his hand drop. "Speaking of. Those boys of his are something else. First you had yourself a son of your own, and now you've got four more to add to the roster. Think you're up to it?"

"Jason and Dick are already grown, and I've known them since they were kids. Tim was born to be forty, I think. And Damian..." Clark trailed off in thought. Jonathan tilted his head, waiting for Clark to finish. Clark's next words were warm. "I'm honestly surprised he's let me get as close to him as he has."

"He seems like an angry young man."

"With good reason." Clark's brow furrowed. "The things he's been through... No child should have to endure it. Trust me, Pa, if you knew half the things he was made to do by his grandfather..."

"I thought Bruce's parents had passed away?"

"His mother's side," Clark clarified.

"I see. She no longer in the picture?"

Clark rubbed his face. "It's complicated," he said. "I don't know much about his grandfather, but he's a piece of work, putting it lightly. I know next to nothing about his mother, only that she and Bruce were thinking about marriage before he was born. Not sure why things fell apart the way that it did. Bruce didn't even know about Damian for years. Not until he was ten. By that point, his mother's family had left their mark. Poor kid had one heck of an adjustment ahead of him."

Jonathan rubbed his knees. "Shows a good amount of character," he remarked. "A man stepping up for his boy like that. And now he'll have even more support. From Superman, no less." Jonathan flashed him a smile, which Clark returned. They sat in silence, watching as a helicopter crossed the far horizon. "Are you happy, Clark?"

Clark blinked. "Of course," he said. "Pa... I haven't been happier in my life." Jonathan said nothing, and Clark could feel his father's impeccable sense of people start to peel away the layers. Clark figetted. "I mean... Of course it isn't perfect."

"Relationships hardly are," said Jonathan. "Go on then. What's the snag?"

Clark sighed. "Bruce wants to keep our marriage a secret. Not to our families, obviously. But to the Justice League. To the world."

"Mm."

"I understand why. Bruce has always been a private person. He never had the luxury, growing up as a Wayne, and so he carved out little spaces just for himself. He feels safer in the dark, where he thinks no one can see him." Clark fiddled with the ring on his necklace. "It's nice to be with him in that private place. But... Sometimes I just want to shout it to the whole world. It's like when I started getting my powers. It's not that I want to show off. I just don't feel like I should hide it."

Jonathan nodded sagely. "Love shouldn't be kept hidden," he agreed. "But some men can't be forced into the light, Clark. And it's a recipe for disaster if you try." Clark nodded in silence, and Jonathan leaned forward on his knees. "Do you want to know what's kept your mother and me married all these years?" Clark turned to him. "We trust each other. She trusts that I can keep up, I trust that she can slow down when I can't. It's not easy. There'll be tears and compromise and nights where you just don't know the answers to anything. But you never go to bed angry. You never forget to say 'I love you,' and you always remember that you are a team. Come what may."

Clark melted into a soft and tender smile. He leaned forward, and Jonathan enveloped him into a firm and loving hug. When they seperated, it was agreed that it was well past Jonathan's bedtime. Clark walked his father to bed, being sure to speak and step quietly so as not to disturb his mother's sleep. After delivering Jonathan to the guest room, Clark yawned widely and went to his own bed to settle in. Just as he opened the door, he jumped three literal feet in the air, banging his head on the back wall.

"Damian!" He came down, a hand on his heart. Damian, completely still, watched him like a gargoyle at the window. "Holy..." He swallowed. "Don't do that."

Damian got off the window sill. He was still suited in his Robin gear, though his domino mask had been removed. "You didn't hear me," he pointed out. "That's concerning, given your abilities. You need to have better instincts if you're going to marry my father."

Clark put his hands on his hips. "Are you trying to say you were spying on me?"

"No," said Damian. "You happened to be talking underneath my perch."

"I see. Where's Bruce?"

"Still out."

"Alone?"

"He sent me home so that I might fix my sleep schedule before the school year."

"Mm. Makes sense." Clark hovered awkwardly and then made his way to the closet. "Well, we should both head to bed, I think." As he pulled out his pajamas, he noticed that Damian's eyes had not left him. Clark smiled awkwardly. "Something you wanted to talk about?"

Damian's brow remained firmly knit. His next words were slow. "Father says... that showing appreciation is healthy."

Clark nodded. "I'd agree with that."

Damian took a breath. "I... appreciate... that you did not divulge the details of my past to your father. It was... considerate." He lifted his head.  "Father is concerned it would upset them. If they knew about all of us. He wanted us on our best behavior so that we didn't embarrass him."

Clark's easy smile returned, and with his pajamas over one arm, he approached Damian kindly. "You never could," he said. "Ma and Pa would love you no matter what. Rough edges and all."

Damian shifted from one foot to the next. "Do you really consider us your children? Your father said that you were adding 'four more to the roster.'"

Clark was taken aback. "I suppose so. I mean. I've known Dick and Jason since they were Robins. And Tim and Conner are practically joined at the hip."

"And me?"

The air was easy between them. Clark ruffled Damian's hair, despite the scrunch in his face. "I thought I was already 'dad.'"

Damian flushed, shoving Clark's hand away. "Only sometimes," he said defiantly.

"Only sometimes," Clark agreed. "Alright, my sometimes son, go brush your teeth and get into bed." Damian marched to the door, but after a moment, flew back in to barrel into Clark's waist. Clark laughed, granting him a big, Superman hug, before Damian scuttled off to get ready for bed.

It really was a perfect night.

Chapter Text

With the autumn in Gotham came the rain and the winds. The city had always had a murk that often suffocated the skyline, but tonight, it was especially heavy. The clouds were soaked with the amber ambience of the hazy air, and as the rain came down in weighted sheets, the whole of the world seemed blurry. For Batman and Robin, these fall storms did little to deter them in their patrol. It was a little harder to detect the split of a siren's wail against the rain, which was why Batman's comm came with the nifty function to key into any public facing microphone -- ATM security cameras, department store loudspeakers, anything that could detect or output audio. Seated on the ledge of a church, Batman dialed through his many points of interest by the nob on his gauntlet.

"Anything?" Robin asked.

Batman furrowed his brow. "I'm picking something up. 27th street bug."

"That's two blocks from here--"

Before Robin could suggest they check it out, the scream of police vehicles came into sharp focus. With their grapples out, they were on their way. They swung effortlessly across the sky, their capes catching the faintest hints of streetlamps and window lights. The red and blue of the GCPD cars painted the world in vivid contrast.

The target was a single car, driving recklessly through the waterlogged roads. A barrage of cars attempted to block it off, but the driver made a quick hairpin turn down an alley, and thundered into the darkness. Batman and Robin followed its trajectory, and cut across a wide roof. Just as the car barreled back into sight, Batman gave the single, and the two vigilantes pounced. First, Robin landed on the car's hood, while Batman's heavy crash nearly caved in the old car's hood. The driver, a panicked, wide-eyed younger man, spun his wheel frantically to try and shake them off. Robin, his features hidden by the rim of his billowing hood, unsheathed his sword.

"Pull over!" he ordered.

The driver slammed on the breaks. Batman managed to leap just in time, but Robin was flung backwards at full speed. He landed hard, and fumbled his sword in the process. Batman rushed to Robin's side, and Robin pushed himself up on a pained elbow. "I'm fine!" he shouted through gritted teeth. The driver, now in reverse, spun the car in a wild K-turn and sped off in the other direction. "He's getting away!"

"You're hurt!"

"Just go!" 

Thunder overhead cracked. For a moment, Batman seemed ready to heed Robin's wishes. But a second more of deliberation, Batman scooped Robin up with one arm and grappled away. With Robin hanging from his shoulders, they continued their pursuit. The driver was reckless and brutal, but no one knew the city like Batman did. From above, he saw that the street the driver was headed for was under construction. "How's your aim?" Batman asked over his shoulder.

Robin was already removing a batarang from his belt. "Get me a good angle."

Once the driver realized he was headed for unfinished concrete and steel rebar, he turned in an attempt to avoid it. But Batman, swinging low and fast, gave Robin the angle he needed to send the batarang flying. It tore through the driver's back tire. Now driving on his rim, the car wobbled and flipped, driven by the inertia of his drastic turn. As the car settled, Batman and Robin touched down, Batman's grapple whipping back into its gun. Batman sheathed it and turned to Robin. "Doing alright?"

"I'm fine." Robin walked with a hunch, and Batman pretended not to notice the limp in his ankle. Approaching the now upside down car, Robin wrapped his elbow in his cape and sent it through the cracked glass on the driver's side. The dizzy driver barely seemed to register Robin before he was yanked into the rain and onto his back. Robin snarled at the man's fear. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't carve out your spleen."

The driver, snotty and teary-eyed, scrambled in Robin's grasp. "I-I--!" He looked up to see Batman looming over him, and he retracted his scrawny arms and legs. "I'm sorry!" he sobbed. "I just--! I didn't mean for this to get out of hand!"

Robin shook him. "What got out of hand!?"

"It was a stupid dare!" the young man finally cried. He shut his eyes tight as he spoke. Looking closer at him, Batman could see the wispy beginnings of a teenage beard. "It's my old man's car! He never uses it anyway, and my friends--! He-he never did anything for me, so why should I care?! So I--they thought it'd be cool if I took it! I was gonna bring it back! Honest I was!" The teenager began to full on sob, curled up under Robin's glare like a withering sea anemone. "Please don't hurt me," he whimpered. "P-please...!"

Robin sneered and shoved the teen to the muddy ground. "Pathetic. You put everyone in your path in danger, and for what? So you could get one over on your loser of a father? So that you could feel like a man? I know children that are more man than you will ever be. You? You're a worm with thumbs." Lightning cracked overhead, and the teenager clutched his skull with both hands. Robin spat at the ground. "Be thankful you survived this. Your death wouldn't be worth the ink for the obituary." With a spin, Robin marched away, leaving the sobbing teenager for Batman to deal with.

With a horrible hiccup, the teen looked up to the Dark Knight above him. At such a dramatic angle, the boy looked far younger than he undoubtedly was. Part of Batman felt for him. Looking past the soaked, desperate, wriggling facade, Batman saw a young man desperate for the approval of a father. He knelt down as his purp struggled to catch his breath. Seeing Batman eye level with him, he flinched back. But when Batman reached for him, it was not out of violence.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

The whimpering teenager blinked through the rain. "I-I... I th-think I have a concussion. And m-my leg hurts."

Batman nodded. "Give me your hand."

"Huh?"

"Please."

Confused, the young man took Batman's hand in his own. But whatever tender moment of sincerity he thought would bloom between them died abruptly when Batman suddenly cuffed him to the shattered remains of his rear view mirror. "Wha--?"

"The maximum sentence for grand theft auto is five years," said Batman. "Given your age, you probably won't be tried as an adult. Take whatever plea deal they offer you, and ask for community service." Batman removed something shiny from his pocket. Extending it, he revealed a folded survival blanket. By the time he was done wrapping him up, the teen looked like a metal cocoon. "And have a chat with your dad. If you can."

By the time the GCPD showed up, Batman was well out of sight.

Up above in the unfinished scaffolding, Batman and Robin watched their teenaged purp be taken into custody. Robin glared, his arms crossed tightly. "You were too soft on him," he said.

"He's a kid," Batman replied.

"He could have killed someone."

"But he didn't. Better he learns his lesson now with no casualties than build resentment and retaliates against a system that failed him."

"Hmph."

"Nevermind him." Batman turned to his young ward. "You took a nasty fall back there."

"I told you, I'm fine."

"Your ankle is twisted."

"It's not. I just tweaked it."

"Did you land wrong or leap wrong?"

"I said I'm fine."

Batman tilted his head just so. "Something is bothering you."

Robin huffed. "The night's not over." He pushed himself up, and as if to prove a point, put his entire weight on his left foot. He winced ever so slightly, hoping to hide his pain. Robin removed his grapple, but Batman took it from his hand. "Hey--!"

"Here." Batman knelt down, offering Robin his back. "If you insist on working, I won't have you exacerbate yourself unnecessarily." Batman looked over his shoulder. "Or I can call Clark to come fetch you."

"Tt." Robin sidled onto Batman's back, and together, they swung their way deeper into Gotham. "You worry too much," Robin suddenly said.

Batman launched himself and grappled the next ledge, never breaking his forward motion. "Odd coming from you. You always preach caution."

"Not always."

"Most times."

They came upon a high rise bank, and Batman shot them up to the roof. Once there, Batman set Robin down. "Let me see." Knowing that protest was a losing strategy, Robin rolled up his pant leg and pushed down his boot. Batman gently took a look at his ankle. "No bruising or swelling. That's good."

"I told you."

"Yes, well." Batman removed a roll of bandages from his belt and took off the rest of Robin's shoe. With his ankle wrapped properly, Batman looked up. "Better?"

Robin rolled it. "Yeah. Thank you." He slid his foot back into his boot and fixed his pant leg. "May I ask for discretion about this, father?"

"Oh? Who am I not supposed to tell? Alfred?"

"Kent."

Batman softened. "You realize he can see your bones whenever he wants to."

"A fact which truly bothers me."

"I don't think it does."

"Think what you want."

Batman stood upright. His cape completely engulfed his frame, making him look like an amorphous shadow. "You've been distracted tonight."

"I am not."

"Damian."

Robin flinched. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and eyed the gravel at their feet. "How long will this relationship last? Between you and him?"

Batman blinked. "What brought this on?"

"I heard him. The other night. He was speaking to his father. He confessed that your need for privacy weighs on him." Robin hesitated. "Were he anyone else, I don't know that I would particularly care. Romance seems to be a detriment to our line of work. But Kent is a special case, given his unique advantages. I only wonder if your proposal was a spur of the moment decision, or if you intend to ride out the marriage faithfully?"

"Ideally the latter," said Batman.

"Then perhaps you might consider being less... private."

Bruce sighed and removed his cowl. "Damian, this is a conversation Clark and I have already had."

"But--"

"No but's. We will be the ones to decide what is right for our relationship."

Damian turned to one side, his brows furrowed tight under his mask. "It sounds to me like you're the one doing the deciding."

"Damian. You're being disrespectful."

"And you're playing fast and loose with the best relationship you could ask for!" Damian spun back to Bruce with a vengeance. "What happens when your stubbornness drives him away? After all the lengths you've gone to integrate him into our family?"

"I'm not--"

"Furthermore, how long can you even have this secret? It's one thing to keep an unmarried partner in private, but a spouse? You don't think that would get out amongst the League?"

"Enough." Damian flinched, but Bruce kept his voice even. "Where is this coming from? Why are you so afraid that Clark and I will split up?"

Damian gripped his sword tight. His voice was barely audible through the rain. "I haven't seen my mother in years. My grandfather might as well be dead to me. If I get another parent just to lose him too, I will never forgive you."

Bruce thought for a moment. After which, he sat on the edge of the roof and offered Damian part of his cape. Damian sat next to him, but stiffly. As much as he was tempted to lean into Bruce, he refrained. He was, after all, still upset. Bruce let his cape fall over Damian, protecting him from the rain.

"Clark wouldn't do that to you," Bruce began. "Even if you're right, and I drive a wedge between us, he won't be gone from your life. He loves you."

Damian's hands tightened on his knees. "It's conditional."

"No."

"Yes it is. All love is conditional. You love me under the conditions that I remain your obedient son. Kent loves me under much of the same. My grandfather loved me under the condition that I follow in his footsteps, and my mother..." His voice died ever so slightly. Thunder echoed from the distance, and Damian wrapped his arms around his legs. "My mother..."

Bruce laced his fingers together. "Do you want to try looking for her again?"

But Damian shook his head. "If she doesn't want to be found, she won't be."

Bruce was still a moment. "Well." He wrapped his arm around Damian, finally coaxing him to lean up against his side. "You're wrong about one thing. If you gave up being Robin tomorrow, I would still love you."

Damian looked up. "You would?"

Bruce chuckled. "One of your brothers is a crime lord, and he still gets invited over for board games. What do you think?" That was enough to soften Damian, and he hugged Bruce around the middle. Bruce rubbed his back. "It's late. I don't want you too tired for orientation."

"I know."

"Let me take you home."

"Okay."

With their masks back on, Batman once more offered his shoulders to his son. Robin climbed aboard, and with a running start, they vanished into the night, and toward the awaiting Batmobile.

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"And I'm thinking here, we have some garlands up the staircase."

"Ooh. Do y'know what colors they might be thinking?"

"Bruce will probably want a white and black theme. Not sure about Clark." Dick tapped his chin in thought. "Roses? I mean it's cliche, but classic..."

Martha beamed. With the morning sun through the library windows, she looked about as peaceful and at home as a farmer could be in such a stately place. "When Jonathan and I got married, it was at our local church. My sister's friend Bessie made my bouquet out of lavender and pink roses."

Dick paused. "Lavender, huh?"

"Yes. Why? Does Mr. Bruce like lavender?"

Dick grinned widely. "Oh he would kill me if I suggested it... but boy wouldn't that be something?" Seeing Martha's curious look, Dick threw on a comforting smile and pat her hand. "Don't you worry. I'll get answers out of him if I have to strap him down to do it."

"If you can find him," said Martha. "Lord, I don't know how y'all don't get lost in a place this big. It's practically a palace."

"It really isn't." Damian, lounging on the nearby sofa with Dickens in his hand, crunched into his apple. "If anything, the manor is a bit middling."

"Don't talk with your mouth full, young man," said Martha.

Damian swallowed, and sat up a bit straighter. "Sorry."

The door opened, and Jason wandered in, massive caramel latte in hand. His eyes were baggy, and he walked with a slouch. "I'm here," he yawned.

Dick put his hands on his hips. "I asked you to be here a whole hour ago."

"Yeah, well. I have an excuse."

"Which is?"

"I didn't want to fucking be here."

Dick's hands snapped to Martha's ears with a gasp. "Jason!"

"Whoop. Sorry."

Martha shook off Dick's hands. "Oh don't you go treating me like some old lady," she said. "You'd be surprised at what comes out of a farmhand's mouth. Trust me, ain't nothing I hadn't heard before."

"Yeah, see?" Jason gestured with his coffee. "Ma knows what's up."

"What's up where?" said Martha.

Dick shook his head. "Whatever. Now that you're here, I need opinions on the layout. Ceremony, cocktail hour, reception. Not to mention the rehearsal and bachelor parties."

"Uh-huh. And you couldn't do this without me because...?"

"You're my best man!" said Dick.

Jason squinted. "The best man doesn't get a best man."

"Well this one does."

Alfred stepped into the library, pushing the trolly. "Good morning, Master Jason." Jason grunted. On Alfred's tray was a selection of fresh fruit, hot tea, and fresh muffins. "I have your breakfast, Mrs. Kent."

"Oh!" Martha approached the trolly and admired the spread. "Why everything here looks delightful, Mr. Alfred."

"Much obliged, mum."

Martha took a sniff over the kettle. "Say, y'all got any sweet tea?"

Alfred blinked. "I have sugar if you'd like."

"No, no, sweet tea."

"I'm sorry, madam, I don't follow."

"You don't know sweet tea?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Oh well that's no bother. I can make us some if you'd like."

"What... is it?"

"It's simple as sin, really. You make yourself a whole jug of tea and ice it. And when it's ready, you pour a heapin' helpin' of sugar and mix it all around. It cures what ails you in the summertime, let me tell you."

Alfred looked pale as a man on death's doorstep. "I see..."

"I really could make us some--"

"No."

"Oh. Are you sure?"

"Quite sure, madam. If you'll excuse me." Alfred turned on his heel and made a swift exit, leaving Martha rather confused about the whole exchange. Martha turned to Dick, who could barely contain his snickers.

"What's got his goat?" she asked.

"He's a Brit," said Jason. "They're precious about their tea."

"If we could move on?" Dick turned to the library. "I think this would be a good spot for pictures. It's certainly big enough. Jason? What do you think, props? Too corny?"

"What kinda props?"

"I don't know. Fake mustaches?"

Jason scoffed. "Lame."

"Alright, then let's hear your suggestions."

Jason sipped his latte. "Don't got any."

"Oh. Great. Big help."

"Dude, I don't know what you want from me. This is not my area."

"Alright, fine." Dick turned back to face Jason directly. "Bachelor party ideas. What are we thinking?"

"Dude."

"Come on, man, I can't be the one doing all the work!"

"Why not? You seem to want to."

Damian crunched into his apple, but for Martha's sake, swallowed before speaking again. "I don't think Todd is taking this very seriously."

"Who are you, Tim's clone?" Jason snarked. "Where is he, anyway? He'd be better at this than me."

"Jonathan's got little Timmy out in the garage," Martha beamed. "Mr. Bruce has himself more cars than I've ever seen in my life. Jonathan was delighted when Timothy offered to show him around. That boy would make a fine mechanic."

"Fine, then talk to him!" Jason jerked his hand towards Damian, who remained unbothered.

Damian's green eyes stared blankly over his book. "You want the child to plan his own father's bachelor party?"

"Oh blow it out your--"

"Jay," Dick warned.

"Whatever, Jesus!"

"Look, man, I could really use the input."

"You want my input? Take 'em down to the courthouse in an afternoon and grab a cake from the grocery store. There, that's my input."

Dick frowned. "What is with you, man? Why are you so salty?"

"I'm salty because I got forced to get out of bed at an ungodly hour to drive all the way across town to talk about--what? Flowers or some shit? You don't think I could be doing better things with my day?"

"What the hell crawled up your ass and died, Todd?" Dick snapped. "If you're going to be this much of a jerk, you should have just stayed home."

"Oh and what, weather the fifty missed calls from you? No thanks."

"Look, I'm just trying to do right by our dad. Sorry that's such an inconvenience for you."

"Yeah, I'm so sure."

Dick sharpened. "What does that mean?"

Jason took a slurp of his latte. "Little Golden Boy Dickie, still backflipping for Daddy."

"Oh go fu--" Dick's eyes snapped to Martha, who watched them. He regained his composure. "This isn't a productive conversation."

Jason snorted. "And now here comes Nightwing. That cool guy voice isn't fooling anyone, Dick. I remember when it still cracked."

"If you're trying to insinuate I'm Bruce's favorite--"

"No," said Jason, surprisingly calm. "Not anymore." Jason turned his cool eyes to Damian, who was staring at them both. "Not since he came into the picture."

Damian closed his book. "I don't appreciate being dragged into this."

"I'm just saying," said Jason. "Dickie was the golden child forever. Oldest one of us, first Robin, first leader of the Titans. But then this little broken condom comes along and--"

"Jason, that's enough."

Jason broke into a laugh. "And now you're pulling the Batman voice!" he cackled.

"I am not--!"

"You're going hog on this whole wedding thing because you know that you've been replaced as B's favorite baby boy for the past two years. So if you are a good little boy for big ol' Brucie, you'll maybe earn some of that title back, even if it's just for a day." Jason snorted. "I can't imagine any other reason why you're wasting so much time on this. Cause you know that someday soon, this little ankle biter is gonna grow into those Wayne genes and replace you wholesale. And there's nothing you can do about it."

Jason's words fell onto a silent world. He lifted his coffee to take a sip, but stopped when he noticed the look on Dick's face. His lips were parted, and his expression had fallen dramatically. Realization dawned on Jason, and he glanced at Damian, who had forgotten his book on his lap. "I mean, not like it matters," Jason said quickly, hoping to save face. "You know Bruce. He's... I mean, he--"

Dick recovered, and hardened. "Excuse me. I have to go talk to Alfred about the catering." Without a look to anyone else, Dick marched from the library, leaving Jason with an unsaid apology on his lips.

Jason turned to Damian. "I'm not trying to hurt the guy!" he defended. "I'm just saying, like--everyone knows it! Why am I the bad guy for pointing it out?"

Thunk.

Both Damian and Jason turned to Martha Kent, who set her teacup down forcefully on the priceless mahogany side table in front of her. Her normally welcoming vibe had shut down completely, and Jason found himself reminded his late mother's sterner moments.

"Now that just will not do," she said. She stepped out from behind the trolly and approached Jason as though he weren't double her size and weight. She pointed up to Jason with a firm finger. "That is no way to talk to family, do you hear me, young man?"

"I didn't mean--!"

"I don't know what kinda manners you got raised with, but we are not cruel to our loved ones. Not under my watch. Do you hear me?"

"I..."

"Now march your butt after your brother and apologize."

Jason turned from Martha to Damian, who was as still as the grave. Gathering up his nerves, he glowered, and took a step away. "Whatever. This was a mistake." He turned on his heel and left, tossing his empty latte cup messily into the wastebasket on his way out.

Martha huffed. "Well never in my life..." She turned to Damian. "Are they always like that, honey?" When Damian didn't answer, Martha sat at the end of his sofa with a deep sigh. "Lord help me, I don't know what I'd do if my Clark ever behaved like that. To be so awful to your own flesh and blood..."

"You... do realize they're not actually related?"

Martha smiled. "You try telling my husband he ain't Clark's father and see how that goes."

Damian set his book and apple core aside. "How do arguments go in your house? To be completely honest, we do tend to bicker a bit. Though this was rather egregious. At least they didn't come to blows this time."

"Oh for Heaven's sakes," Martha grumbled. She shook her head. "Never. Never in all my days have I heard such talk back home. And certainly not between family." Martha sighed. "Looks like I have my work cut out for me."

"Work?" Damian asked.

"Well of course," said Martha. "After all, a grandmother has certain duties to her grandbabies, doesn't she?"

Damian put his hands on his ankles. "My only experience with a grandparent is not something I would consider dutiful towards my welfare."

Martha's smile was somber, and she pat Damian's leg. "Then I guess I'd better get started."

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The first thing Bruce felt that morning was a soft assault of kisses on his neck and shoulder. He had gone to bed in just his boxers, as Clark's body heat was more than enough to keep him toasty all night. This left his back bare, and an ample target for Clark's early morning lips. Clark hummed as Bruce stirred ever so slightly, his breathing deepening as he rose to the surface. Clark's hand dove down, and Bruce cradled him by the midsection.

"Morning," Clark purred.

"Mmmm." Bruce turned his head, and Clark showered him with even more kisses. "I just went to sleep," he grumbled.

"Too bad," Clark replied. His front form fitted against Bruce's back. His hand smoothed its way from Bruce's stomach down to his thighs. His fingers toyed with the many, many scars Bruce carried. "Is this one new?" Clark fingered a fresh bump on the inside of Bruce's leg.

"I dunno. Maybe? I lose track." Bruce gave him a few more kisses as Clark stroked Bruce's hip. "I kinda miss yours."

"Mine?" Clark looked down at his impeccable chest. He touched the spot between his pectorals. "You mean the bullet scar?"

Bruce nodded. "Don't get me wrong, I wasn't thrilled to know that you were walking around slowly dying of radiation, but the scars were... Not 'nice,' exactly. But proof that you weren't a god."

"Am I not?" Clark playfully ground his hips into Bruce's perfect ass. He nibbled at Bruce's ear. "Cause I seem to get you on your knees a lot..." The moment those words left Clark's lips, his high cheekbones were suddenly awash with red, and he shoved his face into the back of Bruce's neck. "Oh holy heck, that was bad. That was real bad, wasn't it?"

Bruce laughed lowly. He turned so that they were flush up against each other, and played with Clark's curls. "You're getting better at it."

Clark pouted, his face burning hot. "I don't know how you say such dirty stuff without flinching." Bruce gave him another kiss, and Clark rubbed Bruce's back. "I feel so embarrassed about it."

"Aw." Bruce flicked Clark's pink ear. "Precious."

"Mmf."

"I consider it payback for the whole 'my love' business," Bruce asserted. "Turnabout is fair play, after all."

"And all's fair in love and war?"

"Exactly."

Bruce captured Clark's lips, and the pair of them spent the next half hour snogging like a couple of high school students. At one point, their legs intertwined, with the sheets wrapping around their limbs like ivy. Eventually, Bruce rolled on top of Clark, unafraid to lay his full weight on the Kryptonian's bare chest. "Hey," he said. "About what I said the other day. With the League. You know I'm not..." Bruce hesitated. "You know I'm not ashamed of you, right? Of us?"

Clark blinked. "I know," he said.

"I only mention it because I might have been a little harsh. I just don't think it's anyone's business. And God, the questions we'd be subjected to. You know Barry wouldn't let it go for years."

Surprisingly, Clark smiled. "He's just mad I'm faster than him."

"Yeah, that was never confirmed."

"Says who?"

"We're getting off topic," said Bruce. "I know you feel like I'm hiding us away, but that can't be further from the truth. The world out there, that's not my life. It's here. With you, in the privacy of my own home. What right does anyone have to intrude on that?"

Clark sat up on his elbows. "Letting people in isn't the same as being imposed upon," he said. "I know you have your concerns over safety, but like you said back at the farm, it comes with the territory. And gosh, can you imagine? Hiding this from our closest allies, for what, a year? Two years? Ten? How exhausting would that be, Bruce?"

Bruce glanced at the ring on Clark's finger. "I'd face it," he said. "If it meant we'd have our peace."

Clark sat up entirely, with Bruce in his lap. He cupped Bruce's cheek, letting him lean into his palm. "We can still have our peace and be surrounded by friends. Yeah, some of them might be a little obnoxious about it, but that's just because they care."

"And when they doubt us?" Bruce asked. "When they judge us too compromised to do our jobs? Or when they think our judgment is too impaired to lead?"

"They won't."

"They might."

Clark furrowed his brow. "So you're going to keep our marriage a secret because of the possibility that our standing in the League might be undermined? Don't you think we'd be strong enough to withstand that?"

Bruce sighed through his nose and pressed his lips to the inside of Clark's palm. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe."

Clark waited for a better answer. When he didn't get one, Clark removed his hand and slipped out of bed. "I've got to get ready for work."

Bruce watched him gather his clothes from the closet. He wished he could give Clark an answer he actually wanted to hear, but frankly, he didn't know if he could do that without lying. Either to himself or to both of them. "Clark?" Clark looked up, his fingers at his tie. Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but realizing he couldn't say what he needed to, he quickly changed the subject. "Damian's orientation is this Monday. Did you... want to come?" Clark shifted, and Bruce tried to pretend he wasn't panicking by laying back down into the pillows. "Sixth grade, you know. It's a big step. Soon it'll be high school. God help us."

Clark waited a bit longer, and then approached Bruce in bed. Bruce looked up as Clark leaned down to give him another, soft kiss. "Sure," he said, kindly. "Text me the details, and we'll go together."

Bruce smiled. "Great. Now go win the Pulitzer." Clark toddled off to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The moment he was out of sight, Bruce's smile dropped, and he rolled away. As much as he needed his sleep, he knew that his frenzied mind would be keeping him awake for the rest of the morning.

Chapter Text

"Do you have everything?"

"Oh yes. We got all our bags, our toothbrushes... Jonathan, did you remember to get--?" Jonathan held up his carry on of medication and Martha smiled. "We're all set."

"Okay. Well you know that I'll fly out anything you leave behind," said Clark.

"You'd best fly out regardless," said Martha. "I know weddings are stressful business, but I don't want no excuse to you not coming to Sunday dinner." She brightened. "Maybe we can invite the Waynes over! All of 'em! Goodness me, I'd have to make one heck of a roast."

Clark's smile was awkward. "Ma, I don't think Bruce's whole family would fit in the house."

"We'll host 'em in the barn, then."

Conner shoved his hands into his jean pockets, rolling the gas station lollipop between his teeth. "I'll definitely make it out there for Sunday dinners." He smiled at Clark. "I really don't know how you grew up with your mother's cooking and don't come out to take advantage once a week."

"Yes, thank you," said Clark. "I'll do my best."

Jonathan grunted. "We know you're busy, son. Especially these days."

Clark's smile softened. "I should never be too busy for family," he said. Clark looked up as a small cart drove up beside them. It was sleek and black, with the Wayne Enterprises logo slapped on one side. The driver parked in front of Martha and Jonathan and offered to take their bags. Martha was giddy.

"I'll tell you somethin', Clark," she said. "I don't know if I'll ever get used to all this luxury, but I sure as sugar won't be complaining any time soon." The driver offered to take her carry on, which she handed over willingly. Turning, Martha flashed that warm, Kent-brand smile, and wrapped her arms around Clark's chest. "Ohhh." She rubbed Clark's wide back. "My sweet little boy, finally tying the knot." She sniffled, and instinctively, Jonathan handed her his handkerchief. "We'd best get going, Jonathan, or I'm likely to fall apart."

Jonathan nodded, and with his hand held out, helped his wife to her seat. He then turned to his son, his soft eyes twinkling with pride. "It was good to see you, son," he said. Clark wrapped him into a tender hug, and Jonathan pat Clark's back. "We love you, Clark."

"I love you too, Pa."

When they broke their hug. Martha reached out, and Clark gave her one last embrace, which ended in Martha smothering Clark with kisses. Once Clark managed to detangle him from his parents, he waved as their chauffer drove them to their gate. Clark sighed as they turned out of sight.

"Golly," he smiled. "I'd say this weekend was a smash hit, wouldn't you?" He turned to Conner, who was gnawing at his candy. Judging from the look and smell, it was an obnoxious, sour green apple flavor. "I don't imagine how it could have gone better."

"I guess," said Conner, noncommitted.

Clark put his hands on his hips. He and Conner were silent as they watched the people trickle around them. Things had been better between the two Kryptonians, but hardly perfect. After their scuffle with Brainiac, Conner spent most of his time at Tim's boathouse or hanging around Titan's Tower. These days, the only time they ever got to see each other was at the Manor. 

"How've you been?" Clark suddenly asked.

"Huh?" Conner looked up from his glasses, his teeth biting into his candy.

"I mean... with this whole engagement thing. I know you had some worries about you and Tim..."

Conner shrugged. "Nah. After I gave it some thought, it really doesn't matter much. Like Tim said, he's adopted and I'm... um... a special circumstance."

They began to walk through the crowd toward the exit. "What about you, though?" Clark pried. "More than just dealing with the engagement. Have you been experiencing any issues?" He gestured to the back of Conner's neck. The faint remains of Brainiac's mark were still visible on his skin. 

"It itches sometimes," Conner admitted. "But I haven't had anyone reach into my mind in months now."

"That's good to know." Again, they lapsed into silence. Clark shoved his hands into his pockets in lieu of knowing what to do with them. "I try not to worry too much. About you. But sometimes I wonder. You know."

"Sure, I guess."

Clark cleared his throat. His eyes scanned the crowds, when they landed on a Bat Burger stall in the food court. "Hey, you hungry?" Conner again looked up, and Clark gestured to the food stand. "My treat."

"Oh fuck yeah, lunch."

"Conner. Please."

"Oh. Uh. Heck yeah?"

"Better."

Their orders were in and ready within five minutes, and they found a small table, walled off my plastic plants. For Clark, he'd ordered a classic Number 1 with a Sprite, and for Conner, a double decker jalapeño burger with Joker fries and a vanilla cherry Coke. Clark frowned at the green sprinkles on Conner's french fries.

"What even is that?" he asked.

"Huh?" Conner popped one in his mouth. "I dunno. But it's good. Wanna try?" Clark nodded, and Conner handed a fry over. He took a bite.

"It... just taste like salt," said Clark. "With... lime?"

Conner shrugged. "What did you expect?"

"Knowing the Joker? Poison."

Conner actually broke into laughter. "Hey! That was actually funny, pops!"

Clark felt a warm spot in his chest. Pops. "You wanna know about the first time I met the Joker?"

Conner perked up, his elbows on the table. "Shoot." He took a huge bite of his burger, ignoring the dribbles down his chin.

"I was assigned to cover the opening of a Gotham hospital. This was years ago now; that same hospital had to be rebuilt a few times since. Anyway, this was before Bruce and I were properly introduced. So I'm taking notes, thinking this is going to be a routine night, when this gigantic cake gets wheeled in. From Clown Cakes Bakery." Conner snorted, and Clark held up his hand. "It gets better. Joker's henchmen pop out with Tommy guns--like, the old fashioned ones from the 1930's--and start shooting in the air to make the crowd scatter. I guess Joker's big plan was to kidnap the mayor at the time, who was officiating the grand opening. I was looking for a spot to suit up when the Joker actually held me at gunpoint."

"You're shitting me."

"Nope. He took me as a hostage. As well as a few other members of the press. And the mayor."

"What did you do?"

"Well I couldn't let loose. Not as Clark Kent, mild mannered reporter. So I had to play along. Besides, I figured if I was kept there, I could make sure they wouldn't hurt the hostages. I had to play it up, of course. All sniffling and weepy in the corner with my hands tied in camping rope. I mean I really hammed it up."

"I can see it," said Conner. "Then what happened?"

"What do you think? Batman showed up and took care of business. I put my focus on making sure everyone got out safely while Joker was busy. I remembered wondering if I should help, but seeing how efficiently he worked, I figured he had it covered." Clark propped his chin in his hand, his eyes gazing off into the distance. "I was... gosh. How old? Twenty six? Twenty seven? I'd only just started at the Planet. Boy, you think Bruce can move now, you should have seen him in his prime. I was half convinced he was a metahuman like me. Imagine my surprise when I realize he's just a guy in a batsuit."

Conner playfully scrunched up his nose. "You were in looove," he teased.

Clark chuckled. "Maybe," he said. "I think, when it came to Bruce, I fell in love in bits and pieces. Little moments here and there. So that when I finally stood back and looked at it all, it was this patchwork of all the memories I'd made over the years with him, and it just... It clicked."

"Huh." Conner swirled his Coke. "That's not how it's like for me and Tim at all."

"Well, yours is a bit of a different situation," Clark concluded. "Bruce and I knew each other for more than a decade before we made the leap."

Conner fell into thought. "You think...?" His words died out and he shook his head. "Nah, nevermind."

"What?"

"No, it's dumb."

"That doesn't matter. What's on your mind?"

Conner glanced up at Clark before wiping his mouth on the back of his jacket sleeve. "When I met Tim, I felt this connection to him like--" He snapped. "I dunno, maybe it was because he was the first person who didn't immediately see me as some kind of lab rat, or..." He shifted in his seat. "I guess I'm just worried that, like, with you and Mr. Wayne, you've had so much time to get to know each other. Like, you've got this really strong foundation, right? I dunno. I guess I'm worried that maybe mine and Tim's isn't as strong..."

Clark set his burger down and wiped his hands on a napkin. "Every relationship is different," he said.

"I know," said Conner.

"Let me ask you this. What is it you love about him?"

Conner flushed ever so slightly, but smiled. "I mean, what's there not to love? He's smart, for one thing. Like crazy hot, for another. We can talk for hours and still have stuff to say to each other. When I'm with him, I don't feel judged, or like I'm being examined or whatever. Unless he wants to examine me. He does that sometimes, you know, just cause. But it's not like when I was with Luthor being scrutinized by his scientists. He's just... y'know... like that. And I realized early on that I didn't care. I liked that he was curious about me. But not just cause of my genes or anything, but because I was me." He paused. "I'm rambling, huh?"

Clark's smile crinkled his eyes. It was the spitting image of Jonathan Kent, blood be damned. "No," he said. "You're just a young man in love."

"Hm." Conner helped himself to another fry. "Think it'd be too gauche to propose to him at the wedding?"

Clark laughed. "Conner, I love you, but if you tried to propose at Bruce Wayne's wedding, he would skin you alive. And I don't know that I would stop him."

"Ugh. Fine."

Clark folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. "You're young," he said. "And you're still figuring stuff out. Not saying that you and Tim are ever going to drift apart, but I wasn't nearly the person I was at twenty as I am now. Let life happen a little bit. And then, when you've got your feet on the ground, and you feel like you have that solid foundation, then you can think about popping the question."

"Alright." Conner relaxed his shoulders as his smile returned to him. "Thanks, pops."

"You're welcome, son."

For the rest of their lunch, they enjoyed light conversation. Clark could feel the last chips of frigid air melt away between them. It still wasn't perfect between he and Kon, and Clark didn't know if it ever would be. But as they sat at that crappy foot court table, eating their overpriced burgers, Clark could find solace in the fact that they were getting their, slowly but surely. About half way through their conversation, however, that comfortable daze began to evaporate, as Clark could feel a tingle on his neck. Subtly, he glanced to his left as Conner chatted.

There, sitting across the other end of the food court, was a woman. She wore massive sunglasses and a wide brimmed hat, despite it being early September. She looked wealthy, given the make and style of her clothes, which were all a rich shade of black. A widow? Or at least someone who certainly looked the part. In spite of the sunglasses hiding her gaze, Clark didn't need x-ray vision to know that she was staring right at them.

"Pops?" Conner's voice pulled his attention. Conner turned to follow Clark's gaze. "What's up...?" The woman stood from her seat, and with no luggage in hand, made a smooth exit. Clark watched her vanish among the crowd. Conner turned back to Clark. "Did you know her?"

"No. I..." Clark shook his head. "It's nothing, I'm sure. Probably just people watching." Conner agreed, but as Clark ate his burger, he kept his super hearing perked. It picked up nothing. The woman, whoever she was, moved so silently that not even Superman could hear her walk away.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Anders Preparatory Academy was, in many respects, the crown jewel of the Gotham school system. The academy was sectioned off on its own piece of land, well outside the worst areas of the city, with acres devoted to sports, leisure, and activity. Its equestrian program had won multiple national competitions, as had its chess and math teams. Its high school counterpart had an 85% college acceptance rate, with interconnected programs to follow students from pre-k all the way into senior year. Most of the students who roamed the halls were children of ambassadors, politicians, and celebrities. Security was contracted to the best private companies money could buy, and each and every department from art to sports was well funded and equally supplied.

And boy did Damian hate all of it.

He'd never admit it, of course. This was the deal he and Bruce struck when Damian took on the mantle of Robin. He would not be allowed to waste his youth away toiling in the Batcave or prowling Gotham streets for crime. During the school year, Damian Wayne would be a student at the Academy, receiving the best education Bruce could offer him. The one grace was that Damian was allowed to come home frequently, rather than live in the dormitories like so many of the other students. The only exception was during midterms and finals, in which he was forced to remain until all his tests were over with. Truly, those weeks were some of the most Hellish Damian had ever had to endure, and he grew up under the tutelage of Ra's al Ghul.

As he, Bruce and Clark stepped out of their car into the shadow of the Academy, Damian could feel that oh-so familiar curdle in his stomach. He wondered how difficult it would be to slip away without either of his parents noticing. Sadly, he correctly surmised that it would be rather impossible.

"Goll-lee." Clark adjusted his glasses, his neck craned as he took in the massive Roman columns. "This is your middle school?"

"Anders has some of the best teachers in the world," said Bruce "I went myself when I was Damian's age."

Clark turned to him. "Did you like it?"

Bruce's smile strained. "Not particularly."

Parents filed up the steps and into the halls of Anders. Walking into the polished floors of the front hall was like stepping into a palatial museum. Brass busts of former teachers and founders of the school sat in marbled alcoves, watching the oncoming students with judgment in their dead eyes. There were no rows of lockers, no common trash cans, but plenty of trophies and ribbons, which had their place in a massive glass case, lit at the end of the hallway. Wide stairs led to the second and sublevel floors, respectively, and where Clark would have expected a cheap, fold out table with greeters, was instead a tall woman, impeccably dressed, flanked by an entourage of equally smart teachers.

"Ah, Mr. Wayne!" The woman approached Bruce with wide open arms. Looking at her closer, Clark assumed she was in her early forties, with blond hair pulled into a tight, almost ballet bun. She was tall and gangly, and wore a pantsuit not unlike the power suits of the 1980's. Bruce turned on the charm and kissed the woman on each cheek. "A pleasure to see you again, truly."

"Good to see you, Miranda."

"I do hope you will stop by my office to discuss your yearly contributions," said Miranda. "The school's expenses have gone up this year."

"Of course," said Bruce. "But after orientation."

"Oh yes, of course." Miranda turned her sharp eyes to Damian, who looked anything but thrilled to be there. "May I assume young Damian will be joining us again?"

"He will," said Bruce, hand on Damian's shoulder.

"And so continues the proud tradition," Miranda nodded. Her eyes finally fell to Clark, and she quirked a shapely eyebrow. "And who might this be? A new nanny?"

Rather than shy away, Bruce put his hand on Clark's lower back. "This is my fiance, Mr. Clark Kent. Clark, this is Dean Miranda Withers. Head of the Academy."

Clark put on an affable smile and held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

Something in Miranda's eyes seemed to die as she scoped Clark up and down. Now, Bruce had showered Clark in more than his fair share of gifts; fine coats, suits, well pressed shirts. But when it came down to it, Clark was most comfortable in his more homey clothes. Today, he wore an old fashioned tweed suit with patches on the elbows, and well-worn, tan shoes. For his tie, he'd gone with a print pattern of dogs. It was a gift from Damian to wear specifically for orientation, which he wore with pride.

Breaking out of her daze, Miranda offered Clark the lightest, limpest handshake she could, which Clark barely noticed as he shook it vigorously. When she withdrew her hand, she not-so-subtly wiped it against her pant leg. "The pleasure's all mine," she said through gritted teeth.

"Now, where will Damian be this year?" Bruce asked, redirecting the conversation.

"Ah, yes." Miranda handed Bruce a small pamphlet. "Here is his class schedule, which will be emailed to you at the end of the day. His homeroom will be in Mr. Burges' class. Second floor, room 203. Orientation will be held there."

"Very good, thank you, Miranda. I guess we'll head up there now." Bruce motioned his family to follow, and they started up the stairs.

"Lovely to meet you, Ms. Withers!" Clark called, waving happily before ascending the steps. Damian smirked at the dean's discomfort as she waved back. As they climbed the second leg of stairs to the upper floor, Clark turned to Bruce. "You know, I don't think she likes me much."

"I wouldn't take it personally," said Bruce. "Miranda is... hm. How do I want to say this?"

"A vile toad of a woman," said Damian.

"I was going to say 'particular,' but sure."

"I'm sure she can't be that bad."

"Oh believe him," said Bruce. "She's that bad."

"How so?" Clark asked.

"She's rude," said Damian, counting off his fingers. "She's entitled. She's judgmental."

"Maybe she's just misunderstood?" Clark offered. "You know, I bet if I got to know her a little bit, she wouldn't be so bad under all that. When I was going to high school, I had a problem with my math teacher, Mr. Morris. He didn't seem to like me for some reason, so Ma had me bring him a coffee cake, and after that, he never had a problem with me again. Maybe she just needs a little kindness? You know? A real gift from the heart."

Bruce smiled. "You're lucky you're pretty."

They arrived in room 203 with a handful of other families. The class seemed equally split between boys and girls, all Damian's age. The classroom itself was bigger than Clark imagined, with curved desk chairs for lumbar support. The windows were wide, allowing in the natural sun of the afternoon, and the back of the room housed a baby grand piano, currently covered.

"I think this place is as big as my apartment," Clark remarked. "How expensive is tuition in this place?"

"Trust me," said Bruce, "you don't want to know."

Damian, feeling suffocated already, headed to the back of the room for a seat. Clark and Bruce clearly meant to follow him over, but as usual, Bruce Wayne drew a crowd. Mr. Burges, the tiny, round man who would be running Damian's homeroom, cooed over Bruce with the intent on asking for donations. This would undoubtedly take a while.

"Hey look. It's the prince."

Damian's brow twitched in irritation, and he glanced to his right. Three smarmy faces stood in wait. Two boys and one girl, all dressed in designer brands. Damian had the displeasure to know all three of them well by now.

"How was your summer?" the first boy asked. Jeremy Cook. He was a lanky boy, whose brown hair was gelled like a pop star's. "You visit the old castle back home?"

"What a shame," the girl added. "We thought you were going to stay over there for good." Jenny Cook, Jeremy's blonde, obnoxious twin sister. If looking down one's nose was an olympic sport, Jenny would undoubtedly be a gold medalist.

"Hey guys, be nice," said the last boy, Nathan Harper. His growth spurt had yet to come in, though puberty had definitely given him the lionshare of acne. "He's probably tired from all the goat riding over there." The twins snickered in response.

Damian narrowed his eyes. "That doesn't even make sense," he pointed out.

"Oh, yeah, he's right, guys," said Jeremy. "He's a prince, remember? He probably has the goats pull him in a barrel." The other two laughed snottily.

Damian, rather than rising to the bait, folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. "I see you have yet to evolve past last year's material," he said, coolly. "A shame your parents pay so much in tuition when you are so committed to being stupid."

Jeremy snorted, hands on his hips. "Yeah, I guess you'd know about stupid, huh?"

"Please, do yourself a favor and save your breath, ya hamar." 

"Hey," Nathan sneered, "in case you didn't remember, highness, we're in--uh--America? You might wanna sound like it."

"Ugh, what is he even calling you?" Jenny scoffed. "I bet it's something awful."

Damian cocked an eyebrow. "It's a term of endearment. It's like calling someone 'buddy.'"

Jeremy narrowed his eyes. "Why do I not believe that?"

Damian shrugged. "Believe what you want, qalil al’adab."

"What was that one?"

"'One who reads,'" said Damian.

Jeremy blinked. "Uh... okay?"

"Oh good, you got us seats."

Jeremy and his cohorts were suddenly overshadowed by the lumbering, massive figures of both Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent. While both wore amenable smiles, it was clear by the edge in their eyes that they hadn't exactly missed the conversation. Clark, who seemed to be raising himself to full Superman height, leaned over the three school children with a wide, dangerous smile. "Are these friends of yours, Damian?" Jeremy paled, the other two paralyzed behind him.

Damian, cool as a cucumber, put his hands behind his head. "Just some classmates," he said, casually. "Jeremy, Jenny, you remember my father? Bruce Wayne? And this is his partner, Clark Kent. He's my new dad." Jeremy was starting to look green around the gills.

"Ah, wait." Bruce took a step forward. The shadows seemed to be especially dark over his icy eyes and deadly sharp brows. "I remember you two. The Cook twins, am I right? Didn't your father just lose his re-election campaign?" Bruce tsked and shook his head. "Real shame to hear about that. Feel free to give him my condolences."

Nathan, who was the first of the three to grow some sense, began tugging on his friends to move away. They mumbled something about needing to talk to their parents before scampering off to safety. Clark and Bruce watched them go, with Damian remaining unbothered in his seat.

"Well they're unpleasant," Clark grumbled.

Bruce sat to the left of his son, wearing much of the same expression. "That's a word for it."

"Jenny overheard me speaking about my lineage late last year," Damian explained. "They seem to think that my bloodline is hilarious. Or they just don't believe me at all. Either way, I am in no hurry to correct the record. Frankly, they aren't worth my time."

Clark smiled a little and took his seat to Damian's right. "Well, I'm proud of you for not escalating things. Kids like that are usually miserable, and just looking for a way to lash out."

"Sometimes," Bruce agreed. "And sometimes, people really are just assholes." Damian chuckled softly.

Clark glanced between them. "By the way," he said. "What did you really call him?"

Damian's smile widened. "An illiterate donkey." Bruce snorted.

"That's not very nice," Clark pointed out.

"Would you rather I break their noses?" Damian asked. Clark had no answer.

"Mr. Wayne?" Clark, Bruce, and Damian all looked up as a young woman popped her head into the classroom. "Is Mr. Wayne present?"

Bruce stood. "Accounted for," he said, fixing his coat.

"Ah, yes." The young woman approached, causing both Damian and Clark to follow Bruce's lead. "My name is Miss Cami. I'm the new guidance counselor at Anders. I was wondering if I could have a word with you and your family?" She spotted Damian and smiled. For the first time since their arrival, it seemed to be an authentic one. "You must be Damian. I've heard all about you."

Damian shrank just an inch. "You have?"

"Please." Miss Cami turned to Bruce. "It won't take long. Orientation isn't for another fifteen minutes."

Bruce nodded. "Lead the way, Miss Cami." As the four of them left the classroom, Damian caught the triple stink eye coming from Jeremy's corner. In response (and once he was sure Clark couldn't see him), Damian held up two fingers to his mouth and slid out his tongue between them. He wasn't sure what it meant, but he'd seen Jason do it on occasion, so he was sure it was properly offensive.

The small group ended up in a modest office at the end of the hall. Unlike the rest of Anders, Miss Cami's office space was comfortable and quaint. An old fashioned desk sat in front of wide windows, curtained with lace cotton. Degrees in psychology hung on the walls of her office, with a bookshelf full of literature on the same subject. Miss Cami offered them each a chair and took her own on the other side of the desk.

"Thank you for meeting with me," said Miss Cami. "So, as I mentioned, I am the new guidance counselor here." She glanced at Clark. "May I assume you are his other parental figure? An uncle or...?"

"He's my dad," Damian said promptly. "He and my father are engaged."

Miss Cami, rather than seem uncomfortable, actually brightened. "Oh how wonderful. Well, congratulations, the both of you. It's such a wonderful thing to have both parents here at orientation. A lot of the students here are usually only accompanied by a single guardian, or even a caretaker like a nanny. So we do appreciate your being here, Mr...?

"Kent, but feel free to call me Clark."

"Well all right, Clark. I've called you all in here to talk about Damian's file." She pulled a small, manilla folder from her drawer and laid it flat on the desk. "Last year, Damian was involved with several altercations involving other students. Now, we here at Anders believe in meaningful mediation, which means expulsion is really only a last result. Which means, before Damian starts his new school year, I'd like to get to the bottom of his issues here at Anders."

"If I may," said Clark. "I think the problem might be with the other students."

"I see. If that is the case, rest assured, I'll have a discussion with their parents, too. But I'm afraid Damian's record has quite possibly the most extensive collection of demerits I've ever seen." She flipped through the folder. "Argumentative with teachers, combative with his fellow classmates. There was even a report here one day where he... um... Well, it says here that he scaled the wall of the cafeteria."

Bruce's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to Damian. "Care to explain?"

Damian shrugged. "Eating in such a crowded room was irritating me, so I climbed up to the window instead."

Clark swooped in with a smile. "Rest assured, there will be no more wall scaling this year. Right, Damian?"

"Tt."

Miss Cami shut the folder and leaned forward at her desk. "Damian." He looked up. "If I might ask... Have you been able to make friends here at Anders? With anyone?" Damian's aloof facade fractured ever so slightly. His crossed arms tightened, and he looked away, rather than answer. Miss Cami glanced at Bruce and Clark before continuing. "Your son is a very bright young man. His marks are at the top of his class. He shows incredible promise in his science classes specifically. But it may be to his benefit to participate in some of the more social events here at Anders."

"Like what?" Bruce asked.

"School events, football games, dances. There are plenty of extra curricular clubs after school hours as well. We know he doesn't live on campus for most of the year, but it might be worth taking advantage of some of the living arrangements--"

"No." All eyes turned to Damian as he gave his direct and final answer. "My schedule does not allow me to spend extra hours outside the home."

Miss Cami looked uncomfortable. "Well... perhaps... we might consider a change in schedule?" Miss Cami's voice softened, and her words became even more painfully sincere. "These are formative years for you, Damian. Why not try and make some friends?"

"And why would he do that?"

A voice. A familiar, calculating voice, spun from supple lips. A smell of jasmine, and a burn of incense. Dark hair that flowed like ink. Warm ochre skin, barely freckled by the sun. And a figure that rivaled the statues of the goddesses of old. As all eyes turned to the woman at the door, the world around them stopped spinning. She spoke again. "It's clear that these children are far beneath him. You do not expect a wolf to play with the sheep, now, do you?"

Damian stood from his chair. His face had fallen in disbelief. His lips parted, and his eyes welled with pinprick tears. "Mother...?"

When Talia al Ghul smiled, it had the power to get the world moving again. "Hello, beloved."

Chapter Text

After three and a half days of study, John Constantine had concluded two things: the spectral aether could create portals to different dimensions, and whatever came out couldn't go back in. This was how Constantine had ended up with a grand total of two duel headed turtles, a bag of mystery meat-filled doughnuts, a ballerina's costume fit for a crab, six different versions of the same chocolate bar, and of course, Bunny the fat tabby cat. And still, the Kryptonian crystal did not seem ready to power down at any point. Sitting on Clark's coffee table, Constantine had his open notes on one side, and his new turtle friends on the other.

"What are we thinking?" Constantine turned to all four heads, which blinked slowly up at him. "Do I turn you into soup or make a zoo's day?" He was answered by Bunny, who jumped up onto the table and started batting at the turtles' many feet. "Oy!" Constantine waved her away. "Enough of that, you. Don't be a twat."

"Mrrw."

Bunny jumped off and began grooming between her toes. Constantine rubbed his tired eyes. He would admit, at first he was expecting this little venture to be a lovely little distraction. A light vacation into magical academia, one might say. But now, given that Clark's poor apartment was becoming Noah's psychedelic arc, Constantine was worried about the implications of not chucking these poor bastards back to whence they came. Creatures out of their own dimension could lead to a myriad of consequences. On the lesser side, John had seen disruptions to politics, sports, and relationships. On the heavier end of the spectrum, the dominos could fall in just the right way to end the whole bloody world. And given the random entropy of the universe, there was no telling just what would trigger which outcome.

John's phone buzzed, and he yanked it from his coat pocket. Perking up, he threw on a sunny voice as he answered, "Zatanna, darling!"

"This had better be good, John."

"Aw, when is it not?"

Zatanna Zatara huffed on the other line. In the background, Constantine could hear the rumble of a tour bus. "You realize I'm literally in the middle of a world tour?" she said. "Do you have any idea what it took for me to get booked in the West End?"

"I won't take much of your time, love. Promise."

"Fine. What's so urgent it couldn't be a text?"

"I was wondering if you had any spells that dealt with parallel universes?" There was a pause on the other line. John blinked. "Zatanna? You still there?"

"What did you do?"

"Nothing, I--!"

"Why the Hell do you need a spell to get into a parallel universe?" Constantine didn't answer, and Zatanna continued. "Please tell me you're not going to try and get sexual with another version of you or something."

"What? Why would I ever--?"

"I know you, John."

"I mean, do you really think I'm that much of a whore?"

"Yes."

"Well, fair point, I s'pose. But no. Me and the Constantwin are not meant to be. Though I'm sure I'll see him in one of the portals."

"Portals? Plural!?"

"Superman lent me some files on a spectral aether with the same elemental signature as magic itself. It's fascinating stuff, Zan, I think you'd be quite interested."

"And this aether makes portals?"

"More or less. Apparently, Kryptonians used to harness it for energy. But it came with a wee side effect of ripping open space-time. From the notes, though, it used to only open portals to different points in the galaxy. Now it's spreading wide to different universes all together. And, unfortunately, I've had a few visitors that I can't seem to be rid of because of it."

"Visitors? Visitors how?"

"A few rogue passengers who tripped their way into our world. Problem is, the portal won't bloody take them back. And one of them's scratched up Superman's bloody couch."

"How did that happen?"

Constantine scratched his stubble with his thumbnail. "Well, I may have fed it a bit of my magic. On accident." He fished around through the meat-doughnut bag and grabbed what looked like a powdered jelly. He took a bite and winced. "Ugh. Liver."

"I swear to God, if you were left completely to your own devices, you'd turn the world inside out or something."

"If I got bored."

Zatanna sighed. "Look, I'm too busy to clean up your messes. My best bit of advice is to try thumbing through dimensions until you find a vacuum."

"A what?"

"It's a sort of in-between pocket of space that sorts out anomalies. I always figured it was the universe's natural immune system for sorting out things that are in the wrong spot."

"What's it look like?"

"Nothing much. Usually they're black voids that you just chuck shit into and trust that it'll find its way back home."

Constantine blinked. "So what you're saying is, I'm looking for a glory hole."

"And you wonder why I think you're a whore."

"Not nice." John got off the coffee table and started to walk. "Alright. How do I find it?"

"Their locations are often random. Just start flipping through dimensions until you find--"

"The glory hole."

"The vacuum. Pervert."

"Come on, there's got to be a better way of going about this. Besides..." Constantine glanced at Bunny. "I can't risk any more uninvited guests."

"Just be careful about it. You can do that, right?"

"I will have you know that I can be incredibly careful, thank you oh so very much." When Zatanna didn't didn't respond, John followed it up with, "And I'll try to be quick about it."

"Right. Good luck, then. And John?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Lose my number for the next three months."

"Ah. Will do. Ta-ta." Constantine hung up his phone and sighed. "Well." He reached into the doughnut bag and pulled out a maple bar. "Guess I'll be here for a bit longer." He took a bite and paused. "Sausage roll?" To his delight, his doughnut was stuffed with an honest to God British sausage. He brightened and took another bite, conjuring up a jar of mustard to go with it.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Damian hadn't moved since returning to his bedroom at the manor. Curled up on his bed, his ears perked instinctively, but there was no listening through the manor's old walls. He wondered if maybe he was hallucinating this whole ordeal. Given the amount of head trauma he'd suffered as Robin, perhaps it was equally as likely that he was laid up in a hospital bed as it was that his mother had returned. 

Back in the counselor's office, Damian had been overwhelmed by the very sight of Talia. His first instinct was to run to his mother and embrace her, but one look at his father's scowl kept him in place. It had been an intense standoff, mitigated only by Clark's gentle nudging to take an early leave. Given Bruce's standing as a donor for Anders, the dean didn't exactly give them attitude when they skipped out of orientation. Especially since the whole day could easily fit into an email. Bruce waited until they exited the school before breaking their silence.

"Why are you here?" he had asked.

Talia remained even-keeled. "This should really be a conversation for home."

"Are you inviting yourself over?"

"Am I not allowed?"

Bruce glared, but before things could go entirely sideways, Clark stepped forward. "You're Damian's mother," he said. "Of course you're allowed."

Talia cocked a shapely eyebrow. "Glad someone remembers their manners," she said. "So? Shall we continue this conversation in private, or would you rather embarrass your son in front of his peers before the school year has even started?"

Bruce glanced past Talia's shoulder. Indeed, curious eyes peered through windows and over balconies. Even in a world of high profile families, there was only one Bruce Wayne. Any family drama attached to such a prestigious pedigree was bound to draw attention. "Fine," Bruce conceded. "But you're getting your own car." He turned on his heel before Talia could respond, and flagged down Alfred to pick them up. Bruce opened the back door with a yank, only to realize that he was the only person ready to go. Damian had remained standing right where he was, while Clark hovered behind him, indecisive.

"Damian," Bruce barked. Damian jumped at his father's stern tone. He ripped his eyes from his mother's, his body stiff as a board. He stared at a pair of dry leaves fluttering next to his shoes. A gentle hand laid on Damian's shoulder, and he jolted. He was met with Clark's gentle smile.

"Come on, Damian," he said softly. "Let's head home. Okay?"

"You don't need to be so soft with him." Talia's tone was crass, clearly intended to get a rise out of her ex-lover's new fiance. After all, she couldn't have missed Damian's announcement to Miss Cami about his father and his soon-to-be husband. "He's not an infant."

Clark ignored her, and slid his hand down Damian's back. Damian swallowed, and followed Clark and his father into the back seat of Alfred's car. The ride home was miserably silent.

Damian sighed, his face buried in his crossed arms. In all the times he imagined his mother returning for him, Damian had pictured plenty of reactions. Everything from rage to love and all that sat between. Never had he imagined he would just lock up like that. All the things he wanted to say, every question he was begging to ask, all of it had gone out the window the moment he saw Talia's face.

A soft knock came to Damian's door. Damian tightened his arms around his knees, determined to stay small and quiet. "Damian?" Clark's voice lowered his defenses, just a touch. "Mind if I come in?" Damian remained silent. "I have cookies."

Damian lifted his head an inch. "Enter," he said. Clark walked in with--indeed--a tray of freshly baked cookies. Damian recognized the smell. "Your mother's snickerdoodles."

"I made them for dessert tonight," said Clark. He approached the bed and sat on the edge. He offered one to Damian. "Figured it was a special occasion."

"In what way?"

"Well. New school year. Thought we'd celebrate."

Damian took a cookie. Even though they'd cooled completely, they were still soft to the touch. "You realize we haven't had dinner yet," he said.

Clark smiled, and took a cookie. "Don't tell Alfred." Damian loosened, and they each took a bite. They stared at the door, left slightly ajar by Clark's entry. "Are you okay?" Damian shrugged wordlessly. "It's fine if you aren't."

"I don't want to complicate things for my father."

"How so?"

Damian stared at the cinnamon sugar on his cookie. He scratched at it with his fingernail, mindlessly. "Do you know why I'm here at all?" Clark shook his head. "Two years ago, I was sent here on the orders of my grandfather. I... was instructed to kill Bruce Wayne." Damian hesitated, waiting for Clark's horrified reaction. Clark stayed neutral. "I was given to father under the pretense that I had left my life with the League of Assassins behind. In reality, I was biding my time. Grandfather told me that it was my final test. That if I accomplished my mission, I would prove myself worthy of his name." Damian took another bite. "Clearly, that didn't happen."

"And your mother?"

"I was assured I would not see her again until the deed was done. Not even if I went looking for her. I would not be allowed in 'Eth Alth'eban's city walls until such time that I could provide proof of the death of Bruce Wayne. Ideally by offering my grandfather his head on a plate." Damian drooped just so, and hunched his shoulders. "The day I realized I wanted to stay at father's side for good was the day I knew I had to make peace with my mother's absence. But I... I missed her. As much as it would aggravate my father to hear me say such a thing."

"What makes you say that?"

"You saw him at the school," said Damian. "He and my mother were passionate lovers, from what I'm told. He has always tried to remain cautious when discussing her around me, but clearly, there are unresolved issues concerning the relationship. Perhaps even old feelings." Damian paused, and looked up. "Not that you need to worry," he said. "I'm sure that father will follow through on the engagement. I don't see him as a man who insists upon multiple partners."

Clark's smile was awkward. "Good to know."

Damian finished his cookie and took another one. "So? Has your opinion of me diminished enough?"

"Why? Because the boy raised by assassins was sent to assassinate someone?" Clark finished his own cookie and set the plate between them. "If anything, I have a new respect for you, Damian." Damian turned back to him, his brows knit. Clark elaborated. "It takes a strong will to defy your parents. An even stronger will to do what's right in the face of that expectation."

Damian scoffed. "Respectfully, what would you know about it? I've met your parents. They couldn't be more different than mine."

"You've met Ma and Pa," Clark agreed. "But I'm Kryptonian, remember?" He propped his chin in his hand. "When I was sent to Earth, my bio-parents transcribed a message to send with me. It was damaged in transit; I'd only heard the first half of the message. For years, I thought I was Superman because it was what my parents had sent me to Earth to do. To serve the people of this planet. It wasn't until I was a full grown adult when the rest of the message was translated."

Damian lifted his head, fascinated. "What did it say?"

Clark sighed. "They sent me here to be Earth's ruler," he said. "That I was the last son of a superior race. My job, from their perspective, was to lord over the Earth and its people as a kind of god-king. When I found that out, I was devastated. My whole life, I was so sure I was devoting it to the mission my parents gave me. It was... a difficult pill to swallow."

Damian looked away thoughtfully. "Huh. If I'm being honest, Clark, I'm a little surprised you didn't come to that conclusion naturally."

Clark laughed. "Oh come on."

"No, it makes sense if you think about it," Damian argued. "Given what our yellow sun does to your physiology, if your parents had even the slightest inclination as to your abilities once you landed, of course they'd want you to rule as god-king. I'm astounded it was such a shocking revelation for you."

"My point is, I was able to move on because I understood who I was, fundamentally. That the path they wanted for me was not one I would be able to walk. Even though I knew and understood this fact, it still felt like a betrayal."

Damian wrung his fingers. "How did you deal with it?"

Clark put a hand on Damian's shoulder. "I talked to my dad. And he made things pretty darn clear." Damian looked up, sheepishly. Clark squeezed Damian gently. "You get to decide who you are. Always."

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"I see your taste in decor hasn't changed." Talia plucked the edge of a curtain with two fingers. "Still depressing."

"What do you want, Talia?"

Talia turned to Bruce, who was leaned up against his desk. His home office was hardly a functioning one. If anything, it was more of a show piece for important guests. Like most rooms in the mansion, it was housed by a vaulted ceiling, with tall windows and priceless carpeting. Bruce's desk was a deep mahogany, and sat in front of a leather den chair and two dramatic wooden book cases. There were no soft edges here. No comfortable couches, no plantlife, not even pictures. It was no coincidence that Bruce had decided that they were to talk in the least welcoming room in his house.

"Must we get straight to the point?" Talia asked. "It's been so long since we've seen each other."

"I'm under no obligation to be social with you."

"It would be polite."

"You abandoned our child at the behest of your war criminal father. I am not interested in being polite."

Talia folded her arms across her chest. She hadn't changed since Bruce saw her last. Still beautiful, still deadly. Her eyes were darker, perhaps. More guarded than they once were. If such a thing were even possible. "Would it do anything to apologize?"

"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."

"How is Damian doing? That school you're forcing him to attend. Is it at all keeping him intellectually stimulated? I can't imagine it."

Bruce hesitated. "Damian is doing fine," he finally answered. "He had some trouble adjusting. No thanks to Ra's al Ghul."

"And so you have provided him with new guidance," Talia surmised. "You, and now your..." Talia waved in the air. "Quite a change of pace."

"It was what Damian needed."

"Was it? He needed you to marry a--"

"A man?"

"An alien." Talia waited for Bruce's response, but Bruce's jaw locked tight. "Yes," she continued. "I know. And so does father."

"Then you know how bad an idea it would be to upset him."

"You think your Kryptonian dog scares me?" Talia asked. "Hardly. I haven't been frightened of a man since I was a little girl." She turned to stare out the crack between the curtains. The sun was setting now, the air painted over in a muted, red hue. "I must wonder if Damian is even safe here. Given the alien's ease of power." She glanced Bruce's way. "One must hope that the day never comes where Mr. Kent loses control around our child."

"I'll ask you again. And if you refuse to answer me, you're welcome to leave. What are you doing here?"

Talia turned back to the sunset. "Father has requested Damian's return."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "No."

"I told him that would be your answer. But Damian is not an incompetent child. He will make the choice for himself."

"The answer is still no."

"Even if he wishes it?"

"Especially if he wishes it."

Talia faced Bruce fully, her eyes hardened. "You would deny your own son his wish, should he want to return to his family? You would keep him from his lineage? Force him to be ashamed of his own warrior's blood?"

"I'm not playing this game with you, Talia. No amount of manipulation or twisted rhetoric is going to make me doubt the facts."

"Which are what?"

"Damian isn't a grandson to Ra's al Ghul. He's a soldier. As his father, I will not allow Damian to return to that place. Not under any circumstances."

Talia drummed her fingers along her arm. "I know."

"You know?"

"Yes."

"Then why bother asking?"

Talia's smile was somber. "It was in my best interest to try."

Bruce took his time to respond. "And why is that?"

Talia began to make her way forward. "Because I am now without my home." She stopped a foot in front of Bruce, Just a mere reach away. Talia's face never cracked, but Bruce could start to see the hints of her age on her flawless face. "I was instructed to return with Damian in my care, or to not return at all. And it seems, if I cannot force the issue, I too am exiled from 'Eth Alth'eban."

Bruce cocked an eyebrow. "Well then, I'd suggest renting out a studio. The crime rate keeps the rent pretty cheap. I'll even pay your first and last deposits."

Talia's expression didn't change, though Bruce could see what little light she had in her eyes turn to dust. "You wound me," she said. "Deeply."

"I'll find a way to forgive myself."

Talia tilted her head ever so slightly. "You were never so cruel before," she said. "Are you really so angry with me? That you cannot even spare me a kind glance?" Bruce said nothing. "There was a time, once, when I saw love in your eyes. But now I suppose it is reserved for your future husband." Talia laid a bold hand on Bruce's arm. Bruce didn't so much as flinch. "I have missed you. Almost as much as I have missed our son." Bruce continued to hold his tongue. He refused to rise to Talia's bait. Refused to react, for better or worse, and play into her hands. But in doing so, this left the door open for Talia to move in even further. The overwhelming smell of her perfume suffocated Bruce, the jasmine leaving him woozy. Without fear, Talia brushed the back of her fingers down Bruce's sharp jaw. "I still think of that night," she said. "The night we made love. The night we made Damian. An experience you will never share with your fiance..."

Bruce finally snatched Talia's wrist. He didn't squeeze nearly as hard as he should have. "It is for the sake of my son that I haven't thrown you out into the cold, Talia. Don't make a fool of yourself."

"Bruce? Dinner's almost--"

The door opened, and Clark's words died. He and Bruce locked eyes from across the room. Only then did Bruce really understand how close they were standing together. Clark sobered, but kept his expression neutral. "Dinner," he said. "It's almost ready. Are you going to be coming down?"

Bruce let Talia go and stepped aside, fixing a button on his blazer. "In a minute."

Clark hesitated. His eyes lingered on Talia, who would not meet them. "Are you staying?" he asked.

Talia looked up. "What?"

"For dinner," said Clark. "You're more than welcome." Clark glanced at Bruce. "If that's okay." Bruce considered it before nodding, shrewdly.

Talia looked between them. "Then I suppose I am staying. For how long, who knows?" Talia began to make her way to the door. When she and Clark were face to face, she addressed him directly. "Although I must admit, you are more hospitable than most lovers in your position. Given my history with your groom."

Clark remained unbothered. "Forgive me if this is rude," he said, "but I hardly consider you a threat."

"Really? You must think very highly of yourself."

"I think highly of my fiance."

Talia pressed her lips into a thin line. Clark spoke again. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to have a word with him in private."  Talia clearly considered having the last word, but thought better of it, and stepped out into the hall. When Clark was sure she was far enough away, he approached Bruce's side. "Everything okay?"

Bruce's brows furrowed. "Fine," he said. "There's no way she's getting what she wants, if that's what you're worried about. Either with me or Damian."

"What does she want with Damian?"

"Ra's al Ghul sent her to bring him back."

Clark hardened. "That's not happening."

"I know. Trust me." Bruce rubbed his tired face. Slowly, he peeked through his fingers. Clark was deep in thought, staring off to one side. "So?"

Clark shook himself from his daze. "What?"

"We're not going to address what you saw?" Bruce asked. "For the record, I'd only grabbed her to get her off me."

But Clark didn't appear at all bothered. "I figured that," he said.

"There is nothing left between me and her. You know that, right?"

"I..." Clark hesitated. "Bruce, are you afraid I got the wrong idea?"

Bruce shrugged. "It'd be understandable if you had."

But Clark put on a smile. "I meant what I said. I trust you." He took Bruce's hands. "I know you wouldn't do anything like that. Especially not with someone who has brought your family so much pain."

Bruce visibly relaxed. His heavy head leaned forward, and soon, he pushed up against Clark's chest, weakly. "Jesus, it's like you were made in a lab."

"Bruce, that's Conner."

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't."

Bruce took a breath and straightened up. Clark clearly waited for the next leg of their conversation, but instead, Bruce graced him with a soft kiss. "Come on," he said. "Let's go eat."

Chapter Text

Was it unprofessional to think about one's relationship drama while on superhero patrol? Probably. Would there be anything that could distract Superman from himself? Nothing short of a planet-destroying meteor, probably. Because although Superman was flying high over the busy streets of Metropolis that evening, his mind hadn't left Wayne Manor.

The return of Talia al Ghul wasn't exactly on his bingo card. And even if it was, Clark wouldn't have anticipated it happening in a hundred years. With everything going on--the engagement, the move, the family drama--Clark didn't think any of them could handle so much as an extra argument over Mario Kart, let alone... well. Clark had hoped that he'd behaved with a level of decorum in the face of it all. The last thing any of them needed was for Clark's emotions to get the best of him. But inside, buried deep, Clark was angry. Angry for Damian, who now had to face the complicated emotions his mother brought to the surface. Angry for Bruce, whose authority was challenged in his own home by a woman who left her son for dead. And finally, he was angry at himself, and how powerless he felt in the wake of it all.

He wouldn't let his insecurities show, of course. He couldn't. As deeply as Clark distrusted Talia, she was Damian's mother. The last thing Clark wanted was to get between them for his own petty jealousy. Because yes, he was jealous. In his own way. He wasn't about to throw out accusations or make a fuss, not with everything else Bruce had to shoulder. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right. But the fact that this woman waltzed back into Damian's life after two years expecting to walk back out with him and there was nothing Clark could do to prevent it? It ate away at him. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, her very presence was enough to make Clark feel like the odd one out.

Because no matter how you slice it, Clark wasn't really Damian's parent. He was just the man marrying his father.

Superman sighed deeply, letting his arms hang limp in frustration. He hated when he got like this. He felt like some kind of teenager, whining at the universe for how unfair it all was. But he couldn't help it. He'd been so happy with Bruce and the kids. And now here he was, expected to sit back while it was all disturbed. Like a pond, disturbed by a fifty foot boulder.

Somewhere in midtown, Superman heard the ring of an alarm. Honing in, he recognized the tone coming from a bodega. If he was right, it was the corner store on 5th and Vine. Superman rushed to follow it, and within seconds, he found himself hovering over a robbery in progress. The two thieves were rushing down into an alley, with ski masks haphazardly pulled over their heads. Superman followed close behind, but didn't descend quite yet. It was worth waiting to see if they had weapons; scaring armed robbers could easily lead to stray bullets hitting pedestrians, and that was the last thing Superman needed.

They ran until reaching a small opening at the end of the alley. Superman watched them cluster behind a dumpster and listen for sirens. As the MPD flew down the street and out of sight, the two robbers high-fived each other in victory. Rather than continue somewhere safe, both decided to empty their pockets in order to admire their haul. From their coats, Superman counted at least five hundred dollars, a handle of vodka, and three mini bags of Funyuns. Silent as a shadow, Superman touched down behind them.

"Dude, we shoulda got whiskey," one of them was saying.

"No way, man, chicks dig vodka. If you want to get laid, that's what you bring."

"Oh man, hell yeah!" The first robber pulled up one of the Funyun bags. "You got the spicy queso flavor!"

"Too bad they don't have Funyuns in prison."

The robbers jumped at Superman's voice and whipped around. Their faces paled in an instant. One of them tried removing the gun from his jacket, but fumbled at the last second. The pistol fell from his fingers and skid to Superman's boots. Superman was quick to notice the shoddy paint over the orange tip and Super Soaker logo. Superman cocked a bored eyebrow at both of them.

They each tried running in different directions, but Superman collected them both with a quick dash. Rounding them up, he wrapped them together in the iron railing of a set of stairs, even tying it off like a bow. Superman collected the scattered money and neatly folded it back up into a pile. "There we are. I'll just go ahead and return this."

"P-please!" one of the robbers begged. "Don't call the cops, man!"

"Shut up!" the other squeaked. "It's goddamn Superman! He'll fry us!"

"Please don't fry us, Mr. Superman! We're just kids!"

Superman furrowed his brow, locating a wallet in the first robber's jeans. He honed in on his x-ray vision. "Your ID says you're twenty six."

"Stop lying to Superman you fucking idiot!"'

Superman put a hand on his hip. "You boys haven't done a lot of crime prior to this, have you?" They each shook their heads emphatically. "Well it's a bad path to go down. I'd recommend quitting before getting too deep."

"R-right!" the second robber agreed. "W-we promise!"

"Yeah, we promise!"

Superman tapped his foot. "I can't imagine you had good parents," he said, thoughtfully. "Or at the very least, no one was looking out for you like they should have." Suddenly pensive, Superman sat at the feet of his captives, and propped his elbows on his elevated knees. "Everybody needs someone to look out for them," he said. "Kids need to learn right from wrong, sure. But they also need someone who cares about them. You know?"

The robbers glanced at each other, nervously. "Uh... sure?"

"And I mean... you can try to be that person. But at the end of the day, sometimes you just aren't. And, I mean, even beyond that. You try to be a good partner, a good friend, and things beyond your control can come in and... and just ruin things." Superman thunked his head on the brick wall behind him. "Before you know it, you start second guessing everything. You can see the damage before it happens, but you just... you're stuck there. And you watch as this thing you can't control swoop in and start chipping away at the best thing you've ever had. Gosh, and you want to be better than this. You know that you are, but there's that little selfish person inside of you who just doesn't want to get with the program. And all you hear is his voice as he says, 'Gosh darn it, this is supposed to be about us. Me and you. And you're going to let her come into the picture and ruin everything?' And you know you were raised better. You don't want to listen to that little, selfish voice. But you just wish that she would go away." Superman mindlessly thumped the back of his head into the brick, leaving a tiny crater in the shape of his skull. He sighed again, deeply, and let his legs splay out in front of him. "And the worst part is? There's nobody you can talk to."

Again, the robbers passed each other nervous looks. "Hey uh..." Superman looked up as the second one spoke. "Are you... going through somethin'?"

"You're right," said Superman, "I shouldn't be bugging strangers about my problems."

"No, no." The first robber waved his hands from underneath the twisted railing. "Sometimes you need a fresh perspective. Y'know? Someone who can give you an outsider's view on things. Maybe it'll help you get a handle on it?"

Superman stood, nervously rubbing his arm. "I just... I want to be a good partner. But does that mean I have to roll over and just let her stomp all over this happy life we've built? That we're going to build?" Superman touched the hidden ring under his suit. "I'm doing my best to be strong, you know? Be the man they expect me to be. But part of me just... just... Ugh. Part of me just wants to throw a fit." He turned to his captives. "Is that horrible for me to say?"

"No!" the second robber said emphatically. "I mean, jeez, man, cut yourself from slack. You're Superman. You've got the whole world on your shoulders, and everyone expects you to be perfect, like, all the time. I can't imagine the pressure."

"Yeah," the first robber chimed in. "And it sounds to me like you really care about your partner. The fact that you're so considerate to their feelings is crazy admirable." The second robber nodded. "It's natural to want to defend the people you care about, right?"

"I guess so..." Superman wrung out his fingers. "And I mean. She really is awful. She abandoned her son. Her own son!"

"What a cun--ow!" The first robber flinched as the second one kicked him.

"Don't swear in front of Superman, dude."

"Oh. Right."

Superman furrowed his brow in thought. "Hm. I mean. To be totally fair, she didn't have the greatest upbringing, either. Her father, you know, he's the real piece of work."

"It takes a long time to untangle yourself from bad parents," the second robber said, wisely.

"Maybe... Gosh, you know what? All that progress that Damian made... It was because he was shown unconditional love. Right?" He turned to the robbers, who nodded in agreement. "Maybe that's the key. A little kindness. Heck, even if she doesn't deserve it. But really show her what it means to be family. Then who knows? Maybe it'll all blow itself over..." Superman smiled and turned to his captives. "Gee, thanks, fellas. I really needed this."

"Hey, no problem, man!"

"Yeah, happy to help!"

A siren drew Superman's attention, and he tilted his head. "Ah, duty calls. Night, guys!"

"Night!"

"Fly safe!"

The two robbers watched as Superman took off into the night sky, both looking rather proud of themselves. Only to remember a few seconds later that they were still wrapped up in wrought iron, and now abandoned.

"Shit..."

"Maybe we can wiggle out? Here, try moving your arm a little bit."

"Dave?"

"Wiggle to the left."

"Dave."

"What?!"

"I have to pee."

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Damian didn't know how to play the piano. There was always a passing curiosity, perhaps even an urge to try. Or maybe seeing Tim play for last year's Christmas party just left him feeling insecure. Damian had his art, of course, but he had no talent for performance. He'd grown up in the shadow of his grandfather, and later, his father. Despite his bravado and bluster, he knew his place was to be seen, and not heard. And hardly even seen, most times.

And so, the piano. The idea of learning to play something that demanded an audience was frustratingly tempting. Damian ran his hand down the black shell of the baby grand in the Wayne music room. A parlor hardly ever utilized past hosting for large parties. Damian sat on the hard bench and lifted the lid on the keys. They seemed endless. Damian's nimble fingers pressed one note after the next. He tapped out a soft, directionless melody. Toyed with the foot pedals and listened to the strings reverberate in the empty room. 

"Taking requests?"

Damian turned where he sat. Talia stood in the shadow at the door. It was early in the morning still. Whether he was sleeping or working, Bruce was indisposed to the world. Clark had left for work already, and Alfred was tending to the garden. Damian figured he would have the house to himself. He should have known otherwise.

Damian turned back to the piano. His hands sunk to his lap. "Do you know how to play?" he asked.

Talia hesitated. "I was never taught, no."

"Were you taught anything?" Damian spun back around. "Anything besides what the League of Assassins taught you?"

Talia walked carefully into the room. The sunlight was cool, filtered through layers and layers of gray cloud cover. It made the whole world blanched and drab. "Are you interested in embroidery, my son?" she asked. "Perhaps poetry writing?"

"These are things you were taught?"

"One way or another. Yes." Damian turned back to the piano. Talia sat on the bench next to him. "You must be angry with me."

"I'm not."

"No?"

Damian shook his head. "I was at first, I think. Secretly. But you were obeying grandfather. Back then, I too would have done anything Ra's al Ghul asked of me."

"But things are different now?"

"Yes."

Talia took a deep breath. "He wants you home, Damian."

"'Eth Alth'eban is no longer my home."

"You would trade centuries of history for the dilapidated corpse of Gotham?" When Damian didn't respond, Talia realized she had her answer. "You really have changed, beloved." Her hand pet the back of Damian's feathered hair. Damian closed his eyes, lost in the sensation of his mother's touch. "I have missed you, Damian. So, so much." Damian's throat clenched. He did his best to keep his tears at bay. Without a word, he turned, and embraced Talia tight. Talia held him with no hesitation. Of his tears, she made no remark. Damian was thankful for the kindness.

"Do you remember when I used to sing for you?" she asked quietly. Damian tightened his arms. "You weren't fussy as a baby. Not at all. But you were frightened of the dark as a child. No matter how many times father tried to get you to acclimate, you cried every time you were forced into a dark room. I would reach out and comfort you. Against your grandfather's wishes, might I add." Talia kissed the top of his head. "Do you remember your favorite?" After a moment of silence, Talia's soft voice filled the empty halls of the music room.

Nami nami ya saghiri
Tanghfaa ea lahasiri
Namy ealetymy ta tanzah alghimi
Wayasir eanaa du kabir
Ydwy ea kl aljiri

Sleep, sleep oh little one
Come rest here on the floor
Sleep in the darkness 
'til the clouds are no more
And becomes a Godly glow.

Damian pulled back from Talia's embrace. Talia watched him, a quiet anticipation in her eye. "Why?" he suddenly asked. He turned to Talia directly. "Why does grandfather want me back? I failed his task. I couldn't kill Bruce Wayne."

Talia gently pushed a fringe of hair from Damian's eyes. The same green eyes that they both shared. Her voice was quiet and sincere as she answered. "Your grandfather is dying, habibi."

Damian frowned. While such news was meant to invoke worry, or perhaps even sadness, in Damian, it stoked only confusion. "What do you mean? Is he refusing the Lazarus Pit?"

"The Lazarus Pit has given many gifts to Ra's al Ghul over the centuries. But it seems his continued use of it has finally built up an immunity to its effects. For years now, his youth had returned to him in smaller and smaller quantities. The last time he bathed in the pit, he emerged as he descended. Old, and frail. And sick."

Damian's eyes widened. "Sick? With what?"

"We don't know," said Talia. "An old disease that died out for the rest of the world. There is no treatment for it. No healing from it." Again, Talia swept away Damian's bangs. "He knew this day would come eventually. It was why he was so pleased when you were born, beloved. You were the continuation of his lineage. In his excitement, he pushed too hard. I argued against sending you here. You must know that I did. That this test was too much too soon. That you were too young. But he insisted. Now, he has realized his mistake. And he wants to welcome you home."

Damian turned his head away. It was heavy with thought, deep in conflict with his emotions. He slid from the bench and stepped away, his tiny arms tightly folded. Dust swirled around his shoes, disturbed by his nervous step. "He wants me home..."

There was once a time Damian would have given anything to return. In those early days, Damian would weep quietly when he knew no one could hear him. Often in the early mornings like this one. He would beg God for his mother's return. To go back to the only home he'd ever known. But as days turned into years, Damian forced himself to make peace with his new life. His relationship with his father had been a difficult journey, but they were miles beyond what they started off with. And now, on the cusp of a whole new chapter in his life, Damian was being given his first great wish on a silver platter. The very thought churned his stomach.

"I'm not an assassin," he told Talia, refusing to look her way. "I can't be grandfather's successor."

"You are young yet," said Talia. "Your spirit is indomitable. Who is to say what you are and are not?" Talia stood from the piano bench and approached Damian from behind. She laid a hand on her son's shoulder. "And when you are old enough to lead, you may mold the League of Assassins however you see fit. It would be yours to do with as you please." Damian lowered his head. Talia now clutched both shoulders, her words soft and earnest.

"Let me take you home, my love. Back to your old room. Back to the palace. Let the people welcome back their prince."

Damian stepped further away and turned. "Father has already told you no, hasn't he?"

"Your father is a slave to his morality," said Talia. "He's done his best by you, but this life... It's softened you, Damian. You've been deprived of your purpose here."

"He won't let me go."

"He's engaged to be married. His other wards are old enough to be set aside while he enjoys his new life. You have a fondness in your heart for your father. I do not begrudge you for this, Damian. As you grow older, you will find it harder to control your true nature. Wouldn't it be kinder to leave your father to his lover? Or are you determined to get in his way?"

Damian could feel his resolve weakening. Bruce's words returned to him abruptly.

"What if the world was at stake? What if everything you'd ever known was going to burn down around you, and the only way to stop it was to kill any one of us?"

"Then I'd let the world burn."

He'd let the world burn. Damian believed him. But his world, it wasn't just Gotham anymore. It wasn't his work, his life as Batman. His world, very soon, would include a husband. A partner. 

"He knows that if it was a choice between him or you, I'd pick you every time."

How fair was that? Damian tried to imagine Bruce forsaking Clark on his behalf. It wasn't a question of if he would follow through. Damian knew that he would. But how cruel was Damian to take up such space? Bruce had only ever known he existed for the past two years. But Clark? He and Clark had known each other for decades. Practically their whole adult lives. They built bonds together. Trust. Friendship, partnership. And in a snap of his fingers, Damian had the power to take it all away. 

If that happened, Damian couldn't live with himself.

"There is no need to answer me now," said Talia. "Think it over. And when you're ready, we can go at any time." Talia left the music room, leaving Damian in a profound, suffocating silence.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

The sun rose soft over the flat lands of Kansas. Echoes of cows mooing joined the innumerous snippets of birdsong, and the bleats of sleepy goats. The rooster's crow echoed, signaling the break of a new day, even though it was still so early that crickets were still chirping. The skies were clear, with only a few puffy clouds painted overhead. With it being the end of summer, crops were just ready for harvesting. The Kents would have quite a season ahead of them.

The farmhouse was still and quiet. Chores should have started an hour ago, but even farmers had lazy mornings. Besides, it was Sunday. And Lord knows they needed their rest. The house itself was built by hand generations ago by grandpa Hiram when he was just a boy. It had remained peaceful ever since.

The house itself was a three bedroom, two bath, with the last appliance update in the 1970's. They'd only gotten wifi a few years ago. The living room was furnished with odds and ends from flea markets and heirlooms. The kitchen retained a yellow tiled floor and sunflower walls. A renovation held over from the 1990's. The red barn was visible from the open window of the master bedroom, where two figures slept peacefully under a hand-sewn quilt.

That was, until the door flung open, and an eleven year old boy burst into view.

"Dad! Dad!" The child leapt up and onto the bed, disturbing its occupants. "I think Callie is giving birth! We gotta go see!"

Clark Kent opened one eye, the other half of his face buried in his pillow. "That's great news, buddy," he yawned. His eye closed, and he pulled the covers up to his chin. "Why don't you go supervise? I'll join you in a second."

"Nooo! Come on, dad, you'll miss it!"

A deep groan came from the other side of the bed. Lois Kent dug her head under her pillow with a huff. "Jon, it is too early for this..."

"But it's already past six!" Jon argued. "That's late enough, right?"

Clark ruffled Jon's mop of inky black hair. "You go on, champ. Your mother and I will be up." When Jon pouted in doubt, Clark held up a pinky. "Promise."

Jon broke into a smile and wrapped his tiny pinky around Clark's massive one. "Alright. I'm holding you to it!" With boundless energy, he leapt off the bed and rushed out of the bedroom, forgetting to shut the door on the way out.

With a huff, Lois popped her head out from underneath the pillow. Her hair was wilder than normal, given the reason that she and her husband were insistent on sleeping in that day. At least motherhood had given Lois the instinct to throw on one of Clark's old t-shirts before bed. "Every day I want to kill you for convincing me to move out here," she complained.

Clark laughed softly. His tree-trunk arms wrapped around Lois' middle from behind, and he laid kisses up her neck. "You love it," he teased.

"Jury's still out." Lois threw the quilt over her head and cocooned herself therein. However, this was all in vain, as Clark ducked underneath the quilt to pursue her. A few kisses and giggles later, and Clark was starting to think he may be late to fulfilling his promise.

Outside the farm house, Jon flailed his way towards the barn. Freshly eleven, Jon had a wide gap between his two front teeth and freckles splattered across his baby fat cheeks. His limbs were long and lanky, though he had yet to grow into his massive feet. His hair was almost never combed, much to the dismay of his mother, and his jeans had a pension for staying muddy, no matter how many times they were washed.

Jon practically flew into the barn, nearly stumbling into a pile of hay and a cow paddy for all his trouble. He managed to right himself before reaching Callie's stall door. Callie was an 18 hand mare, gray and speckled with long white socks. And for the past few months, she'd been very, very pregnant by a neighbor's stallion. After the awkward conversation between the Kents and the Donovans, Jon took it upon himself to care for Callie as the days went on. Until finally, that crisp autumn morning, the foal was ready to make its appearance.

Callie was laying to one side in her pile of hay, grunting and nipping in quiet succession. She was always a gentle creature, which Jon took full advantage of. Kneeling at her head, he stroked her thick neck, and let her snout lay on his knees. "How are we doing, girl? Hm?" Callie nicked in response. Her tail flicked, and her legs twitched. Jon got up and rushed to the other side. Enraptured, he watched the foal slide from its mother and into the pile of hay. It stood on wobbly legs before collapsing. Jon knelt beside it, grabbing the towels that lay in wait and began wiping down Callie's new baby. It had a coat strikingly similar to its mother, though with a black snout and one matching hoof. It whinnied as it leaned into Jon's arms, hoping to get its footing.

"Whoa now!" Jon helped it to stand and then peeked down. He grinned. "Ha! I knew it!" He hugged Callie's foal with both arms. "It's a boy! Oh man, what are we gonna name you? Callie Jr. is definitely out. Hmmm. Oh! How about Calcifer? That's a good one. Or--oh! Wait, I got it. We should name you..." Jon tapped his lip, looking between the two black spots on his coat. He held up his finger. "Spot!" Both horses looked at Jon in clear disapproval. "Alright. Calcifer it is."

Leaving Calcifer to his new life, Jon went back to Callie and hugged her tight. "Oh, girl, you did such a good job." He kissed between her ears. "You're gonna be the world's best mama. I just know it in my bones."

"Rrrhhh!" With no warning whatsoever, Calcifer began to bay hard, bucking his tiny legs and bobbing his head in distress. Jon looked up in confusion.

"Calcifer? What's...?" He stood in an attempt to approach, but Calcifer was damn near psychotic by now. He jostled on all four legs, his head shaking and his eyes rolling back in fear. "Calcifer! Hey! Cal--!" Before long, Callie was also up on her feet, agitated and whining. All around the barn, Jon was assaulted with squawks, caws, bays and shrieks. It was as if the whole place was going bananas. "Callie! Callie, calm down!"

In a sudden twist, Callie turned and whacked Jon with her back hoof, sending him flying. With the wind knocked out of him, Jon's whole world went momentarily black, and he landed hard on a flat, cold surface. Pain throbbed through him, and he curled in on himself, nursing the ache in his ribs. 

Boy, it was a good thing he was half Kryptonian.

His breath returned to him, and the darkness around his eyes began to fade. He realized, with great confusion, that he had not been bucked onto the barn floor, but short, drab carpet. The sound of chaos had been abruptly silenced, as had the ambiance of the farmland outside. What's more? Jon had landed in front of a pair of old, scuffed up penny loafers. With a heavy head, Jon looked up to see a tall, scruffy blond man staring down at him in horror. Jon's next words were raspy, and just managed to escape his lips.

"Uncle Johnny?" he wheezed. The man looked pale enough to faint.

"Who the fuck is Uncle Johnny?"

Chapter Text

It was a clear, crisp September morning at Anders Academy. The chill of early autumn had made Damian's breath puff white as he marched up the steps to the entrance hall. All around him, students thronged in the same Academy uniform he wore. Button up shirt, a blazer with the school's crest, and a pair of coal gray slacks. Optional knee-length skirts for the girls. While many kids took their opportunity to sport accessories or backpacks to show off both their personal style and family's wealth, Damian hadn't bothered replacing his brown messenger bag from last year. It was an Italian leather satchel, and hung off of one shoulder. He liked having his things close at hand, rather than strapped to his back, and found the shape conducive to supplying sketchbooks. Compared to the Prada and Gucci backpacks that flooded the halls, however, it looked downright pedestrian. Damian liked that, too.

Damian glanced at his paper schedule. History was his first class of the day. It was one of his best subjects. Walking down the hall to Mr. Omar's room, he was all but passed over by his peers. In fact, in the year and a half since he'd been enrolled in Anders, Damian struggled to name anyone who he'd consider to even be an acquaintance, let alone a friend. But Damian knew he was better off that way. The last thing he needed in life was an extra liability.

Walking into class, he took a seat in the far row. He might have been an exceptional student on paper, but Damian was not one for class participation. Most of them were just excuses to nap. Had his grades not been excellent, it probably wouldn't have been tolerated. Leaning back in his chair, Damian yawned and propped his feet on the desk. Civilian teachers didn't exactly provoke the same reverence as master assassins or fucking Batman. 

Just as he was settling in, he felt something light bump against his temple. He blinked as a crumpled piece of paper fell into his lap. Looking up, he saw the snarky grins of Jenny, Jeremy and Nathan. The three of them shared a cluster of desks, whispering and snickering as Damian looked over. Out of morbid curiosity, Damian unfurled the paper. It was a rudimentary paper crown with phallic scribbles all around the headband. Damian turned back to his bullies as they giggled behind their hands. Tossing the paper crown, Damian removed his sketchbook and pencil. Such meager attempts to bully him were beneath retaliation. Besides, ignoring them was just as if not more effective in pissing them off.

"Good morning, class!" Mr. Omar appeared at the door and set his briefcase down. He was one of the younger teachers, with tired eyes and a warm smile. Damian could detect the remnants of a Persian accent in his dialect. "My name is Mr. Omar, please feel free to call me that or Mr. O if you can't remember."

Damian's ear perked as Jeremy sniggered. Damian could only assume he was laughing at the double entendre. Nothing else about the letter "o" was particularly funny. He assumed, anyway.

"Please take a syllabus and pass the rest down." Mr. Omar handed out paper packets to his new class. They spread down each row. "This year, we're going to be focusing on the history of civilization, starting from the Byzantine Empire all the way up to today. If you look at your packet, every test and quiz is on the schedule by semester. Does anyone have any questions?" Nathan raised his hand, and Mr. Omar called on him. "Yes?"

"Uh, yeah." Nathan flipped through his paper packet with uninterested eyes. "Most teachers use the school app for schedules and stuff. Are you old school, Mr. O?" Some of the class giggled.

Mr. Omar took the comment in stride. "Physical copies are always handy in case something goes wrong, don't you agree?" Jeremy whispered something to the other two, and the trio giggled rudely. Mr. Omar moved past it. "Now, why don't we go around the room and introduce ourselves to the class? Would anyone like to go first?"

Jenny perked up. "I bet Damian wants to go!" she said. Every head turned on a swivel to Damian's seat, where he looked up from his sketchbook. "He's a prince, you know." Jeremy and Nathan grinned behind their syllabus packets.

Mr. Omar's smile was sympathetic and kind. "In this class, we raise our hands before speaking."

Nathan quietly imitated Mr. Omar's accent behind his packet. "We ru-aise our hunds before es-speaking." More kids giggled. Damian could see Mr. Omar's smile droop just a hair. He was clearly dreading the rest of the school year. 

"Would you like to go, young man?" he asked directly. Nathan quieted down, and Mr. Omar nodded. He turned to the class. "Do we have any volunteers at all to introduce themselves?" out of the corner of his eye, Damian watched the trio already pull out their phones to distract themselves. The rest of the students weren't much better, as many had devolved into chatter.

With a sigh, Damian shut his sketchbook, and stood. "I'll go."

Mr. Omar brightened, and his smile returned. "Ah, very good. Would you care to come to the front of the class? Or are you more comfortable at your desk?"

Jeremy and his goons grinned at Damian from their desks. Damian didn't deign to look their way. Instead, he walked straight up to the front and turned to address the room. Many of the faces he recognized, while others he did not. Hardly anyone was paying attention. 

"My name is Damian Wayne," he introduced. "I was born in a place called 'Eth Alth'eban."

"Gesundheit," Jeremy teased.

Mr. Omar redirected. "Why don't you tell us a little about yourself, Damian?"

"Well. My father is Bruce Wayne. Of Wayne Enterprises." A few of the students straightened up at the mention of Bruce's name. "I have three brothers. I can stand none of them. I'm a vegetarian, and I like to paint." Damian turned to Mr. Omar. "Is that sufficient?"

Mr. Omar beamed. "Thank you, that's excellent. Head on back to your seat."

Damian did so with a nod. As he returned, Jeremy leaned over his desk, so that he was merely a foot away from Damian's own. "You forgot to mention the goats," he whispered. Behind him, Nathan imitated a loud bleat, which made Jenny snort behind her hands. Damian remained standing at his desk.

"Young man." Jeremy looked up as Mr. Omar addressed him. "What is your name?"

"Jeremy." 

"You and your friends are being disruptive. Please, be more considerate to your classmates." The trio settled down as Mr. Omar invited another student to introduce themselves. While Mr. Omar was distracted, Jeremy once again leaned over his desk, and just under his breath, managed a long, singular:

"Ba-a-a-a--"

The sound of Damian's sketch book smacking Jeremy's face cracked loud. The whole room spun around to find Jeremy knocked to the floor with a bloodied nose. He blinked, seeing stars, as Jenny jumped down in a panic at her brother's injury. A slow, irritating whine left Jeremy as he covered his face. Damian watched with a blank expression.

"Jeremy!" Mr. Omar ran to the back of the classroom. He turned to Damian. "What happened?"

Damian shrugged, his sketchbook having been perfectly put back into place on his desk. "He fell."

"He hit him!" Jenny wailed.

"Did you see Damian hit him?" Mr. Omar asked. Jenny opened her mouth, and while Damian fully expected her to milk the situation, her momentary shock turned her honest enough not to answer; after all, Damian was quick. Mr. Omar turned to Nathan. "Did you see anything?" Nathan turned his wide eyes to Damian, who met them boldly. Nathan shrank in his seat and shook his head. Mr. Omar sighed and pinched his nose. "What was your name, young lady?"

"J-Jenny. He's my brother."

"Right. Please take Jeremy to the nurse's office." Jenny hoisted Jeremy to his feet, and the twins scuttled out of the classroom. Mr. Omar rubbed the back of his neck. "Damian? Can you come with me, please?" The rest of the children "ooo'd," but Damian didn't seem the least bit worried. Packing up his things, he walked with Mr. Omar into the hall. "Please be honest with me. Did you hit Jeremy just now?"

Damian stared at Mr. Omar, unflinching. "You shouldn't let them walk all over you."

That took Mr. Omar by surprise. "I... That's not what we're talking about here."

"They're going to keep making fun of you unless you make them stop," Damian continued.

"Do they bully you, Damian?"

Damian shrugged. "They try to. I think it bothers them that they aren't successful. Due to their family's tax bracket and social circles, they've undoubtedly picked up their racism from the adults in their life. Likely their father, given his career as a Republican senator. But they're not exactly bright enough to say anything substantive, so I've been hearing about goats for the past year and a half."

Mr. Omar dawned a sympathetic expression. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to go through that."

"It's more annoying than disturbing," said Damian. "My grandfather has said things that would make them... what's the expression? Shit the bed?"

Mr. Omar took a breath. "Regardless," he continued, "you should never solve your problems with physical violence."

Damian tilted his head. "What physical violence, Mr. Omar? If I remember correctly, you didn't see Jeremy fall, and neither did his sister. Nor did anyone else in the room. What happened today was an unfortunate accident." Mr. Omar paled at Damian's clinical answer. Even so, Damian hoisted his bag onto his shoulder. "I'm assuming you want me to go to the office anyway?" Mr. Omar nodded. Damian turned to make his exit. He knew the way there by heart.

He didn't even bother greeting the office staff upon entry. He'd been sent up to the office so much in his time at Anders that his mere presence was enough to alert the receptionist as to why he was there. Getting himself comfortable on the lobby couch, he took out his sketchbook and quietly drew while he waited for the results of his first day at school. In the background, some phone calls were made, a few worried voices exchanged, and finally, the door opened to a familiar face.

"Looks like I'm taking you home."

Damian didn't look up from his doodles. "Is father too busy to come get me himself?"

Clark sat next to him on the couch. "I offered to be the first emergency number on your file. Since, you know... I can get here faster." Damian finally lifted his head. Even though Clark undoubtedly had been told the whole story, he offered Damian a warm smile. "Want to get out of here?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

They left the office together. Rather than get into a waiting car, Clark suggested they take a walk into the city. Damian agreed. It was warmer now, the sunlight insulated by the layer of smog that perpetually hung over Gotham. Sirens sang in the distance, and Damian could even hear the hiss of breaks as the A Train pulled into a nearby monorail station. Even with Damian's school uniform, no one looked their way more than once. People in Gotham just didn't strike up conversations with strangers. It gave Damian time to clear his head.

"The Dean said that you can come back to school tomorrow," Clark finally told him. "According to your teacher, a student fell and broke his nose. The student claimed you hit him with a weapon, but no one saw it." They paused at a crosswalk and waited for the light to change. "What did you smuggle into school? Sword? Knife?" Damian showed Clark his sketchbook. "Ah."

The walk signal flashed, and they made their way to the other side. "You want to tell me what happened?" Clark asked.

"They were being idiots," Damian replied. "The teacher was letting them push him around. Eventually it got too annoying."

Clark sighed. "Did you do anything beside break the kid's nose?"

"No," said Damian. "It didn't land hard enough to cause a concussion. So he should be fine."

"Were these the same kids who were giving you grief during orientation?" Damian nodded, and Clark frowned. "What's their deal? Why do they have such a problem with you?"

"I'm different," said Damian flatly. "I don't get their jokes, I don't use social media. I come off... weird." He kicked a pebble down the sidewalk. "Father said he was the same when he was my age. Except it's worse for me."

"How?"

"I'm brown."

Clark blinked, and his shoulders relaxed. "Oh." His brows furrowed. "Should we tell the school?"

"It won't do anything. Father has tried several times. They're all children of important donors, so they're not about to get expelled anytime soon. And given that they're nothing compared to the League of Assassins, they're easy enough to ignore. Usually."

"But they were picking on your teacher, you said?"

Damian hesitated. "He's Arab. Like me. They were making fun of his accent. It got... annoying."

Clark frowned deeply. "I'm so sorry, Damian." Damian had no response. They paused in front of an old fashioned ice cream counter, and Clark put on a smile. "Hey. You know what would cheer me up when I was having a rough day?" Damian looked up. "A chocolate soda."

"A what?"

"Come on. I'm about to blow your mind."

The counter was something straight out of the 50's. Walls of antiquated candy and greeting cards, soda water guns, and twisting, red-cushioned stools made up the whole of the Americana vibe. The entire thing was like walking into a postcard. Clark and Damian took their seats at the end of the counter. Clark ordered himself a chocolate soda, and Damian asked for a hot chocolate. It was a little too early for ice cream.

"Here." Clark handed Damian a straw and had him take a sip. The taste was bizarre, and not as sweet as Damian was expecting. "What do you think?"

Damian smacked his lips. "It's weird."

Clark took a sip. "Pa and I used to get these all the time at the drug store back home. He used to never be able to finish his. Said that he was too full half way through. I think he just told me that so that I could have the rest of his." Damian took a sip of his hot chocolate, and Clark stirred his soda. "I loved those summers. When I was a kid, I hoped they'd last forever. But they always ended too soon. And then I'd have to go back to school."

"You weren't fond?"

"Not particularly."

"Why?"

Clark smiled over his soda. "The kids knew I was different." Damian perked up, and Clark continued. "I had friends, but I always had to keep them at an arm's length. I couldn't tell my secret to anybody, or my parents were afraid I'd be taken away. So I never got to get too close to anyone. Some of the kids felt like I was too good for them and didn't like me for it. Ate me up inside, let me tell you." He took another slurp. "It's hard not to yell the truth when you know you're not supposed to. I bet if you wanted, you could handle those kids at school with one hand tied behind your back."

Damian tried to appear nonchalant as he helped himself to a marshmallow from his mug. "And blindfolded," he added.

"Right. But you know the minute you do, it'll just cause you trouble. Right?" Damian's pride dwindled, and he slunk a bit in his seat. Clark stirred his soda for a bit and leaned forward on the counter. "So? What do you want to do?"

"Huh?" Damian looked up.

"The school isn't handling it. And we can't let you loose on sixth graders. How do you want us to move forward? If you want, Bruce and I could pay a visit to the parents. Maybe straighten this all out?"

Damian smiled sourly. "You really shouldn't waste your time," he said. "I can only imagine their parents are worse than they are."

"Are you sure?" Clark glanced at the server at the other end of the counter. He leaned down and spoke in a low tone. "Because you just say the word, and ol' Superman will give them a visit they'll never forget."

Damian laughed. "Nah," he said, relaxed. "They really aren't worth all the trouble. There's nothing they could say or do I haven't heard before. And besides, I don't know if they'll bug me as much now that they've got a broken nose to remember me by."

Clark chuckled softly. "Alright, well." He tapped his finger on the counter. "I feel like I should discipline you for hitting your classmate." He thought for a moment and then held up his finger. "No doing it again."

"M'kay."

"Great. Discipline over." The phone in Clark's pocket buzzed, and he pulled it out. "Huh. It's Dick." He answered. "Hello--?" He stopped as Dick's frantic voice interrupted him on the other line. "Whoa whoa--Hey. Take a breath, it's okay! Are you alright? Are you hurt?" Damian looked up from his hot chocolate. "Yeah, we can--No, I'm with Damian, not--" Clark glanced at Damian. "We'll be right there. You're sure you're not hurt? Mm. Mhm. Okay. I'll see you soon." He hung up.

"What was that?"

"I don't know. But it sounded urgent." Laying some cash on the counter, he and Damian hurried out of the soda shop and into an alley. Once they were sure they were all alone, Clark foisted Damian onto his back and took off like a bullet. They kept high, well out of sight of the people down below, before arriving in Blüdhaven. Fortunately, Dick's apartment was a high rise, so Clark didn't bother with the front door. Landing on his patio, he opened the sliding glass and stepped inside, with Damian sliding to his feet.

"Dick?"

"In here," came Dick's miserable voice. Clark and Damian exchanged a glance before rushing into his bedroom. Dick was hunched over his desk, a mess of scratch paper surrounding an open laptop.

"Hey." Clark approached and laid his hand on Dick's back. "We're here. What's wrong?" He blinked as Dick shoved a crumpled paper in front of his face. Clark plucked it from his hands and unfolded it. He began to read Dick's uneven handwriting.

James Bond???
Strippers
Vegas/Poker
Fishing
Stripper clowns (he'll kill me)
Pool party
Swimmer strippers
Food????

Clark looked down at Dick, who had shoved his face into his hands. "Uh..." Clark glanced between the list and his soon to be step-son. "Are we doing all right?"

"I can't decide," said Dick in anguish. "It's all I've been able to think about for the past week. But like... what do you do for a guy who barely has a social life? Do you know what his idea of a good time is, Clark?" Dick spun around in his chair, showing off the deep bags under his eyes. "Reading. Fucking. Reading. He's an old man! An old man with old tastes who's best friends with a butler! I mean what do I do for that!?"

Damian cocked an eyebrow. "Are you concussed?"

"Dick, why don't you take a break from Best Man duties?" Clark suggested. "It might be healthy for you."

"Uggghhhh." Dick slumped in his chair, his long legs splayed out in front of him. "I wanna make this good. You know. Really give him a bachelor party he'll remember. So far the best idea I've had is swimmer strippers. But like. Again. Bruce likes to read."

"Why did you call us?" Damian asked, a hand on his hip. "I thought Jason was the one helping you with all this."

Dick sobered and spun back to his desk. "Jason clearly isn't interested. So I'm on my own."

Clark glanced between the brothers. "Why? Are you two fighting?" 

Dick snorted. "I'm not fighting anyone. He's the one being an asshole."

"Todd implied that Grayson only cares about planning father's wedding because my presence has made him obsolete," Damian explained.

"Yes, thank you," Dick snapped. "Look, it's fine. I can handle this on my own."

Damian thought for a moment, and then walked up next to Dick. He observed the mess on his desk. Printouts and fliers for restaurants, clubs, exclusive or otherwise, services, experiences, and even more buried beneath. Damian picked up a flier and unfolded it. "I broke a kid's nose at school today."

Dick straightened and turned to Damian. "What?" He looked at Clark. "What?"

"It's fine. He deserved it." Damian put the flier back. "I was so fast that no one saw me."

Dick paused, and leaned forward on his desk. "How fast are we talkin'?"

"It was a crowded classroom. I whacked him with my sketchbook."

"What for?"

"Being a racist pig."

A smile curled on Dick's lips. He held his hand down low. "Give me some." Damian slapped it with a grin. 

"You're a terrible influence," Clark bemoaned.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Family dinner was... tense. To say the least.

At the head, Bruce and Clark shared seats adjacent to each other, with Clark at Bruce's right hand. Rather than taking their usual seats next to each other, Jason and Dick sat on opposite sides, very clearly uninterested in chatting. Tim had come without Conner for once (though was practically glued to his phone while he ate), and Damian sat at his father's left, glancing between Bruce, and Talia, who sat at the foot of the long dining room table.

Clark took a bite of his scalloped potatoes. They were wonderfully cooked, obviously, but nothing could distract him from the thick air that permeated over their heads. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "Glad you could join us for dinner, Talia," he said.

Talia looked up from her red wine. She'd barely touched her food. "A girl needs to eat," she said. She took a sip, and let her eyes linger on Bruce. The head of the household didn't look up from his plate. "I'm a little surprised I was invited."

Bruce took a violent bite of his steak. "Clark was the one who pushed for your invitation," he said. "So don't get ahead of yourself."

"I suppose you'd rather I go down the street for a Bat Burger?" Talia leaned forward over the table. "When did that happen, by and by? Did Batman sign a licensing deal with McDonald's?"

"Batman isn't litigious," said Bruce.

"Bruce Wayne is," said Talia.

"Bruce Wayne doesn't control Batman's intellectual property."

"Well, maybe he should."

Bruce set down his fork and knife and glowered from across the table. "Is there a point to this?"

Talia shrugged. "Making conversation." She swirled her wine and took another sip. "I heard our son was sent home early today from that horrible school you make him go to." She turned to Damian. "Mind sharing what that was for, Damian?"

Damian kept his eyes on his plate. "A kid fell. I was blamed. That's all."

"Hm." Talia finished her wine and held out her empty glass. Tim glanced up from his phone with a barely concealed frown of disapproval as Alfred poured her a fresh drink.

"Never heard of saying 'please'?" Tim asked.

Talia seemed surprised. "I tend not to converse with the help," she said.

"Alfred."

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

"That will be Talia's last glass of wine."

"Very good, sir." Alfred turned away and left the dining room. Talia kept her eyes on Bruce while she drank slowly from her glass.

They all went back to silence. All except Jason, who was eating with all the finesse and table manners of a bear ready for hibernation. From across the table, Dick sneered. "Can you chew with your mouth closed?"

Jason swallowed and looked up. "What, you talkin' to me now?"

"I just don't want to hear your dinner, that's all."

Jason leaned back in his seat, still gnashing his steak with his mouth open. "Maybe just plug your ears? You're good at not listening to shit you don't want to hear anyway."

Dick glared. "Boy you are something else, huh? Not even an apology."

"What am I sorry for? Your big ass ego taking a kick?" He snorted. "I did you a favor. Guys like you need to be checked every now and then."

Dick snorted. "Yeah? And I suppose you are just so fucking humble all the time?"

"Bite me."

Bruce set his silverware down with a clatter that made the whole table go silent. He looked between his two oldest sons with a furrow in his brow. "Alright." He gestured between them. "What is this? Why are you fighting?" No one offered an answer. "Dick?"

Dick shook his head. "It's nothing, B."

"Dick is mad that I don't want to help him with your fucking wedding," Jason snapped.

"I'm mad because you are a gigantic piece of shit!" Dick barked back. "All I wanted was some input cause like, I don't know, our dad is getting married? But you act like it's this big inconvenience--"

"It is inconvenient," said Jason. "But I came, didn't I? You're acting like I took a piss in your flowers, Jesus Christ."

"Boys, boys." Clark held up his hands, hoping to calm the temperature of the room. "Let's take a breath, huh?"

"Oh fuck off you big blue popsicle," Jason sneered. "We don't need Superman to ref our family feuds, thank you very much."

"Jason." Bruce's voice was so sharp, it actually made him twitch. "You don't talk to Clark that way."

"I'll talk to your precious little hubby any way I damn well please!"

"See, this is why you don't get invited to family dinner!" Dick argued. "Whenever you're in a bad mood, it's suddenly everyone else's problem! Oh poor me, I'm Jason Todd, I died once! Give me a fucking break."

"Piss up your own crack, you hand-walking, pansy ass pretty boy--"

"It's like one inconvenience and suddenly the world is ending!"

"Oh shut the fuck up, Mr. Boo-Hoo-Daddy-Fired-Me!"

Dick slapped his hands on the table and stood. "You wanna go, Red?! Cause we can take this outside!"

"Thought you'd never ask." Jason stood abruptly, knocking back the chair so abruptly it fell to one side. "I can't wait to crack your pretty face on the fucking bricks--"

"Yeah!?"

"Yeah! Cause once you lose that facecard, all bets are off! Then we'll see just how long that alien bimbo of yours sticks around--!"

Dick yanked Jason clear across the table by the collar of his shirt. "You keep Kori's fucking name out your gnarly ass mouth!"

"Jason, Dick, that's enough!" Bruce ordered.

"Ahem."

All heads turned. Alfred stood at the door, his hands tucked behind his back. "Master Bruce? Master Clark? You have a visitor." That announcement was enough to replace the tension of the evening with mass confusion. Judging from the looks on everyone's faces, no one else was expected for the evening.

Clark and Bruce stood from their seats. "We'll be back," said Bruce. He glared at his sons until Dick released Jason's shirt. "I don't want to hear a sideways word out of either of you for the rest of the night. You hear me?" Begrudgingly, both Jason and Dick nodded. "Good. Stay." As Bruce and Clark followed Alfred to the foyer, Jason kicked his chair upright and plopped down to his seat. Dick followed suit.

"Jackass," Dick grumbled.

"Bitch stick," Jason muttered back.

Once they were out of the dining room, Bruce groaned as he stretched out his long, tired face. "Boys," he said. "Why did they all have to be boys?"

"They've fought before," said Clark. "They'll get over it. Won't they?"

"Who knows. Ugh." Bruce pinched his nose. "I'm too old to be playing referee. Be grateful you only have one kid, Clark."

Clark smiled softly and took Bruce's hand. "Not anymore I don't." That, at the very least, got Bruce to smile.

They approached the front door, and Alfred opened it with a nod of his head. Standing at the threshold was Constantine, nervously smoking like a chimney.

"John?" said Clark, taken aback.

Constantine turned and put on an anxious smile. "Ah! Hey, Kent. Erm... Wayne."

Bruce furrowed his brow. "What are you doing her?"

"Well, erm." Constantine scratched the back of his neck. "'Member how you sent me them aether files?"

"Yes?" said Clark.

"Er... well..." He took a half step to the side. Both Clark and Bruce looked down. Their eyes widened at the gangly child in Constantine's presence. But what startled them even more was when the mystery boy saw Clark through teary eyes, gasped, and leapt into his arms.

"Dad!" he sobbed. 

Clark's jaw hit the floor. He turned to Bruce, who was equally stunned, and then back to Constantine. "What...?"

"John?" Bruce turned to their new guest in a silent demand for an explanation.

"I'll explain everything," said Constantine. "But first..." He turned to Alfred. "How's about a cuppa, eh?"

Alfred cocked a brow, his lips pursed in a way only a posh Londoner could when hearing the gruff of a Northern voice. "I'll go put the kettle on."

"Ta."

Chapter Text

"Holy shit it's real."

"Don't touch it."

Constantine turned with the eyes of a desperate man. "Mate. It's a giant. Penny."

Batman remained at his console, his fingers hacking away. "Look with your eyes, not your hands."

Superman approached, with Jon clinging to his leg like a barnacle. "Any luck?"

"I've used the isotopic signature of our young friend to try and triangulate the direct coordinates of his proper dimension. So far... it's not going well."

Superman sighed. He looked down at Jon, who observed the Batcave with wide, nervous eyes. Bending down, Superman flashed Jon a smile and ruffled his hair. "Pretty neat, huh? You should see the T-Rex." Jon sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his wrist, and Superman's smile sobered. "Listen, I know you're scared. But we're going to get you home, okay?"

Jon nodded. "Okay, dad. Er." He fidgeted. "Is it okay if I still call you dad? I dunno what else to call you. It feels weird."

Superman nodded. "Sure. I mean. I guess I technically am. Or maybe I'm not. Who knows?" He chuckled, eliciting a smile from Jon. "You're safe here. We promise."

"I know."

Robin watched with an air of cautious detachment. As there was no telling who would be on the other side of the screen once they made contact, Batman had suggested they suit up to protect their identities. This allowed Robin to vanish into his oversized hood as he stared at their uninvited guest. Whatever opinions he was forming of young Jon, he kept them to himself. For now.

Superman eventually noticed Robin's aloofness and stood back up. "Hey, how old are you again?" he asked Jon.

"Eleven."

"You know, that's Robin's age. I bet you two would have a lot to talk about."

Jon turned to Robin, who hadn't moved a muscle since they arrived in the Cave. Jon cleared his throat. "So uh... I guess you're the Robin over here." Robin said nothing. Jon looked him up and down. "You're really short." Robin glared.

"Hm." Batman typed a few more things in. "I think I'm getting something. It's faint, but it's there." They all surrounded the computer. "I just need to figure out how to tap into their line of communication, and I might be able to make contact."

"Ah, that might be my cue." Constantine held up six fingers, and from an orb of yellow magic, materialized a small USB drive with a glowing red pentagram on its face. He plucked it from the air and offered it to Batman. "This might make the whole thing easier." Batman took it and plugged it into his console.

Superman shot Constantine a look. "So uh... Is Jon here the only visitor I should know about?"

"Erm..." Constantine rubbed the back of his head. "More or less?"

Superman narrowed his eyes. "John..."

Constantine belched and tapped his stomach. "Sorry. Liver doughnut."

Jon scrunched up his face. "Ew..."

Something beeped on Batman's console, and they all turned to the screen. A window popped up, and soon, a video feed managed to fight its way through the disruptive static. The image was a young woman, whose red hair was tied in a loose ponytail. She wore thick glasses, and a slim headset. Currently, she was hacking away at her own computer console.

"This is Oracle. I repeat. This is Oracle. If anyone is hearing this frequency, please respond."

Batman frowned. "Oracle... Why does she look familiar?"

"That's Babs," Jon supplied. "Does she live in your world, too?"

Batman turned. "Do you mean Barbra Gordon?"

"Yeah?"

"Fascinating." Batman hit a few more keys while Oracle continued to speak.

"Again, this is Oracle. Reaching out to anyone who might be picking up this signal. Please respond."

Batman clicked his microphone. "Hello Oracle. This is Batman. I read you."

Oracle blinked. "Huh? Bruce, get off the line. I'm trying to locate Jon."

Batman furrowed his brow. "The Gordons don't know who I am..." he muttered.

"Maybe the ones here don't," said Superman. "But the ones there certainly do."

Batman clicked his mic again. "Oracle, this is not Bruce Wayne as you know him. Do you see us on your monitor?"

Oracle typed a few things as static disrupted her picture. "I don't... wait... Maybe..." The static suddenly cleared, and Oracle's eyes snapped to meet their own. "Bruce! Wait, what suit is that...?" She turned. "Why is Clark there?"

Jon stepped front and center and waved, sheepishly. "Hi, Babs."

"Jon! Oh thank God you're safe! Jeez, do you have any idea how worried your parents are?"

"I know, I'm sorry."

"Wait..." Oracle glanced up at Superman and narrowed her eyes. "You're not..."

"I'm not your Clark, no," Superman responded. He glanced at Constantine, who attempted to look innocent. "It's a bit of a story."

"I need you to connect us to the Cave," said Batman.

"Sure, but... Oh God, this is parallel universe stuff, huh? Luthor was bad enough."

Clark perked up. "Luthor?"

"Relax, this one was a good guy. Anyway, I'm keying you in now. Standby." Batman shrunk Oracle's screen as a second popped up, fighting the static as the two dimensions connected. Sensing Jon's anxiety, Superman took his hand and let him squeeze it as hard as he needed to. When the image cleared up, they were face to face with Batman of Jon's world.

"Oracle? Have you found him?"

"Patching in visuals. Three, two..."

The static snapped completely off, and the second Batman's eyes widened. His suit wasn't an identical copy of the first, as his was a blue cowl with touches of yellow, but the facial features under his mask were a damn exact copy. "Oracle," he said, "what am I looking at?"

"Good evening, Batman," said Batman. "I'm a big fan of your work."

The Batman on screen narrowed his eyes. "Was that a joke?"

"Depends. Was it funny?"

The other Batman put the tips of his fingers together in thought. "If I'm correct in my assumption," he said, "I am looking at myself in another universe?"

"Seems to be the case," Batman agreed.

Batman threaded his fingers together. "Fascinating. I'm assuming this means Jon Kent is in your custody?"

Jon stepped forward and waved, nervously. "Hi Uncle Bruce."

The Batman on screen softened. "Hello, Jon. Alright. Let me just contact--"

BOOM!

The back wall of the onscreen Batcave completely blew out with the force of a miniature bomb. From the dust and debris, the second world's Superman emerged in a panic. The other Batman didn't even flinch at the noise. "I heard you talking to Jon," the other Superman said. "Where is he? Is he alright? Is he hurt?" The Batman pointed to his screen, and Superman turned. "Jon!"

"Dad!" With a fresh wave of new tears, Jon practically crawled onto the console in hopes to get closer to his father.

The other Superman leaned toward the camera, relief flooding his face. "Oh thank goodness you're all right," he said. "Your mother and I have been worried sick!" That's when Superman paused and looked around the screen. "Wait... are you...?"

Superman stepped forward and put his hand on Jon's back. "Hey, Clark," he said. "Don't worry. Jon is safe and sound."

The other Superman turned to his Batman. "Someone want to explain?"

"That would be me, I fear." Constantine stepped into view with what he hoped was a disarming smile. The other Batman narrowed his eyes. "Evenin', fellas."

"Constantine," the other Batman growled. "Why am I not surprised."

"It's my fault," said Superman. "I gave Constantine access to spectral aether siphons for study. Things... apparently... got out of hand."

"Your son got accidentally flung into our world while I was on the hunt for a glory ho--for a vacuum of sorts. See, I'd been having a hell of a time with bits from the other worlds falling into ours. Mostly nothing important. A few double-headed turtles and a cat. Bloody things won't go the way they came, you see, so I'm looking for a sorter of sorts to send everything back proper. That's when I ended up in your barn, m'afraid. And uh... Well, your son got the push by a ruddy horse and ended up over here."

"A horse?" The other Superman looked stricken. "You got kicked by Callie?"

"It was an accident!" Jon claimed. "She got spooked by something. I tried calming her down, but--!"

"Jon, why didn't you come and get me? You know you don't have your powers yet! Are you hurt? Did she break a rib?"

Jon flushed in embarrassment and tightened the drawstrings on his hoodie. "You said you wouldn't tell people I didn't have powers..."

"Sorry, sorry. Okay. What do we do now?"

"Sadly I'm right smack in the middle of my same situation," said Constantine. "These portals like to be finicky birds, I'll tell you that right now. According to Zan, only way out is to find a vacuum and let the universe sort itself out."

"What about us going to you?" Oracle interjected. "Maybe we build some kind of bridge between the two dimensions?"

"Can't be done," both Batmans answered. The other Batman looked up, pleasantly surprised. "Oh. Would you care to?"

"After you," said Batman.

"Please, I insist."

Superman glanced between them both. "This is weird..." he mumbled.

Batman ignored him and began typing. "It's safe to assume that any connections between universes would be unstable at best. If the portals have a natural method for sorting out anomalies, it would be wiser to trust it rather than fabricating our own connection, which could result in severe damage to the fabric of space-time or personal injury."

"Okay." The other Superman pinched his temple. "How long will finding this vacuum take?"

"No idea, sorry," said Constantine. "It's really just luck of the draw. I could be at it for weeks. Maybe even months."

"Months?!"

"If I may?" Superman offered his other self a smile of assurance. "Given the circumstances, this might be the best scenario. We can keep an eye on Jon until we're able to get this whole mess sorted. I mean, who better to trust with your son than yourself?"

The other Superman was hesitant. "I guess so." He sighed. "I suppose there's nothing we can do until then."

"On my honor," said Constantine, "I won't rest till we find a way to get this little bugger home."

"You don't have honor," said the other Batman.

"Oh thanks very much, yeah?"

The other Superman took a deep breath and met his son's eyes. "Jon. We're going to get you home. Okay? I promise." He raised his hand flat, which Jon imitated. "Be good. Listen to what Clark says. Call me if you're ever in trouble, since you know how to now."

"Okay," Jon agreed. "Tell mom I'll be alright. I don't want her to worry."

"You know your mother. She's a tough lady." The other Superman's expression softened. "But she is worried to death over you. So I will." He removed his hand. "I love you, son. Be strong."

Jon's eyes welled with tears, and he hugged himself. "I love you, dad."

And with that, the feed gave one final sputter before cutting off completely. Batman removed Constantine's USB, which was smoking from overuse. "Guess our phone calls need to have time limits."

"Yeesh." Constantine took it from Batman and vanished it into thin air. "I'll make a note of that."

Superman knelt down at Jon's side, who was still hugging his scrawny arms. Gently, he tapped Jon's shoulder, making him turn around. "I know this is scary," he said. "But you'll be home before you know it. Hm?" Jon barreled into Superman's arms, and he stood, hugging him tight to his chest. "I think this one needs to make it an early night," he announced. "I'm going to take him to bed." He turned to Robin. "Damian, do you mind if Jon borrows some of your clothes? Just for the time being."

Robin's mask narrowed. "Nothing past the top drawer." With that as permission, Superman gently flew Jon up to the top of the Cave, where they walked into the elevator together.

Jon, still in Clark's arms, wiped his face with his sleeve. "I don't think Robin likes me," he said.

"Damian's just not good with new people," Clark replied. "He's like his dad that way."

Jon blinked. "Who's his dad?"

"What, you didn't see the resemblance?"

Jon's jaw dropped. "His dad is Batman!? Whoa."

The doors opened, and Clark floated his way up to the second floor of the Manor. "Your dad is Superman," Clark reminded him.

"I mean yeah. But man... Batman!"

Clark laughed as they touched down in front of his personal room. "I think I'm getting jealous. Here." Clark set him down. "I'll go get you some things. You can take my room tonight."

"Your room?" Jon turned to him. "Why do you have a room in Uncle Bruce's house?"

Clark's smile was awkward. "There's a lot different here from your world," he explained. "Let me go get you some pajamas." By the time Clark scrounged up a sleep shirt and fresh toothbrush, Jon was already jumping on the bed, admiring all the crazy features that came with a mansion's bedroom.

"Do you sleep here every night?" Jon asked, his hair flapping with every bounce. "Like, do you and Uncle Bruce have sleepovers or something?" He gasped, suddenly, and stopped bouncing. "Are you best friends?!"

Clark handed Jon his pajamas for the night. "Is your dad not friends with Bruce?"

"Well, I mean, he is." Jon took his sleep shirt. "Apparently they were, like, really good friends before my mom and dad got married. Then, you know, my parents moved back to Kansas to have me. Dad was still Superman, but he wanted to make sure I had a good childhood or something."

"I understand," said Clark. "Friendships get hard when things change. I can't imagine your Uncle Bruce has much free time, either."

"Yeah," said Jon, "but Cass helps him out."

"Cass?"

"Batgirl. He adopted her a little while ago, but they're so alike, it's almost a little creepy. She's really nice though. Very quiet. She's older, too, so I used to think that whenever we'd visit she just didn't want to talk to me, but she's apparently just like that. She says that she likes to listen and observe. Like, I guess it's just easier for her to watch people when they're too busy talking to notice anything else or something."

"Is that so?"

"And Babs helps, too. She's so crazy smart. I don't know how your Batman does anything without her. Oh, and Robin! Duh. He's got Robin to help him out on patrol."

Clark chuckled. "Boy, I wonder who that one is. Dick? Jason?"

Jon tilted his head. "No. Stephanie."

"Huh. Lots of girls."

"Yeah! Mom says it's good for me to be exposed to feminine power."

"Is that right?" Clark put a hand on his hip. "By the way, if you don't mind asking... Who's your mother?"

Jon's eyes widened. "You mean you're not together here?! How is that even possible?"

"Well I can't say without knowing who it is."

"Lois Lane."

Now it was Clark's turn to look shocked. "What...?"

"Yeah. Dad used to say that him and mom were soulmates. Is she your girlfriend here? Or--gasp! Have you not asked her out yet? Oh wow, do I get to get my parents together in this world? That's crazy."

Clark felt winded. "Maybe you should go brush your teeth."

"Uh. Okay." Jon jumped off the bed and scrambled to Clark's private bathroom.

As the water gushed, Clark gingerly pulled his ring out from its hiding place. His brow was furrowed in thought. Gently, he unclasped the necklace and slid the ring onto his left finger. Him and Lois Lane? Maybe once upon a time he would have believed that. Being with Lois for the long haul certainly would have been less complicated. Less enemies to deal with. Less risk, less danger. But would he have been happy? His other self certainly was.

And yet... the thought of leaving Bruce in any capacity made him sick to his stomach. Perhaps that life was best for himself in another life. But it wasn't what was best for him now.

Clark ditched his suit for a t-shirt and sweats. The Titans had already reported that Metropolis was quiet tonight, so Superman could take the evening off. By the time he was ready to step into Bruce's room, Jon emerged from the bathroom in Damian's jammies and crawled into Clark's bed. Clark tucked him in, and Jon looked up around the room.

"Um..."

Clark paused, noticing the uncertainty in Jon's eyes. "What's up, bud?"

Jon curled up under his blankets. "This room is so big," he said. "I feel weird sleeping in here."

Clark hesitated. "Did you want me to stay with you? Until you fall asleep?" Jon looked up with hopeful eyes. "Unless that's too strange..."

Jon scooted to one side, letting Clark climb into bed with his... son? Many universes removed? Jon, without hesitation, snuggled up onto Clark's big chest. Clark held him tenderly, in an action which felt almost inherent. Jon's cheek squished as he let his whole body weight sink down.

"I'm so tired," he sighed.

Clark gently pet Jon's hair. "Just relax," he said. "I'm here. You're safe." Jon yawned, and a smile crept along Clark's face. As Jon was fastly falling into slumber, Clark leaned in and kissed the top of Jon's head. He got himself comfortable in the pillows and closed his eyes. Unfortunately, he was distracted enough not to notice the crack in his bedroom door, and the glower of the young vigilante standing behind it.

"Damian?" Bruce's voice was quiet as he approached his son. Damian didn't look away. Bruce followed Damian's eyes to spy Clark and Jon sleeping peacefully in his bed.

"I don't like him," Damian whispered. "He's suspicious."

"Why?" Damian didn't have an answer. Turning back to the picturesque vision of Clark and his son cuddling comfortably, Bruce could piece together the reason quite easily. He laid a hand on Damian's shoulder. "Come on. We need to leave for patrol."

With one last glare, Damian put on his mask and hopped the banister to the ground floor. Bruce remained behind for a second longer. Looking back, he watched as his fiance drifted off with ease. Clark was always fast to fall asleep; it was one of the many unfair talents he had over Bruce.

When Bruce left the door, he did so while attempting to push away the tiny pang of jealousy in his chest.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Other than the fact that he'd been ignoring vital meetings and reports for the past half year, there really wasn't any need for Bruce to go into the office at Wayne Enterprises. Lucius certainly ran a tight ship, and the few times Bruce and Tim roamed the halls was to attend shareholders meetings and other things that could have been emails. But today, Bruce felt the need to be more involved in his multi-billion dollar conglomerate. If only to keep him from overthinking... everything.

The past week had felt like a year, if he was being honest. When Bruce proposed to Clark, he'd expected some wedding drama, perhaps a bit of embarrassment around the in-laws. But as of today, his child's estranged mother had made herself at home, his two oldest sons weren't on speaking terms, Damian was already getting into fights at school, and--oh yeah--there was now a whole ass interdimensional child that they were responsible for. Frankly, a return to the sounds of Slack meetings and typing keyboards was a reprieve.

Bruce walked into his immaculately kept office and flopped into his chair. It was the one part of the building that hadn't been upgraded with the rest. Bruce still had his father's old desk, as well as his mother's more prestigious books from her collection. It was an antiquated design even from the time they were alive. For Bruce, it was comforting.

Bruce's landline buzzed, and he hit the speaker button. "Yes?"

"Mr. Drake has contacted me about your next meeting," came his secretary's voice. "Three thirty on the mezzanine."

Bruce sighed. "Tell Tim I'll be there."

"And Mr. Fox has delivered files for you to review. You should find them on your desk."

Bruce glanced to his left. Indeed, a stack of folders sat waiting for him, blessed with a sticky note from Lucious himself. "Understood. I'll try not to keep him waiting."

"There are also a few emails I've marked as important for you, sir. If you'd care to respond to them before the end of the day?"

Bruce pinched his eyes. "Anything else?"

There was a pause on the other line. "You have a visitor."

"Tell them they can wait." Bruce hung up the phone and turned on his desktop. He took back everything he thought about the office being a reprieve. He was just starting in on the emails when his phone once again rang. He hit the speaker button. "What else?"

"I'm afraid your visitor is insistent."

"I told you, they can wait."

"It's your fiance, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce straightened up. "Oh. Well, then feel free to let him--" He stopped as the doors opened, and Clark appeared with a brown bag in one hand. "--in." Bruce hung up his phone and smiled, hands folded in his lap. "You know, I really only take appointments."

"I'm in your books," Clark answered, closing the door behind him. He held up the bag. "Check your lunch schedule." Clark approached the desk and leaned in for a kiss. Bruce sighed, Clark's presence already soothing his tight nerves. "It's a sopressata on a hero roll."

"You're too good for me." Clark sat on the edge of the desk, and Bruce, fondly, ran his hand up and down Clark's thigh. "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

Clark's smile saddened. "To apologize."

"For what?"

"I was going to sneak into your bed after Jon fell asleep, but I passed out before I realized it." Clark mindlessly fiddled with Bruce's tie. "I know we've been in the same bed for the past month. So sorry if you came back hoping to find me there."

Bruce chuckled. "It was a hectic night," he said. "There's no need to be sorry about it."

"Still..." Clark took Bruce's hand from his thigh and kissed his knuckles. Bruce was thrilled to see the thin band of gold shimmering on his finger. "With everything going on, there's barely been any time for us."

"I suppose so." Bruce let his eyes roam Clark's person. Let them linger on the curve in his neck, the pucker of his lips. It was easy to forget just how attractive Clark Kent was when you were faced with it every day. Now that the fog of chaos had ebbed for the afternoon, Bruce found himself lost in his fiance's beauty. Bruce took Clark's hand firmly and pulled. With little to no resistance, Clark fell into Bruce's lap, his legs spread as he settled on his thighs. Bruce kissed the inside of Clark's wrist, drunk on the smell of his aftershave.

Clark giggled. "We're in your office."

"So?"

"What if someone walks in?"

Bruce thought for a moment and then clicked the button on his phone. "Sharon, I'm not to be disturbed for the next half hour. I'm on my lunch."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne."

"There." Bruce ran his hands up and down Clark's hips. "No worries now." When Clark leaned in for a kiss, Bruce met his lips with a fervor. They had kissed so much by now, but even so, Bruce couldn't get enough. Clark's lips were sweet as raw honey, and Bruce licked between them to catch every morsel. Clark ran his fingers through Bruce's hair, disrupting its perfectly gelled quaff. At one point, Clark's hand dove underneath Bruce's jacket, and he ran his finger across the thin material of his shirt, easily finding Bruce's pert nipple. Bruce shivered, and dove into further kisses with a hungry smile.

With only a half hour to spare, there was just enough time to take advantage of Bruce's locked door. His fingers undid Clark's belt buckle, while Clark tugged at the elastic in Bruce's underwear. Bruce felt himself twitch in his drawers, desperate for the man in his lap. A shiver of fresh air kissed his penis, and Bruce stroked them together. Clark, his cheeks rich with color, curled forward and pushed his face into Bruce's neck. His glasses skewed, with Clark forgetting they were even there.

Clark bucked against Bruce's hand. When Bruce heard Clark whimper, he savored every quiet sound. His own sex twitched and tingled with awakening pleasure, deepened by kiss after blessed kiss. But surprisingly, Clark was not content to be fondled in Bruce's chair. Capturing him for one last sensual kiss, Clark slid himself down to the floor between Bruce's legs. With his foggy glasses askew, he took Bruce into his mouth and began to suck.

Bruce moaned deeply. His head lolled to one side, his fingers lacing through Clark's curly hair. He brought his other hand to his lips, gently biting on his finger to keep his noises in check. Clark sucked deeply, letting his head drop all the way down until his nose was tickled by Bruce's happy trail. The fact that Clark could hold his breath for over an hour was certainly a perk in such a situation. Clark dove down deep, gobbling Bruce up with Biblical greed. Bruce lost himself in Clark's hot mouth, twitching every time he banged up against the back of his throat.

"Fuck..." Clark was going faster now, and Bruce's breath hitched. The slurping from Clark's lips overwhelmed Bruce's ears, in competition only with the thumping of his own heart. His hips jumped every so often, desperate for Clark to swallow him completely whole. Down below, Bruce saw Clark stroke himself with a fervor. The image alone was enough to nearly push him over the edge.

"Fuck... fuck, Cl-Clark--!" Clark pulled back just as Bruce felt himself climax. The timing was perfect, and a spurt of white cum splashed across Clark's pink lips, all the way up to his lopsided glasses. His eyes were glassy, his breath hot from his soiled mouth. Desire consumed him as he desperately tugged at his massive, throbbing cock. Bruce, riding high off his orgasm, clutched Clark's jaw with his hand, milking himself with the other. Clark opened his mouth obediently as Bruce shot the last of his pleasure against him.

"Ugh... fuck..." His gasps were lost in the slapping of Clark's hand. Bruce could feel himself get hard again, even though his seed was very well spent. "Look at you... ugh." Bruce stroked his sensitive cock. There were only a few dribbles left, and Bruce was determined to get every drop. "Do you like that?"

Clark whimpered softly, his eyes shut and his hand working overtime. "Yeah," he breathed.

"You gonna cum? Huh?" Bruce yanked clark back by his hair, which seemed to only turn him on more. Bruce grinned. "Strongest man in the world... Look at you. You're practically my fuckin' toy..." Clark's brows drew back, and his eyes closed. "Aw. Getting close, baby?" Clark nodded, still jerking himself stupid. Bruce smeared his jizz across Clark's mouth, only to slide his thumb inside. Clark sucked on instinct, until Bruce squeezed his jaw open, letting him pant like a dog in heat. "Do it. Let me see you cum."

Clark's voice rose soft and high, and with his eyes shut tight, he shot his load straight onto Bruce's luxury shoe. Bruce cocked an eyebrow as Clark caught his breath. He held up his shoe. "Tch." He eyed Clark, still woozy from the massive orgasm, and tilted the tip of his shoe toward Clark's now abused lips. Lost in their game, he gave a final order. "Lick it."

Clark's hazy eyes opened. At first, Bruce was worried he'd gone too far. But a split second later, Clark extended his tongue and licked. No complaints, no hesitation. For a man who could bend Bruce over and make him see God, it was shockingly easy to get him on the submissive side of things. Bruce ran his tongue along his teeth, seeing a whole new world of possibilities.

"Good boy," he cooed. He tilted Clark's head back up. He could feel the air around them cool, and he reached for the tissues at his desk. "Here. Hold still." Gently, he wiped Clark's face clean. "Hope that didn't get too intense for you." But Clark smiled, breathless and happy. Without a word, he crawled up into Bruce's lap and wrapped his arms around him. Bruce held him tight. "Maybe I should bend you over one of these nights."

Clark hesitated, and buried his face in Bruce's neck. He mumbled something.

"What was that?" Bruce asked.

"...can't."

"Huh?"

"I... can't... bottom."

Bruce's brows shot up. "Oh." He ran his hand up and down Clark's back. "Just... is it a psychological thing or...?" Clark shook his head. Rather than answer, he shoved his face further into Bruce's neck. "Well what, then? If you want me to be gentle, that's no problem."

"No... Bruce... I can't."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Wait. Do you mean...?"

"I tried. Once." Ears burning hot, Clark clutched Bruce tighter and hunched his back. "I--I set up a d... a d-dildo and tried. B-but I... can't. It doesn't..." Clark hunched his shoulders, overwhelmed with embarrassment. "...stretch."

Bruce blinked. "Oh. Not even with yourself?"

"It sorta does? But anything that isn't my fingers, it just doesn't..." Bruce's neck was starting to overheat with how much Clark was burning. "It doesn't work. My skin is too tough. I'm sorry."

Bruce's smile softened. "What are you sorry about?"

"It's not fair that I'm always on top. I'm sure you want to do it sometimes, too. But I... there's no way that I can..." Clark mumbled the rest of his point.

Bruce kissed his cheek softly. "Hey." He waited until Clark met his eyes. "It's alright. As much as I'd love to show you what you're missing, it's not the end of the world if I can't top you."

"You're not disappointed?"

"Nah." Bruce pinched his chin with a loving smile. "But you are very cute when you get manhandled. Maybe I should do that more often. Hm?" Clark awkwardly laughed and kissed him softly. In the back of Bruce's mind, he felt his anxieties settle. Being there, with Clark at his side, sharing his life completely, it soothed Bruce in a way he'd never felt. It was then that he realized. No matter how much chaos that got thrown their way, so long as they were together, they could handle it. Always.

Chapter Text

Clark knocked gently on the door. "How's it fit?" He poked his head inside Jon's room. Jon stood stiff in front of his mirror, staring at the Ander's Academy uniform he was forced to wear. The blue-gray jacket was embroidered with the school's logo, with a matching blue and black striped tie under the starched shirt collar. The pants were an ugly khaki brown, but at least Jon was allowed to wear his red sneakers for comfort.

Jon frowned at himself as Clark approached. "I look like a dweeb."

"Oh come on," Clark smiled. "It isn't that bad..." He glanced at the mirror, noticing how the cuffs of his pants rode up on his ankles, and how Jon had only managed to tie his tie lopsided. "You look..."

"Like a dweeb."

"Distinguished."

"Ugh. This is so stupid. Who cares what you wear to school? It's school."

"Well, this is a bit of a different school than what you're used to," Clark said. "I remember middle school in Smallville. This is a whole different breed of kids."

Jon frowned sadly. "Man... I already miss my friends."

"I'm sorry, Jon. It's only temporary." When Jon didn't answer, Clark knelt down in front of him. "You're going to be just fine," he said. "You've got that sunny Kent charm, after all."

Jon screwed up his face. "Dad, that's so cringey."

"Wha--? No, I'm just saying. You know how Ma and Pa are. Everybody likes them."

Jon looked awkward. "I... I never met them."

Clark blinked. "What do you mean? I thought you lived on the farm."

"I do," Jon nodded. "But Grandpa Jonathan died before I was born. I guess I met Grandma Martha when I was real little but I barely remember her."

Clark could feel his stomach give out. "Oh..." He knew that Jon came from a whole other world. He knew that nothing that happened over there really had any effect over here. But even in an alternative universe, the idea that his parents were both dead and buried made Clark's heart drop like a stone. He tried recovering and put on a smile. "Would you like to?" Jon looked up. "Ma and Pa are both healthy as horses in this world. And I bet they'd love to meet you."

Jon's eyes twinkled. "Does your Grandma Martha know how to make her peach cobbler? You always said--er, I mean--my dad always told me stories about how good her peach cobbler was."

"Absolutely," said Clark. "More than cobbler. She can do an apple pie and an apple brown Betty that would knock your socks off. And you've got to try Pa's chili. He used to make mine extra spicy because I could handle it."

"No thank you," said Jon meekly. "I'm not very good with spicy."

Clark laughed. "I'll remember that." His eyes drifted down to Jon's tie, and he began to straighten it. "Here." He loosened the knot, and after evening out the collar, cinched it back into its proper place. "There. Much better." Jon smoothed it down with a smile. That's when Clark felt the cold burn of a glare coming from the doorway.

Damian stood, still and silent as a shadow, in full view of Clark and Jon's conversation. His expression was drawn and shadowed, and Clark could see unhappy rumblings beneath his dark green eyes. Clark stood and gestured to Jon. "What do you think? Fits him okay, yeah?" Damian said nothing.

Nervously, Jon took a step forward. "Uh... Thank you. For um. For showing me around. I know this is probably totally weird, but..."

"We're going to be late." Damian's words cut Jon at the knees. "Finish up." With a turn of his heel, Damian stomped his way down the steps and towards the foyer, where their car to school was waiting.

Jon winced. "Jeez Louise... He really doesn't like me."

"Just give him a little time," said Clark. "He'll warm up to you. Promise." Even so, Clark wasn't entirely sure he believed himself. Clark walked Jon down to the front door, where Damian was already waiting in the back seat of their car. Alfred, dressed properly all the way down to his driving gloves, stood dutifully at the open door. Clark escorted him to the open door, and gently ruffled his hair. "Be good," he said. "Try not to worry. You're going to be great."

Jon gave Clark a massive hug. "Thanks, dad." Clark returned it just as warmly. When they parted, Jon got into the car with Alfred shutting the door behind him. Clark waved them off until he vanished from the rear view mirror. Hands on his lap, Jon gently kicked his feet, hoping to keep his nerves at bay. "Sooooo." He glanced at Damian, who remained stiff and silent, his arms crossed tight. Jon put on a smile. "How is it there? At your school?" Damian said nothing. "I bet it's super snooty with this stupid uniform you have to wear."

"He's not your dad."

Jon blinked, his mouth half way open to complain about Anders' dress code. He turned to Damian in confusion. "Huh?"

"Kent. He isn't your father. Not really."

Jon shrank an inch. "Well. Yeah, I guess. But... he also is. Sort of."

"No. He is a different version of the man who sired you. That doesn't make him your parent." Damian glared out of the corner of his eye. "I'm sure he doesn't appreciate you being overly familiar with him in these circumstances."

"Oh..." Jon fidgeted in his seat. "I mean. He doesn't seem to mind?" Damian turned back to his window. Jon took a breath. "So uh. What do you like to do? You know, for fun?"

"'Fun' is not a priority."

Jon frowned. "Cripes, why so serious?" Jon leaned in between them. "You know, you really should try and smile more. It might make you less--" Damian whipped toward him, his glare making Jon's words die out. He retreated back into his seat and put his hands at his knees. "Nevermind." Damian reverted his eyes to the passing buildings outside. Jon let his feet thump softly against his seat. For minutes at a time, the only noise in the cab was Jon's tiny sounds. Thumps of his shoes against the seat, pops of his lips, shifting of his uniform, soft hums and little whistles. Each and every noise built the agitation in Damian's soul, until finally, he reached his limit.

"Will you stop!?"

Jon blinked. "Stop what?"

"All of that!"

"I..." Jon looked down at himself and then back up. "I'm not doing anything."

"Well do nothing silently."

Jon furrowed his brow. "How come you don't like me?" he asked. Damian scoffed and rolled his eyes. "No, I'm serious. Did I do something or say something that upset you?"

Damian squinted. "You want to know?" Jon nodded. Damian leaned in and jabbed Jon with his pointer finger. "Because you don't belong here. You're an intruder. You got yanked into our lives by circumstance and bad luck, and now it's up to all of us to have to deal with you. So no. I don't like you, and we're not friends. So rid yourself right now of any and all pretenses. You're a foreign object. You're not family, you're not welcome, and Kent is not your father. Get that through your head and maybe we'll get along." Jon was deadly quiet as Damian said his final piece and folded his arms. The car continued to roll in silence.

Damian was the first one out of the car when they arrived at Anders, not even waiting for Alfred to open the door for him. Jon, on the other hand, was slow moving, and wouldn't have gotten out at all if Alfred hadn't helped him. Jon looked up to see Damian already marching his way inside.

"Don't let it bother you, Young Master Jon," said Alfred. "Master Damian lashes out when he feels vulnerable."

Jon turned to Alfred with a furrowed brow. "Why would he feel vulnerable? He's right. I'm not even supposed to be here."

"The young master has experienced a life of pain that to many would be unimaginable," said Alfred. "This has led him to occasionally be... cruel." Alfred put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "I am not excusing his words, Master Jon. But try to be patient with him."

Jon looked thoughtful. "He's like a mustang." Alfred tilted his head, and Jon elaborated. "Wild mustangs don't like to be broken. There aren't a lot of them these days, but the ones that get found and taken in almost always have a bad temper. Cause they don't understand you're trying to help them." Jon picked up his shoulders, and with a Kent-trademarked smile, put his hands on his hips. "But I've never met a horse I can't break. Kill 'em with kindness, right Mr. Alfred?"

Alfred's smile was somber. "That's the idea."

The bell rang, and Jon hurried his way inside. He was quick to find Damian's bobbing head and caught up with him. Damian pretended not to notice. The first few classes of the day went over without much incident. Jeremy Cook, unfortunately, sported a very obvious broken nose, kept together with a bandage. It had clearly soured his mood, but he wasn't about to go picking on Damian again any time soon. Damian was of course more than happy to ignore the glares he got in exchange, and spent most of his morning doodling in his sketchbook. Which, despite his inattention, did not keep him from answering questions throughout classes. After all, an education with the League of Assassins put a Gotham preparatory academy to shame. Jon, in the meanwhile, did everything he could to keep a low profile. Bruce, it seemed, had sent out personal messages to all his teachers in order to insure that Jon was not bothered or questioned too harshly. Jon wasn't sure what they were told, but it was enough not to be asked to introduce himself at the front of the classroom.

Lunch rolled around about noon. Damian and Jon took trays and sat themselves at a far table in the corner of the room. Lunch was a lamb curry, fresh baked flatbread and salad. There were no name brand sodas at Anders, and so Jon had to settle for a sparkling water with the faintest hint of strawberry. He poked at his food as Damian ate his tofu curry in silence.

"How's yours?" Jon asked. Damian glared, and Jon took a bite of his. "Mine's a little spicier than I was expecting. Old Mrs. Hewett down the road, she makes a pot roast I really like, but she cooks the meat in Coca-Cola. Can you believe that? It's so weird, but it's good."

"This is not a social lunch," said Damian.

Jon frowned. "I mean, it could be."

"If I had brain damage, sure."

Jon scanned the lunch room. "Are your friends almost here?" he asked. "Most of the lunch line is dried up."

Damian went back to eating. "I don't have any."

Jon's eyes widened. "What? No way. Everybody's got friends. Even someone like--" Damian's eyes snapped up, and Jon redirected. "There's gotta be someone who likes hanging out with you."

"My education is a requirement of my father's. Nothing more."

"So you really don't have any friends? Like at all?"

"Friends are not my priority."

Jon's brows drooped. "That's so sad."

"Save it."

Jon stabbed at his curry and shook his head. "I can't imagine going to school without any friends. But I mean, I guess you at least have a big family."

"My brothers and I have tried to kill each other multiple times."

Jon paled. "Oh."

They went back to eating in silence. That was, until something clattered to Jon's left. He turned to see a young girl kneeling on the ground, her lunch tray having been knocked from her hands. Standing ahead of her was Jenny Cook, surrounded by a small entourage of glitter-covered middle school girls.

"Woops," Jenny said insincerely. "Sorry about that. Guess you'll have to just buy another lunch." When the girl on the floor tried to pick up her tipped over tray, Jenny stomped her designer shoe on top of it. "Whoopsie. Did it again." The girls around her laughed. The girl on the ground tried to laugh with them, but was clearly not a welcome addition to the group. She had tired, dark eyes, deep set within a round face. The scarf around her head was printed with yellow sunflowers, some of which were now splattered with food.

Jon stood immediately. "Hey!" All eyes, including Jenny's, turned at his shout. "What are you doing that for? Knock it off!" Whispers and wide eyes answered him. The atmosphere quickly became uneasy and on edge.

"What are you doing?" Damian snapped. "Father gave you explicit instructions to keep a low--"

Jon ignored him. Leaving his table, he hurried to the young girl and helped her to her feet. "Here. Are you okay?" The girl was flabbergasted, but nodded. Jon flashed her a sunny smile. "If you're hungry, you can have my lunch. I'm not a big fan of curry. I'm Jon."

"Fatima," the girl muttered.

"That's a lovely name," said Jon. "Here, why don't we go to my table?" Ignoring Jenny and her goons entirely, Jon walked Fatima over to where he and Damian were sitting. Jon made the introductions. "Damian, this is Fatima. Fatima, this is Damian. He's my... uh..."

"Cousin," Damian glowered. "Very distant cousin."

"Here." Jon sat Fatima down and offered her his tray. "I'll probably just eat from the vending machines."

"Thank you," Fatima smiled. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Nah! You enjoy."

Fatima took a few bites. "This is real nice of you," she said meekly. "I wouldn't have been able to buy another lunch."

Damian frowned. "What do you mean? They're not that expensive." Not that Damian would know that; neither he nor Bruce ever bothered looking at the tuition bill. 

Fatima's smile was awkward. "I'm here on a lottery scholarship," she explained. "My mother is a nurse, and my father is an auto-mechanic. I was accepted through Anders' science program, so I only get a small stipend for lunch." She hunched her shoulders. "The other girls think it's funny."

"Hmph!" Jon folded his arms. "Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore. The next time you have trouble, you can find me or Damian and we'll keep them out of your hair. Right, cuz?" Jon turned to Damian expectantly. While he half anticipated a snide remark, surprisingly, Damian nodded.

"Happy to help," Damian said simply. "Besides, Jenny Cook is a trollop."

Jon snorted. "Dude, are you, like, from the old times or something?"

"What?" said Damian. "She is."

"I don't even know what that word means!"

Fatima giggled. "You guys are funny," she said. "Thank you."

Jon beamed proudly. "It's no biggie, huh, Damian?"

Damian's glare seemed to lessen. "No," he said. "No 'biggie' at all." As lunch continued, Damian mostly remained quiet. However, the angry little cloud that hovered over him that morning had started to dissipate. Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself, but maybe he'd been too harsh. Maybe Jon wasn't so bad...

The rest of the school day seemed lighter, somehow. Fatima ended up in a good chunk of Damian's classes, and with Jon practically glued to his side, it was as if Damian actually had friends. Or could at least pretend to. It also didn't take long for Jon to start yapping to the other students. Despite the tax bracket, not every kid at Anders was a persnickety, stuck up bigot. Eventually, Jon told them about his life on the farm and all the animals he raised, his parents, his old school and friends, favorite foods (cheeseburger and malted chocolate milkshakes), favorite color (blue), favorite superhero (Batman), and various opinions on cartoons, movies and YouTube. All the while, Damian hung back and watched.

It was... fascinating. In a way. Damian had been at Anders for over a year now, and he couldn't bother to learn anyone's name, let alone make friends. But here came Jon Kent who wasn't even from this dimension, and one afternoon in he was already raking up attention. At first Damian wondered if it was just because he was the new kid, but no. There was no doubt that his mannerisms were a carbon copy of Clark's and Superman's. But there was more to it. Jon seemed genuinely curious of just about everything and everyone. He asked questions, engaged, made jokes, and got laughs. It was as if he was the one who had been there for a year and Damian was the one visiting. There was an element of frustration, certainly. But the longer Damian stewed, the more he realized the root: envy.

The final bell rang, and Jon and Damian waited for Alfred on the steps of the school.

"You know," Jon was saying, "this place really isn't that bad. It takes a little getting used to, but most of the other kids are actually pretty nice. And boy, some of these teachers are smart. I bet if my mom knew where I was going to school she'd be tickled pink. She always talked about how the journalism and English classes weren't good enough for me in Smallville. I liked 'em well enough though."

"Do you ever stop talking?"

Jon blinked. "Oh. Uh. Sometimes. When I'm asleep." Damian grumbled and hoisted his satchel further on his shoulder. "Hey um." Damian glanced Jon's way. "Thanks. For, you know, sticking with me and stuff. This whole thing is still so surreal. I feel like I'm gonna wake up from a dream any minute now." He shifted where he stood. "Have you ever felt like that? You know. Where you get to a new place and the only thing you can think of is how you can't believe it?"

Damian hesitated before nodding. "When I first came to live with my father."

Jon tilted his head. "You mean you weren't born here?"

"No. I wasn't even born in America."

"No way! That's so cool!" Jon held up his two little fists, stars in his sapphire blue eyes. "Where were you born?" 

"It's a city called 'Eth Alth'eban. It's deep in the Arabian peninsula. My mother is from there."

"Your mother..." Jon tapped his chin. "Wait. Was she that pretty lady who wouldn't stop glaring at me?"

"That's the one."

"Huh. I can see the resemblance." Jon flashed a smile. "So how long have your parents been together? Mine were married for a couple years before they had me."

Damian cocked an eyebrow. "They never really were." His voice died off as he was distracted by the leering of Jeremy and Nathan, who kept their distance but still hadn't seemed to learn to mind their business. Damian folded his arms. "Want me to break something else?" he asked.

Jeremy self-consciously touched his broken nose. "I can't believe they let you back at school," he spat. "Crazy little psycho."

"Maybe don't be a dumbass and I won't have to act accordingly," Damian replied. "And word to the wise? If you suspect someone is psychotic, perhaps don't try to bait them into acting. You save a lot of bones that way."

Nathan scoffed and puffed out his chest, hoping to appear bigger than he was. Really, he was barely an inch taller than Damian. "So, I heard that's your cousin?" He gestured to Jon, who clearly objected to being caught in the middle.

"Yes," said Damian. "A few times removed."

With a snort, Nathan folded his arms. "Bullshit," he called. "I heard him talking in math class. He's from Kansas."

Jon flared. "So what?" 

"So," said Jeremy, "your cousin's a psycho and a liar. According to him, he's supposed to be a prince." Nathan snickered, embolding Jeremy's confidence. "What kind of prince has a skinny redneck for a cousin?"

"H-hey!" Jon flushed hot. "That's not nice!"

Nathan, smelling blood in the water, stuck out his front teeth and put on a horrible Southern twang. "Yee-haw! I gots me some pigs an' chickens an' cows!" He mimicked hocking a loogie, which made Jeremy double up in laughter. "Old McDonald had a farm! E-I-E-I-O!"

"Shut up!" Jon snapped. "You're both just--you're--you're just bullies!"

"Oooooh," Jeremy jeered. "You hurt my feewings."

"You gonna cry, redneck!?" Nathan cackled. "I bet your family's poor, too! Look at those shoes!" 

"M-my--" Jon looked down at his sneakers, which were well past broken in.

"Seriously!" Jeremy laughed. "They're hobo shoes! I can't believe they even let you in with those!"

By now, Jon was starting to tear up. "Why... why are you so mean?" 

"Aw, look! Little hic is gonna cry." The two boys went back to barking in laughter. That was, until they each received swift kicks to the back of their knees. They gasped as they crumpled, but didn't fall on the steps completely. Before face-planting into the concrete, two small, sharp hands pinched them at the base of each of their necks. The pain was so sharp and so sudden that it sent them into a shock of paralysis. Their eyes widened, and they each turned as Damian Wayne lowered his shadowed face between them.

"You are going to both apologize," he said, calmly. "And you're going to mean it. Or I'm going to make you both take a hard nap in front of the whole school. Your choice."

Jeremy's face was pale as a sheet, and Nathan was shaking violently in Damian's grasp. The former was the first to speak. "Y-you're so fucking insane..."

"Ahem."

Damian and Jon looked up to see Alfred standing patiently at the bottom of the steps. "Good afternoon, young master. Shall we head home?" Alfred's bored eyes traveled to Damian's captives. "I do hate to interrupt, but you are expected."

"Tt." Damian let Jeremy and Nathan fall at his feet. The two squirmed in pain, clutching their necks. Casually as you please, Damian strolled his way to the back seat. He paused before getting in, turning to Jon. "Coming? Cousin?"

Jon jolted, but nodded emphatically and ran around to the other side. Once they were in, Alfred drove off without a word. Jon clutched his rucksack with both hands, tightened up into a nervous ball. "Uh..." He glanced Damian's way. "Thank y--"

"You shouldn't cry in front of people." Damian's words were sharp and direct. "Especially not in front of guys like that. The minute you show even a hint of weakness, they'll pounce. And you'll be torn to shreds."

Jon winced. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'll try but... sometimes I can't help it."

"Learn to help it." Damian whipped to his companion. "You don't have your father's powers. Which means that you can't rely on brute strength. You can't afford to be weak-minded. Men don't cry."

Rather than encouraging him, Jon folded in further on himself. "But I'm not a man," he said, meekly.

"No," Damian agreed. "You're not."

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Clark really should be more focused. With the November elections just around the corner, his column was about to take on the lion's share of his yearly work. Currently, Clark had three major stories slated: bribes to congressmen for legislation, fraudulent government contracts, and an interview with a DC whistleblower. And while Clark was normally thrilled to be another voice for justice in the face of a corrupt system, he simply couldn't bring himself to concentrate like he should. And it had plenty to do with the golden band around his finger.

He knew he probably shouldn't be wearing it in public. It was bound to attract attention and questions. But given that men didn't usually wear engagement rings, he figured he'd be safe enough. Every few words, his left thumb pushed up against the bottom of the ring, as if to remind himself that it was real. His legs, far too big for his short desk, occasionally bumped up against the bottom. Which in turn reminded him of the last time he snuck into Bruce's office.

God that was good... Clark wasn't exactly the most out there person, sexually. When he was going to college in Smallville, he had convinced himself that he and Lana Lang were destined to make it to wedding bells. His first time was so awkward, and he was so damn nervous that he accidentally broke part of the bed. Difficult to explain, especially given that Lana wasn't privy to Clark's abilities. After Lana there were a few other girlfriends here and there. And then, of course, his first experience with a young man. He was about twenty two, Clark remembered, and they found each other at a college party. The poor guy was wasted, so Clark took it upon himself to help him to bed. He'd slept on the couch in his dorm room, and woke up to aggressive snuggles the next morning. Which turned into... other things. Clark was ashamed he couldn't remember his name...

Hm. College. Clark hadn't thought about college in a long time. He wondered what it might have been like if he and Bruce met back when they were younger. Back before they both had the weight of the world on their shoulders. He'd seen pictures of Bruce as a young man, of course. His whole life was documented for all to see. But it'd been a while, and Clark couldn't quite picture him. Under his desk, Clark pulled out his phone and searched "Bruce Wayne, 22 years old."

The pictures were immediate. Clark clicked on one of them. There was Bruce, wearing that smile he always did, caught in the flash of a paparazzi's camera. He wore a black turtleneck indicative of the decade, with a letterman's jacket sporting the emblem of Gotham's most prestigious university. Clark began to thumb through the photos. Poor Bruce must have been hounded, but Clark almost couldn't blame the press. As beautiful as Bruce Wayne was now, by God he was a looker in his prime. His shovel jaw was slimmer, with a more distinct definition under his cheekbones. His eyes found themselves in a natural shadow, as though he were destined to wear a mask, even in civilian life. His hair was feathered and styled effortlessly. His lips pursed and plush and silky. In some photos, he was on spring vacation, and Clark got a perfect view of a slim clavicle and a developing barrel chest. Clark's mouth went dry.

He tried to picture it. Him, a hopeless, optimistic journalism student, accidentally running across Bruce Wayne of all people. Dashing, beautiful, rich, perfect. Clark would think so, certainly. He wondered if Bruce's personality was the same as it was now. Would he, like Clark, already be hiding who he was from the world? Years before the Batman, would Bruce still cling to the shadows, still keep himself closed off from the rest of the world? Hiding under a brilliant smile and perfect white teeth? What would it take for Clark to break through the barrier and find the man he loved underneath? Perhaps they'd meet in the library, with Clark buried under books and Bruce hiding from the masses. They'd strike up a conversation, and Clark would try and pretend like he didn't know who Bruce was. But of course he would have. Everyone did. They'd start bumping into each other across campus, at the cafeteria and in classes. Bruce would invite Clark to a party, and Clark would force himself to go. They'd find themselves cloistered away to talk for hours. Until finally, Clark would take the leap, and steal a kiss from those lovely, rose petal soft lips...

"You still with us, Smallville?"

Clark jumped so suddenly, he actually fell over to one side, bring his chair down with him. Papers had scattered in the fray, and Clark looked up through skewed glasses. Lois looked entirely too used to Clark's shenanigans to show concern. Or even offer to help him up. "I asked if you were ready to go."

"Go?" Lois pointed at the clock, and Clark fixed his glasses. "Golly. Five o'clock already, huh?" Lois tossed him his coat, and he stood up entirely. "What's the rush?"

"We're going out."

"We are?"

"You, me, Jimmy, Cat. It's non-negotiable."

Again, Clark glanced at the time. Lately, he'd made it a habit of getting back to the Manor around seven, which gave he and Bruce around two hours of personal time before patrol. "Oh gee, you know, I'd really love to but--"

"I said it's non-negotiable, Kent. Come on." Lois grabbed her bag from her desk, and soon, she was joined by Jimmy and Cat. Clark shuffled along behind her, retaining a faint protest on his lips.

"Sweet, the gang's all here," said Jimmy.

"Steve's not here," Clark pointed out.

"Steve's not part of the gang," said Cat.

"He's not that bad," Clark defended.

"Just get in the elevator, Clark," said Lois.

The four of them clamored aboard, and rode it all the way down to ground floor. Rather than hopping over to the bar across the street, but instead, they marched down into the subway station. Clark was clearly confused, but given the attitude of his coworkers, it was clear they weren't about to answer any questions. Somehow, around rush hour, they managed to find a somewhat empty car, and filed in towards the back. Once there, Clark was seated alone, with all three of his friends crowding him. He blinked.

"Uh..."

"Right." Lois grabbed Clark's left hand and held up his ring. "Spill."

Clark flushed, and pulled back his hand. "Spill what?" he asked, trying to laugh it off.

"You should consider yourself lucky we're not asking you this at the Planet," said Cat. She glared at Lois. "And that we're forced to be underground with shitty cell service."

"It's the only way you weren't going to live-tweet this," said Lois.

"Hmph."

Clark rubbed his hand, glancing down at his engagement ring. "It's... it's nothing. What, I can't wear jewelry?"

"You don't wear jewelry," Lois pointed out. "I don't think you even own any."

"For the record," said Jimmy, "I wanted to ask you this over text. These two are the ones who are dramatic."

Cat leaned close and hugged Clark around his broad shoulders. "Come on, Clarky. Give us the scoop. Is this what we think it is?"

Clark looked at the three imploring eyes and swallowed, audibly. "Now I know why Steve isn't part of the gang."

"Ooh!" Cat jumped and clapped her hands. "Details, details! When did this happen? Where? Were there fireworks? Live doves? A carriage ride through the city?"

That got Clark to loosen and laugh just a touch. "Nothing like that. It was... private." He fiddled with his ring. "We were laying in bed together. It was intimate."

"Oh." Cat seemed extremely disappointed. "Well. I guess that's nice."

"And were you going to tell us?" Lois asked.

Clark shifted. "Bruce... Bruce is very private, remember."

Jimmy furrowed his brow. "Wait. You mean, you weren't...?"

"I was going to!" Clark defended. "Maybe. Eventually."

"Oh yeah that's real convincing," said Lois.

"You guys don't get it. Bruce's whole life has been televised whether he wants it to be or not. This..." He glanced down at his ring. "He wanted this to just be for us."

"But we're your friends!" said Jimmy.

"I know, I know. I just..." His shoulders hunched, and he lowered his hands. "I don't want to overstep."

"Overstep?" Lois clarified. "You mean by telling your friends that you're engaged?" Clark flinched, and Lois shook her head. "Well regardless, we're celebrating." The doors opened, and Clark was shoved out onto the 7th street station platform. "Where are we going? Barney's? The Spot? Michelli's?"

"How about that little burger counter you like?" Jimmy suggested. "We haven't been there in a hot minute. You know, the one with the giant milkshakes?"

Clark brightened a little. "Well... maybe just a milkshake."

"There we go!" Cat grabbed Clark's giant bicep with a brilliant smile. "And to make it up to us, you're the one buying."

Something sharp scratched through Clark's ear. He winced, his head turning as he honed in his super hearing. Miles away but approaching fast, he could hear a subway train struggle with its breaks. "Uh..." His head whipped back and forth. "Two seconds!" He began to run back into the station.

"Hey!" called Lois. "Where're you going!?"

"Bathroom!"

Clark rounded the corner and rushed into the men's lavatory. He didn't bother waiting for it to empty out. Finding an empty stall, he rushed inside, changed, and was out in a gust of wind before anyone knew what was what. People gasped and cried out as they saw Superman rush past them and further into the subway station.

Superman tightened up his senses. It was the E train, barreling fast on the northbound track. Listening even closer, he could hear the mayday call of the conductor on the radio. Metal screamed as the emergency breaks were deployed, only to snap shortly after as the train continued hurtling down the track.

Superman jumped onto the tracks as the platform rumbled. A massive gust of wind billowed from down the tunnel. Pedestrians pulled out their phones to record and snap photos. Superman held out his hands. "Please, everyone! Step back!"

The train's headlight broke through the darkness as the cars rounded the corner. Superman dug his heels into the ground and braced himself. The train was going so fast, it was wobbling on the railings. Within seconds, it barreled straight for the Man of Steel, and collided with him in a great crash. Superman tightened up his muscles, his hands denting the chrome of the train's nose. Inside, he could hear cries of the passengers as the train jerked, fighting against Superman's strength. Straightening out his legs, Superman began to fly in the opposite direction. A nice, slow descent. Should the train stop too abruptly, people would get hurt.

Something snapped. Superman looked up just in time to see the train suddenly fold against itself, sparks flying as the caboose squished in close. It was to Superman's dismay that he realized; the train was going backwards. And with the forward motion in the back, Superman wasn't stopping the train, he was turning it into an accordian.

Superman let go of the front and pressed his back up against the wall. The train, now uneven and slanted on the tracks, scraped hard against the side of the brick tunnel. Superman tried to right it, careful not to shatter the fractured glass on the passengers. Once he was sure it wasn't going to topple over itself, Superman hung back until reaching the wild, flailing engine car. Grabbing it by the caboose, Superman dug his heels into the ground and pulled.

The train jerked, and passengers collapsed inside. Superman's heels dug deep gashes between the railings. He could feel the engine start to lose its momentum. That's when he heard it. The blaring of an opposite train, five miles away and gaining. They were set to collide any minute now.

"Hey pops! Need a hand?"

"Superboy!"

With a spin and a flourish, Superboy appeared at Superman's flank, his jacket flapping wildly in the wind. "These trains are going to crash!" Superman exclaimed. "Find a way to divert it!"

"On it!" Superboy crouched momentarily and then shot off like a rocket completely through the center of the train. Superman lifted his head with a groan.

"Be careful!"

Fortunately, Superboy was as nimble as he was quick. While the windows were collateral damage, the passengers were avoided at all costs. The gust of Superboy's speed was enough to knock them back into their seats, keeping his way clear. Once he made it out to the other side of the train, Superboy followed the lay of the track until he came upon a switch. He pulled it, which would in turn send their oncoming train to the right and out of harm's way. But they weren't out of the woods yet.

"Superman!" Superboy called. "Kill the engine!"

Superman could hear their trains getting closer. Rearing back, he smashed his fist into the thick steel of the train and grappled until he found a massive cluster of wires. He pulled, and just like that, the motor died. Now coasting on forward motion alone, Superman dug his feet so deep into the ground that the brick split at his knees. The train whined loudly as up ahead, Superboy watched both trains careen towards him. Rushing to the rogue, Superboy pushed on the front train with all his might. The train came to a complete stop six inches away from the switched rail, missing the passing train by less than a foot.

"Whew..." Superboy floated into the car and touched down. "Everyone alright?" He stepped further in, and was soon met with cheers of the passengers. Grinning, Superboy held out his hands to accept the praise. "Thank you, thank you everybody. Please, no pictures. I'm just kidding." He posed with a peace sign for a group of high school girls. "Any babies need kissing? Any autographs? Autographs on babies?"

Superman appeared, causing an even bigger stir among the crowd. Superman smiled warmly as a group of children clung to his boots. He knelt down. "Is anyone hurt?" he asked. The kids shook their heads with massive smiles, a few clinging to him for hugs. Superman hugged back before standing up to join Superboy. "Come on. We should radio Metro Transit. They'll handle the cleanup."

"Aw, just a little longer?" Superboy winked at a camera and threw out a finger heart for good measure.

"Now, Kon."

"Oh all right." Superboy took flight as Superman punched out a walkway for the passengers to disembark. Once they were out of the fray, Clark and Conner took flight high above Metropolis. Conner put his hands on his hips. "How's that for team work? Gimme some!" He held up his hand, which Clark slapped in celebration. "M'kay, so what's next? Think we'll get any sea monsters? Aliens?"

"Let's hope not," Clark smiled. They touched down on a roof and Clark stretched out his back. "I was hoping to stop by the Manor before patrol. But I guess we might as well start." That's when Clark felt his phone vibrate. Holding up his cape, he undid the inside pocket to answer.

Conner cocked an eyebrow. "You have a cape pocket?"

"Yeah? Why, you don't?"

"Dude, I don't have a cape." Conner showed off his jacket pockets."

Clark blinked. "Oh yeah. One second." He answered the phone. "Hello?" He blinked. "Oh, Jon. Hi. Yeah, I can talk." Conner tilted his head, silently asking who Clark was talking to. Clark held up a polite finger. "Oh, really? Uh huh. Uh huh." Clark smiled a little. "Well that's--No yeah, I'm listening. Well I--I was going to go on patrol but--" He paused. "Not for very long, usually. Though you'll probably be in bed."

"Yo." Conner waved his hand. "Who's Jon?"

"Sorry, Jon. One second." Clark covered the receiver. "He's your brother."

Conner's eyes widened. "I'm sorry. What?"

"Oh wait, yeah that's a good point." Clark removed his hand. "Jon, real quick. Is there a Superboy in your world? There is? Okay, great." He covered his phone again. "Yeah. He's your brother."

"Uh..."

Clark went back to the phone. "Tell you what, I'll pop in for a little bit before patrol, okay? I'll be there soon. Yeah. Mhm. Bye." He hung up and turned to Conner. "Shall we?"

"Shall we what?"

Clark took to the sky with a smile. "Come on. I'll tell you everything on the flight there."

Chapter Text

"Huh."

"'Huh' what?"

"No, nothing! It's just..."

Conner narrowed his eyes sharply. "It's just what?"

Jon shifted from foot to foot. "The Superboy in my world is just a little... different. That's all."

"Like?"

Jon looked Conner up and down. "He's taller. And... just kinda bigger. He looks more like dad." Conner's glare hardened, and Jon backpedaled. "Not that there's anything wrong with being super small and skinny!" Jon frantically looked him up and down. "You uh... You got a cool jacket."

Conner hesitated before holding out his arm. "You like it? I did the patches all myself."

Jon brightened and examined Conner's sleeve. "It is pretty cool." He squeezed Conner's arm, and Conner lifted it, letting Jon swing from his bicep like a monkey. He laughed, kicking his feet back and forth.

Clark let out a subtle sigh of relief. He would admit that he was worried for his boys not getting along, especially considering Conner's aversion to meeting new people. The two Supers had returned to Wayne Manor to make their introductions. Jon and Damian had met them in the foyer, as Jon couldn't wait long to ramble about his first day at Damian's school. Damian was only present to make sure Jon didn't rat him out for nearly sleeper-pinching two students. But this plan was disrupted when Clark arrived with Conner in tow.

While Conner and Jon dove into a conversation, Clark addressed Damian. "So?" Damian looked up. "How was he? You boys get along?"

Damian considered his answer. "Well... I'm not trying to kill him."

"Oh. Well that's good, I guess."

"But it will be a blessing when he returns to his own dimension."

Clark felt his smile dwindle. "I see. Any reason why?" Damian looked away. 

The door opened, and all heads turned as Bruce and Tim arrived from their day at WE. Alfred took their coats and Conner turned, still dangling Jon from his arm. "Babe!" Conner called. He floated off the ground and swung Jon back and forth, making his little brother squeal. "Are you seeing this? I got a kid brother!"

Tim binked. "Yes?"

"Can you believe it!?"

"Conner, I told you about him the night he arrived."

"What? No you didn't."

With no change in expression, Tim pulled out his phone and began to scroll down his chat log. "I texted you at 7:39PM. 'Looks like Constantine accidentally pulled in Clark's son from a different dimension. He's staying at the Manor. You should probably meet him.' To which you replied: 'Haha, nice.'" Tim looked up. "Do you not remember this?"

Conner's gears worked slowly. "Uh... no?" Tim rolled his eyes.

"Now that that's sorted," said Bruce, loosening his tie, "how was school?"

"Way different." Jon hopped off of Conner's arm. He'd already ditched his uniform tie and jacket, opting for the old t-shirt and crusty jeans he came in. "Some of the kids are nice. But others are--"

"It's an adjustment period," Damian interrupted. "Not that any of it matters. Since he won't be staying long."

Sensing the rift between the two youngest, Clark spoke up. "Well, maybe not in the long run. But it'll make things go easier if Jon gets used to your school." Damian responded with a scoff under his breath.

"So, Jon." Conner propped his elbow on Jon's head, making him squish down into his shoulders. "What do you think of the neighborhood? What's different, what's the same?"

"A lot of things," said Jon, wiggling out from under Conner. "But most of the basic stuff is still the same. Unless you guys lay eggs or something."

Conner laughed. "Wild. And your parents, they're pops and Lois Lane?" Jon nodded. "Man. Must be a trip, you being here. What with dad and Bruce getting married."

Jon's eyes widened double their normal size. "Wait..." He looked between Clark and Bruce, and it was only then that the room realized no one had bothered to fill him in on that little detail. "You mean...?" Jon pointed at Clark. "You..."

Clark took a deep breath. "Jon, I know it might be weird, but--"

"You're marrying BATMAN?" Jon's face lit up like a firecracker, and he spun between both Clark and Bruce, his hair whipping every direction. "No way! No way no way no way no WAY!"

"You're not upset?" Clark asked with a slight smile.

"Upset?! This is the coolest thing ever! Ohmigosh, I can't believe my dad is marrying Batman!" Jon gasped and ran to Clark, grabbing both of his hands as he jumped up and down. "Can I stay for the wedding!? Please please please please!?" This made Clark burst into laughter, eliciting smiles from the rest of the room. Apart from Damian.

Clark was ready to give him an answer when his phone rang. Turning the now wound up Jon loose on the others, Clark saw Lois's name on the front screen and suddenly balked. "Oh shoot..." Bruce noticed Clark's demeanor and silently asked what was wrong. "I was supposed to go out for drinks but had to stop a runaway train." Bruce donned a look of understanding. Clark finally answered his phone. "Hey, Lois!" He paused, wincing at the voice on the other side. "Yeah... No, yeah, sorry about that. I just... Well when you gotta go..." He smiled awkwardly and turned away. "No, I heard. Kinda got me scared to leave the bathroom. Uh-huh." He glanced Bruce's way. "Yeah. Again, real sorry I just up and split. Where are you now? I can come by." He nodded. "Yeah, I'm down the block from there. Give me ten minutes. Promise. Okay. See you, bye." Clark hung up the phone.

Bruce chuckled. "Can't get away from her that easy, can you?" he asked.

Clark shook his head. "Yeah. Especially now."

"Why especially?"

"Well, they sorta found out. Y'know. About us." He flashed Bruce his engagement ring. Even though he was suited for hero work that afternoon, he hadn't bothered to remove it. "I'm expected to go out for drinks to celebrate." He anticipated Bruce to make another wise crack, but to his surprise, his face was blank. As if waiting for extra information that didn't exist. Clark started to grow nervous. "Um. Bruce? You okay in there?"

"She knows?" His question was quiet, but abrupt.

"I didn't tell them," said Clark. "But they saw this on me and they... I dunno, they figured it out."

"They."

"Lois, Jimmy and Cat. But don't worry! They're my friends."

"They're reporters."

"Bruce, they're not going to blast our engagement on the front page of the Planet."

"They're reporters. And they know that we're engaged."

Clark hesitated. "Bruce, you're worrying me a little. I know you wanted to keep this mostly quiet, but--"

"What else?"

"Huh?"

"What else do they know?"

"I..." Clark paused. "This is starting to feel like an interrogation."

"What else do they know, Clark?"

Clark glanced at the kids, all of whom were watching enraptured. Only Jon was sheepish enough to look away under Clark's gaze. "Bruce, I'm not having this conversation right now," he said, lowly.

"I asked you for one thing." Bruce's tone was growing more and more agitated. "One thing. I wanted this engagement to be for us. You, me, and family. And you couldn't even give me that."

"Now hold on," said Clark. "That's not fair. You wanted it to be kept on a need to know basis. Yeah, they figured it out on their own, but wasn't it just going to be a matter of time? I mean, I get not wanting the League to be in our business, but this is Lois we're talking about. When were we going to spring it on her, the day she gets an invitation?" When Bruce didn't speak, Clark's eyes hardened. "Are you kidding me, Bruce?"

"We hadn't decided on a guest list yet."

"Oh, bull," Clark snapped. "You know I was going to invite Lois, right? She's my best friend!"

"I didn't want anyone from outside the family."

"Oh my God... Was I going to be able to invite anyone?"

"It's for the best."

Clark was already shaking his head. "We're not doing this. Not in front of..."

"We should leave," Tim suggested, a hand on Jon's shoulders. "Come on. I'll help with homework." Though Jon was hesitant, the four of them shuffled their way to the far kitchen, where Tim talked up Alfred's baking skills. Clark glowered at the floor tile until he was sure that they were out of earshot. For everyone but Conner, anyway.

"You weren't going to let me invite anyone."

"Clark..." Bruce began.

Clark whipped to him. "What about after? Am I never allowed to refer to you as my husband? No dates, no anniversary, no nothing? Just shadows in this big empty house."

"You know that isn't the case."

"Do I?"

"Don't look at me like I'm the bad guy here," Bruce argued back. "There are plenty of people who know about us. The kids--"

"Your kids."

"You love them."

"Yes! I love them, but they are your kids!"

"Conner is right there, and your parents--"

"Yeah? And who else?" Bruce opened his mouth, and when he couldn't bring up another name, Clark curled his upper lip. "You are unbelievable."

"It's a measure of protection!"

"So no Lois, no Jimmy, no Diana, no Barry... Just my folks and my kids, huh? That's it? And I should just be happy with this?" Bruce had no answer, and Clark snorted. "You know what?" He threw his hands up in surrender. "I'm not doing this right now. I can't."

"Clark--"

"I'm going out. Lois is expecting me."

"Clark!" But Clark was gone before Bruce could utter another word. Bruce watched as his future groom leap out of the front door and take to the sky like a speeding rocket. The force of his takeoff left a gust of violent wind in his wake. When the dust settled, Bruce was left standing with a heavy heart, and slumped shoulders.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Lois tapped her phone on their booth. "He said five minutes. That was fifteen minutes ago."

"Oh come on, you know Clark," said Jimmy, helping himself to more chips and salsa. "He probably decided to get a soundbite from Superman while we weren't looking. I swear, he gets all the good interviews. Lucky guy."

Cat slurped at her margarita. "You ever wonder why that is?" she pondered, stirring it with her straw. "I mean, you definitely get the lion's share, honey, but I think Clarky might be the closest to you in terms of sheer volume of Superman post-catastrophe interviews."

Lois stopped tapping her phone. Her dark eyes, though pinned to the chips and salsa at their table, were miles away, as they always were when she was deep in thought. "Huh," she said.

Cat smacked her lips. "Huh what?" She snuggled against Lois mindlessly. Lois barely noticed.

"Nothing, it's just..." Lois taped her chin with two fingers. "You're right. I get plenty of interviews, but..."

Jimmy looked up, oblivious to the crumbs on his mouth. "But what?"

Rather than elaborate, Lois straightened her shoulders and put her phone in her lap. "Nothing. Just... thinking."

The door opened, and all three turned as Clark made a beeline for the group. "Hey!" His voice cracked as he pushed up his glasses. "Sorry about all that. Whoo, I tell ya. That's the last time I'm trusting that grocery store sushi." Squeezing in next to Cat at the end of the booth, he helped himself to a few tortilla chips. "Boy I'm starving."

Lois narrowed her eyes. "I thought the sushi upset your stomach."

Clark looked up, half the chip broken off between his teeth. "Well uh." He chewed and swallowed. "I took a Tums."

"Mm."

"So!" Cat pushed away her margarita and clung to Clark with a hungry grin. "Details! When, where, who'll be there? I can imagine Bruce Wayne--"

"Please keep your voice down," Clark whispered.

"Well, I can imagine B.W. has a pretty impressive circle of friends. Any celebrities on the guest list?"

Clark figitted. "We're uh." He cleared his throat. "We're actually keeping it fairly low key. You know. Friends and family, backyard wedding kind of deal."

"Oh, nice," said Jimmy. "Very frugal."

"Yeah," said Lois, "if the backyard in question wasn't the size of the Kentucky Derby race track."

Clark flinched at the edge in Lois's tone. "Are you still mad at me? I'm sorry, honest."

"Hey Clark."

"Huh?"

"How tall are you?"

Jimmy and Cat both turned to Lois with confusion. Clark, seemed positively flummoxed. "Uh. I don't know? I kinda hunch, so--"

"And how much do you weigh?"

"Lois, that's kind of a rude question."

Lois scanned Clark from the waist up. "I'd say you'd probably push... what? Two hundred? Two twenty?"

"What's with this all of the sudden?" Clark finished his chip and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Are you trying to size me up for a tuxedo? I'm sure Bruce will have that handled.

Lois didn't take her eyes away--she barely even blinked--but eventually, her body language relaxed. "Sorry," she said. "I was just thinking about something. It's not important." With perfect timing, the server arrived, and everyone put in their order. For the entirety of the meal, Clark would catch Lois subtly staring at Clark at every opportunity. The way he moved and laughed, when his arm stretched for the salsa or napkins. At first, Clark worried she might know something he didn't, but Clark quickly concluded that she was likely aware of Clark's real mood.

Frankly, the only reason he was there was so he could excuse himself from the Manor for an hour or two before patrol. It wasn't often he and Bruce fought--really fought, anyway. They used to quite often back when they were two young men hoping to make a change in the world. Now, with age and experience came an ability to compromise. At least, Clark had managed to figure that one out. It seemed Bruce was still struggling on that particular skill set. Clark tried not to dwell, but it was difficult, especially considering the topic of conversation never strayed far past his engagement. For the sake of his friends, Clark smiled and nodded, and gave little details here and there. But the longer he lingered at the table, the more bummed he was starting to feel.

After dinner, Clark split off from the group and walked home. The subways would likely be out of commission for the next week. Maybe longer. Oh well. Clark could enjoy some fresh air. Above him, the sky was turning vivid pink, and all the lights of Metropolis were flickering on. It had been a while that he had felt so alone among the crowd. Reaching his apartment, Clark opened the door, hoping to just enjoy a little time on the couch. The moment he stepped through the threshold, however, he was distracted by the visage of a fat, lazy cat at his feet.

"Uh...?" Clark looked up.

"Eh?" Constantine, dressed in underwear and Clark's bathrobe, appeared from the bedroom. He jumped. "Kent!" He looked around. Clark's apartment was thrashed. A small tank had been brought in (likely from off the street) with his reading lamp bent inward to keep the two, duel headed turtles in comfort. Delivery boxes and bags were everywhere, and Clark could smell the distinct sting of cigarette smoke. "Erm! Hold on!" Constantine threw out his hands, and in a yellow whirlwind, the trash picked itself up and contracted as a giant garbage bag formed around it. Once the knot was tied off, Constantine shoved it into Clark's already overflowing trash bin with a smile. "I was just, er--!"

Clark heaved a sigh. Shuffling into his apartment, he kicked off his shoes and collapsed face first onto his couch. Constantine watched him, a little surprised his ass hadn't been chewed out yet. "Long day, mate?" Clark said nothing. Constantine sat on his legs, comfortably. "Care for a drink?"

Clark lifted his head. "I don't drink."

"You look like you need it."

"No, I mean..." Clark looked over his shoulder. "My metabolism. It's too aggressive. I can't get drunk." He pointed to the roof. "Yellow sun."

"Ah. Shame." Constantine stood and formed a small yellow portal. "Fortunately, I think I have just the thing." He pulled out a strange, beautiful bottle with a golden liquid inside, as well as a perfectly chilled glass. "Elvish whiskey," he explained. "Bloody stuff kills normal men. Maybe it'll do the trick, eh?" Clark sat up, and Constantine poured him his glass. He handed it over. "Give us a try."

Clark glanced at Constantine before raising the glass to his nose. There was a spice to the liquor that singed when it went down, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant. It reminded him of cinnamon cakes. He took a sip. The spices hit the back of his throat, and despite Kryptonians having no gag reflex, Clark's eyes watered. "Oh." He pulled back and gummed. "Huh. That's."

"Well?"

Clark took another sip, a little more prepared. "It's um... good? I think?" He went for another, but Constantine held up his hand.

"Careful there," he said. "It's powerful stuff. Known it to even put down demons."

Clark considered this, but with a shrug, downed about half the glass. Constantine's eyes bulged out of his head as Clark wiped his lips with his thumb. "It's nice," he remarked. "It kinda has a... um... gingery...?" He blinked, and only then did Clark realize that time felt a little slower than normal. "Whoa..."

Constantine grinned, pointing at Clark with a knowing finger. "Eh? Eh? What'd I tell you?" Grabbing the bottle of Jack from the counter, he helped himself to a glass and sat at Clark's left. "I'll have to stick to the mortal stuff, though. Don't feel like going back to hell myself." He clinked their cups together. "Cheers." They each took a hearty sip.

Clark shook his head as he came up for air. "Wow. I feel... fuzzy?"

"Just fuzzy?"

Clark smiled. "It's nice. Reminds me of when I'm flying."

"Hoverin'."

"No, flying."

"No. Hoverin'." Constantine gestured beneath Clark's legs. Indeed, he was hovering a good two inches from the cushion. "Might wanna sit back down."

"Oh. Woops." Clark anchored himself and held up his glass. "Think I can have another?"

"Fine. But you'd best nurse it. This is expensive stuff."

Clark nodded in thanks as Constantine topped off his empty glass. He took another sip and melted into the couch behind him. "Man. Now I get why people drink."

"Oh yeah?" Constantine bounced a leg over his knee. "Just now?" Clark's smile was a little droopy, and Constantine slapped his shoulder. "Alright, mate. Spill. What's got your knickers in a twist?" Clark stared sadly into his golden drink. He mumbled something. "Say again?"

"Bruce," Clark finally blubbered. "S'not fair."

"Oh aye? Trouble in paradise, is it?"

Clark sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his wrist. He wasn't sure when his eyes had started to get misty, but he barely noticed. "He doesn't want nobody at the wedding," he slurred.

"Boy that whiskey's working hard," Constantine mumbled. "Go on then, love. What's that mean, nobody at the wedding? Surely you'll have somebody at the wedding."

"M'folks," said Clark. "My--hic!--kids. Thassit."

"Eh?" Constantine set his glass down, adopting a more concerned expression. "That's it? No guests? No friends? What about all your mates in the League?"

Clark shook his head. "He dun'wan anybody to know."

"Know? Mate, you're getting married. What, was he planning on hiding it?"

Clark sniffled again. "It's so--!" He shook his hand, a few drops of Elvish whiskey splashing onto the coffee table. Constantine watched as the liquor ate through the solid oak like hot oil through butter. Clark barely noticed. "Iss'not fair. He gets'is say in everything. Like, f'I wann'd to go do somethin', ee's gotta be the one to... hic. He has'ta say yes. I mean, chumon!" He took another sip, after which, Constantine gently removed it from his fingers. Clark kept his hand cupped as though he were still holding it. "He dun respect me."

"Now that's a load of tosh," said Constantine. "If there's anyone in this whole world that Batman respects, it's Superman."

"No," Clark argued. He turned to Constantine and slapped his own chest. "Me. He dun respect me. Cark."

Constantine tried not to laugh. "Cark, is it?" Clark nodded. His heavy body swayed, and he slumped into Constantine's side. Constantine had difficulty maneuvering underneath the beast of a Kryptonian, but ultimately managed to keep himself from getting smushed.

"I luv'em," Clark whimpered. "So much. But he... he..." Clark wiped his face again, now red from Constantine's booze. "He dun trust nobody. I tell'em all the time, he's gotta trust somebody. Our friends... our friends love us! And we love them. And they love him. But he thinks e'erybody's out to get'em. Like. Whole world's just..." Clark held up his hands and gestured vaguely. "Y'know?"

"Haven't the slightest clue." Clark blew a trill through his lips and grabbed Constantine around the middle. Constantine stiffened, and tried to wiggle away. "Erm, listen Kent, I'm flattered, and I might've fancied a shag about twenty years ago, but--"

"How come he's so scared?" Clark muttered. Constantine's worry subsided, and he laid a hand on Clark's head. "How come... he's so scared to come out into the light...? I'm there. I'm waiting for him and he just... just..."

Knock knock. "Clark?" As the universe had nothing if not perfect timing, the unlocked door cracked open, revealing Bruce Wayne on the doorstep, holding a small bouquet of sunflowers. "Are you home--?" He stopped half way in, spotting Constantine and Clark on the couch. Although his expression remained blank, Constantine flew into a panic.

"Wayne! Erm--! We were just--!" He looked down in hopes that it would seem less suspicious, only to find Clark half asleep and actively nuzzling into Constantine's chest. Constantine whipped back to Bruce, a plea in his voice. "It isn't what it looks like, I swear on me mum."

"What's wrong with him?" Bruce demanded. He set the flowers aside and approached.

"Drunk," Constantine offered.

"Clark doesn't get drunk," Bruce snapped. "He can't."

"Well, erm, I may have given him something a bit... strong."

Bruce knelt down in front of Clark and reached out. With a delicate finger, he pushed aside a rogue curl. "Hey. Clark." Clark's eyes fluttered open. Pink faced and a little blurry, Clark looked up, his glasses barely clinging to the end of his nose. As his vision focused, the first thing he saw was Bruce's face.

"Bruce..." He split into a wide grin, only for it to fall a moment later. With a pout, Clark grabbed a throw pillow and shoved it into Bruce's face. "No."

Bruce pushed the pillow aside. "Clark, don't be childish." Clark answered by snuggling harder into Constantine, who looked frightened enough before Bruce's Batman scowl made an appearance.

Constantine offered the tiniest smile, his hands in the air. "Look, see? I'm an innocent man."

"Clark." Bruce tenderly ran his fingers through Clark's hair. Once Clark met his eyes, Bruce nodded to his grip around Constantine's waist. "Let him go. I'm going to put you to bed."

Clark's brow furrowed. "Bed..." he repeated. He frowned deeply. "M'still mad at you."

"I know you are." Bruce held up his hands. "Come on."

Carefully, Clark slid into Bruce's grasp. Bruce managed to deadlift Clark almost entirely, giving Constantine room to breathe. "Right, well, I think I might've shit myself."

Bruce ignored him. Hoisting Clark into his arms, bridal style, he walked his fiance out of the living room and into the bedroom, where his unmade and messy bed sat waiting. Bruce laid him on the sheets and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. "Hey. Clark."

"No."

"Boy it's a good thing this isn't a common occurrence." Bruce sat next to him and pet his hair. Clark shivered, but relaxed under Bruce's hand. "I know you're upset. I know I upset you. And I'm sorry."

Clark looked up cautiously. "So scared of everything," he whispered. "Y'can't be scared of everything. What life is that?" Clark blinked slowly, and stared off into space. His voice grew smaller. "Can't I be enough...?" he muttered. "Can't I be enough to make you feel safe...?"

Bruce's heart ached. He continued to pet Clark's hair, watching as his lover began to drift away. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "It isn't you. It's never you." He ran his thumb under Clark's tired eye. "You're always making concessions," he said. "You always fight for us. Always try to do right by me. I think I took that for granted. And I..." Bruce paused. Clark had gone still, and a soft snore echoed from under his arm. Bruce let his hand slip away.

Careful not to wake him, Bruce removed Clark's pants and overshirt, leaving his undershirt and drawers. It took a bit of pulling, but Bruce managed to yank the topsheet out from under his legs to tuck him in properly. Bruce sat on the edge of the bed when he was finished, watching him breathe in silence.

"Hey, uh." Constantine nervously poked his head into the bedroom. "He gonna be okay? Elvish whiskey is... whew. I did warn him it was strong, so..."

Bruce glowered at Constantine from the shadows. "You're going to find a hotel tonight."

"Er. Yes. Yes I am." Constantine hesitated. "Think I can go get my toothbrush? It's just--"

"Now."

"Yup, got it, been meaning to get a new one anyway. Night night." With that, Constantine slipped away, and Bruce could hear the whirr of magic as he portaled himself to a new place to sleep for the evening. Bruce went back to watching Clark. There was a subtle twitch in his brow, the kind he only got when he was deep asleep. Taking out his phone, he texted Dick.

Think you could take
Robin out for patrol tonight?

Sure. Everything good?

Bruce glanced down at Clark. He texted back.

Hopefully.

Stripping down to his underthings, Bruce crawled into bed behind Clark and held him firm. He said nothing else; Clark wouldn't have been able to hear him if he tried. And even if he could, where could Bruce start? With his arms tight around Clark's massive frame, Bruce rested his forehead against Clark's nape.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Clark woke slowly. The sunlight, which so often treated him kindly in the early mornings, suddenly stabbed the back of his brain with every inch. Clark screwed his face shut and pushed it into the dark. Only then did he realize it wasn't a pillow or mattress he was hiding in.

"Sleep okay?" Bruce asked.

Clark didn't answer right away. Turning in bed, he curled away from Bruce's arms and clutched a pillow to his stomach. Bruce propped himself on his elbow to try and meet his eyes. Clark vehemently refused. "How was it?"

"How was what?" Clark mumbled.

"Your first time being drunk?"

Clark shifted. "My head hurts."

Bruce chuckled softly. He ran his hand up and down Clark's shoulder. "I would say get used to it, but I have a feeling you won't be making Elvish whiskey a habit."

Clark lifted his head. "Where's John?"

Bruce feigned innocence. "He decided to get a seperate room for the night. You know. Give us some privacy." Clark flopped his head back into the pillows. Bruce scooted in closer. "I'm sorry I upset you."

"No you're not," Clark grumbled.

"I am, actually." Bruce threaded his fingers through Clark's hair. "You're right. I wasn't being fair to you. I was making unilateral decisions for both of us without even consulting you on anything." Clark's body loosened a touch. "I know how much Lois means to you. And Diana, and Barry, and everyone else. So... maybe. We can pick a few of our more trustworthy friends. Slowly."

Clark rolled onto his back. His expression was anxious, but hopeful. "You mean it?"

"Of course I do," said Bruce, hovering over Clark. "Clark, I asked you to marry me because of how much you matter. The fact that I've made you feel like you don't is..." He shook his head. "It's inexcusable. So I won't try."

Clark took Bruce's hand in his. "You... were just trying to protect our family." His brows furrowed, and he looked away. "Ugh. I hope they didn't hear me call them 'not my kids.' I really didn't mean that. I don't know why I said it."

Bruce kissed Clark's temple. "They know you love them. We've all been under a lot of stress." He lowered himself, and Clark flatted out to embrace him. Snuggling up together, Bruce laid gentle kisses across his cheeks. "Who knew that planning a wedding would be so difficult?"

That made Clark snort. "We can always get hitched in the barn," he offered.

"Not on your life."

They laid there for a moment, listening to the sounds of the city outside Clark's window. Their fingers laced together, and Clark keyed in on the slow rhythm of Bruce's heart. The sound of it always soothed him. Gently, Clark kissed the top of Bruce's head. "We should invite Lois over for dinner."

"Yeah?" Bruce lifted his head. "And how are you going to explain Jon?"

Clark blanched. "Oh. Um..."

Bzzt. Bzzt.

Clark glanced down at the floor. His phone buzzed, buried deep in his jacket pocket. He reached down and fished it out. His eyes widened. "Uuuuh."

Bruce went on alert. "What?"

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

Holding his phone flat, Clark hit the answer and put it on speaker phone. "Uh. Hi, Barry."

"YOU AND BRUCE ARE GETTING MARRIED?!"

Bruce let his head thunk into the center of Clark's chest. "Goddamnit."

Chapter Text

By the time Superman, Batman, Superboy and Robin were at the doors of the northern conference room, the whole Watchtower was deep in the throes of chaos. Between the League, the Titans, and a few independent agents, it was standing room only. And every head whipped to their direction the minute they stepped inside.

Superman put on an awkward smile and waved. "Morning, everybody." As he waved, the glint of gold flashed on his left ring finger. The chatter erupted anew, as the whole of the room surged forward with endless questions. Superman actually jumped, whipping his head back and forth as he tried to field the endless asks.

"Is it true!?" asked Flash.

"Yes."

"When did this happen?" said the Lantern Hal Jordan.

"How?" added the Lantern Guy Gardener. 

"We've been dating a bit in secret. We never planned for it, we just--"

"Do you still have a chunk of that lavender rock in you or what?" Hawkgirl demanded.

"No, I'm--"

"Okay, plans!" said Green Arrow. "When are we thinking? Do you have a registry?"

"Well, we--"

"Were you ever going to tell us yourselves?" Aquaman demanded.

"I--"

"What's the colors?" Flash interjected. "How formal are we talking?"

"What kind of cake are you thinking of getting?" Kid Flash asked from the back.

"Oh, real!" Beastboy chimed in. "Are you going to have vegan options for food?"

"Is it an open bar?" Arsenal inquired. "Or is it a BYOB situation?"

More and more questions came flooding in, making Superman's sensitive ears start to ring. His smile was shaky, and his eyes were wide. It wasn't often that he got overwhelmed, but in that moment, he was tempted to turn right around and walk back to Earth.

Tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

A sharp, painful whistle cut through the noise, with many of the capes covering their ears on instinct. Every head turned to Batman, who had removed his glove in order to whistle between his forefinger and thumb. It subdued the room into immediate silence. Wiggling his hand back into his glove, he spoke evenly and with no room to be hassled.

"Before we answer anything," Batman said, "I need to know who it was who told you all." The room exchanged looks, and Batman turned to Red Robin. "Tim?" Red Robin hesitated, which told Batman all he needed to know. Turning, he faced Superboy directly, who hadn't looked anywhere past his feet since they arrived in the Watchtower. "Kon-El?"

Superboy jolted. "Huh?" He looked up and withered under the gaze of every cape in the room. "I... uh..." He put on a sheepish smile. "Forgot my comm was on?"

Red Robin sighed. "I told you you weren't on a closed circuit," he mumbled. He raised his voice. "It was an accident, Batman. Superboy and I were discussing it over comms and--"

"I didn't mean to hear it!" Kid Flash suddenly cried. "Honest! I was flipped to the wrong channel and I heard them!"

Red Robin spoke again. "Wally confirmed it with me, which was overheard by Garfield, who in turn talked to Conner and before we knew it, word had gotten up to the League." He hesitated. "It really was an accident, Bruce."

"I believe it," said Batman. "But it was also a flagrant disregard of security measures. Tim?" Red Robin straightened. "I expect a full refresher course on discretion over comm links for your team. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now then." Batman turned to the rest. "A few of the basics. Yes. Clark and I are engaged. No, there's no kryptonite involved. Yes, we've been dating for a few months in secret. Oliver, shut your mouth, I'm aware that is a short timeline. The particulars of our relationship is no one's business but ours. The reason none of you were notified was on my behalf as a means of security. If you are concerned about the professional implications, don't be. Clark and I are both fully aware that our responsibility to the League and our work comes first. As per Superman's request, yes, you are invited, but I reserve the right to revoke your invitation should the need to do so arise. Frankly, if it wasn't for Clark's insistence, hardly any of you would even know, let alone get an invite. Now. Does anyone have any further questions?"

"Yeah, I got one," said Lantern Gardener. "What the actual fuck, man? You weren't planning on letting us know that two of the top five most powerful League members were now a unified front?"

Batman cocked an eyebrow. "Two of the top five?"

"What Guy means," said the Lantern Jordan, "is that this creates one Hell of a power imbalance. What happens if there's an issue with one of you and the other one finds out?"

"If you're concerned that you can no longer talk behind my back," said Batman, "I assure you, I always heard everything anyway."

"Ugh, that's not what I--"

"I for one am unconcerned by this development," said the Martian Manhunter. "Superman's integrity alone would prevent him from taking advantage of this new arrangement, as does Batman's devotion to justice."

"Thank you, J'onn," Superman nodded. "And you're right. Our relationship won't interfere with our responsibilities. You've known us both for years. That should be apparent by now."

Wonder Woman stepped forward. "Then there is only one last thing to address." The room went still, but relaxed as Wonder Woman flashed a massive smile. She held out her arms. "Congratulations." Superman laughed and embraced her tight. That signaled a change in atmosphere, as much of the League donned celebratory smiles. All except Batman, who remained as stoic and detached as he usually was. He watched as the rest of the League crowded Superman with slaps to his back, handshakes and hugs. Superman accepted it all with ease and grace. His smile radiated sunshine.

"Erm..." Superboy inched closer to Batman. "Sorry to spill the beans. But, hey! At least you got a full guest list now!" He held up his fist for Batman to bump. "We good, Bats?" Batman said nothing. With a turn of his heel, he stepped out of the conference room and into the hall. Rather than being left hanging, Superboy fistbumped himself and rejoined the others to celebrate. Only Green Arrow watched Batman leave.

"Hey, so like, when do you go try out wedding cakes?" Kid Flash asked. "And can you take anybody with you?"

"Stop trying to get free cake," Arsenal snorted.

"What? I like cake!"

Superman chuckled, glancing to one side. He noticed, quite abruptly, that Robin had been still and silent during the whole ordeal. Again, that in and of itself was not strange. But there was a cloud over Robin's head that Superman simply couldn't ignore. Stepping aside from the hubbub of the room, he nudged Robin's shoulder. "Hey. You okay?"

Robin looked up, his brow drawn beneath his mask. "I'm fine."

"You don't seem like it."

"I don't see why that matters to you."

Superman frowned. "Hey, what's with the sharp tone, Damian? What's wrong?"

Robin glared out the window. Beyond the Tower, the Earth spun slowly against its starry backdrop. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with," he sniffed. "After all. I'm not your kid."

Superman's heart dipped, and his shoulders slumped. "Oh. Shoot. You did hear it."

"Yeah."

Superman glanced at the others and motioned for Wonder Woman to step aside. "We'll be right back." Wonder Woman nodded, and Superman walked Robin out into the hall. "Alright... I know that it sounded bad--"

"It's fine," Damian spat, stiff as ever. "You're not wrong. I'm not your child, so what does it matter?"

"I didn't mean what I said," Clark explained. "It was a moment of frustration."

"Moments of frustration are often opportunities for truth."

"Not in this case." When Damian didn't respond, Clark knelt down in front of him. "Damian. I'm sorry."

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm not." Clark held out his hand. "You're not my child by blood. That's not something either of us can change. In that sense, yes, I was telling the truth. But I have always considered you part of my family." Damian stayed quiet. Clark put a hand on his shoulder. "For the record, I think of you as my son just as much as I do Conner. Or how Bruce thinks of your brothers. You should know better than anyone what family really means."

Damian hesitated. "Do you really believe that?"

"I do."

Though the crinkle above his nose did not leave, Damian's body language relaxed. "You're not lying to me?" he said.

Clark regained his smile. "Superman doesn't lie." A moment longer, and Damian wrapped his arms tight around Clark's neck. Clark held him tight.

Across the tower, Bruce found himself in one of the western observation decks, which gave him the chance to gather his bearings. This whole mess was unravelling exactly how he imagined: in utter chaos. He had at least managed to set a few things straight, but even so, now there would be no end to the badgering from the rest of the League. But... if it made Clark happy...

The woosh of the hydraulic doors caught his attention, but he didn't turn around. He remained stiff at the window, staring out into the vacuous recess of space. 

"Thinking about jumping ship?" Oliver asked.

Bruce leaned on the railing with his elbows. "Depends. You here to push me?" Oliver chuckled softly. They watched the galaxy together for a time. Bruce could tell that Ollie was giving him the space to breathe. "You mad at me, Queen?"

"About which part?" Oliver asked. "That you tried to get hitched in secret or that you're about to have the most powerful husband in the universe?"

"Oh it doesn't matter," said Bruce. "If you're going to chew me out, just go ahead and do it."

Oliver threaded his fingers together in thought. "Nah. You beat yourself up plenty as it is." A satellite drifted past their window. "You and Kent. Heh."

"Don't start."

"You know, I'm a little surprised anyone is willing to put up with you for the rest of their life. But beyond that, I can't say I'm shocked." Bruce finally turned to him, and Oliver playfully smacked Bruce's shoulder. "Come on, Bruce. We both know you wouldn't find yourself a civilian spouse. You got too much to hide, too much on your big burly shoulders. Really, it makes sense that you'd pick somebody who's damn near indestructible. Gives you less to worry over."

"Don't fool yourself," said Bruce. "I think I've started to sprout a whole new section of gray hairs since we started dating."

"Yeah, but it almost feels inevitable."

"How so?"

"Well he was the only one who never cowered at that signature Batscowl of yours," said Ollie. "I remember the day we all met for the first time as members of the League. You were practically forced into a role of authority, so you were in a bad enough mood as it was. Barry said something, I don't remember what, and out came the Batglare. Poor guy nearly pissed himself. Just about everyone gave you a wide berth after that. Except for me, cause I already knew the prissy rich boy under that cowl. And... well. I think Kal might have been the only other one who didn't flinch when you walked by. Hell, even Diana was wary of you for a while. But not Clark. Never Clark."

Bruce couldn't help it. He smiled. "It used to piss me off," he admitted. "I'd been working Gotham for years at that point. I'd managed to wield the fear of others like a cudgel. One look, and I had full grown men tripping over themselves." He sighed, fondly. "I guess it tracks I ended up engaged to him."

"Hm." Oliver tapped the railing. "Wish we had cigars to celebrate."

"Ollie, we're in a highly pressurized space station hovering miles above Earth. Cigars are a horrible idea."

"Party pooper." Oliver glanced at Bruce. "He's not... gonna be weird around me, right?" Bruce met his gaze. "He knows we used to..."

"He knows," said Bruce.

"Oh. Right. Cool." Oliver drummed his fingers on the railing. "And he's... okay with that?"

"Oliver."

"Yeah?"

"He's Superman. He's not going to begrudge you for sleeping with me in college."

"Oh. Yeah. Totally. Absolutely." Another pause, and Oliver leaned forward on his arms. "Hey, he's not like... I mean..." Oliver held up two hands, as if to measure something rather phallic. 

Bruce answered with a sly smirk. "Ollie. He's Superman." Leaving Oliver with a royal flush, Bruce spun on his heel to return to the fray. Oliver shook himself from his daze and joined him as the doors opened wide.

"Yeah, but, does he know how to do that one thing--?"

"Yes. Yes, he does."

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Dick Grayson did not hang out often with supervillains. In this case, "supervillains" as in two semi-converted rogues with multiple psychological issues. That morning, he'd really only called them to help with bachelor party ideas. But somehow, someway, they ended up sitting at a three-top table for brunch, splitting a bucket of bottomless mimosa with Harleen Quinzel and Pamela Isley.

"And then get this!" Dick continued. "He says that the only reason I'm doing all this is because I'm butthurt that Damian is Bruce's new favorite!"

Harley gasped appropriately. "What an asshole!"

"I know!" Dick finished his mimosa and helped himself to a fresh glass. As was Brunch tradition, his drink was about three parts champagne to one part OJ. "Like, no, dickbag, I'm trying to give our dad a nice wedding! Fuck."

"You still haven't told us who he's marrying," Ivy pointed out. "I haven't heard anything from Selina, so I can't assume they're back together."

"Ooh, wait, wait! Let me guess." Harley put her hands on the table. "That one magic chick with the top hat."

Dick snorted. "No, he's not marrying Zatanna."

"Damn. Okay. Uh." Harley snapped her fingers. "Wonder Woman!"

"Honey, pretty sure Wonder Woman's a lesbian," said Ivy.

"No!" Harley argued. "She had that boyfriend, what was his name? Steve something?"

Ivy shrugged. "I'm sure it was a phase."

Dick shook his head. "You're never going to get it," he sang.

"Superman!" Harley suddenly guessed. Dick's eyes widened, and Harley pointed, victorious. "Ah-ha!" She paused. "Wait. WAIT."

"You're shitting me," said Ivy. A wild smile curled on her lips and she leaned forward. "Holy shit, Batman is actually marrying Superman."

"Hey, keep it down," said Dick. "Bruce wants it kept quiet, okay? He's a private person."

"Sure," said Ivy. "Which is why his oldest son is gossiping about him behind his back."

"I'm not gossiping!" Dick defended. "Besides, this is brunch. Brunch is sacred."

"I can't believe Bruce Wayne isn't straight," said Harley, stabbing her eggs. "I mean, Batman always just radiated macho-hetero energy."

Dick snorted. "That's just what the internet likes to think cause he's all dark and mysterious. But do you know what I caught him doing the other night?" Dick leaned in. "He was in his suit, sitting in the Cave, doing the crossword puzzle while he waited for Damian to get ready. With fucking reading glasses."

"Holy shit," Ivy grinned. "Batman is a nerd."

"He calls his car the Batmobile! Of course he's a nerd!" Dick took a huge gulp of mimosa and leaned back with a sigh. "I don't know. Maybe I am going too crazy with this whole wedding thing. But he's done a lot for me, y'know? He took me in, he raised me. He's done a lot for all of us. I want to just... I guess... show him how much he meant to me."

"Aww." Harley cupped her hands together. "That's so sweet."

"Thanks," said Dick. "I wish I knew why Jason was so resistant to all of it. He raised him just as much as he raised me. He can't still be mad about Joker, right?" Dick turned to Harley. "Right?"

"Mmm." Harley bobbed her head back and forth. "You really wanna know my opinion?"

"Harley," Ivy warned.

"Ives, it's fine, I haven't had that much to drink." She set her glass down and turned to Dick. "I mean, considering the PTSD he still deals with from, y'know, dying, he's likely still uncomfortable in a safe environment. Trauma survivors have a very difficult time shutting off the part of their brain that's telling them they're in trouble." Harley pointed to her own forehead. "See, when we're in a life-threatening situation, either all at once or over the course of however many years, your meat noggin releases a hormone called cortisol, which gets your heart pumping and gives you the sweats. But, once the threat is over, it's harder to put the genie back into the bottle. Our brains like to recognize patterns, especially if it means self preservation, and will connect perfectly safe scenarios with similar variables from the time where you got axed. Poor little Jaybird is probably still in a headspace where he's on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even if he doesn't realize it. So he's not allowing himself to be vulnerable, because vulnerability means risking more trauma. And considering his few years as the Red Hood, he's gone from one very different environment to another in a very short amount of time. I wouldn't be surprised if he develops some kind of borderline diagnosis as a way to cope with the psychological aftermath of, again, being fuckin' dead. So y'know. There's that." Harley sipped her champagne as Dick stared at her. She smiled. "Want me to tell you what's wrong with you, Mr. Anxiety Ridden People Pleaser?"

"Please don't," said Dick.

"Of course, this isn't an official assessment," Harley added. "Seeing as how I don't have him in front of me and I'm not allowed to get my licence back, it's all conjecture."

Ivy smiled, propping her chin in her hand. "I love it when you're smart."

Harley giggled. "Aww, thank you, baby."

Dick stared at the bubbles in his drink. "So what, I'm supposed to just let him walk all over me?"

"Of course not!" said Harley. "But you can start with a conversation."

"Ugh." Dick rubbed his tired eyes. "He's not really a conversation type of guy. You've met him."

"Remind me who Jason is again," said Ivy.

"The walking fridge in the red helmet," Harley concluded.

"Oh, right. Yeah, I can imagine he'd be a bit of a tough nut to crack."

Dick pulled out his phone and opened the chat log between he and Jason. The final messages were Dick asking Jason to come over to talk about wedding planning, and Jason begrudgingly agreeing. Dick thumbed upwards, through the many memes and inside jokes they shared. Hell, half of their texts were damn near indecipherable to the layman. And to think, he'd missed out on five whole years of time before this. Dick hesitated. He put his phone back into his pocket. "Maybe later," he muttered. 

"Hmmmm," Harley nodded. "Still conflict avoidant, I see."

Dick blinked. "Conflict avoidant...? I fucking fight people for a living."

"Not the same thing."

"Harley, don't push him," said Ivy. "He'll reach out when he's ready. Right, Dick?"

Dick sighed and topped off his mimosa. "Right," he said. "When I'm ready." He lifted his flute to his lips when something tingled on the back of his neck. Call it a sixth sense, instinct, what have you, but when Dick felt it, he hardly ever ignored it. He looked over his shoulder. The brunch spot sat at the corner of a recently gentrified area of Gotham, though only just. The crowds that passed by their seat on the patio barely looked their way. Dick let his eyes roam the hoards of faces, trying to find the one that set off his alarm bells. But so far... nothing.

"What's up?" Ivy asked.

Dick shook his head. "Dunno."

"Do you have gas?" Harley asked. "See, that's why I stayed away from the omelet. Cheese gives me the shits."

"Babe. We're eating."

"Oh, right, sorry."

Dick stood from the table. "I'll be back." The girls nodded, and Dick walked his way into the restaurant and out through the back door. If he had to put his finger on it, he'd bet money that he was being watched. Stepping out through the parking lot, he pulled up his phone and scrolled, hoping to look busy. Leaning against the building, he waited. A minute ticked by. Two. Dick's ears plucked sharply as he listened for footsteps, though it was hard to do against the white noise of the city. But eventually, he saw it. A car with tinted windows rolled in near the back of the lot and parked, facing away from where Dick stood. Dick subtly watched it from behind his sunglasses, hoping not to show his hand. After enough time had passed, he walked back into the restaurant and returned to the table with Harley and Ivy.

"Everything good?" said Ivy.

"Not quite." Dick sat down, casually as you please. He kept his back to the street. "Do me a favor," he said, taking another sip of his mimosa. "Keep an eye on the road behind me."

Ivy frowned. "What are we looking for?"

"A car. Out of state plates. Tinted windows, unassuming. It'll probably park up the street from here, but keeping the patio in its sight." Sure enough, a few minutes later, Harley subtly nodded to a black car, which was slowly making its way down the block for a parking space. Dick glanced at the plates. Same license.

"You being followed?" Harley asked.

"Could be," said Dick. He finished his drink. "I'll be right back."

"Want us to come with?" said Ivy.

"Nah. This won't take long." Dick put his hands in his pockets and left through the patio gate. He walked, casually, up the street with his phone in his hand. Smooth as he could, once he was within spitting distance of the car, he snapped a photo of the plates. The minute he did, there was a squeal of tires and the stink of rubber. Dick's head jerked up as the car peeled out into the street like a bat out of hell, and quickly lost itself in the hustle and bustle of downtown Gotham.

Dick sent the plates to Tim with the following message.

Homework assignment.
Run this for me?

Tim responded less than a minute later.

I'll have it in five minutes.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

As much as Alfred enjoyed the sounds of life within the Manor, sometimes it was nice to have the whole estate to himself. Especially when it wasn't the middle of the night, and Alfred could enjoy the peace and quiet while he dusted and tidied up. It seemed quite a Herculean task, keeping the whole of Wayne Manor. But prior to adopting the boys, Bruce was never one for hosting much, and even after, not much of the Manor was used very well outside the Cave. If the need ever did arise for the mansion to be cleaned swiftly, Alfred had a little black book of trusted cleaners that not even Bruce knew about. They'd come in clutch on more than one occasion. But today, with the master of the house absconded alongside his betrothed, their uninvited guest making herself scarce in the garden, and the two youngest off at school, Alfred was free to blast classical music while he hummed, making sure the library was as pristine as could be.

That's when the doorbell rang.

Alfred blinked, and checked his pocket watch. Jon and Damian weren't due back from Anders for at least an hour and a half. Bruce had no callers that Alfred knew about, and anyone who was family would simply walk right in. Setting down his duster, Alfred folded his apron as he walked, occasionally annoyed at the frequency with which the doorbell was rung.

"Coming, coming!" he called. He draped his apron over one arm and--once his tie was fixed--opened the front door. A woman stood at the threshold, dressed in flared bottomed slacks and a chic, business casual blazer. She smiled at Alfred, her dark eyes twinkling.

"Afternoon," she said. "Bruce Wayne live here?"

It took Alfred a whole minute to register the question. "I beg your pardon?"

"Is he in? I'd really love to have a chat." The young lady craned her neck, trying to see inside. Alfred stood firm.

"I'm afraid Master Bruce is out for the day," he said. "You're free to make an appointment if you--"

"Oh, I don't need an appointment."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, right, where are my manners?" She held out her hand. "Lois Lane, Daily Planet. Friend of Clark's."

Alfred cocked an eyebrow. "I see." He glanced at her hand, but didn't take it. "Yes, I seem to recall Master Clark mention you at one time or another."

Lois laughed. "Ooh, 'Master Clark.' Fancy."

"Might I ask your business?"

Lois shrugged. "Might I come inside?" she said, mimicking his cadence.

Alfred twitched, but stepped to one side. Lois wandered in, admiring the Manor from all angles. "Woof," she said. "All this and I still can't move out of that crumby single bedroom on the east side..."

"Would the lady care for a drink?" Alfred asked.

"God, you sure are somethin', huh?" Lois turned to Alfred, amused. "Where are you from, anyway?"

"London."

"That adds up."

"Would you care to wait for the masters while they're out, Miss Lane? I can fetch you a refreshment. Perhaps escort you to the parlor?"

"Well first thing's first. Metropolis is an awful long ways away. Think I could use the little girl's room?"

Alfred tried not to let his distaste show. "Down the hall and to the left."

"Thanks." She began to walk away.

"When you're done," Alfred called, "I shall have tea ready for you in the southern kitchen." Lois answered with a wave, and Alfred tsked in disapproval. "American women..." He shook his head.

Making his way back to the kitchen, he put on a kettle and prepared a pot. He also set up a tray of British biscuits, fresh fruit, and a leftover finger sandwich. As Alfred wasn't much of a texter, he picked up the specialty landline and dialed Bruce's cell from memory. It went to voicemail.

"Good afternoon, Master Bruce," said Alfred. "When you have a moment, it seems you have yet another visitor at home. Miss Lois Lane of the Daily Planet has popped in for tea, and it seems she'd like to speak with you. Do give us a call when you're on your way home. I'd like her out of the house as soon as possible." Alfred hung up just as the kettle boiled. Removing it from its stand, Alfred poured it into the pot and covered it with its lid. Picking up the tray with both hands, he turned, half expecting to see Lois standing behind him. However, he remained in an empty kitchen.

"Miss Lane?" he called. He was given no answer. With a frown, he set the tray aside and walked out. "Miss Lane? Did you get lost?" He was met with only silence. A horrible pit opened up in his stomach. He hurried down the hall, and as he rounded the corner, saw to his dismay that the bookcase leading to the Batcave elevator had been disturbed. 

"Oh... fuck."

Chapter Text

The shuttle back to Earth from the Watchtower was quiet, if only to allow Bruce and Clark to relax after being so socially exhausted. Damian had left hours ago, as he needed to return planetside for school, and Conner wandered off with Tim the minute he got the chance. With how infrequent it was to have just about every team represented at the Tower, Bruce decided to take the opportunity to redirect to discussions over protocol, battle tactics and upgraded gear. But inevitably, every conversation eventually led back to wedding talk. Even Clark, social butterfly that he was, was starting to get overstimulated by it all. By the time they piled into their shuttle to return to Gotham, both men felt like they'd been wrung out like used rags.

"Boy." Clark rubbed the back of his neck. "That was a little much, wasn't it?"

"A quiet elopement doesn't sound so bad anymore, does it?"

"No use crying over spilled milk." Clark leaned back in his seat. Bruce was usually the one to pilot these things, mainly due to the fact that Clark had never had much practice. Why bother learning when you could fly yourself? "Still. I suppose it's nice to get it all out in the open." He glanced at Bruce, who kept his eyes on the stars. Clark tilted his head forward. "It is nice. Isn't it?"

"Jury's still out."

"Oh come on, Bruce." Clark leaned over his armrest. "Aren't you at least a little bit glad that we can be transparent about it now?"

Bruce sighed, and slumped his shoulders. "I don't object to the result," he finally admitted. "It's the execution that bothers me. We had no control over it. The rug was pulled out from under us without so much as a warning."

Clark frowned sadly. "It was always a risk."

"Yes," said Bruce. "But you can calculate for risks. Plan around them. This happened completely out of our control."

Clark tapped his heel. "I see you're not blaming Conner..."

"Oh don't mistake me. I am absolutely blaming your son."

"Come on, don't be like that."

"He blabbed sensitive information over an unsecure comm line."

Clark propped his chin in his hand. "He's young. Technically, he's younger than all of us. Cut him some slack." When Bruce didn't answer, Clark nudged his knee. "Come on, where's the Batdad?"

"The what?"

"The... You know." He waved his hands. "It's what the internet calls you." Bruce slowly turned to look at Clark with blank, humorless eyes. "Cause you have... so many Robins..." Clark shook his head. "Point being, he's a kid still. I remember how reckless I was at that age. Especially when I started developing my powers."

"Well, we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Impulses like that can have witnesses. Consequences."

"I know." Clark went back to watching the atmosphere of Earth crawl closer and closer to their shuttle. "I just hope you're not upset."

Bruce took a moment to find the words. "I'm... tired. I don't like losing control of my life like this. Having things dictated by other people." He paused. "It's more than just security," he admitted. "When I was a kid, after my parents died, I tried to control everything. If it rained on a day it was supposed to be sunny, it ruined me. I was obsessed with making sure I knew every detail of every aspect of my life. It... took a while to shake. And even still, not entirely."

Clark put his hands in his lap. "I see." He let his head rest on the back of his chair. "That makes sense. Given what you went through." Reaching out, Clark took Bruce's hand from the steering wheel and held it softly. "But the world isn't going to end if things don't go to plan, Bruce. Even with the worst setbacks, we'll find a way around them. Or at least you will." Clark ran his thumb across Bruce's knuckles. "You're the world's smartest detective. There isn't anything life can throw at you that you can't deflect. Is there, my love?"

Though it was difficult to see under the cowl, Clark could detect the faintest kisses of pink on his high cheekbones. "Knock that off." Still, he didn't take his hand away. As they entered into Earth's orbit, Bruce made a seamless transition from the galaxy to the stratosphere, and further still. Their shuttle rumbled for miles before the clouds parted, and Gotham rose on the horizon.

With Wayne Manor coming closer, Bruce dove the shuttle into the sea, slowing them down enough to dock in the underwater air pocket at the base of the Batcave. Once the shuttle joined the other two spares, Bruce and Clark got out to stretch their legs. Clark floated to Bruce's side and took him gently by the waist.

"Hey." He tapped their noses together. "I'm proud of you."

The red under Bruce's mask got brighter. "I told you to knock it off." Clark only smiled wider. Bruce removed his cowl as he called down the elevator. As they waited, Bruce felt his phone buzz now that they were back in cell reception range. He realized that Alfred had left him a voicemail. He held it to his ear and hit play just as the elevator doors opened.

Clark stepped inside, but paused when he realized Bruce remained in place. "Bruce...?" Stepping in next to him, Bruce rewound the message, hit the speakerphone, and pressed the play button. 

"Good afternoon, Master Bruce. When you have a moment, it seems you have yet another visitor at home. Miss Lois Lane of the Daily Planet has popped in for tea, and it seems she'd like to speak with you. Do give us a call when you're on your way home. I'd like her out of the house as soon as possible." 

Bruce and Clark exchanged harried glances.

The doors opened on the main floor, revealing Alfred, his sleeves rolled up, lounging on a chair with a double barrel shotgun in his lap. "Ah. Master Bruce. Master Clark." Alfred stood, resting the shotgun at his side. "Everything went well I hope?"

Clark's eyes were wide. "Alfred. Where is Lois and why do you have a gun?"

Alfred eyed Clark up and down. "The holding cell," he said. "And, may I suggest a change in clothes? If you have any hope of still retaining your secrets."

Clark was back in his civvies in a flash, with Bruce not that far behind. One did not need metahuman powers to learn the ways of the theater quickchange. Once they had returned to their secret identities, they followed Alfred down a cavern and into a small air pocket, which contained a single, glass-walled cell embedded into the rock itself. Lois Lane lounged on her cell cot, tapping her finger with impatience.

"Lois!" Clark rushed to the glass in shock. "What in the world--?"

Lois didn't move, and flashed Clark a smile. "Evening, Smallville," she said. "Hope I didn't interrupt date night."

"What are you even doing here? Goodness gracious, do you have any idea how dangerous this place is? There's pitfalls for literal miles! How did you even end up down here?"

Lois stood and approached the glass. Casually folding her arms, she leaned to one side. "I had a hunch, I followed my nose. That's all."

Bruce cleared his throat. "While you're of course a welcome guest, Miss Lane, I would have hoped that implied not to sneak around my property."

Lois actually laughed. "You know, you're the biggest surprise in all this, Mr. Wayne." Lois paced in her cell. "I mean, here I was, hoping to turn over Clark's fiance's house to find evidence that he was actually Superman in disguise, and what do I find? A whole Batcave!" She turned to Bruce expectantly. "So? What are those tights really made of, Batman?"

While Bruce remained stoic, Clark put on a nervous smile. "Superman? Batman? Lois, you really have lost it." He chuckled. "Though I guess I should be flattered."

"Don't play dumb, Kent," said Lois. She put one hand on her hip. "Vanishing whenever there's a natural disaster? Never in the same place at the same time as Superman? Conveniently bylining every single post-calamity interview? Plus, you don't even wear a mask. As for you." Lois turned to Bruce. "I guess it tracks. Batman's always showing up with the weirdest gadgets. Someone has to pay for them."

"You've got it all wrong," said Clark. "Bruce is a fanatic." Lois cocked an eyebrow. "I mean seriously. He's almost got a crush on the guy. It makes me a little jealous sometimes."

"A fanatic," Lois repeated. "With his own Batman themed arsenal of gadgets and cars?"

"All replicas," Clark replied.

"You can't be serious."

Bruce shrugged. "When you have more money than God, there's plenty to spend it on."

"Uh-huh."

Clark rested his hand on the glass. "Lois, just trust me on this. I understand how you might have come to that conclusion, but we're just as normal as you." Clark glanced at Bruce. "I'm just as normal as you," he corrected. Lois eyed him suspiciously, and Clark but on his most charming smile. "I mean, we've been friends and coworkers for how long? Don't you think that if I was Superman you would have figured it out by now? You're the Lois Lane, Pulitzer winner and world renowned journalist. You would have sniffed me out ages ago." The room was silent, save for the dripping of the Cave walls. But eventually, Lois's hardened expression faltered, and she seemed to embrace defeat.

"Shit. You're right." She rubbed her forehead. "Boy, I haven't exactly made the best impression on your new hubby, have I?" She flashed Bruce a smile. "Sorry about this."

Bruce hesitated before answering. "It's understandable. Though it is one of the reasons I was so cautious about our announcement." He eyed Clark, who gave him a meek smile.

"I'm never gonna live this down, am I?"

"Not in a million years."

Lois sighed and rubbed her aching neck. "Alright. Well. Is my pennatince staying in this box forever or...?"

"Alfred," said Bruce. "Please escort Miss Lane back to the Manor."

"Yes, sir." Alfred, laying his shotgun on one shoulder, walked to the number pad and keyed in the passcode. The glass door opened, and Lois stepped out. Alfred addressed her directly. "Please follow me, Miss Lane. The lift is just over--"

In a move too fast to follow, Lois swiped the shotgun from Alfred's arm and pointed it directly at his chest. Alfred was too stunned to move, while Clark and Bruce flew into a panic.

"Lois!" Clark cried.

Lois kept her eyes on Alfred. "I know who you are, Kent. And I'm going to prove it. One way or another." Her finger rested on the trigger.

"Miss Lane!" Bruce spat. "Put the gun down, now!"

"Or what, Batman? You'll throw me into Arkham? Love to see you try."

"Lois--" Clark moved forward, but Lois raised the shotgun to point between Alfred's eyes. Clark froze. Lois flashed him a smile.

"Faster than a speeding bullet," she said. "Shall we test that?"

"Lois!"

"Master Clark, wait!"

The gunshot cracked through the Cave, making the walls rumble and echo. But Alfred remained standing. Pale as a sheet, he stared at the back of Clark's hand, which had cupped the end of the shotgun so tightly, the metal had crinkled like tinfoil. Smoke smoldered from his fingers. Clark's brows were drawn in disappointment and anger. As he released the gun, Lois's eyes widened.

"I knew it," she breathed.

"Do you have any idea what you almost did?" Clark took the shotgun from her hands and held it far away from her reach. "You've always been a tenacious reporter, Lois, but this is unconscionable. I can't believe you would endanger a man's life just to satisfy a hunch." Rather than shrinking back, however, Lois's smile widened with glee. Confused, Clark turned to Alfred, who sighed in defeat.

"I had loaded the shotgun with blanks," he admitted. "Considering that Miss Lane was a civilian, I reasoned it would be safer just to have the weapon for show."

"I know what a real shotgun shell looks like," said Lois smoothly. "I've been on the criminal beat for ten years, remember?"

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "I guess we should ask if you'd like to stay for dinner."

"I'd be delighted." Lois brushed off her pants and took Alfred's arm. "Come on, handsome. Let's you and me have a chat." Alfred walked her to the elevator, leaving Clark and Bruce alone with Alfred's now destroyed firearm. Clark tossed it to the ground.

"I thought you hated guns," he pointed out.

"It's not mine," said Bruce. "It's Alfred's."

"Still..." Clark turned to Bruce, stopping when he saw the sharpness in his lover's eye. Clark hesitated. "You're mad, aren't you?"

"Extremely."

Clark rubbed his arm. "I didn't realize she suspected anything," he said.

"Because you don't pay attention."

"Hey, that's not fair."

"You were so sloppy that you all but invited your ex-girlfriend reporter to come snoop around the house to prove you're Superman. I'd say that's more than a fair assessment." Clark flinched, and though the urge to apologize was immediate, Bruce refrained. "It's been a long day, and I need a hot shower." He brushed past Clark and headed to the elevator. Clark didn't follow, and Bruce didn't wait.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

"Please tell me you have something good, Tim."

"I have something. 'Good' is a strong word for it."

Dick leaned back on his couch, arms stretched wide across the top. Kori had come over for the evening, as evidenced by the shower steam escaping the bathroom. It was supposed to be an excuse for Dick to relax, but he'd been on edge ever since sending Tim the snap of his mystery car's plates. Currently, he and Tim were talking over his laptop. Tim had returned to Titan's Tower, suited up but unmasked while he worked on Dick's inquery.

"What is it then?" Dick asked. "If it isn't good."

"A rental." Tim sent over a photocopy of the driver's information. "With a fake ID."

Dick thumbed through the image, trying to find any clue as to his next move. None were readily apparent. "So some guy is walking around with a fake Central City driver's licence to rent a shitty car and follow me to brunch? Why?"

"It could be anything," said Tim. "Maybe you've got a secret admirer." 

Dick snorted. "They have pretty heavy competition." He eyed the bathroom door as the shower shut off. Dick could hear Kori hum softly as she toweled dry.

"Look, I'll keep an eye on things on my end. Maybe hack into a few Blüdhaven and Gotham red light cams to see if I can track him."

"Thanks, Tim. Appreciate it."

"Don't thank me, yet." Tim paused as Dick looked keenly at the driver's photo. There was nothing remarkable about him; middle aged, thinning hair, gray eyes. "You know," Tim continued, "while I'm doing all that, you could always see if he's got some kind of record."

"Maybe," said Dick absently.

"You think Jason might recognize him?"

Dick's eyebrow twitched. "Pass."

"Don't tell me you two still haven't made up?"

"So what if we haven't? It's not like I need Jason. He's not my only connection to the criminal underground, you know."

"Have you two even talked?"

"Butt out, man."

"Look, every time one of you assholes gets into a fight with the other, it's up to either me or Bruce to clean it up. And given that B's got his hands full right now, that leaves me."

"Jesus, will you relax?" said Dick. "Besides, who even said we need you to 'clean up,' whatever that means? Jason's just being an asshole like usual, and once he apologizes, we'll move on."

"Mm."

"Don't you give me that."

"Mm." Tim shook his head. "Whatever. I just don't want to get any 3am calls while you're drunk and sobbing on the floor."

Dick scoffed. "Yeah, yeah." He tapped his laptop. "I'm not a people pleaser, by the way."

Tim looked up, caught off guard. "Huh?"

"I'm not. You know. For the record."

"Uh... m'kay."

"And I don't have anxiety."

"I never said you did? Are you doing alright?"

The bathroom door opened, and Kori--wrapped in a bathrobe with a towel in her hair--waltzed into view with a song on her lips. Dick turned back to the screen. "Thanks again for the help, Tim. I'll be seeing you."

"Sure."

Dick closed the laptop and watched as Kori let out her hair. Her vibrant, crimson curls bounced as she scrunched the remaining water with the towel. For a moment, Dick let the tension in his chest relax as he admired his partner from afar. Kori seemed to notice, and glanced up beneath her bangs. She smiled. 

"Yes?" came her honeyed voice.

Dick scooted an inch to one side and pat the cushion on the sofa. "C'mere."

Kori's smile widened. Shaking out her hair, she joined Dick on the sofa, her massive thighs peeking out beneath the short hem of her robe. Dick smoothed his hand along her leg. He leaned in, and they shared a kiss. Dick could still smell the soap on her skin. When they broke apart, neither moved far away. "Hi," breathed Dick.

"Hello."

"How was the shower?"

"Lonely." Kori rested her hand on Dick's neck, her thumb running up and down his tendon. "You should have joined me."

"Sorry." Dick lifted her hand and kissed her wrist. "Just got a lot on my plate at the moment."

"I'm aware," said Kori. She inched closer, sitting on her knees. "But I am here now. You should relax." They kissed again, and Dick's free hand went to cup Kori's hips. Eventually, Kori found herself on Dick's thighs, her legs spread to hold him at the waist. They broke with a sigh, and Dick nibbled at Kori's neck. Kori giggled, feeling her robe start to slide. "Did Tim get you adequate information on the strange vehicle?"

"Not really. But we're still looking into it." Dick ran his hands up Kori's back.

"You are fortunate to have siblings that care for you," Kori sighed, her head tilting to the left. "And are capable. I'm sure it will take Timothy very little time to get you the information you need."

"Mm-hm." Dick deepened his kisses down to her clavicle. The robe was practically dripping off of Kori's body, and Dick was starting to help it along.

"And of course there is the rest of your family, too," Kori continued. "Your father, your little brother Damian. Oh, and Jason. Do you suppose he might be able to--?"

"Kori?"

"Hm?"

"Please stop talking about my brothers."

"Oh. Is something wrong, Dick?" Dick answered by diving his face into Kori's chest, and lathering her in kisses. Kori watched him, her fingers in his hair. "You have been so tense lately. Is there perhaps something you might want to discuss? Does it have to do with--" Kori gasped, a flush across her golden orange cheeks. "Oh--"

Dick smiled, his hand deep between her legs. "Talking is for later," he cooed. "Right now, I'd rather that pretty mouth do something else..." Before Kori could answer, Dick wrapped his arms around her and tackled them into the sofa. There they lost themselves in a symphony of gasps and giggles.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

"Bye, Jon!"

"See ya, Jon!"

"See you tomorrow!"

Jon waved at the gaggle of kids that stayed behind as the final bell rang. Jon's second day at Anders was quite a bit kinder than the first, mostly due to the whole cafeteria baring witness to Jon's defense of Fatima from Jenny Cook. That, coupled with his natural charm, put him on the fast track to friends in a way Damian could never even attempt. It was astounding how easily Jon could maneuver through crowds of his peers. Damian used to think that he was never approached by his classmates because he was the new kid. He was starting to realize that was never the case.

It was a very tough pill to swallow.

They walked through the halls to the front of the school, where their backup driver was waiting for them with the back door open. Damian crawled in first, giving Jon a few more seconds to wave at passing students before tumbling in after. "You know, this place isn't half bad," said Jon, clicking into his seatbelt. "Even rich people schools are still just schools. Y'know?" He turned his smile to Damian, who remained as still as the grave. Rather than push, Jon pulled out the snack bar he'd gotten from one of the vending machines. It was an all organic granola and dark chocolate bar with sea salt on top. Jon picked it because it was the closest thing the school had to candy. He took a bite and chewed hard. He grimaced.

"Here." He offered it to Damian. "You want a bite?"

Damian looked up. "You don't seem to be enjoying it," he pointed out.

Jon crunched through his bite and tried to smile. "No! It's..." He shut one eye with a wrinkle of his nose. "...good?"

Damian sighed. He held out his hand. "I'll finish it." Jon gave him the snack bar, and Damian took a bite. "It's not that bad," he surmised. "Why don't you like it?"

"It's dry," said Jon. "It feels like I'm eating old people cereal."

"What the hell is old people cereal?"

"You know. Like. Like bran-flakes or whatever. Oatmeal."

Damian took another bite and looked out the window. "If the food at Anders is insufficient for you, I'm sure my father would gladly offer to have your lunches packed."

"Oh, I don't wanna bother your dad," said Jon, waving it off. "The food isn't bad. It's just... I dunno, it's fancy. Back home, we'd have sloppy joes or pasta or something for lunch. It'll just take some getting used to. No need to trouble anybody."

Damian went still. It was a perfectly acceptable, kind and thoughtful answer. And it grated Damian's nerves. What was with this guy? Why was he so perfect? Two days at school and he was already making friends by the boatload. Not to mention he'd practically annexed Clark as his surrogate father while he was visiting their dimension. And now, when offered something as innocuous as an option to eat food more to his tastes, Jon would rather acclimate than inconvenience anyone, even remotely. As the thoughts dragged Damian deeper into his mind, he let his hands lay limp on his thighs. A slow, creeping melancholy took hold from within, to the point that he didn't hear Jon until he was practically shaking him by the shoulder.

"Damian! Yo!"

Damian blinked and turned to Jon. He frowned. "What?"

"Where'd you go, buddy?"

Embarrassed, Damian yanked his shoulder from Jon's grasp. "I'm not your 'buddy.'"

"You went really quiet there for a minute. Is everything okay?"

"I'm fine." Damian chomped extra hard on the snack bar.

"Are you sure?" Jon asked. "Cause if you need to talk... Well, mom says I'm not a great listener, but I'm getting better at it." Damian once more went silent as a recent memory forced its way to the surface.

"Your kids. They are your kids!"

"Here." Damian shoved the rest of the snack bar into Jon's hand. "I don't want it anymore."

"Oh. Okay." 

They road the rest of the way to the Manor in silence.

They arrived at quarter to the hour, which meant Alfred was probably already cooking dinner. Walking in through the foyer, they were met with the smell of a hearty squash soup and fresh bread. "Boy, that smells good," Jon sighed.

"Father!" Damian called, ignoring Jon's pining for Alfred's cooking. "We're home!"

"Up here." Damian and Jon looked up to see Bruce, dressed for a comfortable evening. "Dinner's about to be plated in the east dining room. Go wash up."

"Man, I'll never get used to how many rooms this place has," said Jon, following Damian to the first floor restroom. "I mean how many kitchens and dining rooms do you need?"

"This really isn't that impressive," Damian grumbled. They began to turn the corner. "Back home, you could fit three Wayne Manors into my grandfather's palace--" Damian stopped. The bathroom door had opened just in time for he and Jon to see a woman step into sight. Damian recognized her as the reporter, Lois Lane.

Jon gasped, making Lois jump. "Mom!"

Lois turned to the two boys with a baffled expression. "I'm sorry?"

"I--Uh--" Jon glanced at Damian with wide eyes. Damian cocked an amused brow. "Mom... Momtana. It's a... pun..." Damian squinted at Jon incredulously.

"Okay..." said Lois slowly. She turned her attention to Damian. "I think I remember you. Damian Wayne, right? Bruce's youngest."

Damian frowned. "Why are you in my house?"

"Hm. Direct. I can appreciate that. But no need for suspicion. I was invited to stay for dinner."

"Why?"

"Because I'm just good company, I guess."

"Thought I heard you come in." Clark's voice echoed from down the hall, and all three turned as he approached. Clark stopped when he connected the dots between Jon's nervous face and Lois's bemused one. "Uh. Lois, have you met Jon? He's my, um... nephew."

"Yeah!" Jon said, way too quick. "Yeah, I'm da--er, I'm Uncle Clark's nephew from out in Smallville!"

"Smallville, huh?" Lois put a hand on her hip and turned to Clark. "Not Krypton?"

Clark's smile strained. "Lois, please..."

"Wait." Damian's eyes hardened. "Does she...?" He pointed between them.

"Afraid so," Lois smiled.

Clark slumped, defeated. "It's my fault. And boy is your dad steamed at me, so do me a favor and don't rub it in my face?"

Lois paused. "Wait a second." She looked at Damian fully. "Don't tell me..." Her jaw dropped and she whipped to Clark. "Are you kidding? How old is he, nine?!"

"I'm eleven," Damian snapped. "And kidding about what?"

"It's complicated," Clark explained.

"Taxes are complicated," said Lois. "Forcing children to fight crime is most definitely not." Lois turned to Damian. "Hey kid, don't tell me, but you're Robin, aren't you?" Damian scowled, and Lois shook her head. "Oh my God." She rounded on Clark. "And you're okay with this? Clark! This is child endangerment at best!"

"Lois, I'm telling you, it's not that cut and dry."

"Jesus, am I gonna have to call CPS on Bruce Wayne? And now all of the sudden there's a second kid living here--" She stopped and turned to Jon. "You're not gearing up for Robin Number Two, are you, kid?"

"No," said Jon. "I'm not even supposed to be here."

"Oh well that makes me feel so much better."

"Lois, please."

"I'm not being 'forced,'" Damian piped up. "I was born to a cult of assassins, and was sent to kill him when father took me in. I assure you, if I wasn't fighting crime, my life would be much, much darker."

Lois's jaw was slack. Clark put a hand on her shoulder. "Like I said. Complicated." A soft bell rang out from the eastern dining room. They all funnelled in to see Bruce already seated at the head of the table. Clark went to go take his normal seat, but when he pulled it out, he stopped to notice that Bruce hadn't so much as glanced his way. Clark shrank in on himself and sat quietly in his chair.

When the family was seated and the soup was served, Bruce folded his hands on the table. "So," he began, directed at Lois. "I'm going to need to lay down some non-negotiable rules. Obviously, you are going to be held to secrecy regarding the identities of Clark and I. As well as any others you might unveil."

"She's already pieced together that I'm Robin," said Damian casually.

"Has she?"

Lois shrugged, spooning her soup. "He's the same height. Not a huge leap." She paused, realizing that Jon was staring at her intently. She tilted her head towards Clark, who sat at her left. "Your nephew is giving me the creeps, Clark," she muttered. Clark followed her gaze to Jon, who hadn't been able to take his eyes off her.

Clark cleared his throat. "Jon?" Jon looked up. "It's not nice to stare."

Jon flushed. "Ugh. Right. Sorry." He slurped his soup.

"Rule two," Bruce continued. "Along with secrecy, we ask that you use discretion if you call for emergencies. We can't be called to open pickle jars or settle miscellaneous disputes." 

Lois propped her chin in her hand. "Anything else?"

"I have a stipulation." All heads turned to Talia, who stood at the doorway, smoking from a long cigarette holder. "Wipe that smirk off your face."

Lois leaned back in her chair. "And you are?"

Bruce took a sip of his wine. "This is Damian's mother Talia. She's staying with us for the time being."

Lois glanced at Damian. "The same mother who raised your child in a cult of assassins?"

Talia laughed viciously, the end of her cigarette holder bouncing against her ruby red lips. "Now where did you hear something like that, Miss Lane?"

"From your son," Lois clarified.

"I see. I guess everything is out in the open, isn't it?" Talia took a drag from her cigarette. "Now that you came what you were looking for, will you be on your way after dessert? Or must we suffer you longer?"

Clark glanced at Bruce, who remained silent. His normal instinct of curbing Talia when she got out of line was not present, and so Clark spoke up. "Lois is a guest, Talia," he said. "Same as you." He glanced at the empty chair at the end of the table. "You're welcome to join us for supper."

"Talia..." Lois mumbled, her brow creased in thought. "Talia. Talia." Suddenly, she stood. "Talia al Ghul? As in Ra's al Ghul? The man who destabilized all of the middle east within the past fifty years?!"

Talia cocked an eyebrow. "You know about my father's work?"

"Yeah, I won a Pulitzer for it," Lois snapped. She snapped to Bruce. "Why in God's name is she here?" 

"She's Damian's mother," Bruce said plainly. "As Clark said. She's a guest."

"Boy you weren't joking, were you, kid?" Lois turned to Damian. "If your old man hadn't stepped in, you'd have a real hard road ahead of you."

"Don't comment on my son," Talia hissed. "Nor our family. You don't know the first thing about us."

"I know about the political upheaval orchestrated by your father over the course of decades, that's for sure. Military coups, regime takeovers, cloak and dagger politics, all of it had the fingerprints of the ever elusive Ra's al Ghul. The Demon."

"My father is a great man," Talia shot back. "Greater than someone like you might even be able to comprehend."

"Great at being a parasite," said Lois.

"Lois," said Clark quietly. He glanced at Damian, who was staring at his plate, unblinking.

"Ugh, I'm sorry," Lois continued, "but I won't sit here and swallow some cult propaganda. Ra's al Ghul is an enemy to the free world."

"The free world is a myth," said Talia smoothly. "You think you're free because you're allowed to choose between the same six companies for everything? Under my father's rule, there is order. Purpose and peace."

"Peace!" Lois barked. "That's a laugh."

"I would never expect someone like you to understand." Talia's eyes went to Damian, who hadn't moved an inch. "But Damian does. His blood successor."

"This conversation is over," Bruce announced. "I've already told you, Talia, Damian is staying exactly where he is."

"This lifestyle is diluting him," Talia argued. "Washing away everything that ever made him exceptional. Until he is nothing more but another boy in a Robin costume."

"So you would much rather he be a pawn in your father's games?" Bruce snapped. "Destined to follow orders like a good soldier? No thoughts, no opinions, no mind of his own? You might be lost to the sway of the League, Talia, but my son will not."

"Your son," Talia seethed. "Your son. He is our son."

"You abandoned him," Bruce countered.

"And now I have returned! You may consider him abandoned no longer."

"Guys." Clark held up his hands, hoping to cool the temperature of the room. Turning to his fiance, Clark took Bruce's hand. "Bruce, let's take a breath."

Bruce yanked his hand away from Clark's. "Stay out of this," he growled.

"No, please!" said Talia. "By all means, let your groom weigh in on how you are failing our son!"

"I am giving him a chance to live!"

"You're suffocating him! Look at him! He doesn't belong here! He doesn't belong in that awful school, he doesn't belong with you! You and your alien whore!"

Bruce jumped to his feet, hands flat on the table. "Out!" he thundered. "Out of my sight!" Talia took one last agitated puff of her cigarette, letting the ashes fall to the pristinely waxed floor. Turning on her heel, she stormed away, leaving the room in ear-splitting silence. Bruce sat back down, sneering at his now cold bowl of soup.

Lois took her seat as well. "Well... that was..."

"You too." Bruce's words were curt and direct. His eyes snapped to Lois's, brows drawn in a rage. "I don't care where you go, but you've worn out your welcome. Out."

Lois turned to Clark for help. Though it was clear the guilt was still very much overwhelming, Clark spoke up. "Bruce." His voice was warm and kind. Bruce flinched at it. "If you're going to be mad at someone, be mad at me."

"She's a grown woman who made the conscious decision to betray your trust. And, by extension, mine." Bruce glared at Clark. "If you're going to defend her, you might as well hitch a ride back to Metropolis." Clark's mouth hung open. With nothing more to say, Bruce tossed his napkin to the table, and stormed his way to the Batcave. "Damian!" he barked. "Patrol!" In quiet obedience, Damian followed him close behind. Clark watched, crestfallen, as his fiance and son vanished behind the swinging door. 

Chapter Text

Batman hadn't said a word all night. Leaping from rooftop to rooftop, he didn't so much as grunt when landing, hyperfocused on the job at hand. He didn't even bother to wait for Robin in between long jumps. Fortunately, the Boy Wonder was capable enough to keep pace with his father, but even so, there was almost a sense that Batman was hoping to lose his crime fighting partner for the night. As for Robin, he did his best to remain a silent constant at Batman's side, diligent if only to avoid angry lectures should he fall behind. Eventually, they came to a stop. Perched on the edge of Gotham Medical, they watched as ambulances drove in and out of the ER like ants on a hill. Robin glanced at Batman. Batman didn't meet his gaze.

"Perhaps we aren't as needed tonight," he suggested. Batman did not reply before leaping from the building to continue his course. Robin grappled swiftly to keep up.

Landing on a nearby office building, their footfalls were deft, the billowing of their capes the only real sound that alluded to their presence. Building after building, they glided through the skies of Gotham, scanning the streets below for trouble. Eventually, they descended to the low roof of an autoshop. Inside, Robin could hear the heavy bass of a boom box, and he looked through the sun window. He peered through cigarette smoke to see a group of grizzled men playing cards. So far, there was hardly anything nefarious of note.

"Should we move on?" Robin turned to Batman, who crouched low on the edge of the building. Waiting for something. Robin approached him. "Batman..."

"Quiet."

They sat and waited in silence. After an hour, a van rolled its way into the garage. Batman fluttered back to the skylight, and he and Robin peered in to see the back of the vehicle being unpacked by the gamblers. For a moment, it was difficult to tell what it was they were unpacking. But then, one of the men set down a wooden crate front and center of the vigilantes' sightline. He opened up the flat top to reveal an AK47, M16, and multiple magazines. An arms deal.

"Stay here." With that single command, Batman ran off the side of the building and into the shadows. Robin braced himself, watching as the arms dealers below celebrated their new stock. Suddenly, the lights cut out, causing the dealers to erupt into chaos. Lit by the foggy moon, Robin could make out the edges of Batman's cowl as he tore through the darkness, leaving the dealers incapacitated. 

Knocking open the window, Robin leapt feet first onto the back of a retreating arms dealer. His sword remained sheathed, focusing instead on non-lethal strikes that incapacitated rather than maimed or murdered. It wasn't long before guns started blasting, but the Dynamic Duo had the night on their side. Dodging fire was painfully easy, and the flashes of light disoriented the dealers long enough for Robin to take them down. However, it took only a moment's pause for Robin to feel an arm around his neck.

Robin's legs flailed as the arms dealer squeezed. More thugs came from the shadows to subdue him, but Robin batted them off with precise kicks. That was, however, until the pressure from his captor's arm started to cut off his airway. Robin gasped, clawing against the man's arm with every ounce of strength he possessed. Around him, the already dark room was tilting. He was losing consciousness fast.

Wham! Robin lurched as his captor was whacked hard across the temple. Robin staggered to his feet as Batman grabbed the thug with both hands and proceeded to beat him within an inch of his life. What few remaining stragglers tried to escape the garage, but one toss of Robin's steel bolas, and the dealers were hogtied at the ankles and flat on their faces. Robin straightened and turned to Batman, who hadn't let up on the arms dealer for a moment. Blood splashed against his cowl, leaving deep, dark brush strokes of human misery.

"Batman." Robin went to Batman's side. "Batman, he's had enough." Batman ignored him, his fist finding a rhythm pounding into the poor man's pulverized face. Robin could hear the wheezing of the arms dealer as he struggled to breathe through shattered teeth. Robin flew into a panic. "Batman, stop. Batman!" As Batman raised his fist to end it all, Robin grabbed it with both hands, arresting it in mid-air.  "Father, enough!" 

Batman's head snapped towards Robin. For a moment, Robin was sure he would turn his violence against him as retaliation. But the strike never came. Instead, Batman released his victim and grappled himself up through the broken skylight. Robin followed suit. Once above the garage, they grappled their way into the night. Once they were far enough away, Damian spoke plainly.

"You almost killed that man," he said.

"I told you to stay put," Bruce growled, keeping his back turned to his son.

"For the whole of it? Father--"

"How many times do I have to tell you to follow orders?" Bruce spun sharply, his eyes piercing through the lenses in his cowl. "And how many times have you flown in the face of direct instruction, Damian? I tell you to stay in one place, you stay. Do I make myself clear?"

"You're the one who preaches against lethal force," Damian argued.

"It wouldn't have turned lethal if you would have followed my word--"

"So I was just supposed to sit there while you worked alone!? Is that what this partnership has come to, father?!"

"Father. That's right. I'm your father. And if you are so inclined to disobey a direct order, maybe you should just head home."

"You can't keep doing that!" Damian's voice grew desperate. "You can't keep pushing people away just because you're upset!"

"Damian..."

"I know what happened today angered you. But you taught me that anger festers unless you release it! No matter how you're feeling, you can't run away from it! You need to face it!"

"Damian--"

"You're angry with Clark, with Miss Lane, with my mother! But murdering criminals of Gotham will not free you from this--"

"DAMIAN, ENOUGH!"

The sound of crumbling brick echoed as Bruce slammed his fist hard into a nearby, old fashioned chimney. Damian snapped to attention, his little body trembling as Bruce snarled in his direction. "You have disrespected me for the last time. Do you understand me?" Damian remained silent. "I said do you understand!?"

"Yes," Damian breathed quietly.

"Good." Bruce dislodged his fist from the brick. "Because I'm not going to be lectured by a child. And the next time you disobey my orders, you will be benched for the rest of the week. Do you understand?"

Damian shrank in on himself, his tiny fists balled up at his sides. His miniscule "Yes, sir," was barely audible against the wind.

Bruce breathed deeply as he attempted to calm down. The lick of cold wind was enough to bring him back to Earth, and only then did realization dawn over him. The tension left his body as a cold pit opened up in his stomach. Gently, he reached out. "Damian--" Damian flinched away from Bruce's touch. Bruce let his hand fall. A knot formed tight in his throat. "I..." His apology dried up on his lips, overwhelmed by shame. Unable to face his son, Bruce turned away. "I'm going to take you home."

Bruce could almost hear the tears in Damian's voice as he spoke. "I can still patrol."

But Bruce had made up his mind. Swallowing his embarrassment, he turned back and knelt in front of him. Damian wouldn't meet his eye. Bruce held open his arm. "Please." Damian looked up just so. "Let me take you home." Slowly, Damian stepped forward. Bruce tried to ignore how stiff Damian felt in his arms. With Damian curled up in Bruce's grasp, Bruce grappled their way back to the Batmobile. The drive back to the Manor was in total silence. Bruce stayed in the car while Damian slunk his way out.

Bruce watched him from the driver's seat. "Damian." Damian stopped, but didn't turn around. "I love you, son." Damian said nothing, and kept walking to the stairs.

With a bitter taste in his mouth, Batman latched the doors to the Batmobile and returned to the city of Gotham.

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There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the car rental place Tim had tracked down. A run down mom and pop shop with likely multiple dubious ways of getting their rental cars. But obviously a place that didn't ask their customers many questions. For Dick, that meant only one thing: this was going to be easy.

Dressed in a fine business suit and tie, he waltzed into the one room rental shop with a clipboard on his hip. The man at the register looked up from his phone, startled. "Afternoon," Dick greeted, reaching his hand out. The bemused cashier shook it. "Richard Gray, I'm here for the inspection."

"Inspection?" the man repeated.

Dick looked confused. "Yes. The inspection from the Gotham Auto Safety Board? You would have been notified in the mail."

The cashier's face paled. "I uh--oh. Right. That was today?"

Dick flashed a smile worthy of a magazine cover. "I know, these things tend to get away from you. Do you mind if I get started?" 

"I--uh--Let me just call my manager."

"Well alright." Dick checked his watch. "But I do have other appointments. So if we could keep this brief?"

The cashier dialed his manager, and while Dick listened to it ring, he held up his clipboard and started making notes as he looked around the room. He made sure to tsk a few times under his breath and shake his head, just to add to the facade. "He's... he's not answering," the cashier mumbled.

"Well that's all right. He knows I'm supposed to be here."

"Right, yeah. Um. Can I get you a coffee? Or...?"

Dick laughed. "Just have a seat and relax." He clicked his pen closed. "Do you mind if I ask you some questions?"

"Sure, anything."

"How do you keep track of your rentals?"

"Oh, well, I mean, they're all registered. I can get you the paperwork if you--"

"No, that's quite alright. But let's say a client refuses to bring the car back. Is there a way to track your vehicle before involving the authorities?" He glanced out the window. "I did notice that most of what you have is a bit on the older side so..."

"Yes!" the cashier offered. "Oh yes, all of our cars have GPS installed, so it's easy for us to track stolen cars."

"Oh that's wonderful to hear." Dick made another citation on his fake clipboard. "Is there some kind of system or directory that keeps track of them? A way to track them at a moment's notice, perhaps?"

"I... I mean, that's not really my--"

"I see." With a furrowed brow, Dick made another note.

"But my boss!" Dick looked up, his pen stopping. The cashier continued. "He probably knows. Ugh, he's not in right now though."

"Do you have access to his computer?"

"He keeps it unlocked."

"Where?"

"Just down that way."

"Wonderful. I'm going to need to have a look. Make sure that the program is up to date."

"Alright. Should I--?" Dick walked off before the cashier could finish his question. Once in the boss's office, Dick closed and locked the door. Honestly, he knew he wasn't expecting much, but this was more than a piece of cake. It was the whole damn thing.

Sitting at the computer, Dick opened up the desktop and found a horrible mess of files and folders. Dick began clicking through applications until he found a likely suspect: GPS LOCATOR. Dick clicked it, and the screen popped up with a rough map of Gotham. Dick pulled out the information on his mystery car. He began to type in the plates.

After a minute of searching, a pin popped up on screen. Dick zoomed in and stopped. The car's location was across the street from the rental shop.

Clicking off, Dick looked around. A back window had been jimmied shut. It took only one swift kick for the wedge to be removed, and for Dick to have a wide enough opening to crawl out. Slipping to the back lot, he flattened himself on the wall of the building and peered around the corner.

There it was. Parked and quiet across the street by an alley. The windows were still tinted, but Dick could imagine that the whole of the rental place was in the driver's sights. Going back in through the door, Dick found a locker room for employees, and rifled through the laundry till he found a sweaty pair of mechanic's overalls. He swiped a hat and a pair of sunglasses, and just for added effect, smeared his hands with an oil stain before returning outside. Hands in his pockets, he walked casually across the street. So far, the car hadn't driven off. Dick kept his head low, as he walked into the sandwich shop across the way.

"Welcome in!" called the girl from behind the counter. Dick nodded quietly and grabbed a bag of chips from the rack. "Just this for you?" Dick nodded again. As she rang him up, Dick took a subtle glance out the window. The car was still there. The driver hadn't suspected a thing. "That'll be three dollars and sixty seven cents please."

Dick pulled out a twenty. "Keep the change." He grabbed the chips and walked back out. Approaching the car, he was pleased to notice that the motor hadn't started. He strolled up to the passenger's window, and once he was sure he was in the clear, opened the door and sat inside.

The driver turned, but before he could even scream out, Dick elbowed his nose and pinned him quietly to the driver's door. His eyes bulged from his head, and he scrambled to honk the horn. Dick grabbed his wrists and twisted them in a way that they threatened to break at even the slightest push. Looking at him, Dick was both satisfied and disappointed that his photo on the fake ID was apparently real.

"Morning," said Dick calmly. "Glad we finally have a chance to meet."

"P-please--! Please, I--!"

"I'm going to give you some advice, my friend. I'm going to ask you questions, and you're going to answer them honestly. For every time I think you're lying, I'm going to break a finger. Are we cool?" The man nodded feverishly. "Great." Dick grabbed his pinky. "Why are you following me?"

The man's eyes shut tight. "B-because you're Richard Grayson Wayne! I-I'm just doing my job!" 

That was not the answer he was expecting. Dick pushed on the man's pinky, but didn't break it. Yet. "Explain."

"Your father," he panted. "He's Bruce Wayne. There's a rumor that he's seeing someone, b-but he's impossible to track out in the wild. I w-work for the Gotham Gazette. They can't follow Wayne, but they thought that by tailing you--!"

Dick narrowed his eyes. "You're a paperazzi?"

"Yes!" the man yelled. "Yes, I am! Please, I'm begging you, don't break my fingers!"

Dick released him, and the man nursed his pinky. "So all this is for, what? Some stupid fucking tabloid article?" The man nodded. Dick leaned forward. "Then why rent the car with a fake ID?"

The driver paled. "What? You--?"

"Yeah. I know." He pushed harder on the man's pinky, making him cry out. "And I'd like a real answer."

"I--It's embarrassing--" He cried out as Dick pushed harder on his pinky. "My license was suspended!" he suddenly admitted.

Dick lessened the pressure on his finger. "What?"

"I got a DUI a few months ago, and they suspended my license. So I--I got a buddy of mine to hook me up with a temp just until I get my real one back. Look, I know it's scummy, I know, but how am I supposed to get around without a car?"

"I don't know, the bus? Or a fucking Uber?"

"I'm sorry," the man grumbled. Dick looked him over one last time. Pushing up his sleeve, he noticed something. A tattoo of black ink in a strange, geometric pattern. It looked like a crescent moon, the center hollowed out by two strokes of negative space. It sat beneath a single dot, dead center in the middle. 

"What's this?" Dick asked.

The driver swallowed. "Just a tat I got in college," he explained.

"Is that so?" Dick began to push his pinky again.

"I swear! I swear on my life, it's just some dumb tattoo I got in school! It was my friend's band! I don't even remember the name!"

Dick sucked on his tooth. "Are you lying to me?"

"I'm not! Honest I'm not!" Dick released his hand, and the driver nursed it desperately. "I'm sorry," he said again. "Really, I--but it's my job--!"

"Do yourself a favor." Dick swung open the door and threw the chips at the man's lap. "Find a new fucking job." Getting out, Dick slammed the door, making the whole car rattle. The driver sped off the moment he got the chance. As Dick watched the tail lights vanish into the distance, his scowl deepened.

Taking out his phone, he dialed Tim's number. "Hey, man. Can you do me a favor?" He turned on his heel. "The League of Assassins has a sigil, right? See if you can send me a reference." 

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Damian watched the sunlight drift through his window. He hadn't slept since returning from patrol, instead having successfully watched the full sunrise through the crack in his drawn curtains. His school uniform, freshly ironed, hung on his closet door next to his messenger bag.

"Damian? Are you almost ready?" Jon pushed open the door to his room. Damian didn't move, curled with his back facing the entrance. "We've got to get going," said Jon. "You missed breakfast already. Aren't you hungry?" Damian didn't answer. After a moment, Jon crawled into bed behind him. The bed barely decreased at his weight. "Are you feeling okay?" He touched Damian's forehead. Damian swatted him away.

"I'm staying home," he announced, keeping his eyes on the window.

"Oh." Jon folded his legs and held his ankles. "You don't have a fever, though. Are you sick?" Damian curled tightly in on himself. He could feel Jon's blue eyes take in every sorry detail, and it flushed him with embarrassment. "Last night was really rough."

"What would you know about it?" Damian snapped.

"Not much," Jon admitted. "But it felt awful just to watch. It must have been so much worse for you."

"I don't need your pity."

Jon frowned. "Dad's taking it real hard, too. He didn't come home last night. You don't think the wedding's off, do you?"

"Who cares?"

Jon laid down at Damian's back and stared at the ceiling. He laid his hands on his stomach. "This dimension is weird," he concluded. "But... they're still our dads. And they still love us." Jon turned his head. "They still love you. Right?" Damian didn't know how to answer that.

A soft knock came from the door. Bruce stepped into the light and offered Jon a smile. "Alfred is waiting downstairs," he told him. Jon, taking it as a dismissal, left Damian's bed and headed down for school. Bruce lingered at the door. "Not feeling school today?"

Damian shrugged, keeping his back turned.

Bruce walked in and sat on the bed behind him. "Maybe we can do something? Just you and me. Haven't done that in a while." Bruce eyed Damian, gauging a reaction. Damian gave him nothing. "The Gotham art museum is doing a Baroque exhibit. We could go out. Get something to eat."

"No, thank you."

Bruce nodded. Reaching out, he gingerly laid his hand on Damian's head. "I'm sorry for yelling at you last night." Damian didn't respond, and Bruce gently pet Damian's feathered hair. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Grandfather frightens me more than you ever did."

Bruce paused, his lips parted. "Did I remind you of him? Last night?" Again, Damian didn't respond. "I'm sorry. If I did. I..." His words failed him. There was so much Bruce wanted to say out loud. How overwhelmed, how backed into a corner this whole situation had made him. How his safety had been threatened, and was now crumbling to pieces. But he couldn't. Not to his son. "You're right. Anger festers if you let it. I lashed out. I'm not angry with you, you just happened to be there."

Damian sat up. He stared at his lap. "You're still angry with him, though, aren't you?"

"With Clark?" Bruce asked. Damian nodded. "Yes. He was careless."

"For how long?"

"I don't know."

Damian hugged his knees. "Do you still love him?"

Bruce smiled softly. "Of course I do. Just because I'm angry doesn't mean I stop loving someone."

Damian looked up. "I don't think he knows that." That caught Bruce off guard. Before he could respond, Damian got out of bed and headed to the bathroom. "With your permission, I would like to stay home from school." He stopped at the bathroom door and waited for an answer. Bruce nodded, and Damian vanished within.

Bruce was left alone with his thoughts.

Chapter Text

Of the territories controlled by the Red Hood, Old Town held special consideration. Crime Alley got the fanfare, but Old Town was often where young criminals got their start. A lawless pocket of Gotham, it had a reputation for being ungovernable. That was, until the Hood and his men got ahold of it. Though to be honest, Red Hood wasn't so much "governing" Old Town as he was keeping an eye on the place. Those who ended up there due to bad luck or circumstance found themselves waking up to pamphlets on Wayne Enterprises funded charities and some bus fare on their pillow. Those who lived in Old Town with a more nefarious agenda were watched carefully to see which way they would go. Anyone who had turned to crime for money and respect was given space in Red Hood's ranks. The ones that were less redeemable--abusers and child predators--were dealt with. Expeditiously. Plainly put, there wasn't a single face in Old Town Red Hood didn't either personally know or know of. Which was why, upon hearing the report that a group of unknowns had taken up residence in one of the squatter houses, Hood took it upon himself to investigate.

It was late, and the bitter cold of autumn was compounded by what was left of that evening's rain. As Red Hood could be identified by even the lowest rung on the criminal ladder, Jason had dressed down for the evening. An old beat up hoodie underneath a scuffed leather jacket. Well worn jeans, dirty from the knee to the cuff. Shoes with holes that implied a hard road walked, and a threadbare beanie that hid his tell-tale white tuft over his scarred brow. As far as anyone else was concerned, he was just another face among the scum of the underworld.

Jason made himself comfortable across from the house where this supposed new group had moved in. It was one of the nicer structures, with no leaky roof and most of its doors and windows in tact. Typically, it rotated between the tougher residents of Old Town. In the hours that Jason watched, he saw men coming and going, many of whom looked far too well off to be considered Old Townies. There were cars parked just outside, covered in blue tarps, with one of them leaving and returning at all hours of the day. Occasionally, someone would come by with groceries. From the sight of the bags, Jason figured that there were at least ten people inside, maybe more. But there was no music, no lights, no implications of a party. Whoever these guys were, they weren't an average flop house.

Around midnight, the tinted black car had returned. Guessing from the out of state plates, Jason figured it was a rental. The man who drove it was hardly anyone of note; a middle aged guy with gray eyes and thinning hair. Normally, he returned to the house with the same professional demeanor as his roommates. But today, for some reason, he had returned in a panic. Jason could hear the wobble in his voice as he desperately called for someone. A man met him on the steps and they spoke in hushed voices. After a few moments, the second man smacked the driver in the back of the head. Jason narrowed his eyes. They went inside.

Leaving his post, Jason took the long way around to the back of the building. He could hear commotion inside, and recognized the language as Arabic. Whatever happened, the driver was getting absolutely reamed for it. Jason walked to the kitchen and stood underneath the elevated bay window. There was a crashing as someone had thrown a plate. More shouting and a plea for forgiveness. Deep within his coat, Jason palmed his gun. It'd been a while since he'd done hero work. Maybe it was time to come out of retirement.

Suddenly, the man was screaming. Begging for his life. Something heavy slammed onto a table. And a gun clicked into place.

Grabbing the ledge of the bay window, Jason kicked off the back wall of the house and broke through the glass, feet first. The men in the kitchen looked up, startled at their interruption. The driver had been pinned to the kitchen table by a third man, while another held a gun between his eyes. Before the assailant could turn the gun on him, Jason started firing. The bullets went through knees and shoulders--all intentional to maim, but not kill. Call him soft these days, or maybe his time with the other Bats had started to rub off on him, but Jason didn't see any reason to put them down. Yet. More men thundered down from upstairs, and Jason sent off a few rounds before slamming the kitchen door and knocking the fridge in front of it, barring it from the inside.

The man on the table stood, sweaty and terrified, but relieved. "Thank you--!" His words cut off as Jason grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and started to walk him out. As they passed one of the men on the floor, Jason noticed that he was attempting to reach for his loaded gun. Jason kicked it away before breaking the man's hand with the heel of his boot. He and the driver left shortly thereafter.

Jason dragged the poor man from the house, down the alley and into an abandoned drug store. Half of which had been destroyed by riots twenty years ago. Jason tossed the driver into the rubble and trained his gun on him.

"Answers," he demanded. "Who are you? And why are you and your buddies encroaching on my territory?"

The driver's eyes doubled in size. "I--! Please don't--! I'm just a scout!"

"Who for?"

"I can't tell you!"

"I got about six bullets left that tells me you can."

"I can't! They'll kill my family!"

Jason stopped. His eyes narrowed. "Name them."

"Huh?"

"Name your family. Right now. Go."

"My--my wife--!"

Jason shot through the man's foot. He howled in pain, and Jason tilted the gun up to his face. "I said name them. Not title them. You don't have a fucking family." The man broke down into sobs, and Jason took a step forward. He pressed the hot gun to the man's forehead. "Now tell me. Who the fuck do you work for so that I know where to send your fucking corpse?"

The man trembled like a leaf. Jason could see a wet spot forming on his jeans. "I'm just a grunt," he finally whispered. "Nobody special. Killing me isn't worth it, I promise!"

"A grunt for who? Come on, man, I got five bullets and you got three limbs left."

"I--I c--" Bam! The driver screamed as Jason shot through his other foot. "The Assassins!" he finally sobbed. "The League of Assassins! I--I'm not even a full fledged member! They just needed me to tail some people!"

"Who?" The driver cringed, and Jason shoved the gun against his cheek. "Who?"

"Just some rich boys! They didn't even tell me who they are or why!"

Jason narrowed his eyes. "Rich boys..." he mumbled. "Describe them."

"O-one is just some guy. Mid-twenties maybe? Dark hair, drives a motorcycle. The other two are these kids. They have me watch them as they go to and from school."

Dick and Damian, Jason concluded. "Are you working for Talia al Ghul?"

The man opened his mouth to answer, but the moment he did, a bullet crashed through the side of his skull, drenching the world in thick, red blood. Jason jumped back, now splattered in the deadman's viscera. He turned to see there armed Assassins approach him, guns pointed directly at Jason's face. Jason held up his hands, letting his pistol swing limp on his finger. 

"Wait." One of the Assassins lowered his gun just a touch. "It's the boy. The one from the pit." The others also let their guns drop an inch.

Jason sneered, but kept his hands in the air. "I'm guessing your boss gave you the low down on me, huh?"

The one who spoke put his gun down entirely. "We're under instruction not to harm you, Jason Todd."

"Lucky me. Mind telling me what you're doing in my city?"

"We pose no threat," said a second. "Not to you and not to your family. We are simply here to observe."

"Is that why there's a dead man on the ground?"

The third Assassin put down his gun entirely and stepped forward. "Ra's al Ghul has told us about you, Jason Todd. You are a capable soldier. Brutal and ruthless. There was once a time when you were offered allegiance in the League of Assassins. You are welcome to reconsider your position."

"Thanks, but no thanks," said Jason, letting his hands fall. "I've got plenty of my plate as it is." Jason narrowed his eyes. "How do I know that you mean no harm to the Waynes?"

"You do not," the Assassin replied. "Only that it would not benefit us to hurt any of them. Nor you." Jason said nothing. The third assassin motioned at the other two to hoist the dead man away. Jason watched them leave behind a trail of blood as the corpse was taken. "We are on strict orders to remain passive. Our job is to lend support to Talia al Ghul in her mission to retrieve the master's heir."

"I think you might be waiting a while," said Jason. "Bruce Wayne is a very stubborn man."

The Assassin only smiled, and with a nod of his head, followed his comrades out of the old drug store. Jason stood in silent thought. Reaching into his pocket, he removed his cellphone. If the League of Assassins was really tailing them everywhere they went, Dick should know about it.

Except... why should Jason be the one to tell him?

Jason frowned at Dick's phone number. They hadn't talked since the last time they were out at dinner together. Since then, no phone call, no texts, no nothing. Jason found himself wondering if he should be the one to make the first move, but the very idea of groveling at Dick's feet like a little kid made him sick to his stomach. Why was he always the one in the wrong? The black sheep, the crime lord, the odd man out. Always on the sidelines, even in moments where he was supposed to be part of the family. Why was he even kept around? To be their canary in the coal mine? Was that all he was worth to them? A thing to be used until his worth ran out.

With his jaw set and his eyes hard, Jason shoved his phone back into his pocket. 

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

The sounds of the Daily Planet were distant. The endless clacking of keys and the ringing of phones all echoing as though they were at the bottom of a wide fishbowl. For someone with supersonic hearing, sometimes it was difficult to turn off the sounds around him. But today, Clark could barely hear the microwave go off in the breakroom. Sitting at his computer, hunched like a shrimp, Clark focused solely on his work, going through the soulless motions to get a story to editorial.

He and Bruce hadn't talked since the night before. Clark had left early for the Planet, with Bruce already up and working before sunrise. Clark didn't bother trying to interrupt him. The last thing he needed were more charges on his ledger. Maybe if Clark just kept to himself for a little bit, Bruce would eventually get cool enough to touch, and they could talk it out. Unless that never happened. And Clark had just allowed his whole relationship to get nuked from orbit. The worst part was, he wasn't sure which was more likely.

A crinkled paper bag landed on his desk, and he looked up. Lois stood with coffee in hand, a nervous smile on her lips. "Morning, Smallville." Clark went back to his computer without a word. Lois shifted awkwardly. "I got you coffee." She pulled up a takeout cup and set it in front of him. "Decaf. Two pumps of mocha. Whipped cream." Clark continued to type. Lois opened up the paper bag. "And, I got this for you." She put an apple danish on top of the cup. "Just like you like it." Clark's eyes lingered on the danish, and once again went back to working. Lois's smile faltered. "You should eat it. You know. Before it gets cold."

"Thanks."

The clack of Clark's keyboard filled in silence between them. Lois looked at her tray with a sad, single coffee left. "So uh. Have you talked to...?"

"No."

"Oh." Lois scratched the edge of the tray. "He's pretty pissed still, huh?"

"Yup."

Lois blew a trill through her lips. "Guess I really bungled it up." She tried laughing it off. Clark didn't spare her a glance. She set her coffee to one side. "Okay, look. I'm not really good at the whole..." She gestured vaguely. "Apology. Thing. And I mean, to be fair, what was I supposed to do? If I went to you about my hunch you would have just tried to gaslight me into oblivion. Like you have been, might I add, from the moment we met." She lowered her voice. "If you just would have trusted me from the start, then maybe I wouldn't have..." Her words died as Clark slowly lifted his dead eyes to meet hers.

"Did you need something, Miss Lane?"

Lois winced. "Alright. I guess I deserved that." Lois pushed herself up from Clark's desk. "I'm sorry." Clark's fingers slowed, and he listened in silence. "I got carried away." 

Clark rubbed his eyes underneath his glasses. "That's an understatement."

"Clark, you were never going to tell me--"

"Because it wasn't your business." Clark turned in his chair, addressing Lois directly. "We're friends, yes. But you're not entitled to every detail of my life."

"I..."

Clark turned back to his computer, fingers hacking away at the keys. "You really betrayed my trust, Lois. And you upset the man I love. So yeah. I'm a little miffed about this whole thing." He eyed the breakfast on his desk. Taking the danish, he took a bite. "The pastry is good, though, thank you."

Lois took a deep breath. "You're right." Setting her coffee on her own desk, she pulled up her chair and took a seat. "I treated you like a story, not a friend. And it was... shitty." Clark cocked an eyebrow. "To say the least," Lois added.

Clark's eyes lingered on his work. "Have you told anyone?"

"Not a soul."

"No? Nothing for the front page of the evening edition?"

"Not so much as a Tweet."

Clark leaned back in his chair, tapping his finger on the desk. "Well. Thank you, for that at least. It's appreciated."

Lois rubbed her hands together nervously. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I was in my own head and I pushed too hard like I always do. And you're right, maybe you would have never told me. But even if you didn't, it would have been your choice. I just..." Clark turned to her. "However you feel about it is up to you. But I am sorry. I really, really am."

Finally, Clark cracked the smallest of smiles. Reaching out, he took Lois's hand. "I know." His face fell and he dropped his hand. "I just wish Bruce didn't take it so hard."

"He really is that mad?"

"He's infuriated. Which makes sense. He's always been very private." Clark tried to go back to his work, but his fingers were slowing down. His eyes lowered. "I've had a knot in my stomach since yesterday that I can't get rid of. I keep wanting to convince him that it's all okay but it's... not. He wouldn't even look at me this morning..." Clark didn't realize that his voice was starting to warble until his eyes misted over. With a soft gasp, he touched his cheek. "Oh, shoot." He fumbled for a tissue, when Lois handed him one from her own desk. He thanked her and wiped his face.

"I'd imagine Bruce Wayne is a hard man to love," said Lois.

Clark actually laughed, blotting his eyes under his glasses. "That's just it. He's too easy to love." Clark sniffed sharply. "Convincing him to believe it is the hard part." Clark and Lois shared a somber smile. Getting out of her chair, Lois hugged Clark tight around the shoulders, which Clark accepted wholeheartedly.

"I really feel awful about all this," she said. "So however I can make it up to you, you just gotta name it."

"I'm not going to extort your guilt for free labor, Lois."

"Why not? I'm literally offering it."

They broke their hug, and Clark pat Lois's hand. "I'll be alright. We'll work it out. Just like we always do."

The doors of the elevator opened, which would have completely gone unnoticed if it hadn't been for the large bundle of sunflowers that emerged on Clark's floor. Clark turned with parted lips as the delivery man headed straight for his desk.

"Mr. Clark Kent?" the delivery man asked.

"That's me." Clark was handed his flowers. It was a dozen sunflowers in bloom, decorated with yellow and pink roses, baby's breath, and daisies. A beautiful, country blend of flowers that seemed to match Clark's personality to a T. Clark plucked a small card from the holder in the center of the bouquet. He recognized Bruce's neat handwriting on the front.

For My Sunshine

Lois and Clark exchanged a glance. Though Lois's first instinct was clearly to lean over Clark's shoulder while he read, she forced herself to stand and back away. "Not my business," she recited. She flashed Clark a smile. "I'll make up an excuse to Perry for you." With that, Lois sat at her desk, leaving Clark his privacy to open the note. 

Clark,

Take this as a small apology, out
of the many I owe you. I'll be waiting
for you at l'Ange in Metropolis for a
12:30 lunch reservation.

All my love,
Bruce

Clark could feel a thousand tons of weight fall from his shoulders. He read and re-read the note again and again with such joy he was dangerously close to crying a second time. Clark glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven. That gave him plenty of time. Leaving work early, he took off to the roof, where he flew off to his apartment to change and shower. Constantine was snoring off a hangover under the massive girth of Bunny the interdimensional cat. Clark was sure to give her a scratch before scurrying off to his room and turning on the shower.

Once he was bathed, shaved, brushed, and trimmed, he addressed his closet. Most of his wardrobe had been moved to the Manor, but he had to have something suitable for a lovely afternoon lunch date. Most of what he'd left behind, however, were suits more fitted for days at the Planet. He considered hopping over to the Manor, but didn't feel like flying in his towel two cities over. After twenty minutes of rummaging through every article of clothing he had, Clark scurried out to the livingroom and shook Constantine awake.

"Whassit--?" Constantine blinked rapidly, his pupils straining under the midmorning light. "Eh? Kent?" He yawned. "What's...?" He eyed Clark's godlike build, still dripping wet and in his towel. Stricken, he looked back to the man in question. "Mate, as flattered as I am, your bloody husband would strangle me with his bare hands."

"Clothes. I need clothes."

"I'll say."

"No, I need--!" Clark looked around. Grabbing his note from the bouquet of flowers, he handed it to Constantine. "I need something to wear for this."

"Oh aye? Alright then." Constantine stood and cracked his back. "Go throw something on. Anything, it doesn't matter." Clark obliged, and returned to the living room in one of his every day suits. "Now. Been a minute since I've put my fairy godmother skills to the test, but let's see if we can't shake the rust off, eh?" Constantine cracked his knuckles and curled his fingers into a steeple. "Bibbity-bobbity-boo."

A burst of yellow came from Constantine's fingers and hit Clark's suit like a wave of smoke. Clark's tweed became a 3/4 length, wine red coat. His plain button-up went from white cotton to black silk, with the top two buttons open to replace his tie all together. His trousers became matching black slacks with shiny black shoes. His hair remained curly but was now styled, and off his shoulders hung a chunky, cable-knit black scarf. Clark looked at himself in awe.

"Holy cow." He held up his arms, admiring the sleeves of his wool jacket. "Is this permanent?"

"Only lasts for a few hours," said Constantine. "Now go on. Before you turn into a squash."

With a thrill, Clark threw Constantine into a hug and kissed his scruffy cheek. "Thank you. Thank you!" Before leaving, Clark plucked a small sunflower from the bouquet and pinned it to his lapel. With one last nod in the mirror, he left the apartment, barely remembering to close the door as he went.

Too afraid to mess up Constantine's work, Clark took a taxi to l'Ange, which was about twenty minutes from his house. When the nerves became too much, Clark found himself brushing the petals of his sunflower to soothe them. Eventually, he was dropped off in front of a quaint, French cafè with striped awnings. Hoping to appear confident, Clark stepped in through the doors and was met with the hostess.

"Hello," Clark greeted. "I'm meeting my party here at 12:30--" That's when Clark took a scan of the restaurant and realized that the whole damn place had been bought out.

"Yes, Mr. Kent," said the hostess with a wide smile. "You're right on time. This way, please." She led Clark into the restaurant and around to the best table in the whole cafè. Bruce had been checking his watch when they arrived. One look, and he broke into a smile of relief.

"Thank you, Sarah," he said, getting out of his seat. When the hostess departed, Bruce took a good look at Clark's outfit. "Glad to see you're going casual." His fingers smoothed down the lapel of his coat, brushing softly past the flower petals.

"Is it too much?" said Clark, self-consciously.

"Never," said Bruce. Leaning in, they shared a soft kiss. "You look stunning." Clark smiled in response. He went to sit, but Bruce pulled out his chair for him before he could. Clark practically twittered as Bruce sat across from him. "I hope this is private enough for you," he said.

"Private enough? Bruce, you bought out the whole restaurant."

"Just for the day. Unless you'd rather I take the whole thing? I've been considering assets outside of Gotham."

Clark laughed. "Please don't start buying restaurants in my city."

"Spoil sport." Bruce offered Clark his hand on the table, and Clark took it. Bruce's expression grew somber. "I'm sorry about last night. I was... not in the best state of mind."

"It's my fault," said Clark. "You were right, I was sloppy."

"You trust people," Bruce argued. "That's not being sloppy, that's just what friends do."

"But I should have been more aware."

"Well... yes." Bruce ran his thumb across Clark's fingers. "But we're past that, aren't we?"

Clark leaned forward. "So... you're not mad?"

"Oh I'm still pretty furious at the whole thing."

"Oh."

"But..." Bruce lifted Clark's hand and kissed his fingers gently. "Being mad doesn't justify neglecting you. And for that, I'm sorry." Clark's heart felt so big it was ready to explode from his chest.

Lunch was a simple affair. Bruce ordered a French onion soup, while Clark settled on a fancy ham sandwich and an ice tea. They talked at length, not just about the issues at hand, but about everything that stood before them. Stress over the wedding, Damian's academic future, holiday plans, everything. Even though they were initially sat on opposite sides of the table, eventually, Bruce moved his chair to snuggle catty-corner to Clark. By the time the busser came to collect their dishes, they were practically glued to the hip. Clark could only imagine what kind of thick NDA's each employee was forced to sign.

"...so now Perry's thinking of moving me to the city beat," Clark was saying. "After I've been on politics for most of my career. I mean, I love Metropolis, don't get me wrong. But I feel like I'm going to be missing out if I focus on community fluff pieces. Not that community building isn't super important, of course." Clark paused, realizing Bruce had rested his chin on his shoulder. "Bruce, are you listening?"

"Sure," he said.

"Why don't I believe you?"

Bruce smiled, a twinkle in his icy blue eye. Leaning in, he laid a kiss on the base of Clark's neck. "I'm just thinking about other things, that's all." His hand lowered and brushed gently up and down Clark's thigh.

Clark flushed. "Bruce, we're in public."

"Why do you think I bought out the restaurant?" He kissed the corner of Clark's mouth.

Clark's smile crinkled his nose. "What was in that soup?"

"Onions are an aphrodisiac."

"Is that true?"

"I dunno, maybe."

Clark's eyes softened, and he kissed Bruce between his well kept brows. "You know, you don't seem that mad anymore... Despite being 'furious.'"

Bruce shrugged. "Batman is furious. He's also exhausted."

"Is he?" Clark threaded his fingers through Bruce's hair.

"God yes. First Talia, then the Justice League and now Lois--I just want a break. Just a little bit of a break before I have to go back to worrying about everything again."

"A break." Clark cupped Bruce's chin. Just like that, Bruce melted, and Clark could feel the pressure as his body relaxed completely in Clark's arms. Clark held him close, and laid kiss after kiss on every wrinkle in Bruce's handsome face. "Sure. We can take a break. Just for the afternoon." Bruce pressed his nose into Clark's neck and inhaled deeply. "What is it?"

"Your shampoo."

"What about it?"

"It's cheap."

"Oh..." Clark gently pet the back of Bruce's head. "Did you want me to use something else?"

"No. It's you." Bruce hugged Clark around the waist. If he was any closer, he might have tried to crawl into his very skin. "You've smelled the same for the last ten years."

Clark chuckled. "You've been sniffing me for a decade?"

"Don't make it sound weird," Bruce grumbled.

Clark glanced up toward the kitchen, but from the sounds of things, the staff had all vacated, leaving them in peace. Undoubtedly, Bruce could afford to rent the place out for the whole day without even batting an eye. Money was such an insane superpower... Clark dove his hands down and hoisted Bruce from his chair into his lap. Bruce molded against Clark's chest with ease. It was a position that came so naturally between them, Clark was amazed they hadn't snuggled like this before getting together. Clark continued to ply Bruce with kisses, rubbing his back.

"You've smelled the same since the moment I met you," Clark said softly. "But the first thing I ever noticed was your heartbeat." Clark slid his hand between Bruce's shirt and pressed it up to his chest. "There's a little bit of a murmur. Just slight enough to probably never get picked up by doctors. It's irregular. Different. At first it made me think you were a metahuman like the rest of the League. Even after finding out you were entirely human, I knew you were still different."

Bruce closed his eyes, lost in the feel of Clark holding him so tenderly. It was like slipping into a heavy cloud. "Oliver says you were the only one to never be afraid of me. It's why you frustrated me the way that you did." Bruce ran his hand up and down Clark's chest. His sleek coat had been tucked over the top of his chair, allowing Bruce to fully admire the taut muscles beneath his sleeves. His fingers trailed from Clark's shoulder, down the curve of his arm, and all the way up to his left ring finger. Bruce laced their fingers together and kissed Clark's hand. "I think it might have turned me on a little bit, too."

"Yeah?" Clark's smile widened, and he nuzzled his nose against Bruce's temple. "Golly. If I knew it was that easy, I would have confessed my feelings a long time ago." They lost themselves in another kiss, with Bruce tenderly worming his way up flush against Clark's body. Clark held him securely. When they broke apart, Clark could see the burn in Bruce's eyes. "What if someone comes in?" Clark breathed.

"They won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because I have very, very good lawyers."

Their kisses deepened. Hands dove for belt buckles and buttons. Their shirts opened wide, though stayed mostly in place, hanging by the shoulders. Zippers undone, underwear tugged, until they felt a tingle of chilly air kiss their sex. Clark's large hand was the first to start touching. Bruce moaned against Clark's lips, supple and deep. Clark sucked softly on his exposed neck, his free hand fondling the many scars across his wide chest. Bruce bucked into Clark's palm, which only encouraged Clark to keep stroking.

"This is very not okay," Clark gasped, still tugging Bruce's tight cock. "We shouldn't be doing this in a--a restaurant. This has to be a health code violation or--"

Bruce silenced him with a deep kiss, his tongue twisting against Clark's. They broke apart, connected only by a fine web of saliva. "Then why are you still touching me?" Bruce growled. Diving his own hand down, he too began stroking his lover's erection. They breathed together, snuggling and kissing and jerking it like horny college kids. 

Clark's whole face was bright pink. "Well... this is all we should do." Clark spared another deep kiss. "Just out of respect..."

Bruce leaned forward and bit down hard on Clark's earlobe. Clark hissed, even though it barely stung, and Bruce grumbled into his ear. "Fuck me on the table, Kal-El." He pulled back for another searing kiss. After which, Clark knocked away what few utensils were left and laid Bruce on his front. With wet fingers, Clark began to open Bruce up with deft precision. Bruce moaned into the tablecloth, his pants now around his ankles. Spotting the bottle of olive oil for their bread, Clark lathered Bruce's cheeks in preparation. Bruce's moan cut short as he felt Clark push himself inside.

Their humps rattled the table. Clark moved like a piston, kissing and scraping the back of Bruce's neck. From the moment he felt that initial penetration, Bruce was lost in the pleasure of it all. His head emptied, and his mouth hung open. Clark panted like a horse, bent over Bruce's back and running at full speed. Bruce enticed him with kisses that burned and blistered between their lips. When they broke apart, Clark buried his face into the crux of Bruce's neck, leaving Bruce's head free to roll to one side as he cried out in pleasure. At one point, their humping even knocked over their pretty flower vase, spilling water on the carpet by their shoes. Neither cared. It wasn't like Bruce couldn't afford the cleaning bill, after all.

Clark's hand tightened on Bruce's thigh, the other hoisting up his head by his neck. Their tongues reached for each other from open, hot mouths. The squelch between their hips rivaled their deep and sumptuous moans. They each felt themselves teetering on the edge before they knew it.

"Clark--!" Bruce gasped. His eyes shut helplessly. "Fuck... fuck... fuck me, fuck!"

Clark laughed in Bruce's ear. "Language," he purred. His eyes shut firm, and he moaned. "M'getting... close..."

Bruce threw his head back, gripping the tablecloth until it ripped. "God... yes...! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck--"

They came together in a violent storm of ecstasy. The gush of Clark's seed filled Bruce to the brim as he rode out his pleasure. A sticky white now dribbled from the table and onto the ground by their discarded flower vase. Bruce would have collapsed if Clark didn't hold him with both arms, warm and accepting. Eventually, they zipped up and fell into Clark's chair, where Bruce once more snuggled close into his lap.

"How was that for a break?" Clark asked.

Bruce nodded, hugging him. "You're still in the dog house," he mumbled.

"I know." Clark kissed Bruce's nose. He glanced at their mess of a table. "Should we, uh...?"

"I have people to clean up," said Bruce.

"Right. Of course you do."

Lifting up his head, Bruce captured Clark in a sweet, tender kiss. "I adore you, Kal. I hope you know that."

"I know you do." Clark held Bruce's hand close to his heart. "I love you. Through thick and thin. No matter what."

Bruce nodded. "No matter what."

Chapter Text

It had been three days since Ra's al Ghul's men made any moves. Red Hood would have liked to chalk it up to his reputation, but truth be told, it was probably more due to the fact that they'd been truthful during questioning. It seemed their purpose truly was to lay in wait for Talia to give her signal. Either way, Red Hood had eyes trained on the flop house since discovering it. So far, no scout had reported anything other than pizza deliveries.

As for Hood himself, the nights had gotten busier as the holidays closed in. Colder weather meant more desperate people, and more moving parts to keep an eye on. Tonight, Hood decided to keep watch from the comfort of his headquarters in Crime Alley. There was a whole rotation of scouts and dealers that needed to check in, as it was nearly the end of the month. The take this go around was supposed to be good; lots of addicts looking for their fixes. Hood couldn't care less. So long as there was enough money to keep the funding liquid for Gotham's harm reduction centers, he didn't care about making a profit.

Holed up in his office, he watched the floor outside his window. His more immediate men were enjoying themselves with poker and billiards. The smell of cigarette smoke was potent, and someone had spilled a keg earlier, making the whole place stink of stale beer. Red Hood had tried cracking open a book to kill time between check-ins, but found it difficult. His focus had been going lately. Undoubtedly due to both the introduction of the League, as well as the ongoing stalemate between he and the Wayne household.

Three days. No texts, no calls, no carrier pigeons. Jason tried not to let it bother him. After all, he was the one who walked out on Dick. So what right had he to be pissy about this whole thing? Going to bed every morning, Jason was left alone with the nagging voice in his head, demanding he apologize. Only to be drowned out by the trumpets of his own ego, insisting otherwise. Besides, he and Dick had fought before. Except it had been a long while since they'd gone this long without talking.

A soft knock came from the door, and Hood looked up from his book. "Hey, boss." D'angelo, one of his running lieutenants, poked his big head in through the door. "Just got word that one of our arms shipments got through port."

"Good. Remove any bump stocks and hollow point rounds. Put them in rotation."

"You got it." Even so, D'angelo hesitated.

Red Hood closed his book on his fingertip."Yes?"

"Just wonderin', boss. If you don't mind my asking?"

"Go ahead."

"How come you don't let us sell bump stocks and hollow points? Seems weird to be leaving money on the table like that."

Hood took his feet off of the desk and leaned forward on his elbows. "Let me answer that with a question of my own. What's your name?"

D'angelo was taken aback. "Boss?"

"Humor me."

"D'angelo Marcus."

Hood nodded. "Tell me something, D'angelo. Does that name sound like 'Red Hood' to you?"

D'angelo paled. "Right. Right, yeah, sorry, boss. You're in charge. I was just curious."

"Curiosity kills the cat, D. Remember that."

"Will do. Will do, sorry, Hood." With that, D'angelo slipped away, leaving Hood to his thoughts.

Jason sighed and rubbed his eyes. His helmet sat uselessly on his desk, staring at him like the eye of a judgmental deity. Jason glared at it. Reaching out, he turned it to face away from him.

Jason's phone buzzed. Reaching into his pocket, he removed it. Dick's name flashed on screen, sending Jason into a free fall of both relief and new anxiety. Walking up to the door of his office, he shut and locked it before answering. "What?"

"Hi to you too, asshole."

Jason walked back to his desk and tossed his book to one side. "You wanna make it quick, man? I'm busy."

"Busy with what?"

"Crime. I told you, make it snappy."

"Jesus, I guess I'm not getting my apology, huh?"

Jason snorted. "Apology for what? Saying what everyone else was thinking?"

Dick hesitated on the other line. "You really aren't sorry for it, are you?"

"Holy Hell, are you really doing this right now? So we were ribbing each other and I said something that hurt your feelings. Get a grip." Dick didn't answer on the other side. Jason could feel panic well within him as he realized how badly his plan to be nonchalant was backfiring. "Dick? You still there?"

"I need information."

Jason paused. Dick's voice was dry and business-like, and carved deep into Jason's chest. He furrowed his brow and tightened his hand on the phone. "Are you for real?"

"What? You're clearly not ready to apologize, so let's just move on."

"What the fuck, man? Did all you do was call to try and guilt me into grovelling and ask for a favor?"

"I think you owe it to me."

"I don't owe you shit, motherfucker. If anything, I've got you in fucking debt with how many favors you owe me."

"I just need to know about a guy who's been tailing me, that's all. Thought he might be running in your circles."

"Oh cut me a fucking break," Jason snarled. "Do you know how many people I have on the payroll, jackass? Too fucking many to go out of my way looking for a secret admirer of yours."

"Stop acting like it's some horrible imposition."

"It is, you twat-bagel."

"Oh fuck you, you emotionally constipated dickhead!"

"Fuck me?"

"Yeah, fuck you!"

"Fuck you! Every time you fucking call me it's always something you need. 'Hey Jason, can you check this for me?' 'Hey Jason, can you keep watch for Bruce?' 'Hey Jason, can you lay down flat so that me and the rest of the family can walk all over you?'"

"Quit acting like a fucking martyr."

"Why not? Last time I checked, I was the only one who has a death on my record."

"Cry me a motherfucking river! When the fuck are you going to get over that?!"

"When am I--?" Jason yanked the phone out in front of him and bellowed. "Eat my ENTIRE ASS!" Slamming his finger on the end call button, Jason turned and hocked his phone clear across the room. His shoulders heaved as he tried catching his breath. Turning, he noticed that every single person on his floor was staring at him through the window. Jason puffed up. "What are you lookin' at!?" In a jolt, his men went back to their activities, pointedly pulling their eyes away from Jason's direction.

With a snarl on his lips, Red Hood snatched the helmet off his desk and locked it in place. Looks like he'd be hands on tonight.

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If there was one thing that remained true over the years, it was that Talia could wander Wayne Manor for hours and still find herself lost. Having grown up in 'Eth Alth'eban, one would think Talia would be used to endless hallways and doors. But something about Wayne Manor always threw her off. Perhaps it was the old house's way of telling her she was not welcome within its walls. A fact that was true now more than ever.

It was early morning. Talia hadn't slept properly in days, but it hardly mattered; one of her father's go-to methods for training was to accustom his soldiers to a lack of sleep. Whether or not she was his daughter made no difference. Talia was no exception to the ways of the League. And neither would Damian be once he was safely back home.

Soft piano echoed from down the hall. Talia lifted her head, trying to place the music. Chopin. Talia followed its melancholy notes until reaching the doorway to the music room. She half expected to once more find her son brooding at the keys. But instead, she found his father.

Bruce sat with perfect posture. His long and dexterous fingers waltzed along the keys. A speaker played quietly beside him, as Bruce did his best to match the notes of Nocturnes No. 1. It was a full minute before Bruce let his fingers rest.

"Couldn't sleep?" Bruce asked. His voice was calm; it'd been a while since Talia had heard it that way.

"We used to have that in common," said Talia.

Bruce went back to playing. "Used to." He turned on the piano bench. "What are you doing here, Talia?"

"I told you. I've come for Damian."

"That can't be the only reason. Besides, I've made it very clear that my mind will not be changed. Are you waiting for an opportunity to steal him from me?"

"Steal him? My own son? You make it sound like he is a sack of jewels."

"I would appreciate if you dropped the false equivalency."

"Hm." Talia wandered further into the music room. Her spindle arms folded across her supple bosom. There was a time, once, when her very presence was enough to bring the Batman to his knees. Now, he looked at her with no more emotion than he might an old acquaintance. Talia would never admit how deeply that cut. "I don't know what more you want to hear," she said. "You have asked my purpose, I have told it to you."

"So you're just waiting it out. Is that it?"

"You make it sound like I have soldiers in the shadows, ready to lay siege to your precious manor."

"Do you not?"

A smile twinged on Talia's lips. "Not at the moment, no."

"I'll let you know when I believe that." Bruce went back to the piano.

Talia approached. "Has Damian expressed an interest in music?" Bruce glanced at her. "I recently got that impression."

"Not that I know of," said Bruce. His fingers followed along to the dance of his Bluetooth speaker. "I can see if he wants me to set up a tutor for him."

Talia leaned her hip against the piano, watching Bruce play. He pretended not to notice. "Do you remember the day we met?"

Bruce hesitated before answering. "Of course I do. I remember how young I was. How inexperienced. I remember how desperately I wanted to escape the cameras that night at the benefit." His eyes flashed towards her. "And I remember how easily you led me astray in that little green dress. I kept thinking it reminded me of arsenic."

"No."

Bruce paused, lifting his hands. "No?"

"That wasn't the first time we met, Mr. Wayne. Not that I'd expect you to realize it."

Bruce turned to her, hands on his knees. "Well then enlighten me."

Talia sat on the edge of the bench, her legs on the outside while Bruce's remained inward. "When you were barely a man, you left Gotham for three years. Hoping to find some sense of purpose to your life. So you found my father, not knowing the extent of who he really was. You trained alongside many capable warriors. While abroad, your rooms were tended to by a child. Small, wide-eyed, silent. You offered them friendship. They did not seem to reciprocate. Or even speak."

Bruce furrowed his brow. "Yes, I remember him," he said. "Short hair. Always in baggy clothes..." His eyes widened, and he turned back to Talia. "What? But--"

"But you had heard rumors of Ra's al Ghul's only child and could not imagine he had sent her to be nothing more than a scullery maid. Isn't that right?" Bruce had no answer. Talia turned her head away. "It was my own form of training. I was the princess of 'Eth Alth'eban, and yet, my father was determined not to let me fall to vanity. And so, I was to him as any child hoping to rise in the ranks of the League of Assassins." Talia once more faced her host. "Most of my father's students treated me with contempt, if they treated me with anything at all. You were the only one who did not look upon me with disdain." Talia raised her hand and touched Bruce's leathered face. "When father decided that you would be the man to sire his grandchildren, I will admit, I could hardly contain my enthusiasm."

Rather than seem flattered, Bruce hardened, and stood from the piano bench. Talia's hand hovered in the air between them. "How honored to be chosen as your father's breeding stock." He turned and went to the bar cart. It was far too early for a drink, but Talia noticed the pot of coffee that sat in wait. Bruce fixed a black cup and took a sip. "You still haven't answered me."

"But I have," said Talia. "It is simply not the answer you wanted to hear." She too stood from the bench and approached Bruce. Bruce remained where he was. Her nimble fingers took the mug of coffee from his grasp and set it down. "But for the record, I also remember that night at the benefit." Her eyes hooded. "I remember it quite fondly."

"Yes, well, hindsight is 20/20."

"You regret our time together?"

Bruce hesitated. "I regret not immediately clocking your intentions."

"But you don't regret us." Bruce took his coffee and pushed past Talia. She took his arm before he could get very far. "Do you ever miss it? That year where the world seemed insignificant? You were almost happy."

"Almost," Bruce affirmed. "Yes." They stood in silence while Bruce's Bluetooth moved to the next piece of music. Bruce recognized the playlist of Chopin's waltzes. "I do have one question, though."

Talia turned her head toward the speaker. "Waltz in A Minor," she said, recognizing the composition. She turned back to Bruce and held out her hand. "You may ask me anything you like. After a dance."

Bruce lingered, fingertips barely holding his coffee mug. After one last sip, he set the cup aside and took Talia's hand. Together, they swayed to the song of the violin. It was a much more somber affair than most of Chopin's waltzes, and led Bruce to dance in slow circles. Talia followed him with ease, letting her house dress flutter by her ankles.

"You always smell like jasmine," said Bruce. "I have to wonder if you smuggled out your perfumes before you were exiled."

"A girl must have her priorities."

"So she must."

They spun together, Talia letting her dark hair flow past her narrow shoulders. "I am pleased you are not still angry with me, Bruce."

"Make no mistake, there's plenty I'm still angry about."

"And yet you allowed me a dance."

"As Alfred might say, there's no excuse not to be a gentleman."

They paused as the waltz came to its final note. Talia let her hand droop from Bruce's shoulder to his arm. "Is that all this is? Gentlemanly company?" She leaned forward, and rested her hand over Bruce's heart. Bruce remained stock still. "When we were together, when we were young, I cursed every minute I was not by your side. Deny it if you want, but I knew you felt the same. Do not pretend that our love meant nothing."

While Bruce's expression remained vacant, his head tilted down just so. "Your father wanted us married," he said, plainly. "But instead, you told me that you miscarried our child. You pushed me away, only to have Damian behind my back. Why? Why would you defy your father when you were about to give him everything he asked for?" Talia's face fell. There was no telling where the lies ended and the truth began, but Bruce searched behind her jade green eyes. Her eyelashes fluttered, and for a moment, Bruce could feel her reach to embrace him. 

Bruce's hairs stood on end. Turning, he saw Clark standing at the doorway of the music room in silence. His expression was unreadable as he gripped the strap of his messenger bag. "I'm headed to work," he announced calmly.

Talia stepped out of Bruce's arms. Her eyes bounced between them both. "I suppose I should try to get some sleep." No one stopped her as she left.

Bruce could feel his neck burn. Despite the fact that no slight had been committed, Bruce was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. "Clark..." He choked. The words "I can explain" and "this wasn't what it looks like" were on the tip of his tongue. But Bruce realized how bad it sounded if he said them out loud. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Bruce took a half step forward. "I... we were just talking," he said, lamely.

Clark remained stone-faced. "I know," he said. "I could hear you."

Bruce was tempted to scold Clark for eavesdropping--a habit he very much did not approve of--but in this instance, he'd allow it. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"For--" Bruce gestured, lamely. "I know how that looked, and I--I swear, we were just--"

Clark walked further into the music room. Bruce locked up as Clark stood face to face with him. Bruce could feel himself teetering on the edge, terrified of Clark's next few words. But rather than speak, Clark cupped his neck and brought him in close. It was like kissing the sun itself, the warmth of the embrace melting away every ounce of Bruce's guilt. They broke apart slowly, and Clark's eyelashes brushed against his glasses.

"I told you," he breathed. "You're my partner. I trust you."

Bruce felt himself lose twenty pounds of pure stress. Deflated, Bruce thumped his head onto Clark's shoulder. Clark held him there, and rubbed his back. "I swear I don't deserve you at all," Bruce mumbled.

Clark finally cracked a smile. "You've got to stop lying to yourself." He pet Bruce's hair, and waited until Bruce looked up. Clark rested their foreheads together. "How long have I known you? How well? If you don't deserve this, then no one does." They kissed again, softer this time. Clark's hands rested on Bruce's waist, pushing them flush against one another. "That being said... am I still in the doghouse?"

Bruce sighed. "No," he conceded. "We're even."

Clark's smile brightened. "Good." He kissed Bruce's cheek. Leaning into Bruce's ear, his next words came in a whisper. "Because if you danced any longer with Talia I was going to fly her out onto the roof and leave her there."

That made Bruce snort with laughter. His arms wrapped around Clark's neck for a third embrace. As the Bluetooth speaker continued through his playlists of waltzes, Clark lifted them gently from the ground. As the morning sun fully crested the horizon, Bruce and Clark lost themselves in their embrace, spinning in the air like figures in a music box.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

"On your marks! Get set!" Tweeeeee!

With a blow of the teacher's whistle, both sides of the basketball court rushed to the center line, where rows of tempting rubber balls lay in wait. Balls were scooped in frantic hands, and then thrown wildly from every direction. Those in the line of fire moved frantically, diving and dropping in order to avoid oncoming projectals. All except for Damian, who exerted only enough effort to tilt and dip his body as necessary. Hands in his pockets, he didn't seem interested at all in participating beyond what was required of him. Jon was another story entirely.

"I got it!" Jon jumped as a ball went sailing over his head, snatching it from the air. Turning just in time, he managed to deflect an oncoming ball and then tossed his own at the opposing side. Jenny, Jeremy and Nathan had taken their place as the primary aggressors on the other end, while Jon and Damian shared a team with Fatima and a handful of less popular kids. One of the boys, a mathlete named Casey, took his opportunity to use Jon as a human shield. He was sweating so much, his glasses had nearly fallen off his nose three times. 

"Eep! Look out!" Casey ducked his head as a ball came soring, but Jon swiped it yet again and threw it back, pegging the assailant in the arm.

"I gotchya, Casey!" Jon smiled over his shoulder, to which Casey smiled in thanks.

"You're both acting like this is some great battlezone," said Damian plainly. A ball came barrelling toward him, and without missing a beat, Damian reared backwards, letting the ball miss him by inches. He popped back up and hopped over an attempt to wing his feet. "This is less than child's play. It's insulting."

"Ah!" Fatima jumped to one side, narrowly missing the oncoming assault to her face. Damian followed her eyes, spotting Jenny Cook rearing back for another throw.

"Duck and move three steps to the left," Damian instructed. Fatima did so just as Jenny's second throw missed its target. Fatima brightened.

"Wow! How'd you know where to move?"

Damian tilted his head, letting a ball sail by his ear. "Practice."

The teacher blew his whistle. "Cook!" he shouted. Jeremy looked up with a scowl. "No aiming for the head!" Twee-twee!

The game began again. As kids were eliminated, the remaining players gathered up more and more balls for ammo. The longer it went on, the clearer and clearer it became that Nathan, Jeremy and Jenny were on the war path in regards to Jon and Damian. And between Damian's disinterest and Jon's eye, the three were becoming increasingly frustrated that neither one of them had been knocked out.

Tweee! "Pause! Too many balls on the court, let's get some of those off." A few students obliged, and the court reset. On the left, Damian, Jon, Fatima and Casey. On the right, Nathan and the Cook twins. "Looks like we nearly have our winners," said the teacher. "The next five minutes are sudden death! If you get your ball caught, you're out! Take your places!" Both sides stood at the far ends, ready to run. "On your marks! Get set!" Tweeee!

Jon, Casey and Fatima ran to the center while Damian hung back. They were barely beat out by their opponents, who were quick to scoop up as many rubber balls as they could. The "out" students cheered for a winner, no matter who that would end up being. With so much on the line, Casey dared to leave the safety of Jon's back and grabbed a drifting ball at his foot. Raising both of his scrawny arms above his head, he reared back in an effort to throw the ball as far and fast as he could.

THUNK!

The sound of the red ball smacking poor Casey square in the nose was loud enough to make the whole crowd of students flinch. Casey went down, his glasses snapped and his nose bloody. As he fell, the ball in his hands rolled away uselessly.

"Casey!" Jon rushed to Casey's side as the teacher blew the whistle again.

"Cook!" he snapped. Jeremy looked up. "I told you, no aiming for the head!"

"It was an accident," said Jeremy, hardly convincing anyone.

"Well it had better not happen again!"

Jon knelt down in front of Casey, who blinked away stars. "Are you okay!?" When Casey didn't answer, Jon helped him to sit as Fatima and Damian joined him. "Here. I don't have a tissue, but..." Jon ripped off the sleeve of his own gym shirt and held it to Casey's nose. "You should go to the nurse." Casey held the fabric to his face, still blinking away the stun.

"Walk it off, Hoffsteder!" the teacher called.

Jon helped Casey to his feet, and offered him a smile as he limped off the court. Jon glowered at Jeremy, who stretched his throwing arm in preparation for the final few minutes. "What a chump," Jon grumbled. "He threw that at Casey's face on purpose."

"Of course he did," said Damian. "He's a horrible person."

"Everybody ready?" the teacher called. Damian, Jon and Fatima spread along their side. Each one held a ball in their hands. Twee!

For the next two minutes, competition was heated. Jon took the most outwardly offensive strategy, while Damian coached Fatima whenever rogue balls came her way. Eventually, Jon managed to ping Nathan square in the chest for an easy out. Jenny and Jeremy were left steaming, while Fatima cheered for Jon on the far side of the court.

"Way to go!" she called, jumping up and down.

With her teeth grit, Jenny swiped a ball with one hand, wound back, and threw for Fatima as hard as she could. Fatima barely had time to blink before realizing that the ball was headed straight for her nose, preparing to shatter it just like poor Casey's.

Until it stopped an inch away from it.

With less than a split second to act, Jon's hand had grabbed the ball tightly. A gust of latent wind had picked up the fringe in his wild hair, and made the loose hem of his gym shorts flutter. Fatima stared at Jon in shock. "Wait... weren't you all the way...?"

Tweee! "Out, Miss Cook!"

Jenny stood there in shock, looking between where Jon had just been standing, and where he was now. "Wait. But that's not--!" Jenny turned to the teacher. "He's cheating!"

"He caught your ball fair and square, Jenny."

"No, but he--!" Jenny pointed between Jon's empty space and his current one. "How did he get all the way over...?"

"You must not have noticed," Damian said in a loud voice. "Jon was already over here. You were probably too focused on playing."

"Y-yeah!" Jon's voice cracked, and he held the ball with two shaking hands. "What Damian said. I was already over here..."

"No. No way! Not fair!"

"You're out, Jenny. Move along."

Jenny whined, but eventually stomped her way to the sidelines. Now it was three against one. Jeremy picked up one ball for each hand and began to throw. Too shaken to do much else, Jon kept his ball in hand, standing in front of Fatima to deflect anything that came their way. Damian took a moment to observe him. Dilated pupils, racing pulse, pale cheeks. Jon was freaked out. Which meant that, for the time being, he was useless.

Grabbing a ball from the floor, Damian took off toward the center of the court. Jeremy redirected his throws accordingly, but Damian masterfully dodged and ducked out of the line of fire. Once he was well within reach, Damian threw. The ball rocketed straight into Jeremy's stomach, missing his outstretched hands by a hair's breadth. The ball hit him with a force that knocked Jeremy off of his feet and straight to the floor. Damian righted himself, his hands shoved back into his gym short pockets.

"Tt. Like I said. An insult."

With the victors declared, PE wrapped, and the students headed into the locker rooms to change. Jon walked with his head in the clouds, his gaze cast off into space. "So... wait... did I...?"

"Keep your voice down," Damian mumbled. "We'll talk about it at home."

Jon turned to him, grabbing Damian's shoulders. "But I. But I did. Didn't I?"

Damian glared. "I said--" He swatted Jon's hands away. "We'll talk about it. At home."

"R-right."

Damian went to his locker, grabbed his change of clothes, and made his way to the bathroom stalls. Living the first nine years of one's life surrounded by assassins had a habit of keeping one paranoid, especially in various states of undress. Taking the far stall, Damian began to change out of his clothes. 

Whispers echoed from outside his stall. Damian frowned, and pressed his ear to the door. He'd only changed into his shirt, his trousers and blazer folded over one arm. The whispers grew sharper, and Damian narrowed his eyes, attempting to hear the details. That was, until a bucket of cold water suddenly crashed onto him from above, tossed over his stall door.

Damian stumbled back as he heard the cackling of Nathan and Jeremy.

"Winner winner!" Jeremy howled, banging on Damian's stall door. "How's that victory shower taste, Wayne!?" Nathan grabbed onto the top of his door, yanking on it in an attempt to scare him. "I bet anything that you and your freaky cousin cheated! I don't know how, but I know you did!"

Having had enough, Damian yanked open his door and glared at the taller boys. "You're an idiot," he spat, his hair dripping. "Who cheats in dodgeball? And to what end?"

Jeremy grabbed the lapel of his sopping wet shirt and yanked him forward. "My sister knows what she saw! She saw your redneck cousin on one side of the court, until he was suddenly on the other. I don't know what tricks you're trying to pull, Wayne, but I'm gonna tell the teacher that you two are acouple'a big stupid cheats!"

"Hey!"

All three turned to see Jon glaring at the entrance of the bathroom. His little fists balled in front of him, Jon was prepared and ready to earn a demerit or two. "Leave him alone!"

Nathan snorted. "Or what, freakass?"

"How'd you jump from one side of the court to the other?" Jeremy demanded, still holding onto Damian's shirt.

"I didn't."

"Don't lie to me! I know what I saw!"

"You must be losing your mind," said Damian coolly. He smacked Jeremy's hand from his shirt. "Because Jon was next to Fatima the whole time."

"He was not!" Nathan argued.

"I was!" Jon argued back. "How could I even get from one side to the other that fast?! Are you nuts?!"

Jeremy ground his teeth, his head snapping between Damian and Jon. Letting Damian go, he and Nathan made their exit. As they passed, Jeremy made sure to shoulder-check Jon's slight frame before vanishing through the door. Jon made a face where they left, and then hurried to Damian's side. "Are you okay?"

Damian had slipped into his dry pants while he wrung out his school shirt. "Fine," he said.

"What is the deal with those guys?" said Jon. "I mean they really suck super hard."

Damian shook out his shirt and slid it on. The cold, wet fabric was awful on his skin, but he powered through it. "Some just behave like animals. There is often no more deeper than an excuse of wanting to feel superior to someone deemed lesser."

Jon's frown turned sad. "Why do you let them pick on you?" Damian looked up. "If you wanted, you could totally deal with those guys with one hand tied behind your back."

Damian shrugged. "Nothing they have done to me compares to what I have suffered in the past." When Jon looked stricken, Damian furrowed his brow, almost embarrassed. "What? It's the truth."

"That doesn't mean they get to..." Jon's words trailed off and he shook his head. "Think we should take you to the nurse? See if we can't get you a different shirt?"

"It's fine. School is almost over today anyway." Damian, his blazer still over one arm, walked toward the door of the bathroom. He stopped, realizing that Jon hadn't moved. "Jon. Come on."

Jon nodded, smally. "Right..." He followed Damian back to the lockers.

After the day's final bell, Alfred arrived promptly to take them home. On the way, Jon had managed to get over his shock in order to process what had happened.

"I mean..." He held up his hands. "I was here one second. And then the next--woosh!" He broke into a smile and whipped to Damian. "I mean, that really happened, didn't it?! Like, I didn't imagine it?!"

"Unlikely," said Damian. "Jeremy and Jenny Cook are two very loud idiots, but even they aren't blind. And besides, I saw it too."

Jon looked worried. "You don't think anyone else...?"

"Even if they did, it's likely they will excuse it away by doubting their senses," said Jon. "Most people, when confronted with the impossible, choose to disbelieve their eyes rather than accept the unacceptable. And even if your secret identity is found out, what does it matter? You won't be here long anyway."

"Huh." Jon opened his hands and stared at their palms. His smile returned and he flexed his fingers. "Wow... Wow! I really did that, didn't I?!"

"I don't understand why you're asking a second time. I've already given you an answer."

Jon laughed, kicking his feet off the edge of his seat. "I went--! I went so fast! Like I was here, right? But then--! It was like I blinked and the whole world shifted! It was crazy! Like, totally banana bread bonkers!"

"Is that a rural expression?"

Jon suddenly squealed and turned to Damian. "I'm getting powers! I can't believe it! I never thought I'd get anything!"

"Why not?" Damian asked. "You were sired by a Kryptonian. I don't understand why it's so shocking that you would eventually inherit his abilities."

"You don't get it." Jon's smile reached his ears and he gripped his arms. "My folks kept telling me I'd eventually get them, but some nights, I would climb up on the roof and jump up and down for hours trying to fly. Or I'd grab hay bales and try to huck them across the barn. Or I'd think really, really hard to try and start campfires with my eyeballs. None of it ever happened. But today--! Today, I wasn't even trying!"

Damian couldn't help it. A tiny smile twinged along his lips. "Perhaps that is the answer? To let it all come naturally?"

The minute they pulled up to the front door of Wayne Manor, Jon flung himself from the car and rushed inside. Damian wandered in behind him, casually carrying his satchel over one shoulder.

"Dad!" Jon cried, running around the foyer. "Dad, dad, dad, dad!"

"Jon?" Clark peered over the balcony, a pencil behind his ear. Hopping over the railing, he floated to the floor with a concerned expression. "What's wrong? What happened?"

Jon was practically bursting with glee. "Watch this! Watch, watch!"

"I'm watching!"

Jon turned. He bent his knees, focused solely on a spot of the foyer clear across the way. He took a few steadying breaths. "Just gotta focus... gotta... focus..."

Schyoom!

The wind kicked up at his feet as Jon suddenly shot himself to the other end of the foyer. He skid to a halt, nearly toppling over himself as he did so, and then turned with his arms held open. "Ta-da!"

Clark's face cracked with unadulterated joy. "Jon... you...!" He broke into wild laughter as Jon zipped back and forth all around the foyer. At one point, Jon came just close enough for Clark to snatch him, mid-run, and hold him high in the air. "You're getting your powers! Oh this is so exciting! Look at you! You're gonna be flying in no time!" He spun in a circle, twirling Jon in the air while Jon squealed in delight. Clark set Jon back down. "We should go call your other dad!"

"Race ya!" Jon cried. With a bounce in his step, Jon zipped out of sight. Clark belly laughed before chasing the boy at mach speed.

The gust they left behind rustled Damian's clothes as he watched them leave. Any smile he'd had in the car had fallen by now, and the light in his emerald green eyes had dimmed. He stood alone until the silence was unbearable. With is satchel heavy on his arms, Damian made his slow trek upstairs to do his homework. 

Chapter Text

It was astounding how quickly things could move in Gotham, particularly among the criminal underworld. One minute, drugs changed between calm and collected hands. The next, every dealer within the block was running for their lives as the shadow of the Batman descended from above. The narrow, one way street was often flush with dealers and runners, almost all of whom worked for various bosses like Penguin or Black Mask. Up until now, the location had been a secret well kept among the criminal class. After tonight, most would undoubtedly need to hunt for new real estate. If they weren't rotting in jail, of course. 

With cuffs at the ready, Batman made quick work of every dealer he came across, latching them to alley doors, railings and lamp posts. Those who put up a fight were swiftly reminded of Gotham's food chain, courtesy of a Bat-flavored knuckle sandwich. It wasn't long, however, until guns started firing. Using the close quarters to his advantage, Batman dove behind a corner as bullets lit up the ground.

"Fuck!" One of the drug dealers reloaded his rifle, his face and neck slick with sweat. "Fuck, fuck! I thought this street was secure!"

"I don't see him!" another hissed, gripping his pistol with both hands. "Where is the little fucker?!"

"Who, the Bat?"

"No! The Bird!" He held up his pistol to his line of sight, checking roof tops and windows. "Motherfucker never heads out without his Robin!"

"Look out!"

The small cluster of dealers scattered as Batman dropped like a lead weight. Kevlar fists met teeth, and more and more drug dealers went down like bowling pins. One of the dealers managed to make a run for it as Batman cuffed his coworkers to a sewer grate, but it was an escape short lived. Batman gave chase, and just as the man made his turn to safety, he was folded in half by a knee to the spine. The dealer crumpled with a gargled scream of pain, his rifle falling from his hands. He managed to turn just as Batman loomed over him, ready to cut the fight painfully short.

Batman grabbed the dealer by his lapel and pinned him to the brick wall. The man cried out, his legs failing helplessly as he was lifted from the ground. Face to face with the Dark Knight, it was a miracle he didn't piss himself with fear.

"Who supplies you the drugs?" Batman asked. The dealer whimpered, and Batman slammed his back into the brick. "Who?"

"I can't! They'll kill me!"

"Fine." Batman dragged the dealer to a low level balcony with wrought iron railing. "You'll just have to answer to the police, then." Batman reached for the cuffs at his belt, turning in just a way that revealed the slightest sliver of suit without armor. Fueled by desperation, the dealer managed to swipe a knife from his pocket and thrust it forward. It lodged deep an inch above Batman's left hip.

Batman shouted, more out of shock than pain. He dropped the dealer out of instinct. Once the man hit the ground, he limped away as fast as he could with a busted spine. The knife in Batman's abdomen was still protruding outward, having been lodged through his belly fat and between two chunks of muscle. Gritting his teeth, Batman yanked it out, letting it clatter to the floor. Blood now flooded the bottom half of his suit. This hadn't been the first time he'd been stabbed, but one never really got used to the sensation.

A clatter of gunfire made Batman retreat into the shadows, hiding himself by use of his cape. One of the bullets ricocheted and grazed across Batman's cheek. He wouldn't have noticed, had he not felt the warm, oily blood gather at the edge of his cowl.

"I saw him!" Batman heard a dealer shout. "Just that way!"

Batman peered above him. Grabbing his grapple, he launched himself high to land on a third floor balcony. Unfortunately, the door opened just as Batman landed, bringing him face to face with a behemoth of a man, grizzled and itching for a fight. His meaty hands grabbed Batman tight around the throat, and he strangled Batman against the balcony railing. Batman held his breath, hoping to center his mind before it went blank. Positioning his feet against the balcony ledge, Batman pushed, and slammed his assailant into the sliding glass door. It shattered, and the brute released Batman as he collapsed into the scattered glass. Batman coughed, feeling his hidden throat. He could already tell a bruise had started to form underneath.

"Rghaahhh!" With the snarl of a bull, the thug pushed himself to his feet and thundered for Batman, his hands ready to finish the job. The balcony being too narrow to side-step, Batman jumped up and over the edge, grabbing onto the railing before plummeting to the ground. As the goon was going too fast to stop, he toppled over the rail and began to free fall to the alley below. Batman whipped out his grapple and shot. The hook latched itself around the massive man's foot, and the line jerked taut. Batman strained under the weight. The man had been caught an inch from death, but now, he was pulling Batman down with him.

Voices echoed from inside the third floor apartment. Before Batman knew it, he was being swarmed by men with guns. He released the rail just as bullets tore through chunks of the wood banister. The pull of his massive man sent him down faster than he was used to, and while he tried to grab another rail on his way down, it gave way the moment he grabbed on, and further down he tumbled.

Batman landed hard. Dizzy, he pushed himself to his knees. He had no time to gather himself before more guns rained down from below. Batman could feel a few bang into his armored cowl, leaving behind painful, purple kisses. He burst in through the back door of a flop house, startling a cluster of junkies with needles in their hands. Batman ignored them, barreling through to the other side. He slowed to catch his breath. The whole of his body was sore and aching, and he was almost sure his knife wound was still actively bleeding.

Headlights blasted him from behind, and he turned. Five gunmen in a Jeep peeled out from the darkness, with Batman as their target. Ignoring his pain, Batman grabbed a street lamp pole, ran up the side of the nearby building, and swung right back around just as the Jeep was passing. He landed in the open back seat, and took advantage of his targets' utter confusion to start flinging them out of the moving car. Despite the searing pain in his gut, Batman tore through them like wet tissue paper. Eventually, he and the driver were the only ones left. They sped wildly down the streets of Gotham, narrowly missing pedestrians and oncoming traffic. Batman fought for the wheel, but ducked his head as the driver attempted to shoot him point blank. With one good sucker punch, the driver collapsed onto the steering wheel, out cold. Unfortunately, his foot was still on the gas pedal, and the Jeep was headed at full speed toward Gotham First National Bank.

Batman grabbed the unconscious criminal by the scruff of his neck. Tossing him over his shoulder, he jumped just as the Jeep collided with the brick in a plume of fire. The force of the gas canister exploding was enough to thrust Batman forward, whipping his head painfully back at the movement. He collapsed to the street in a crumpled mess, the gunman limp but breathing beside him. Sirens and bystanders began to flood the streets as Batman forced himself to his feet. Woozy and aching, Batman grappled up and away into the Gotham skyline.

He meant to land feet first onto the roof of an apartment building, but his knees gave out the moment he touched down. He collapsed into a tangle of limbs, breathing heavy as he assessed his damage. His knife wound had started to clot, but it wasn't fast enough. His legs tingled with needling pain, and the whole left side of his face was screaming in the autumn chill. Batman rolled himself onto his back, staring up at the smog. Of all the nights to patrol solo...

Bruce brought his shaky hand up to his comm link and tapped it, only to get an earful of static. He winched and shut it off. One of the falls must have cracked the link. Fortunately there were replacements available at the Cave. He just needed to get himself home. Which he could definitely do. And was doing. Right now. At any second. He just... maybe wanted to lay there a little bit longer. Maybe for like an hour. Or two.

Bruce grit his teeth and shut his eyes. "Come on," he breathed. "Get up." Hands flat on the roof, he pushed himself to sit. Pain shot through his lower back, and he collapsed to one side, curled up into a ball. "Ow." His brow furrowed. Pebbles clung to his body as he pushed himself upward on trembling arms. He fell a second time. When was the last time he got hurt this badly? He must have fallen wrong...

"Come on, Wayne," he growled. "Up. Up. Up." He ground his teeth hard as he shoved himself to one knee. He could feel the world bob like the ocean, and before he knew it, he slipped, headed straight down for the floor yet again.

But he never made it. Two hands, warm and gentle, cradled his head just an inch from the gravely roof. Above him was Superman's worried expression, painted by the hazy lights of the Gotham skyline. Bruce tried to push away, but Clark gathered him up as though he weighed nothing. Bruce grumbled, his heavy head falling flat against Clark's chest. "I didn't call for you," he grumbled.

"I know," said Clark, kindly. "But I was listening."

"From all the way in Metropolis?" Bruce looked up, only to be met with Clark's tender smile. Bruce shut his eyes. "You're obsessed."

"Maybe," Clark chuckled. He took to the sky, hovering a few feet from the apartment roof. "No Robin tonight?"

"Studying."

"I see. Are you okay?"

"Peachy. Just drop me off at the corner bodega and I'll--" Bruce hissed, a throng of pain from his knife wound catching the words in his throat. "Fuck."

"You're injured," said Clark.

"I'm fine."

"I'm taking you home."

"Superman, I have work to do."

"And you've got one too many holes in you to do it. Now quit whining and let me take care of you." Though it was clear Bruce wanted to argue, the flush of his cheeks was enough to admit defeat. The flight to Wayne Manor was mostly silent, and Bruce tried not to shiver as they puffed through low hanging clouds. Rather than go through the cave, Clark landed them at the balcony of Bruce's master bedroom.

Clark walked him inside and sat him down. "Where does it hurt?" he asked.

Bruce glared. "I'm not a fucking toddler."

"Not with that mouth. Alright, I'll just need to--" Clark reached to Bruce's back to unmask him, but Bruce jerked away before he could. Clark huffed. "Will you please make this easy?"

"I don't need you to coddle me."

"Oh no? Well then fine." Clark's hands worked fast, and soon, Bruce was completely unzipped, unbuckled, and unfrocked. He sat in his tactical underclothes, which were now strained with blood. Clark took a closer look at the knife wound. "Should I get Alfred?"

"I can handle my own stitching."

"You're joking me, right?" Bruce's stoney eyes were enough of an answer. "Wait right there." Clark walked to the bathroom to fetch Bruce's first aid kit, his cape fluttering behind every step of his bright red boots.

Bruce sighed deeply and leaned his head against the bed poster. How did he get here? Dealer's row was hardly a siege on the Iceberg Lounge. Was he just getting old? Or was he really that underprepared and overconfident? Clark walked back out with the first aid kit and set the box at Bruce's thigh. "Let me see here." He popped it open. "Great. Bandages, peroxide, sutures, splints... Alright, let's get it cleaned up first." Clark took a cotton ball and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Dabbing it with the disinfectant, Clark began to clean Bruce's wound.

"You don't have to do this," Bruce muttered.

"I know."

"I've been dealing with my own injuries for decades now."

"Mhm."

Bruce's flush returned, and he pointedly looked away. "You're unbearable."

Clark only smiled wider. "I love you, too." Finishing with the cleaning, Clark took a sterilized needle and suture thread and began to sew him up. Bruce barely flinched. Once Clark knotted the string, he plastered a bandage over the fresh stitch and slid Bruce from his undershirt. "Looks like everything else is a bruise. Well, except for this." Clark touched the skin just beneath Bruce's bullet graze. "Probably won't need stitches for this one. Let me--"

Bruce took Clark's hand. Clark looked down to meet Bruce's intense gaze. Bruce laid their lips together in a supple kiss, and Clark melted. When they broke apart, Clark stayed close, lost in Bruce's icy blue eyes. "I should clean it," Clark whispered. "And then... I think I need to wash your back."

"Clocking out early, Superman?"

"Just taking a break. Metropolis can hold off for an hour or two."

Clark was delicate with Bruce's graze, and once it was cleaned and dressed, he carried Bruce to the bathroom, much to his lover's chagrin. They stripped naked and turned on the shower. Clark held Bruce firmly between two secure arms under the water. Bruce allowed himself to release the last of his tension and slump against Clark's bare back. Clark's hands washed Bruce with wide, tender strokes of soap. For a man so powerful, he handled Bruce with the utmost care, barely twinging the many bruises he now wore. Clark washed his hair, massaging the soap into his sweaty roots, and softly scrubbed the dirt from underneath his nails. It was its own kind of intimacy. Vulnerable and precious and hidden from the rest of the world. All the horrors, all the anger that haunted the dark corners of Bruce's mind, had ebbed away, until all that was left was a quiet hum, and an overwhelming fatigue.

Once Bruce was out and dried, Clark insisted he put him in his best silk pajamas, and carried him to bed. By now, Bruce didn't even bother fighting it. He curled up as Clark tucked Bruce away under the covers. Clark pet his damp hair.

"Isn't this better?" Clark asked. Bruce mumbled something, and Clark kissed his forehead. "I should head back out. Are you going to be okay?"

"Clark. I'm fine." Bruce opened up one eye. "If you have to go, go."

"Goodnight, Bruce. I'll be home before you know it." Clark kissed his knuckles. "I love you." Bruce closed his eye and snuggled into the pillows. A squeeze of Clark's hand, and Clark knew Bruce returned the sentiment. Standing, Clark made to leave through the window, when a subtle noise caught the attention of his sensitive ears. He turned his head, and with a flash of his x-ray vision, found the source.

Talia stood in the hallway, pressed up against the door. Listening to them.

"Something wrong?" Bruce asked.

Clark flashed him a smile. "I think you have rats," he said. "I'll talk to Alfred about it in the morning. Get some sleep." Bruce closed his eyes. After a moment, Clark walked to the door. He kept an eye on Talia, who had not moved, even at the sound of Clark coming closer. He said nothing, but clicked the door locked closed. He then took off through the open window and into the night.

For hours, Superman patrolled the skies of both Metropolis and Gotham. The latter certainly had the lion's share of trouble, but a few sweeps through criminal hangouts got the word out quick. Superman was in town, and in response, illegal activity closed up shop early, and fast. As first light crested the horizon, Superman made his way back to Wayne Manor, making sure to stay over the clouds so as not to be tracked by drones, cameras, or nosy neighbors. The whole of the estate was washed over in a dull, chilly gray. Rather than go straight for Bruce's room, Clark landed on the balcony of his own to change. Even though he rarely ever used it, Bruce had insisted Clark have the option to sleep undisturbed. That morning, Clark knew he would be the disruptive one, and had resolved to give Bruce his space to heal.

Clark changed into black sweats and an old college t-shirt. He had brushed his teeth and was ready to get into bed, when he paused. That soft sound once again made itself known. When he'd heard it earlier, he'd barely registered what it was. Now, listening intently, he recognized it. It was the heartbeat of someone who wasn't Bruce Wayne.

Going to their adjoining room, Clark opened the door. There, sitting at the foot of Bruce's bed, was Talia. She watched Bruce in silence, keeping a respectful distance, but little else. She didn't bother looking up when Clark walked in. Bruce was dead asleep, and breathing soundly.

"Locks are easy to pick," whispered Talia.

Clark frowned. "Bruce wouldn't like you in here."

"I know." Talia finally met Clark's eyes. Clark remained steadfast. She stood from the bed, wrapped in a black house robe that complimented her full figure. "Care to join me for coffee?"

As much as Clark wanted to say no--he didn't have the sleeping habits of most of the household, after all--he knew that it would be better to handle whatever Talia had planned head on. He nodded. "Alright." He followed Talia out of the bedroom and down to the southern kitchen. Two hot chocolate mugs were left empty by the sink, with tell-tale signs of cookie crumbs on the table. Damian and Jon had clearly been studying hard enough to require snacks.

Clark prepped a pot of coffee without Talia asking. Talia watched him, leaning her hip against the table.

"I know you hate me," she said.

Clark didn't react. "I don't hate you."

"Because Superman doesn't hate people?" Clark didn't answer, and Talia continued. "But that's not true for Clark Kent. The god masquerading as a man. The alien next door. I'm sure there are plenty of people he hates."

"This won't work."

"What won't?"

Clark finally turned to address her directly. "I know what you're trying to do. You want me to lash out at you. I don't know, maybe anger makes you feel more secure than tolerance. Maybe you're hoping to get a reaction to try and break me and Bruce up. Maybe you want me to appear violent so that you have an excuse to take Damian away. I've already decided that you're not getting under my skin, no matter what you do. You're free to try, of course. But you will not succeed." Clark opened the fridge door. "How do you take it? Cream, sugar?"

Talia narrowed her eyes, but answered. "Black."

Clark actually chuckled. "You and Bruce have that in common."

"We have a lot in common."

"I know you do." Clark took two mugs from the cabinet and set them down, adding the sugar bowl and half and half to the counter. "I'm not blind. I know that the relationship you two shared was passionate. Maybe there is still something there, maybe there isn't. But if there was, I would trust him to tell me. He's braver than to hide it." When the coffee maker dinged, Clark poured her her mug and handed it over. "Would you like a pastry? I think there are some from yesterday."

Talia stared at Clark over her mug of hot coffee. "I don't understand you."

"That's okay. You don't have to." Clark fixed his coffee with cream and sugar. With a sip, he fished out the open box of pastries from the fridge. "Ooh. Apple fritter." He took it and put it on a small plate from the cupboard. "I like to warm these up. They're nice when they're toasty." He placed the plate in the microwave and hit a thirty second timer.

"Why don't you hate me?"

Clark turned to Talia. She seemed genuinely confused, and Clark could almost sense a twinge of melancholy behind her gorgeous eyes. "I told myself that you were hiding your animosity out of care for Bruce. Or perhaps even for Damian. But... I think, this is the first time I actually believe you. And I don't... understand."

The microwave beeped. Clark removed the plate and set it on the counter. He tore off a piece of fritter and ate it, washing it down with a sip of coffee. "You were put in a very unfair situation," said Clark plainly. "You were born and raised in a place that turned you into a soldier. Your son was born in the same way. He struggled a lot, you know, that first year. But Bruce managed to get him to a place where he knew he was loved and safe. That anger he had, he still has, it doesn't come from a healthy upbringing. He was born into a world that hurt him. And the same, I think, can be said for you, Ms. Talia. Hate and anger didn't help Damian heal, any more than it would change your mind. If there comes a time when you try to break my family, know that I will do everything in my power to prevent it. But I don't hate you. To be honest, part of me wishes you could see your situation for what it is. If only for the sake of your son." He took another bite of fritter.

Talia stood as though she'd been slapped. Her face paled considerably, and the mug in her hands had started to tip. Noticing this, Clark took it from her and set it on the table. "Careful," he said. "It's hot."

Talia blinked from her daze and pushed away from him. She redirected her eyes as though Clark was too bright to see directly. She held her arms; an action which Clark had seen Damian do occasionally as a means of self-soothing. When she spoke again, she kept her back turned to Clark. As though it were easier to speak to the floor tiles than to him.

"You're right," she said, softly. "Our love affair was... passionate. I had fallen in love with Bruce Wayne years before my feelings were ever returned. I met him as a young man, training under my father. When he betrayed the League of Assassins, I convinced myself that my feelings were hatred. But when we met again, this time on equal footing, I knew that I had been lying to myself. That brief moment in Gotham all those years ago... I convinced myself that it was our one moment of happiness. And then, he lost his son."

"Jason," said Clark.

Talia nodded. "A fool-hearted consequence of my father's own shortcomings. Trusting a man like the Joker to have restraint... Bruce was broken. He left Gotham after that. I don't know if he ever planned to come back. We found each other again in Morocco. I believe that he saw me as a way to dull the pain. But what began as a distraction blossomed into something... more. At first, my father was furious. Until I convinced him to let Bruce Wayne continued the al Ghul lineage. For a whole year, I gave him a life he could never have in Gotham. Loved him like no woman had ever loved a man."

"And then you pushed him away," Clark concluded. "Why?"

"Because I was pregnant."

"But wouldn't that have pleased your father?"

"Oh yes. He went on for days about the child in my belly. A baby born of the blood of two great soldiers. He saw Damian as nothing more than the next prodigy of his line. He wanted Bruce and I to marry. Stay in 'Eth Alth'eban as a 'happy family.' I believed Bruce would do it. I had made him so happy. And then I thought. And I thought. I thought of what my father would do with Bruce under his command. I thought of the man Bruce might become, influenced by Ra's al Ghul. I thought of the life I was taking him away from, of the city that desperately needed him. And I knew. I knew that if he knew that I carried his son, he would do anything to stay by his side. Perhaps even convince me to return to Gotham as his bride, only for us to look over our shoulder eternally as my father sent his assassins in retribution. What life would that be for us? For our child? Every time I tried to imagine our future together, it was clouded with blood, and anger, and betrayal, and death. And I... could not do it.

"So I lied. I told him I had lost the baby. I had anticipated, so fresh from the death of his youngest son, that Bruce would abandon me. That it would be too much of a psychological strain for him to bare. But to my surprise, he stayed. He stayed, and offered to help see me through it. The guilt I felt in that moment was worse than any torture my father had put me through. And so I sabotaged us from the inside out. I told him every day how much I hated him. Refused to see him, cursed him, demanded he return to Gotham. I called him such terrible things. And even then, it took almost a month before he finally left."

Talia jumped as Clark laid his hand on her shoulder. Tears clung to her eyelashes, and her words grew strained. "I hid his son from him. His only blood son. I hid Damian because I was too afraid of losing his father any other way than my own. Isn't that terrible?" She laughed, miserably, and put her face in her hands. "Now... surely, you must hate me..."

Clark's voice was tempered and soft. "You acted out of love," he said. "You may not have done it the right way, but you sacrificed your happiness for the sake of someone else. That's more than what others might have done in your situation."

Talia turned, making Clark drop his hand from her shoulder. Her cheeks flushed, and on her lips was a tepid, quivering smile. "I can see why he adores you so." Clark returned her smile. Wiping her face, Talia stepped away. "Excuse me. I should like to spend my morning alone." Clark nodded, and watched her leave without a word. With a sigh, he took another sip of his coffee. 

Oh well. Sleep could wait.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Running. Running. Running.

Running until the muscles ached and the heart pumped acid.

Running until every breath stabbed like daggers.

And still, running.

Damian didn't know where he was, nor where he was running to. But he knew that he had to get there quickly.

A brilliant light broke the darkness, and Damian winced. But still he ran. Ran towards it as though his very life depended on it. Up ahead stood two figures. To men waiting for him. Damian reached with all his might. They noticed him, and reaching out, offered Damian their hands. Damian grabbed on, and was pulled from the shadow into the light.

As the world settled under his feet, he realized his hands were soaked with blood.

To his left, Clark was crumpled, gutted like a fish with his entrails steaming. To his right, Dick, Jason and Tim were gathered together, their throats slit expertly. Damian backed away, horrified at the knife in his hand. He bumped into something, swaying from a taut rope. He turned to see Jon dangling from a noose.

Damian threw himself to the floor. Tried to scramble back as the blood of his dead family reached out to claim him. Damian screamed, but found he had no voice. His hand fell to something, and he whipped around.

His father, dead and rotting, lay before him. His mask was torn, the blood brown from days of neglect. The worms had already started to eat his flesh. Steadily, he decade faster. Flies landed on his open eye, lapping up what little moisture he had left to give. There was no soul, no spark of life. Just an empty, fleshy husk, ready to be reclaimed by the earth.

Damian woke with a vicious start. His hands had gripped his bedsheets so tightly, he'd torn holes with his nails. His whole body was slick with sweat, his heart thundering. He wondered if Clark could hear it. He sat up slowly. It was barely half an hour to his alarm for school. Not that there was any chance of going back to sleep after that. It had been a while since his nightmares had been so visceral. Though Damian prided himself of a strong constitution, waking from the terror left him feeling woozy and nauseous. Damian slipped out of bed, wondering if he could find solace with his fathers, when he stopped. The sound of laughter echoed from downstairs. Quiet as a mouse, he pried open the door and looked over the banister.

Jon, already dressed for school, zipped around in a circle while Clark and Bruce watched. Both wore proud smiles as Jon showcased his new ability. Damian could hear Bruce brag about giving the Flash a run for his money. Damian's heart clenched, and he returned to his bedroom in silence.

After he was washed, dressed, and ready, Damian headed downstairs. He ignored the happy faces that greeted him.

"Morning," said Bruce. "We were just about to come get you."

"Damian, Damian!" Jon snapped in front of Damian with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. "Check this out! You won't believe it!" Jon focused himself, and with a jump, ran the length of the foyer, up the wall, and upside down along the second floor balcony before falling wildly back to Earth. Clark caught him before he face-planted into the marble, and Jon got to his feet. "Wasn't that so cool?!"

Damian's expression didn't change. "We should get going."

Clark was the first to notice. "Hey. Are you okay? Your heart rate's a little..."

"I'm fine."

"Are you sick?"

"I said I'm fine."

Clark gave Bruce a worried glance. Taking that as his cue, Bruce stepped up. "Do you want breakfast? Alfred made that goat cheese and honey toast you like."

"I'm not hungry."

"Damian--"

Damian turned sharply and marched his way out the front door. He could almost hear the concerned looks that followed. Jon came after him as Alfred pull the car around.

"Hey," he said. "Are you good? You seem like you're in a bad mood."

"What part of 'I'm fine' doesn't compute for you Kents?"

"Well sure. But your face is all..."

"What's wrong with my face?" Damian snapped.

"Nothing!" Jon held up his hands. "It's just... I dunno. You look like you smelled something bad." Damian scowled, and rather than dignifying that with a response, stomped down the steps to Alfred as he held open their door.

"Damian."

Damian turned to see Bruce walk his way. He stood in front of his son, and for a moment, Damian wondered if he was going to need to defend his mood yet again. But instead, Bruce reached out and hugged Damian tightly. Damian stiffened, and though he didn't hug back, he laid his head on Bruce's stomach. He could smell antiseptic beneath his clothes.

"You were injured last night," he mumbled.

"Don't worry about me," said Bruce. He pet Damian's hair. "You just have a good day at school. Alright?" Damian said nothing. Bruce let him go, and Damian climbed into the back of Alfred's car. "I love you, son."

Damian paused before shutting the car door.

School was uneventful for the first few hours. Although studying history was frankly beneath Damian's time, Jon had insisted he do his best, even though his marks at Anders barely mattered. But as Jon put it, if he didn't at least try, his mom would chew him a new one. After history came math, to which Damian barely paid attention, and then sixth grade biology. Another star subject of his. By the end of the class, they all received back their graded quizzes from earlier in the week.

"Aw man," Jon pouted. He turned the paper to Damian with a pursed lower lip. "I got a 65%! Mom's gonna kill me."

Damian looked over his quiz. It was a write-in sheet for the names of all major bones in the human body. "Why did you call the radius the 'funny bone'?"

"Isn't that what it is?"

Damian hooded his eyes. "It's a radius."

"Then how come when I hit my elbow it gets all tingly?"

"That's the ulnar nerve."

"Yeah, well." Jon put his paper face-down. "What did you get?" Damian stared at his empty desk, and Jon blinked. "Wait, you took it, right?"

"Mr. Wayne?"

Damian looked up to Mrs. Austin, his biology teacher. She was a quiet, docile woman whom Damian paid very little mind to, but currently, the sight of her peering through her half-bottom glasses was enough to make his stomach squirm. "Could you see me before heading off to lunch?"

Jeremy and Nathan both "oooh'd" appropriately, making some in the class giggle. Jon glared at them, but said nothing, as the bell had already rung for lunch. Getting up from his desk, Jon flashed Damian an encouraging smile. "I'll be right outside the door." Damian nodded, before silently approaching Mrs. Austin's desk.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked, directly. "I believe my answers were satisfactory for your exam."

"That's one word for it." Mrs. Austin laid Damian's quiz on the desk. "I would use the word 'excessive.'" She pointed to his answers. "In my twenty years of teaching, I have never seen anything like this. You were asked to name three bones in the hand, you gave me all twenty seven. I asked you to describe the femur, and not only is your answer out of something from a textbook, you drew a perfect, anatomical illustration as reference." She handed the paper back to him, and Damian looked at the 100% in red ink. "Damian, have you thought about what you want to do for high school?"

Damian looked up, confused. Frankly, high school had barely crossed his mind, what with his priorities being what they were. "Not particularly."

Mrs. Austin pulled out a pamphlet from her desk and handed it to him. "Gotham Preparatory has a pre-medical course that fast-tracks brilliant young minds like yourself toward a career in medicine." Damian's lips parted, and Mrs. Austin elaborated. "I think you might want to consider becoming a doctor."

Damian blinked slowly. "A doctor...?" The word was almost foreign to him. "I..." He stared at the brightly colored advertisement for Gotham Prep. "I... don't think so, ma'am."

"No? Why not?"

"My father expects me to remain in the family business."

The light dwindled from Mrs. Austin's eyes. "I see. That's a shame. The world could use more doctors." Damian tried to hand the pamphlet back, but Mrs. Austin held up her hand. "Keep it. You're young; your life isn't in stone yet. Maybe give it some thought?" Damian nodded. "Very good. Off you go." Damian walked out of her classroom in stunned silence.

"Hey!" Jon jumped up from the wall when Damian emerged. "What's up? What happened? You're not in trouble, are you?" Damian handed Jon the pamphlet. "'Gotham Preparatory'?"

"Mrs. Austin thinks I should be a doctor."

Jon looked up, stars in his eyes. "Woah... really?" Damian handed Jon his quiz. "Wait, did you draw all this?"

"Anatomical references, yes. I thought it would help my grade."

"Oh wowie! This is so good!" Jon grinned wide and gave him back his quiz. "You should totally be a doctor!"

"What? No."

"Why not?"

"Because..." Damian glanced around them. "You know why. I have... responsibilities."

"I'm sure Uncle Bruce would understand," said Jon. "I mean a doctor! Wow, I can see you in a white lab coat with one of those tuby-things around your neck!"

"A stethoscope?"

"Yeah! A step-a-scope!"

That actually got Damian to laugh. "Maybe in another life."

"Hey."

Damian and Jon turned. Jeremy, Jenny, and Nathan stood behind them, hoping to look more intimidating than three eleven year olds really were. "We need to talk to your cousin."

Damian stepped in front of Jon. "I highly doubt that."

"He cheated!" Jenny snapped, pointing at Jon. "Somehow, he cheated, and made me look like I was crazy for noticing!"

Damian smiled coolly. "Perhaps I should become a doctor, Jon," he said. "It'd be easier to diagnose psychosis when I see it."

"Are you calling me a psycho!?" Jenny screeched.

"If you need it simplified, then yes."

Jon snorted behind Damian's shoulder. 

"Wait a minute," Nathan narrowed his eyes. "You? A doctor?"

"Ugh, this conversation bores me." Damian spun on his heel. "Let's go to lunch." He was about to leave when Jeremy snatched his quiz from his hand. He turned, mildly annoyed that the conversation was being dragged out. "May I have that back?" He held out his hand.

Jeremy looked over Damian's perfect score, and after a moment of thought, began to shred it into tiny pieces. "Sure. Here you go." He tossed the ripped paper up like confetti and threw it over Damian's head. Damian's blank expression never changed. Jon's, however, did.

"What's with you guys?!" Jon stepped in front of Damian, suddenly emboldened with righteous fury. "I mean seriously! Do you y'all have nothing better to do than just pick on everybody? Are you really that bored or something?"

"Shut up, freak," Jenny snapped. "Nobody even wants you here. Did you know that? Because you don't actually belong here, do you? You stupid, dumb redneck."

Jon flushed. "Yeah?! Well--well at least I'm not mean--!"

"Aww, is the hic gonna cry?" Jeremy sneered. "Tch. What a baby."

"Leave him alone," Damian demanded.

"Or what?" Nathan countered. "You gonna run to big mean daddy? Oh wait--daddies." The three cackled like hyenas. "I wouldn't bother trying to be a doctor, by the way. My father runs the best hospitals in Gotham, and they're not gonna let some weirdo kid work for them."

"He probably just wants an excuse to cut people open," Jenny hissed. "You know how psychos cut up cats and stuff? What do you bet that the prince has a whole graveyard of pets at home cause he just couldn't help himself?"

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Jon's voice grabbed the whole hallway's attention. He barely noticed. "If you jerks would even bother to get to know Damian, you'd know that he's the smartest, coolest guy in this stupid school! You wish you were as awesome as him!"

"Jon." Damian's voice was small, his body going stiff. "Stop."

"Damian goes out of his way to help people, no matter what! He helped me study all night for our history test even though he knew he could pass it totally fine! But he stayed up for me! Because that's the kind of guy he is! He's got more heart than the three of you put together, and if you buttholes had any kind of manners, you'd realize that he's a really, really great guy!"

Jenny pursed her lips with an unattractive snort. "Oh my God," she said, her rich-girl inflection positively grating. "Is everyone in your family a dramatic little weirdo?" The other two laughed, and Jon tried desperately not to appear embarrassed. But the flush in his face was making that a bit difficult.

Jeremy stepped forward and pushed Jon with one hand, knocking him into the lockers. Jon fell to the floor in a daze. "Nasty little hillbilly," he spat. He opened his mouth to say more, but Damian tackled him before he could get the words out.

The screams of chaos alerted every teacher on the floor within seconds. 

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Bruce and Clark stood on the front steps of the Manor, waiting for Alfred to arrive.

"You should have let me get them," Clark said.

"Damian asked for their pickup to be subtle," Bruce replied. "Something that I'm afraid you are not, even as a civilian."

Clark sighed. "Suspended for fighting. I know we shouldn't be surprised, but--"

"I'm just glad he's not going to prison for murder, to be honest."

The car finally pulled up, and Damian kicked open the door before Alfred had a chance to open it. He and Jon were battered, but the injuries were surface level at best. Jon sustained most of them, undoubtedly due to his lack of training. But Damian sported a split lip of his own, and both of their uniforms were a horrible mess.

Bruce frowned as they approached. "Do you have anything to say for yourselves?" Damian pushed past him and through the front door of the Manor. Bruce and Clark exchanged looks before turning to Jon.

"Jon." Jon flinched at Clark's stern tone. "Do you want to tell us what happened?" After a moment, Jon shook his head and scurried inside. Clark huffed and rubbed his neck. "Oof. This is gonna be rough."

"Come on." Bruce led them inside, following the trail of discarded school supplies until they were in the kitchen. Damian had started pulling out food to make himself a snack. Jon stood quietly in his shadow, his head down in shame. "The dean didn't give me any more details beyond the basics," said Bruce. "I'm hoping one of you could shed some light on this situation?"

"Was it the kids from before?" Clark asked. "Really, if you didn't start the fight--"

"No." Damian slammed the fridge. "I started it."

"No he didn't!" Every head swiveled to Jon, who spoke with a quivering voice. His puffy lip trembled, but he forced himself to put on a brave face. "They were being awful. All because Damian--"

"Jon." Damian slammed the peanut butter on the counter, making Jon flinch.

"Damian," said Clark softly, "you should let Jon speak."

"He doesn't have anything of value to say."

"That's not kind," Clark reminded him.

"Well maybe I'm not kind."

Jon swallowed. "They were calling me names out in the middle of the hall. I asked them what their problem was. But before that, they..." Jon glanced at Damian, who glared daggers over his shoulder. Jon locked up. "Why can't I tell them?"

"Tell us what?" Bruce asked.

"His quiz," said Jon. "He--"

Suddenly, Damian threw the peanut butter, splattering it at Jon's feet. The lid popped off, and peanut butter exploded all over Jon's shoes and up his pant legs. "Damian!" Clark cried. "What in the world has gotten into you?" He grabbed a rag from the counter and bent down to clean off Jon's legs.

"That was completely uncalled for," Bruce chided. "Apologize to Jon."

"No."

"I said, apologize."

"No!"

Jon sniffed, shrinking in on himself as he gripped his tiny hands together. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, Damian. I didn't mean to make it worse. I just..." He quivered, and Clark brought him into a hug.

Damian glared with tears in his eyes.

Bruce took a step forward. "Damian..." He reached out, but Damian yanked away. Pushing past Bruce entirely, Damian ran out the back door, through the laundry room, and out into the garden. They could all hear the back door slam, marking his exit. Clark moved to follow, but Bruce held his hand out to stop him. "Give him his space." Clark obliged. Barely.

Outside, Damian stormed his way through the garden and into the hedge maze, tromping through mud and knocking away unruly branches. His tears came hot and angry. His fury was directionless and amorphous, overwhelming him with the need to lash out, to hurt something in his path. As he came to the center of the labyrinth, he stood in front of a small fountain depicting cupid, pouring a pitcher of water endlessly into the basin below. With a yell, Damian kicked it as hard as he could, splitting the stone at its narrowest point, and knocking it clear into the water below. The hose sputtered, directionless, as Damian stared at the destruction.

He took a few calming breaths, but his rage barely felt contained. "How long are you going to stand there, mother?" he seethed.

Talia stepped out from behind a hedge, watching her son in silence. "How long do you intend on throwing a tantrum?"

"I am not--!" Damian caught himself and spun around. Noticing a priceless vase with beautiful peonies, he knocked it from its pedestal, letting it shatter on the ground. Damian slammed the heel of his shoe into the porcelain and ground it into bits. He then stomped his foot hard on the fallen flowers, cursing them for every beautiful petal.

When he was finished, he found his legs wobbly. He stepped away, and let gravity bring him to the dirt. Curled up, Damian dug his face into the heels of his palms. Hoping that the pressure would distract him from the pain. "Why do I always hurt people?" he asked. "Why, no matter what I do, do I end up hurting people?"

Talia quietly sat at Damian's side. "Because it is in your nature." The answer lay heavy in the air. Damian didn't move. "Tell me. What is your father's only rule?"

Damian slowly raised his head to peek over his knees. "No killing."

"And yet, you were raised to be a killer," said Talia. "Do you see now the pain I had hoped to spare you from? The confusion, the isolation? No matter how hard you try to be, habibi, you are not one of them. You do not belong here. You never have." Talia wrapped her son in one arm and held him close. "Come home, beloved. Come back to where the world understands you." She pet his hair softly, letting him fall against her breast.

Her eyes closed, she held Damian close.

Chapter Text

"I just don't know what I did wrong!"

"Have you tried talking to him, son?"

"He won't talk to me. Heck, I don't even think he looked at me when he came back from the garden." Jon sat himself in Batman's chair and spun, kicking his noodly legs off the edge of the cushion. "I just wanted to tell his dad about how good he did in science class, but he wouldn't let me! Like, I think that'd be so cool if he wanted to be a doctor, y'know?" Jon stopped spinning and propped his chin in his fists, squishing his cheeks against his button nose. "I thought he was really starting to like me..."

Lois sighed on the other side of the computer screen. Constantine had managed to rig up a wifi box that allowed communication between the Batcave in their world and the Kent family farm in Jon's. Currently, she and Clark were at her desk, having their nightly call. "Honey, you know you can't force someone to be friends," she said.

"Yeah, but--!"

"Jon. Maybe Damian just needs a bit of space. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Besides," Clark added, "he might have his own reasons for not wanting to talk to his father about it."

"Like what?"

Clark and Lois glanced at each other. "Sweetie," Lois began, "Damian is already a full-time hero. If he was a doctor, he'd have to give it up. He's not like your father. He can't fly from one city to another and then show up for work in the morning."

Jon sat up a bit straighter. "Oh... Yeah. And I guess doctors work a lot harder than reporters."

Clark blinked, and turned to his wife. "Should we resent that?"

Jon huffed and slumped in the chair, stretching all the way down until only his shoulders and arms hung off the cushion. "I guess you guys are right. Still. It stinks. I really thought he was starting to be my friend." He glanced up as the Clark of that world approached his chair. He smiled, kindly.

"Dinner's ready," he said. "You don't want to make Alfred wait." Clark glanced at the screen and waved at himself. "Evening, Clark. Lois." The other Clark waved back.

"How's Jon behaving?" Lois asked. "He told me he got a D on his latest science quiz." Jon winced with a nervous smile.

"I'd go easy on him," said Clark. "It's not like he had much time to study."

"Any updates on Constantine's end?" the other Clark asked.

"None so far. But he's been at it for days. We're bound to get something." He put his hand on Jon's shoulder. "Say goodnight, pal."

"Okay." Jon waved at his parents with both hands. "G'night!"

"Goodnight, Jon," said the other Clark. "Get some good rest. And be sure to eat everything on your plate."

"Be good!" said Lois. "We miss you!"

"We love you, son. We'll see you soon."

With that, the transmission ended. Clark unplugged the wifi box to let it cool down. "Want to race upstairs?" he asked.

But Jon shook his head. "Not really in the mood. I'm okay with walking."

"Alright." Clark and Jon walked side by side up the stairs to the elevator. "What did you talk about?"

"Stuff."

"I see. Important stuff?"

Jon rubbed his arm. "I told them that I was worried I upset Damian."

"Oh." They reached the elevator doors and Clark called the lift. "What did they say?"

"Mom says I can't force someone to be friends. That Damian might need space." The doors opened and they walked inside. Clark hit the button and up they rode. "I just wish I knew why he was so angry. He..." Jon let his words die, and he glanced away. "He's actually really cool. But those stupid guys at school bully him for no reason. He doesn't even do anything about it until it's a last resort." Jon turned to Clark with a furrowed brow. "And now all of the sudden he's mad at me! What did I even do?"

"I don't think he's mad at you," said Clark kindly. "He's just... upset. About a lot of things."

"Like his mom?"

"Yeah."

The doors opened, and Clark walked Jon to the north dining hall, where dinner waited for them. "What would you do, dad?"

"Hm? About what? Bullies?"

"Yeah."

Clark pushed up his glasses. "Believe it or not, I had my fair share growing up."

"What? No way!"

"Yup. Ma and Pa were always so worried about me growing up that I couldn't join any sports or activities or anything. So it was hard to make a lot of friends outside school. But eventually, you grow up, and the kids who stay mean get left behind."

"Huh." Jon shoved his hands into his jeans. "Mom wants me to join the chess league."

"Oh yeah? Are you any good."

"No."

They entered the dining hall, where Alfred was just starting to serve roasted bass with scalloped potatoes. Bruce took the head of the table, with Clark's setting to his right. Jon sat at his seat next to Damian on Bruce's left, whose plate was the only one without a fish. Jon leaned over. "Are those mushrooms?" He pointed to the big, bulky brown disks on Damian's plate.

"Jon," said Clark, "it's not nice to point."

"Sorry." Jon took his hand away. He looked around the hall. "Man, this place is so huge..." He scanned the table. "How come we're eating in here if there's only four of us?"

"The kitchen is a bit of a mess," Alfred explained. "And it has been a few weeks since the dining hall was utilized, young Master Jon."

Jon giggled. "Master Jon. It still sounds so weird." He leaned over to Damian. "Do you ever get used to it or...?" He waited with a smile on his face, hoping to elicit some kind of scoff or dry reaction. Damian ignored him completely. Jon's smile faded away, and he turned back to his plate. "Sorry." He poked at his fish with his fork.

"Damian." Bruce leaned forward on his elbows. Damian kept his eyes on his plate, his shoulders stiffening. "There's no need to be rude to Jon."

"It's okay, Uncle Bruce," Jon offered meekly. "Damian just needs his space, right, dad?"

"Stop it."

Jon straightened up and turned to Damian, who gripped his fork so hard it was liable to bend clear in half. "I told you, didn't I?" Damian continued. "Kent isn't your dad. And my father isn't your uncle. They just happen to be copies of your own family. So stop treating them like you own them."

Clark frowned. "There's no need for that. He can call us whatever he wants."

"I wasn't talking to you," Damian snarled in Clark's direction.

"Hey." The edge in Bruce's voice only added to the tension at the table. "I know you had a hard day. But I'm going to need you to drop the attitude, young man."

"May I be excused?" Damian grumbled.

"You may not," said Bruce. "You still owe Jon an apology for earlier. And now you owe Clark one, too."

"Bruce, it's okay," said Clark gently. "There's no need to force things."

"I'm not going to let him disrespect you in my own house."

"I appreciate it, but--"

Bruce turned to his son. "We're waiting, Damian. Let's hear it."

Damian, with a sneer, turned to Jon. "I'm sorry for throwing peanut butter at you."

Jon offered him a nervous smile. "It's okay. Peanut butter washes off. I know, my mom has been making me do my own laundry lately. We have this big tub of peanut butter at home, and I was making myself a sandwich--"

"That was not an invitation for you to start blabbering at me," Damian snapped.

Jon's words caught in his throat, and he shrank in embarrassment. "Sorry..."

"Damian, that wasn't nice," said Clark, his brows knit. "Don't make it worse."

"Shall I just say sorry to everyone at this point?!" Damian threw his fork onto the table, letting it bounce wildly away. "I am so very sorry that I am not nice! I'm so sorry that my presence has foiled the illusion of a happy family, and I am so terribly, horribly sorry that you both have to deal with me!"

"Knock it off!" Bruce snapped. The vein in his forehead was starting to pulse, and the strings of control began pulling tight enough to snap. "I don't know who let you think that this kind of disrespect was acceptable, but it very much is not. And I will be damned if you talk to anyone this way under this roof, especially to your dad!"

"He's not my dad!"

The room went stock still. Clark, sitting across from the young Wayne, stared with parted lips and slumped shoulders. Heartbreak was written all over his face. But rather than backpedal, Damian put his hands flat on the table, addressing Clark directly. "Am I wrong?" he snapped. "I only have one father. One. I've allowed you to pretend otherwise, and even indulged you when I was feeling magnanimous. But you are not my dad. You never have been. And you never will be." The table was silent as the grave. Rather than ask a second time to be excused, Damian kicked back his chair and stormed away from the dining table. The door slammed hard on his way out.

Jon was the first to speak up, his huge eyes on Clark. "Dad...?" Clark barely registered his quiet voice. He was too busy staring at where Damian had vanished. "Are you o--?"

Clark stood, slowly. His head tilted, hiding his pained expression behind his glasses. "I think I'm going to start patrol early," he said. He pushed in his chair and started for the door.

"Clark." Bruce, shaken from his shock, got up to stop him before he left. Clark kept his head turned away as Bruce grabbed his arm. "Clark, he didn't mean it. You know he didn't. He's just lashing out."

Clark closed his eyes. Turning to Bruce, he gave his fiance the softest kiss farewell. "I'll see you in the morning." Slipping from Bruce's grip, Clark took his exit.

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It'd been a while since Clark flew over Metropolis in the day time. He'd spent so much of his off hours in Gotham he was starting to forget what a clear sky looked like. Jon watched the city over Clark's shoulder, the frigid air necessitating Clark dress him in a scarf and mittens.

"You think Uncle Johnny figured it out?" he called over the wind.

"Won't know until we see," said Clark, red cape fluttering against his boots. He felt Jon tighten his arms around his neck.

"Hey dad," he said, "you don't mind that I call you 'dad,' right? Even though you're not technically my dad...?"

Clark offered Jon a smile. "Of course I don't. I may not be your father directly, but I'm almost used to it."

"Yeah..."

Clark glanced at Jon out of the corner of his eye. "You're worried about what Damian said last night."

"Uh-huh."

"It's nothing you need to concern yourself with. Damian's having a hard time right now. That's all." They came to Clark's apartment building, and Clark touched down on the balcony, letting Jon to his feet. Clark knocked on the sliding glass door. John Constantine yanked open the blinds and brightened.

"You made it! Come on, come on!" He opened the door and let in Clark and Jon. The apartment looked even more trashed than the last time Clark came over. "Alright." Constantine held up his hands. "I've managed to find what I think is the glory hole--"

Clark snapped his hands to his interdimensional son's ears. "John, please."

"Right. Sorry. I've found the vacuum." He gestured to the center of the carpet, where his Kryptonian siphon was propped up on a stack of books. Clark noticed the char that singed the pages and sighed.

"I guess I didn't need those," he mumbled.

Constantine grabbed Bunny the cat from the couch and set her in front of the crystal. "Now. I've opened and closed it a couple of times, just to make sure I could key into its coordinates at will." Constantine faced the crystal and touched the tips of his fingers together, curving his hands in a perfect orb shape. A ball of yellow magic formed within, and the siphon began to react. A wind gushed from the crystal, and soon, the siphon jumped into the air and opened yet another portal into space-time. The light wind grew rapid as the tare opened wider, revealing an endless, black hole. A few crumpled papers and bits of trash were sucked in and vanished.

"I've already sent the two turtles on their way," said Constantine. He picked up Bunny and held her flat face up to his. "Now. You be a good girl, eh? Try not to miss me."

"Mrrow."

Constantine put Bunny on the ground and inched her forward. "Go on." His lower lip quivered, and he turned his head away. His voice grew emotional. "You go on home. Don't try to get me to keep you, darling. It'll only make this harder." Bunny tilted her head in thought, turned to the portal, and walked straight in, vanishing into thin air. "No no! Don't try to change my mind! I know it will be difficult, but you don't belong here, Bun-Bun! You belong in your own time and place! With your own family! It doesn't matter what we had. But know that I'll always--"

"Uh. John?" Constantine looked up through tearful eyes. Clark smiled awkwardly. "She's gone."

"Oh." Constantine turned back to the portal and wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat. "Right. R-right. Well... good riddance then!" He sniffed harshly and cleared his throat. He turned to Jon. "Right-o. You ready to pop off, lad?"

"Uh." Jon stared at the gaping hole in the fabric of reality with more than a little trepidation. "No...?"

"Come on, it's not so bad," said Constantine. "Just a hop, skip and a jump, and off you get to your own time and place."

"Are you sure?" Jon asked.

"Mostly sure, yeah."

"Mostly sure?" Clark repeated. "What do you mean, 'mostly'?"

"Well I can't keep track of where the bloody things end up, can I? Defeats the purpose of the whole thing."

Clark eyed the vacuum with suspicion. "So you don't know if it's safe?"

"Safe? Bloody hell, mate, it's all we got to send this little bugger home, ain't it? Now." Constantine took Jon by the shoulders and began to push him toward the vacuum. "Take a deep breath in, and it's off you pop--"

"N-no! Hang on!" Jon clammored backwards and grabbed onto Clark's waist. Clark held him there. "You said you don't know if it's safe."

"Oy. Do you want to go home or not?"

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but bit his lower lip instead. He turned to Clark, as if to find his answer. Clark knelt down in front of him and took his shoulders. "I know it's scary. But Constantine knows what he's doing. We have to trust him." Jon looked away, and Clark gave his shoulders a squeeze. "Don't you want to go home, Jon?" Jon nodded. "Good. Then let's send you back." Clark turned him gently, and took his hand as he walked him to the vacuum. "I'm right here with you," he assured him. "But you can't stay here forever."

Jon stopped a foot away from the portal. His knees knocked, and his face paled. He gripped Clark's hand with both of his own. "I'm scared," he breathed.

"I know you are," said Clark. "But that's what bravery is. It's knowing you're scared and doing it anyway." Jon took a tepid step forward. The wind grew harsher, nearly dragging Jon into the bottomless maw of the void. Jon trembled, his eyes wide and his hair wild.

Something flickered in the darkness. A quiet, subtle flash of color among an otherwise endless abyss. It appeared so fast and vanished so quickly, Jon couldn't even register what it was he saw. But he knew, whatever it was, that it didn't belong here.

"No!" Jon pulled back, yanking on Clark's hand. "Something's wrong! Something's wrong!"

"Jon, hey!" Clark took his shoulders to steady him. "What is it?"

"Oh for the love of--I can't keep this bloody thing open forever!" Constantine complained.

Jon turned to Clark in earnest. "Something--something in the portal! I saw something!"

"What?"

"I don't know! But I can't--I can't go in! If I go in--well, I don't know, but it'll be really, really bad! I know it!"

The rip in space-time began to shrink. Constantine ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "Christ Almighty, child, will you just get in the bloody glory hole so we can all go home?!"

Jon wrapped his arms tight around Clark's neck, clinging to him for dear life. "Please," he said. "Please, dad! Don't make me go in!"

Clark laid his hand on Jon's back and heaved a sigh. Standing, he hoisted Jon in his arms, and held him to his shoulder. "Shut the portal."

"Oh for fucks sake--"

"Language, please."

Grumbling, Constantine put his fingertips together again, and the siphon closed up. The Kryptonian crystal clattered to the stack of books below in a smouldering heap. "I should like to remind the class that this is not easy," Constantine said in annoyance. "Furthermore, I don't know how long I can keep tabs on the damned thing. It likes to move from what I can gather. We could lose it at any moment and then it's back to square bloody one."

"I know," said Clark. "I'm sorry. But Jon said something wasn't right about it. I'm not about to gamble with his life." Jon, in relief, shoved his face into Clark's neck. "Look, maybe there's another way. A more direct link between here and Jon's world."

"We've already established that can't be done, mate," said Constantine. "Portals between dimensions are dodgy enough as it is. And seeing as how the siphon won't let the boy go back the way he came, we'd need something completely new to so much as have a shot at it."

Clark reached forward and pat Constantine's shoulder. "You're a smart man, John. I believe in you."

Constantine glowered. "You're lucky you're pretty, Kent." He watched Clark and Jon begin to make their exit. "Boy." Clark paused, and Jon looked up. "You said you saw something. Think you can describe it?"

Jon furrowed his brow. "I don't know. It looked..." Jon thought hard. "A face. I saw a face."

"What kind of face?" Clark asked.

"I don't know."

"Man's, woman's, something in between, what?" Constantine pried.

"I don't know," Jon repeated. "Except... I know that it was scary."

"Right." Constantine put his hands on his hips. "Yup. Brilliant. That's all we need."

Clark rubbed Jon's back. "I'm going to take him home. Thank you, John, for trying."

"Yeah, yeah." Constantine flopped onto Clark's couch, throwing his feet up on the arm rest. "Don't start charging me rent."

With Jon cradled in his arms, Clark stepped back out onto the porch and took to the sky, headed for Gotham. Like before, Clark took the slower route, letting them pass over Metropolis as peacefully as if they were a couple of birds. They even followed the trail of a few late migrants, taking up space in their perfect V shape. Reaching out, Clark actually managed to take a loose feather from one of the birds' tails and hold it up for Jon to see. His mood picked up, but only for a moment. When they split off from the birds, Jon let his head slump against Clark's shoulder.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Did I mess everything up?"

Clark glanced down at the boy. He knew that Jon was not his true son, no matter how natural it felt to hear "dad" come from his lips. Even so, Clark couldn't deny that he had felt a pull to him the moment Jon arrived at Bruce's doorstep. Holding him close, Clark rose above the clouds, letting them bask in the sunshine. They flew to a halt.

"No," he said, letting them hover in peace. "You haven't messed anything up, Jon. You're here by sheer coincidence. And you're doing the best you can with the circumstances you've been given. That's all anyone can hope for."

Jon looked up. Clark could see so much of himself in Jon's innocent face. He wondered if this was what his own father saw when a young Clark came to him, unsure and afraid of his powers. It made his heart wrench. "Then why do I feel like this is all my fault?"

Clark didn't know how to answer that.

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The wail of the GCPD siren tore through the night, competing with the downpour that drenched the city in sheets. The cars ahead of the police chase drove wildly down the slick streets, the drivers' laughter intermingling with gunshots. Innocent civilians dove out of the way as the vehicles jumped curbs and took out mailboxes. Commuters stuck in traffic tried moving to one side, only to be swiped by the brigade of joyriders and knocked into cars in front of them.

The chase lasted all the way up to the Gotham Bay bridge, where traffic was stopped as the whole thing began to lift to allow a cargo ship passage. The caravan of cars ripped along the left side of the road, crashing through the striped guard arm and barreling up towards the peak of the open bridge. One of the three cars spun out, the rainwater causing it to slip and slide down the road and into the awaiting traffic, but the other two managed to hop the gap and land roughly on the other side of the bridge.

The pair of cars careened down to the other side of the road, high on adrenaline. Which, to be fair, was not the only thing they were high on.

"Ay yo yo!" The passenger in the left car banged the roof and turned to the two men in the back seat. "Lemme get another bump!" The back seat handed over a dime bag of cocaine, and he took a bump. "Woo! How much of that shit we got left!?"

"Enough to pay our way to Cabo, baby!" The whole car howled in victory, speeding through rain puddles and trash bins.

Eventually, they came to a less populated road under the highway, and the two cars drove up side by side. The man in the passenger seat leaned out the window, pelted with rain. "Ay!" The other car rolled down their window. "Did Jimmy's car get got!?"

"Yeah!" the other shouted. "It's fine though! Dude only had weed!"

"Nice, nice! Okay, we'll rendezvous at the safe house and get this shit sold pronto!"

Bang!

The second car jerked as something metal sliced open its front left tire. The driver tried to take control of the vehicle, but as he corrected the wheels, a second tire blew, and soon, the whole car was spinning. The first car skid to a halt, avoiding a collision by an inch. The second car, completely losing its control, flipped entirely, and landed on its side. The passenger from the first car opened his door and stood up, trying to register what had just happened. He watched as a few of his friends crawled out of the wreckage. The driver in particular managed to kick open his door and hoist himself on a limp arm. He was just about to make it the whole way through when something heavy and black landed hard on the side of his car. He looked up. The Batman stood over him, lit by the storm.

"Shit. Shit!" The passenger jumped back into his seat and slammed his door hard. "It's him! Go! Go go go go!"

The front windshield cracked as two boot heels slammed down into it. Robin had landed hard from above, and with his sword in hand, began to stab at the glass like a pick to ice. The drug dealers screamed, pulling back to avoid the business end of Robin's sword. When he'd made enough cracks, Robin shattered it with his elbow. The driver swerved in an attempt to knock the Boy Wonder off. Robin stabbed his sword into the hood of the car, keeping himself anchored.

One of the back seat dealers pulled out a gun and aimed it straight for Robin. Robin jumped just as the gun went off, swiping the ends of his cape in the process. As he leapt into the air, Robin dug his sword into the roof of the car, peeling back the metal as easily as a tin can. He swung wide and slammed in through the back window, feet first. Once inside, Robin moved quickly, breaking bones and delivering concussions with terrifying ease. The front seat passenger spun around, a gun in his sweaty hand. Robin managed to kick it, but not before a bullet grazed past his ear and into the seat upholstery. Reaching forward, Robin stabbed the man through the thigh, making him shriek with blood-curdling pain, and then slammed his elbow into the back of the driver's skull, knocking him out cold. Robin jumped back and through the broken window he came from just as the car lost its traction. Robin landed as the car slammed head first into a brick wall. He watched the men inside wither and moan. He wasn't entirely sure they were all still alive.

"Robin."

Batman's voice was accompanied by a clap of thunder. Robin turned to his father, the rain drenching them from tip to toe. "I told you to handle it from afar," he said.

"I handled it," said Robin. "That's what matters."

Batman looked him up and down. "Where's your sword?"

"Oh. Right." Robin walked leisurely to the car wreck and opened the passenger door. It came off its hinges and Robin tossed it to one side. Reaching in, he yanked out the sword from the gash in the man's leg, eliciting one last muffled cry before the dealer went silent. Robin wiped off the blood before stashing it back in its scabbard. "Done."

Batman's eyes narrowed. "That was reckless. And unnecessary."

"What does it matter? It got the job done."

The sound of sirens signaled their cue to leave. Grappling hooks at the ready, they flew their way to the skyline, and landed on an old brewery. The roof was slanted, but the spine was both flat and wide enough to support them as they walked.

"You acted recklessly," said Batman. "And went against a direct order."

"I knew what I was doing."

"Those men had a gun."

"So? It doesn't mean they knew how to use it."

Batman stepped in front of Robin to block his path. "If you're going to do your job, you need to leave your personal baggage at the door. Acting out of anger will only end with needless suffering."

"And I suppose the car you took care of had no injuries at all?"

"You disobeyed me."

Robin folded his arms. "Let me guess? You want me to apologize." Batman said nothing. Robin ground his teeth. "When are you ever going to acknowledge that I know what I'm doing?! I took out a car of dangerous criminals without so much as a scratch! I doubt any of your other precious Robins could have done as much at my age! But instead of congratulating me, you're going to lecture me just because I didn't do things exactly your way! Because it must always be your way, mustn't it, father?!" Batman remained still and silent. Robin grew angrier. "And now I must wonder, is it really out of concern for my safety that you're lecturing me, or is this retribution for lashing out against your fiance? Because his feelings are far more important than your only son."

"Go home."

Robin straightened up. "What?"

"You are not in the right frame of mind for patrol tonight. If this is how you're going to act, you're nothing but a liability."

Robin locked his jaw. "You're sending me home because I'm doing my job too well!?"

Batman revealed a small remote from his utility belt. He clicked it, and from below, Robin could hear the rumble of the Batmobile, ready to take Robin back to the Manor. "I won't repeat myself. Go home, Robin."

Robin settled his rage and lowered his voice. "I can get there on my own." He turned sharply on his heel and marched to the edge of the roof. Before leaving, he glared over his shoulder. It was the kind of expression Batman hadn't seen in two years. Back when his only son had been sent to end his life.

"I hate you."

With a snap from his grapple gun, Robin leapt off the side of the building and into the night. Batman remained as quiet as before, but once he could no longer see Damian in his sights, Bruce sat on the roof and put his head in his hands.

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As the Batmobile's engine died, Bruce let himself slump in the front seat. He probably shouldn't have called it such an early night, but he was exhausted. Being a father was never an easy gig, certainly. But did it really have to be this hard? Opening the door, he stood and stretched his back. He was feeling so old these days...

"Hey." Clark approached Bruce with a mug of warm tea and handed it over. "It's decaf," he said. "Alfred insisted."

Bruce took a sip. "I guess my coffee privileges are revoked."

"At least after midnight."

Bruce looked Clark up and down. He was still suited up, and currently, just as soaked as Bruce was. "Long night for you, too?"

"I guess. I more needed to take a flight to get my mind off of things."

Bruce set his tea to one side and removed his cowl. "Clark..."

"You don't need to say anything, Bruce. He's going through a lot. I know that."

Bruce shook his head. "It doesn't excuse it. He's been taking it out on all of us. That doesn't stand in this house." Bruce touched Clark's cheek, and Clark let his head lean into Bruce's palm. "Especially not after everything..."

Clark chuckled softly. "I appreciate it." He cupped Bruce's hand to his cheek. "But Damian can't be pushed in any one direction. He needs... time. Space to recognize why he's hurt and heal from it." 

"Yeah." Clark brushed his fingers through Bruce's hair and Bruce closed his eyes. "I wish it were easier."

"Wow. You're the first person ever to wish parenting was easy."

"Oh, bite me."

They laughed together, and Bruce leaned his head forward. Clark met it with his own, and they rested their brows against one another. They both took a deep breath. There was nothing quite like the peace of being in each other's company. It soothed the nerves like balm to a burn. Bruce kissed him tenderly, and Clark returned it. A minute passed in silence, Clark and Bruce enjoying their moment of privacy.

"So?" said Bruce. "Is the kid in bed yet?"

Clark blinked. "Huh?"

"I told him to go home early. Did he make a stink or actually go to bed?"

Clark pulled back. "What do you mean? He isn't asleep in the car?" Clark turned to look inside. The Batmobile was empty.

"No," said Bruce. "He was being a little shit so I sent him home."

"Well I haven't seen him."

"You just got in. Maybe he's hiding somewhere?"

Clark hesitated, but shook his head. "There's only two other people in the Manor. Jon and Alfred."

Bruce's stomach bottomed out. "What do you mean, only two? What about...?" His eyes widened. Without a word, he stormed to his console. He pulled up an application and started typing.

"Bruce? What's going on?"

A beep alerted them, and they zoomed in on a map. Bruce heaved a sigh of relief. "His tracker has him at the Port of Gotham. I knew I should have made him get into the car." Bruce donned his cowl and turned to Clark. "Mind if I get a ride?" Clark nodded.

Superman and Batman flew through the rain at Batman's direction. They reached the port of Gotham within ten minutes, and touched down at an empty dock. Batman opened up a screen on his wrist. "He's around here somewhere," he said. "Probably pouting." He turned to Superman, whose brows were drawn tight. "Don't worry," said Batman. "He was trained to hide the sound of his breathing from a young age. You're probably having a hard time locating him because he doesn't want to be found."

Superman nodded, however reluctantly. "Yeah..." Superman cupped his hands to his mouth. "Robin!" he called. "Robin, where are you?!"

Batman followed the tracker on his wrist. He honed in on the beeping, until finally, he was on top of Robin's tracker. Batman lowered his wrist, and looked at his feet. The world screeched to a sudden halt.

Robin's uniform had been folded and set on a crate, now drenched by rainwater. His location tracker beeped uselessly within his crest.

"Did you find him?" Superman appeared at Batman's side. His eyes fell to Robin's uniform, and he paled. "What...?" Batman picked up Robin's tunic. Superman began to panic. "Damian? Damian!" He spun around as thunder above them clapped. "I... I'm trying to listen, but I--! Bruce!" Superman grabbed Batman's arm. "I can't hear him! I can't hear him anywhere! He's gone! He's--!" Another boom of thunder cut Superman's words short.

"Pull yourself together." Batman's voice growled like the thunder above. Turning, he shoved Robin's uniform in Superman's arms. "We're going to find him. Do you hear me, Clark?

"We're going to find our son."

Chapter Text

"Where is Red Hood!?"

Nightwing's voice boomed through Crime Alley, causing every head to turn within the next two blocks. The Wingcycle idled as its rider practically leapt from the seat. It was surreal to see the famed Blüdhaven vigilante storm down the sidewalk, eyes sharp as he sized up every lowlife he passed. "Whoever has a direct line," he shouted, "tell Hood to come out, pronto!" He stopped, noticing a man hunkered on a stoop, watching with a dogged eye. Nightwing approached him. "You. You're one of Hood's men, aren't you? Tell him to get his ass down here now."

The man glared. Standing from his steps, he towered over Nightwing in both size and scope. His face had more in common with a cement block than a human man, and his arms were caked in questionable tattoos. "Hood don't take orders from you, bird." A few others gathered close, some grumbling to each other with weapons at the ready.

"This is an emergency," said Nightwing, unbothered by the threats. "I need to speak to him, and I need to speak to him now."

The criminals guffawed, and the block-headed man grinned wide, showing a hole in his front tooth. "You musta got hit one too many times in the noggin, pretty boy. Hood's got better things to do than deal with you." Reaching out, Mr. Blockhead grabbed Nightwing by front of his suit and yanked him a foot off the ground. "But we can deal with you just fine."

Instead of fear, a smile flashed across Nightwing's face. "Wanna bet?"

In a move too fast to follow, Nightwing swung his whole body to one side, throwing Blockhead off kilter. Once his hand was loose enough, Nightwing managed to back-handspring off of his arm, flip, and knee him in the back of his bulbous, red head. Blockhead went down in a heap, with his fellow goons descending before Nightwing even landed. Fortunately, shoulders and heads made good springboards, and Nightwing bounced and hand-walked his way to safety. Once his feet touched down, Nightwing engaged his batons, and what started as a cakewalk became a damn crawl. Vivid streaks of black and blue were all the goons could see before their brains became scrambled eggs. Once Nightwing administered his final blow, he took a moment to assess, and then stored his batons. Walking over to Blockhead, Nightwing kicked him onto his back and slammed the heel of his boot into his barrel chest.

"Like I was saying. Get Red Hood down here now."

"Ease up. I'm right here."

Nightwing lifted his head as Red Hood appeared from the shadows, hands deep in his coat pockets. Nightwing could almost see the hidden gun in his grip. "So? What's so fucking important you had to see me in person?"

"We should speak privately," Nightwing started.

"We'll speak right here, since it's so dire. Unless you have something you don't want my friends to know?" Nightwing glanced around him and took a step forward. Red Hood remained as he was, but the air shifted between them. Any sense of levity was gone as Nightwing spoke next.

"Damian is missing."

Red Hood straightened up. "What?"

"We think he left the city by boat. We'll need reinforcements."

"You're sure?"

"It's our only lead."

Red Hood hesitated, before turning on his heel to the onlookers of Crime Alley. "Listen up!" he barked. "I need all hands to the Port of Gotham pronto! Speed boats, jet skis, hell, if you got a boogie board, I'll fucking take it! A ship has left Gotham with precious cargo, and I need it returned yesterday." Hood's goons glanced at each other in confusion. In response, Red Hood removed his Glock and fired in the air, demanding their attention. "Now, maggots!"

All of Crime Alley scrambled to bikes and cars, making a quick exit to the Port of Gotham. Jason turned to his brother. "You think she took him?" he asked, all too serious.

"Who else could have?" Dick answered. He made his way back to the Wingcycle. "B wants us at the house running interference. In case he comes back. Tim's already set up with satellites to try and track him."

"So what, we're just supposed to be at home waiting?"

Dick looked up, foot on the gas pedal. "Trust me. We don't want to get in their way." With a slam of his foot, Dick spun out and into the pouring rain of Gotham, swiping his helmet as he went.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Damian knew he should be getting some sleep. It was a very long trip to the Arabian Peninsula, but even so, he couldn't bring himself to rest. His eyes had been glued to the horizon for hours now. It swayed shakily as the Gotham rain pounded from above. Yet the boat remained even-keeled for now. So why then did Damian feel so sick?

Damian had never intended to go home that night. Even if his behavior hadn't gotten him benched early, Damian likely would have snuck out after returning from patrol. He tried to convince himself that it was all for the best. Leaving his family hurt lessened the chances that they would come after him. And Damian needed them to stay away.

He should have left the minute Jon arrived, really. He could see the change clearly, but didn't dare acknowledge it aloud, even to himself. Those mornings, when Jon yammered away at Clark or Bruce or both, Damian could sense their shift in demeanor. Bruce melting into a pensive, quiet listener, while Clark sparked with joy and connection. Jon was practically a missing puzzle piece. Even if he did find a way to go home, Damian knew it would never be the same. He could never bend Bruce's ear or relate to Clark's journey with metahuman powers.

So it would be better for everyone if he was just... not there anymore.

Being cruel wasn't easy, surprisingly. Damian was often accused of cruelty when expressing blunt honesty, but attempting to be so directly tore him up from the inside out. He could still see the way Clark's face fell, still hear the disappointment in Bruce's voice. At so many points, Damian wanted to change his mind, if only to keep his parents from seeming so broken-hearted. He forced himself to soldier on. As his mother had said, this was the only way to make sure they would let him go.

Damian laid his forehead on the cool glass, curled up on the sofa. His breath fogged up the window, and he began to scribble with the tip of his finger. A smile. A pair of happy eyes. Wild hair and large ears. Damian didn't realize he was drawing Jon until he removed his finger. The condensation smudged along Damian's lines, making Jon's portrait melt. With a furrowed brow, Damian wiped the glass clean.

A knock came to his door, and Talia stepped inside. A soldier of the League followed her in, a tray in his hands. "I thought you might not be sleeping," she said. She gestured to the tray, which had a domed plate of food in the middle. "I had the chef make you a bit of soup. It'll warm the blood. Get you comfortable."

Damian didn't let his eyes leave the horizon. "Not hungry. Thank you, mother."

Talia hesitated. She waved away the soldier and closed the door behind him. "Are you still having doubts, beloved?"

"Yes."

Talia approached him, and sat on the sofa next to him. Her long fingers swept back his rain-soaked hair. "You know you are doing the right thing. Do not let your doubts cloud your judgment."

Damian tilted his head out of her reach. "To free them I must hurt them. To bring them peace I must leave them."

"Yes, habibi."

Damian closed his eyes. "If it is right, why does it feel wrong?"

Talia put her hand in her lap. "The city has changed you," she said. "I know. It was not long ago when it changed me, too. For a brief moment. But the change was an illusion. It was for me. It is for you." When Damian didn't answer, Talia scoot in, and held open her arms. Damian hesitated before falling into them. She pet his hair gently. "You have your father's heart, my love. For that, I do not begrudge you. But you have seen yourself how much he suffers for it. This world is not built for men like him."

"The strong shall rule the weak," said Damian. "Grandfather's words."

"He spoke truthfully. Do the sickly lions lead the pride? Do the old wolves lead the pack? No. Power is afforded to those only with the will to take it."

Damian slowly slid out of Talia's arms. "Superman doesn't take power," he said. "If anything, he restricts himself from it."

"Superman is not a man, Damian. He's an alien."

"Irrelevant to the point. He could easily rule with an iron fist, and yet he chooses to lead with kindness."

"There are always exceptions."

Damian turned in his seat. He watched the shadows of the rainwater dance across the bedroom carpet. "Animals have more compassion than you give them credit for, mother," he said. "Sickly lions are cared for by their family. Older wolves often set the pace for their pack. This truth grandfather speaks of is only so at a glance. Look further, and you see that kindness is everywhere."

Talia leaned back in her seat. She folded one knee over the other. "And does kindness win wars? Does it lord over kingdoms or champion battles?"

"Maybe not. But a man is more willing to follow one he trusts and loves, verses one he fears."

Talia looked away, propping her chin in her hand. "As I said," she sighed, "this city has changed you."

"Perhaps it was meant to." Talia had no answer, and Damian curled up against his seat. "What should I expect when I see grandfather again?"

"Expect?"

Damian faced her direction. "You told me that he was dying. Has he deteriorated? Is he ill?"

Talia hesitated before answering. "The Lazarus Pit simply isn't working as well as it should be."

"In what way?"

"I don't know, Damian."

"But surely you must have noticed a change in him? Symptoms of his condition? Anything that might indicate his disease?"

"I told you. He suffers from an ailment too old to treat."

"That is barely an answer. Surely if grandfather is sick, modern medicine can tend to him? Or at the very least treat his symptoms?" Talia didn't respond, staring off to one side. Damian narrowed his eyes. "He isn't sick, is he?"

Talia locked her jaw. "Ra's al Ghul was convinced that you needed further incentive to return home."

"So you lied to me."

"Yes."

"You don't even deny it." Damian stood from his seat, fists balled at his sides. "Do you really think I'm so gullible? Do you really have such little respect for me that you would resort to deception?"

"You're here, aren't you?"

Damian whipped to Talia. "I'm here," he agreed. "But not for him. And not for you." His anger lessened, and he turned his head away. "As underhanded as your methods were, I know you were right, mother. I... don't fit. I never have."

Talia pat the cushion next to her. After a moment's pause, Damian crawled beside her and laid against her bosom. Talia pet his hair, rocking gently with the sway of the boat. "Forgive me for lying to you, beloved. But it was for the best." Damian didn't respond.

They sat like in silence a few minutes more. But just as Damian's head was starting to grow heavy, commotion bubbled up from outside his cabin. Alert, Damian stood from his seat and went to the window that led to the bow. He could see the crew scramble with guns in hand, with shouts of Arabic warning of oncoming attacks. Damian turned to ask Talia what was happening, when the crack of gunfire beat against the steel railing of the ship.

Damian rushed for the door, only to be stopped by Talia taking his arm. "Stop! It's too dangerous!" Something shook the ship, and the two of them swayed on their feet. More gunfire screamed through the storm.

"Who is it?" Damian demanded.

"I don't know. Your tracker is off?"

"It's back with my Robin suit."

Another attack sent Talia and Damian flailing to one side. Talia fell to a chair, while Damian clung to the bolted breakfast table, keeping himself righted. Gritting his teeth, Damian flew out the door and into the maelstrom. Howls and hollars joined in with the gunfire. Peering through the rain, Damian realized that they were surrounded by the scum of Crime Alley, riding wildly on speeding boat craft of all sizes. Some doubled up on jet skis, others piled in on patched up speed boats. All packed enough heat to kill an army.

More gunfire blasted the side of the ship, and Damian dropped to the deck to avoid the barrage. He heard gears churn beneath the deck, and Damian looked up to see the helmsman raise a turret gun from a trap door. Locking himself to the handles, he slapped in a long magazine of ammunition and lit up the night. Bullets took out boat engines and clusters of criminals, who were knocked from their seats as if struck by God Herself. One of the larger boats sped up, managing to get under the range of the gun, before slamming into the aft. The League's yacht jerked, a sizable dent now in her port side.

An alarm blared, and Talia ran to pull Damian to his feet. "Hold onto something!" she ordered. Damian could feel the yacht start to lift. He looked over the starboard rail. The hull of the yacht was suddenly five feet from the water, as hydrofoils emerged to triple its sailing speed. The blast of wind was so severe, it nearly knocked Damian clear overboard, had Talia not clung to him for dear life. As the ship blasted through the sea, the Crime Alley forces were left well behind. Some tried to keep speed, but a few direct shots from the helmsman's gatling gun pumped them so full of holes that they were sunk within a few seconds.

Damian clung to the railing, watching as their pursuers grew steadily smaller in their wake. He was left with the unavoidable question of why. Why did an army of Gotham criminals decide to try and lay siege to a random yacht? Who sent them?

"Scum," Talia seethed. "Your 'family' hasn't even bothered to come after you themselves. So they sent your brother's henchmen to do it for them."

"My brother...?" Damian's eyes widened. "Jason. Those were Jason's men." 

"Who else would they be?"

Damian turned back to the horizon. The criminals were all but specs on the water now. Damian could feel his heart sink. Now knowing how deceitful she'd been to get him back, Damian didn't want to give Talia any more credit than she was due. But he had to admit that things were exactly how she said. He wasn't important enough for the others to get him themselves, and so they sent expendables in their place. It left him with a hollow feeling in his gut.

"Come, my love. It's horrid out here." Talia stood Damian to his feet, wobbling slightly against the rapid gale of the wind. "We'll get you changed and in bed."

"Aft side!" someone screamed. "Boogey coming fast!"

A thrill shot through Damian as he spun on his heel. From the deep dark of the ocean, a black ship tore through the surf like a bullet. Had lightning not torn through the heavens, it would have been impossible to notice. It raced after the yacht at top speeds, and was steadily gaining ground. Its cab was domed with pitch black glass, and its hydrofoils formed a pair of great batwings.

"All ahead full!" came another voice. "Lose him! Lose him!" The ship increased its speed. Damian rocked forward, slipping on the rain-soaked deck. Talia grabbed him before he could fall entirely. The wind now whipped his hair against his face, but he didn't dare look away. Eventually, the yacht managed to reach a speed that rivaled Batman's own.

"He doesn't have the engine power to keep this speed for long," said Talia, almost to herself. "We'll out last him--"

"DEAD AHEAD!"

Damian didn't even have the time to look before the yacht suddenly slammed into something, nose first. The shake was enough to send everyone off their feet, Damian and Talia included. Unable to grab onto the railing in time, Talia rolled off the edge of the deck and tumbled overboard.

"Mother!" Damian dove forward and grabbed Talia by her wrist. She gasped, barely hanging above the grinding gears as the yacht tried desperately to push forward. Damian grit his teeth and pulled with all his might. Talia managed to get a grip on the rail, and together, she was hoisted to safety. She gasped, and held Damian to her heart. Both looked up to the bow of the ship.

His red cape flailing in the storm, Superman had shot down from the heavens and grabbed the nose of the yacht with his bare hands. Although he had more than enough power to send the ship into the briny depths, he refrained from causing more damage than was necessary. The assassins aboard tried desperately firing, but every shot bounced off like rubber, sparking as it came into contact with the Man of Steel.

More shouting came from the aft. Damian looked back. Batman had abandoned his speed boat without bothering to slow down, and leapt aboard mid-turn. He was met with a barrage of crewmen, guns blazing. Batman jumped between their shots with the finesse of a deadly dancer. Every strike was precise and devastating, sending his opponents to the floor with strangled gasps. Only when enough of them gathered to grab him did his onslaught slow.

"Father--!" Damian's words cut off as Talia grabbed his arm and ran him back inside the cabin. Damian wiggled, compelled by pure instinct to join Batman's side. Once they were back behind four walls, Talia shut the door and typed in a code on the keypad. Mechanical locks snapped closed.

"Do not fret," said Talia, sweaty and frantic, "they will be dealt with."

"Mother, call them off!" Damian yelled. "Your assassins stand no chance--!"

"They will not stop unless they are dead on the ground!" Talia screeched. "And neither will I!"

More shouts echoed from the bow. Talia ran to Damian's side and held him, the two listening to the chaos. The ship, now sunk back to its hull, rocked violently, tossing Talia and Damian from one side of the cabin to the other. Eventually, Talia anchored them by the breakfast table. Her arm was so firm around Damian's shoulder that Damian feared his arms would go numb. He was too conflicted to try breaking free.

And then, the noise quieted. There were still echoes of the fight, but they were lesser now. And the violent rocking of the yacht settled to a docile sway. The boat groaned under its own weight. Damian almost wondered if they had been chased away. But slowly, the steel frame of his cabin door began to bend. Wood splintered, and the mechanized locks malfunctioned. With one final jerk, the whole door blew off, and Superman stepped inside.

"Damian..." His eyes fell to the boy in question, that hard, noble demeanor softening in an instant. He took a step forward.

Talia stood in front of Damian, her arm outstretched. "Back!" she ordered. Superman did not heed her. Talia reached into her pocket and revealed a chunk of glowing kryptonite, its lead lined bag falling out of the way. "I said back!"

Superman shuddered, and he stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes pinned to the rock in Talia's hand. Damian could see the sweat on his brow, and the twitch in his neck. Talia, emboldened, stepped forward. An inch closer, and Superman stumbled backward, falling to one knee.

"Mother!" Damian tugged on Talia's arm. "Mother, please!"

"You will not take him." Talia's eyes did not leave Superman's withering form. "Do you hear me, alien? You will not take my son." She took another step, and Superman cried out, falling forward with his fists flat on the carpet. "You might have fooled Bruce. You might have fooled the world. But you do not fool me. You are a pestilence, and you infect everyone you come in contact with. You keep him from his potential, his purpose. You and his father both. Neither of you have any idea what Damian is capable of. You fear it! And I will not let his talent be squandered by the likes of you!" Talia forced the kryptonite forward, making Superman cry out, his arched back rigid.

"Mother, stop!" Damian ran in front of her, his arms outstretched. 

"Move away, Damian!"

"You're killing him!"

"Move away!" In frustration, Talia grabbed Damian's arm and yanked him to one side, keeping the kryptonite straight ahead. "Listen to your mother, child! Only I know what is best for you! You will obey me, or you will face the consequences! Do you understand me!?" Damian, trembling, said nothing. Talia turned back to Superman. She took one more step. The kryptonite now hung just over his trembling head. "This ends tonight..."

Curled forward, Superman grit his teeth. The kryptonite was so close, he could almost hear its radioactive hum. His blood pulsed, and his insides ached. It was as if molten steel poured itself into every muscle. Trembling and pale, Superman lifted his head. He managed to catch Talia's gaze with his own. He saw the determination there, the anger, the fear. He knew that there would be no talking her down.

Calling upon every ounce of strength he could muster, Superman began to stand.

Talia's eyes widened. She took a half step back as she watched her certain victory torn from her clutches. "What...?" She jerked the kryptonite forward. "Back!"

Superman jolted, but pressed on. His knees nearly gave out on the way up, but he managed to eventually get to his feet. Every nerve screamed in indescribable pain. His skin felt primed to peel completely off of his bones. His ears rang, and the blood vessels in his eyes were primed to pop. Superman lifted a quivering hand, and reached forward. Talia's face fell. As his fingers wrapped around the stone, his skin sizzled and steamed.

Delirious with pain, Superman managed to yank the kryptonite out of Talia's hand, turn, and throw it down the hall as far as he could. The wave of agony ebbed, and though a hint of it remained, Superman could feel his faculties return to him. When he rounded to Talia, he did so with his head high and proud.

"No. No!" Talia grabbed Damian tight and pulled him away. "You are not his father! You can't possibly begin to understand him! You would fail him at every turn! You already have!"

Superman turned to Damian, who watched with a slack jaw. Although he had every means at his disposal to swipe Damian from Talia's arms and be on his way, he remained where he was, and held out his hand. "Damian." His voice was tender and low. "Let's go."

From behind him, an assassin flew past the open door, landing hard at the other end of the hall. Batman appeared at Superman's side. "You found him..." The relief in his voice was palpable. "Are you hurt?" Damian shook his head. "Good." His open hand mimicked Superman's. "We're here to take you home."

Damian's lip quivered. He almost couldn't believe it. Standing at Talia's side, he shook endlessly, tears threatening to flood him at any moment. "But I... hurt you." His words left him without thought. "I hurt both of you. You should... hate me."

Superman smiled, though his eyes betrayed his melancholy. "Damian... don't you know how much we love you?"

Bruce removed his cowl, facing his son directly. Kneeling, he kept his arm outstretched. "Nothing will ever change that," he said. "Not you, not your mother, not anyone else. We're here because we need you home. We need you safe." He lifted his hand further. "Let us take you home, son."

Overwhelmed, Damian finally dislodged himself from Talia's side. He ran to his father's arms, and Bruce embraced him fully. Clark held them both, the warmth melting away the ice of the rain. Damian sobbed into Bruce's neck, babbling incoherently. Bruce kissed his forehead in response.

"Damian..."

Damian, Clark, and Bruce looked up. Talia stared, her face ashen. There was no malice in her lovely jade eyes, no rage. Just a disbelief, thinly veiled over unshakable heartbreak. She dropped to the ground, unable to keep herself upright for a second longer. Sitting on her knees, she stared at her hands, too shocked to even cry.

"Why...? Why do you still choose them? This isn't how it should be. This isn't how..." She looked back up. "Why won't you let me protect you?"

Clark silently posed a question to the other two, who seemed to instinctively understand. Bruce nodded, his hand cupping the back of Damian's head. Clark released his family and approached Talia. She flinched, even though Clark did not move to strike her.

"You've failed, Talia al Ghul," he said. "And you will always fail, should you keep trying to act out of hate and violence." Talia watched in shock as Clark offered her an open hand. "But it's never too late to change direction. And if you have nowhere else to go, family is always welcome. Isn't that right, Bruce?" Bruce nodded, Damian resting peacefully on his father's shoulder.

"This... this is a trick."

"No trick," said Clark. "No catch. What do you say?"

Talia's eyes lowered from Clark's face to his fingers. "After everything," she breathed. "After... what I tried to do to you..."

"Mother." Damian's tiny voice made her meet her son's eyes. "Come home with us."

That sent a flicker of life back through Talia's face. She reached out, almost without thinking. Her delicate hand fell into Clark's, and she stood. "Alright." She approached Damian, the color returned to her face. Damian reached out, and Talia folded into his small grasp, embracing him tight. "Let's all go home." With all three of them bundled tight together, Clark cradled Bruce, Talia and Damian in his arms, and flew them off the yacht and back towards the Gotham harbor.

Chapter Text

"They should be back by now," said Jason.

"Dude, just chill," Dick replied.

Jason turned on his heel, phone in his hand. "Easy for you to say. You didn't lose fifteen men and three speed boats tonight."

"The yacht has been stopped for twenty minutes," Tim reminded him. He spun out from the computer and addressed his brothers. Currently, they, along with Jon, had set up in the parlor of the Manor. They'd spent the last few hours crammed in front of the console in the Batcave, so now that they had confirmation that Damian was in hand, Tim had suggested they all head topside while they waited for the rescue party to return. "Clark might be flying slower for safety. He should be here soon."

"Yeah? And what if something goes wrong, huh?" Jason jabbed his finger toward Tim's laptop. "Something your stupid satellites can't pick up. Maybe the League has more assassins just waiting to spring on them when their back is turned."

"They're with Superman," Tim reminded him.

"Yeah, and Ra's al Ghul has a massive collection of kryptonite he's been growing since the 90's," Jason snapped. "I know, I've seen it personally."

Jon, sitting on the loveseat with Dick, curled up into a ball while he clutched his knees. "But... dad's too strong and Uncle Bruce is too smart, right?" He tightened his arms. "So they're gonna be okay. They have Damian so... so they've got to be home soon..."

Dick glared at Jason before giving Jon a one-armed hug. "Yeah, kid," he said. "They'll be home any minute now."

"Don't fuckin' lie to him," said Jason.

"You're traumatizing him!" Dick argued.

"At least I'm not writing checks my ass can't cash."

The door echoed from outside of the parlor. All heads turned, and the room held their collective breath. Soft voices echoed from the hall, and before long, the parlor door opened. Bruce, Clark, and Damian appeared at the threshold. Soaked, tired, but in one piece. Dick stood from the couch as they came into view. Relief spread across his face, and he opened his mouth to greet them.

"Damian!"

Faster than anyone could clock, Jon rushed for the young Wayne and threw his arms around Damian's narrow shoulders. The force of the hug was nearly enough to topple them over, had Clark not caught them as they fell. Jon hugged all his might, while Damian blinked, dazed and taken by surprise.

"You're back!" Jon cried. "Oh my gosh, oh--! I thought--!" Jon pulled back, but only enough to look Damian in the eye. Snot dribbled from his button nose, and his eyes were red and puffy. "Are you still mad at me? I'm sorry if you are! I don't know what I did, but just tell me and I'll never, ever, ever do it again!"

Damian snapped from his daze and tilted his head to one side. The tips of his ears went pink with embarrassment. A Wayne trait to be sure. "I'm not mad," he mumbled. His hands rested on Jon's arms. "I... I'm sorry. That I made you worry. And. I'm sorry about the peanut butter."

Jon smiled a wet, sappy smile, showing off the gap between his two front teeth. "It's okay. Alfred got the stains out no problem."

"Hey." Dick approached, hand in his pocket. He hadn't bothered to unsuit, but did throw on a jacket for comfort while they all waited. Leaning down, he scooped Damian up and squeezed him tight, making Damian flail.

"Grayson!" Damian protested. "Unhand me--!"

"Not a chance, buddy."

"Group hug!" Jon jumped onto Dick's shoulders, wrapping around to Damian's arms.

"Hell yeah, goblin sandwich." Jason thwumped onto Damian's back like a sack of flour. The pressure nearly squished the air out of Damian entirely, hindering his ability to complain.

"I suppose I'm next," said Tim, face-planting into the side of the group hug. "Good to have you back, you little ankle biter."

Dick relaxed the hug just enough to set Damian back on his feet. "Dude, don't you ever do that to us again. Do you have any idea how worried we were about you? I mean seriously!"

Damian stared down at his feet. "I apologize," he said, quietly. "At the time, I thought my absence was best for everyone involved."

"Yeah, not a chance." Jason plopped his massive hand on Damian's head and ruffled his hair. "You just about gave the old man an aneurism. And that one wouldn't stop crying." He gestured to Jon, who pouted in protest.

"Hey! Dad says crying is a healthy expression of emotion!" Jon turned to Clark. "Right?"

Clark smiled with tired eyes. "Right."

Recollection dawned on Damian's face, and he turned to Clark. His eyes watered, but he forced his tears to stay for now. "I'm... sorry I said such cruel things to you. I don't actually believe you're not my..." He paused and glanced at his brothers. "I should know better than anyone what family can really look like." He turned back to Clark. "Forgive me for hurting you... dad."

Clark's chest swelled with pride. Kneeling down, he gave Damian a tight hug. The kind that made the world feel right again. "Always, son." Damian clung to Clark's neck, and as he stood, he hoisted Damian up with him. "You should get some rest." He eyed Jon. "You too, kiddo. It's been a very long night for everyone."

Jon climbed up onto Clark's shoulders and propped his chin on his head. "Damian, is it okay if I sleep in your room tonight? Y'know, just in case?" Damian nodded. "Cool." Suddenly, he gasped. "It'll be like a sleepover! Dad, dad! Can we make popcorn and watch scary movies?"

Damian frowned. "What's a sleepover?"

"Maybe tomorrow, Jon," said Clark. "Come on, bedtime." Turning, Clark walked his two boys out of the parlor and up to the second floor of the Manor. Bruce stayed behind, watching his fiance vanish down the hall.

"You're awfully quiet," said Dick.

Bruce kept his expression neutral. "I'm just glad he's back unharmed."

"What about Talia?" Jason asked.

Bruce took a breath. "Talia failed in her mission. If she returns to Ra's al Ghul, there will be severe consequences. So, she's been given the option of staying here."

"Are you serious?" Tim snapped. "After everything she's done?"

"Yeah, I have to agree," said Jason, nodding. "You can't tell me you trust her, Bruce."

"She's Damian's mother," Bruce reminded them.

Dick glanced at the others. "Can you give us a second, guys?" Jason and Tim reluctantly agreed, and stepped away. Dick kept his voice low as they spoke. "Are you doing okay?" Bruce didn't answer. "It's been a lot, I know. And with Talia..." He paused. "Where is she?"

"Asleep. Or at least, she's in a guest room."

"Bruce..."

"It's fine."

"It doesn't sound fine."

Bruce glanced at the others, who were speaking by the window. He put his hand on Dick's shoulder. "Damian is home without a scratch. My boys are all under one roof, and my fiance is at my side. Trust me, Dick. I'll be fine." Dick clearly wanted to push it, but Bruce took a step back. "Now if you'll excuse me. I'm going to be sleeping for the next week."

"Alright," said Dick. "Just... let me know? If you need anything."

Bruce turned, waving as he walked.

His trek up to the bedroom was a slow one. He didn't know when his body felt so heavy after a night like this, but currently, it was as though his boots were dragging lead weights. Forcing himself up the steps, he undid the particulars of his suit as he walked. His belt, cape and cowl, gauntlets, and comm link all clattered to the steps as he ascended. He trusted that Alfred would pick it all up behind him. Even if he didn't, Bruce wasn't sure he cared.

He arrived at the bedroom, barely slumping through the threshold before finally undoing the clasp at the back of his suit. He let the wet kevlar peel off and into a clump at his feet. He stripped himself from his under-suit, leaving on only his boxers as he climbed into bed. He sank into the sheets, staring up at the ceiling with an angry buzz in his body. Some of the adrenaline was still there, making him too tired to sleep.

"The boys are down." Clark entered, still suited up, and closed the door behind him. "Do you need anything?"

Bruce slowly turned his head to face Clark directly. He could feel himself strain at the seams by just meeting his eyes. "You," he croaked.

Clark's face softened. Stripping down to his briefs, Clark crawled into bed next to Bruce and opened his arms. Bruce barely managed to roll into Clark's chest, where he was held with tender hands. Clark settled flat, and Bruce let every pound of weight relax onto Clark's body. Bruce closed his eyes, feeling the burn of tears fight against his lashes. Clark pet the back of his sweating head. As Bruce's heart settled, it made way for a wave of relief and melancholy. As if every emotion came at once, overwhelming Bruce until he couldn't hold back. When Bruce sobbed, he did so quietly. There were no wails, no desperate gasps. Just silent, endless tears that soaked into Clark's warm chest. Clark cradled him with tender arms, letting Bruce unravel. He didn't try to calm him down, didn't try to assure him everything was okay. Instead, he offered Bruce a rare moment to feel without judgment or comment.

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There was something about laying across the bosom of a 6'2" alien princess that calmed the nerves. Nestled on Kori's chest, the two relaxed across Dick's sofa like a pair of high school kids. It had been a long, harrowing ordeal in Gotham, so coming back to Blüdhaven was a welcome change of scenery. Dick's eyes closed as Kori played with his hair, her long fingers toying the ends of his shaggy black wafts.

"Have you considered growing it longer?" Kori asked.

Dick snorted. "Yeah, I had a mullet phase."

Kori lifted her head. "This is an Earth hairstyle?"

"Yeah. Business in the front, party in the back. Trust me, it's not attractive."

"I am hesitant to believe that."

Dick folded his hands on Kori's clavicle and propped his chin on his knuckles. "Oh yeah? And why's that? Cause I'm so handsome that anything looks good on me?" He kicked his feet in the air. "You're gonna give me a big ego, you know."

"Your ego is a perfectly acceptable size already."

Dick gaped with a wide smile. "Kori! Was that a dick joke?"

"If you mean a joke about your penis, yes." Kori tapped her chin in thought. "I suppose that would make it a Dick's dick joke, wouldn't it?" Dick doubled up with laughter, and Kori held him around the waist. "It is so good to see you laughing again, darling."

Dick wiped a tear from his eye. "Ah, yeah. I guess I was a neurotic mess for a while there." He pushed himself up on his arms and scooted until they were nose to nose. "But that's all over. From now on, the old, happy Dick is back."

"Until you start to worry about something else," said Kori.

"Yeah, obviously." Dick fell into a deep and tender kiss. Kori's arms moved up Dick's body and wrapped around Dick's shoulders, allowing his hand to glide down her hips to the hem of her skirt. Just as their kissing intensified, a knock came to Dick's apartment door, and he looked up. "The Hell...?"

"Dude," came Jason's voice. "Open up."

Dick frowned and pushed himself off the couch. "Two seconds, babe." He walked to the door and opened it. Jason stood on his welcome mat, his hands deep in his jacket pockets. He looked anywhere but at his brother, hoping to appear as aloof as possible. Dick folded his arms. "What?" he snapped.

Jason tapped his boot on the welcome mat and shrugged. "Figured we should talk."

"Oh, did you?"

Jason glanced towards him. "Mind if I come inside or what?" After a moment of consideration, Dick stepped aside, and Jason walked in. He spotted Kori on the couch, who now sat up as Jason entered. "Hey, Kor."

"Hello, Jason," said Kori. She glanced between the two brothers. "Shall I leave?"

"It's fine, Kori," said Dick. He stood in front of Jason, arms still folded. "He'll be leaving pretty soon. Won't you?"

Jason shrugged. "If you'd like. I thought we could go grab a burger or something."

"Get to the point, Jason."

Jason sucked on his tooth. "Fine." He faced Dick directly. "I knew about Talia's soldiers before they made a break for it." 

Dick's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Remember the asshole who was following you? Well, I saw him get his head blown off by his ticked off boss. They were hiding out in a flophouse in Old Town. I made sure to keep an eye on them once I figured out who they were. I thought that they were just there as support for Talia. I didn't realize that they were waiting to be her personal get away crew. So." He gauged Dick for a reaction. When Dick gave him nothing to work with, Jason continued. "I know you're pissed off at me. I know that things haven't been great between us, so I just figured--"

Wham!

Dick's suckerpunch sent Jason windmilling backwards until he crashed into Dick's bookshelf. Dizzy, Jason gave his head a shake and looked up. "Okay," he breathed. "Okay, I guess I deserve that, but--" Dick grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him up to his feet. Rearing his head back, Dick headbut him straight into the nose, snapping Jason's head back as blood gushed down his chin. Dick pushed him back, seething.

"There," he said. "Now we're even."

Jason took a running start and barreled into Dick like a linebacker with nothing to lose. They went flying together, and fell directly into Dick's dining room table, splintering it on the way down. They struggled, Dick grabbing Jason's fist with both hands before it made contact. Wrapping his legs tight around Jason's hips, he flung him backwards with all his might, and ended up on top of Jason, his fists hurling blindly.

Kori, watching them from the couch, heaved a sigh and stood. She walked to the counter where her purse lay and made sure she had everything she needed. "Please do not destroy the apartment," she said. "Call me when you are finished."

Dick lifted his head. "Okay, babe, I'll see yo--"

"Ragh!" Jason sent a right hook directly into Dick's jaw, knocking him completely sideways. Dick blinked away stars just in time to see Jason coming at him hot with his elbow out. The pile drive to the abdomen made Dick curl in pain. In response, Dick slammed his knee into Jason's ear, knocking him to one side.

Jason rolled to his hands and knees, shaking his head to try and get the ringing to stop. Unfortunately, this gave Dick ample opportunity to jump on Jason's back for a perfect headlock. Jason gargled, clawing at Dick's arm.

"Say uncle!" Dick demanded. "Say it!"

"Ffffffuck you!"

Jason reached back and pinched Dick's nose between his forefinger and middle. The pressure was enough to make Dick's eyes water, and he let Jason go. Jason scrambled to his feet, as did Dick. Jason took a running start, and Dick reared back. With precise timing, both Jason and Dick let their right fists fly. Jason's right hook slammed into Dick's cheek, while Dick's uppercut knocked Jason's teeth together. The force of each blow sent them both flat on their back.

Laying still, they both groaned lowly as they stared up at the ceiling. A minute past. Then two. And then--

"Heh." Jason was the first to chuckle. Hand on his nose, he smiled through bloody teeth as he began to laugh. "Hah ha ha... hehehe--"

Dick smiled. "Ahhh... ha ha ha..." Before long, both he and Jason bellowed in gut-busting laughter. Slowly, Dick sat up, and nursed his jaw. "Fuckin'... hahaha... ow... How's your nose?"

"Fuckin' broken."

"Need me to--?"

"Nah. I got it." Taking both hands, Jason held his nose, and with a jerk that made Dick shrivel, shoved the bridge back into place. "Ahh. Better."

"Jesus."

Jason got up, shaking out the splinters in his hair, and held out his hand. Dick took it, and Jason pulled him to his feet. "Batburger? My treat."

"Sure. Maybe wipe the blood off first. Here, let me get a--" Jason wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and snorted out a clot. Dick blinked. "Nevermind. Christ, someone needs to house break you."

"Yeah, yeah, come on."

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Blüdhaven wasn't generally what one might consider beautiful, but with the right lighting, anything was. Sitting on the hood of Jason's car, he and Dick ate from the paper Batburger bag between them, watching the lights of the skyline flicker on as the sun went down. The hill they parked on had an almost entire view of the borough from end to end, and on clearer days, even had a clear shot to Gotham. It was a good place to think.

Jason offered Dick a french fry, and Dick declined. Jason shoved a few into his mouth. "How's B?" Jason asked.

"Quiet," said Dick. "Tried to get him to talk to me, but you know him."

"Yeah." Jason leaned back on his hands, staring up at the heavens. A few stars had already started to blink awake. "I'm sorry for what I said." Dick turned to him, and Jason kept his eyes averted. "It was a shitty, low blow, and I didn't mean it. I was just... I don't know."

Dick leaned forward on his upturned knees. "Nah. You were right. I know I overcompensate. Especially when it comes to Bruce. But you were wrong about one thing, though." Jason finally looked at him. "I was never the favorite."

Jason snorted. "Oh come on, yes you were."

"Nope."

"Bullshit. You were the first Robin. The golden boy."

"Maybe it seems that way," said Dick, "but that's never how it was." Jason frowned, and Dick let his feet slide down to dangle off the edge of the car hood. "Bruce didn't know how to handle a kid back then. Especially not a traumatized one. He only had his own baggage to go off of, and God help him, I don't think he even knew what a parenting class was. I wasn't his favorite, I was his experiment. All the mistakes he made, he made them with me first. A little cartwheeling guinea pig for him to figure out what worked and what didn't. Half the time he babied me so much it was painful, and the other half he treated me like a full grown adult. There were times I thought he hated me, to be honest. I'd push his buttons or test his patience, and he'd absolutely lose it. I was convinced that he was going to abandon me forever. So I did everything I could to be the best Robin I could be.

"When I got fired, my whole world crumbled. I had spent years convinced that I was meant to be Robin. Some days, it was the only identity I knew. Who was I if not the Boy Wonder? Everything I was ever afraid of got confirmed for me that day. And then to see you? Bright eyed little Jason Todd, wearing my uniform, using my name. I'll be honest, Jay, there were moments when I hated you for it. I tried to never show it to you. You were a kid, you didn't deserve a bitter twenty-something breathing down your neck. For years, I didn't know why he did it. What I ever did to deserve getting sacked.

"Then you died. And everything snapped into focus." Dick closed his eyes, letting the wind brush through his hair. "Bruce was a broken man after that. I'd never seen him that way. He didn't eat, didn't speak for days. When he did start talking again, sometimes he'd slip and call me by your name. It made it worse. I realized two things during all of it. First, the real reason I got canned wasn't because he hated me. He was trying to save me from your fate. He was so terrified that I'd die one day as Robin that he turned me away before I could. The day you died was the day his worst fear came to life."

Jason stared at his hands in his lap. "And the second thing?"

"The second thing," said Dick slowly, "was that it should have been me."

Jason snapped up to Dick, lips parted in shock. "What? Dude, no. No way."

"You were young. You had so much life in front of you. What happened to you, it wasn't fair."

"I was a reckless kid--"

"You were a kid, Jason." Dick finally met his eyes. Jason watched them water. "And for years, I asked myself, what if I hadn't made Bruce push me away? I should have refused to go. I should have stayed put until Bruce forgave me for whatever I did to upset him, and things could go back to normal. It should have been me. Not you. You didn't deserve to suffer that, not at all. And if I had just done my job, if I had been a better Robin, then maybe--maybe--" Dick's words choked, and he put his hand to his mouth, looking away. Everything came bubbling to the surface. Every regret, every doubt, every loathing moment he spent agonizing over Jason's death. It all returned to him in excruciating detail.

Jason inched forward and took Dick's shoulders. "Dick..." he muttered. "You can't blame yourself for what happened." Dick turned his head away, shutting his eyes tight as he fought against tears. Jason came in closer, and lacking anything else to do, rested his forehead on the top of Dick's arm. "Please, man. Don't do this to yourself. I can't stand to see it." He squeezed Dick's shoulders. "Please. If you're a big enough person to forgive me for being an asshole... then... then please, forgive yourself, too."

Dick shuddered. Turning back around, he embraced Jason in a tight, desperate hug. Jason returned it. It lasted for a good minute and a half before Dick finally pulled away and wiped his eyes. "Fuck," he grunted. "Now I'm gonna get a headache..."

Jason rubbed his own eyes, blinking away vulnerable tears. "Yeah, well. Life's a bitch." That got Dick to smile, and the pair of them laid flat along Jason's windshield. "Hey," said Jason suddenly. "You gonna finish your chicken nuggets?"

Dick dropped the bag on Jason's chest. "Knock yourself out."

"Sweet."

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It was a quiet day within the walls of 'Eth Alth'eban. The city of light and shadows had been peaceful for some time, as history had left it behind centuries ago. The palace of Ra's al Ghul sat at the edge of the ancient city, lit by the neverending glow of the false sun. High in the palacial towers, Ra's al Ghul meditated in peace.

His legs folded, Ra's rested his hands on his knees, breathing slowly. The swirl of incense helped him to clear his mind completely. Many years of practice had allowed him to all but stop his heart to a crawl, becoming so still he seemed almost petrified. His millenia among the living had left no evidence on his body, rejuvenated time and time again by the effects of the Lazarus Pit. By all accounts, he looked like a well-trained man in his early sixties, at best. Silver kissed his temples, his beard kept expertly trimmed and styled. He wore robes of jade green, his dark eyes often dotted with natural kohl. A practiced habit since the dawn of the fifteenth century. It was his one allowance of vanity.

The door opened, and a soft-spoken servant entered, bowing low to the ground. Ra's did not move.

"Speak," he ordered in Arabic.

"Forgive the interruption, my lord." The servant's voice warbled in its mother tongue. "But word has been received from the princess."

"Talia." Ra's opened his eyes and stood from his cushions. His long sleeves trailed him as he approached. "What news of the prince?"

"Forgive me, my lord. The attempt to return him to 'Eth Alth'eban has been... unsuccessful."

Ra's narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"They were stopped."

"The boy's father?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Alone?"

"No, my lord. He was aided by the alien."

Ra's walked to a small table, where various items lay in wait. A wash bowl, a towel, a jeweled dagger, a dish of incense, and three small persimmons. Ra's took a fruit with one hand and unsheathed the dagger with the other. He began to slice the persimmon expertly, and ate the chunks as they came. He returned to the messenger. "And my daughter?" he asked. "Alive?"

"Yes, my lord."

"I see." He took another bite of persimmon. "How very unfortunate."

"My lord?"

Ra's admired the dagger in the light. "If she were dead, I might have considered forgiving her for her failure. But alas... she is merely a disappointment instead. How typical." Ra's eyed the servant, and using the tip of his dagger, lifted his chin. The man didn't dare look Ra's in the eye, and shut his own tightly. "Did you volunteer to tell me this news?"

"No, my lord. It was forced upon me."

Ra's smiled slowly. He let the cold metal of the dagger run down the curve of the man's cheek. He shivered, his knees knocking together beneath his robe. "That is because I am not fond of bad news. You understand this, don't you?"

"Y-yes, my lord." Ra's rested the dagger by the man's throat. His breath caught, and he finally popped his eyes open, engulfed by fear. When Ra's took the dagger away, the servant looked ready to faint.

"Fortunate for you that age has softened me," he said. "Fortunate still that I have planned for my daughter's failure."

"Planned, my lord?" Ra's pushed the dagger against the skin of the persimmon. As he pressed inward, the juices trailing down the sharpened edge, and off his wrist.

"Bring me the warlock."

Chapter Text

Clark,

We have a dinner date tonight
at La Boeheim, 8pm sharp. Cancel
any plans for the day. Everything
is taken care of.

-Bruce

It was the note Clark woke up to that morning instead of his husband-to-be. Clark had grown accustomed to waking up to an empty bed, though he was proud to note that Bruce was sleeping more frequently now that Clark had moved in. With the craziness of the past few weeks having finally settled, Clark had hoped that they'd be able to decompress and enjoy some time at home. Apparently, Bruce had different ideas.

Clark rubbed his eyes and sat up as the door opened. "Good morning, Master Clark." Alfred approached with breakfast on a tray and set it on his bedside table. "I was instructed to make your favorite. Blueberry pancakes, eggs sunny side up, blackened bacon, hashbrowns, and coffee with milk and sugar. Specifically, 'the cheap stuff.'"

"Oh wow." Clark took a sip. "This is perfect, Alfred, thank you. What's the occasion?"

"Master Bruce has a day of pampering prepared for you, sir."

"Pampering?"

Alfred removed a list from his front pocket. "Breakfast, shopping, spa treatment, and then dinner. He extends his apologies, as he cannot be present himself for all this. Master Bruce has quite a few meetings he's been putting off that he is finally addressing. Oh." Alfred turned as a worker appeared at the door with a gigantic bouquet of sunflowers and yellow roses. "Good, they've arrived. You may put them there, sir." Alfred gestured to a massive flower pot that hadn't been there the night before.

"Jeeze... This is a little..." Clark took a bite of his bacon, and after a moment of savoring it, stood from bed and wiped his hands on his pajama pants. "I'm flattered, but don't you think this is a little much? It's not like it's my birthday."

"No," said Alfred. "And if you intend on marrying Bruce Wayne, I suggest that you get used to the attention, Master Clark." He spun on his heel to make his exit. "Enjoy your breakfast. The children have been taken out for the day by Master Dick. Once you're ready, your car will be waiting for you." He paused at the door and smiled over his shoulder. "And sir? Do enjoy yourself today."

Clark smiled broadly. "I will," he promised.

After breakfast, which Clark took pains to enjoy rather than suck it all down in two seconds, Clark showered, shaved (which involved lasering his chin in the mirror via heat vision), and dressed comfortably. A pair of old jeans, decent walking shoes, and a t-shirt and hoodie. When he appeared at the front door, he was indeed met with an idling car, waiting to take him out. Climbing into the back seat, Clark was treated to an ice cold jug of carbonated orange juice and a frosted mimosa glass. He helped himself, and relaxed in the back seat.

They arrived at Uptown Gotham within the hour. Clark's driver opened the door for him, and Clark craned his neck in order to see all the way up to the roof. It was a black marbled luxury department store, the door manned by a valet in a velvet red coat. Frankly, if Clark hadn't been engaged to Bruce Wayne, he would have imagined that such places only existed in movies. Stepping through the golden turnstyle doors, he was greeted by a foppish young man at the front desk.

"Bonjour," he said, in a horribly inauthentic French accent. "Do we have an appointment?" He eyed Clark from tip to toe. "Unless you meant to use the maintenance entrance..."

Clark took the dig in stride and put his hands in his pockets. "Clark Kent," he said. "Uh. I guess it'd be under Bruce Wayne's name?"

The front desk boy gasped--literally gasped--and came out from around his station. "Oh yes, of course! Why didn't you say anything? Oh goodness me!" He bounced around Clark like a bumblebee, brushing the dirt from his jeans. "Can I get you anything, Mr. Kent? Refreshments, champagne?"

"I'm alright, thanks. Er... I'm so sorry, what's your name?"

The host laughed. "Oh goodness you're so charming! My name is Peter. I'll be making sure you're taken care of today, Mr. Kent."

"Nice to meet you, Peter. Thank you."

"Oh! You're so sweet." Peter's lanky arms wrapped around Clark's massive one and he began to lead him inside. "First thing's first, the menswear section..." Clark took in the department store as they made their way up the stairs. The ceilings were high and lit impressively by massive chandeliers of fine crystal. Pillars of black marble matched the facade outside, while the floors were perfectly polished tiles of white with swirling gray. Every corner of every floor was lined with designer goods, from jewelry and accessories to colognes, shoes and gowns fit for the Gotham Opera House. There were even a handful of cars on full display, buffed perfectly for the showroom lights. In all his life, Clark had never seen anything quite so opulent. It was almost a little much.

"Here we are! Gary? Gary!" An older man appeared from the corner, with a handsome face and a perfectly trimmed, silver beard. Peter pat Clark's wide chest. "This is Mr. Clark Kent. He's on the Wayne account. We've been told explicitly that there is no budget for today's trip." Peter pat Clark fondly.

"Is that right?" Gary held an arm out, inviting Clark inside. "Why don't we get started with suits then, Mr. Kent?" With a nervous smile, Clark left Peter's side, and followed Gary into the racks. 

In direct contrast to the bright and boisterous Peter, Gary was a much calmer presence, which Clark appreciated. He led Clark down rows and rows of expensive suits, from fine cotton to leather and suede. Button up shirts, silk-backed vests, perfectly tailored slacks, double breasted coats, and fine-brimmed, Italian made hats. Gary gave Clark the time to try on every article of clothing, helping him to sort out what caught his eye, and what didn't quite suit him. Though to be honest, Clark felt that such a rich wardrobe would probably look good on anybody. He noticed, of course, that there were no price tags on the clothes. He didn't dare ask how much each piece was.

By the end, Clark had selected three new suits; navy with faint black plaid for work, a charcoal gray for formal affairs, and a luxury dusty blue three piece for God only knew what. Beyond suits, he was given a whole stack of new shirts and five different fine leather belts. But that wasn't all Clark was saddled with. Apparently, the whole store had been informed that it was date night, and so Gary had made it his mission to find an outfit suitable for dinner at La Boeheim. He dressed Clark in everything from tight leather pants and a backless shirt to a suit jacket with so much embroidery it was practically an art piece. What they settled on was a black, fine-knit turtleneck that contoured to his frame, a full length, gray wool coat, blue jeans that were far too fancy to claim to be such, and a pair of black shoes polished within an inch of their life.

"Huh." Clark put his hands in his pockets to look himself over. "I think I like it."

Gary nodded, wisely. "May I make a suggestion?"

"Please."

Gary put his hand on Clark's lower back. "You slouch. Chest out--" He pushed, forcing Clark to stand to his full height. "And remove your hands from your pockets. At your sides. There we are. Now widen your stance. Chin level with the ground. And here." Gary removed Clark's glasses. "Perhaps contacts?" He smiled, and turned to the mirror to see the full effect. "There we are. Now you look..." His words trailed off, and Clark watched as the gears in Gary's head began to turn.

"Er, thanks!" Clark swiped back his glasses and shrank his head down, hunching his shoulders to lose the inch he just gained. "I'll, uh, I'll remember that."

"Knock knock~!" Peter sang at the door of the dressing room. He held his hands to his smiling cheeks. "Well look at you, Mr. Handsome! Gary, you genius, you went and did it again!" A small handful of men appeared at the door, and Peter waved toward Clark's pile of selected clothes. "We'll have this wrapped up for you and taken to your car. It's almost time for accessories!"

"Er... yeah." Clark flashed a smile Gary's way. "Thanks for everything, Gary." As he left, he caught one last glimpse of Gary's slack jawed expression.

The next hour, Clark was dragged from department to department, and asked to make choices on watches, necklaces, rings, tie pins, and bracelets. To call it a culture shock was an understatement. He knew that Bruce certainly wanted to spoil him, but with each passing section, Clark began to make quicker and quicker picks, if only to get himself out of there faster. All this luxury was honestly starting to overwhelm him. Eventually, he was released from Peter and his entourage of stylists, and walked out to find a different driver with a different car waiting for him.

"Where's Frank?" Clark asked.

"He went to deliver your clothes, Mr. Kent," said the second driver. "It's almost time for your spa appointment." He opened the door, and Clark slipped inside.

The spa sat clear across town, in a quiet section of the west side. Like the department store, it screamed luxury and discretion. Clark was checked in at the counter, and then taken to a massage room where he was given a robe to change into. Ditching his day clothes, he sat on the massage bed and looked around. The whole room was flush with exotic ferns and modern, zen architecture. A fountain of smooth rocks dribbled in the corner, and every wall was lit by low intensity bulbs. Soft, instrumental music played overhead, drowning out whatever faint noises Gotham made outside.

A massage... The shopping was one thing, but Clark wasn't sure how this was going to go. He'd taken blasts from nuclear bombs without so much as a scratch. What was a young, tiny masseuse going to accomplish?

"Mr. Kent?"

Clark turned, and to his surprise, saw the biggest, broadest woman he'd ever laid eyes on. She had arms like tree-trunks and braided hair pinned high to stay out of her way. "My name is Margret. I'll be your masseuse today. Please feel free to disrobe and lay flat on the bed." Clark stripped the robe to his waist and laid flat with his head supported by the chin rest.

"I'll have to warn you, Margret," he said. "I can be a pretty tough customer."

"So I've heard." Margret stretched her arms, and Clark could hear cracks in her shoulders. "I was told that this may help." She showed Clark a label-less bottle of lotion. Clark narrowed his eyes. By the use of his x-ray vision, he saw tiny, microscopic grains of kryptonite, and sat up.

"Um--!" Margret looked surprised, but Clark held out his hand. "Do you mind if I test a little on my finger? I mean... I have a skin allergy and I want to make sure..."

"Of course." Margret opened the cap, and Clark dotted a bit on his index. He rubbed it between his forefinger and thumb. No pain. Not even so much as a burn.

It must be so minimal I don't feel the radiation, Clark thought.

"Everything alright, Mr. Kent?"

Clark flashed a bright smile. "Everything is great." He handed her the lotion and laid back down. "Go nuts."

What followed was an hour and a half of Clark getting his back absolutely pulverized. Aided by the kryptonite lotion, Clark felt every muscle, crevice and knot worked like bread dough. Margaret refused to hold back, and Clark wasn't about to tell her otherwise. By the end, poor Margret was a sweaty, harried mess, while Clark looked and felt better than he had in ages.

"Wowie!" Standing up, he put his robe on properly and stretched. "I feel great! Thank you so much, Margret. Oh." Margret, absolutely exhausted, flopped onto a nearby chair and sprawled out wide. Clark grabbed one of the complimentary bottles of water and handed it to her. "You're a very talented woman. Thank you." Margret nodded, gasping for breath.

After a massage was a half an hour in a sauna, which Clark would occasionally heat up with a wink from his laser vision. And then a mud-mask and round of skin care while he soaked in a rose petal bath. The ladies who tried clipping his nails ended up with broken clippers, and so his nails were cleaned, but fortunately, weren't necessarily in need of a trim anyway. After he was refreshed and moisturized, Clark was taken to the bookstore, and was allowed a limitless budget. After picking up a few research books for himself, he ended up selecting books for just about everyone he could think of. An encyclopedia on rare animals for Damian, and a selection of graphic novels for both Jon and Conner. For Dick, an entire catalog of celebrity cookbooks, Tim got an up to date textbook on advanced robotics, and for Jason, a beautifully bound, annotated copy of Jane Eyre. He was just about ready to check out when something else caught his eye. A smile widened across his face, and he picked up a limited edition copy of The Mask of Zoro.

By the time he was back home with his treasures, it was nearly time to get ready for his date. Clark set aside every gift for his boys and then changed into Gary's outfit. With his hair styled and an insanely expensive watch on his wrist, Clark looked like he gained about $2 million in net worth. Yet another driver waited on him, and they pulled up to La Boeheim at 7:57PM. Clark thanked the driver and stepped inside. He was pleased to see that Bruce hadn't bought out the restaurant this time.

Clark approached the host. "Hi. My party might already be here. Wayne, party of two?"

"Ah yes. Right this way, sir." The hostess walked from the stand all the way to the back of the dining room floor, where a private table waited under dim mood lighting. Bruce smiled over the rim of his wine glass, and stood as Clark approached.

"Right on time." Bruce folded the lapel on Clark's coat fondly. "You look good. How was today?"

"It was a lot," Clark admitted. "But... in a good way."

Bruce kissed his cheek, took his coat, and pulled out his chair. Clark sat, and Bruce sat next to him. "With everything going on, I figured you needed a little extra attention."

"It's not unappreciated," said Clark, taking Bruce's hand on the table. "To be honest, I'm a little embarrassed. I felt like a fish out of water at that department store. But everyone treated me so nice."

"They better have," said Bruce. "I paid them a king's ransom to take care of you." He kissed the back of Clark's hand and ran his thumb across Clark's fingers. "Wine?"

"Why not?" said Clark. Bruce poured him a glass, and Clark took a sip. It might have done diddly squat for his sobriety, but he could still appreciate the smooth taste. "So is that all that this is about? Just a little extra attention?"

"What else would it be?"

"Oh, I don't know." Clark's eyes glittered in the candle light. "Maybe you've got something up your sleeve?"

Bruce leaned back in his seat and swirled his wine. "Guess you've already sniffed it out."

"So? What's on your mind?"

Bruce glanced around them, making sure that no server was in ear shot. "I've been thinking."

"About?"

"You."

"I gathered that," Clark smiled. "In what context?"

Bruce sipped his wine. "Remember our little rendezvous in the office?"

Clark's cheeks flushed. "How could I forget?" There was still a thrill in his belly at the mere memory of being on his knees, gobbling Bruce down under his office desk. "It wasn't my proudest moment," he confessed.

"So you regret it?"

"I didn't say that." Clark drank a bit more wine. "It's more that I wasn't really thinking. It could have been really bad if we were caught."

"We weren't going to be."

"I know. But still."

Bruce leaned forward on his elbows, wine glass between two fingers. "I was thinking of what you told me," he said. "About how you can't really... switch positions."

"Oh. Yeah?"

"Well, if I may be so crass, there's more than one way to skin a cat."

Clark's heart jumped in his chest. "How do you mean?"

Bruce finished his wine and called over the sommelier for a refill. When he stepped away, Bruce held his wine to his nose to let it breathe a bit, and took another sip. "I was thinking," he said, "that after this, I could take you home, tie you up, and teach you how to beg."

Clark choked on his wine, nearly spitting it back up into the glass. His whole face was now redder than his Kryptonian boots. Bruce watched him, deeply entertained as Clark tried to clear his throat. "O-oh," was all he could manage.

"It's only a suggestion," said Bruce. "If it's a little too much, we can just go home and do what we normally do. I just wanted to give you the option." Underneath the table, the toe of Bruce's shoe brushed gently up against Clark's bare ankle. "Since you seemed so keen on it the last time I had you on your knees."

Clark nervously pushed up his glasses. "Gosh," he breathed. "I mean, I... That day at the office, it was the first time I..."

"I know."

Clark readjusted in his seat. "I've only... ever been with one other man before," he admitted. "In college. I was still a pretty big guy, even for a farm boy. I guess it just naturally happened that I was... erm..."

"Dominant?"

"Boy, how do you say stuff like that like it's nothing?"

"I suppose 'dominant' doesn't really suit you," said Bruce, thoughtfully. "'Service top' is probably more your vibe."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means you like to see your partners have a good time."

Clark tilted his head. "Well sure," he said. "Doesn't everyone?"

"You'd be surprised." The server came by with bread and butter. "Thank you," said Bruce. "I think we're ready to order."

They talked the whole dinner. While Clark initially felt awkward as all get out when breaching the topic, Bruce discussed it so easily and so calmly that Clark eventually felt his nerves melt away. The almost business-like discussion of what was wanted, where, and how began to clear up any worries Clark might have had, and he eventually felt comfortable laying everything out on the table. The idea of giving up power, giving up control, to a man he trusted implicitly was attractive in a few different ways. Clark had spent his whole life keeping the world on his shoulders. He liked the thought of letting go completely for a while, even if it was just pretend. By the time the check came, they were more than ready to head back home.

Thank God Alfred's car had a tinted window to seperate them. The minute they got in the car, Clark and Bruce couldn't have been pulled apart with an industrial crowbar. Their kissing made the whole cab hot, and Clark was so lost in his desires that he didn't even care that Bruce was messing up his new, priceless outfit. Then again, Clark didn't pay for it, so what did it matter?

Once they were over the threshold of Wayne Manor, Bruce took Clark by the hips and held him tight. "Upstairs," he ordered. "I want you undressed and in bed in ten seconds. Understood?" Clark nodded, and Bruce pinched his jaw with two fingers. "Tonight, it's 'yes, sir.'"

"Yes, sir," Clark repeated.

"Good boy." Bruce turned him around and smacked Clark's backside. With that as incentive, Clark super-sped his way to the bedroom, the door slamming shut from the wind alone. Bruce took his time following after him. He undid his tie, his cufflinks, and his coat buttons, until eventually arriving at the master bedroom. Gently, he pushed open the door. As ordered, Clark had stripped himself entirely and sat in the middle of the bed, perched on his knees. His impressive cock was already at half-mast, and lay against his thigh.

Bruce walked in, unbuttoning his shirt to his pecs as he went. Leaning over the edge of the bed, he gave Clark a long, languid kiss, breaking it just as slowly. "I have something special for you."

"Yeah?" Clark breathed. Bruce went to his closet, and came out with what looked like a pair of flat, iron manacles. Clark blinked. "Oh."

"Something wrong?"

"Well." Clark picked them up to examine them. "They just look... normal? No offense, Bruce, but I could get out of these so easily."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure, yeah."

"Hm. Put one on." Clark did so. Bruce reached in and tapped a button. Clark felt a surge of something come from the cuff, and he gasped.

"What...?" He shivered as the hum ran up his arm. "Aether?"

"Kryptonians aren't the only ones to know how to harness space magic," said Bruce. "Try and break out of it."

Clark took his free hand and tugged at the manacle. He laughed, a tuft of hair falling across his face. "Huh. Well would you look at that."

"Turn," Bruce ordered.

Clark smiled, biting his lip. He shifted, and Bruce attached the second cuff behind Clark's back. Clark tried a few tugs, but the cuffs held strong. "Wow... This is new."

Bruce tilted Clark's head back and kissed at the base of his neck. Clark sighed softly, closing his eyes. "What's our word?"

"Snickerdoodle."

"Very good boy."

With Clark cuffed, Bruce tied a blindfold around Clark's eyes, on the promise that Clark wouldn't x-ray through it. Bruce, down to his pants only, started by layering Clark's skin with kisses. Clark moaned, letting himself go limp in Bruce's arms. Bruce kissed until Clark was practically purring, and spread his thighs a few more inches apart. He left Clark's side, returning with something metal clinking in his hands.

"What's that?" Clark breathed.

Bruce hooked his thumb into Clark's mouth, holding his jaw. "Did I say you could speak?" In response, Clark sucked on Bruce's thumb. Bruce chuckled deeply. "Cute." He removed his hand from Clark's mouth and began to stroke Clark to full attention. Clark leaned forward, his bound body falling uselessly against Bruce's arm. "Good?"

"Mmmmm. Mhm."

"Good." Bruce grabbed Clark by the hair and lifted his head up. A handsome flush had overwhelmed the face beneath his blindfold, and his chest, smooth with fine hair, heaved with every wanting breath. Bruce attached something small and metal around Clark's penis. Clark jolted at the cold temperature.

"What...?" His question ceased as Bruce clicked a remote in his hand. The buzzing was immediate, and Clark gasped loud. The vibration made his toes curl and his mouth water. Bruce, once more taking his chin in hand, kissed him all over, chasing the pulse in his neck. He gripped Clark by the nape and tilted his head wide for a better angle. All the while, Clark's body writhed, driven mad by the device on his erection.

"How long can you last?" Bruce growled. "A minute? Two?" He bit Clark's ear, making him wither. "Superman can certainly withstand it. But I wonder if the aether in those cuffs is making it... difficult." Bruce yanked Clark back and gnawed on his chest. His tongue found his dark, pert nipples, and Bruce sucked hard. Clark cried out, his shoulders shaking helplessly.

Licking his lips, Bruce backed up an inch and unzipped his pants. He pulled Clark down completely, using that gasping mouth to his advantage. Understanding his knew position, Clark swallowed Bruce obediently. Bruce swayed his hips, the slide of Clark's tongue sending firecrackers up his nerves.

Bruce grunted, his head tilted forward. "Fuck you feel good." His hand tightened in Clark's curls. "Good thing you can hold your breath for so long. Hm?" Bruce took Clark's head with both of his hands, and widening his stance, began to thrust harder. Clark flinched, but didn't relent. "Remember," Bruce panted, "snap if you need a break." Clark tightened his hands into fists. Bruce grinned. "Alright..."

Bruce went harder. The slapping of skin rivaled the buzz of Clark's device. Bruce could already feel himself curling forward to the precipice, and before he took the plunge, he yanked back. This was too good for it to be over so quickly. Clark whimpered, his lips squished against the base of Bruce's shaft. Bruce masterbated against Clark's warm cheek.

"...Want..." Clark's voice was barely a whisper.

"What's that?" Bruce shoved his head into Clark's mouth. Clark sucked it automatically, and shuddered. Bruce popped his cock out and yanked up Clark's face. "What do you want, Sunshine?"

"...cah... cu..."

"Aw. You want to cum?" Clark nodded wildly. "Too bad." Reaching down, Bruce grabbed Clark's penis and squeezed. Clark cried out, his head thrown back as his orgasm was denied. "Boy those cuffs are really doing their job," Bruce teased. He rolled his thumb across Clark's head, making him shrivel. "You're so goddamn sensitive. Makes me wish I could fuck you. I'll just have to settle for this." Bruce grabbed his head once more and forced him back down. Clark presumed the blowjob, his fingers scratching at the leather of his manacles.

Eventually, Bruce once more came to the edge. This time, he pushed himself forward, but when his orgasm came, Bruce removed Clark's mouth, letting his cum splash across Clark's abused lips. Clark lapped at it like a thirsty dog. Bruce, shivering from the release, pushed Clark back up to his heels. He admired him, and every beautiful inch now dripping with seed.

"Look at you." Bruce grabbed Clark by the throat. Clark tilted his head to one side. His voice was gone as his body twitched. The vibration around his dick was starting to milk him. Dribbles of precum raced down the edge of his cock, and splattered down onto the bed sheets. "You're so pretty like this," Bruce continued. "Maybe I should make you wear it. Let the whole world know I own you."

Clark choked out a gasp and curled forward. His entire body shook so much, it was as though electric volts shot through his muscles. Bruce leaned back on one hand, admiring his work. "Next time we do this, I'm bringing a camera," he said. Clark didn't react, his head hanging low. Bruce dropped his smile. "Clark?" No answer. With the haze of sex fading away, Bruce reached out. "Clark, are you...?"

The leather of Clark's cuffs began to stretch and strain. Bruce looked over Clark's shoulder. His wrists were tightening against his manacles. A look of concern crossed Bruce's face, and he touched Clark's shoulder. "Hey. Do you need a break? Is everything--?"

Snap.

In a jerk, Clark broke the manacles clear in half. The aether died with a hum. Before Bruce could ask again, he smelled something burning. Glowing embers ate away at the blindfold until it was up in flames. Its ashes floated down to the bed, the fire dying as it hit the sheets. When Clark lifted his head, Bruce could feel the whole world shift. The eyes that stared back at him were not the sweet, country boy eyes of Clark Kent. Nor were they the firm, righteous eyes of Superman. Though Bruce had never seen them before, he instinctively knew their name. They were the steely, insatiable gaze of one Kal-El of Krypton.

Kal grabbed Bruce by his wrists and pinned him to the bed. Their kiss was vicious, hungry, and insatiable. Kal ripped Bruce's pants away in one smooth motion, leaving them both naked as the day they were born. Kal's tongue invaded Bruce's lips with reckless abandon. Bruce could feel the hesitation of Clark Kent evaporate as Kal's aggression took over.

Goddamn Bruce was a lucky man.

Kal pulled back, his hips now flush against Bruce's. The contraption around his cock was still vibrating, but Kal was no longer at its mercy. Laser focused, Kal pushed apart Bruce's legs and pressed his head against Bruce's taint.

Bruce gasped wildly. His hands flailed, and he smacked at Kal's arms. "Wa-wai--! Snickerdoodle, snickerdoodle!" Kal stopped, though the mask of his hunger remained. Being granted the shortest reprieve, Bruce fumbled at his bedside table and removed a bottle of lube. He squirted an excessive amount onto Kal's shaking cock. Laying on his back, he nodded, quietly.

Kal pushed. And Bruce cried out in pleasure and pain as he accepted him. Normally, Clark would start slow and find a rhythm to increase speed. Kal was not so kind. Once he managed to reach Bruce's hips, Kal began to thrust, with only the bare minimum of restraint so that Bruce wasn't pulverized from the inside out. The pain of it all sent Bruce into sensory overdrive. The vibration from Kal's cockring dragged Bruce endlessly over euphoric hot coals, forcing him again and again into agonizing orgasm.

Kal folded Bruce's legs up to his head. Their slaps sent lube flying, Bruce's now flapping cock banging against his lower stomach. He could feel his skin rip, but dared not say a word. The unbearable mix of pleasure and pain ascended him to a place in his mind that he never even thought existed. On patrol, in a fight, Bruce would sometimes find himself high on endorphins after a particularly strong punch to the gut. He'd always just found it to be an odd detail about vigilantism. Clearly... he was wrong.

A hand grabbed the top of the headboard, and as Kal pounded Bruce into dust, his fingers splintered the wood with no effort whatsoever. Bruce could barely register his antique, oak wood frame was being obliterated by his fiance, and even if he could, he likely wouldn't care.

When Kal came, he came hard and deep. The vibration helped draw out his climax for a full minute. When it was over, Kal reached down and yanked the cock ring off completely, still deep within Bruce's hole. With the vibrator no longer distracting him, Clark grabbed Bruce by the hips, held him up, and pinned him against the wall. The plaster crumbled as they kissed within the debris. Kal continued to hump, Bruce torn completely up the middle by now. He was so overwhelmed, he didn't even notice that they were now a foot off the bed entirely.

At one point, Kal let Bruce drop back to the bed, face first. Bruce barely had time to think before Kal was on top of him. The strength of Kal yanking up his hips was enough to send him spinning. Kal invaded him again, and Bruce howled. His face fell flat into the sheets, muffling his endless cries. Kal was so aggressive, the very bed began to move away from the destroyed wall. There were moments when Bruce felt like he couldn't remember how to breathe. Only for a scream to leave his lips, and his body was forced to remember, fast. 

Kal grabbed Bruce under his arms and yanked him up on his knees. Bruce grabbed Kal's hair, clinging with all the strength he could muster. Kal's thrusts were deep and relentless. Bruce's legs quaked, so slick with sweat that he'd be back on his face if it wasn't for Kal forcing him upward.

The second and final orgasm came, pumping Bruce even further full of seed. Clearly, a Kryptonian talent. Bruce arched his back, taking all that he could, until Kal tossed him back into the pillows. Bruce collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs, slick with sweat and lost in a daze.

"Oh... shoot."

The unmistakable voice of Clark brought Bruce ever so slightly out of his high. Bruce looked down as Clark examined between Bruce's legs. He looked genuinely distraught. "I--! Shoot, darn it, I didn't--!"

"What?"

"You're bleeding! Here, let me--" Clark scurried to the bathroom, and returned with a towel and cotton swabs. He sat down at Bruce's legs and gently lifted one up. "Gosh, I'm so, so sorry! I didn't realize how badly I was hurting you! Here..." He began to tenderly dab Bruce's injuries with cotton, wiping him with the edge of the soft towel. "Are you okay?" he asked in a panic. "I didn't do any lasting damage, did I? Dangit, I am so, so sorry, Bruce, I should have had a better handle on myself!"

"Clark." Bruce motioned him forward. "Here."

Clark sniffled and inched his way up to Bruce's face. Reaching up, he kissed Clark flat. When Bruce broken them apart, it was with a smile. "That was amazing."

Clark blinked. "Huh? But you're--!"

"I know."

"But--!"

"Shh." Bruce kissed Clark's cheek. "Just finish cleaning me up and let's have a cuddle."

Clark's cheeks went bright pink, and he did as he was asked. Once satisfied, he set his supplies down and snuggled into Bruce's arms. "Are you sure you're okay?" Clark asked, flashing his big, puppy dog eyes. "I really didn't mean to go so hard. And I think I messed it all up."

"Did you?"

"You were supposed to be the one to top me," said Clark. "You were so excited to and I..."

"Clark?"

"Yeah?"

Bruce cupped his cheek. "Let's do this again sometime."

Chapter Text

Talia had spent her last few days in a haze. Upon returning to Wayne Manor, she confined herself to her guest room so that she might be alone with her thoughts. The thought of speaking to anyone, even her own son, filled her with a deep shame, and so, her door remained locked, and her food untouched. But every morning, waking up to an empty room took its toll. On the third day, she found herself unwilling to stay in the darkness a moment longer. Forcing herself to shower and dress, she left her room and wandered through the halls. 

Even with the Manor silent and empty, there was a warmth in the Wayne ancestral home that Talia had never felt before. She'd noticed it from the first moment she stepped over the threshold, and the sense only grew stronger the longer she remained. And now more than ever, she felt like an intruder. At first, it was easy enough to ignore. She and the Wayne family were at odds, so of course she would feel out of place. But now... now, after she had been shown kindness, mercy... Talia woke every morning with her body weighed down by guilt. The pain was so severe, Talia wished they would have just killed her instead.

Drifting down the stairs, she found herself in the southern kitchen. She'd only ever visited the Manor once prior to her extended stay now. In that time, she recalled this corner of the house to have been empty and neglected. Bare pantries, sterilized counters, a table layered with dust. Now, it was warm, and well used. She could smell dinner slowly cooking in the oven, and saw a grocery list pinned to the fridge, along with magnetic photos of all of Bruce's children.

Talia approached the fridge to examine the pictures closer. Some were school photos and holiday pictures. Others were more candid. Dick and Jason in their early years, messy and smiling wide. Tim proudly showing off his brand new computer rig, wearing a birthday hat. And, of course, there was Damian, fast asleep on Bruce's chest while his father snuck a selfie of the two of them together. Talia's eyes lifted, and she noticed the only photo that was not of the Wayne boys. It was, instead, a framed photo of Bruce and Clark, smiling with a farmstead in the background. Clark held Bruce at the waist, who seemed more than content to snuggle close, a cane in his hand. Talia's lips parted, and she touched the picture delicately. Bruce was smiling. Really, truly smiling, in a way Talia hadn't seen in twelve years. Clark's face was tilted against Bruce's cheek, as if he was tempted to shower Bruce in kisses. Talia plucked it from the fridge and held it in her hands. A selfish, impulsive part of her wanted to break the photo. Rip it up and toss it, if only for her own satisfaction. After a moment of deliberation, she put it back where she found it, and headed out through the back kitchen doors.

The sun was out, making the chill manageable, though Talia still tightened her housecoat to her shoulders. She wandered through the hedge maze, letting her feet take here wherever they fancied. About half way through, she heard the distinct sound of laughter on the other side. She followed the voice, coming to the end of the maze, but did not step out fully. Beyond the exit of the maze, Jon and Damian stood opposite from each other, Jon with a football in his hand.

"Are you ready?" Jon called.

Damian scowled. "You have still not told me how I win this game."

"It's not about winning, Dami! We're just here to have fun!"

"It sounds like a waste of time."

Jon took a few more steps back. "Okay. I'm going to throw it to you, and then you're going to catch it and throw it to me. Got it?"

"Just throw the ball, Kent."

With his tongue popped out the side of his mouth, Jon reared back and chucked the football in Damian's direction. Damian ran backwards, his eye never leaving his target. Grabbing it from the air, he held it high over his head with both hands. "Success!"

"Way to go!" Jon cheered. "Now you throw it to me!"

"Tt. Easy." Both hands on the ball, Damian lurched back, and threw with all his might. The football dove directly into the muddied ground less than a foot from where he stood. Damian glared. "This ball is defective."

Jon laughed and ran to Damian's side. "No, no, here." Jon picked it up and dusted off the mud. "See these white laces here? You put your fingers on them like this." He demonstrated. "When you throw, do it with one hand, and let the ball roll off your fingers so it makes a spiral in the air."

"This seems complicated."

"It's way easier than it sounds. Here, try again."

Talia watched Jon return to his spot. She refrained from straying too far into view, content to be unnoticed. Was this really her son? The scowling, serious young boy raised by Ra's al Ghul? Had he truly changed so much in just two years?

Damian took a few steps back, his hand on the laces of the football. He chucked it, and the ball wobbled in the air sideways, headed to Jon's far left.

"I got it!" In a blink, Jon zipped over to catch the ball with both hands. He held it up with a resounding woop. "Good throw, man!"

"That was not a good throw!" Damian shouted. "Your instructions were inadequate!"

As the boys laughed and bickered, Talia put her hand on her heart. She didn't know what she felt. Betrayal? Happiness? Heartbreak? Her boy, her precious boy, was playing. Outside in the sun, partaking in an otherwise useless exercise, with a friend his own age. Talia realized with shame that this should have been commonplace. How much of Damian's childhood had been robbed from him? What experiences had he missed, what friendships? And how much blame did she herself shoulder for it?

"Hey, there you are!" Clark's voice echoed as he approached the boys. When he smiled, the sun around him seemed to grow brighter. "Throwing the pigskin around, huh? You know, I played a little back in my day."

"I know!" Jon beamed. "You taught me everything about it! Or at least, my other dad did."

Clark laughed. "That sounds like something I'd do."

"Hey, hey!" Jon ran backwards, readying a throw. "Go long, dad!" Clark obliged, and when Jon threw the ball, he trotted backwards to catch it with one hand easily. Jon then dug his heels into the ground and launched, barreling into Clark like a shot from a cannon. "Tackle!" he shouted. Clark laughed harder, Jon now hanging off him like a baby monkey. He began to run, his arm out, as though he was headed for the end zone. "Dami, Dami! Help me tackle him!"

"Suffer defeat at our hands, Superman!" Damian took a running start and jumped onto Clark's back, his feet kicking wildly behind him.

"Oh no!" Clark made a show of struggle as he slowed his gait. "You're both so heavy! I can't--reach!" The boys laughed as Clark promptly flopped to the grass, holding the football high above him. Jon grabbed for it, but Clark managed to keep it away. Damian, in response, jumped to swipe it, only for Clark to grab him by the waist and drag both him and Jon to the grass. With both kids under one arm, Clark trotted his way to a touchdown, football still in hand.

"No fair!" Jon giggled. He and Damian flailed under Clark's arm. "We had you tackled!" Damian managed to wiggle out of Clark's arm, crawl up his chest, and swing up and over his shoulders, reaching for the ball. Clark wobbled, and down the three fell in a puddle of cackles. Damian managed to finally grab it, holding it up in victory. Clark squeezed him with one arm and smushed a kiss to his cheek.

"Way to go, buddy."

As the three dissolved into chatter about their plans for the day, Talia took a half step back. Her sense of shame and anger remained, but were now overshadowed by a lingering feeling she almost couldn't place. It was a mix of content and gratitude, bittersweetly intertwined with unwanted guilt. Damian never smiled like that before. Never laughed, never played. And if Ra's al Ghul had gotten his way, he never would again.

With much on her mind, Talia left the way she came.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

It was supposed to be a normal day. Boy Clark should have known better.

To try and avoid suspicion, Clark had made it a habit to fly to the 38th and Pine subway station in Metropolis, which was known for its low traffic, and ride the E line down to the Planet. So far, no one had reported any rogue Superman sightings, so it seemed to be working so far. But in his haste to make sure his super bases were covered, it seemed that Clark had neglected his other big secret...

Getting off the E line, Clark sprinted across the street and through the Planet's front doors. A few friendly faces said good morning, but he was otherwise ignored. He crammed himself into the back of the elevator, his satchel awkwardly off one shoulder as he rode the lift to the investigative floor. Lois was already in, and neck deep in work from the look of it.

"Morning, Lois," Clark greeted.

"Mmhm," Lois grunted, her fingers never leaving the keyboard.

"Nice weather," said Clark.

"Uh huh."

Clark smirked. "Did you happen to see the flying monkeys on your way in? I think they caused a six car pile up down on Central."

"That's Clark, nice."

Clark chuckled, but left Lois to her work. She really was in her own world when she was in the zone, and Clark knew better than to tease her for long. There was no rage quite like the interrupted Lane brand. Settling at his desk, he was just ready to start when a coffee was set down at his left. He looked up to see Cat, smiling coyly behind her glasses.

"Decaf mocha, extra whip," she announced.

"Uh. Thanks." Clark took the coffee. He eyed Cat up and down, and the truth clicked into place. "No."

"Oh come on!"

"You're not getting an interview with me, Cat."

"Clark, please?!" Cat put her hands together as if in prayer. "You have no idea how much it's killing me that I can't break the story about your whirlwind romance with--!"

"Will you keep your voice down, please?"

"I mean first the fake marriage, then the secret dating and now the real thing? Can you blame a girl for getting excited?"

"Cat, you were told all of this in confidence."

"And I gave you a professional courtesy two week grace period, but now, I want my goddamn story."

"Miss Grant, language, please."

"Oh don't give me that." Cat spun Clark to face her, clawed hands gripping his armrests with a fervor. "Did I do something to offend you? Is that it? Is this because I wouldn't kiss you at that Christmas party three years ago?"

"Cat, for the last time, I wasn't looking for a kiss. You really did have something in your teeth."

"Regardless!" Cat straightened up, and grabbed Clark's hand with both of her own. "What would it hurt? I mean really? Wouldn't it be so much nicer if you could just come on out and confirm it to the world? In your own words?"

"Cat..."

"I know, I know, your hubby-to-be is a private person. But trust you me, Clarkie, you're coming out of that walk-in closet one way or another. Either you step out yourself, or you'll get dragged out by the press."

Clark rolled his eyes. "You put too much stock in gossip," he said, going back to his computer. "The world has more interesting things to talk about than the love-life of a couple of strangers."

"That's what you think."

Clark glanced at Cat, a pause lingering between them. "Why?"

"Huh?" Cat had opened her phone, but momentarily looked up at Clark's question.

Clark opened his mouth to answer, but in the end, thought better about it and shook his head. "Nevermind. I gotta get some work done."

"Okay. Well, if you change your mind--"

"Hey, Lois," Clark called over his shoulder.

"Huh." 

"Can you come get your girlfriend, please?"

Lois finally pulled her eyes from her screen and turned around. "Cat, leave the poor man alone."

"But Lois--!"

"Shoo. Go on." Lois went back to work.

Cat pouted. Shuffling past her, however, she snuck a kiss on Lois's cheek, making the intrepid reporter blink her way back to reality, even for a moment. With Cat back at her desk, the work day began. Clark was deep in the research phase of his story, hoping to track down missing money that exchanged between foreign and domestic political hands. In the back of his mind, he knew that Bruce would undoubtedly be able to make his work easy for him, but Clark wasn't prepared to lean on him for everything. Besides, journalism wasn't just a means to an end for Superman. Clark had always enjoyed the work. Piecing together the puzzle until the final picture snapped into focus. It satisfied in a way nothing else did.

It was lunch time before anyone knew it. Rolling back from his desk, Clark nudged Lois's chair with his foot. "Hey," he said. "Sandwich date?"

Lois typed, gnawing on her favorite pencil. "Mm?" 

"Nevermind. You're busy."

"Eh?"

Clark chuckled and got up from his desk. He made a mental note to grab Lois a Reuben along with his own order. It wouldn't be the first time Lois was so busy she forgot to eat. Making his way down to the ground floor, Clark thumbed through his news feed for anything of interest. He was so distracted that he didn't even notice the wave of paparazzi waiting for him until he stepped out into the sunlight.

"Clark? Clark Kent?!"

"That's him, that's him!"

"Over here, Mr. Kent!"

Clark jolted, back-peddling half a step as he was suddenly inundated with camera flashes. His eyes boggled, and he nearly dropped his phone. Behind him, Planet workers pushed passed, jostling him back and forth until he was dizzy.

"Is it true you're engaged to Bruce Wayne, Mr. Kent?!"

"Are you moved into the house?!"

"Is there some kind of financial arrangement between you and Mr. Wayne?!"

Clark gaped, weak-kneed and hapless. Realizing there would be no non-metahuman way out of this, Clark spun back around and rushed in the way he left. More questions flew after him, but he ignored them as best he could. As he power-walked across the hall, he noticed eyes follow him, with gasps and whispers accompanying each rude stare. 

Picking up the pace, Clark turned a corner and found a janitor's closet. He slipped inside before anyone was the wiser and plastered his back to the far wall. He gasped for breath, realizing that his hands were shaky. He stared at them, absolutely confounded. What was happening? Why was he, Superman, so shaken by the presence of two-bit paperazzi? After all, he should be used to it. Except that normally when he was on camera, he was wearing a bright red cape and big red boots. This was completely different. Superman was a public figure. Clark Kent absolutely was not.

Clark felt his chest. His heart was pounding, and his head felt light and dizzy. How did they know? How did anyone besides his friends know? At first, he thought Cat might have spilled the beans, but if that were the case, why would she bring attention to herself as she tried to get the story? Besides, Lois had her on a short leash. So then how...?

Clark dialed Bruce and held the phone to his ear. "Pick up," he breathed. "Come on, pick up, pick up."

"Clark?"

"Bruce."

"Is everything okay?"

Clark swallowed. "I uh... I think we're caught."

Bruce paused on the other line. "In what way?"

"When I went out to go get lunch, there was paperazzi on the sidewalk. They know about... us..."

"Clark," said Bruce slowly, "I'm going to need you to elaborate. 'Us' how?"

"What do you mean? Us."

"Are you trying to tell me our identities are blown?"

Clark blinked, realizing how he sounded. "Oh. No, no, nothing like that."

Bruce breathed a sigh of relief. "Jesus, you scared me."

"Sorry."

"Wait. If that's not the case, then..."

Clark closed his eyes. "I don't know how they found out. But they were asking me all these questions. It was kind of a blur."

"Oh. Damn."

"Yeah." Clark slumped further where he sat, nervously fingering a roll of paper towels. "I didn't know what to do, so..."

"Where are you?"

"Hiding in a closet." He looked around. "Kinda apropos, now that I think about it."

"I'll come get you."

"No. Don't do that. It'll just bring more attention to you."

"I don't care. If you need me, I'll be there."

Clark's heart melted, and he held his phone with both hands. "I'm okay," he assured him. "Really." He heard typing on the other line. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for answers." Bruce paused. "Shit."

"What is it?" Clark's phone buzzed, and he opened their chat log. His heart sank. "Oh..." On his screen was a blurry photo of Clark walking out of Wayne Manor, clearly with a morning coffee in hand. Bruce sent another photo, this one of Clark lounging on the patio, chatting with Bruce over nothing. Clark held the phone to his ear. "I thought the Manor had good security."

"Clearly we need something better. These were published in the Gotham Gazette. Looks like the locals are onto us."

"I'm so sorry, Bruce."

"Don't be. This isn't your fault." 

Clark hesitated. "Bruce?"

"Yeah?"

"Is there...?" His words slowed, and he hunkered further down, hiding behind his knees. "I mean... I know how you feel about it. But... is there any real reason to keep... hiding it?"

Bruce breathed deeply over the phone. "For now... yes. I think it's worth keeping private."

"But they know."

"They don't know anything for sure. They know that you're visiting the Manor. And it's already been established that we're friends. If we don't confirm anything, they have nothing but speculation. The interest will die in a couple weeks."

Somehow, Clark felt worse. "Yeah. You're probably right."

"Are you sure you don't want me to come get you? I can be discrete."

"I'm sure." Clark picked at the fabric of his pants.

"Clark?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

Clark's heart jumped, and he laid his head on his knee. "I love you, too."

"Let me know when you're coming home."

"Okay. Bye." Clark hung up the phone and stared at the chatlog. Days and days of messages led down to the pixelated proof of Clark's presence at the Manor. He knew that Bruce was right, ultimately. A public engagement would be more trouble than it was worth. Even so...

Would it really be so bad? To let the world know that they were together? Partners? If they made some kind of a statement, put the rumors to rest, wouldn't that satisfy the masses and end the manhunt? Or would it be more fuel to the fire?

Conflicted, Clark buried his face in his arms, his phone glowing in his hand.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

"A face in the portal."

Constantine sat on the sofa, beer bottle in hand, as he stared down the Kryptonian siphon. Right now, the crystal lay dormant. After so many days of use, John assumed it would be out of energy. But it seemed just as powerful as before with no signs of slowing. Those dead aliens sure knew how to make a battery...

John took a swig of his beer and stood. He had a few theories as to what Jon Kent saw that day. The first being some kind of interdimensional beastie, which--while annoying--would be easy enough to deal with. There was no promise that Clark's apartment wouldn't get flattened, but he was sure old Bats would pay for the damage. There was always a chance that it was some kind of Hell creature, too, which Constantine had extensive experience with at this rate. So no real worries there. No, what concerned him was the alternative. And it concerned him, simply put, because he didn't know what the fuck else it could have been.

Constantine approached the crystal, his arms folded and his beer between two fingers. "Right then." He took one last swig and tossed the empty bottle aside. "Mind opening back up, love?" He steepled his fingers, and a gust formed at his feet. "Aperi ad mandatum meum." The crystal thrummed with light and raised in the air. The gust grew stronger as the rift in timespace began to open.

The vacuum gaped in the middle of Clark's living room, papers and trash sucked in by the gale. Constantine's clothes rustled, but he forced his eyes to remain open, despite them watering. He peered into the darkness and held up his hand. "Oculi ignis." The colors of the world inverted, and the vacuous hole of the portal became glaringly white. He could see edges of the chasm, barely blended into the sides of the portal. And there, at the very center of the portal, was a pair of unmistakable eyes, staring from the emptiness.

"Bloody hell--!" The colors snapped back to normal, and the white vacuum became black again. The eyes remained where they were, but nearly impossible to see in such endless blackness. "Alright!" Constantine formed an orb of energy in his palm, ready to expend it at a moment's notice. "Whatever the fuck you are, get on with it before I fry you from the arsehole out!"

The business end of a grapple chain out from the darkness, and latched onto John's wrist. It yanked him forward, hoping to tug him deep into the portal. "I think the fuck not!" Constantine grabbed a handful of the links and surged magic through to his fingertips. It jumped down the chain like electricity, aiming to zap whomsoever was on the other side. A moment later, the chain went slack, and John yanked his hand from its hold. "Blimey..."

Six more chains shot out like rockets. Each one anchored itself around Constantine in some way. One around each ankle, two on his left arm, one on his right, and the last latched tight around his neck. His limbs were stretched away from each other, hoping to hinder his magic. Constantine grit his teeth, digging his heels into the carpet as he was slowly dragged to the maw of the portal. Taking two of his fingers, he desperately drew a pentagram in the air and blew. The symbol expanded to the size of the portal and attached itself to the edges. As Constantine struggled to remain grounded, he squeezed his fingers shut. The pentagram began to close up the vacuum like a drawstring bag, though not without trouble. With just a few inches left, the pentagram stalled, coming up against the resistance of the grapple chains.

A seventh chain shot out from the center, shattering the pentagram as easily as a pain of glass. The portal opened wider than before, the wind intensifying as John was pulled further and further towards it. The restraint around his neck was steadily cutting off both air and circulation to his brain. His eyes began to flutter, and he gargled, desperate for a full breath. 

"Fucking... cock...!"

In one final tug, Constantine fell head first into the portal. He was momentarily weightless, directed only by the force of the grapple chains. As the darkness gave way to light, John shut his eyes and was suddenly yanked to his knees. The first thing he noticed was the smell of spice in the humid air. It was the kind of oppressive, overwhelming sensation that left John dizzy. He could feel the chain around his neck loosen, and the minute his airway opened, he gasped. He would have collapsed completely, had he not been held upright by the taut chains that pulled his arms wide.

"Strip his chest."

The voice that spoke was deep and commanding. It rattled John down to his core, and he tried blinking in the light to see who it was who spoke. Before he could, intruding hands ripped at his shirt, leaving him bare from the waist up. He shivered as things around him slowly came into focus.

He was in some kind of palatial chamber, with incense so strong it made his nose itch. The sun outside the large arched windows blasted in a way that was entirely unnatural. Constantine had been pulled to a carpet, though with a hard as rock floor underneath it. A man stepped into view before him. John took in his details.

The man seemed to be someone in his early sixties, with full hair streaked with silver and gray. He wore robes of absinth green, with an Arabian sword tied tight to his belt. He stared Constantine down the bridge of his hook nose, his almond eyes pulled to a point with black shadow.

"Well that's one way to get me out of my clothes," John finally muttered. He regarded the stranger with a frown. "Gonna be honest, though, mate, I don't much go for older types."

"Silence," the man ordered. He held out his hand, and a servant appeared with an iron brand, white hot at the end. Constantine recognized the symbol at the end with horror. It was a Lesser Key of Solomon, and it made John's blood run ice cold.

"Fuck me." The old man approached Constantine, the key sigil hovering close to his bare chest. "Wait, wait, wait wait wait!" Constantine struggled, only for his captors to yank his hands completely backward. The chains had been looped through floor anchors, pinning him to the ground. Even if he could free his hands to incant, the very sight of such a symbol sent him reeling. "The fuck do you have that for!?" he cried, his voice high and desperate. "Stop! Stop, hold on, let's talk!"

"I am not interested in conversation," said the old man.

"What do you want from me!?" John demanded. "Come on, mate, let's be reasonable!" Sweat poured down his face and neck, slicking along his spine down to his pants. "Whatever it is, there's no need to resort to this!" The man bent over, and positioned his brand over Constantine's heart.

In a desperate move, Constantine ducked down and headbutt the old man straight in the sternum. He fumbled backward, and Constantine felt the crack of a whip against his bare back. He cried out, the chains on his wrists pulling him tighter. A servant approached from behind and grabbed him by the jaw, forcing him upright.

"It won't work!" John cried. "I'm a stubborn son of a bitch, I promise you! It won't take to me! So whoever you are, however you mean to control me, I'm telling you now you're wasting your--gah!" The servant who held his head yanked him back, stretching his torso as far as it could go. Constantine's trembling eyes were forced to watch.

The old man loomed over John, the brand smouldering in the air. "My name is Ra's al Ghul." He positioned the brand just over Constantine's heart. "But you. You will call me master."

The sizzle of skin was quickly drowned out as Constantine screamed in unimaginable pain.

Chapter Text

"I don't see why you are exempt from suffering with us," said Damian, tugging at his bowtie.

Jason, stretched out along the couch in the rec room, helped himself to a mouth full of cheese balls. "Being dead has its benefits," he said.

"I find that excuse less credible the more you use it, you know."

Jason rolled his eyes and glanced behind the large TV. "Well, somebody has to watch the twerp." Speaking of. "We all set up there, farm boy?"

"Almost!" said Jon. With a click, the audio jack found its home, and Jon popped his head out from behind the entertainment center. "I can't believe your dad has a GameBox! They came out when my dad was still a kid." Skipping to the couch, Jon took his seat as Jason handed him his controller. "What are we going to play first?"

"Well we do have Bruce's entire library," said Jason. He gestured to the entire wall of plastic game cases. "Take your pick."

Damian frowned, folding his arms across his miniature tuxedo. He watched Jon excitedly scuttle to the shelves and start picking out games. "I'm only saying that if you're going to be stuck at home while the rest of us suffer the public, it might behoove you to spend your time training. Rather than wasting away on the couch for leisure."

"Oh take the stick out of your ass, goblin," said Jason. "Not every hour needs to be dedicated to the cause."

"Jon has only managed to awaken one of his many metahuman abilities," Damian reminded him. "Don't you think his time would be better spent trying to activate the rest?"

"Ooh!" Jon bounced from the wall, a game above his head. "Smash Siblings! Let's start this one!"

Jason snorted. "Alright. But I'm not gonna go easy on you."

Jon put the disk in the GameBox and scuttled back to the sofa. "Listen, I know you think I goof off too much," he told Damian. "But rest and relaxation is just as important as everything else. You know?"

"I do not."

"There you are." Bruce appeared at the door, also dressed in his evening best. He approached Damian and looked him over. "Alfred is waiting outside by the car."

Damian turned to Bruce, his brow furrowed. "It isn't fair that Todd gets to stay home," he said.

"I'm babysitting, you dweeb."

"Jon isn't an infant. Further, if Jon could just come with us, Todd would have no reason to be excused from the torture of public scrutiny."

Bruce shook his head and put his hand on Damian's shoulder. "You know why Jon can't come with us. There will be too many cameras at the benefit. It's too risky."

Damian pouted. "What if he poses as my valet?"

Jon tilted his head. "What's that?"

"A personal servant."

"Oh," said Jon. "That sounds... fun?"

"Give it a rest," said Jason. "You're not dragging your bestie to the ball no matter how hard you try. You're just going to have to do what I used to do when I was your age."

Bruce cocked an eyebrow. "And what was it you used to do?"

"Be bored out of my skull."

Bruce shook his head and put his hand on Damian's lower back. "Come on, we should get going." Damian nodded, and was ready to leave, when Jon jumped up.

"Wait, wait!" Before anyone could ask, Jon ran to Damian's side and threw him into a tight hug. He pulled back, leaving Damian in a daze. "Have a fun time! Eat lots of fancy shrimp!"

Damian blinked. "I don't eat meat."

"Oh. Eat lots of fancy carrots!"

Bruce did his best not to laugh. "Come on, son." The two Waynes made their way from the rec room to the front of the mansion. "What was that all about?" he asked, hoping to sound casual.

Damian huffed, trying not to let his pink cheeks show. "Jon has expressed to me that it is important that he says goodbye whenever we part. Given the recent circumstances of my... temporary departure."

"I see," said Bruce, nodding. "So he likes to make sure he tells you bye just in case?"

"Something like that."

Bruce's smile warmed. Parallel dimension or not, a Kent would always be a Kent. Exiting the hallway, they came to the foyer where Dick and Tim, also dressed for the evening, stood waiting. Clark spoke to them, comfy in his work-from-home sweats. He was the first to notice them, and flashed a smile their way.

"Looking sharp," he said, hands in his hoodie pocket. "What's this benefit for, anyway?"

"You're not going?" Bruce asked.

Clark shook his head. "The Planet isn't covering this one. No press pass for me."

Bruce couldn't help but hear the sad lilt in Clark's voice, but pushed past it. "You won't be missing out on anything. It's just a benefit dinner for infrastructure efforts around Gotham. Electrical work, pipes, potholes..."

"Two grand a plate for potholes?" said Clark.

Bruce shrugged. "They're expensive potholes."

Walking up to Clark, Damian tugged at his sweater sleeve, getting his attention. He cleared his throat. "Dad," he requested.

"Ah." Clark knelt down and effortlessly loosened the bowtie around Damian's neck. "There we go. Better?"

Damian nodded. "Better."

Tim checked his watch. "The benefit started an hour ago," he reminded his family. With a nod, the Waynes began to file out, with Bruce the last to leave.

Taking Clark's hand, Bruce kissed him softly. Clark returned it with all the quiet affection he could muster. "I'll miss you," said Clark.

Bruce's smile widened. "I'll be back before you know it." He kissed Clark again, and when they broke apart, he lingered. Their brows pressed against one another, taking a moment to breathe. Clark had been more than a little shaken since his run-in with the paparazzi, which in turn lead Bruce to be extra affectionate around the house. On the one hand, Clark was quietly glad that Perry hadn't assigned him to that night's beat, lest he run into curious reporters for the Gazette. On the other... Clark had covered enough benefits to know how eyes wandered with Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham, made his appearance. He wasn't jealous, per se, but the recent drama with Talia had left Clark with a bit of a sore spot he refused to address. Weirdly enough, as much as Clark wanted to rip the bandaid off and shout to the world that they were together, he was starting to understand why it was that Bruce wanted to keep things close to the vest. But the world wasn't about to leave them alone, nor was the Gotham elite prepared to stop ogling Clark Kent's fiance.

"B, come on!" Dick called. "We're already late!"

Clark walked Bruce to the front stoop of the Manor, but made sure to stay behind the door. He wanted to reach out, keep Bruce home for just a moment or two more, but he refrained. He watched from the shadows as Bruce walked off and vanished into the tinted window of Alfred's car. Clark kept his eyes pinned to the tail lights until they were gone from sight. With a deep sigh, he closed the door and pressed his forehead to the wood.

Get it together, Kent, he told himself. This isn't anything new. Who cares if the world thinks he's single? Clark tightened his hands into fists and shut his eyes. Bitterness and jealousy reared its ugly head, and Clark swallowed it as hard as he could manage. The last thing Bruce needed was for Clark to be some kind of insecure, needy boyfriend. They were both grown men. They could handle it. Right?

Clark pushed himself off and headed upstairs to change. Patrol would undoubtedly get his mind off of things. Downstairs, he could hear Jason and Jon cackling as the buttons on their old controllers clacked. Clark was worried, at first, that Jason wouldn't take to the idea of watching Jon. But it seemed a lifetime of brothers had left Jason with a natural skill for babysitting. Clark would have to thank him later for it.

Suited up, Superman made sure the coast was clear before rocketing off to Metropolis. The streets were lively, even for an early Friday evening. First on the agenda, Superman managed to smell and stop a gas leak in a local Chinese restaurant before the line cooks could fire up the burners. Next, a semi-truck with failed breaks nearly careened into the front of Metropolis General Hospital, had Superman not grabbed it by the nose and carried it up and over onto the parking structure roof. Once he was sure a mechanic was on his way, Superman zipped uptown, where a little girl was desperately looking for her dog. It took about two seconds for his sharp ears to find Princess, and another three to gently carry the chihuahua back to her waiting owner. By about 10PM, almost everything had calmed down, and Superman was confident that the night wouldn't get much crazier than a few near misses.

Deciding to make it an early night, Superman flew his way back to Gotham. Rather than go directly to his bedroom, Superman dove down, and entered through the Cave. He flew through the waterfall, and touching down, spun fast enough to dry completely before making his way further in. Just as he passed the Batcomputer, he paused.

Talia al Ghul sat in Bruce's chair, curled up with a small box in her hands. The lid was open, and inside, Clark could see old Polaroids scattered at the bottom. Talia didn't bother turning as she spoke.

"Quiet night?" she asked.

Clark approached her. "Fortunately." He eyed the pictures in the box. Talia didn't bother trying to hide them. "Baby photos?"

Talia held one up to the light. In it, Damian looked to be a few months old, and deep asleep. He'd been seemingly born with a head of thick, black hair, and even as an infant, his little brow was pulled into a serious scowl. "Father didn't like me taking pictures," she said. "He advised against sentiment in all forms in order to avoid exposing a weakness to our enemies." Talia handed the baby photo to Clark, who looked it over. "But I don't think you can blame a mother for it, can you?"

Clark smiled somberly. "He was a beautiful child," he said.

"Thank you." Talia went through more pictures. Damian was no older than two in all of them. Clark was quick to notice that he never smiled. At best, he seemed mildly curious about Talia's camera. Sometimes he was sleeping, other times, gnawing on various objects while he teethed. "I used to think he was born with an old soul," she said.

"Used to," Clark clarified. "Not anymore?"

"No." Clark handed Talia back the photo, and she once more looked it over. "Life in 'Eth Alth'eban had tricked me into believing so. Only now I have come to realize it was because he was denied a childhood. Something that is not the case here." Clark said nothing. Standing, Talia folded the lid back onto the box and set it aside. "I have spent the last few days thinking."

"About Damian?"

"About you." Talia turned to him. Her eyes searched, for what, Clark wasn't sure. Treachery? Lies? Confident she would find neither, he remained where he was. "About why you were so quick to forgive a woman so unforgivable."

Clark took a breath. "Very few people are unforgivable," he said. "Least of all mothers who deeply love their children."

"Even if she loves them in the wrong way?"

Clark's eyes softened. "She is doing the best she can. That is all anyone can ask."

Talia turned away, grabbing her arms. "You're horribly irritating," she said.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." A pause lingered between them. Picking up the box, she put it in Clark's hands. "Here. Bruce hasn't seen any of them. Perhaps you'd like to go through them together."

Clark looked down. "Did you bring them with you from Arabia?"

For the very first time, Clark saw Talia crack a genuine smile. "I always have them with me," she said.

Clark considered this before putting the box under his arm. "Well then I'll make sure to have copies made. So that you can both have them."

For a split second, Talia looked angry, only for her expression to fade soft and defeated. "Why are you so terribly good?" she asked. Clark didn't have an answer. Stepping forward, Talia laid her hand on Clark's wrist. "Thank you." Her voice was fragile. More fragile than Clark had ever heard it. "For the kindness you've shown me that I undoubtedly never earned."

A smile twitched on Clark's face. "Kindness isn't earned," he said. "It's expected."

"Not where I'm from."

"Well... it should be." Clark took a step back. "I'm going to go check on the boys. Goodnight, Talia."

Talia hesitated. "Goodnight... Clark."

Rising from the ground, Clark flew his way to the Cave elevator, and took it to the ground floor. He first stopped off at the master bedroom, placing the box to one side and changing back into his comfy clothes. He first went to Jon's room, only to find that it was completely empty, despite the late hour. With a frown, Clark walked back down to the rec room and pushed open the door.

Jon and Jason had constructed a sort of pillow bed, surrounded by empty boxes of pizza and popcorn bags. Jon's face was filthy with chocolate, and Jason mindlessly slurped soda through a straw. The two of them laid flat on their stomachs, button mashing as the cartoonish violence of Fatal Combat flashed across the screen.

"Jon, it is hours past your bedtime," Clark announced.

"Jason said I could stay up!" Jon argued.

"No school," said Jason, his eyes never leaving the TV. "That means no bedtime."

"I promised your parents I'd make sure you were in bed by nine o'clock at the latest."

Jon moaned. "Come on, dad, that's so lame. What am I even going to bed that early for? Aw, man!" Jason cackled as his character ripped out Jon's avatar's head, letting its spinal cord flap around in the wind.

Clark frowned nervously. "This also isn't exactly age appropriate..."

"Oh lighten up, Supes," said Jason. "Let the kid have a little fun."

"Yeah! Let me have a little fun!"

Clark put a hand on his hip. "Are you going to be a bad influence on him?" he asked.

Jason finally looked up, a Cheshire grin spread wide across his face. "Maybe."

Jon sat up, controler in his hand. "Hey, you should play with us!"

Clark looked at the TV screen. He winced as the replay footage showed the detailed disemboweling of one of the characters. "It looks... violent."

"It's fun!" Jon said. "Besides, it's not real. It's all pretend!"

"Trust me," said Jason, "the human body does not bend like that. I know, I've tried."

"Jason," Clark warned. "You haven't been telling Jon anything inappropriate, have you?"

"Psh. Relax, old man. Your kiddo's safe and uncorrupted. For now."

Jon giggled. "Yeah, for now!" He grinned at Clark and held up the controller. "C'mon, dad! I'll teach you how to play!"

Jason snorted. "You'll teach him how to lose, more like." 

"Hey!"

After a moment of thought, Clark sat on the nest of cushions, crossing his legs. Jon climbed into his lap and held the controller for Clark to take.

"Okay," said Jon, "first you need to pick your character." They went to the player choice screen and Clark began to thumb through his choices.

"Boy they all look very angry," he remarked. He hovered over an anatomically incorrect woman with a waist so small she seemed to be missing her internal organs. "I guess this one is fine."

"Ah yeah, that's She-Devil," said Jon. "Her finishing move is that she eats the head of the other player."

"...Oh."

"Less yapping more combating," said Jason, picking a beefy avatar titled Jimmy Cash. Once the players were selected, both characters were transported into an open field of daisies.

"Oh, this is nice," Clark remarked.

Round One. Go!

Jason's fingers began mashing buttons as Clark lamely watched his character get pulped into literal paste.

"Dad, you gotta hit the buttons!" Jon cheered. "This one, here, that throws a punch!"

"I'm hitting it, I'm hitting it! It's not doing anything!"

Knock Out!

Clark blinked, adjusting his glasses as Jimmy Cash squished She-Devil's rib cage with the heel of his boot. "I'm concerned about the messaging behind this video game..." he muttered.

"Jason!" Jon cried. "You gotta give dad a minute to get used to the controls!"

"Nah, he'll never learn unless you push him out of the nest," said Jason. "Sink or swim, that's my motto!"

Round Two. Go!

With a quick and efficient combo of buttons, Jason activated an unstoppable one-hit KO, which sent She-Devil flying off the screen in a million pieces. Jason sat up with a laugh. "Victory, baby! Not a scratch on me!"

"Yeah, cause he doesn't know how to play!"

As Jon chastised Jason for his unfair tactics, Clark set the controller to one side with a tender smile. Maybe it was true that Clark would always have a spot of jealousy when it came to sharing Bruce Wayne with the world. But no matter how much attention was ever thrown his way, the world would never have what was real.

He would just have to be content with that.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

"Drake?"

"Hm?"

"How long do you think I will live?"

Tim blinked over his espresso. "Boy what a question. Uh. I don't know?"

"Guess," said Damian. "And assume for argument's sake I am not prematurely killed."

Tim took a sip of coffee. "Well, 80's a good long life. So let's say you've got seven decades left."

"Seven decades. Of this." Damian looked out into the benefit. He, Tim and Dick hung off to the side as they usually did, watching their father schmooze his way through high society. If the Wayne children didn't already that Bruce hated these things, they never would have guessed the truth. Bruce always played the part of a Gotham Socialite to the letter. "I don't know how he smiles through it."

"Are you still complaining?" said Dick, a champagne flute in his hand.

"I'm bored," Damian pointed out.

"Yeah. Saying it a bunch of times doesn't change anything."

Tim pulled out his phone to scroll, espresso cup still pinched in hand. "This really is starting to get unbearable."

"See?" said Damian. "Drake agrees with me."

Dick looked over to Tim's screen. "Any updates from Conner?"

"Gotham's quiet," said Tim. "Surprisingly. And I guess Clark's come home early, so Metropolis isn't any livelier." He tucked his phone away. "So no escaping to go on patrol, sadly."

Damian rolled his head backwards, staring at the ceiling. "If we were lucky, someone would try to blow up the building."

Dick quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah, that's a normal thing to say." He wrapped his arm around Damian, nudging Tim in the process. "Come on, guys. It really isn't that bad. You just gotta make it fun for you."

"How?" Tim asked.

Dick scanned the crowd. He nodded. "That one there." They followed his gaze to a balding man in an oversized watch. His blinding white suit was detailed in obnoxious gold, and the woman on his arm was very clearly more interested in the hot trust fund babies walking around. "You think he dresses like that so that she can't pretend to lose him in a crowd?"

Tim chuckled. "I think I remember him from last year. He tried to sell Bruce on some ponzi scheme or another. God, he was insufferable."

"He looks like he's doing well for himself," Dick remarked.

"Hardly," said Tim, scoping him out. "The watch is off-brand. Probably a knockoff. And look, there are seams coming loose at the bottom of his pants. And look." Grinning, he gestured to the keys hanging out of his pocket. "That's a rental fob. So he's probably got a parked Lamborghini outside that he has to turn in tomorrow morning."

Damian looked between them. "Is this what you mean by fun?"

"What?" said Dick. "We're people watching."

Damian sighed dramatically. "I'm going to look for fancy carrots."

Across the way, Bruce chuckled along with his fellow party guests. He hadn't bothered to drink much out of his champagne glass, preferring it to act as a prop so that he had something to do with his hands. Otherwise, they would stay all night in his pockets; a habit Alfred abhorred.

"It really is lovely to catch up, Bruce," said Mrs. Windham, co-owner of Gotham's taxi cab company. "I'll tell you, I've had one hell of a time now that this whole ride-share culture has found its way to Gotham. I mean can you believe the foolishness? Getting into stranger's cars and paying them for it..."

"Isn't that your whole model?" asked Mr. Carpenter, chair of Gotham Tech Solutions.

Windham waved away Carpenter's comment. "We have accountability. You know? Guardrails, oversight. What does some nobody have other than a car and a cellphone? It's anarchy." Windham sighed and took a bite of her hors d'oeuvres. "At this rate I'm going to die of stress before I get to my third husband." The circle laughed dryly, and Windham flashed her eyes towards Bruce. "Speaking of husbands..."

"I'm flattered, Charlotte," said Bruce with a smile, "but I'm going to have to decline the proposal."

Windham laughed again. "Oh no, silly boy. I mean you. The Gazette has some pretty interesting photographs in the recent edition..."

Bruce kept his expression neutral. "I don't keep up on the news," he lied.

"Oh bull," Carpenter smiled. "It's been all over the news and social media."

"Afraid I don't keep up with that, either."

"The handsome man photographed at your house!" Windham finally exclaimed. "Wasn't that the same gentleman you had that stunt with not too long ago?"

"Handsome man... Oh, you mean Clark?" Bruce chuckled. "I'll tell him you called him handsome. He'll be flattered."

"So you do have a guest staying at infamous Wayne Manor?" asked Mr. Augustine, head of Gotham Public Research and Development.

"It's a big house," said Bruce casually. "Why wouldn't I offer my friend a room while his gets renovated?"

"Is that right?" said Carpenter. "So you're just doing the man a favor, then? Why do I not believe that?"

Bruce shrugged. "Believe what you want. The press certainly will."

"Who is he again?" asked Windham. "A writer of some kind, wasn't he?"

"A reporter," said Bruce. "A very talented one, if I may say. He works for the Daily Planet--"

"See?" Augustine, interrupting Bruce and playfully smacking Carpenter's arm. "I told you."

Bruce looked between them. "Told him what?"

Augustine smiled, as if the whole thing was some great joke. "I was telling Nick here how this whole thing is overblown. Tabloids taking a crumb and running with it."

Bruce chuckled and nodded. "You can say that again. No, Clark and I are old friends."

"Of course you are," said Augustine. "I thought I was going crazy for a second there. I mean the thought of someone like you with someone like him?" Augustine cackled and shook his head. "I mean it's nuts!"

Bruce's smile froze. "I'm sorry?" was all he could manage.

Carpenter shook his head. "Yes, alright, Paul, feel free to gloat. Say, did anyone see the Knights game over the weekend?"

"Wait, hold on." Bruce gestured with his flute. "What do you mean someone like him?"

"Oh I'm sure he's a great guy," said Augustine dismissively. "But I mean, come on. What a stretch. Bruce Wayne shacking up with some nobody reporter from out of town? How far-fetched can you get?" He took a sip of his cocktail and gestured at Bruce, smiling at the others. "I've seen this guy pull supermodels, and from what I heard, this Kent guy is some transplant from the sticks. I mean, who's buying that?"

The others laughed. Bruce did his best not to let his irritation show. "You say that like it's a bad thing," he said, hoping to sound casual.

"Look, I got nothing against middle America," he said. "But come on. You're his friend, I bet you know better than anyone that he's not a good fit for someone like you."

"Oh be nice," Windham scolded. "Just because the man's from the middle of nowhere, don't hold that against him."

"I'm just saying, he's not exactly upstate stock."

Carpenter tilted his head. "Aren't they homophobic out there?" he asked. "Last I checked, I don't even think a midwestern boy could even be gay without it being a huge problem." Carpenter turned to Bruce. "How're his parents? They're not that backwards, are they?"

A waiter passed, and rather than answer, Bruce put his champagne glass on his tray. "Would you excuse me? I think I need the little boy's room." Leaving without giving the others a moment to object, Bruce wandered into the bathroom and went to the far stall. Locking the door behind him, he leaned against the wall and sighed in irritation. He was usually so good about keeping a straight face. But if he had stayed in that conversation any longer, he would have had yet another headline of Bruce Wayne kicking the shit out of some stupid rich guy.

He shouldn't let it bother him. After all, if Clark was there, he would undoubtedly take the comments in stride. But Clark wasn't there, and Bruce, completely alone, was expected to let these tax-dodging assholes talk bad about his fiance without flinching.

Then again... they didn't exactly know that they were engaged.

Bruce felt a buzz in his coat pocket. Pulling out his phone, he saw that he had a message from Clark. His heart skipped a beat as he opened it. It was a photo. Clark, Jason and Jon had taken a selfie together, making absurd faces. Clark held a Twizzler over his lips like a mustache, while Jason stuck candy corn in his mouth like vampire fangs, and Jon's mouth was stuffed to the brim with marshmallows. Bruce's natural smile returned, and he double tapped the photo, pinning a little pink heart over the image. He responded.

Glad you boys are
having fun.

Clark responded two seconds later.

Don't tell the other me
that I'm letting Jon stay
up this late. I'd be very
disappointed.

Scout's honor.

Bruce held his phone to his heart and took a deep breath. Let them think what they want, Bruce decided. It isn't what matters. Bruce's phone buzzed again, and he held it up.

Hope you're surviving.
Love you lots <3

Bruce could feel his whole chest warm over. He responded.

Thank you, Sunshine.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

It was midnight by the time Bruce and his boys got home. Conner had already swung by to head home with Tim, and Damian marched up to his bedroom to change as fast as physically possible. Bruce made a note to himself to find clip-on bowties for him from now on.

"Apparently it was a slow night," said Dick, the pair of them heading to the rec room. "Nothing to report here or in Metropolis."

"So I heard," said Bruce. "Staying the night?"

"Nah, Jason's just my ride. Speaking of..." Dick opened the door, and the two of them peeked inside. The menu screen to an old GameBox game looped endlessly, casting its blue light on the three figures, nestled down into a pile of cushions. Clark took up the center of the pillow nest, open-mouthed and snoring. Jon was flat on his chest, tucked up underneath his chin, while Jason was leaned up against Clark's side, arms folded and head drooped in sleep. Dick and Bruce shared a smile.

Dick approached Jason and nudged his socked foot. Jason jerked awake. "M'not asleep--!"

"Sure you're not," Dick grinned. "C'mon, Little Wing. I'll drive you home." Jason yawned, pulling himself to his feet.

"Thanks for watching Jon," Bruce said.

"Yeah," Jason nodded. "He's a good kid." As he passed, he pat Bruce's shoulder nonchalantly. "See ya, old man." In response, Bruce hooked him by the shoulders and pulled, surprising him with a manly hug. Jason was stiff at first, but fell into it as though it was second nature. He and Bruce patted each other's backs before parting.

"Don't be a stranger," said Bruce.

Jason smiled. "Sure." His eyes lingered for just a moment, and then he smacked Dick's chest with the back of his hand. "Let's go." He and Dick vacated, leaving Bruce to deal with Clark and Jon.

Bruce knelt by Clark and gave his hair a faint pet. Leaning down, he gently scooped Jon from Clark's arms and cradled him. It was a move he'd practiced many times with his own children. Clark shifted, and Bruce kept his voice to a whisper.

"Clark."

"Mm?" Clark opened his eyes a smidge.

"I'm going to take Jon to bed. Go tuck in."

Clark yawned. "Home already?"

"Yeah." Bruce stole a kiss, and then stood straight. "I'll be right up."

"M'kay."

Bruce walked up the steps to the bedrooms. He could hear Damian brush his teeth in his own bedroom. Bruce opened the door next to Damian's own and walked Jon inside. By the time Jon was under the covers, his eyes cracked open. "Uncle Bruce...?" he mumbled.

"It's late," said Bruce. "You need your rest."

Jon nodded. "Did you have fun?"

"Not as much fun as you." Jon smiled into his pillows, his eyes closing softly. Bruce gave his head a few smooth pets before leaving Jon to his dreams. He headed to the master bedroom, where he expected to find Clark bundled up and already asleep. Opening the door, however, he saw nothing but an empty bed. "Clark...?"

Smooth, warm hands slid along Bruce's belly from behind. Clark held him firm, laying kisses up and down Bruce's neck. Bruce fell back into him with a sigh. "I haven't even changed out of this monkey suit," he said.

"Leave it on," Clark teased.

Reaching up, Bruce pinched Clark's nose with his knuckles. "Yeah, right." Bruce turned in Clark's arms, and they shared a deep and sentimental kiss. Clark's fingers undid Bruce's endless buttons, eventually worming his hand up Bruce's bare chest, steadily peeling his clothes away.

"How was it?" Clark asked.

"Painful," Bruce muttered.

Clark spready Bruce's tux wide off his shoulders and planted more and more kisses along his skin. "Heavy is the head that wears the crown."

"Bite me, Kent."

"Is that an invitation?"

Working their way to the bed, Clark dressed Bruce down to his boxers and they crawled together under the sheets. Clark cradled Bruce's body in his massive arms, and Bruce, exhausted from the whole affair, went limp in his grasp. Clark overwhelmed him with fluttery kisses, eliciting more than a few giggles from deep within Bruce's chest.

"You know I'm still sore," Bruce reminded him.

"I know," said Clark, sheepishly. They faced each other, snuggled down in the blankets. "I was just thinking about um... fooling around a bit." He paused. "Unless you'd rather sleep...?"

Bruce chuckled. Reaching down, he began to massage the bulge in Clark's underwear. Clark's eyelids fluttered, and they shared another kiss. "If I ever say yes to that, smack me."

It was moments before they were lost to the world, petting and stroking each other in eager splendor. Their kisses were magnetic, keeping them intertwined at all times. The soft burn of their shared pleasure eased them both into deep and tender euphoria. Their noses squished together, and their lips parted as they shared puffs of hot air. Soft moans muffled against the sheets, though there was no need to be silent in such a large mansion. It was as though the effort to keep their love affair secret persisted, even among the stars. When the climax finally did come, it came on rapt breath and stunted voices. They rode the wave together, and when it was over, scooted a few inches to one side to sleep.

Clark was out almost immediately. As per usual, Bruce had a harder time settling down. Clark's head had found a comfortable spot on Bruce's bare chest, and there he breathed, softly, slowly, with Bruce's fingers threaded through his hair. Bruce watched Clark for what felt like hours. What had he done in his life to deserve a man so perfect? What good deed had ever earned him such a love? Listening to Clark breathe steadily, Bruce thought back to the question of their relationship at hand.

When they finally were married, would Bruce feel the need to keep them secret from the rest of the world? For how long? Until Clark crumbled under the weight of it? Until bitterness and resentment budded between them? Could Bruce stomach that? Or would it be worse to let strange eyes see their peaceful corner of the world? Eyes that judged, and sneered, and found good men wanting. Bruce tightened his arms around Clark's body.

He'd spent his whole life under public scrutiny. It would be a cold day in Hell that he would let the man he loved face the same torture.

Chapter Text

It was early. Early, cold, and wet. The rain had stopped for now, but Talia imagined it would start up again any second. Never in her life had she dealt with so much rain. She never liked it. She didn't know how Bruce could stand it. Or Damian, for that matter. Standing at the open door of the Manor, she waited for her car to arrive, a few modest suitcases at her feet. It was early enough that the sun still slept. The house would be still for at least a few hours, as Batman, Robin and Superman had only just returned from their patrol at three o'clock. It was barely five now.

The car rolled up the gravel driveway. The driver, a man under her father's service, got out and held open the back passenger door. Talia didn't move right away. She knew it would be best to leave now, before the house woke up. Otherwise, she would be forced to look her son in the eye, after which, she may never leave.

"No goodbyes, I'm guessing?"

Talia looked over her shoulder. Bruce stood at the doorway to the library, just to the foyer's left. His large frame, draped in a plush, black robe, took up the whole of the entryway. He had no coffee in his hand, leading Talia to believe that Bruce had only come down when he heard Talia prepare to leave.

"I can't imagine it would matter one way or the other," she said.

"Can't you?"

Talia turned back to the car. "I have shattered what little trust you had in me. My presence here has been nothing but a hinderance to you and your family. The fact that Damian does not hate me is a miracle in and of itself. But I cannot stay and burden you any longer."

"Where will you go?" When Talia didn't answer, Bruce furrowed his brow. "Not back to him..."

"I have little choice."

"Talia, he'll kill you."

Talia faced Bruce directly, with not a shred of fear in her eye. "I must face the consequences of my failure. All the more reason Damian is better off not seeing me depart. He will understand someday." Talia's eyes drifted to the skies. It was beginning to sprinkle. "I may not have done him justice as his mother. But perhaps I may atone as a memory instead."

"A touching sentiment." Talia paused, and turned back to Bruce. Bruce took the opportunity to stand aside, bringing Talia face to face with their son. Clark stood behind him in silence, his large hand resting on Damian's shoulder. "Sorry I had to ruin it," Bruce finished.

Damian stepped out from Clark's grasp, approaching Talia directly. Although he tried to retain his furrowed brow, his green eyes were vulnerable, and searched desperately for any sign that Talia would change her mind.

"Mother..."

Talia's face paled, and she turned her head away. "This was cruel of you," she muttered to Bruce.

"Mother," Damian repeated. "Please tell me you aren't going."

Talia grabbed her things and made her way to the car. Damian followed, unbothered by the increasing rain. "Mother, please." He took her hand before she could slip inside. Talia's shoulders slumped, her expression hidden by the curtain of her deep, black hair. "Why? Why go back to grandfather? You know what he will do to you."

Quietly, Talia put her luggage to one side. Forcing herself to face Damian, her face seemed older now than it ever was. She knelt before her boy and wrapped her arms around him. Damian melted into his mother's hug, burying his face into her shoulder.

"I am so sorry, habibi," she breathed. "I am so sorry for all the pain I put you through. I see now what you need." Pulling away, Talia pushed aside a wet fringe of hair from Damian's face. "This family... your father, your brothers... You are better for having known them. For having loved them. As deeply as I care for you, beloved, they can give you what I never can. They are your family."

Damian's eyes watered, and he took Talia's hand with both of his own, holding it to his cheek. "You are family, too," he said, his voice barely above a warble. "You don't have to go back to him, mother. You can stay."

"No, my love."

"But--"

Talia leaned forward and kissed his crown. "My sweet prince." Tears trickled down her high cheeks, mixing with the rainwater that slicked her skin. "You have so much of your father in you. You take the best parts of both of us and rise above our shortcomings. Mine especially." Talia laid their brows together, Damian desperately gasping for breaths. "I am so proud of you, Damian. Be strong. Know that you are loved. Always." Damian squeezed his eyes shut, and Talia kissed his tears away. Standing, she faced Bruce and Clark, who watched at a respectful distance on top of the stairs.

"You have done right by our boy, Bruce." Bruce nodded in response, and Talia turned to Clark. "Thank you... Mr. Kent. I might never have deserved your charity, but I am indeed grateful for it." She smiled. "Congratulations. To the both of you." Her eyes met Bruce's. "He's very lucky to have you."

"No," said Bruce. "I'm the lucky one."

With one last embrace, Talia got into the car and closed the door behind her. The three watched her tail lights leave the estate, vanishing out of the front gate and into the noise of Gotham. Bruce and Clark both approached Damian in silence, who had not moved from his spot. Taking off his house robe, Bruce laid it over Damian's head, shielding him from the rain. Damian sniffled and shuddered. Bruce knelt down and opened his arms. Without a word, Damian climbed into them, and Bruce rose, holding his son to his broad chest.

"Come on," said Clark, "we can all use a little more sleep."

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Clark didn't think it was possible to get more attention as a mild-mannered reporter than as a literal flying demigod, but here he was, watched every second of the day from the moment he stepped in through the Planet's front doors. Lois had texted him earlier, implying he might want to work from home that day. But Clark had a few important files to a current story still on his desk he needed. Perhaps he was just an older soul, but he also tended to be more productive in the office.

When Clark first noticed the stares, he was in line at the in-house cafe on the ground floor. Some of the photographers from the sports floor had gathered by the trashcans, seemingly unbothered at how obvious they were. Clark greeted the baristas behind the counter with his usual smile. He had of course learned everyone's name within a week of meeting them, even the temporary hires. Today, Linda was his cashier, and he greeted her with his usual chipper demeanor.

"How's school going?" he asked, putting a dollar in the tip jar.

"Oh um. You know." Linda smiled nervously, ringing up his decaf mocha with extra whip. "Fine."

"You're coming up on final exams, right? Or midterms?" He glanced to Linda's left, noticing the entire staff now staring at him, some half way through steaming milk. Clark's smile strained. "Everything okay back here, guys?"

Cammie, one of the bolder baristas, leaned over the counter, her eyes wide beneath a fringe of blue hair. "Mr. Kent, are you really shacking up with Bruce Wayne?"

"Cammie, that's rude!" Complained Sam, clutching his broom tight.

"You can tell us, right, guys?" Cammie insisted. "We won't tell anybody if you are. But just, y'know, if you are..."

Clark tried to laugh it off. "You kids shouldn't believe everything you read in the paper," he said.

Linda blinked. "Oh. We don't read the newspaper."

"Huh? But you work in..." Clark shook his head. "Nevermind. I'll just go wait for my--" Cammie held it up as though it were made of gold. "Oh. Golly, that was quick." He took it with a smile of thanks. "Appreciate it."

"Uh huh," said Cammie. "So about Bruce Wayne--"

"See you tomorrow!" Clark turned, sipping his coffee with a glance to his right. The photography sports staff were now huddled in a circle over a paper. Clark peered between them and saw that they were taking bets. "Jeeze Louise," he muttered.

Getting into the elevator, Clark unfurled that morning's edition to skin the headlines. He barely passed the first byline when he realized that every eyeball in the lift was tilted his way. Clark's neck grew hot, and he hid his face behind the news print. The elevator paused on the 3rd floor, and rather than stomaching it all the way to the 10th, Clark got out. "I think I'll walk," he said to no one in particular. The doors closed, with many behind them craning their necks to get a better glimpse as Clark rounded the corner.

The third floor, home to the Planet's social media team, was abuzz with work. The beginning of the week was always prime posting hours for the internet's algorithm, or so Clark has been told. He made sure not to bring attention to himself as he walked to the stairway, only to nearly crash into a 5'2" intern with her phone out and her eyes wide.

"Oh gosh." Clark pushed up his glasses. "Excuse me, miss."

The intern gaped. "Wait... you're--"

"A bit late for work, yeah. I'm just gonna squeeze past..." Clark sidled his way against the wall to slip past the young lady, only to spot several camera lenses pointing his way. He offered the floor a meek smile and scuttled out of view. Reaching the door to the stairs, he grabbed the metal latch and squeezed tight, crumpling the frame with the deadbolt until it was nothing more than a mess of metal spaghetti. It wasn't exactly up to fire marshal code, but Clark justified it by promising to save the third floor first if a fire broke out.

Heaving a big sigh, Clark sped his way up the last seven floors, making sure to keep an ear out for anyone who might catch him. Once he was on the landing for editorial, he opened the door and stepped inside. 

Everything came to a screeching halt.

Like something out of a movie, every head turned, every hand stopped over its keyboard, every phone call paused, mid-sentence. Clark stood like a kid caught sneaking out of bed on Christmas. His smile quivered on his lips, his cheeks now a vibrant, bright red. He cleared his throat. "Morning everyone," he said, his voice cracking.

Slowly, the 10th floor went back to work. Clark let his shoulders relax, but as he moved, he could feel every pair of eyes pin to his back like needles. He clutched his coffee with both hands, the morning edition crumpled in his hand. He picked up the pace, hurrying between the desks until finally reaching his own. Setting his coffee to one side, he dove to Jimmy's desk and wheeled him around.

"Hey, Jimmy!" he said far too enthusiastically.

"Ah. Hey, Clark." Jimmy stood from his desk and glanced around them. "Quite a morning, huh?"

Clark's smile twitched, and he gripped Jimmy's shoulders. "Help?" was all he could manage.

Jimmy took one last look at the room and nodded to his left. "Come on. Conference room is open." He and Clark power-walked off the floor, down the hall and into the empty meeting room. Closing the door behind him, Jimmy was sure to draw the blinds to give them a bit more privacy. "God, you'd think people would have better things to do."

Clark groaned, flopping into the spinning chair at the end of the table. His arms and legs spilled off the edges, and his neck scrunched uselessly between his shoulders. "When do you think they'll get tired of all of this?" he asked.

"Do you want the nice answer or the honest one?"

Clark lifted his head. "A nice answer?" he said, sounding hopeful.

"They will eventually, but it might take time. You're dating one of the richest men in the world and a neighborhood celebrity and philanthropist. God forbid the world figures out your engaged."

Clark paled. "What the heck is the honest answer?"

"That you're a walking headline, so you'd better get used to being stalked for a while."

Clark moaned and slumped further in his chair. "This is awful. How am I going to get any work done at all?"

Jimmy rubbed the back of his head. "I mean... you're marrying a man with more money than God. You ever thought about retiring?"

Clark sat up in his chair. "Of course not," he said, seriously. "The Planet is my life." Or at least his civilian life. "I became a journalist because I want to make a difference in the world. I can't do that if I retire."

"If you say so." Jimmy checked the blinds to make sure there weren't any evesdroppers. "Listen." He sat on the edge of the table. "Have you and Wayne talked about going public? You know, ripping the bandaid off?"

"He won't do it," said Clark. "Trust me, I've asked."

"It might save you a whole lot of headache."

"Yeah." Clark sat up, only to hide his head in his hands, his elbows on the table. "Goshdarnit. I need a drink."

Jimmy frowned. "You drink?"

"Very rarely."

Jimmy checked his watch. "Well listen, it's a little early still. Just try to get through to lunch and we'll head over to the bar, yeah?" He glanced behind him. "Hold on." Walking to the door, Jimmie swung it open, revealing a cluster of reporters crouched down in attempts to hear their conversation. "Shoo!" Jimmy waved them off, scattering them like roaches. "Shoo, all of you! Go on! Bottom feeders..." He shut the door and sighed. "Anyway, maybe we can..." He turned, his words cutting short.

Clark was gone from sight, a cold breeze blowing in from the open window.

Flying overhead, Clark was sure to keep the clouds beneath him, lest anyone see him on their rooftop smoke break. He knew it wasn't a great idea to vanish into thin air like that, but Clark decided he'd blame it on Bruce's influence. Making his way to his apartment, Clark landed on the balcony and slipped inside.

"John?" he called. "Do you have any more of that elf whisky...?" He stopped. Constantine was never one to keep the place immaculate, but the whole apartment was much more trashed than it had been. Clark looked around and poked his head into the bedroom. "John?" No answer. Clark walked back out into the living room, stopping when his shoe crunched something on the carpet. Bending down, he retrieved the Kryptonian siphon from the ground. It felt cold to the touch. "Huh..."

A note fluttered on the kitchen counter. Clark pulled it from underneath the sugar bowl and read the hasty scrawl. 

On holiday
-J. Con

Clark frowned. As much as he knew that Constantine was prone to spontaneity, this seemed unusual. Taking out his phone, Clark dialed his number and held it to his ear. 

"The voice mail box for--When the fuck do I--? Is full."

After a few more attempts, Clark admitted defeat and pocketed his phone. As he was already there, he decided to take a few seconds to speed-clean his place. Dusting off his hands, Clark addressed the crystal in his hand. His thumb ran across the face. Why would he leave so suddenly? And without the siphon, or even a goodbye? Clark flopped onto his couch, holding the crystal to the light. The opaque white glistened, backlit by the open window.

Clark's phone buzzed. Pulling it up, he saw Jimmy's name flash across the screen. He hit reject and curled up, his back to the sun. The crystal rested limply in his palm. He considered flying to the Fortress of Solitude, if only to clear his head. His phone buzzed again, and he looked at the name. It was Bruce. Clark hesitated, his thumb hovering over the answer button. He could already see how the conversation was going to go.

Bruce would ask how his day was going. Clark would tell him about the attention. Bruce would give him sympathy, but no real solution. Clark would ask him to go public with their relationship. Bruce would say no. Lather, rinse and repeat. It exhausted him just thinking about it. 

With a heavy heart, Clark moved his thumb and hit the reject button.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

The rain was harder now. Damian hated the rain. Hated how cold and miserable it was, hated patrolling in it. He'd grown up knowing nothing but sand and heat and sun. And now he was condemned to rain. Curled up in the attic over his bedroom, Damian sat underneath an old, round window and balanced a knife on its deadly point. Scuffs and scratches scattered around his feet. He'd been up there for hours, after all. The chill from the window crept down his back, but he ignored it. Whenever the shivers came, Damian would merely tighten his arm around his knees, bringing them closer to his chest. 

"There you are."

Damian didn't look up. He knew it was only a matter of time before Jon would find him. As much as he was not in the mood for company, he didn't bother telling Jon to go. He doubted if Jon would anyway.

"Whoa. I've never been up here before." Jon turned, taking in every corner of the attic. The whole place was full to the brim with boxes, crates, old furniture and wrapped art. It stretched the entire length of the manor, with creaky floorboards and creepy cramped crawlspaces. Jon shivered. "Ugh. Kinda gives me the willies," he admitted.

"What do you want?" Damian asked.

Jon regarded him cautiously. "Just wondering what you're up to."

"Oh."

Jon put his hands behind his back. "You ever hang out with Jason?"

"Huh?" Damian looked up.

"Y'know. Just, like... you ever spend time with him one on one? He's a pretty cool guy. Even though he kicks my butt in almost every video game. I beat him in kart racers though!"

Damian narrowed his eyes. "Why are you bringing up Todd?"

"No reason," said Jon. "I just... I had a fun time with him the other night. Y'know. Just wondering if you ever really--"

"No."

The light in Jon's face dwindled a touch. "Oh. Okay. Well, nevermind then." He stood awkwardly, watching Damian spin the knife under his finger. "So whatchya doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like you're planning to murder people."

Damian yanked the knife from the floor and glared. "Who says I'm not?"

Jon hesitated. After a moment, he boldly took his seat at Damian's right hand. "Nah," he said. "I don't think you would."

Damian scoffed. "You don't know me," he said. "In 'Eth Alth'eban, I killed my first man when I was only eight years old." Jon's eyes went wide. In an instant, any stubborn pride Damian might have still carried with him diminished. He turned away, bracing himself for the inevitable judgment and horror. It never came.

"I'm sorry."

Jon's voice, soft and quiet, shook Damian to his core. Damian lifted his head, but before he could reprimand Jon for such a useless apology, Jon reached out and took him by the shoulders. Damian froze, squeezed by Jon's lanky arms. "That must have been awful," Jon continued, a tremor in his voice.

Damian let his head droop, the knife useless at his side. "It was," he admitted. There was no use lying. "My grandfather wanted to be sure I could handle my training with the League of Assassins. My mother was there." His throat tightened at Talia's mention.

Jon rested his head on Damian's shoulder. "Dad said that your mom left again." Damian nodded in silence. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "That's so hard to deal with."

"She said it was for the best."

"It doesn't make it easier."

Damian's eyes welled with tears. His body relaxed, and he fell further into Jon's hug. All the Kents must have had the same magical hugging properties, as Damian could feel the tension leave his body in waves. "Sometimes I wonder," Damian mumbled. "I wonder if I should have done things differently. Maybe... maybe if I was better, she'd stay. Maybe if I worked harder, or if I was smarter, or..."

Jon squeezed Damian tight. "Who knows why grownups do half the things they do," he said. "Everytime I ask, I always get told it's 'complicated,' or whatever. But how complicated is it actually? You know?" Damian said nothing. "Dami... you can't make someone do the right thing. You can only cross your fingers and hope for the best."

"Boys?" Clark's voice echoed from downstairs.

"Up here," Jon called, his arms still around Damian.

Clark poked his head up from the trap door. "Dinner is ready."

"Thanks," said Jon. "We'll be down."

Clark looked between them. "Everything okay?"

Damian stood. "Yeah," he said. "Just thinking."

The three of them headed down to the southern kitchen. Once arriving, Clark put his hand on Damian's shoulder, stopping him at the threshold. "Hold on," he said. "I almost forgot. I have something I want to give you." Damian tilted his head, but waited as Clark fished something out of his jacket pocket. It was a small, framed photo of Damian as a toddler, swaddled in Talia's arms. "Your mother had a bunch of pictures that your father and I photocopied. We thought you might want this one."

Damian took it, confusion in his eye. "Mother had... photographs?"

"Plenty of them." When Damian didn't respond, Clark's brows drew in concern. "Didn't you know?"

Damian shook his head.

"Well," said Clark, "your mother seems the type to play a lot of things close to the vest. But I never doubted how much she loves you. Do you?" Damian's lower lip quivered. He clutched the photo tight with both hands and held it to his heart. Bending down, Clark opened his arms. Damian fell into them without question. Clark rubbed his back.

"Is dinner almost...? Oh." Bruce, turning the corner from his bottom office, stopped at the sight of Damian and Clark's hug. Damian looked up through watery eyes, and Bruce put a hand on his head. "He gave you the photo, didn't he?" Damian nodded, and shoved his head back into Clark's shoulder. Clark and Bruce shared a somber smile.

"Um..." All three looked up as Jon approached them. "Can I have a hug too?"

Bruce glanced at Clark and held open his arm. "Sure, Jon." Jon jumped up, Bruce catching him with ease and letting him rest on his shoulder. "Is there anything the matter?"

"No," said Jon. "I just wanted one."

Damian wiped his eyes with a scoff. "You're such a baby," he mumbled.

"I am not!" Jon protested, hugging Bruce's neck. "Everybody likes hugs, right dad?"

Clark smiled fondly and stood with his hand on Damian's back. "Come on. I'm starving." With the air a bit lighter, the four of them crowded the table.

Bruce, sitting at the head, nudged Clark as he got comfortable. "Hey," he said, "everything alright?"

Clark blinked. "Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?"

"I tried calling you today. A couple of times. You never answered."

Clark flashed Bruce a small, shallow smile. "Oh. You did?"

"Yeah."

"I... must have been busy. Sorry."

Alfred rolled their dinner to the table and began serving plates. "Braised lamb with potatoes confit and sprouts." He put a plate in front of Damian. "Roasted squash for the young master."

"Thanks, Alfred," said Damian.

"My pleasure, sir. If there is anything else...?"

"Thank you, Alfred," said Bruce. "You're excused."

"Very good, sir." With that, Alfred took his leave.

Before tucking in, Damian placed his framed photo next to his plate. The others watched quietly as he positioned it just so. When Damian finally met their eyes, his family smiled at him.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

"I thought Superman never lied."

Clark looked up, his shirt halfway unbuttoned. The bright red S of his suit flashed like a beacon under his tie. "What do you mean?" He slid out of his top and tossed it and the necktie onto the bench beside the Batcomputer. It was an hour before patrol, giving them ample time to suit up.

Bruce, keeping his eyes averted, wiggled his fingers into his gloves. "It's one of your tenants, isn't it? Honesty to a fault?"

"Sure," said Clark, undoing his belt buckle. Slipping out of his slacks, he sat down to put on his boots. "What am I not being honest about?"

Bruce looked him over, his suit missing his cape and cowl. "You were too busy to take my call?" he asked. Clark didn't react. "Three times?"

"It was a busy day," he said, keeping his eyes averted.

Bruce stepped forward and laid his hands on the arm rests of his chair. He leaned forward, forcing Clark to meet him. "You're never that busy," he said. "Not at the Planet, anyway."

"Bruce..."

"I know when you lie to me, Clark. And I don't need superhearing to do it."

Clark set his jaw. He stood, pushing past Bruce and to fix his belt in the mirror. "Some days are busier than others."

"Lie."

Clark looked at his reflection. "Bruce, I don't want to bother you."

Bruce took his time to answer. "You're my partner. If you can't bother me, who else is there?" When Clark didn't answer, Bruce took his shoulder and shifted him. Clark kept his head turned away. "Kal... come on."

"It's fine."

"Another lie."

"It's not."

"What aren't you telling me, Clark?"

"It's nothing." Clark moved his shoulder out from under Bruce's hand. They stood in silence. Clark took a deep breath before continuing. "It's just more of the same. That's all."

"More of the same..."

"Those Gazette pictures. The cat might not be entirely out of the bag, but darn it if it isn't trying." Clark faced Bruce fully. "Work was unbearable. But I didn't want to worry you."

Bruce's shoulders slumped. "You should have talked to me."

"What was there to say? I knew how it would go. It's the same conversation we keep having over and over again. So... I'd rather just skip it." Seeing the guilt dawn on Bruce's face, Clark cupped his cheek, running his thumb under Bruce's eye. "Listen, with everything going on, with Damian and Jon and the wedding to think about, you don't need anything else on your plate. You've already decided that we need to keep this relationship under wraps, at least for now. So... I'll just grin and bear it until they all get bored. That's all." Bruce's lips parted, at a loss for an answer. Clark backed away. "I'll see you later tonight. Be safe out there, okay?"

As Superman took off for Metropolis, Bruce remained silent, listening until he could no longer hear the swish of his bright red cape.

Chapter Text

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne. Mr. Kent. Thank you for joining us."

Damian and Jon sat across from Dean Winters, uncomfortable in their plastic chairs. As it was their first day back at Anders, the Dean wanted to personally speak to them before they were allowed in class. Across the way were Nathan and Jeremy, also looking like they'd rather be anywhere but there.

"First of all, welcome back to school, all four of you. I do hope that whatever it was between you has been settled by now." When the dean smiled, it was entirely without humor. While Jon withered under the woman's gaze, Damian hardly twitched. "I've talked it over with your teachers and the school board. Although Anders has a strict no tolerance policy for school fighting, considering the circumstances, you four will be put onto academic parole until the beginning of next semester."

"The circumstances," Damian repeated. "You mean, because our families donate so much to the school, you couldn't convince them to kick us out?" Jeremy glared, and Dean Winters's left eye twitched violently.

"I'm not at liberty to say," she replied.

Damian scoffed.

"Regardless," the dean continued, "I need a promise from each of you that whatever issues you have are resolved. I don't want to see any one of your faces back in my office again, or drastic measures may need to be taken."

Jon was the first to speak. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "You don't have to worry, we're not interested in coming back."

Nathan rolled his eyes loudly. "Suckup," he mumbled.

Damian craned his neck. "Care to repeat that?"

"Boys." Dean Winters quieted the room quickly. "I don't think any of you want to cause more trouble for your families or teachers. Do you?" No one answered her, and she continued. "You're dismissed. If I hear anything about fighting on campus again, this will be a very different discussion. Off you go."

The four got up and shuffled out of Dean Winters' office. Damian strode swiftly to class, leaving Nathan and Jeremy behind without so much as a look. Jon managed to keep up with his long, spindle legs. "You okay?"

"Sure," said Damian. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno. I guess I'm not used to getting in trouble." He shivered. "Boy if I got sent to the office this much back home, I'd be in huge trouble."

"With your father?"

"Huh? No, my dad's not the scary one. My mom on the other hand..." They turned a corner, and Jon shoved his hands into his pockets. "Well, whatever. At least they won't bother us now."

"I wouldn't count on it."

"What do you mean? The dean said--"

"If Jeremy Cole did what the dean said, we wouldn't even be in this mess. I predict they will try their hand at something before too long. And I'm sure whatever they do, it will not be reported to the faculty unless we react."

"Ugh. That's so unfair." 

"That is the summary of my experience with this institution, yes."

"Sometimes I wish we didn't have secret identities," said Jon. "If they knew who we were, they wouldn't even think about being jerks."

Damian cocked an eyebrow. "What secret identity do you have?"

Jon blinked. "Well. I mean. You know."

"Just because you're half Kryptonian doesn't mean you have a secret identity, Jon."

"Oh. It doesn't count?"

"No. You have to be a vigilante."

"Hm." Jon eyed the rainy window as they traipsed the hallway. "Maybe I can be Superboy."

"There's already a Superboy."

"Superlad, then. Superboy 2.0? Superkid." He brightened. "Hey! I got an idea! We should totally have our own team name."

Damian frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Well like. You know how you and Batman are the 'Dynamic Duo'?"

"Yes?"

"We should have a name for us!"

Damian snorted. "Again," he said, "you are not a vigilante."

"But I could be!"

"I suppose."

Jon trotted out in front of Damian and held out his arms. "We should be the Supersons!" 

Damian stopped walking. "The what?"

"What, you don't like it? I like it. It has a ring to it, don't you think?"

"It's..." Damian hesitated. Any urge to dismiss Jon's suggestion outright died the moment he saw the eagerness in his eyes. Damian sighed deeply and gestured with one hand. "I suppose it's fine."

"Yeah!" Jon punched the air and wrapped his arm around Damian's shoulders. "Supersons, activate!"

"What are we activating?"

"I dunno, I'm still figuring that part out."

Damian's smile stretched wide. A beam of sunlight broke through the damp clouds, warming him and Jon by the window. A soft chuckle escaped Damian's lips, and before long, both he and Jon were belly laughing, prompting annoyed teachers to poke their heads out and scold them for being too loud.

With enough time wasted, Jon and Damian returned to class and took their seats. For the time being, Jeremy, Nathan and Jenny all remained at an arm's length, though it didn't stop the trio from giving them the stinkeye whenever they passed. While it had never bothered Damian before, now, he was almost amused. Seeing the way they would scowl or sneer as he and Jon went about their day satisfied him in a way a punch to the face never could. So what if they were mean, petty, shallow little creatures? So long as Damian and Jon were glued to the hip, it didn't matter.

When the lunch bell rang, the world had gone back to normal. It was pizza day, and Fatima had saved them seats at their usual table. Jon had loaded up on greasy slices of pepperoni, while Damian helped himself to two slices of cheese.

"So did they tell you about the science project we have due soon?" Fatima asked. "It was assigned while you were both out of school."

"No," said Damian. "But I can't imagine it would be too much trouble."

"Wait, is it a partner project?" Jon asked.

"I think so. And since you two were the only ones who weren't able to get paired up..."

"Oh!" Jon turned to Damian with excited eyes. "We should do one of those baking soda volcano thingies! I've always wanted to do one!"

Damian frowned. "That's not very challenging..."

"No, but it's fun!" He and Damian bit into their pizza, and Jon continued to talk, his mouth full. "We can make little trees and dinosaurs and stuff and put red food coloring in the vinegar! I saw one once where they put dry ice in it so that the whole thing smoked! It was so cool."

"Hm." Damian took another bite. "If we were experimenting with lava, I would rather showcase a sample of the real thing. I'm sure father could help us construct a chamber to house magma."

Fatima paled. "You probably shouldn't bring lava to school," she said.

"You don't think?"

"No."

"Oh." Damian stood from the table. "Bathroom," he announced. "Do not eat my pizza." Jon gave him a thumbs up, and Damian made his way to the little boys room outside the cafeteria. It was mostly empty, which let Damian finish his business and wash his hands quickly. Just as he was drying off, he saw the reflection of the bathroom door swing open. He turned. Jeremy and Nathan stood in front of it. Damian didn't seem the least bit worried. "Can I help you with something?"

Jeremy glowered. "Do you know how much trouble you got me in at home?" he said.

"No," Damian replied. "And I can't say I care."

"You're a freak," Nathan snapped. "You and your hic cousin."

Damian rolled his eyes and made for his exit. "If you'll excuse me--" Nathan grabbed his shoulder, keeping him there. Damian eyed his hand with a dangerous gaze. "Release me."

"Or what? You gonna get the redneck to fight your battles for you?" Jeremy snapped. "Or are you gonna run to your rich daddy for help? Which is it?" Jeremy shoved Damian's shoulder, and he stumbled back for half a step.

Damian sized them up easily. If he were to take care of things once and for all, it would have been far from a challenge. Jeremy, with his bow legs and knobby knees, could be ankle-swiped and knocked into the bathroom sinks, possibly causing a concussion, or even snapping his neck on the way down. Nathan, who was a bit more top heavy, would need a different approach. Fortunately, it would be all too simple to twist and break his arm. After which, Damian could shove his head in a toilet for good measure and slam down on the flusher until he stopped squirming. Killing them would have taken Damian less effort than a book report.

Damian stopped his thoughts. Kill them? Was that really what he was entertaining? Had his time with his family meant nothing, taught him nothing? Yes, these were ridiculous, school yard bullies who made Damian's life unnecessarily irritating. But they didn't deserve to die. 

That was his grandfather's way. Ra's al Ghul's way. Not his.

"Hey, you space out or something?" Nathan pushed him again, and Damian stumbled to the floor. He looked up, face blank and arms to the side. Nathan kicked out his foot, sneering over Damian like some vile storybook troll. "You gonna apologize or what, prince?"

"Damian?"

Jeremy and Nathan turned as Jon opened the door, sweeping in at just the right time, like usual. He glared at the boys, and they at him. Seeing Damian on the floor, Jon came to Damian's side and helped him up. "What do you jerks even want?" he snapped. "You heard what Dean Winters said. If you're caught fighting, you'll be expelled."

Jeremy scoffed. "Who cares what that old cow says? Besides, Wayne here isn't a tattle tale. Are you?" Damian said nothing. Jeremy, hands in his pockets, kicked at Damian's shoe before turning. "C'mon Nate. Let's go." Nathan followed, leaving Damian and Jon alone.

"They're such scumbags," Jon grumbled. He turned to Damian. "Are you hurt?"

"It takes more than school children to hurt me."

"Sure," said Jon. "But... are you?"

Damian paused. Once again, he found himself confronted with Jon's honesty and kindness, glowing so bright it was practically blinding. Where once he might have been jealous of it, now, he found himself thankful. "Nah," he said. He playfully nudged Jon's shoulder with his own. "The Supersons are made of stronger stuff."

Jon brightened with delight. "Hell yeah!" He covered his mouth. "Oop--I mean, heck yeah."

Damian laughed. "Come on. Our pizza is getting cold."

"Mkay!"

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Conner loved his boyfriend. He really, truly did. But there were times when a tiny part of him wished--just a little bit--that Tim's brain was a little more... normal. It started three days ago when Tim found a unique strain of flesh eating amoeba in a local pool. After testing some of the cells on his own, he traced the infestation to a water treatment facility, and then to a filter manufacturer, and then a billionaire out in Malaysia hiding from tax authorities. Which was all well and good, but Tim hadn't detached from his computer screen for the entirety of the investigation. When Conner suggested they go riding in Gotham to stretch their legs, he thought for sure Tim would take the opportunity for a break. But lo and behold, somehow they wound up in the Batcave, now hyper-analyzing the sample of flesh eating amoeba with Bruce's instruments.

Conner sighed deeply. He hovered behind Tim's chair, arms folded on the headrest and chin propped on top. "Are you done yet?" he asked.

Tim's fingers never stopped typing. "You're free to leave whenever you'd like."

Conner slumped, and touched his feet to the floor. "Come on. It's a single celled organism. How much attention does it need?"

"You seem to require plenty."

With a blink, Conner leaned down and pouted at Tim's shoulder. "Was that a dig?"

Tim flashed him a sickly sweet smile. "Of course not, honey." He went back to the screen. "It was a point of fact."

Conner, with a huff, flopped his leg over the side of Tim's lap, blocking him from the screen. "You are a brat, you know that, Drake?"

"A brat with an amoeba to study. Now move."

"No."

Tim ran his hands up Conner's back under his jacket. "Now who's the brat?" Conner flashed a grin, and leaned down for a deep and demanding kiss. It was a very good thing that Kryptonians did not have the power to crawl into another person's skin, or Conner would have mastered it by now. Their tongues brushed together hotly, with fingers digging through dark black roots and scratching down spines. A soft moan escaped Tim's chest, humming against Conner's lips. When they broke apart, it was a slow, lingering separation which barely put more than an inch between them. Tim's eyes twinkled, momentarily distracted by his flesh eating amoeba.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," Conner replied. He kissed under Tim's ear, sending shivers down his spine. "When are you done?"

"Soon," Tim promised. "Then we'll go home."

"Fuck going home. Let's get a hotel room and rack up your dad's credit card in property damage."

Tim snorted. "Conner."

"What?"

A beep from the computer screen indicated that the front door had opened. Tim gently pushed Conner to one side to take a look. "Oh. Jon and Damian are home."

Conner groaned and nuzzled into Tim's neck. "So what? They got homework to do..."

"We should at least go say hi."

Conner ground his hips into Tim's lap. "We'll say hi later. Or like. Tomorrow."

Tim, rolling his eyes, pinched Conner's nose, making him squirm. "Up," he ordered. Conner did as he was told, though not without a proper amount of grumbling. Tim stood and stretched his legs. "I should probably eat something anyway."

"I got something you can ea--" Conner's words stopped as Tim smacked his nose with the flat of his hand. The light pap was enough to discombobulate him, allowing Tim to walk off, unbothered. Conner was quick to follow behind. "Hold on, I'm comin'!" They took the elevator to the first floor, meeting Jon and Damian as they wandered to the kitchen.

"Hey guys," Tim greeted.

Damian snapped his attention to Tim. "Drake." He approached. "How would one transport magma to school in a viewable state, while keeping it at temperature so that it doesn't harden?"

Tim blinked. "Uh. Why?"

"I'm telling you, baking soda volcano!" Jon threw up his hands. "We can even make some of the trees out of tissue paper so that they get trashed when it explodes!"

"And you don't think real lava would be a better option?" Damian asked. "We would get a more impressive grade."

"Yeah, but I think dad might be angry if we bring lava to school."

"Hm."

Jon looked up, spotting Conner hovering at Tim's side. A thought crossed his mind, and he reached out to take Conner's hand. "Hey uh." All three looked over to him. "I gotta ask Conner something."

"Huh?" Conner blinked. "About what?"

"It's private."

Conner squirmed. "Listen, kid, if you're starting to grow hair in places, I'm sure pops would gladly--hey!" Conner stumbled as Jon pushed him at the waist with both hands. "Alright, alright, I'm goin'! Criminy." Conner walked Jon into the narrow hall of the flower cutting room; which, in Conner's opinion, was perhaps the most useless place in the whole mansion. "Alright, you got five minutes."

"What do you do when you have bullies?"

Conner's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You're getting bullied?"

"Kinda. Well, I mean, yes, but only because I'm Damian's friend."

That seemed even less believable. "Damian is getting bullied? Damian."

"Yeah, Damian."

"The same kid who learned how to, like, gut a person in ten seconds with a fucking fishing knife? That Damian?"

"Yeah?"

"How? No, like, seriously, how is someone like Damian Murder-Eyes Wayne getting bullied? By sixth graders?"

Jon frowned deeply. "You're not being fair. Damian doesn't want to hurt people."

"I beg to fuckin' differ," Conner grumbled.

"He holds back," said Jon. "He knows that if he doesn't, he might do something he regrets. So he keeps himself under control, no matter how much those jerks deserve it."

Conner put his hands on his hips. "Huh. What do they do?"

"They make fun of him a lot 'cause he's smart and different. I think they're jealous of him. The other day, Damian got a perfect score on a science quiz, and one of 'em ripped it up and threw it like confetti. I mean, who does that?"

Conner's brows furrowed. "Assholes," he answered. "Who are these kids?"

"Two of them are twins. Jeremy and Jenny Cole. They have a third friend named Nathan but I don't remember his last name or anything."

"Cole..." Conner tapped his chin. "Cole, Cole. Why do I recognize that name?"

"You know them?"

"I think..." Conner trailed off, and shook his head. "Nevermind. What have you done so far?"

"Er. Gotten suspended for fighting."

A flash of approval crossed Conner's face. "Well how about that? Way to go, farm boy. Did you get a few haymakers in or what?"

"Look, the point is, no matter what we do, they keep being horrible for no dang reason! What do we do to get them to stop? The school doesn't do anything, and sometimes they even bully the teachers."

"Classy." Conner rolled his head back and rubbed his neck. "So I'm assuming knocking their lights out is off the table?"

"If we fight again we'll get expelled. It doesn't really matter for me, but I don't want Damian to get in trouble."

Conner nodded wisely. "Tell you what, kid. Go get your homework done and try not to think about it. Sometimes, you just gotta let karma handle things."

"Karma?" Jon repeated.

"Go on, chop chop. Homework."

"Okay..." Jon gave Conner one last look before exiting the kitchen. Once he was out of earshot, Conner pulled out his phone and dialed a number labeled Baldy. Holding it to his ear, he waited as it rang. It rang a few times before finally picking up.

"Who is this?" 

"Hey old man," Conner greeted. He could almost hear Luthor grimace on the other side.

"How did you get this number?"

"I got friends in high places. Anyway, you remember a guy named Cole?"

"Yes. Senator friend of mine. Recently lost his reelection, but he's still in government circles. Why?"

The door opened, and Tim walked in, a question in his eyes. Conner nodded at him, and went back to his phone. "You wanna do me a favor?" Conner asked.

"Not particularly."

"Can you send me his address?"

Luthor hesitated. "Will you leave me alone if I do?"

"Maybe."

"Fine. I'll text it to you."

"Super. Laters, Cueball." He hung up before Luthor could respond and spun to Tim. "Hey babe. I know you've got your crazy interesting amoeba downstairs, but I was wondering if you were up for a date."

"What kind of date?"

Conner spun his phone in his hand and pocketed it like a cowboy's six shooter. "Felony mischief."

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

It had been a while since patrol had been so busy. Batman and Robin had been busy from the very moment the Batmobile emerged through the city streets. First, a bank robbery and subsequent chase-down. After that came an armed mugging outside of a convenience store. The rain had flooded out a local pet shop, which Robin insisted upon in case any animals drowned before the firefighters arrived. Another mugging, a gang of vandals, and an incident of road rage that nearly took out an entire crowd of bystanders. It was midnight before they had time to so much as catch their breath.

Perched over the Gotham food bank, Batman kept an eye out for bored teenagers while Robin rested his feet. "Doing alright?" Batman asked.

"Of course," said Robin. "I simply must be a little rusty." Above them, thunderheads rumbled, and Robin pulled his hood up to avoid the sprinkles. "Things seem quieter."

Batman nodded. "Maybe all the criminals have gone to bed."

"Unlikely." Batman looked over, and Robin paused. "You were being sarcastic."

"Yes."

"Understood."

Something flickered in the night sky, and Batman craned his neck. The Batsignal glowed bright yellow against the rusty sky. Batman straightened, his grapple gun in hand. "Looks like night's not over yet," he said. Robin came to his side, and together, the two of them swung their way to the roof of GCPD HQ. The rain had begun in earnest by the time they reached Commissioner Gordon's side. An older fellow with silver hair, Gordon had always been one of Batman's allies, even before the rest of the world dared to trust him.

"Evening," he said, his hands in the pockets of his fluttering coat.

"What's the trouble?" Batman asked.

"Break in," said Gordon. "Uptown. Nothing was stolen, no one was hurt. We think it might have been vandals."

Robin frowned. "Then why becken us?" he asked.

Gordon pushed up his glasses. "You were requested."

"Requested," Batman repeated. "By who?"

"The homeowner. Apparently, the police department isn't good enough to solve the case of the break-in. He says he only wants the best, considering his children were in danger."

"Who is this person?"

"Former Senator Jacob Cole."

Robin's eyebrows shot high. "You can't be serious."

"Afraid so, Boy Wonder," said Gordon. "Cole has always been a bit of a thorn in my side, even before he took office. Apparently he thinks that his house is being cased by hooligans, and he doesn't trust anyone but you to handle it."

"We're busy," Batman began. "I don't think we have the time to--"

"We'll take it," Robin interrupted.

Batman turned to his young ward. "Robin..."

"Our help has been requested," Robin said. "Don't tell me you intend to turn your back on a citizen who has called for help." Batman said nothing, and Robin turned to Gordon. "Where is the house, Commissioner?" 

"Here." He handed Robin a business card, the address scribbled on the back with a ballpoint pen. "Appreciate it," he said. "The less I have to deal with that self-absorbed idiot the better."

Batman stepped away. "Fine. But we'd better make this quick." Robin agreed, and they hurried off into the night. Swinging to a flat roofed building, Batman glanced at Robin. "What made you so eager to take this?" he asked.

"I don't know what you mean," said Robin.

Batman stopped him. "I haven't forgotten about Jeremy and Jenny Cole. Damian, did you have anything to do with this?"

"Of course not. But I would very much like to see them in duress."

After a moment of thought, Batman nodded. Their way to the Cole residence was quick, and they arrived within the hour. Cop cars loitered out front, but considering many of the officers stood around in raincoats, not much was being done. Rather than take the front door, Batman and Robin descended to the second floor balcony, where Mr. Jacob Cole paced, yelling into his phone. Turning to see the Dark Knight at his door, Cole jumped out of his skin and fumbled his cell to the ground. Batman didn't bother giving him a chance to recover before opening the sliding glass and stepping inside. Neither he nor Robin seemed concerned dragging the rain with them.

"God!" Cole gripped his chest. "Haven't you heard of front doors?!" he demanded.

"Jacob Cole?" said Batman. "You requested us, so here we are. I would ask that you make this quick." 

Cole huffed and swiped his phone from the carpet. He was a middle aged man, dressed in pajamas and a house robe. His blond hair was slicked within an inch of its life, with thin lips and deep bags beneath his eyes. "Took you long enough," he snapped. "Come on, I'll show you the damage." He turned on his heel, marching Batman and Robin out the door and down to the living room. The house itself was a modern luxury, dressed in cold, brutal minimalism. Even the houseplants felt uncomfortable. "There." Cole pointed at the wall above his front door. Batman and Robin took a look. Miraculously, someone had spray painted obscenities in red spray paint from the bottom to the very top of the twelve foot wall. A large middle finger was etched out on the round, decorative window.

"That's not all!" Cole raved. He gestured to the kitchen. "Someone went through our food and ate everything! Even some of our house plants have bites taken out of! And my car is completely covered in shaving cream! Not to mention my children's' rooms!"

Robin perked up. "What happened to your children's rooms?"

"Cheese!" Cole cried. "Spray cheese on everything! On the walls, on the carpets, in the closets! It's absolute anarchy!"

While Robin bit his lips to keep from laughing, Batman remained as stoic as ever. "Garden variety vandalism is not our priority," he said.

"Garden variety?! This crazy person broke into my house while me and my family were sleeping! And how do you explain someone reaching all the way up there!?" Cole pointed to the very top of the wall. Only then did Robin notice the extremely long falace, drawn to squirt onto the ceiling. "I'm telling you, this is lunacy! You've got to find who's responsible for this, you absolutely must!"

Batman hesitated. "Robin," he ordered. "Go upstairs to investigate the children's bedrooms. See what you can find."

Robin forced himself not to smile. "Right." He walked his way up the stairs to the doors of Jenny and Jeremy Cole. He opened the door to Jenna's room. Cole had not been exaggerating. Not only was every inch covered in sticky spray cheese, but Jenny's own personal bathroom had been flooded, and all of the heads of her stuffed animals had been ripped off. Robin walked in, his boots squishing along the cheese carpet. He picked up a teddy bear, its decapitated head hanging on by a shred of fabric. "Thorough," he muttered.

He heard whispering at the door and turned. The eyes of Jenny and Jeremy stared back at him, wide with fascination. Jenny tried pushing Jeremy first, to which Jeremy resisted, and pushed her back.

"You do it," Jenny whispered.

"You're the one who wanted it!" Jeremy replied.

"He's looking at us."

"No duh!"

Robin straightened his shoulders and furrowed his brow. "Did you need something?" he said, dropping his voice an octave.

Jeremy managed to push Jenny in, and hid half way behind his door. Jenny flushed, clutching her pink cheeks with both hands. "U-um." She looked at her shoes. "Hi. You're... you're Robin, aren't you? Like, you're the real Robin."

Robin cocked an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Oh. Oh wow. Um." Her whole face went red. She looked around her room. "M-my... my bedroom doesn't look like this normally."

"I figured."

Jeremy pushed past his sister, stars in his eyes. "Can we have your autograph!?" he suddenly blurted out. "Or maybe like--like a selfie or--?"

"Shut up, you're ruining it!" Jenny bellowed. She pushed her brother by his face and stepped closer to Robin. She swayed shyly, still cupping her face. "You're... I mean... You're really cute in person..." She giggled. "Do you have, like, a girlfriend at all?"

"What about guy friends?" Jeremy asked. "Do you like video games? I've got lots of video games! We can play them however long we want!"

"Shut up, Jeremy! He doesn't want to play your stupid video games!"

"Well he doesn't want to be your boyfriend, Jenny!"

"You don't know that!"

"Robin."

Both children turned as Batman walked silently into view. "Have you finished?" he asked.

"Yes," said Robin dryly. "And I conclude that this is well below our pay grade."

Batman nodded. "Let's get going." He turned, and Robin made to follow him. As Robin passed the Cole children, he stopped. For a brief moment, both Jenny and Jeremy's eyes twinkled with anticipation. Robin looked them up and down and then flashed them a diabolical smile.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm not friends with losers."

Every ounce of color drained from their faces. Jenny looked like she was ready to bawl her eyes out, and Jeremy appeared to want to sink into the floor. Leaving them speechless, Robin followed Batman back out into the night.

They arrived back at Wayne Manor at half past 1 o'clock. Tim was still up, as expected, and made himself comfortable in the parlor with Conner curled up in his lap. One hand held an open book, the other pet Conner's wild curls. He didn't even bother to look up when Damian, still in his Robin suit, stepped into view.

"How was patrol?" Tim asked.

Damian put a hand on his hip. "Did you and the clone vandalize the house of former Senator Jacob Cole?"

Tim's eyes flickered past his book, and he turned the page. "Now why would we do that?" He offered Damian a smile. "You're probably just tired. Go get some rest." Damian responded with a smile of his own, and then made his way to his bedroom. Once he was out of earshot, Conner opened one eye and looked up to Tim.

"You think he appreciated the cheese?" he asked.

"Oh yeah," said Tim. "I'm sure he loved it."

Chapter Text

It'd been raining in London for five solid days. And with December around the corner, it wasn't looking to stop any time soon. Streets and pavements overflowed with gushing streams, with umbrellas and plastic raincoats on every corner from Westminster to Piccadilly.  Deep in the heart of the city, a series of crooked alleyways led to various pubs and shops, mostly ignored by tourists. One such pub was the Northampton, sitting undisturbed on a dodgy little street corner for the past five hundred years. As it was early in the afternoon, the bar had only a handful of the regulars. Residents of the surrounding flats and grouchy pensioners with too much time on their hands. Plainly put, it was not a place where new faces were expected, or even welcome.

So when the door opened, and a 6'2" American walked in through the threshold, the whole of the bar stopped to turn in confusion.

Clark shook out his umbrella, careful not to bump his head on the low hanging lanterns. "Wooh. Cold out there." He offered a smile to the staring patrons before setting his umbrella in the stand and making his way to the bar. Either he didn't notice all the suspicious looks he was getting, or he simply didn't care.

"Hello," he said pleasantly, taking a seat at the bar. The bartender watched with a blank expression, mindlessly cleaning a pint glass with a filthy old rag. "Is this the Northampton?"

The bartender narrowed his eyes. "No. It's bloody Buckingham Palace." A few of the old timers snickered, amused over their pints of beer.

Clark laughed it off. "Ah, right, the sign, yeah. So can I order from you or is there a server?" He looked around, expecting to see a service person.

"You American?" the bartender asked.

"Yes, sir," said Clark. "Born and raised in Kansas. If you know where that is."

The bartender flopped his rag over his shoulder and put his pint glass to one side. "Mind if I give you some advice, mate?"

"Sure."

"Try the pubs by Saint James Park. They're more welcoming to tourists."

Clark wasn't the least bit deterred. "I'm not really here for a visit," he said. "I'm actually looking for a friend of mine."

"A friend."

"John Constantine. You know him?"

The bartender's eyebrows shot up, and a few heads turned at the name. "Constantine? Why am I not surprised?"

"I was wondering if he's been by," said Clark. "He sort of vanished off the face of the Earth and I'm hoping he just went home."

"Eh?" One of the older men at the bar leaned forward. "You say ol' John went missing?"

"That's right," said Clark.

The old man guffawed. "Sounds like John to me," he said with a definitive nod. "If I were you, old son, I'd head back home and make a cuppa. You'll be waiting a while till he shows back up again."

"How do you know Constantine?" asked the bartender.

"We're friends."

Another patron snorted. "'Friends.' And I'm a bloody viscount." He took a gulp of beer and wiped his lips. "If you had any sense in your head, mate, you'd forget him all together."

"What Martin there means," said the bartender, "is that you may not want to count on seeing him again any time soon."

Clark frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Look, I'm not entitled to a man's business," the bartender continued, "but Johnny is... Well, he's a bit of a... mm."

"Ee's a whore," the first patron snarked. "A right bloody trollop who's easier to get into bed than bloody bugs."

The bartender threw a peanut at the man's head. "Oy! You watch your mouth, Herb, or you're out in the rain, yeah?" Turning back to Clark, he put his hands on the bartop. "Listen. Mr...?"

"Kent. Clark Kent."

"Mr. Kent. Johnny's a good lad. But he's not a man worth chasing. Now I know you may feel some way about him, but believe me when I say, there are better men out there for you."

"Yeah, because he's a whore."

"Oy you! I told you, Herb, be polite!"

Clark's smile widened further. "Oh, I promise that's not the issue here. I'm a happily engaged man. John and I are just friends."

The bartender cocked an eyebrow. "Are you?"

"Yes. And I'd really like to find him. Mr...?"

The bartender put a hand on his hip. "Freddie," he said. "Collins."

"Well listen, Mr. Collins, I really just need to know if John has been by at all. He was house sitting for me back in the states and he just up and left with no explanation. I just want to be sure if he's okay."

Freddie frowned, his fingers tapping on the bar. "Hold on a tick." He cocked his head to a set of stairs. "Laura!"

"Yeah?!" called down a woman's voice.

"Johnny C been by recently?!"

"No, he's off in America right now!"

Freddie grunted, and turned back to Clark. "There's your answer."

"I understand." Clark pulled out his business card and passed it to Freddie. "If you happen to see him, could you shoot me an email? I'd appreciate it."

"Sure..." Freddie looked at the card. "Metropolis, eh? Never been.

"You should go."

"Nah." He stuck the card in his back pocket. "Scared of flying."

Clark felt a buzz in his back pocket. Getting up from the bar, he excused himself and looked at the screen. Bruce's name stared him in the face. Clark sighed, considering letting it go to voicemail. But knowing he couldn't keep putting things off, he stepped outside under the pub's awning, and answered.

"Hi," he said, hoping to sound casual."

"Where are you?"

Clark watched the rain drip off the cover. "London."

Bruce paused. "What?"

"Constantine left with no real explanation the other day," he said. "I'm trying to see where he went. I think something's fishy."

"Clark, you know he just does that. All the time."

Clark frowned. "I know... But he hasn't been home. And his phone keeps going to voicemail, and--"

"I'm sure he's fine. Constantine doesn't stay in one place for long. If he's vanished, he'll probably crop back up within a couple of weeks with some story about how he fought off interdimensional demons or something."

"But what if he doesn't?" Clark asked. "What if he's in trouble?"

"Then he'll either deal with it or come to us for help. He's a big boy. He can handle himself."

Clark leaned against the wall of the pub, his hand in his pocket. "Yeah," he conceded. "I guess you're right." The conversation lulled. "What are you up to?"

"We were waiting for you for dinner," said Bruce. "Alfred is making lasagna."

"Oh."

"Should we set your place at the table?"

Clark tapped the sidewalk with the tip of his shoe. "I think I want to keep looking around. Make sure nothing is off..."

Though it was clear that wasn't the answer Bruce wanted, he didn't fight it. "Alright. Well. When are you home?"

"Tomorrow," Clark promised. "Conner can handle Metropolis while I'm gone."

"Sure." Again, there was a long beat of silence between them. "Clark?"

"Yeah?"

"Are we... okay?"

Clark's heart jumped into his throat. He hunched his shoulders, a bit of rainwater trailing down his glasses. "Yeah," said Clark. "We're okay."

"Because you know you can tell me--"

"I know."

Bruce hesitated. "Be safe. Text me when you're on your way home and I'll have Alfred draw up a bath for you."

"Okay."

"I love you, Clark."

Clark closed his eyes, letting the spray of the weather soak through his curls. "I love you, Bruce. So much. I'll be home by morning. I promise." With the call ended, Clark pocketed his phone and let his head roll back to the brick behind him. The hiss of the rain isolated him to his thoughts. With nothing else keeping him there, Clark pushed himself from the wall and walked out into the downpour.

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The Jeweled Eye of India was, in many respects, Gotham Museum's most prized item in its gemstones exhibit. Worth approximately $20 million, it was a platinum necklace, painstakingly embellished with diamonds, pale sapphires, and white emeralds. Which was why, every night at closing, the necklace was carted away and locked up in the museum's high security vault for safe keeping. State of the art motion detectors kept track of every inch of the corridor leading to it, with security stationed 24/7.

For Catwoman, it was equivalent to a Sunday stroll.

First, the security guards needed to be dealt with. It was easy enough faking distress in the rain and begging to use a cellphone to call for a tow-truck. Once inside, a quick nip with a sedated claw left the entire staff slumped and snoring on the ground. After that, it was a matter of avoiding tripping up remote security. Slipping into the office, Catwoman managed to loop the security footage back exactly one hour. Now, if anyone was watching from afar, they'd see the same sleepy rent-a-cops playing on their phones and eating chips. With an hour time limit on the clock, Catwoman sent a benign gas down the chamber toward the safe. The aerosol spray highlighted every green laser for her convenience. Smooth as silk, she weaved in and out of the security measures without so much as a rumpled seam. Once she cleared the hall, Catwoman swiped one of the security guards' ID cards, and the safe door opened without a fuss. Catwoman strolled in, her claws ready to dig into the Jeweled Eye and anything else that tickled her fancy. But when she came upon the pedestal, she found it completely empty.

"Looking for this?"

Catwoman spun in place. Like a shadow himself, Batman emerged, holding the Jeweled Eye in his gloved hand. Catwoman readied her whip. "Why do you always insist on spoiling the fun?"

But rather than gearing up to fight, Batman walked past Catwoman and laid the necklace back where it belonged. "I was hoping we could talk."

That caught Catwoman's attention. "You know what they say about curiosity, Batman."

"No tricks," Batman promised.

Catwoman narrowed her eyes.

"Please," he added.

Catwoman curled her whip and attached it to her belt. "Fine."

She and Batman made for the roof, taking shelter underneath the museum's cafe awning. Batman, nearly completely hidden in his cape, watched the rain schluff off the roof and into the flower garden that he himself donated to the museum. Something about that fact felt fitting.

"So," Catwoman purred. "Batman needs advice."

"No. But Bruce does."

Selina paused. Her sultry facade faded, just a little bit. She sat herself on the edge of a wet table, and leaned back on her hands. "Sounds serious."

"In a way," said Bruce. They listened to the rain while Bruce gathered his thoughts. "Tell me honestly, Selina. What was I like?" He turned to meet her eyes. "When we were together."

Selina tilted her head. "Is this a trick question?"

"No. I need... perspective."

Thunder rumbled softly off in the distance. Selina gave her answer a decent bit of thought before offering it. "In a word? Frustrating." Bruce returned to watching the rain. Selia continued. "The obvious differences between us aside, I was never a full partner to you. Or at least, I never felt like I was. I was always just a guest star in your story. I didn't always mind. But whenever I considered what the future might look like for us, I could never quite picture it. Above all else, Bruce, you've always been a self-preservationist. I don't blame you. You couldn't have survived otherwise. But there's never any room for negotiation. Never any room to push. I might as well have not been there sometimes."

"That's not true," Bruce started.

"It is. Think about it. Tell me one time when you were swayed one way or another without a fight. If it wasn't your idea, if it wasn't your plan, it took Hell freezing over for you to consider it. That way, if and when it goes wrong, you can shoulder the blame entirely. You're a martyr that way."

Bruce set his jaw. He stepped to the left, turning away from Selina's piercing eyes. "I valued you."

"In your own way."

"Selina--"

"You valued me the same way you value everybody else in your life. The Robins, your fellow capes, all of them. They're all... separate from you." Selina stepped away from the table and approached Bruce directly. Bruce remained as stoic as he always was. Gently, Selina laid a clawed hand on his cheek. "You love in your own way. I accepted that about you. Mostly. But your own way meant never risking what you value most. Your heart."

Bruce closed his eyes. He recalled all the times where he had pushed his lovers away. Decided things without asking, pressed on without stopping to think. He knew that Selina was right. But it was an almost impossible pill to swallow. But if it meant keeping Clark, he might have to...

"So what brought this on?" Selina let her hand drop. "Feeling nostalgic all the sudden?"

"Not exactly." Bruce stepped out of Selina's reach. "I'm... engaged."

"Congratulations. Who's the lucky girl?" Bruce glanced over his shoulder, and Selina approached him. "Let me guess. You've hit a wall."

"He wants to go public," Bruce explained. "If we keep things private, there's a good chance the press will hound us for years. I can take it; it's nothing I'm not used to. But he's... more exposed. More sensitive."

"And you're wondering if it's worth taking the leap," Selina concluded. Bruce said nothing. "What happens when you two get married? Do you plan to hide him every time you step in front of a camera."

"I'm not hiding him," Bruce defied.

"Sure. You're just refusing to be out for people to see you together."

"I can't let them ruin this." Bruce's words came out sharper and more desperate than he intended. Selina seemed taken aback, and Bruce turned away, finding it easier to talk to the rain. "Is it so bad to want something for myself? Just for myself? Not for Gotham, not for the press. For me."

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, Mr. Billionaire, but that has never exactly been an option for you."

Bruce's shoulders slumped. "I know."

Selina folded her arms and tilted her head, watching the curtain of rain flicker above them. "Let me ask you this," she said. "What would be more painful? Giving the world a window to your life? Or keeping everything locked up so tight that you lose him in the process?" Bruce turned to her, his lips parted, but utterly silent. "There's only so much a person can take, darling. One of these days, if you don't loosen your grip, something is going to break." Bruce had nothing to say.

Selina walked into the rain, turning on her heel to wish Bruce a farewell. "If that's all you need me for, Batsy, I'll be taking my leave."

Bruce snapped out of his daze. "Selina." He held out his hand. "The jewelry."

"What jewelry? You put it back..." When Batman didn't retract his hand, Catwoman rolled her eyes and dug into her pouches. "Ugh. Fine." She placed a pair of priceless diamond earrings in Batman's palm. "Spoil sport." Leaning in, Catwoman kissed Batman's cheek, and then headed off into the night.

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The screams echoed from the dungeons throughout the palace. Each one was preceded by the surge of horrid electricity, and the fry of exposed skin. The guards of the palace of 'Eth Althe'ban barely so much as twitched with every passing shriek. They had heard far worst sounds under the command of the Demon.

Down the stone staircase, curling into the level beneath the sand, John Constantine writhed in his cell, gritting his teeth as shocks ran from his electrified chains and up his naked arms. He'd been stripped to nothing but filthy trousers, and on his chest, a fresh scar of the Lesser Key of Solomon, branded into his skin. When the electricity stopped, Constantine collapsed onto the cold, hard floor. He wheezed, his bloody fingernails scratching at the stone. Standing at the open cell door, Ra's al Ghul watched with little interest.

"How are we feeling now?" he asked. His voice boomed over the echoed drips of the dank underground, and the ragged gasps of Constantine himself. "Have we reconsidered our position?"

Constantine pushed himself up on shaking elbows. Sweat slicked from his neck down to his lower back. His stomach curdled, but he was lucky enough not to have eaten in three days. Nothing to vomit up. Spitting to the side, Constantine looked up through his sweat soaked fringe. "Yeah," he breathed. "I no longer thing you're a bastard. Now? Now, you're a bloody right twat." Ra's signaled his torturer, who flipped the large switch on the side of Constantine's cell. Constantine screamed as more electricity tore at his flesh. When the surge ended, he curled into a ball, trembling.

Ra's walked forward, cool as you please. "We are not asking much from you, warlock," he said.

"Not... a bloody... warlock..."

"All we need is one spell. One simple spell. Once it has achieved what I desire in full, you will be released." He stepped further still, well within the reach of Constantine's bare hands. "Now. Be a good boy and put your pride away."

In a burst of energy, Constantine jumped to his feet and thrust his open hands forward, ready to wring Ra's al Ghul's scrawny neck. Ra's didn't so much as flinch. Constantine's hands hovered inches away from his throat, struggling against an invisible binding that stayed their murderous intention. "Glad to see that the Key is working just fine." Ra's flicked the tender scar on Constantine's chest, making him wither. Constantine retreated to the back wall of his cell and crumpled, clutching his aching torso. "You will be keeping it as a momento," said Ra's. "We can't have you coming back to kill me out of petty revenge."

A man approached from Ra's right. He was big and broad, with short cropped black hair and a face like a mason's brick. Ra's held his hand up to present him. "I've even brought you a suitable puppet."

Constantine sneered. "Maniac," he seethed. "What you're asking... what you want. It's forbidden alchemy."

"Forbidden by whom, exactly?"

"It's unnatural! Even for magic." When Ra's said nothing, Constantine slipped into Arabic, and turned to the stranger at his side. "Do you understand what is being asked of you?"

The man hardened. "Yes."

"If I do as your master says, you will lose yourself. You will lose your soul. Do you understand that? You will cease to be you."

The man's face did not change. "It would be an honorable sacrifice in the service of the master."

"Do you see?" Ra's said. "The world is orderly when dogs know their place."

"Well you can forget your bloody order!" Constantine barked. "I won't do it, you hear me, you fucking bellend?! I won't!" A guard approached Ra's and spoke quietly. Constantine forced a smile, sitting back on his heels. "What's that?" he said. "Let me guess. You've requested your dogs drag up someone I care for to blackmail me into obedience? Well hard luck, old son. Everyone I've ever loved is six feet under bloody ground."

Ra's turned to Constantine, a quirk in his shapely brow. "Are you sure?"

"What are you--? Get off me!"

Constantine's face drained of color at the sound of a familiar voice. "No..."

Two guards dragged a young struggling woman into view. She was young. Young and lovely, with short, dark red hair and a face twisted in fear. As she stumbled into Constantine's line of sight, she only grew more confused. "John!" she cried. "John, what--!? Where am I? What's happening!?"

From Constantine's quivering lips, a single, quiet name escaped. "Emma."

"Amazing, isn't it?" Ra's gripped Emma's chin with tight fingers. "The Lazarus Pit has the power to fully reanimate even the most decayed corpse. How long had this one been dead, Mr. Constantine? Ten? Twenty years?"

"Bloody BASTARD!" Constantine's voice strained, threatening to crack. "Let her GO!"

Ra's released Emma's chin. He nodded to the guards, and Emma was released. She tumbled on uncertain legs. With no other anchor, Emma rushed for Constantine and fell into his arms. "John!" she sobbed. Constantine held her, his whole body shivering.

"God. God, Emma. Emma." Tears overwhelmed him as he pressed his lips to her dark red hair. "God. You've been gone for so long..." Emma tightened her arms around him, and Constantine did the same. Constantine pulled back an inch to get a better look at her. "You haven't aged a day," he breathed.

"John, I'm so frightened," she whimpered. "I don't know what's happening. One minute I was... and then... a-and then..."

"Shh." Constantine pet her hair, soothing her. "Hush, love. We'll get you out of this. We'll--"

Before Constantine could finish his thought, Ra's grabbed Emma by her hair, pulled her head back, and slit her throat.

Blood gushed over Constantine like a rapid. Fear and agony choked him, and he screamed, his arms still clinging to Emma's corpse. Her body twitched as the last bit of life escaped her. Before long, she was nothing more than a limp mangle of limbs in Constantine's arms. Blinded by rage, Constantine jumped to his feet, prepared to plunge Ra's' knife deep into his chest. But the bind of the Key kept his hands at bay. He grit his teeth, as tortured tears carved rivers down the filth on his cheeks.

"Take the body to the pit," Ra's ordered his men. "Once she is revived, bring her back here."

Constantine's expression fell from fury to unmitigated fear. "No..."

"Yes, Mr. Constantine. We shall see how many times you can stomach the death of your first love. Of course, we do not want it to get boring, do we? I will have to get creative with her deaths moving forward. The slower the better, perhaps."

"Master."

The announcement of a servant made Ra's turn, allowing Constantine to collapse to his knees. "What is it?" he replied in Arabic.

The servant bowed his head lowly. "The Lady Talia, my lord. She has returned." 

"Send her here."

"No need, father." Talia emerged from the shadows, her steps slow and her expression stony. She observed the gruesome scene at her feet with no more emotion than one observing a child's mess.

Ra's straightened his back. "You returned home," he said. "Without my grandson."

Talia faced him directly. "I underestimated--"

Smack! The back of Ra's hand cracked across Talia's face. She stumbled into the opposite cell, clinging to the bars to keep upright. She looked up just as Ra's brought another hand down. This one sent her to the floor, and she braced herself on her hands and knees. She steadied her breath, knowing that tears would only make her situation work. Ra's stood over her.

"You disappoint me, Talia. You assured me you would come back with Damian in your care."

"I was wrong," Talia huffed.

"You were weak." Ra's sent a swift kick into Talia's stomach, knocking her to one side. Rolling her to her back, Ra's dug the heel of his boot into Talia's neck and pushed. Talia struggled, clawing at Ra's' robes with desperate hands. "And you dishonor me."

"Oy... oy!" Constantine crawled over Emma's corpse, eyes wide. "What are you doing you batty prick!? That's your daughter! That's your daughter!"

The crack of Talia's neck split the air in two. Her arms went limp, and her eyes, gazing up into Ra's cruel face, faded into lifelessness. Her mouth hung open just so. A warped and horrible mask of death, carved at Ra's al Ghul's behest.

Ra's turned to his guards. "Bathe her in the pit," he told them. "When she awakens, take her to the western tower and keep her there. She has much to do if she means to atone for her failure." He watched, emotionless, as his only child was dragged off, head dangling from a broken neck. With both Talia and Emma carted away to the Lazarus Pit, Ra's turned to Constantine, the knife still bloody in his hand.

"Have you reconsidered, warlock?"

Constantine shook violently. So horrified was he that words could barely form on his hot breath. He gnashed his teeth together, chains rattling on his wrists. "You... you wretched... fucking... beast!"

Ra's sighed. He wiped Emma's blood with the sleeve of his robe. "I see we have much work to do. Very well." With a signal, the switch was flipped again, making Constantine seize at the surge of power. 

His screams would carry on through the night.

Chapter Text

The sound of Bruce's grunting competed with the repetitive smack of his wrapped knuckles on his personal heavy bag. Sequestered within Wayne Manor's gym, Bruce had spent the entire morning doing anything he could to take his mind off of things. He'd been dwelling on his conversation with Selina since he'd had it, and wasn't keen on facing Clark by the time he got home. He knew that Selina had clocked him to a T, but damn, did she have to be that right?

Bruce threw a few right hooks, letting the shockwaves numb his strained muscles. His train of thought continued to wander as he left indents of sweat on the leather.

Maybe he could have been more accommodating with her, undoubtedly. But Clark didn't feel that way, did he? Sure, they had disagreements from time to time. But they'd been coworkers far longer than lovers, and even longer than friends. They knew how to work together. Compromise. There were plenty of times when Clark acquiesced to Bruce's way of doing things, and plenty of times where Bruce had done the same... Or at least a handful of times... A dozen times...? More than ten, certainly. Maybe.

After a particularly heavy hit, Bruce took a step back to catch his breath. Standing in his boxing shorts and sweat-drenched tank top, he blotted his forehead with the end of his towel and reached for his water bottle.

"Doing well, sir?" Alfred stepped in through the door with a tray of snacks. A small pile of clementines, jerky, energy bars, and a few bottles of Gatorade. He laid a fresh pile of towels to one side, flattening them so that they were presentable.

Bruce approached and grabbed the orange at the top. He started to peel, though it was mostly a mindless action. "Alfred?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Am I...?" He hesitated. "Am I a self-preservationist?"

Alfred folded his hands in front of him. "I wouldn't call it that."

"But you agree?"

"Perhaps. I would consider you a survivor, sir."

Bruce loosened and went back to peeling his orange. "I guess so."

Footfalls descended from the stairs to the gym, and Bruce didn't need to look over his shoulder to know that Clark had finally returned home. "There you are. I was worried. I heard your heartbeat go wild." He approached Bruce and leaned over his shoulder to kiss his cheek. Bruce turned away.

"I'm sweaty," he said.

While Clark might have normally insisted, this time, he pat Bruce's back and stepped away. "Morning, Alfred," he greeted.

"Good morning, Master Clark," Alfred nodded. "Did you have a nice flight back from London?"

"Once I got over the first layer of rain clouds, it was smooth sailing," said Clark. "I liked the fish and chips."

"Indeed, sir. I shall have to show you around the next time you visit."

Clark glanced at Bruce, who had kept his back turned to the both of them. The silence in the air was painful, but rather than letting it fester, Clark dug into his jacket pocket. "Oh uh. You had a lot of mail on the front porch." He held it up. "I grabbed it before it got too wet."

"I can handle those, sir," Alfred offered.

"Sure." Clark handed them over, but kept one in hand. He once more glanced Bruce's way. "This one is uh... from the Gotham Humanitarian Foundation."

Bruce shrugged. "It probably isn't anything important."

Clark tapped the envelope into his open hand. "Well the thing is... it's an invitation to an award dinner. Your award dinner." Bruce finally turned, and Clark pushed up his glasses. "Perry had assigned me to cover it a month ago." He gestured to the envelope. "And this has been unopened for weeks on your study desk."

Bruce remained expressionless, and took a jerky stick from the tray. "I don't see the point in opening it," said Bruce. "Seeing as how I'm not going, I guess I must have just forgotten to throw it away."

Clark frowned. "Why?"

"What do you mean, why? Because it's a massive waste of time." Bruce wiped his face, tossed his towel to one side, and went back to his heavy bag. He fell into a rhythm, pounding his fists into the body like beats on a drum.

"You go to charity events all the time," Clark pointed out.

"Yeah. Cause there's a point to those." He focused on the heavy bag, tapping it fluidly half way through its swinging arch. "Fundraisers raise funds. Award ceremonies don't do anything but give a bunch of rich assholes the opportunity to pat themselves on the backs for being so nice to poor people." Bruce launched a wild, left haymaker against the back, nearly knocking it completely to one side. Clark held it, forcing Bruce to stop his workout. Bruce knit his brow. "Clark, I'm not going."

"They've been trying to give you a humanitarian award for years now, Bruce. You haven't shown up for a single one."

"And I don't aim to start now." Bruce roundhouse kicked the bag, knocking it further into Clark's arms. Clark let the bag go, and Bruce got back into his rhythm. "So, you find Constantine?"

"No," said Clark, stepping out of the line of fire. "No one's seen him since he left for Metropolis."

"I'm telling you, you shouldn't worry about him. He once vanished for a year and change because he got a wild hare up his ass to investigate the Loch Ness Monster. Apparently it's a gigantic aquatic lizard."

"You should go."

Bruce grabbed the bag and spun to Clark, his face flushed and his chest heaving. "Why? Taking a night off doesn't do anyone any good."

"The city wants to appreciate you for everything you've done."

"Good for them."

"Bruce..."

"I don't care about their stupid award, Clark. I don't pump millions of dollars into Gotham for some cheap glass placard to put on my bookshelf. I do it because if I don't, no one will."

"I know," said Clark. "But have you thought about how much it might mean for them?"

Bruce paused. Grabbing a towel he took a chug of water and wiped his neck. "Who's them, exactly?"

"Who else? The people you protect every day. The people who love you, who you've devoted your life to taking care of." Clark rested his hand on Bruce's wrist, garnering his attention. "You do so much for everyone around you. Is it really so bad that you get appreciated for it?" Bruce turned his head away. Clark, realizing he was fighting a losing battle, leaned forward and kissed Bruce's cheek. He let it linger, prompting Bruce to close his eyes and lean into Clark's lips. When Clark pulled back, he didn't stray far. Bruce eyed him through hooded lashes. "You should go," he repeated. "It would do the city some good." When it was clear Bruce had no answer, Clark gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and then made his way back upstairs. Bruce watched him go the entire time.

After a moment, he turned, realizing that Alfred had been not-so-subtly witness to the whole scene. "Opinions from the peanut gallery?" he said.

"I couldn't possibly speak out of turn, Master Bruce," said Alfred.

Bruce folded his arms. "If that isn't the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard..."

Alfred stopped fluffing Bruce's towels and turned, hands behind his back. "Are you allowing me to speak plainly, sir?"

"I always do."

"Very well. You should go."

"Alfred, come on..."

"This city owes a great deal to you, Bruce. More than even you could ever fathom, I think. Yes, I too find it a bit silly to try and commemorate all you've done with what is equal to a gaudy paperweight, but it's not about the award itself. It's about the people who are giving it to you."

Bruce put his hands on his hips. "I just don't see how."

Alfred approached. "Because they love you. Just as I do. Just as Master Clark does, just as your children do. They want you to know that." Bruce fell into silence, and Alfred put a hand on his shoulder. "Just this once, perhaps you may allow yourself a bit of vulnerability. After all, my boy, you are only human."

Bruce sighed through his nose. "I'll think about it."

"Very good sir. I shall have your tux prepared." Alfred began to walk away.

"Al, that wasn't a yes," Bruce called. "I said I'd think about it."

"I'll be sure to shine your heirloom cufflinks for the occasion."

Bruce watched Alfred vanish around the corner. Standing alone, he noticed that Clark had left the envelope by his workout snacks. Bruce opened it with a smooth swipe of his finger.

To The Esteemed Mr. Bruce Wayne,

The Gotham Humanitarian Society wishes to extend our congratulations to you, as you have been chosen to receive our yearly award of recognition for those who go to great lengths to serve our city. Your contributions this year, and many years prior, have resulted in tangible, structural changes that all Gothamites have benefited from. From your efforts to end the homeless crisis to your funding of the foster system, we at GHS know first hand how deeply your generosity has affected our most in need citizens.

Please find your invitation to the GHS's annual award dinner, where we hope to honor you for all you've done. If you intend to decline this year, as you have done for the last five years, please let us know where you would like the award proceeds to be donated.

From all of us at GHS, we thank you for your continued efforts to make our city a home.

K. Baron,
GHS Director

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"...and that's how we should use submarines to scoop up the plastic waste in the ocean to make handbags. The end." Carrie Morris, a vapid smile on her face, lowered her report as the room around her offered tepid applause. Her and Trisha Chaumers' "plastic handbag" was in fact a Gucci brand purse with a ziplock baggie taped to the front. The presentation was similarly crafted.

"Thank you very much, ladies," said Mrs. Austen, standing from her desk. "Go on and have a seat." Carrie took the purse, and she and Trisha made their way back to their seats, ripping off the plastic as they went. Mrs. Austen cleared her throat and looked down her list to see who was presenting next. "Ah, very good. Damian, Jon? Your project, please."

Jon stood from his desk, a large object hidden under a sheet. He and Damian scurried up to the front, where Jon placed the mystery object precariously on Mrs. Austen's desk. Damian stood in front, and pulled something from his pocket. In the light, it was nothing more than a porus, gray and black rock.

"This is a piece of cooled magma," he began. "It was collected by archeologists at one of the most infamous natural disasters in history. The doomed city of Pompeii." On cue, Jon pulled back the sheet, revealing a diagram of a large, open-topped volcano, looming over a Greco-Roman city, constructed mostly by Q-tips and tissue paper. "The eruption of Vesuvius lasted for two days, starting with a pyroclastic flow--a high temperature gas cloud--reaching speeds of 60mph." Jon carefully opened a small jar of dry ice and dropped it into the volcano. Reaching behind the diagram, he flipped a switch, and the white mist from the ice turned bright red, lit by the battery powered light underneath.

The class "ooh'd" collectively, some even standing to get a better view. Damian continued. "Many citizens of Pompeii died from ash suffocation. Those who could not escape in time and who survived the first wave of gas, were quickly met by a much worse end." Jon picked up a third prop. A bottle of vinegar, mixed with red food coloring. He began to funnel it into the volcano. The diagram hissed and spit, pops of red baking soda jumping from the mouth. "The magma, racing down the side of Mount Vesuvius, reached temperatures of over four hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The remaining people of Pompeii were cooked alive." As the baking soda lava flowed, Jon jumped behind it, making sound effects and tiny squeals in various voices. The tissue paper city was overrun, and quickly dissolved as the vinegar pooled. "Many of the victims of Pompeii were killed so quickly, their bodies solidified into volcanic rock." He once more held up his magma piece. "Much like what I hold in my hand today."

Mrs. Austen observed their presentation in awe. "My. This is... quite a display."

Jon piped up. "Damian painted it! I glued all the little Q-tips together."

Mrs. Austen gave them both a nervous smile. "It's very good, boys. But this seems like more of a history project. Can you tell me what you learned from this bit of research?"

Jon and Damian exchanged glances. "We learned it's a bad idea to live next to volcanoes," Damian said. Jon nodded in agreement.

Mrs. Austen's smile widened. "Well. I guess I can't argue with that." She clapped. "Excellent project!" The rest of the room also clapped, and Jon flashed a smile before carrying the volcano to the side counter to be placed with many of the other displays. The bell rang not two moments later, and the class gathered their things to head to next period. For Damian and Jon, that meant PE.

"I think we got an A!" Jon mused. "No, an A+! No wait, an A++!"

"There's no such thing," said Damian.

"Yeah huh! My old teachers back home would give out A++'s whenever someone did extra good."

As easy as it would have been to rib Jon for his anecdote, Damian flashed a smile and fixed the strap on his shoulder. "Maybe you're right, then," he said. "Maybe we just did that good."

They entered the locker rooms and went to get changed. Since arriving at Anders, Damian often found himself with very few locker room neighbors, as most students were allowed to pick their locker numbers. Jon, of course, had decided on the door right next to Damian's, making him the first person to ever do so. As Jon blabbered on about something or other, Damian found himself tuning out with a smile. After everything that had happened--between his mother, and his fathers, and his brothers fighting--Damian found himself appreciating these little moments with Jon. His most unlikely friend. Perhaps his only one. And it was in this distracted state that he didn't notice what awaited him in his locker until he opened it.

The moment the door unlocked, a slop of garbage fell directly onto Damian, and dribbled all the way down to his shoes. Banana peels, moldy sandwiches, soda cups, wet toilet paper, and even clumps of mud all crashed into him, leaving Damian too stunned to do anything but stand there.

"Dami!" Jon began frantically wiping away the garbage. "What--?" He looked up, Damian's locker now ruined with vile juice. He glared. "Oh that's real nice." Laughter broke from the end of the locker row. Damian and Jon turned to see Jeremy and Nathan cackling like hyenas. 

"You look good, prince!" Nathan howled.

"You smell even better!" Jeremy added.

Jon stood in front of Damian with a glare. "Why can't you just leave us alone!?" he demanded. "You two are the biggest jerks I've ever seen in my life! Don't you have anything better to do!?"

"It's fine," Damian muttered.

"It is not fine!" Jon argued. "They can't keep doing this to you!"

Damian wiped an old yogurt cup off his shoulder. "They're just doing this because nobody likes them."

Jeremy scoffed. "Yeah, right. We're not the ones who smell like a dumpster."

"But I'm not the one trying so hard to look cool," Damian replied, his stony eyes hooded. "What did you think would happen with this?" He held up a banana peel. "That you'd embarrass me in front of the whole class and make me look stupid? The only stupid one here is you, Cole. You and your mouth-breathing toady and that tartlet of a sister are all that your tiny world comprises. It will take about five minutes to wash this off, and another ten to get a replacement uniform while the other one is laundered. But you? How long did it take for you to dig through garbage cans at lunch until you gathered up enough nasty stuff to put into my locker? What kind of obsession has led you to sticking your hands deep in today's leftovers, if only to try and feel some sense of satisfaction in your otherwise empty and pitiful life?" Damian tossed the banana peel to Jeremy's shoes. Jeremy's smile, which had started to fall the longer Damian spoke, was now completely wiped from his face. Blood rushed to his cheeks in embarrassment, and he turned, realizing that the whole locker room was watching him.

"You think you embarrassed me?" Damian asked. "You're pathetic. You can't be bothered to make yourself interesting, so you lash out in an attempt to seem smarter and cooler than you ever will be. The plain and simple fact is, you're a loser. A great, big, stupid loser."

"Shut up!" Jeremy was red to the brim now, his ears practically steaming with embarrassment. "I am not a loser!"

"Oh but you are," Damian smiled. "You, your sister, your suckup friend, and even your failed senator father. Nothing but a whole handful of short-sighted, ugly, idiot losers. And that's all you'll ever be, Jeremy Cole."

"I said shut UP!" By now, phones were coming out. Jeremy's eyes were wild as he noticed the cameras start to point at him. The muscles in his neck tightened and stretched, and his knees knocked together. "Y-you!" he screamed. "You're--! You're a f-freak!"

"Yeah, yeah." Damian waved Jeremy off. "You've exhausted that insult quite a bit. Surely you can think of something else?" Jeremy floundered, and Damian shook his head. "I thought not. Come on, Jon. I need to go wash this off." Damian made to leave, when Jeremy stepped forward and shoved Damian against Jon. Fortunately, Jon managed to catch him before they went tumbling backwards.

"Freak ass WEIRDO!" Jeremy screeched. "You think you're so cool. Well, nobody likes you! Nobody but your stupid hic cousin and all the other nerds you hang out with! You're creepy and ugly and stupid! You don't belong here, and you never did! You hear me!? You stupid, fucking SAND-NIG--!"

CRACK!

Jon's fist made contact with Jeremy's face before anyone saw him move. The force of the strike was enough to knock Jeremy completely off his feet and clear across the locker room. His body slammed into the far row of lockers, creating a massive crater in the flimsy metal. Dazed, he remained lodged in the doors for a few seconds before peeling off like an old sticker and collapsing to the floor. Slack jaws and wide eyes turned back to Jon, who's fist was still high in the air. Fear flashed across Jon's face.

"Oops."

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Dean Winters took a deep breath in. Her hands folded against her lips, she peered over her desk at the six faces in front of her. Damian, Jon, Clark and Bruce sat on one side of the room, while Jeremy and Jacob Cole sat on the other. Damian wore a fresh uniform, while Jeremy held an ice pack to the massive welt on his left cheek. Jon, staring at his feet, looked two seconds away from breaking down into tears.

"Who wants to go first?" the dean asked.

"I've got a few things to say," Cole said sharply. "Firstly, I'd like to ask why the hell these two monsters got let back into the school to begin with."

"There's no need for name calling, Mr. Cole," said Clark firmly.

"I'll call those terrors anything I damn well please!" Cole spat. "Look at what they did to my boy! We're going to have to get a tooth pulled, they hit him so hard!"

Damian scoffed under his breath. "He got off lucky," he muttered.

"What was that?!" Cole demanded, snapping to Damian. "What was that, you little heathen?"

"Mr. Cole." Bruce's deep voice settled the room, though only just. "Our boys have had problems with each other for the past year and a half. In particular, you might want to ask your son why Damian's locker was full of garbage."

"He didn't have anything to do with that!" Cole hollored. "And even if he did, so what?! That's no reason to assault a child!"

Jon winced, gripping his pants with both hands. "I'm sorry," he whimpered. "I didn't mean to hit him as hard as I did. I just--he was--and Damian had--and I--!"

"Jon, calm down." Clark laid a hand on Jon's back. His brows furrowed, though his eyes were kind. "But I will say that this is very disappointing from you. We're going to have to talk to your mother--"

"No!" Jon straightened up and gripped Clark's arm. "No, please! Not my mom! She'll be so mad at me!"

"You're lucky I don't call the police!" barked Cole. "Is this the kind of parenting style that is permitted in your house, Mr. Kent? Mr. Wayne? You should both be ashamed of how you're raising these boys."

"I'm going to ask politely that you don't comment on things you don't know," said Bruce.

"And I'm going to ask that you deal with your delinquent son before I have the police commissioner throw that child into juvenile detention! Both of them!" 

"Mr. Cole--" Dean Winters began.

"And you!" Cole pointed a wagging finger towards the dean. "You have some nerve to try and sit here and lecture me, when it's your backwards policy that didn't punish these two hooligans in the first place! If you had just kicked them out of school before for attacking my boy, it never would have gotten this far!" He stood from his seat and pointed to Damian and Jon. "I want these two expelled! Do you hear me? Expelled!"

"May I speak?"

All heads turned to Damian, who remained remarkably calm throughout the entire process. He stood straight, hands folded behind his back. "Father." He turned to Bruce. "Jon was provoked."

"Bullshit!" Cole decried.

"Mr. Cole!" said the dean. "Language, please!"

Bruce glanced between Jeremy and his father. "Go on," he said.

"Jeremy Cole has been bullying both Jon and me for weeks now. As has his sister Jenny, and his friend Nathan. Today, I tried to do as you asked, Dean Winters." He glanced at her. "I knew that there would be consequences if I fought back. So when I opened my locker to be covered in trash, I told him what I thought about him. He didn't like that. And so, he resorted to names." Damian turned back to Bruce. "He was just about to degrade me with a racial slur before Jon acted on impulse."

Jeremy's eyes widened in fear, while Bruce's narrowed in slowly boiling anger. "He what?"

"This is ridiculous!" said Cole, arms in the air. "Why are we listening to this little--!?"

"Mr. Cole, if you insult my son one more time, I will take you for every penny you're worth." Bruce's declaration was absolute, and it forced Cole to sit back down. Bruce turned back to Damian. "What was he going to call you, Damian."

"I'd rather not repeat it out loud," Damian said. Bruce tapped his ear, and Damian cupped his hand to whisper it. Shock and disgust quickly turned into quiet, deadly rage. He slowly turned his icy eyes to Jeremy Cole, who withered under his ice pack.

"Clark," said Bruce, his eyes never leaving the Coles. "Take the boys out into the hall."

Clark shifted awkwardly. "Uh. Are you sure...?"

"Quite sure. I need to have a word alone."

Realizing this was not something he should push back on, Clark ushered both his sons into the hall, where they sat in plastic chairs. The minute Clark closed the door, Bruce's unintelligible ravings made the whole office shake. While he was loud enough for the entire admin building to hear him, his shouting was so jumbled that only a few words were clear enough to understand. Things like "sue" and "disgrace" among others. In all the years he had known him, Clark had never heard Bruce so angry. The fact that the windows to the office didn't shatter at the sheer volume of his voice was a miracle in and of itself.

Minutes passed, and Clark wondered if Bruce had even managed to breathe. He glanced at Jon and Damian. Jon sat stiff and terrified, gripping the edge of his chair, while Damian leaned back, relaxed as though he were on vacation. Clark gently took Jon's shoulder.

"You don't need to be scared," he said.

Jon winced at a particularly loud shout. "B-but Uncle Bruce is so angry..."

"He's not mad at you," said Damian coolly.

"How do you know?"

"You're out here, not in there. That's all the proof you need."

Finally, the door opened. Every eavesdropper on the floor ducked quickly before Bruce could notice them. Standing at the threshold of the office, he turned back to Winters, Cole and Jeremy, all three of which were white as sheets. "And if I see that little bigot so much as breathe in my children's direction again, you, your bloodline, and this entire school are going to be so buried in legal action that you won't be able to shit without owing my family damages! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR!?" Bruce slammed the door with such force that half of the papers pinned to the communal bulletin boards fell to the ground. Bruce took a second to breathe, and straightened his tie. He turned to his awaiting family.

"Jon."

Jon flinched, and curled tight in his chair. "Y-yes...?"

"Do you like pancakes?"

Jon, clearly expecting something a bit more severe, lifted his head. "Uh... yeah?"

"Good. We're going for pancakes." Bruce turned on his heel, with Damian strutting behind him as his father's perfect copy. Jon and Clark looked at each other, their flabs utterly ghasted. Bruce stopped at the door to the office and addressed them. "Are you coming?"

Jon broke into a smile and jumped off his chair. Clark brought up the rear, and the four of them walked out of Anders. Jon hurried up to Bruce's side, a tiny bit of anxiety still in his voice. "Are you sure you're not angry with me, Uncle Bruce?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Even though I hit somebody?"

They stepped out into the chill of the afternoon air. Alfred's car idled, waiting for them to get in. Before walking down the steps, Bruce took Jon by the shoulders and knelt down to his level. "Jon. In any other circumstance, we would be having a serious talk about controlling your emotions. And now that your super strength is starting to show, you and your father will need to practice managing it so that you don't hurt anyone. But for now? Pancakes."

Jon nodded, amazed. "Pancakes..."

The four piled into the back of the car, with Bruce and Clark taking the rear-facing seats. "Effective immediately, I'm taking you both out of Anders," Bruce announced. "We'll find some other place for you to get your education, Damian."

Damian nodded. He and Jon glanced at each other. "Father?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think... I might go to a school with a good medical program?"

Bruce seemed surprise. "Medical?"

"For missions," Damian said quickly. "It might help if I have more practical knowledge of wounds and instruments. It could come in handy."

Bruce thought for a moment, and nodded. "We'll look at schools after the holidays. Sound good?"

Damian flashed his fathers a massive smile. "Sounds great."

Chapter Text

The Gotham Humanitarian Society's annual award ceremony was a far smaller affair than most of the charity events Bruce attended. Like every year, it was hosted in the ballroom of the downtown Ritz. There was something ironic about a non-profit that helped with the city's poorest citizens hosting their circle jerk in the most expensive hotel in Gotham. If Bruce were a cleverer man, he might have come up with something witty. As it stood, the only thing Bruce could think of was: Fuck I want to go home.

Alfred pulled his car up to the curb of the hotel, where a valet opened Bruce's door. He sighed and glanced beside him. Dick was busy with Blüdhaven, Tim and Damian were covering Gotham. Conner was on Jon-sitting duties while keeping an ear out for Metropolis, and Jason was... Jason. If Clark hadn't been tasked with covering the event, Bruce had no doubt that he would be alone all evening. He still might be.

Stepping out, Bruce flashed his well-polished smile for some of the less-important press. He walked through the lobby entrance, where a handler directed him across the marbled floors into the gilded door frame of the ballroom. Many of the hotel staff greeted him by name. He did have a permanent room at his disposal, after all. Entering the ballroom, he checked his winter coat and stepped out into the sea of socialites.

"Ah, here he is!" Kaitlyn Baron approached Bruce with open arms and six donors in tow. She was a small, portly woman, aged around the eyes with a smile that was just as loud as her pink leopard print pantsuit. She kissed Bruce's cheeks one at a time. "Welcome, Mr. Wayne, welcome! We are so pleased that you finally decided to accept tonight's award."

Bruce's smile never wavered. "Sorry it took so long," he said. "But I made it here eventually, and that's what matters."

"It is, it is! Ah, Mr. Wayne, have you met our donors? Please, let me introduce you..." For the next twenty agonizing minutes, Bruce went through the motions of meeting and greeting GHS's biggest donors, beside himself, of course. He already knew most of them by name, as they all tended to run in the same circles. Despite any and all lip service to the cause, Bruce knew personally that each of them were there for the tax write off. "Oh, and that there is Mr. Choi--"

"Excuse me," Bruce finally said. "As much as I'd love to meet everyone, I'm dying for a drink. Do you mind...?"

"Oh yes, yes!" Kaitlyn ushered him away. "Go, enjoy yourself! There's plenty of time to mingle."

With a nod of his head, Bruce meandered to the bar, where he finally let himself breathe. "Damn." He pinched his nose. He could feel how long a night this was going to be already.

"Evening, Mr. Wayne," said the bartender. "Can I get you anything? Champagne? Beer, wine?"

"A cast-iron skillet to the forehead," Bruce grumbled.

The bartender blinked. "Uh..."

"Relax. He's joking."

Bruce went rigid. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised, that Clark could have found him halfway around the world, but there was still a part of him that dreaded their meeting. After Damian and Jon had been pulled out of school, Clark had reduced his time at the Manor, keeping to Metropolis a majority of his time. If they were alone at any point, it was often just to wish each other goodnight, or good morning. Hardly anything more. Bruce pushed himself from the bar and turned to Clark, hands in his pockets.

"Evening," he said.

Clark greeted him with a half-hearted smile. "Mr. Wayne."

Bruce felt a knife dig into his heart. "Mr. Kent." He took in Clark's ensemble for the evening. It was an older suit; the kind Clark bought off the sale rack with a budget in mind. Bruce felt even worse when he remembered that Clark's closet had been updated less than a month ago. "None of the new stuff working for you?" he asked.

Clark shrugged. "I went with what was comfortable."

A bitter taste came to Bruce's tongue, and he swallowed it. "You look good, regardless."

Clark's smile warmed a touch. "You look dashing," he said, his voice low and sincere. His eyes fell to Bruce's bowtie. "Though... that looks a little tight." Without asking, Clark stepped forward and very gently loosened the knot around his neck. When he stepped away, the bowtie was still presentable, but the ease in Bruce's neck was more than noticeable. "There. Better for circulation." It took everything in him not to take Clark's hand out of sheer habit.

"How's the report going?" Bruce asked.

"Nothing too exciting yet."

"I can give you a soundbite." Feeling daring, Bruce tilted his head. "Maybe we can go somewhere private?" Please talk to me.

Clark smiled, his eyes duller than Bruce had ever seen them. "Maybe later."

The knot in Bruce's throat was so tight, he was likely to suffocate. He forced himself to nod. "Right. Maybe later."

"Everyone? Everyone please take your seats. We're about ready to begin."

Kaitlyn's voice boomed over the microphone, and Clark took a half step away. "Show's about to start. I'd better get to my chair." He made to turn, but paused about half way out. His eyes lingered, not quite meeting Bruce's, but unable to be torn away entirely. "Congratulations, Bruce. You've earned this."

Bruce watched Clark leave him, the knife in his heart now sunk to the hilt.

"Ladies and gentlemen." Kaitlyn held up her hands to quiet the room. "Thank you all for coming tonight. As you know, we're here to honor those generous individuals who have funneled thousands of resources over the years into our great city. It is no surprise, then, that tonight's first award of recognition goes to a man who has earned that title a hundred times over. Please, ladies and gentlemen, give a warm welcome to Mr. Bruce Wayne." Kaitlyn led the applause as Bruce climbed the steps of the flimsy fold out stage.

Bruce approached the podium, a lone microphone ready and waiting for him to make a speech. There were no spotlights, as it was a well lit ballroom, and as such, Bruce had a clear view of every face that stared at him in wait. Hands laid on the podium, he looked down, and noticed the standing plaque for the first time. "Oh. I guess this is it." The audience chuckled as he held the placard for the room to see. "Kinda small," he joked. Again, the audience chuckled.

Bruce cleared his throat. "Uh. Where do I start with these things? I guess thanks are in order. Thank you to GHS for the recognition, and for all the work that they do around the city. I know I'm just a single cog in the machine that makes it all work, so I can't overstate your importance. Thank you to all my fellow donors, who have contributed resources to help make the society's dreams reality..." Bruce paused, his words fading. A slight bit of feedback whined through the speakers. He could barely hear it.

His eyes, as though willed by magnets, fell to Clark's face in the crowd. He sat at a lone table, stone-faced and silent. He had no camera, no notepad, not even something to eat. He lingered, just as innocuous and unimportant as the rest of the room. He was the only one who wasn't smiling.

Lips parted, Bruce's shoulders slumped. That shiny, polished facade crumbled away, and for a moment, it felt as though he and Clark were the only people in the room. "I..." His uncertain voice grumbled through the speakers, and a few of the audience looked at each other with concern. Bruce floundered, but just before Kaitlyn was ready to save the moment, he started again. "I would like to invite someone to join me here tonight." Confusion rippled through the audience. Clark's eyes widened slightly. "Clark Kent. Please come up to the stage."

Every head turned. Clark's cheeks burned bright. Shaking from his daze, Clark looked around him, realizing that he was being watched. Bruce forced a smile. "Sorry to put you on the spot, buddy. I promise, I'll make it quick."

Pink-faced, Clark stood from his seat and shuffled to the stage. His big frame bumped more than a few chairs, Clark muttering apologies before moving on. He stumbled his way up the steps and took his place at Bruce's side. Bruce pat his shoulder and then once more addressed the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "this is Clark Kent. Most of you don't know him, but you've undoubtedly seen his work. Clark has been a reporter for the Daily Planet for the better part of two decades. In that time, he has been a voice for justice and equality for the city of Metropolis, and for citizens around the world. He's uncovered political scandals, unseated corrupt politicians, and stood tall in the face of injustice. And a few months ago, I asked him to marry me."

Clark snapped to Bruce in utter shock. Gasps and hubbub echoed through the room. Bruce pressed onward. "I know that there have been rumors in the press concerning my love life. Well for the very first time, it would appear the gossip is true. It had been at my request that the life we shared was kept secret, even against Clark's wishes. But he obliged me, even when it hurt him. Because you see, Clark Kent is a good man. Probably one of the best. He has done more for the world at large than I ever have with all my endless resources. It's one of the things I adore most about him. He inspires me to be better, kinder, more honest."

"Bruce..." Clark breathed.

"I'm almost done, honey," Bruce assured him. "Tonight is about honoring someone who has done good for the world. And in that regard, on behalf of myself and my family, I'm afraid I cannot accept this award." The crowd's voices rose, and Bruce put the placard in Clark's hands. "Instead, it is my greatest honor to bestow that title to a man far more deserving of it." Clark's eyes watered. "A man who I love more than anything in the world."

Clark's breath shuddered, and he cupped his hand to his mouth. The glint of his golden engagement ring flashed under the lights. With a soft sob, he leaned forward and fell to Bruce's shoulder. Bruce held him tight, a scattered applause starting to pick up speed. Bruce ran his thumb across Clark's cheek.

"I love you," said Bruce. "I love you so much, Clark." Clark couldn't answer in words, and instead laughed through his tears. Gently prying Clark from his shoulder, Bruce kissed him, in full view of the world. The rapid snapping of cameras only added to the cacophony of noise around them. When they broke apart, Clark was doubled over in wet giggles, Bruce clutching his pinched cheeks. Bruce pressed their foreheads together. "I love you," he repeated. "I love you. I love you."

"B-Bruce--"

They laughed together, and Clark dove in for another kiss. Bruce actually lifted Clark off the ground an inch, before setting him back to his feet. Their kiss broke, and suddenly, they were met with a wall of questions.

"Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne! How long have you been keeping this relationship a secret?!"

"Mr. Kent, does this put your interviews of Mr. Wayne into question?"

"When's the wedding!? Who's invited?!"

"Mr. Kent, have you adopted any of the Wayne children!?"

"What does this mean for the future of Wayne Enterprises?!"

More and more questions were flung their way, and Clark's sensitive ears were starting to ring. "Oh. Um. Uh--Boy I'm not used to being on this side."

Bruce grabbed Clark's hand. "Time to go." Before Clark could argue, Bruce flew stage left, and he and Clark bounded to the emergency exit. They broke into boyish laughter and barreled through the door, fire alarm blaring behind them. Bruce led them around the building and into the parking lot, where he knew Alfred would be ready to go at any second. But the front doors flew open before they could reach safety, and soon they were set upon by the press.

"This way!" Clark jerked to the right, and he and Bruce funneled down a narrow alley. The snapping and shouts of the press echoed behind them like barking dogs. Clark took the first sharp turn he could, and the minute they were out of sight, Clark grabbed Bruce under his arms and jumped. They leapt high above the city skyline, the people below quickly becoming nothing more than a train of confused ants.

The frigid wind bit at Bruce's exposed skin, and he clung to Clark's shoulders. Clark held him around the waist, the award plaque in his hand. "Bit of a dramatic announcement," Clark teased.

Bruce ran his fingers through Clark's hair. "What can I say? I'm dramatic."

"That's understating it."

When they kissed, it was if every pound of trouble fell away at once. Though Bruce's feet dangled in the air, it felt like he was dancing. Clark spun them through a low cumulus, leaving behind a swirl of mist. Their embrace was deep and honest. More honest than it had been in a while. Bruce hoisted himself up over Clark's shoulders, and Clark kept him secure and supported by his waist. When they broke apart again, Bruce found himself utterly lost in Clark's sapphire blue eyes.

"Are you sure about this?" Clark asked.

"Don't tell me you've changed your mind," said Bruce.

"Not at all. But... it's going to be a headache for a while."

"Sure."

"The press are going to be crawling all over the Manor."

"There's protocol to keep the Cave underwraps." 

"Are we going to be expected to make appearances? Like, if we go to the supermarket, are we going to need to look good for cameras hiding in the produce?"

"Clark." Bruce took his face with both hands. "Stop worrying. That's my job."

Clark smiled against Bruce's lips. "Well, clock out," he joked. "I'm your relief."

Bruce's expression melted. "Yes," he said. "You are."

They hovered above the city before the cold started to get to Bruce. Clark flew them back home, landing on the balcony of the master bedroom. Their kisses deepened, with hands that grasped and pulled at one another as though life itself hung in the balance. They didn't bother closing the window, as the chill of winter was offset easily by the heat of their bodies. Bruce actually jumped up, locking his legs around Clark's waist. Clark held him there, lost in the entanglement of their lips. He walked them to the bed and flopped Bruce on the sheets. Clark crawled over him and began another round of kissing.

Bruce flopped them over, now the one hovering over Clark. He undid the tie around Clark's neck, yanked open his shirt, and began to kiss at that perfect stretch of muscle. Clark pulled Bruce's tux apart, drinking deeply his cologne. With their clothes disheveled and their hands busy, Bruce propped his leg up behind Clark's own, undoing the buttons of both their pants. Their semi-erections pressed firm against each other, and quickly rose to the occasion.

"I love you," Clark murmured. Bruce answered him with a deep and tender kiss.

They rolled onto the bed, hands gripping at each other. They breathed each other's air, lost in the depths of their passion. Bruce tugged at both of them, while Clark dug his hands down the back of Bruce's trousers, squeezing him fondly. Their chests heaved, their legs interwoven. If there had been a way to crawl into each other's skin, they would have surely found it out by now.

Pleasure twisted itself around them, tightening like vines. They moaned within their many kisses, mindless and driven only by desire. At a particularly sharp tug, Clark broke their kiss to gasp, and pressed their noses together. Bruce showered him in endless affection, feeling his loins tighten the further he stroked.

"Bruce..." Bruce's name sounded so sweet on Clark's tongue. A sugared act of knowing, so familiar and yet, so very different in the way others called out to him. No one could sound like Clark. No one smelled like him, no one tasted like him. No one held Bruce so very tenderly, no one embraced every flaw with such ease. No one loved him like Clark. And if Clark wanted the world to know that, then by God, that was what Bruce would give him.

Their end came swiftly, and they crumpled together. Disheveled and messy on the comforter, Bruce stared through half-lidded eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "I let my fear get the best of me. You didn't deserve to get pushed aside like that."

Clark shook his head. "I knew why. You were scared."

"Fear doesn't excuse it."

"But it does explain it."

Bruce touched foreheads. "I... I just want you to know how much you mean to me. I'm sorry if you ever doubted it."

Clark pushed away a tuft of Bruce's hair. "Not for a second."

They made love throughout the night. Each time, their devotion bloomed anew. Kisses were endless and everywhere. Sheets tangled between them like wild ivy. Even their sweat smelled sweet. A lingering scent of sex that intoxicated the mind. Bruce got lost in the smell. When they finally did settle, it was damn near morning. They both fought against the fatigue in their heavy eyes, each wanting to stay up for as long as they could in each other's presence. Clark was the first to go, and Bruce cradled him in his arms. When it was his turn to doze off, he nuzzled his lips deep into Clark's hair, letting the smell of his cheap shampoo lull him into darkness.

Bruce was the first to wake up that morning, with Clark sunk deep into Bruce's chest. Bruce ran his fingers down Clark's hair, watching it bounce every which way. He could feel his lover shift ever so slightly, and in turn, Bruce began to wake him up with steady, slow kisses. Clark smiled, his eyes still closed, and lazily returned Bruce's affections.

"Good morning," said Bruce.

Clark yawned. "Morrrrning."

A knock came from Bruce's door. Bruce continued to smother Clark with attention, forcing Clark to lifted his head and answer. "Come in."

Alfred opened the door, pushing a trolly of breakfast up to their bed. "Good morning, sirs."

Clark smiled awkwardly, Bruce laying kiss after kiss up and down his neck. "Bruce," Clark mumbled. "Alfred is here."

"So?"

Alfred began to set up their food as properly as he always did. "Glad to see you two have made up."

Bruce finally lifted his head from Clark's neck. "We weren't fighting."

"Of course, sir." He poured them each a glass of orange juice and cup of coffee. "I do recommend eating properly before looking at the news. It seems you've both made for quite the headlines."

Clark pried himself out of Bruce's arms and sat up against the headboard, modestly pulling the blankets to his chest. "Is it bad?" he asked.

"Bad is relative, Master Clark. But it is... everywhere." He offered Bruce his usual black coffee. Bruce took it with a nod of thanks. "When you're finished with breakfast, I recommend coming downstairs to receive your gifts."

Clark blinked. "Gifts?"

Alfred flashed them both a smile. "Do enjoy your breakfasts, sirs." Alfred turned on his heel to give them privacy.

As Bruce started to eat, Clark furrowed his brow. "What does he mean, gifts?"

Bruce took a piece of toast and buttered it. "What do you think? We made an incredibly public announcement in front of a room full of rich people who like throwing their money around." He took a bite. "They probably all want invitations to the wedding."

Clark paled. "Bruce... we're not going to have to... y'know... invite everyone, are we?"

Bruce handed him his mug of coffee. "Welcome to public life."

Once they were fed, showered, and dressed, Bruce and Clark made their way downstairs, where a massive pile of gift baskets and bouquets sat waiting for them. Clark's jaw went slack as he looked it all over. "Holy cow. How many of them are there?"

"If you want, we can pick out what we like and donate the rest," said Bruce. "The staff at WE always likes getting the skin care products I don't use."

Clark walked to the flowers, most of which were done up in glass vases and ranged from hand-sized arrangements to full, extravagant gatherings. One in particular caught his eye. It stood at five feet tall, and was a bouquet of big, white roses. Clark plucked the card from its holder and opened it. He read aloud. "'Congratulations on your mistake. I look forward to the divorce. From LuthorCorp.'" Clark turned to Bruce, showing him the stationary. "He scribbled it on his work notepad."

Bruce plucked a rose from the bunch and examined it. "The flowers are nice," he remarked. He turned to Clark. "I'll be sure to have them sent for poison testing."

"Please do."

"Woooah!"

Clark and Bruce looked up to see Jon with a fresh bedhead, staring down at the mountain of gifts. In the blink of an eye, he sped to Damian's room and yanked open the door. "Dami, Dami! Christmas is early!" Turning back around, Jon supersped his way to the foyer, crashing into the gifts like a bowling ball.

Clark laughed, hoisting him up in one arm. "You see anything you like?" Clark held up a box of chocolates. "Here, try some."

"Ooh! Candy for breakfast!" Jon yanked open the lid and swiped a bonbon.

Damian, his eyes baggy from an early rising, shuffled his own way toward the gifts. "What is this all for...?" He held up a box of smoked sausages. "Is someone pregnant?" He looked pointedly at his father.

Clark set Jon back on the ground. "Your father made a bit of an impromptu speech last night." He hugged Bruce with one arm. "I'm sure you can see the whole thing on YouTube."

"Hey Dami!" Jon held up the bonbon box to Damian. "Try one."

Damian took one and bit into it. "Hm. Interesting."

"Oh sweet, sausages!" Conner, who had spent the night while looking after Jon, took the box from Damian's hand after floating his way down the stairs. "Tim would love these. What is all this for?" He paused, and eyed Bruce. "You're not knocked up, are you?" Clark doubled up in laughter, while Bruce pinched his nose in irritation. Even so, he couldn't hide the smile behind his hand.

However brief, however fleeting, the whole world, for now, felt perfect.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks were... certainly something. Considering the circumstances, Perry allowed Clark to work almost exclusively from home, which was great, because no matter if it was in Gotham or Metropolis, he couldn't so much as step out for a bagel without getting accosted by cameras and questions. It didn't help that Cat was positively fuming that she hadn't been there the night of the announcement. Clark managed to instead appease her by extending the wedding invite as Lois's plus one. Speaking of Lois, she'd been surprisingly supportive, pushing aside her opportunistic tendencies to instead make sure that what privacy he and Bruce had left was kept protected. Out of gratitude, Clark invited her to tea one afternoon at the Manor.

"I still can't get over this place," Lois said, shaking her head. She and Clark sat on the mezzanine, watching the first snow of the season powder the grounds. "How do you not get lost in here?" She took a sip of her tea and then paused. "Oh wait. You can probably just use x-ray vision to see where you're headed."

"Actually, it did take me a while," Clark admitted. "I can't tell you how many times I opened broom closets and stepped into a mop." They laughed together as Alfred presented them with a plate of sandwiches.

"God, and your own butler." Lois set her tea down, addressing Alfred. "I hope there's no hard feelings. You know. About the whole... trying to shoot you thing."

"I assure you, madam, it was hardly the most compromising situation I'd ever been in." Alfred turned to Clark. "Anything else, Master Clark?"

"When is the party again?"

"Master Dick has requested you and Master Bruce arrive at the venue no later than five o'clock."

Clark stirred his cup. "No chance you're going to blow the surprise, huh?"

"Not on your life, sir." Alfred bowed his head. "Enjoy." With that, he left Clark and Lois alone to talk.

"Party?" Lois asked.

"Dick planned Bruce's bachelor party," Clark explained. "Neither one of us has any idea what he's got in mind." His smile strained. "I really hope he hasn't hired strippers."

Lois laughed. "Oh yeah. I can't imagine good ol' midwestern Clark Kent getting a lapdance from a man in a skimpy doctor's outfit."

Clark flushed. "No, that's--!" He settled and sipped his tea. "I'm not that much of a prude, you know. It's just that I don't like the idea of..." Clark cleared his throat. "Look, no judgment on exotic dancers. But I don't know. Ever since we became public, I've had this urge to... I guess... protect him?"

"Is that right?"

"He's dealt with the public all his life. I know it's not anything new to him. Not to mention he can absolutely handle himself. And it isn't that I don't trust him, let me be clear." Clark took a sandwich and picked off the parsley with delicate fingers. "I just don't... like the idea of someone else getting that close to him, that's all."

Lois's smile spread wide. "Awww," she cooed. "You're possessive."

"Wha--? No."

"Oh yes you are. What, can't stand the thought of someone grinding on your fiance?"

Clark's blush worsened. "I don't see how that's unusual," he mumbled.

Lois laughed. "I guess not." Finishing her current cup of tea she poured herself a new one. "But, I bet you didn't drag me all the way to Gotham just to stress over imaginary lap dances. Come on, Smallville. Spill."

Clark flashed Lois a smile and set his teacup down. "Well... you know you're invited to the wedding."

"Yeah, I better be."

"Bruce and I both decided to not have much of a wedding party. Dick is his best man, and Damian is the ring bearer. No real groomsmen. So that leaves just one slot for my side. And... well..." Clark stirred his cup with a tiny tea spoon, made to look all the smaller in his gigantic hand. "You've always been my best friend, Lois. You took time to help me get used to the city, you mentored me when I needed it. Heck, even after we broke up, you never held anything against me." Not to mention they literally had a son in another universe, but Clark wasn't about to make things more complicated than they were. "What I'm asking, Lois, is if you would... consider... you know... being my--"

"Yes."

Clark blinked. "I hadn't even finished asking."

"I have a pantsuit I've been itching to wear for years," said Lois, blowing past the issue. "It's purple. Hope that works with your colors. I can get it in a different one if you'd like." Lois tapped her chin. "What would I be? Your Best Maid? Technically?"

Leaning back in his chair, Clark fell into a smile and held his tea cup in both shovel hands. "Groomsmaid," he suggested.

"Groomsmaid. I like it." She held up her tea cup. "I'd be honored. You can count on me." Clark held his in a toast, and they each took a sip. Setting her cup down, Lois melted into sincerity. "I'm so happy for you, Clark. Really. I rewatched that announcement speech on YouTube dozens of times, looking for red flags. You know? Trying to find wrinkles in his story, flies in the ointment. There wasn't a moment I didn't believe that man loves you from the depths of his soul. You deserve that, Clark. You really, really do." Clark reached over and took her hand in silent thanks.

After tea, Lois helped herself to leftover sandwiches, and piled into her car to head home. Clark made her promise to text when she got back into Metropolis, and waved her off. With only a few hours until Dick's surprise party, Clark changed into something comfortable, as requested. A pair of old jeans, tennis shoes, and his favorite flannel over an old Mighty Crabjoys t-shirt. Bruce had also dressed surprisingly casual; a black turtleneck with matching trousers, and shoes that looked like they cost less than a used car.

"Any idea where we're headed?" Clark asked as he and Bruce piled into the back of Alfred's car.

"Not a clue," said Bruce.

"But you're the detective."

"And you're the reporter. What's that say about the both of us?" That got Clark to giggle, and Bruce leaned over, kissing just under his jaw. Where once there might have been a time Bruce reserved his affections, either for his own personal reasons or out of caution, now, it seemed that there was no holds barred. With the window separating them and Alfred, Bruce slid onto Clark's lap, nuzzling further into Clark's neck. His hand slipped up under Clark's flanel, feeling the washboard stomach underneath his old t-shirt. Clark hummed, his eyes closed.

"You're going to ruin your turtleneck," Clark teased.

"No," said Bruce, "your going to ruin my turtleneck."

Clark laughed against Bruce's lips. His eyes fluttered halfway open. "Think Dick would be mad if we just skipped the party? Maybe headed to a hotel room instead?"

Bruce looked pleasantly surprised. "Clark Kent, famous people pleaser, is considering being rude? Goodness, I'm a terrible influence on you." They laughed again, and Bruce fully committed to straddling Clark's lap. Clark ran his hands up Bruce's back, losing himself to their embrace. Thank God the windows were tinted, because none of the ideas that ran through Clark's mind would have been appropriate for any kind of audience...

The car parked, and the window between the cab and the back seat cracked just enough for Alfred to announce: "We're here, sirs."

Bruce grumbled as the window rolled back up. "Well. Hopefully we won't have to be here for long."

"Oh come on. I'm sure it'll be fun, whatever Dick has in mind."

"Sure," Bruce agreed. He gripped Clark by the lapels of his flannel. "But it's not the 'fun' I'm in the mood for."

Clark kissed him languidly, letting their lips separate agonizingly slow. When his eyes opened, they flashed a deep, shocking Kryptonian blue that made Bruce shudder from tip to toe. "Behave yourself, my love," he purred.

Bruce's skin pimpled like crazy, and he shoved his face into Clark's neck. "You're a bastard, Kent." Clark chuckled softly.

Finally pulling themselves from the car, they stood in front of a large, industrial building with no signage. Bruce and Clark glanced at each other before heading inside, Alfred trailing behind them. Walking in through the tinted glass door, they were met with neon carpets, fake plants, and wallpaper pulled straight out of the 1980's. Dick stood at the counter, chatting with the receptionist. He flashed them both a smile as they entered.

"Great, perfect timing! Everyone else is already here in the locker room."

"Locker room?" Clark asked. 

"Dick," Bruce said slowly. "Did you really...?"

Dick flashed a boyish smile. "Look, I couldn't think of anything else. Besides, when was the last time any of us were here?"

Clark looked between them. "And where is 'here,' exactly?"

Dick motioned towards a door. "Come on. Let's get strapped up." Dick made his way in, with Bruce trailing behind him. Clark hurried to his side.

"Bruce, where are we?"

Bruce's smile was amused. "You'll see," was all he said. They stepped through the door and into a locker room painted the most insane vibrant orange Clark had ever witnessed. Of everyone in attendance, there was of course Dick, Tim, Damian and Jason, as well as Jon and Conner, and, shockingly, Harley Quinn, Pamela Isley, and Kori'ander. And each and every one of them was strapping a strange vest over their shoulders.

"Hey, here they are!" Jason announced. He twirled a plastic gun on his finger. "You ready to get swept, old man?"

Bruce put a hand on his hip. "Careful, Jay, that confidence will do you in."

Clark put two and two together, and turned to Bruce. "Laser tag?"

"A former past-time of my kids," Bruce explained. "Though we haven't been in ages." His eyes trailed to Ivy and Harley, and he pointed. "A little confused as to why they're here."

"Relax, Mr. B!" said Harley, clipping her vest in place. "Me and Ives are reformed! Isn't that right, baby?"

"I mean, mostly," said Ivy. "To be fair, I still like to terrorize my share of CEO's."

"I needed twelve people to rent the place out," Dick explained. "And Harley and Ivy were excited to congratulate you two."

"Oh yeah!" Harley bounded over to Clark and Bruce and threw them both into a lanky-armed hug. "Happy days to you both!"

Clark smiled awkwardly and did a quick headcount. "Twelve?" he repeated to Dick. "But there are only eleven of us..."

"A-hem." All heads turned as Alfred, suited up with an orange plastic laser gun in hand, entered the room. "I believe I have been drafted as our twelfth body, sir."

"Is that right?" Bruce smiled, rolling up the sleeves on his turtleneck. "Alright. I guess we're picking teams."

"Not so fast," said Dick. "See, I gave this some hard thought. Even if Clark doesn't use his powers, you're both still Superman and Batman. You get anyone else on your side and we don't stand a chance. So." Dick took a plastic gun off the wall and rested it on his shoulder. "Here's the rules of engagement. The two of you vs all of us. Think that's a fair fight?"

Clark's eyebrows shot high. "Ten against two?" He turned to Bruce, who wore a half-smile.

"It's about as fair as it's gonna get," he said, taking a gun off the wall. "Maybe if it was just me, you might have a better chance."

Jason snorted. "Yeah, yeah, save it for the course."

"Rules are simple," Dick explained. "No powers, no gadgets, no cheats. We each get three lives. After that, we're off the course and into the watch box. Last man standing wins. Any questions?"

"Yeah." Bruce took a large vest from the wall and slipped it on. "What flowers do you want at your funeral?" Click.

With the terms agreed upon, Bruce and Clark entered into the room on the left of the lockers, and Dick and the others entered the room on the right. Bruce tapped the button on his vest, lighting up three blue bars across his torso and back. Clark did the same, the plastic gun awkward in his hands.

"You sure about this?" Clark asked, watching the count down timer. They stood behind the black door to the arena, waiting for it to open.

"Of course," said Bruce. "We watch each other's backs, we rely on our instincts? We've got it in the bag."

"No I mean..." Clark shifted awkwardly. He gestured to the gun. "Dark allies? Shooting at each other? That's not going to upset you in any way?"

Bruce's smile warmed, and he kissed Clark tenderly. "I'll be fine," he assured him. "I'm safe. I'm with my family. And if I really was in danger, you'd be there to protect me. Right?"

Clark nudged him fondly. "In a heartbeat."

The countdown timer ticked on. Twenty seconds remained. Clark and Bruce readied their orange guns, their vests humming. "Follow my lead," said Bruce. "Keep your eyes peeled. And remember, there's no mercy in laser tag."

"Right," Clark nodded. "No mercy."

5

4

3

2

The buzzer sounded, and the black door rose, allowing them into the arena. It was a massive space, blacklit and woven with padded corridors, climbable ledges, and narrow halls. Bruce took point, with Clark bringing up the rear, occasionally walking backwards. The EDM music thumped above them, but it did little to drown out the thunderous feet of their opponents. As they came closer, Clark and Bruce braced the laser guns to their shoulders.

"Here they come," Clark warned.

Bruce looked down his sights, waiting for the perfect moment to pull the trigger. "Perfect."

For the next fifteen minutes, Clark and Bruce managed to systematically take out everyone in their line of fire. Harley was the first to get knocked from the competition, being far too aggressive and careless. She was joined quickly by Jon and Ivy. To Jon's credit, he'd tried to sneak up on Clark, only to take his final hit when he tripped over himself and stumbled directly into Bruce's sights. Ivy, on the other hand, seemed the least interested to begin with, and even more so once Harley was sent to the watch box. She all but stood there to let Clark take her out. Kori was next to go, accidentally stepping in the way of Dick's shot and taking her final hit in the back. Tim had managed to get one off on Clark, but was quickly dispatched by Bruce's impeccable aim. Conner had taken it upon himself to exact vengeance on Tim's behalf, but was dealt with almost immediately. Alfred was a surprising challenge, and had nearly gotten Clark once or twice, had Bruce not rolled them over to avoid fire and return it three times over. Damian had resorted to subterfuge, crawling along the ledges to snipe his fathers from afar. Alas, this only worked for so long, as Bruce managed to get off a lucky shot as Damian jumped from ledge to ledge. Dick, who had been incredibly difficult to catch, had managed to wing Bruce, bringing them both down to two lives left. Clark retaliated with precision that brought Dick down from three hits to zero in a matter of seconds. That left only one opponent standing.

"You think he can do it?" Jon asked, watching the live feed from their room.

Conner shoved a handful of cheap nachos into his mouth. "I fink sho," he said, his mouth full.

"Babe," said Tim. "Chew." While Conner choked down his snack, Tim turned to Jon. "Jason is the best shot out of all of us. He's never been able to beat B before, but there's a first time for everything."

"There he is!" Kori pointed to the screen, and they all watched as Jason crept around a corner on high alert. Bruce and Clark walked back to back just a few yards away.

In the arena, Bruce's ears were pricked sharply. "Any sign of him?" he asked, gun pointed in the air.

"Not that I can see," Clark admitted.

Bruce cocked an eyebrow. "I mean... you could."

Clark smiled over his shoulder. "Sorry, hon. Rules said no powers."

"Well, I tried."

Clark caught something out of the corner of his eye. He whipped around and fired, but missed completely. Jason had popped off a shot, striking Clark square in the chest. His second life bar evaporated. "Ah shoot! I've got one hit left."

"Stay close to me," Bruce ordered. They hugged the wall, listening for any sign that Jason was near. Footfalls echoed from one side, and Bruce readied his aim. He was just ready to fire when he heard Jason change directions. His hands snapped high, and he fired. Jason, who had attempted to climb a ledge for an advantage, cursed under his breath as his first life bar blinked away.

"Ha! Good shot!" Clark praised.

"More like luck!" Jason called, ducking out of sight.

Bruce scoffed. "Give it up, Jaylad! You couldn't beat me then, and you can't beat me now!"

Jason rolled around a corner and fired, winging Bruce in the back. Clark fired in pure reflex, knocking off Jason's second life bar. Jason vanished again, and Clark flashed a proud smile. "I got him!"

"Good job, baby," said Bruce. "One more shot and he should be..." His eyes lifted over Clark's shoulder. Jason had appeared, his gun pointed straight for Clark's back. Bruce raised his gun to fire, but it was too late. The plastic pew of Jason's gun sounded, and they both watched in horror as Clark's final life bar went dark.

Clark touched his vest. "...Oh." He fell to one knee, and would have collapsed completely if Bruce hadn't cradled him in his arms. Clark let his hand go limp, his gun falling to one side. "I... I'm hit," Clark breathed. "I'm sorry, Bruce. I've failed you."

"No," said Bruce, with the cadence of a Shakespearean actor. "No, Clark. You did good."

"Don't forget me?"

"Never. Never. You will get your justice."

"Oh, Bruce..."

"Clark!" With one over-acted dying grunt, Clark let his head roll back, his tongue flopping out to one side. Bruce held him to his chest, dramatically. "I will get you justice, Clark. I promise."

"Y'all are embarrassing!" echoed Ivy's voice from the watch room.

Clark opened one eye with a smile. "I guess I should head out then. Good luck with Jason." With a quick kiss, Clark snuck away to the watch room, joining his boys on the bench. Jon jumped into his lap, each of them now fully invested in the final showdown.

In the arena, Bruce pressed his back to the wall, gun at the ready. He sidled to his left, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. He pointed, but didn't fire. "Alright, Jaylad!" he called. "It's just me and you, chum!"

Jason chortled from his hiding place around the corner. "One shot and it's over," he called. "You wanna see who's faster?"

Bruce snorted. "We both know who'd win a draw, Jay."

"I wouldn't be so sure, old man."

Bruce stepped out from the wall. "Alright. I always liked a good Western." He held up his hands. "Ceasefire?"

Jason paused. "Alrighty." He stepped out into the purple and blue lights, his hands also where Bruce could see them. In unison, they each put the guns in their belts and rested their hands at their sides. Jason grinned, his white hair flashing a rainbow of neon under the strobes. "You wanna count down? Or should I?"

Bruce smirked. "Count of ten?"

"Count of ten."

"Ten. Nine. Eight."

Bruce's fingers twitched next to his gun.

"Seven. Six. Five."

Jason's eyes narrowed, and his heels dug into the linoleum.

"Four. Three."

Jason's fingers curled.

"Two."

Bruce squared his shoulders.

"One."

Both guns flew into the air, firing at identical times. But only one vest whined as its final hit was taken away. Slack-jawed, Jason looked down at his vest, his final life tally going black. "Son of a bitch!"

"I told you." Bruce, his vest still glowing with his remaining hit, spun his gun on his finger and blew on the plastic nose. "You haven't beaten me yet, and you never will."

Cheers came from the watch room, and the rest of the party flooded the arena to congratulate Bruce's victory. Jason was eventually pulled into the pile, forcing a laugh out of his sour lips. Bruce threw his arm around his second oldest and gave Jason a squeeze. "Next time," Jason said. "Next time, you're ass is grass."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, Jay."

"Right, now that that's over," said Tim, "I believe we were promised pizza?" He eyed Dick.

"Yeah!" Jon threw up his hands. "Pizza!"

Ivy frowned, one hand on her hip. "Laser tag and pizza for a bachelor party... Not to be a wet blanket, Dick, but don't you think it's all a little juvenal?"

Dick snorted. "Are you kidding?" He nodded towards Bruce as he and Clark made their exit. Bruce had said something that made Clark bust out with laughter, their hands clasped as they walked. "That's about the happiest I've seen my dad in years. Trust me. This was exactly what they needed."

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Days. Talia didn't know how many. But it had been days. Days since she'd left the confines of her treacherous tower. Days since she'd gasped back to life in the pools of the Lazarus Pit. She had only ever been revived twice before. It never got easier. Being dead was like existing in nothingness. No bright light, no afterlife, just... a peaceful nothing. An emptiness that not even total black could capture. And then, you were drowned in fresh air. Scrambling and splashing as the cruelty of life forced you back into the fold.

Talia had woken up with a scream. As the guards went to fetch her, she reacted on violent instinct. Those who woke in the Pit often did. She scratched, she screeched, she kicked and she hit. A few of the guards were sent flying into the cave's stalagmites, concussing on the way down. But eventually, Talia's fatigue got the better of her, and she collapsed naked onto the rocky ground. After which, she was clothed in a cotton robe and dragged to a familiar old tower.

The room was simple. A round space with thin windows, a pisspot for necessity, a cot, a sink, and a rug. Food was slid through the bottom slot of the door twice daily. Though it did little to meet her ravenous hunger. Another side-effect of the Pit. Ra's did not visit her the entire time, and no guard was allowed to speak to her. She had no books, no paper or pen. Nothing but empty walls and never ending, blaring false sunlight.

By the time her door opened, Talia was ready to do anything and everything she was asked.

"Your father sends for you," said the guard in Arabic. "Come, my lady."

Pushing down her frizzed hair, Talia followed with no complaint. Her stomach growled, and her bare feet cracked on the old stone. She could feel the eyes of the palace on her at every step. She did not meet them. The guard led her down towards the dungeons, and although Talia worried that she would be thrown behind bars, she was instead brought to a small room where Ra's al Ghul sat waiting.

After he made his delivery, the guard bowed his head and left. Talia kept her eyes on the floor, attempting to stand as silent and stiff as she could. Ra's watched his daughter with a keen eye, and poured himself a cup of wine.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

Talia swallowed, though her mouth was dry. "I apologize, father. For my failures. However I might make up for my transgression..."

"Sit." Talia looked up. Ra's gestured to a chair. With weak legs, Talia sat in front of him. He placed the cup of wine in her hands. "Drink." She obliged. The wine was rich and tangy, and smoothed its way down Talia's parched throat. "You understand why I took what measures I did?"

"Yes, father."

Ra's tilted Talia's chin with two fingers. Talia kept her eyes closed. "It pains me to hurt you, Talia. But men cannot see weakness in their leaders, or else order becomes chaos."

"Yes, father."

"Drink more."

Talia did so.

Ra's took a hanging robe off the wall and held it to her. It was a familiar, elegant embroidered dress of royalty. "Make yourself presentable, my daughter. There is much we should discuss."

Taking the robe, Talia stepped behind a divider and changed. Her grateful feet slipped into silk shoes, and her hair struggled against her ivory handled brush. But eventually, she felt human again, and stepped back out into the light. Ra's nodded in approval, and opened the door. "Come." Talia followed.

They descended further into the cells, and came upon the shivering form of John Constantine. Curled up against the wall, his hands covered his head, his filthy feet scratched against the stone. Ra's observed without so much as a flicker of emotion. "This one is stubborn," he said. "It shall be your job to see that he breaks. Can I trust you to handle that, Talia?"

"Yes, father."

Ra's regarded her. "You have questions?"

Talia hesitated, but nodded. "Why is he here?" she asked. "For what purpose do you mean to break him? He is nothing."

"He is useful," Ra's replied. "And to fix your failings, my daughter, he is integral." The door opened, and Ra's stepped back. "Good. They've returned."

Talia watched as guards dragged the woman Emma once more to Constantine's cell. Her rags were far more tattered than before, and her lovely face was now gaunt with the trauma of death and rebirth over and over again. Judging from the state of her skeltal form, Talia guessed that she had been killed and brought back at least twenty times.

"John..." Emma's voice was hoarse. A guard opened the cell door, and shoved Emma inside. Her frail body curled in pain, shivering as though she was suffering a horrible cold. Constantine did not move. Emma dragged herself onto her scuffed knees with what little strength she had. "John..."

"No..." Constantine's voice barely resonated. His arms were tight around his knees, his face hidden entirely. "No. No more." Emma crawled to Constantine and tugged on his pant leg. Constantine flinched as though he'd been burned, and retracted his feet.

Ra's turned to Talia, who forced herself to keep her face as stony and neutral as she could. Ra's laid a dagger in Talia's hand. "He is in your charge now, Talia. Make sure he understands the only way this will end."

Talia swallowed the lump in her throat. On trembling legs, she walked inside. Emma barely had the strength to sit up, and collapsed at Constantine's feet. Constantine's shoulders trembled as a whine escaped Emma's lips. Talia knelt in front of him.

"Mr. Constantine?" Talia's voice was soft. Comforting, almost. Slowly, Constantine lifted his red, puffy eyes. "I understand how you are suffering. Please. Let me end it for you."

Constantine looked to Emma, who now wept softly on the ground. With a filthy hand, Constantine touched Emma's shoulders. She sobbed, and gripped his wrist with both hands. Emma's lower lip quivered. "Don't let them do it to me anymore, John. I can't take it. I can't take the pain of it anymore. Don't let them do it to me."

Constantine gasped, fresh tears carving their way down the dirt on his cheeks. "Emma... Oh God." He gripped her hand with both of his and held her knuckles to his forehead.

Talia kept her voice even. "My father wants your services," she said. "If you agree, this ends now."

Constantine shook his head. "You don't know what he's asking."

"I'm sure it can't be worse than this. Can it?"

Constantine's eyes never left Emma. She managed to pull her body up, and he cradled her in his arms. Angry tears spilled into her dark red hair. "No... I... I can't."

"Can't? Or won't?"

Emma whimpered in Constantine's arms. "John. John." She gripped him as tightly as she could. "Make it stop. Make them stop..."

Constantine's breath shuddered. The smallest ruminants of protest lingered on his lips, but staring into the eyes of Emma's pain, he knew there was no way he could continue to let her suffer. Slowly, he nodded.

Talia heaved a sigh of relief. "You agree, then, Mr. Constantine?"

"Yes."

"And you will obey my father's orders, no matter what they are?"

Constantine let his head drop, and he held Emma close. "Yes."

"Good." Talia stood, and turned to Ra's. "It is done, father. He is broken."

Ra's did not smile, but his eyes turned upward in that way that signaled his approval. "I had every faith in you, my dear." He snapped. A guard approached Emma and grabbed her by the ankle. As she was yanked away, Constantine began to scream.

"No! No! Stop! Emma!" He ran for her, only to be yanked back by the chains on his wrists. Emma screamed, feet flailing. The guard presented her to Ra's al Ghul, who removed a knife from his robes, and stabbed her through the heart. Constantine screamed until he was red in the face. He fell to his knees, watching Emma's corpse slump one last time. Ra's motioned for the guard to take the body away. Constantine fell to his hands, tears of rage spilling on the floor beneath him. All the while, Talia watched, a cold pit growing wider and wider in her gut.

"Take him," Ra's ordered to his guards. "Bathe him, dress him, feed him, let him rest." The guards hurried to do as was asked, hoisting Constantine up by his arms and dragging him away. Ra's and Talia remained behind. Ra's approached his daughter and gently pet the hair from her cheek. "You have done well, my child. But your penance is not over.

"Now, the real work begins."

Chapter Text

In Gotham, the approaching holidays only ever meant one thing: an uptick in petty crime. The heavy hitters were still active during the colder seasons, of course, but nothing drove home break-ins and burglaries of the lower class of criminal quite like the looming promise of Christmas season. Desperate people did desperate things, after all. Hence why, in Gotham's textile district of all places, there had been reports of a slew of thefts from people just looking to scrape any loose cash they could pocket from unguarded registers. And one such business, Mr. Cheng's Suits, seemed to be that evening's target.

It was late. Late enough for most of the world to have gone to sleep. Despite the bars on the windows--the textile district wasn't exactly safe, even for Gotham's standards--a screwdriver and a crowbar was enough to make an easy entry for the criminal in question. He dressed in all black, with soft snowflakes soaking through his sweater's shoulders. Managing to wedge the flat end of his bar under the window frame, he hoisted, and a cold rush of wind signaled his entrance.

The figure slipped into the tailor shop as silently as he could, placing the window back in place. Hot breath puffed from his ski mask, a backpack hanging from one arm. As he crept toward the register, however, his foot caught a mannequin, and they both clattered to the ground. The steps leading to the built-in loft lit up, and the robber knew his time was limited. He scrambled in front of the counter, hidden perfectly as the older couple who owned the shop appeared.

"I know I heard something," said the wife, clinging to the lapels of her bathrobe.

The husband, a baseball bat in hand, kept himself firmly in front of his wife, despite the fact that both were nearly sixty and well below 5'4". "Anyone here?!" he demanded, bat held high. "I have a weapon!" The wife pat her husband's shoulder and pointed. With the hall light spreading across the floor, the tipped over mannequin was in perfect view of their light. The husband put his bat down. "Oh. It was just one of the displays."

"No!" said the wife. "I heard someone!"

"You watch too many crime documentaries." The husband walked out, fearless, to fix the suit mannequin. As he set it up, he turned, and quickly found himself staring down the barrel of a handgun. The wife screamed as the robber revealed himself, gun pointed straight at the older man's chest.

"Don't move," he ordered. "Drop the bat."

The husband did as he was told and held his hands high. "Listen to me, young man. You don't want to do this."

"Shut up." The robber gestured with his gun. "Stand by the wall." By now, the wife sobbed hysterically as the husband followed instructions. "I need you both to shut the hell up. Do you have any safe deposit boxes or locks I need to know about?"

"No. None."

The wife whimpered, clinging to the edge of the wall. The robber eyed her suspiciously. "He lying?" The wife flinched, and the husband's brow drew tight, begging her not to say anything. Frustrated, the robber grabbed the old woman's arm and yanked her off the steps. The husband lurched.

"Don't--!"

The robber pointed the gun directly between the husband's eyes, stopping him in his tracks. The wife wailed, hanging by her arm. "It's our life's savings!"

"Helen!" the husband cried.

"Oh for godsakes, Bo! Just give him what he wants!"

The robber grinned beneath his mask. "Smart lady," he slithered. "Now be a good girl and show me where the safe is."

Clang!

Like a flash of lightning, a sharp, metallic force knocked the gun from the burglar's hand, slicing a few fingers in the process. The robber gasped, letting the wife go. She ran to her husband's side, and they held each other for comfort. The robber clutched his hand and looked down. A Batarang now lay at his feet.

"Oh... shit..." Heart palpitating, the robber looked up the stairs. A great shadow had spread from above, angular and menacing. With a few desperate breaths, the robber turned tail and ran for the door. Batman didn't bother pursuing. The moment the robber got the lock thrown and swung it open, he was met with two heels of Robin's boots as the Boy Wonder swung down and in, clinging to the top of the door frame.

The burglar, dazed and bloodied, collapsed to the floor. Robin landed on top of him, knocking the wind from his chest. His cloak billowed, eyes narrowed menacingly underneath the shadow of his hood. "Filth," he breathed.

"No!" The robber threw his arms up, both as a way to protect his bludgeoned face, and to beg for mercy. "No, please! I got kids, I got a wife! Or something! J-just let me go! I've learned my lesson! C-come on, it's Christmas!"

Robin grabbed him by the shirt collar and yanked him to sit. "You are exceptionally fortunate that I no longer murder people." Dragging him to one side, he tossed him into an office chair. The chair spun listlessly as the criminal tried scrambling to his feet. Taking a bolas from his utility belt, Robin let it fly, the cord wrapping tight around the burglar and tying him to the chair in one fell swoop. The burglar whimpered, trying to scramble away, but only ended up tilting over to one side and flopping uselessly on the floor. Robin then smashed his boot onto the man's face, keeping him still. "The police are already on their way. I would leave you to them with a concussion. But like you said. It's Christmas." The burglar sniffed up a massive trail of snot.

Stepping away, Robin turned to the older couple, who watched him in awe. "Are either of you hurt?" They shook their heads. "Good."

The wife stepped forward. "How... how old are you?"

Robin pursed his lips in annoyance. "Batman, we're done here." He turned to his partner, only to realize that Batman was busy staring at the shop owner's collection of tuxedos. Robin cocked an eyebrow. "What are you doing?" Batman picked up a sleeve to see its length. "Batman."

"Hm?" Batman lifted his head, brought out of his thoughts. "Oh." He let the sleeve go. "Nothing." He turned to the older couple. "You two have a lovely shop. What brands do you work with?"

The husband and wife blinked, and exchanged looks. "Uh..." The husband swallowed. "We work... locally. A few imported but... um..."

"And you offer tailoring services?"

"M-my wife." The husband nodded to the woman in his arms. "Sh-she's very talented."

Batman walked over to the counter and took a business card. "I may recommend you to a friend. He's getting married."

"Oh!" The wife blinked away her fear. "Oh congratulations to him! When is the lucky day?"

"Helen..." the husband warned quietly.

"Bo, we might get a customer out of this," the wife replied.

Batman tucked the card away into his utility belt. Outside, red and blue lights signaled the arrival of the GCPD. Robin started his way up the stairs. "Come on," he said. "You can do your shopping later." Batman followed in silence.

Emerging on the roof, Robin groaned and rolled his neck. "Did you take us to patrol the textile district just so you could scope out tuxedo options?" he asked.

"No," Batman replied. "But since we're already here..."

"Unbelievable." They took out their grapples and continued their way through the district. By now, the winter snow had accumulated just over an inch, so far unmarred by stomping feet and slick tires that it would undoubtedly meet in the morning. The city was softer, kinder, in its blanket of white. It was difficult not to admire the old buildings, glowing soft in the frost.

Batman and Robin came to a high perch and took a breather. Batman checked his utility pocket, where the Chengs' business card sat with a handful of others. Batman turned to Robin. "How're the thermals treating you?"

"Fine," said Robin.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Because you get grumpy when you're too cold."

Robin screwed up his face. "I do not get grumpy."

"Mm."

Robin walked to the edge of their perch, listening to the symphony of the city. A few distant sirens, a few honking cars. Overall? Silence. The snow had fallen consistently since patrol started. Reaching out, Robin let a flake fall to his gloved hand. It held its shape for a few seconds before melting away. "I don't know if I'll ever get used to the snow. It's jarring, sometimes."

Batman joined Robin's side. "I've never had a winter without it. It's comforting, in a way. Something constant."

"Hmph. Summer is constant."

"I suppose." Robin yawned, and Batman took notice. "Think we should call it a night?"

Robin rubbed his domino mask. "M'fine," he mumbled. "I'm just--" He yawned again, widely, and shook his head. "The cold makes me sleepy."

Batman smiled. "Right. Of course it does." He offered Robin his hand. After a moment of hesitation, Robin accepted, and climbed onto Batman's shoulders. As they grappled their way back to the Batmobile, Robin let his head rest against Batman's cowl, his eyes closed beneath his mask.

The Batmobile returned to the Cave less than an hour later. Bruce and Damian slipped out, Damian already changed into a comfortable hoodie over his uniform. "Just because you're not in school right now doesn't mean you don't need your rest," Bruce was lecturing.

"Debatable," Damian yawned. He stopped, and Bruce followed his eyeline. Sitting at the Batcomputer, bent over the console, Jon Kent snored softly into his folded arms. On screen was a blacked out call window, denoting its end time at midnight. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning. 

"He misses his family."

Bruce turned to Damian, whose eyes never left Jon's figure. "He thinks I don't notice. But I do. He likes to be bright and sunny but... it hurts him. Being so far away from home."

Bruce put a hand on Damian's shoulder. "Let's get you both to bed." Damian nodded. Walking to Jon's side, Bruce gently shook him awake. Jon blinked, blurry-eyed.

"Hmwhua?"

Bruce smiled. "You're up way past your bedtime, Mr. Kent." He opened his arms, and Jon fell into them as naturally as if he was Bruce's own son. Bruce hoisted him into his arms, letting Jon snooze against his shoulder. Together, he and Damian escorted Jon up the steps, into the elevator, and straight to his bedroom. Bruce tucked him in, and Jon fell back into a deep sleep. Bruce glanced at Damian, who had crawled onto the foot of Jon's bed and hugged his knees. "You should get some rest, too, Damian."

Damian hesitated. "In a little bit."

"You should at least get your pajamas on."

But Damian shook his head. "Not until I feel it's safe."

With a somber smile, Bruce kissed Damian's head goodnight, and closed the door on his way out. Stepping into his bedroom, Bruce half expected to find Clark in bed, but the windows remained shut, and the bed untouched. With a frown, Bruce pulled out his phone and dialed Clark's number. He unbuckled himself out of his suit as he listened to it ring.

"Mmm yello~!" came Clark's chipper voice. 

Bruce smiled in spite of himself. "You working overtime tonight?"

"Sadly." Wretched, demonic barking came from the other line. "Some kind of super-secret laboratory testing to make hybrid attack animals accidentally let them loose." There was a horrific snarl, and the gnashing of deadly teeth. "Poor little guys are just confused and scared. I'm rounding them up. Hopefully to get them into a safer environment for examination." Suddenly, Clark giggled. "Aw, one's trying to eat my leg."

Bruce sat on the bed, tossing his cowl to one side. "Hey, did you ever get ahold of Constantine?"

"No, sadly. I looked all over Liverpool, London, Metropolis, everywhere. No sign of him."

"You said he left a note?"

"Yeah. 'On Holiday.' I mean I know we all need a vacation but--oop, let's not do that, huh? C'mere big guy. That's a good puppy." The gnashing came closer to the speaker as Clark picked up whatever hellspawn he was facing. "Cuddles fix everything, huh? Yeah, see? You're not so scary. Hey, that's my face." He paused. "Huh. I think their slobber is toxic."

"Fascinating. Listen, maybe we should look again? I know I kind of brushed it off the first time, but..." Bruce glanced at the door and lowered his voice. "Jon's really homesick. We should try to get him back as soon as we can."

Clark hesitated. "Yeah. I know."

Bruce tossed his suit aside, now dressed only in his undersuit. He leaned forward on his elbows, head against his phone. "Well. Don't take long. My sleep schedule has become completely dependant on you now. It's annoying."

"Promise. I'll be there before you know it. Oooh!" Bruce heard the sound of scratching, and just imagined Clark giving some two headed demon dog belly rubs. "Who's a good boy? Who's a good mutated boy? You are! Yes!"

Bruce chuckled. "Love you, babe."

"Love you. See you soon."

Bruce hung up, his smile fading. He stared at the phone in his hands, his brows knit firmly. He knew he shouldn't worry. If there was one person who he could trust could get themselves both in and out of trouble completely, it would be John Constantine. Magic was a funny enough thing to deal with, and masters of it almost always found themselves in undesirable situations. Still, considering they were depending on him to get Jon back to his own world, it seemed strange that he would pick up and leave without a word, let alone for so long. Bruce rested his chin against threaded fingers, deep in thought.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Ting-a-ling-a-ling!

Mr. Cheng lifted his head slightly from the back room, his eyes still pinned on that month's bills. "Welcome!" he called. "I'll be with you in a moment!" It had been a rough morning for him and his wife. The burglar had been stopped and apprehended, and the damage to their shop was minimal, if not completely nonexistent. Frankly, they should consider themselves lucky. But after the long and lengthy interview with the police, he and his wife barely slept. Both agreed to open as usual, considering their rent would be spiking in a month. How they were going to pay it, neither knew. But they'd made it that far, so they'd figure it out.

Taking off his glasses, Mr. Cheng stepped out to the tinkle of the bell above the door as it closed. "Sorry about that. How may I...?" He stopped in his tracks. Standing in the middle of his shop, looking like something out of a catalogue, was none other than billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne. At his side, a tall, strapping gentleman who hunched humbly in a long, gray overcoat. 

"Ah." Bruce smiled charmingly at Mr. Cheng. "Are you the owner?" Mr. Cheng nodded, speechless. Bruce extended his hand, and Mr. Chang shook with stars in his eyes. "Bruce Wayne. Pleasure to meet you. I got recommended your business by a friend of mine. Do you do wedding tuxedos?"

Mr. Cheng gaped, and spun sharp on his heel. "Helen!" he called. Mrs. Cheng appeared from the stairs, half in a panic. Mr. Cheng took his wife's shoulders and walked her forward in an attempt to save face. "Yes, hello! My name is Bo, this is my wife, Helen." Mrs. Cheng looked between them, confused. "Dear, do you remember that... uh... guest we had last night? He said he would recommend us to a friend?"

Mrs. Cheng's eyes widened, and she whipped to Bruce. "Oh! Yes, the lucky groom!" She shook Bruce's hand emphatically. "Welcome, Mr...?"

"Wayne," Bruce said with a smile. "Bruce Wayne. And this is my fiance, Clark Kent."

"Hello." Clark waved with a sheepish smile. "Nice to meet you both."

Mrs. Cheng was utterly speechless, allowing Mr. Cheng to step in. "We are so honored to help you with whatever you need, Mr. Wayne! Congratulations to you both! What styles were you thinking of? What colors?"

Suddenly, Mrs. Cheng gasped. "Tea! I should make us all some tea! Or coffee? Would you like coffee?"

"Coffee would be lovely," said Bruce.

"Have you eaten yet?" Mrs. Cheng asked. "I have sandwiches and--soup! We have that soup from last night! It's wonderful on such a cold day--!"

"Helen, they don't want soup."

"Right! Right, just coffee." She gasped and giggled like a school girl, before turning and hurrying upstairs to start a pot of coffee.

"You'll have to forgive my wife," said Mr. Cheng. "She's never met a celebrity before." He laughed nervously. "To be honest, Mr. Wayne, neither have I."

"Not to worry," said Bruce. "Today, we're just Bruce and Clark, shopping for our wedding."

"And I am happy to help you!" Mr. Cheng clapped his hands together. "So, colors..."

"Lavender," said Bruce. "The wedding is the late spring. Last weekend of May."

"A beautiful time for a wedding! Will we be matching tuxedos?"

"I think so."

"Black or white, primarily? Or lavender?"

"Black."

Clark gravitated towards a double breasted tux with a silk cummberbund. "Bruce, what do you think of this style?" Bruce nodded.

Mr. Cheng smiled awkwardly. "I'll admit our selection probably isn't entirely what you might be used to, Mr. Wayne, but we can do any and all alterations in house. My wife, she's an incredibly talented seamstress."

"I don't doubt it," Bruce smiled. "I like to shop local when I can."

"Still, if there is something you'd prefer us to order, we'd be more than happy to accommodate."

Clark took a tux off the rack and slipped it on. "Oh gosh." He tried moving his arms, but found it far too tight. He took it off before ripping it entirely. "Think you have bigger sizes? I'm a little top heavy."

"Of course, of course!" Mr. Cheng went to the rack and sorted out the wider tops. "You know, we're very thankful to the friend who recommended us to you, Mr. Wayne. We had a... uh... a bit of a scare last night."

"I heard," said Bruce. "The crime rates are always so terrible this time of year. But if the newspapers are right, they caught the burglar."

"Not before giving my Helen the fright of her life," said Mr. Cheng. He handed a large blazer to Clark. "Here. Try this on." As Clark fitted it around his shoulders, Mr. Cheng glanced in Bruce's direction. "Out of curiosity, Mr. Wayne, how is it that you know... er... your friend?"

Bruce never lost his smile. "I don't, really," he said. "But having the kind of high profile I do, I've run into the Batman more than once, you know. Disrupted galas, kidnapping attempts." He laughed. "Really, I'm surprised at this point he hasn't started billing me."

Mr. Cheng also laughed. "I can imagine!"

"Coffee!" Mrs. Cheng fluttered down the stairs, a tray of coffee in her hands. She set up on the counter and handed Bruce his cup. "Cream, sugar?"

"Just black, thanks."

"And for Mr. Kent?"

"A bit of both, thank you."

Mrs. Cheng poured and fixed Clark's coffee before handing it over. "You know," she said, "every time I see something like this, it warms my heart."

"How do you mean?" Clark clarified.

"Well, you," said Mrs. Cheng. "Your engagement. Things were so different when I was a child. It's so good to see us out and proud these days."

Clark tilted his head. "Us?"

Mrs. Cheng giggled again, Mr. Cheng hugging his wife with one arm. "My name wasn't always 'Helen.'" It clicked, and Clark broke into a huge smile.

"We've been married thirty five years, you know," Mr. Cheng said proudly.

"Well, let's hope the two of us are so lucky," said Bruce. "Right, Clark?"

Clark nodded. "Right."

Bruce and Clark stayed in the Cheng's business for hours. Bruce had decided that they would outfit their entire bridal party and all of Bruce's sons. Appointments were made, and Bruce paid them completely in full. Mr. Cheng attempted to give Bruce a discount, but Bruce would not hear of it, and paid full price, while stuffing large bills into their tip jar. Mrs. Cheng was practically in tears by the time they left.

"Thank you so much!" Clark smiled as they left. "And happy holidays!" Mr. and Mrs. Cheng waved them off as both he and Bruce got into the backseat of Alfred's car. Settled in, Clark took a look at their receipt and whistled. "Boy, that's a lot for a few suits."

"It's less than they deserve," said Bruce. 

Clark chuckled and nuzzled into Bruce's side. Bruce met him with a smile, and they shared a kiss. "Hi."

"Hi."

They kissed again as Alfred pulled them into a crowded street. They were thrown into gridlock traffic, which gave them plenty of time to canoodle in their back seat. Clark laughed softly as Bruce wiggled his hand up Clark's shirt and against his stomach. "Cold," he mumbled.

Bruce nibbled at Clark's neck. "Warm them up for me, then." He slithered his way between Clark's legs, and Clark accepted him without hesitation. Their kissing deepened, and Clark ran his fingers through Bruce's hair, ruining the gel.

"I can't believe we're finally planning everything," Clark muttered.

"Mm." Bruce undid a button on Clark's shirt and dove in, layering more and more kisses on his clavicle. "I dunno why everyone said it would be stressful." He worked his way back up to Clark's lips. "I'm having a great time."

Clark squished Bruce's nose with the tip of his finger. "That's because you have money. And you probably just paid that couple's bills all the way till next Christmas." Bruce shrugged, and Clark wrapped him in his arms. "Don't pretend like you didn't do that on purpose."

"I liked their suits," said Bruce.

"Yeah, sure."

Something slapped on the side of their window, and their heads snapped around. Stuck in the middle of downtown traffic, they were at a full stop when their car was suddenly surrounded by people with cameras. The chatter of rapidfire questions bled through the windows, with camera flashes dulled by the tint.

"Jeeze." Clark sat up straight, observing the swarm of paparazzi around them. "Don't these people ever take a break?"

"They're your people," said Bruce, fixing his tie.

"Trust me. No they're not."

Alfred tsked in the driver's seat. "They're blocking the road, Master Bruce."

"Understood. Let me deal with it." Leaning over Clark's lap, Bruce rolled down the window, smiling in the face of the barrage of flashes. "Hi everybody!"

"Mr. Wayne, Mr. Wayne! Over here!"

"Mr. Kent, can you give us a smile!?"

The voices all overlapped, and Bruce laughed like the socialite he pretended to be. "Do you fellas mind stepping back? We don't want to hit anyone? Thank you."

"Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne!"

The moment they were out of the way, Alfred managed to weave through traffic, take a turn, and speed down a side-street. Bruce rolled up Clark's window and slumped back into his seat, dropping his smile entirely.

"I don't know how you do that," said Clark.

"Do what?"

"That. Being able to just smile in the face of..." Clark paused. "Really, it's stalking is what it is."

"It's fine."

"No it's not. It's terrifying." Clark leaned back in his seat, hands in his lap. "It's a good thing we're us, but I can't imagine facing all of that if I was just a regular person. I mean, that's just awful." He paused, and glanced at Bruce, who was taking his time fidgeting with his cufflink. "I know what you're going to say."

"I'm not saying anything."

"I know what you're thinking."

"Oh, Kryptonians read minds now?"

Clark folded his arms. "Go on. Say it. 'I told you so, Clark.'"

"What kind of man do you take me for?" said Bruce, feigning innocence. "You think I'd be so callous as to rub this in your face? For shame." Clark cocked an eyebrow, and Bruce picked at a piece of dirt under his nail. "I did tell you so, though."

"Ugh." Clark rubbed his face. "I was so convinced that people would get bored of it once we came out. Like, big whoop, this rich celebrity is engaged. Why does anyone care?"

Bruce tilted Clark's chin to face him and blessed him with a kiss. "Welcome to public life."

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Bruce knew he should sleep. Really, he had no excuse not to. Clark was clinging to him like a Kryptonian weighted blanket, snoring softly in his ear. But Bruce had been preoccupied for days. He kept thinking back to the disappearance of John Constantine. The more he pondered it, the less sense it made. Maybe he was letting his paranoia get the better of him, but in this case, he really doubted it.

Carefully as he could, Bruce peeled away Clark's heavy arm and snuck out of bed. Dressed in a robe and slippers, he shuffled his way to the Batcave. He could use the computer's advanced facial recognition to scour certain parts of the world. Perhaps go through Constantine's history abroad and check old haunts. Maybe even get in touch with allies and former friends to see if they'd seen him. But right as he stepped off the elevator, Bruce realized the computer was in use.

"...it's just been really hard, dad."

Bruce walked to the railing and looked down. Jon sat in the chair, speaking to his Clark Kent on the screen. It was just as late in that world as it was in this, and the other Clark had clearly been roused out of bed to comfort his son. "I like it here, I do. The dad over here is really nice to me, and so's Uncle Bruce. But I keep waking up thinking I'm going to be in my room. I keep thinking about the Christmas party at school I can't go to. And all my friends I can't see. I can't even talk to them on here because it's too dangerous to tell the truth." Jon sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "And Calcifer is growing up without me. He probably won't even recognize me when I get home." His little voice shrank. "If I get home."

"I know, son," said the other Clark. "We miss you so much, me and your mother. We really do."

Jon sniffled again. "And now... now I'm going to have Christmas without you or mom or anyone from home and I just..." He hiccupped and wiped his face again. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize, Jon. We couldn't be prouder of you. You've handled this so well. You are a smart, strong, capable young man. And when you get home--because you will--we are going to have breakfast for dinner for a whole week. And give you the biggest hug in the world."

Jon looked up. "Promise?"

"I promise. I love you so much, Jonathan."

"I love you too, dad."

"You should go get some rest. We can talk again in the morning. Okay?"

"Okay."

Bruce slid back into the elevator before Jon noticed him and went back up to the first floor of the mansion. All the while, he struggled to stomach the horrible pit in his gut. Bruce had gotten so used to Jon's presence that there were times he forgot that Jon wasn't supposed to be there. Times when he saw Jon and Damian forming a true friendship and thought almost nothing of the life he left behind. But if he were in the other Clark's shoes? If one of his boys was out of his reach, crying to come back home? Bruce didn't know if he could handle heartbreak like that.

Walking into the master bedroom, Bruce sat quietly on the edge of the bed. In some way or another, he felt the weight of guilt on his shoulders. As if it was his fault that Jon Kent was here in the first place, however ridiculous the thought was. And with Constantine AWOL, there was no telling when Jon would be delivered back home. Or hell, even if.

"Bruce...?" Clark's grumbly voice barely pulled Bruce out of his thoughts. Shifting behind him, Clark sat on his knees and hugged Bruce from behind. "Come back to bed."

"In a second."

Clark kissed his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Bruce thought for a moment. The last thing he needed was for Clark to be company to his misery. That's when an idea came to him. "Hey, Clark?" He turned. "Do you think your parents would mind if we spent Christmas at the farm?"

In an instant, Clark went from drowsy to wide awake. "Mind? Are you kidding me?"

"So they'd be okay with it?"

Clark gripped Bruce's shoulders. "Bruce, are you serious? You wanna do Christmas with my parents?"

Bruce was taken aback by Clark's intensity. "Sure? Should I not be?"

Clark's smile split ear to ear. He yanked Bruce into a tight hug, nearly squeezing the life out of him. "Yes! Oh my gosh, yes, we totally can! Christmas at the farm! Like one big family--!" He gasped and broke their hug. "I need to call ma!" He rifled for his phone, and Bruce laughed.

"Clark, it's four in the morning."

"Oh, that's okay. My folks get up early. Ah!" He found his phone and hit his mother's number. It rang a couple of times, Clark balled up like an eager little boy. "Ma! Ma! Yes, I'm fine, everything's fine. Hey, what do you say to me bringing Bruce and the kids to the farm for Christmas?" By the sounds of the squeals on the other side, clearly, Martha Kent was in agreement. Clark beamed. "Okay, we'll come a few days early and--yes, ma. Yes. No, that's... well yeah..." Clark got out of bed and wandered off to the closet. Clearly, he was up for the day. "Oh, do you think? And can you make the potatoes with the...? Yeah! Yeah!"

Bruce watched from the bed. A warm smile crept across his lips. Maybe they couldn't send Jon home quite yet. But in the meantime, Jon Kent was about to have the best family Christmas a kid could ask for.

Chapter Text

There was nothing quite like driving through the snowy flatlands of Kansas, especially with fresh, overnight snow. Bruce had suggested that they take a plane, but Clark insisted on bonding over the drive. Which in reality meant six hours of Clark and Jon singing along to Christmas Carols on the radio. Damian certainly made his annoyance known, but Bruce would occasionally catch him swaying his head in the mirror. As for the rest of Bruce's children, Dick and Kori had taken up the responsibility of both Blüdhaven and Gotham for Christmas, Tim and Kon had left Metropolis to the Titans while they galavanted off planet, and the last text Bruce had sent Jason asking if he'd like to come, Jason had replied with a rude pun about kissing his sugar plums. Safe to say, it wouldn't entirely be a full house for Christmas dinner, but Bruce could live with that.

"There it is!" Jon braced against the frosty window, his nose smudged into the glass. Indeed, just on the powdery horizon, sat Kent Farm, in all its folksy glory. Clark smiled as he drove them down the long stretch of driveway. "Oh wow..." Jon sat back down, pulling at the strings of his baublehat. "Do you think they'll like me? Gee, I never thought I'd ever be able to meet my grandparents. What if they think I'm annoying?"

"I think you're annoying, and I like you just fine," Damian pointed out.

Clark chuckled. "They'll love you, Jon," he said. "And I've already explained everything to them over the phone. So they know exactly who you are." Jon sunk his hat lower over his eyes.

"I'm so nervous," he admitted, curling up into a ball. "Dad always told me how great his parents were. What if...? What if I'm not...?"

Clark parked the car and turned off the engine. Reaching behind him, he laid his hand on Jon's knee. Jon looked up, bashfully. "Trust me," said Clark. "By the time this is over, they won't want to let you go." Jon offered Clark a soft smile, and the four of them got out. The cold wasn't nearly as biting here as it was in Gotham, as if the atmosphere itself was insulated by rustic charm. Clark led the charge to the front door and knocked, Bruce holding a bottle of wine in his arm. Jon stood far back, looking around the porch. Damian took notice.

"Anything different?" Damian asked.

Jon shook his head. "Not a lot. Some plants are different. But... it's home."

The door opened, and Jon heard the babbling of an older woman, blocked by Clark and Bruce. Clark leaned in to give his mother a hug, and then his father, who came up behind her. The same pleasantries were exchanged with Bruce, and then Clark took his mother's hands.

"Ma. Pa. I want you to meet Jon Lane Kent. Your grandson." Bruce and Clark stepped aside, and Jon stood in awe of Martha and Jonathan Kent.

"Oh..." Martha, a woman of short, round stature, had her hair in a messy bun, a hand-sewn apron around her hips. She wore clunky, old fashioned jewelry, with pink slippers over striped, fuzzy socks. Her husband stood taller, more reserved, with an old flannel hanging off of his shoulders. His hair was nearly completely white, with only a few pepper spots on his temples. And as they looked at Jon, their eyes filled with the sort of kindness and love that only grandparents could carry.

"Oh Jonathan, look." Martha's voice was soft and tender. She approached Jon with open arms, and gently cupped Jon's cold cheeks. "He looks just like our Clark when he was that age. Oh do you remember, Jon?"

Jonathan put on a warm smile and put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Welcome home, young man. Clark tells us we have a lot to catch up on. Don't we?"

Overwhelmed with hot tears, Jon reached out, and the Kents knelt down to embrace him tightly. 

Clark and Bruce ushered Damian inside while Martha and Jonathan cooed over their grandson. The Kent farm house, always a source of comfort, had been done up in decorations older than Clark himself. Silver tinsel across counters with chintzy old Christmas figurines. A fresh tree done up in glass baubles and antique ornaments, complete with a hand-made star topper Clark crafted in elementary school. Despite the hour, the fire was already roaring in the corner, and presents mounted beneath the Christmas tree. Even for Bruce, who had only ever had momentary visits to the Kent Farm, the whole place felt like home.

After an hour of pleasantries, Jon wanted to go exploring, with Damian tagging along. With Clark and Bruce staying behind, Jonathan poured them each a cup of his specialty hot cocoa. Clark held it in both hands and took a deep sniff. He sighed deep after a long sip.

"Boy do I miss your hot chocolate, pa," he said. "When are you ever going to give me the recipe?" Bruce could hear a little bit of that hidden midwestern twang start to sneak out.

Jonathan smiled over his own mug. "Maybe it'll be in your stocking," he teased.

Bruce took a drink, and eyed the slightly ajar cupboard in the kitchen. A box of Swiss Miss hid just out of Clark's sight.

"So how's the planning going?" Martha asked, wiping her hands on her dish towel. "Lord knows planning a wedding is nothing to scoff at. Did I ever tell you how me and your father got married?"

Clark grinned. "In the middle of a thunderstorm--"

"In the middle of a thunderstorm! And shoot, I just about thought me and Pa were about to blow away. But we make it to the church and every window is all barred up." She laughed. "I remember all night your father called me 'Dorothy,' on account of us almost getting taken out of Kansas."

"How long have you been married?" Bruce asked.

"Oh goodness, how long has it been now, pa?" Martha asked. "Nearly... well I'd say about fifty three years."

Jonathan nodded. "We found Clark as newlyweds," he explained. "Martha's mother was ecstatic."

"Oh you." Martha flapped her dishtowel at her husband. Jonathan flashed her a smile. The same that Bruce could have sworn Clark wore on a daily basis.

Bruce leaned forward on his elbows, letting the steam from his hot chocolate warm his face. "Any advice you'd like to give us?" he asked. "Considering that you've made it work for over half a century now."

"Oh sure." Jonathan took another swig of cocoa and set the mug aside. "The best bit of advice I ever got when I was a young man, ready to marry the girl of my dreams, in fact."

Clark perked up. "You never told me this story," he said.

"Well I wanted to save it. For a special occasion." He pat Bruce's wrist. "My father, he was a real quiet man. You never met him, Clark, but he was just about the stubbernest fella you ever met. Always worried I would disappoint him growing up. But the day I married your mother, he took me aside. He said, 'Son, what I'm about to tell you has saved my marriage more times than I can count. When things get tough, and the world is lookin' harsh, you just remember that it isn't you against your wife. Never you against your wife. It's you and your wife against the problem.' Cause marriage, you see, marriage is a team effort. Always is. You go in to face a problem together, you come out stronger on the other end." Martha came to his side and hugged him warmly. Jonathan reciprocated with a kiss to her curly head.

Under the table, Clark took Bruce's hand. Bruce squeezed it tight.

Deciding to check on the boys, Clark and Bruce took their hot chocolate to the outside porch. Jon was easy enough to spot by the barn, with Damian not far behind. Clark and Bruce took their seats beside each other. Clark in his favorite old college hoodie and comfortable jeans, Bruce in a sleek, expensive looking black sweater and slacks. They watched as Jon climbed a stack of hay bails, only to jump, spread-eagle, into the powdered embankment below.

Clark chuckled as Jon rolled around in the snow. "Thank you," he said, taking Bruce's hand.

Bruce looked over, a little surprised. "For what?"

"For this. For... giving Jon a little extra love."

"Yeah, well. He needed it." Bruce took another sip of his hot chocolate. Clark smiled at him directly, and Bruce could feel those old butterflies in his stomach return full force. "What?" he chuckled.

"Nothing."

"Come on. What's on your mind, Kal?"

Clark's smile pinched his eyes. Putting aside their mugs, Clark scooted his chair close, and took both of Bruce's hands. "I am so happy we're here," he said. "You, me, the kids... I know it sounds redundant. But... you really have made me the happiest man in the world. And... Gosh, I can't tell you how appreciative I am of everything you do for me. For us. For our families and our boys..." He laughed in spite of himself. "I know. I'm just an old mush, like my mom would say. But I see everything you do. Every sacrifice you make, and every sleepless hour you endure just to be sure the rest of us are taken care of." Clark cupped Bruce's cheek with his warm hand. It felt like a sunspot in the snow. "I love you so much, Bruce. And I can't wait to marry you."

Bruce's eyelashes fluttered. He let his head rest heavy in Clark's hand. "All these years, and I still don't understand how you can say those things like it's nothing."

Clark chuckled. "It's the midwesterner in me. It sits right next to the Snickers salad."

Bruce paled in fear. "What the hell is a Snickers salad?"

Clark bust into laughter.

"Oof!"

Clark and Bruce looked up at the sound of Damian getting pelted in the back of the head with a snowball. Damian spun around as Jon cackled behind the tree with the old tire swing. Damian pointed an accusatory finger. "Traitor!" he proclaimed. He scooped up a loose pile of snow and threw it. It disintegrated mid-flight. Jon laughed harder.

"You gotta compact it!" he said. "Like this!" Jon made a lumpy snowball and chucked it. Damian cried out as it splattered against his chest. "See?"

"Fiend!" Damian scooped up a huge hunk of snow and pat it down hard. "All this time I thought of you as an ally. Only for you to lay siege!?" Damian reared back and let the snowball fly. "Revenge!"

"Wah!" Jon dodged, only to pop up as Damian hurled more and more clumps of snow Jon's way. Jon squealed with delight and returned fire. Soon, there was an all out war between the boys, and snowballs flew like short range missiles. At one point, Jon managed to get Damian on the ropes,backing him up towards the porch. With a perfect snowball in hand, Jon reared back, and threw it with every ounce of strength he could muster. Damian dropped just in time, and the snowball splattered hard against Clark's shovel face.

Jon's eyes widened and Damian's head popped up from the snow. "Oh. Uh. Oops. Sorry, dad!"

Clark shook it off. "No harm done," he said. He opened his mouth to say more, when Bruce stood from his chair. Clark blinked. "Bruce...?" Bruce set his mug to one side and stepped off the porch. Clark watched him, bemused. "Bruce, honey, what are you...?"

Bruce began scooping up snow. Creating a massive ball for himself, he held it at the ready, a wiley smile on his face. "The combatants have fired on innocent bystanders. The rules of engagement have changed." Bruce raised the snowball high over his head. "Prepare for retaliation!"

Damian and Jon screamed together, before turning tail and rushing away through the snow. They only got so far before Bruce hurled the massive snow projectile into both of their backs. It exploded in a puff of powder and ice, sending them both into the bank. Damian was the first to return fire as Bruce tried desperately to gather up ammunition, with Jon not far behind. As Clark watched his family play, he melted into a smile, and sipped his father's hot chocolate.

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"Dinner!" Martha plopped a covered dish in the middle of the table. "I got tuna salad casserole for our main dish, green bean casserole with crunchy onions, mashed potatoes, cranberries, and stuffing!"

Clark took a deep sniff. "It smells great, ma! Here." He passed a tray of dinner rolls around the table. 

"Oh!" Martha scurried off, and came back with a tiny pot of white sauce pasta. "I didn't forget about you, sweet boy." She put a couple of scoops onto Damian's plate. "Fettuccini Alfredo, no meat! Not even tuna."

Damian smiled gratefully. "That's kind of you to remember, Mrs. Kent. Thank you."

Martha sat herself down as the dishes passed from plate to plate. Bruce looked skeptically at his pile of tuna and noodles and tapped it with his fork. Martha tilted her head. "Don't you like tuna casserole, Bruce?"

Bruce smiled awkwardly. "I've never had it before, to be honest." Feeling embarrassed, he scooped it up and took a bite. His lips flattened. "Mm. Mmmm." He swallowed. "Very good. Very... salty."

Clark helped himself to a massive forkful of food. "Well you should at least try the green beans."

"Well at least it's not... what did you call it? A Snickers salad?"

"Oh! I almost forgot!" Martha jumped up from her chair and returned with a glass bowl filled with--if Bruce guessed correctly--an illegal amount of sugar. "I made some just for tonight!" She set it in the middle of the table. Bruce's jaw went slack.

"That's... a salad?"

"Of course it is!" said Martha. "Cool Whip, apples and Snickers bars. It's a classic."

"You've never had it?" Jon asked, helping himself to a scoop. "It's only the best thing ever."

Both Bruce and Damian exchanged glances. After a moment of thought, Damian helped himself to a spoonful. "We should respect their culture, father."

Bruce smiled half-heartedly. "I suppose so." He took a bite and puckered. "Wow that's sweet."

Clark pat Bruce's knee. "You don't have to eat it if you don't want to," he said.

"No, no." Bruce held up his hand and took another bite. "I think it's... starting to grow on me. Or grow in me."

Dinner went smoothly after that. Jon was given the floor to ask all the questions he wanted. Martha and Jonathan remained as patient and good-natured as ever, answering every one with as much detail as they could. When Jon wasn't hogging up the air, Martha yammered on and on about all the things Clark was missing out on the farm. She updated Damian on how the animals have been since he last visited. While the alpacas had been rehomed, there was a great big cow that Damian was welcome to visit after supper. And of course, more wedding talk--details, flowers, outfits, etcetera.

When the meal concluded, Clark took the initiative to clean the table, and Martha went to the stockings that hung over the fireplace. "Alright!" She started handing them out. "Night before Christmas! Time to see what y'all got in your socks. Here, Pa, that one's for you."

"Wait." Damian frowned. "You open your stockings before morning?"

"It's a Kent tradition," said Clark, taking his from Martha. He held it up. It was a shoddy felt stocking, glued together with green and gold glitter. Clark's name was haphazardly spelled on the front with a backwards R. "Sometimes there will be books or little games you can play before you go to bed."

Martha turned to Bruce as she handed Jon his stocking (she had of course made one for both boys in preparation). "Were things different for you growing up, Bruce?"

Bruce smiled softly. "Christmas wasn't much of a big deal when I was young," he said. "Mostly it meant a lot of charity work. My mom was Jewish, and my dad was atheist, so at most we'd have a dinner. But often times, we spent Christmas in soup kitchens, helping where we could."

Jonathan's eyes sparkled. "Why that's very kind of your family," he said. "Your parents must have been good people."

Bruce nodded. "The best. Father was a surgeon, and mother ran a lot of charities throughout Gotham. After they died..." Bruce's words slowed, but he pushed forward. "I didn't really feel like celebrating for a while. Until I started getting my boys. Once Dick was in the house, I found the will to start putting up decorations. Soon, we made our own celebrations. And, I hope, plenty of good memories."

Martha returned from the fireplace with one last stocking. "Well. I do hope that you don't mind if we include you in a few of ours." She rested a stocking in his hand. It was a lovely, navy blue, clearly sewn together by hand, with a black trim of fake fur, bedazzled with clear jewels. "Clark said black was your color. Seemed a bit too sad, so I took a few liberties."

Bruce ran his thumb up and down the front. His name, drawn expertly in white paint-pen, had barely just dried. Setting it on the table, Bruce stood and embraced Martha in a warm, tight hug. Martha laughed, and pat Bruce's back. When he sat back down, Clark handed him a napkin to dry his eyes before the rest of the table noticed.

For the boys, they had each received a wooden animal, hand carved by Jonathan Kent. Jon received a dog, Damian, a horse. They also had a handful of chocolates each, mini candy canes, and two small notebooks. For Jon, a lined journal and ballpoint pen. For Damian, a sketch book, rubber eraser and soft graphite pencil. Clark and Bruce received the standard allotment of chocolates and candy canes, along with sour lemon candies for Clark and a bag of homemade fudge for Bruce. Each of them received a small orange as well; another Kent tradition.

After stockings, Jon and Damian were tucked into the spare room, a rickety old cot for each of them. They were bundled in quilts and blankets, and were out by the time the lights went off. Bruce and Clark also retired early, taking the second spare bedroom with a single mattress. The air was chilly, but seeing as that Clark was a walking radiator, Bruce found a comfortable spot on Clark's chest and melted. They watched the snowflakes dance through the dark window.

"Your parents are amazing," said Bruce.

Clark chuckled. "They're pretty great." He rubbed his hand up and down Bruce's shoulder. "And they're so thrilled you decided to visit."

Bruce nodded. They laid in silence, listening to each other's heartbeat. Neither were tired, but neither felt much like talking. At one point, Clark's fingers found Bruce's, and they laced them together. The shadows across their bed painted the world in soft silvers and blue blacks. Eventually, Clark heard the old clock chime twelve, and he brightened.

"Ah! I guess it's Christmas."

"Is it?"

"Midnight."

Bruce kissed him fondly. "Merry Christmas, Clark." Rather than wishing it back, Clark dug down into the bag on the floor beside the bed. Bruce looked up. "Clark?"

Clark returned to the pillows. In his hands, a small, velvet box that made Bruce's heart jump to his throat. "Here. I thought about waiting until tomorrow but... well. It's tomorrow." He opened the box, and Bruce gasped softly. A gorgeous, asymmetrical ring of deep black and gunmetal gray shined in the snowy light of their window. It was thin, with a subtle stone of black diamond perched between two curling ends of the band. "I found a meteorite a while ago and melted it,"  Clark explained. "Crushed a bit of coal until I got a diamond I liked. And then worked it all together until I decided it would match your father's wedding band." Taking Bruce's hand, he slid it over his left finger. It fit like a glove. "There. Now we match." He let his own engagement ring twinkle.

Bruce didn't know what to say. Holding such a beautiful ring to the light, he admired every facet, every beautiful cut of his precious gift. Turning, he took Clark firmly in his arms, and kissed him. No words could describe Bruce's joy, and so, he hoped that Clark could hear everything in his soul with just a kiss. He was almost sure Clark could.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Riiiing. Riiiiing. Riiiing.

"Hey hey, this is Dick. You know what to do." Beeeeep.

"Hey, Dick. It's Bruce. Just calling to wish you a Merry Christmas. You and Kori both." Bruce glanced over his shoulder. With the soft sunlight streaming in, Jon and Damian were highlighted as they sat in the results of their carnage. Their carnage being endless piles of wrapping paper while they lorded over their Christmas gifts. Damian was already deep in his 1850's antique farmer's almanac, while Jon and Clark were busy putting batteries into Jon's new remote helicopter. Jonathan and Martha, sitting on the couch, smiled over their coffee in matching mugs. Bruce turned away to finish his message.

"Anyway, just uh. You know. I tried calling everyone else, but Jason's probably still sleeping in, and I don't think there's great cell service in space. So I hope you're having a good one." Bruce paused. "I love you, kid. I'll see you soon. Okay? Bye." Bruce hung up the phone and took his seat.

"Clark," Jonathan was saying. "Clark you gotta use the phillip's head."

"Pa, I know what screwdriver to use," said Clark. "It's a flathead or something."

"No, no, now, you're gonna break it there."

"I'm not gonna break it."

"Dad, here, look it goes--"

"Yeah, I see it, Jon."

Martha leaned over to Bruce and handed him a coffee. "No luck?"

"Afraid not," Bruce smiled. "My kids, you know. They're all grown up. Well, except for that one." He nodded to Damian, who was now taking detailed notes in one hand, the almanac in the other. "Actually, maybe they're all grown up."

"Ha!" Clark held up Jon's helicopter in success, the lights blinking as Jon fired up the remote. "Alrighty, Jon! Give her a whirl!"

"Oh Clark!" Martha protested. "Not in the house."

Jon pushed on the buttons, and up the helicopter rose, buzzing as it hovered above their heads. They laughed and cheered, until the helicopter went sideways, and crashed into Jonathan's ficus. "Oops."

"Ah, that's okay, bud." Clark picked it out of the dirt and dusted it off. "See? No harm."

The doorbell rang. Martha lifted her head. "Now who is that on Christmas morning?" She turned to Jonathan. "Why don't you go see, pa?" Jonathan grunted as he pushed himself to stand and trundled his way to the front door. Martha shook her head. "I swear," she told Bruce, "that man has more old friends coming around these days than he knows what to do with. I bet you anything it's that Harold Shaw from down the road. Boy, Harry don't got nothing else to do but bug Jonathan for advice..."

Voices came from the front door, and Bruce heard a familiar tenor. "I'll go check on him." Standing, he walked down the hall to the front door, where Jonathan greeted their new guests on the porch. As he approached, his eyes widened, as five familiar faces smiled at him through the door.

"Merry Christmas, B!" Dick threw his arms around Bruce and smacked his back. "I was just introducing Kori to Mr. Kent."

"Hello, Bruce." Kori, giant purple muffs on her ears, held up a present in two mittened hands. "Dick tells me it's an Earth tradition to bring wrapped gifts to celebrate giving birth in barns."

"Close enough," said Dick.

"Move over, will ya?" Jason grumbled, pushing past his brothers. "I'm freezin' my balls of holly off." He shoved a bright paper bag into Bruce's hands. "Here," he said, his eyes averted. "I gotchya something. Or whatever."

"Don't mind Jay," said Tim. "He's been grouchy the whole car ride. And it's bells of holly."

Conner sniffed the air, his and Tim's combined gift under his arm. "Mmmm. I smell coffee cake!" He turned to Jonathan and split into a smile. "Long time no see, gramps!"

"Jonathan?" 

Martha joined them at the entryway. Seeing all these new faces at her door, she gasped with delight. "Well! I'll have to make more eggs! And coffee. Oh come on in, everyone, come on in. Shoes off, thank you. Don't need to be trackin' no mud." Spotting Jason, Martha squeezed his cheeks together. "And there's my sour little grandbaby! Have you boys made up?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jason and Dick replied in unison.

"Good boys." Martha paused, noticing Kori for the first time. She gawped. "And who is this?"

"Ah, Mrs. Kent?" Dick stepped forward to present Kori. "This is Koriand'r of Tameran. She's my girlfriend."

"Greetings, and pleased to meet you. I have heard many wonderful things from Dick."

Martha lit up like lights. "Oooh! Look at you! Why sakes alive, but aren't you the prettiest thing I ever did see? Come in, out of the cold. Shut that door now! Everybody inside!" Martha took Kori's hand, leading her to the kitchen. "Come on, dear. You know, our boy came from space, too."

"I have heard," Kori smiled.

Bruce watched as his family funneled in as the chaotic mess they always were. It was strange. Bruce had his holiday traditions--family photos and dinners and all that. But standing there, in a humble little house full of laughter and love, Bruce Wayne felt as though something hollow that had always been carved away in his chest had filled entirely. 

"Bruce?" Clark approached him, and laid a hand on his lower back. "Did you know they were coming?" Bruce shook his head, and Clark laughed. "Good thing ma likes feeding people then, huh?" He paused, noticing Bruce's face. "Everything okay? You look..."

Bruce leaned in, laying a kiss on the corner of Clark's mouth. "Yes," he said, his eyes wet from joy. "Everything is... wonderful."

Chapter Text

It was more than a little difficult to do one's shopping while cameras followed your every move. Bruce had of course suggested they do all their ordering by phone or have Alfred make arrangements, but Clark had insisted they do their wedding consultations together, and in person. Frankly, Clark still felt a little guilty every time Alfred so much as fetched him a towel. Unfortunately, being seen out in public together meant that they needed to brave the press at every turn. Fortunately, they were at their last stop; the florist.

"Ah, Mr. Wayne! Welcome, we've been expecting you." The florest, a Mrs. Riley, was a widower of middle-age, who spent her husband's life insurance to open up her corner storefront in Gotham's shopping district. Unbeknownst to her, ever since she allowed Batman to use her flower cutting room to bandage himself up after a particularly gnarly fight five years ago, the Wayne family had inexplicably begun to use Mrs. Riley's services whenever they needed flowers. As she approached them, she eyed the snapping cameras in the front windows and tsked. "I swear. Some people just don't have manners." She yanked down the blinds, eliciting a groan from the paparazzi outside. She turned to her customers with a winning smile. "So! I suppose congratulations are in order?"

Bruce smiled, his hand on the small of Clark's back. "They are indeed. Clark, this is Mrs. Riley. Mrs. Riley, this is the poor soul who agreed to marry me."

Clark laughed as he shook Mrs. Riley's hand. "Trust me, I consider myself very lucky," he assured her.

"And you remember my son, Dick." Bruce gestured to his left, where Dick was admiring a pot of exotic irises. Dick flashed Mrs. Riley a smile and a wave.

"Of course I remember!" said Mrs. Riley. "I have your Valentine's Day order at the top of my list, Mr. Grayson."

Dick grinned. "Awesome, thank you. Kori loves your arrangements."

"Speaking of, let's get to work." Mrs. Riley approached a counter flush with purple blooms. "You said lavender was your colors, correct? I assume we're not doing a bouquet?"

"No," said Bruce. "But we'll need corsages. And plenty of flowers to decorate."

"Oh yes, yes, of course. I changed whole-sellers recently, so I'll put you in touch with my new people."

"Appreciate it, thank you Shirley."

While Bruce and Mrs. Riley gabbed by the counter, Clark glanced at the drawn blinds. Even without his x-ray vision, he could tell that the whole hoard of reporters were laying in wait, ready for them to come outside for even more shots. Clark wanted to yank open the door and tell them all to find a hobby, but knew it would only make the whole thing worse. With a sigh, Clark sat at a stool and gently toyed with a sprig of decorative grass. Dick walked to his side.

"Everything okay, big guy?" he asked.

Clark flashed Dick a smile. "Yeah, sorry. All those cameras just have me spooked."

Dick chuckled. "You literally signed up for this, you know."

"I know, I know..." Clark shook his head. "How do you even deal with this?"

"You adapt. And eventually, they get bored."

"Yeah, still waiting on that." He leaned on his knees, wringing his hands. "I don't know. I think... I think I'm just paranoid."

"What do you mean?"

"Well..." He glanced at Mrs. Riley, who was properly distracted by Bruce. "What if I slip up? I'm not used to this level of scrutiny as Clark Kent. What if I say something or do something that gives away... who I am?"

"Ah. Yeah, that is stressful. I get you."

"Right?"

"Mm." Dick leaned against the wall, arms folded. "I could lend a hand."

"Huh?"

"Gimme your coat." Clark did as was asked. "Okay, glasses next."

"What are you--?"

"Just gimme." Clark handed off his glasses, and Dick threw them both on. Only to realize that the massive winter coat on his slender frame made him look like a tween trying on his dad's jackets. "Jesus, Clark. How big are you?"

Clark chuckled. "Sorry."

Dick looked around. He pointed. "There, that stuff."

Clark picked up a green, styrofoam block. "Floral foam?"

"Yeah. Stuff it in here." He gestured under his shoulder pads. Clark did as he was told, molding the foam to fill out the top of the coat. Dick held out his hands. "Ta-da! Mild mannered Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent, at your service!"

Clark snorted in laughter. "Dick, this isn't going to work."

"Just have a little faith, huh?"

"Dick?" Bruce looked over his shoulder. "What in the world...?"

Dick grinned. "You almost done, B?"

"Just about... Why are you wearing Clark's glasses?"

"Don't worry about it. Just finish up what you're doing. And then when you're done, head out through the back door."

"The back...?" Bruce glanced at the drawn windows and smiled. "Ah. Sure. Clark?" Clark approached. "What do you think of this? We could hang them off the bannisters." After a few opinions and a final decision, their flower order was in. Bruce paid in cash, and then he and Clark made their way to the back door. They watched Dick, Clark's coat collar high, dashed through the front door, and listened to the chaos that followed him. With a grin, Bruce took Clark's hand, and they made their own escape. As the alley was narrow with plenty of hanging balconies, there were too many obstacles to bang into on the way up. So, rather than fly, Clark and Bruce jogged their way around the corner and nestled in the shadows.

Clark giggled into Bruce's neck. "I guess that's one way to shake a tail," he said. "You think Dick's going to be okay?"

"Positive," said Bruce. "This is probably the highlight of his afternoon." They exchanged smiles, and, feeling bold, Clark dove in for a kiss, which Bruce returned in earnest. Barely hidden by a curtain of red brick, there was excitement between their kisses. A kind of silly, naughty feeling that they were getting away with something. Pressing Clark up against the wall, Bruce hooked his legs up and over his waist, causing Clark to gasp between moistened lips.

"Mr. Wayne!" he breathed. "You're being indecent."

"Good thing there aren't any cameras around," Bruce cooed. He pressed their groins together, taking distinct pleasure in the way Clark's eyelashes fluttered. Bruce nuzzled their noses. "Wish you didn't give your glasses away."

"Why?"

"I like seeing you fog them up."

A thrill ran up the back of Clark's neck. "Bruce--!"

Bruce laughed against him, and they fell into another storm of kisses. Clark ran his fingers through Bruce's hair, while Bruce cupped Clark's perfectly plump ass cheeks to keep him upright. Their hot breath streamed vivid white against the cold air. Eventually, Clark's feet hit the ground, but only to allow Bruce better access. With his black coat acting as a shell, Bruce undid the button of Clark's jeans and wiggled his fingers inside.

Clark yelped a Bruce's cold touch. He shivered. "This is so... perverted."

"What?" Bruce kissed Clark's hot neck. "Nobody's here."

"B-but we're in public! Any one of those paparazzi could come back and--!"

Bruce silenced him with a sensual kiss. When they broke apart, Clark's eyes had glazed over. "You want me to stop?" His hand dove further down, and Clark whimpered as Bruce fondled him inside his underwear. Clark shook his head, and Bruce kissed just under his ear. "Words, baby."

"No," Clark mumbled.

"No...?"

"No... I... don't want you to stop."

Bruce tenderly bit Clark's lower lip. "Good boy."

With their pants unbuckled and their underwear pushed aside, Bruce took both he and Clark in one hand and stroked them together. Clark sighed against Bruce's ear, arching his back slightly off the wall. Their kisses deepened. Tongues lapped between them, and as Clark's erection grew, his hands tightened on the back of Bruce's coat. If he wasn't careful, he would rip the whole thing to shreds.

A door opened, and Clark and Bruce's heads snapped up. Just around the corner, a local restaurant's line cook dragged a sopping wet bag of trash to the dumpster. Clark bit his lower lip, Bruce smiling into his neck. His hand didn't remove itself from their pants. In fact, as they listened to the cook light up a cigarette, Bruce started stroking.

"Bru--!" Clark's voice was barely a whisper, Bruce's name choking on the way out. Clark covered his mouth with one hand, eyes pleading as Bruce continued to fondle them together. Clark's cheeks burned bright. Bruce removed Clark's hand, slithering his tongue between his parted lips. Clark submitted to being captured, melting into Bruce's arms like putty. That was, until Bruce's foot accidentally kicked a trash can.

"Eh?" The line cook looked up from his cigarette and peered down the alley. "Frankie? That you?"

Bruce snickered playfully at Clark's panic. "This isn't funny!" he whispered. Bruce stifled his laughter.

"Hello?" The sound of the line cook grew closer. Clark could smell the waft of his cigarette.

"Maybe we should get caught," Bruce purred. "Think of the headlines..."

"Bruce, you--! Horrible--!"

"Mmm."

"Alright, who the hell's back there? I swear to God, if you're trying to dig through our dumpster--" The line cook rounded the corner, only to find the alleyway completely empty. He scratched his head, and with a shrug, went back to finish his cigarette. Bruce and Clark watched him from the roof of the five story building.

Bruce broke into more laughter, prompting Clark to scowl in response. "You are worse than a teenager."

Bruce guffawed. "Oh lighten up, Clark."

"Boy that is rich coming from you."

Bruce licked his lips and hugged Clark around his waist. "Anyway. Where were we...?" He went in for a kiss, but stopped when Clark snubbed his nose at it. "Come on, don't be salty."

"That was completely irresponsible."

"We didn't get caught, did we?"

"Hmph." Clark stepped back and hovered an inch off the ground. He folded his arms and pursed his lips. "Maybe I should just fly home alone if you're going to behave like this."

Bruce smiled crookedly, hands on his hips. "You're not really mad."

"I am."

"You absolutely are not. I've seen you mad."

"Hmph!" Clark rose higher off the roof.

With a dramatic sigh, Bruce tugged at Clark's leg, pulling him down until they were eye to eye. "Sorry," Bruce smiled. "I got a little carried away."

Clark loosened up and straightened Bruce's lapels. "Well. I guess I'm not exactly blameless either."

Bruce smiled wider. "Easy there, boy scout. You might tarnish your golden reputation."

Clark quickly lost his sour puss, replacing it with a playful grin. "You're just a bad influence on me."

"Ooh. What a crime."

"Hey!"

They both peered over the edge of the roof. Dick stared up at them, his arms crossed and his foot tapping expectantly. "You two done up there? I'm freezing my ass off. Let's go." With an apologetic chuckle, Clark flew Bruce down to ground level, and the three of them left the alley, Alfred's car waiting for them straight ahead.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

The clock chimed 4AM. Bruce knew that they should call it a night. It hadn't been an easy patrol, and there was still plenty to do in the morning. But Tim hadn't shown signs of slowing down, and Bruce frankly didn't feel tired, himself.

"Here's something." Tim spread open a book and laid it in the center of the table. The breakfast nook of the southern kitchen was now overrun with newspapers, article printouts, encyclopedias, a few tablets, and plenty of highlighters and pens. "Wormholes. We could try and induce an artificial worm hole on both our side and Jon's side and connect the two."

Bruce frowned. "Aren't wormholes only for continuous time-space? Interdimensional travel doesn't apply, does it?"

"Hm. I mean maybe." Tim made a few notes in his personal notebook. "We could alter a few variables. Maybe try and match the ionic signatures so that they naturally come together?"

"That may not work at all."

"We could try."

"Yes, but trying and failing to create a wormhole could end up eating away half of the mansion."

"Ugh. I guess you're right." Tim flopped back in his seat and scratched his chin. Sparse whiskers had started to grow along his jaw, which frankly had the power to throw Bruce into an existential spiral if he stared too long. 

"What about Kon?"

"What about him?"

Bruce leaned on his elbows. "He had the ability for a while to fix rips in reality. Is that still something he can do? We might be able to work with that."

Tim shook his head. "That was Brainiac's influence. After the AI went offline, and the siphons weren't ripping holes in space, Conner lost the ability to close them. And besides, he only had the power to work within one dimension." Tim watched Bruce grumble and slump in his seat. He took a swig of his (now cold) black coffee. Tim thought for a moment. "If we could just find Constantine..."

"Yeah, no luck on that front," said Bruce. "He's made it a nasty habit of pulling a vanishing act over the years. I only wish he'd had the decency to tell us where he was off to this time around."

Tim rubbed his tired eyes. "Bruce. Have you considered...?"

"No."

Bruce's tone was final, but even so, Tim pushed. "I know he wants to go home," he said, "but we may have to face the reality that Jon might not be able to go back. At least not for a very long time."

"We can figure this out, Tim. We have to."

"But is it really so bad that he's here?" Bruce shifted his eyes, and Tim continued. "He and Damian are really bonding. Maybe it won't be so bad if--"

"Tim. Stop." Bruce faced him directly. "Jon Kent needs to go back to his own world."

"Why?"

"Because he's a scared little boy who misses his parents, that's why."

Tim slumped. Head in one hand, he looked over their hours of endless research. "You know that when he does go back..."

"I know."

"Ugh. Man." Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. "This sucks so hard. Damian's heart is going to break the day we send Jon away. You realize this."

"Of course I do." Bruce picked up an article on atom fusion and skimmed it for anything useful. "But try and imagine if it was Damian on the other side. Or Jason, or Dick, or you. I can't stomach it. His mother and father are worried sick. We owe it to all of them to try and get Jon home as fast as possible. And to not rest until that happens."

"Yeah..." Tim pushed his chair back. "More coffee?"

"Sure."

As the coffee machine percolated, Tim and Bruce's voice faded to the background. Due in part to the fact that Damian had stopped listening. Crouched in a darkened corner behind the door, he had been paying complete attention to his father's research. Partly because he wanted to tell Jon some kind of good news. And partly because he hoped that there wouldn't be any good news to report.

Fatigued, Damian silently removed himself from the hall and headed back upstairs to the bedrooms. He knew he shouldn't be selfish. Jon Kent didn't belong here, in this world. He belonged at his own farm, with his own Clark, living his own life. But even so, the thought made Damian's chest tighten. He made his way to his bedroom, when he noticed that Jon's door was cracked. Quietly, he approached, and looked inside.

Jon had curled to his right, back to the door. The covers had been kicked off in the middle of the night, making Jon shiver in his pajamas. Damian carefully pulled the blanket over Jon's shoulders, but the movement was enough to wake him up, even for a moment.

"Dami...?" He peered at Damian through the darkness and yawned. "Whasswrong...?"

Damian hesitated. "Nothing," he said.

"You look sad."

Damian's lips parted. The remark lingered for longer than it should have. "I am sad," he confessed.

Jon frowned. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It's not your fault."

Jon yawned again and scooted a few inches to one side, even though the bed was big enough to swallow him whole. "Here." Jon nuzzled into his pillows, his heavy lids sinking. "Sleepover..."

A little sunspot melted the ice in Damian's heart. Without a word of protest, Damian shimmied into Jon's bed, curled up beside his friend, and drifted to sleep.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

"You haven't touched your dinner, Talia."

Talia's eyes drifted from her dish of lamb kabsa, and met her father's across the table. There had been an air between them for days, thick enough to swim to. Despite the winter months, 'Eth Althe'ban remained a pocket of desert heat, insulated from the freezing nights of the outer wilds. Now that she had returned and atoned for her transgressions, she had been allowed clothing more fit for a woman of her stature. Jade silks and golden jewelry, clanking as she plucked her wine glass up for yet another sip.

"My appetite has not returned," Talia said.

Ra's al Ghul took a wrapped kabeba from his plate and helped himself to a bite. "You need your strength," he replied. "Reviving from the Lazarus Pit drains one of their energy for days on end. And I expect no excuse of fatigue to avoid your assignment going forward."

Talia's jaw set. She placed her goblet back on the table. Though the dining hall was crowned by tall, open windows, there was no breeze. A drawback to living underground. Talia had felt suffocated since she returned. Perhaps she simply wasn't used to it anymore. "And what is my assignment, father?"

"Later, my child. For now, eat."

Talia took her spoon and forced herself a scoop of lamb. Despite how excellently it was seasoned, it felt like ash in her mouth. "May I assume it has to do with retrieving Damian from his father?"

"You may."

Talia looked up. "Why?"

Ra's leaned back in his seat, his hands folded. "Why?" he repeated.

"Why bother, father? It's clear that Damian does not want to return. You are an immortal. A god among men. What difference does it make if the boy is here or not? Even if I can return him to you, he will be resistant."

Ra's narrowed his eyes. "A very logical argument," he conceded. "And an untruthful one."

Talia straightened in her seat. She averted her eyes, but spoke plainly. "He is happy, father. Your... my son is happy. Happy with his father, his brothers. Why must we destroy that? For what purpose? There is a legion of men ready and willing to take his place--"

"A legion, none of whom could even begin to be worthy to take my grandson's place."

"He is a child," Talia finally argued. Her head snapped up, and she tightened her hands in her lap. "He is... my child. Bruce's child."

Ra's took a long, drawn out drink of his wine goblet and set it back to the table. "That man has made you soft," he said. "I always knew that motherhood would weaken you. I did not expect it to weaken you this severely."

"Father--"

"No." Ra's al Ghul stood from his seat. His voice carried, despite remaining calm. "I will hear not another word against this. Unless you would rather join our guest in the dungeons until your tongue is curbed?"

Any bravado she'd managed to conjure up evaporated immediately. She crumpled into her chair and lowered her head in submission. "No, father," she said. "I apologize. The... My return from the Pit still affects me."

Ra's took a moment to think. Stepping around the table, he approached, and laid his hand on Talia's hair. "Oh, my daughter," he sighed. "It has always been your nature to reach above your station. In a way, I cannot fault you for it. Know only that this is for the best. Damian does not belong in Gotham. He belongs here. With his family." His final words hung in the air, making it all the thicker.

"My lord." A servant appeared at the door and bowed deeply. Ra's turned from Talia, permitting the man to speak. "The warlock is ready."

"Good," said Ra's. "Talia. Join me." He extended his hand for Talia to take. Together, they walked their way down the steps to a deep, subterranean chamber.

Windowless, it was a damp, darkened hole beneath the palace, not unlike the royal dungeons. The ceiling barely hung an inch over Ra's al Ghul's head, and vapors dripped incessantly from above. In the center of the room lay a sandstone slab, painted over with fresh, white glyphs. Constantine, his sleeves rolled up, had finished placing the last of his dried herbs in the center of the slab. He glared at Ra's as he entered. 

"Right. Everything's ready. Can't promise it'll work. But I guess we'll see, won't we?" Constantine tossed his used paintbrush to one side. Talia could see the deep, dark bags beneath his steel blue eyes. "So? Where's our piggy?"

A man appeared at Ra's al Ghul's shoulder. Talia recognized him; it was the same large servant who partly oversaw Constantine's torture. Stepping before Ra's, he fell to one knee and bowed his head in obedience. Ra's muttered what sounded like a prayer into the man's ear. Releasing him, the servant approached the slab and laid down, facing the ceiling.

"What's he doing?" Talia asked in a hushed voice. "Father, what--?"

"Be still, Talia."

Constantine walked around his sacrificial lamb with the air of a cornered wolf, forced to feed on undesirable prey. "Now if this don't work, old son, I don't need the finger pointed at me, eh?"

"If it does not work, we will simply try again," said Ra's.

Constantine scoffed. "This isn't pulling a bloody rabbit out of a hat, wank. This is deep magic. Very few can manage it."

"That is why I sought out the best magician in the world," said Ra's simply. "But as I said. If this does not work, there are plenty of men who will willingly participate."

Constantine's nose crinkled in genuine disgust. "You're lucky you key'd me when you did, mate. Otherwise I'd wring your bloody neck till you stopped wrigglin'."

"You're stalling, Mr. Constantine." Ra's gestured at his servant. "Begin. Now."

With a deep breath through his nose, Constantine removed his shirt all together and stood at the head of the sacrificial slab. His hands lay flat on the stone, either side of the man's head. He met the servant's eyes. His next words were in Arabic. "What is your name?"

"His name does not matter," Ra's repeated in his mother tongue. "I told you to begin. Begin."

"Yeah, alright. Bloody fuck." Constantine closed his eyes, his head tilted low. "Potestates ultra velum. Audite me." A soft bellow of wind swirled at their feet, created from nothing. "Cutis torquetur. Ossa reformantur. Sanguis alterius formae per te fluit." The man on the slab seized, as though he'd been electrocuted. He grit his teeth, his eyes squeezed tight in pain. "Per potestates velaminis. Pone manum tuam super hunc mortalem. Forma eum ut lutum. Et fiat instrumentum extremum!"

CR-RACK--!

The man's fingers snapped into different directions. His left leg below the knee swung dramatically to one side. His neck snapped back, with sharp collar bones nearly piercing his skin. His right arm spasmed, and twisted all the way up, snapping into an unnatural, sharp angle. Beneath his bare chest, rib bones slid back and forth, rearranging themselves into a new formation. When he screamed, it was like no agony Talia had ever heard. His eyes, rolled far into the back of his head, bulged so severely they threatened to pop from his fracturing skull. His jaw unhinged, and teeth twisted and squished into a new position. Light began to emanate from his veins, glowing brighter until it poured from every possible inch from his skin. The wind rushed harsher now, and Constantine steepled his fingers over the man's writhing face. He took a deep, steadying breath, and from his lips came a name. One singular name that pulled everything into sharp focus.

"Bruce Wayne."

The light from the man's body blanched the entire room in a piercing white. His screams pierced the emptiness like a knife through glass. Everything was wrong. The world tilted, ringing violently with the servant's pain. The noise was so much, so much, that with no choice, Talia eventually grabbed her ears with both hands to block out the noise.

And then it was over.

The room fell silent. The light faded. Constantine, sweaty and panting, leaned up against the wall, lest he collapse entirely. His trembling gaze cast over the man on the slab. Talia followed his eyes. The servant, still in his uniform trousers, had curled up into a fetal ball on the slab, gripping his massive shoulders. Ra's, who was the only one who did not flinch, approached their experiment. As he came nearer, a horrifying smile curled along his lips.

"Yes... perfect. You have done well, Mr. Constantine." Ra's stood back, and gestured wide. "Rise... Mr. Wayne."

Slowly, the man sat. Talia's heart dropped like a stone. Sitting before her was Bruce Thomas Wayne. Every curve, every muscle, every scar was as accurate as if it was a photograph. Ra's smiled at his daughter's look of horror, and cupped the false Bruce's chin with one hand to show him off.

"A Dopplegänger," he explained. "One of the rarest and most difficult spells to perform. And Mr. Constantine performed beautifully. Didn't he, my child? Come. Is there any flaw in his design? Any detail he might have missed?"

Talia's lips parted, her face drained of its color. "No... no, this... Father, this is--!" Her words stopped as Constantine collapsed to his knees and vomited. His whole body shook incessantly, and even knowing the torture he had gone through, Talia realized that he was far more underweight than he had been ten minutes ago. Out of instinct, she ran to Constantine's side and knelt down, helping him before he fell face first into his own mess. Talia turned to Ra's. "This--this is heinous. It's obscene!"

"It is all for the greater good," said Ra's plainly. He let the Doppelgänger's chin go, and he slumped to one side, the energy drained completely out of him. "And your job, my dearest Talia, is to teach our insurgent everything he must know about Mr. Wayne. The replacement must be seamless, do you understand?"

Talia shook her head. "No."

Ra's al Ghul's eyes sharpened. "What?"

"No!" Talia stood, defiant, and with a fire in her breast she hadn't felt in years. "I will not be accomplice to this--this--! I have obeyed you my whole life, father. I have betrayed people who loved me, people who trusted me, all for you. I have furthered your dreams of conquest, even against my own will! But this! I will not help you replace my son's father with this ghoul! And no longer will I stand by and let you destroy the life of my child for the sake of your wanton greed! To what end does this... this thing exist now? Because you cannot stand to lose? Because your forsaken pride will not allow you even one failure? Damian is happy! Bruce--Bruce is happy! As his family, as his blood, isn't that what we should want for him?! Can you not, for once, simply be content with that!? Can you not stomach the thought that someone in your accursed bloodline has found peace?!" 

"Silence!" Ra's demanded. "I was a fool to think you would understand. Your attachment to my grandson has blinded you to the reality of the purpose Damian serves. The boy will come back to us. And he shall take the place that you, oh precious daughter, would never be able to fill."

"RRAAGH!"

With a scream of rage, Talia launched full force at Ra's, and managed to pin him to the back wall, fists gripping his robe. She was met with a swift strike upon her cheek, hard enough to snap her head and spin her to kneel. Talia dove right back up and swung her leg into a high kick. It never landed. Ra's grabbed it with one hand and launched his knee into her gut. The wind knocked from her, but still she fought. She managed to put both feet on the ground and began to fire away. Her attacks were swift, lethal, and professional. Unfortunately, they were aimed at the man who taught her everything she knew.

Ducking out and under a particularly sharp thrust, Ra's al Ghul locked his arm around her neck from behind. He lifted her an inch from the ground, letting her strangle against his elbow. Her eyes bugged, and her hands clawed at Ra's' arm. 

"You disappoint me," Ra's slithered. "You have always disappointed me." Talia couldn't answer between her gurgles. Her face was beginning to go purple. "I am going to watch you die, Talia. And when I drag you back from the abyss, your punishment will begin in earnest."

"Stop!" Constantine, weak and desperate, flung out his arm from the floor. "Stop it!"

"This is not your business, warlock."

"Look, let me! Let me teach the bastard all he needs to know about ol' Bats, eh? No need for her to suffer!"

Ra's narrowed his eyes. After a moment he released his arm, and Talia collapsed in a tangle of limbs. She coughed, pawing at the red marks on her neck. Constantine managed to drag his emaciated body to her side and grasped her shoulders. "Easy now, luv," he muttered. "I have you. That's a good girl."

"You will teach the Dopplegänger under strict supervision," said Ra's. "There will be no tricks, no secret codewords. Do you understand me, Mr. Constantine?" Constantine tightened his jaw. His eyes drifted to the Dopplegänger on the slab.

The man hadn't moved an inch. 

Chapter Text

B-bump. B-bump. B-du-bump. B-bump. B-du-bump.

Clark didn't know if he would ever get tired of Bruce's heartbeat. Curled up with winter sunlight peeking through the curtains, Clark laid his head on Bruce's breast, rising and falling with his deep breaths. He could hear every thump of blood, every slosh of his organs. Maybe it was weird to memorize your future husband's bodily sounds. Clark didn't care. He could close his eyes and find him a million miles away if he needed to. That's all that mattered to him.

Bruce took a deep breath, making his heart murmur all the more noticeable. Bruce's hand, of its own volition, laid against the back of Clark's head. His fingers ran through Clark's curls. Clark hummed.

"Are you awake?" Clark asked.

"No," Bruce replied.

"Oh." Clark lifted his head and laid soft, warm kisses across Bruce's exposed chest. Though Bruce's eyes stayed closed, he wore a smile. "Do you talk in your sleep now?"

"Yes."

"I see." Clark kissed up Bruce's neck, and playfully nibbled at his ear. "Might as well take advantage of the situation, then." He kissed Bruce's temple. "Let's start with your deepest, darkest secrets."

Suddenly, Bruce grabbed Clark by the shoulders, flipped them around, and pinned him flat. Bruce flashed his teeth, his eyes twinkling in the dim light. "My deepest, darkest secrets?" Bruce leaned down, and they shared a slow, tantalizing kiss. "I have a mild dairy allergy."

Clark snorted into laughter, and wrapped his arms around Bruce's neck. "Oh the scandal!" They laughed together, snuggling back down under the covers. Their kisses were endless, hands drawing shapes on each other's bare skin. Clark tilted his head up at one point, giving Bruce free reign to snog his neck.

"Mmmm." Bruce scraped his teeth against Clark's skin. "I should start getting up."

"Noooo," Clark whined. He latched his arms and legs around him and buried his face into Bruce's neck.

Bruce chuckled, his breath rustling Clark's wild hair. "I have a lot to do today, Clark. Lots of last minute meetings before the end of the year."

"You're not allowed."

"Oh I'm not?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Clark huffed and nuzzled his nose under Bruce's ear. "Your husband says so."

"I didn't realize I had one of those yet."

"I mean practically."

"Practically isn't the same as legally, you know."

"Hmph." Clark snuck in another kiss and toyed with Bruce's hair. "Can't you just make an intern do it?"

Bruce's smile widened. "I'm telling Tim you called him an intern."

Clark gaped. "Wha--? I did not--!"

Bruce rolled Clark around under the covers, their kisses frequent and playful. They'd only gone to bed in their underthings, which didn't hide much between them. Their fingers tickled, and their legs intertwined, locking each other in a somewhat pseudo-wrestling pin. At one point, they ended up facing with only the sheet over their heads. The sunlight had hit it in such a way that made their whole world glow. Their glee faded away, and Bruce found himself lost in Clark's earnest eyes. He ran his fingers gently down the side of Clark's face. When they reached his lips, Clark kissed them tenderly. 

"When are you home?" Clark asked.

"Late," said Bruce. "I'll be patrolling alone tonight."

Clark frowned. "Why?" When Bruce didn't answer, Clark sat up on his elbows, the sheet falling from their heads. "Bruce?"

"I want to give Damian a little more time," Bruce admitted. "With Jon."

Realization dawned over Clark's face. He sighed and cupped Bruce's whiskery chin. "He'll appreciate that," he said. His hand dropped. "Those two really are fused at the hip these days. It'll be a shame when--"

"I know."

They laid in silence for a moment, until Bruce finally rolled out of bed. Leaning down, he graced Clark with one more kiss. "Get some more rest. I'll see you tonight. Promise." Clark took Bruce's hand in his. Their engagement rings glittered under the warm light of the morning sun.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Batman hadn't planned on ending up in Metropolis. But patrol hadn't been as busy as he anticipated. A few petty crimes, a few car chases. Nothing out of the ordinary. And Constantine's absence was still eating away at him. And so, eventually, he found his way to Clark's old apartment. There had to be something there. There just had to be.

Slipping in through the balcony door, Batman's footsteps barely made a noise. The whole place had been tidied recently, though some evidence of Constantine's presence remained. A few scuff marks on the kitchen floor. Burns in the carpet from the siphon's portal. A small stack of dirty magazines Clark never noticed hidden behind the couch. Batman first checked the air vents. A logical place to stash away things like keys or important bits of information. He found nothing but dust. After that, he rifled through Clark's chest of drawers. He recognized some old clothes of Clark's, as well as a neat stack of shirts he didn't. Batman frowned and picked one up. It was far too small for the likes of Superman, which lead Batman to conclude it belonged to their missing friend. Except... For one thing, why wouldn't he take his clothes with him on vacation, and for another, when was the last time John Constantine folded laundry?

Batman went to the medicine cabinet in Clark's bathroom. Mouthwash, ibuprofen, tooth paste, hair gel, and a razor.

A razor?

Certainly not Clark's. Batman held it up to the light. There wasn't so much as a spec of residue on the blades. It hadn't been used at all. But with the lid off and its placement in the medicine cabinet, someone certainly wanted to make it look like it had been. As if, perhaps, someone had gone to extra pains to re-dress Clark's apartment to make it feel as normal as possible.

Nothing added up. Constantine had a habit of disappearing, that was nothing new. But when he did, he certainly didn't bother leaving the place tidy behind him. Clark might have picked up in his absence, but it didn't explain the laundry or the shaver. Batman glared beneath his cowl. 

Something thumped.

Batman spun around, realizing he was trapped within a narrow, restrictive space. Reaching into his utilities, he brought out a Batarang and opened its deadly wings. He kept the weapon between his fingers and crouched by the door. He could hear footsteps fall to the carpet. Someone was moving around as slowly and deliberately as he was. Batman shut his eyes.

The footsteps were slow, intentional. But heavy. A large person. Probably male. There was a slight squeak with every step, implying some kind of tactical boot. A swish of kevlar fabric. A uniform? Police, potentially SWAT or military. Best case scenario, the local cops got a tip of some burglar in the building. Worst case? He'd been followed.

The lights remaining off, Batman slid further along the door, and used the shadows to hide him. He could see indents in the carpet that were not his own. Hugging the wall, Batman pushed open the door further. He waited. Whoever it was was smart enough not to attack. Batarang at the ready, Bruce slid from the bathroom, his back to the door frame. Tapping his cowl, his lenses switched to infrared vision. Specks of red stood out against the pale gray background. He followed the trail of breadcrumbs until looking up, and seeing a broad figure on the other end of the apartment, watching him.

The intruder got in a sucker punch before Batman could react. With his infrared lenses still active, Batman defended himself as best he could. He aimed for the blocks of vivid red and orange, the sharp edge of his batarang snagging flesh and fabric. Though he had no details yet, Batman was quick to decipher that whoever he was up against knew what they were doing. He was fast and deliberate, with solid feet and a central mass that kept him completely grounded. He managed to deflect more hits than he took, and when he did return fire, Batman was struck with exceptional force. The kind that left him staggered and winded. It had been a while since he'd felt a beat down quite like this one.

Thinking quickly, Batman swiped his grapple from his belt and shot it at the assailant's oncoming fist. The anchor wrapped tight around his wrist and forearm, and when Batman dropped, his combatant came crashing down behind him. Finally with a chance to breathe, Batman switched from infrared to night vision. 

His own face stared back at him.

Batman stumbled, his lips parted. Confusion and panic froze him into place just long enough for the Bruce Wayne on the floor to yank on the grapple rope, sending Batman to the carpet. Batman managed a tuck and roll, but not before the imposter grabbed his cowl and yanked. With his face exposed, the real Bruce Wayne whipped around, his chest heaving. He was met with the sting of a syringe in his neck.

Bruce gasped, his body seizing. The paralysis hit first, locking up every taut muscle and bone. He tried to fight back, but couldn't so much as make a fist. The sadistic smile of his false self was the last thing he saw before his heavy eyelids closed, and the world around him drowned in blackness.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Clark got in from patrol sometime around two o'clock in the morning. Touching down in the master bedroom balcony, all he wanted to do was peel off his suit and crawl into bed with Bruce until mid-afternoon. He was quick to slip in through the glass doors and shut them just as promptly, to keep the warm air from escaping.

"Man, you would not believe my night," he said with a yawn. "Those experimental demon dogs got back out again, and I spent a whole hour rounding them all up. They're really not so bad with a little love." He shook off the ice from his shoulders in front of the hearth. Now that it was winter, the master bedroom's fireplace was kept lit, making the whole room soft and toasty. Clark unbuckled, unlatched, and eventually rolled his suit and boots to the floor. He'd take care of it later. "I really gotta look into..." He turned, only to realize he'd been having a conversation with the empty bed.

Clark frowned and checked the clock on the mantel. It was still a little early for Bruce, but with how busy he'd been that day, Clark really had been hoping Bruce would make it an early night. Slipping into pajamas and a cozy robe, Clark headed down to the Cave to catch Bruce on his way in.

The Batcave seemed especially eerie tonight. A creep of mist, undoubtedly from the outside snow, rolled in from the hidden entrance. Condensation dripped in slow, rhythmic splashes, and just off in the distance, Clark heard a small clutch of bats return from their evening's hunt. Clark stepped onto the main floor of the Cave, and despite his resistance to cold, gave a shiver.

Something didn't feel right.

A roar of the Batmobile caught his attention. The lights cut through the shadows, accompanied by the violent lurch of Batman's infamous car. It rolled to a stop in its usual place, the engine rumbling. Eventually, it shut off, and the door rose slowly. Bruce, still suited, rolled from the suit and fell to one knee.

"Bruce!" Clark rushed to his lover's side and helped him to his feet. "Are you hurt? Here." Clark walked Bruce to the nearest chair by the Batcomputer. Gently, he undid Bruce's cowl and looked him over. "Oh jeeze." He touched Bruce's bruised cheek. His nose had broken entirely, and his left eye was left black. Bruce ran his tongue along his cracked lips, turned, and spat blood to one side. "Bruce..."

"M'fine," Bruce growled.

"You don't look fine. Here, let me just--" Bruce tried to stand, but Clark took his shoulders. "Bruce, please. Let me get the first aid kit, and I'll--mm!"

Bruce's kiss startled him, to say the least. Clark knew better than anyone how aggressive Bruce could be. But even with that taken into consideration, the kiss felt... more violent than Clark was used to. The copper tang from his lips didn't help. Clark broke away, keeping Bruce at an arm's length. "What happened?"

"Ran into trouble."

"I can see that." Clark tenderly cupped Bruce's chin, his brows knit with worry. "Who was it? Where are they now? How many were there?"

"Will you knock it off? Christ you're obnoxious."

Clark pulled away in shock. Bruce's sharp words rattled him, and for a moment, he didn't know what to say. He slowly retracted his hands. "Okay," he said carefully. "Bad night, I'm guessing."

Bruce grumbled something and began to unbuckle his suit. "I'm tired," he announced, dropping his pieces as he walked.

"Bruce..."

"I said I'm tired." Bruce glared over his shoulder. By now, he had stripped to only his undersuit. "I've been up all day, and all I want to do is go upstairs and sleep. Unbothered. Is that alright with you?"

Clark opened his mouth, only to close it promptly. When Clark gave him no answer, Bruce snorted and started up the stairs. A voice in Clark's head demanded an apology. Just because Bruce had a rough night on patrol, that didn't give him an excuse to be so terrible. Something must have been bothering him. Was it Constantine? Jon, Damian? Clark pushed away his wounded pride and followed him back inside the house.

Bruce ignored him as they walked. Clark scanned his person from behind. "You have a few cuts on your leg," he said quietly. "You might need stitches."

"I'm going to sew them myself."

"Okay, but--"

Reaching the top of the stairs, Bruce stomped his way to the master bedroom, slamming the door behind him as he went. Clark stood in the center of the hall, flabbergasted.

"Dad...?"

Clark turned to see Jon's sleepy face poking out from his door. He rubbed his eye, clinging to a drool soaked pillow. "I heard something bang," he muttered.

"It's all right. Go back to sleep, Jon."

Jon yawned, patting his mouth. "R'you sure...?"

"Yes. Bruce is just... not himself, that's all."

"Mm... m'kay." Jon wandered back into bed, giving Clark a new burst of determination.

Stepping into the master bedroom, he walked in on Bruce, now down to his underwear, sewing up the slice on his calf. Clark watched his brow twitch in pain, but still, his bloodied fingers kept sewing. Clark knelt in front of him and took the needle without a word. Surprisingly, Bruce allowed it. Clark sewed smoothly, making sure the sutures were tight as they could be without ripping skin. When it was finished, Clark cleaned it, dressed it, and moved onto the next injury. This one, thankfully, didn't need stitches, and so he started cleaning it.

"Sorry."

Clark looked up. Bruce's eyes had trailed away, his meaty shoulders slumped to either side. "I... They got one over on me."

"Who did?"

"Some nobody," Bruce said. He rubbed his tired face. "I'm Batman. I shouldn't be tripping up because of some stupid kid robbing a liquor store."

Clark's worry melted away, and he rubbed Bruce's sweaty thigh. "It's bound to happen occasionally," he said. "Neither one of us are spring chickens anymore."

"Easy to say for a Kryptonian."

Finishing with his legs, Clark sat on the bed and opened his arms. Bruce hesitated before resting against Clark's chest. Clark kissed the top of his head. "Come on. Let's get some sleep." Bruce said nothing, and Clark tilted his head. "I'm sure you'll feel better in the morning. I can make us pancakes. And--" Clark suddenly gasped. Bruce's hand grabbed his crotch underneath his robe. Clark's eyes widened considerably, and he stiffened like a lightning rod. "Bruce, hey! What's--?"

Bruce dove back up for another kiss, just as aggressive as the first. Clark floundered, not sure what to do. Bruce's teeth gnawed sharply at his lower lip. It didn't hurt, obviously, but if he were human, Clark was sure Bruce would have drawn blood.

"Bru--mm!" Clark grabbed Bruce's shoulders and finally pulled them apart. "Bruce. Hold on a second."

"Why?" said Bruce, grabbing at Clark's robe.

"You're not in a good headspace."

"Tch!" Bruce stood, ripping himself from Clark's hands. "Not in a good headspace... What kind of new-age bullshit is that, anyway?"

"You're tired," said Clark. "Please. Just lay down and get some sleep. Okay?"

Bruce considered it. His eyes, often so stoic and steadfast, now felt distant, detached, perhaps, from the rest of him. After a moment of thought, he nodded, and crawled into bed. Clark was just getting in on his side when Bruce rolled over to face the other way. Clark, unsure if he should say anything more, got completely under the covers and stared at the back of his head.

He had so many questions. What had happened to put Bruce in such a terrible mood? Was he embarrassed? Angry with himself? Both? And why take it out on him? There had only been one other time in Clark's memory when Bruce had lashed out in frustration. A situation that had resolved itself thanks to Clark's involvement... But this felt different. The back and forth between desire and dismissal was something Clark had never seen before. And it worried him.

Gently, Clark reached for Bruce's back, perhaps wondering if he could convince him to cuddle. The moment his fingers touched Bruce's skin, Bruce scooted out of reach and thumped his pillow.

"Good night."

Clark felt a nail hammer through his heart. His lip quivered, and it took everything in his power not to fall apart against the pillows. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Clark turned away, and curled up under the sheets.

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞　𓆩🖤𓆪　∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

A crate. That's what it had to be. It was too small to be a room, and lacked a door. Additionally, from the moment Bruce came to, he felt movement, and the hum of an airplane's engine. There were airholes, but the whole thing had been covered with a blue tarp, preventing Bruce from seeing beyond. He could smell tobacco, and hear snippets of conversation. Nothing that pieced together what was going on.

Bruce felt his neck, only to realize that both it, his hands, and his feet, were chained with cold, hard iron. His mouth was dry, and his fingers were numb. He must have been shot up with ketamine or propofol. Some kind of strong anesthetic or tranquilizer that had the capacity to knock a large subject out completely, and in seconds. Hell, Bruce wouldn't be surprised if it was something concocted just for the occasion.

For hours, he lay cramped on his side, chained and confined to his 2x5 box. He spent that time hoping to find hinges, or some sort of inward handle. He was less than lucky. The crate itself hadn't even been made out of wood in anticipation of Bruce breaking it down. The whole thing was some kind of stainless steel, at least an inch thick, with rivets to keep it all tightly in place. Bruce kept his movement to a minimum, lest he alert his kidnappers that he was awake. When he realized examining the crate was useless, he returned his mind to the fight.

It was his face. His face. It hadn't been a trick. Bruce knew exactly what he saw. He'd fought Scarecrow enough times to know how he felt after hallucinogens, and ruled them out almost at once. What was it? Plastic surgery? No, it was too perfect. Too exact. It wasn't even like looking into a mirror; it was far too accurate. And the man's movements--his strength, his speed, the way he fought--it was like he was literally fighting himself.

Bruce could feel the plane descend. While he wasn't entirely sure where he was headed, he could wager a very safe bet.

Orders barked as the plane came to a full stop. His crate was grabbed by multiple hands, and Bruce was dragged off of the aircraft and into the oppressive heat of the mid-day desert. He kept still, listening for every detail. Four men carrying him. Accents from the Arabian Peninsula. Arabic and Farsi, as far as Bruce could tell, language wise. As if that wasn't enough of a dead give away, Bruce could detect the aroma of ash and jasmine.

His crate was shoved onto the back of a flatbed truck. His tarp hadn't been removed, trapping the heat inside his box. But, it had shifted. And through one of his lower airholes, Bruce saw a glimmer of salvation. A loose nail, rattling just within reach. Bruce extended a finger through the hole, and after various attempts, managed to scoop the nail up with his pinky. It slid clunkily into his box, and he scooped it with his hand. Ignoring the blister of his skin, Bruce pushed the nail hard into the side of his crate. Eventually, the tip bent at a perfect ninety degree angle. Now with a makeshift lockpick, Bruce located the keyhole of his right cuff, and went to work.

It was a slow, arduous process. The end of the nail dragged awkwardly through the prongs of the lock, until finally catching. Bruce finengled with numb fingers, listening intently as the lock slowly clicked in place. After the third and final prong stuck, the cuff around Bruce's wrist sprung open.

Bruce wiped the sweat with the back of his hand before going for the others. Now that his movement was less restricted, the locks proved less of a challenge. Or at least, they would have been, had the heat not started to cook Bruce's brain. Bruce shook off his dizziness as he pulled up his ankle. His body swayed as if he was on a boat, forcing him to miss the lock more than once. Needing an anchor, Bruce brought up his arm and bit as hard as he could. As his teeth drew blood, the shock and pain managed to bring him back to reality. He didn't know how much time he bought himself before passing out, but it would have to be enough.

His muscles spasmed as he worked, cramping in unfathomable agony. Bruce kept completely silent. Despite the light all around him, Bruce's vision was starting to pinhole. Blackness crept further and further in, threatening to drag him into the abyss of a painful death. Still, Bruce pushed. Until finally--

Click.

The iron fell away, and Bruce released breath. As if the universe itself allowed him reprieve, the sun was suddenly blotted out, cooling his sweatbox in an instant. Bruce took a moment to gulp down cooler air, and once he dragged himself from the jaws of death, once more examined his crate. If he had to guess, the top was the crate's lid. Bruce rolled his sweaty back to the bottom of the box, and braced himself. 

"Here. Put him here."

The world tilted as Bruce was dragged off the flatbed and positioned upright. The rags he'd been dressed in were now drenched with sweat, and his feet burned at the touch of the hot metal. He ignored his discomfort. Bruce knew the minute that crate door opened, his time would be limited.

"Has he stirred?"

"No, my lord. Not a sound."

The first voice hesitated. Bruce coiled his muscles, preparing to jump. He was ready.

"Open it."

The locks were thrown. A great chain fell to the floor. And slowly, the front of the crate pried open.

Bruce jumped like a bat out of hell, a warcry booming from his chest. He fought blindly, fueled by adrenaline and rage. He'd been surrounded by armed guards, some of whom fired their guns in a panic as Bruce attacked. Blood flew from clawed flesh. Teeth clattered against bruised knuckles. There was no telling how many there were, or how many came close to ending his very life. Bruce didn't have the luxury of such details.

Rope somehow lassoed his wrists, and his arms were pulled taut, spread wide. Five men held his left arm, seven his right. Bruce strained his neck, spit and sweat flying from his screaming mouth. He dug the balls of his feet into the sandstone beneath him, and with strength unfathomable of a normal man, he began to walk. The twelve men on either side of him held on as tight as they could, their feet slipping as Bruce took step after agonizing step. It felt as though Bruce's very skin was ready to peel from his bones at any moment. And still he moved. So blinded by determination, he didn't even know where he was going, or indeed, where he was at all. All he knew was forward. Keep. Moving. Forward.

Someone jerked the rope on his left arm, and his muscle tugged painfully tight. Bruce grit his teeth, his sweaty feet slipping. Hands shoved him from behind, until he was forced to his knees. Bruce cried out, his neck tight enough to see every ligament therein. He had been subdued. Barely.

A shadow crested his face. Bruce forced his eyes to open. Ra's al Ghul stared down at him, a glimmer of begrudging respect in his ancient eye. "It has been a very long time, hasn't it, Bruce?" Ra's' long fingers tilted up Bruce's jaw, clutching it to prevent Bruce from biting off a fingertip. "I'm delighted that we're finally able to catch up after all these years. And soon? It will be a complete family reunion."

"Ragh!" Bruce lashed out, hoping to sink his bloody teeth into any part of Ra's' body. He missed by a mile.

Ra's al Ghul put his hands behind his back. "Take him to his cell. There will be three guards on watch at all times. Chain him to the wall." Ra's glared at his men. "And this time? Make sure he stays that way." With a great effort, the guards dragged Bruce from Ra's' presence. Bruce fought every step of the way, gargling and screeching like a caught feral animal. As he was forced through the closing doors, he had only a second to catch the curling smile along Ra's' lips.

Chapter Text

"Hold him! Hold him!"

A great clatter echoed down the stairs as Bruce managed to rip away from the guards, which in turn sent a few tumbling down the ancient stone steps. The tousle, like all the other moments of violent resistance, did not last. Bruce was soon squished onto the floor by heavy boots, the chains around his wrists tightened to an extreme degree. Bruce snarled as many violent hands yanked him back to his feet and continued forcing him to the dungeons. He fought every inch of the way. Anyone who got too close or seemed too confident was treated to either a skull to the nose or one hell of a bite mark. It got so bad at one point that one of the guards actually undid his belt to gag Bruce, wrapping the leather around his head and between his teeth. Bruce hissed and spit, his molars gnashing at the leather strap.

When he finally did make it to the dungeon, he was slammed into the nearby bars, disorienting him just enough for the guards to herd him into his cell. A collar and chain sat waiting for him. Sitting Bruce against the back wall, they locked the cuff at the base of his neck and yanked off the belt. The wall chain was so short, Bruce wouldn't even be able to stand up.

"He needs his hands."

The guards turned to the voice across from Bruce's cell. Talia, leaning against her bars, watched her father's men surround Bruce like vultures to a carcass. "The cuffs on his wrists. Ra's al Ghul will want him alive. That means unless one of you want to spoon-feed him, he'll need his hands to eat."

The guards looked at each other. With quiet nods, they pinned Bruce face down to the floor before undoing the locks on his cuffs. Bruce, staring through their many legs, found Talia in her own cell. He said nothing, but was almost certain she could feel the burning anger behind his cool blue eyes.

Once Bruce's wrists were freed, the guards who held the cuffs tossed it to the floor, just outside Bruce's cell. Undoubtedly, they felt like they'd need to use them again soon. Bruce laid still, allowing the guards to funnel out. Some spat before leaving, others kicking where they could as their farewell. Bruce endured. Before traveling up the stairs, three men were selected for the first shift of guard duty. Pulling up their chairs by the door, they began to get comfortable. Clearly, they weren't going anywhere any time soon.

"Bruce..." Talia's voice was soft. Softer than Bruce had heard it in a very long time. He pushed himself to sit, head hanging as his back sat flush against the cold stone wall. "God... I didn't think it would actually work." Bruce said nothing. Talia knelt down, hands clutching the bars. "Father has gone mad. He's determined to get Damian by any means necessary." Again, Bruce remained silent. "Bruce please. If there's something that can be done, if you have some plans of escape, please share them."

Bruce finally met her eyes. A seething, frigid condemnation sat within them. It carved itself deep into Talia's chest, and weighed her with guilt. After a moment, Bruce turned away, curled up, and leaned against his prison wall in silence.

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"More pancakes, Master Damian?" Damian nodded, swiping the syrup as Alfred layered fresh cakes onto his used plate. That morning had been a request for chocolate chip, hence Alfred's massive pile of extras. It was always a favorite of young boys of the manor, all the way back when Bruce was a child. Which was why it was so strange to see that Jon had barely touched his own. "Everything alright, young Master Jon?"

Jon blinked out of his thoughts. "Huh?" He looked down, his fork still in his fingers. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry." He took a bite.

Damian frowned. "Is there something the matter?" he asked. "You've said more than once that you love chocolate chip pancakes. Are they not to your standards?"

"Seems unlikely," Alfred mumbled.

Jon shook his head. "No, no, it's not that. They're good, Mr. Alfred, they really are. I just..." He poked at them. "I heard dad and Uncle Bruce fighting last night. Or something."

"Fighting?" Damian clarified. "About what?"

"I don't know. Dad seemed worried, and Uncle Bruce was angry about... I'm not sure." Jon turned to Alfred. "Do they fight a lot?"

"It's not unusual for Masters Clark and Bruce to have disagreements," said Alfred. "They're both intelligent men with very different ways of doing things. It's bound to happen from time to time." Jon didn't seem convinced, and Alfred pushed his pancakes a little bit closer. "If I may give you advice, young master? You are far too young to be worrying about adult problems. Those two love each other very much. Even when they disagree."

"You're sure?"

"I would bet my life on it."

Jon took another bite of pancakes, and flashed both Alfred and Damian a reluctant smile. 

The door opened, and Clark wandered into the kitchen. His robe was lopsided, and there were shadows under his lovely blue eyes. Any assurance Jon had that things were fine blew straight out the window as Clark sat down and put his head in his hand.

"Dad...?"

"I'm fine, Jon," Clark mumbled. He rubbed his eyes. "Alfred, could I get some coffee? I didn't sleep much."

Instead of pointing out that caffeine wouldn't do much for a Kryptonian, Alfred obliged, and made him a fresh cup from the pot. He added cream and sugar to the table. Clark often liked to make his own. "Is everything alright, sir?" Alfred asked.

Clark's smile strained. "Yeah. Just kind of a rough night, that's all." He tapped his spoon and took a sip. "Mm. It's perfect, Alfred, thank you."

"Were you and father fighting last night?" Damian asked bluntly.

"Fighting...?" Clark glanced to Jon, who stared pointedly at his pancakes. Clark shook his head. "Your father had a little hiccup on patrol last night. Came home in a bad mood."

"But he slammed the door," Jon mumbled.

"He cares a lot about Gotham," Clark said. "If he thinks he's not doing a good enough job protecting the city, it bothers him."

Damian nodded, sagely. "Father prioritizes his duty above all else," he said with pride. "It is what qualifies him to protect it."

The door opened a second time, and every head in the kitchen turned. Bruce had stepped into view, dressed sharp for the day, complete with sunglasses. Clark noticed his polished shoes and fine winter coat with a frown. "Going somewhere today?" he asked.

"Thought I'd run by the office," he said, casually. 

"I thought you did everything you needed to yesterday."

"Guess I forgot a few things."

So many protests sat on Clark's tongue, but he bit them back. He understood that Wayne Enterprises was a big company, but Clark wasn't aware there was so much last minute work between Christmas and New Years. Not to mention that while Bruce might not have enjoyed the office overall, he wasn't the type to forget a schedule. Clark wanted to ask Bruce if he was sure he was alright, though knew that there would likely be another argument if he did.

"Are you hungry, sir?" Alfred asked. "There are plenty of pancakes--"

"Just coffee." Bruce poured himself a mug and took a sip. Walking to the table, he took Clark's cream poured in a splash, and stirred.

Clark furrowed his brow. "Trying something new?"

"What?" said Bruce.

"You've never taken anything in your coffee before."

Bruce scoffed and took another drink. "A man can't have cream in his coffee now?" Clark's jaw locked at Bruce's tone. Across from him, the boys went stiff. The air was colder by the minute.

"Oh, Master Bruce." Hoping to shake up the tension, Alfred removed an envelope from his apron pocket. "Your individual invitation for the Gotham New Years Eve Ball came yesterday. Shall I tell them you shan't be attending?"

"Why wouldn't I attend?" said Bruce, leaning against the cabinet.

Alfred frowned, confused. "Because you never do... Master Bruce, are you very well? You haven't hit your head on patrol, have you?"

"New Years is a high crime night," Clark said plainly. "Especially in Gotham. I've never known you to take it off."

"Well, maybe I should this year." The suggestion left the room stunned. Bruce took another sip of coffee. "What? I'm getting older. You said so yourself, Clark. Why should I have to sacrifice every single New Years Eve? Dick can handle Gotham for a night, can't he?"

"Master Dick will be busy with Blüdhaven," said Alfred.

"Then pick someone else," Bruce snapped. "There are plenty of capes to go around. Tap somebody from the League if you have to. In fact, why not send a message tonight? See if somebody wants to take up Gotham for the next month or two."

"A month?!" Damian shot up in his seat, horrified. "Father, don't tell me you are abandoning your duties for an entire month?!"

"So what if I am? I've done it for decades now. Let someone else handle it."

"That's unacceptable!" Damian stepped out from around the table and faced Bruce, fearless. "You swore a duty to Gotham! You told me yourself! One night or two to recuperate is understandable. But a month!?"

"I don't recall asking for your opinion, Damian."

"What will happen when the criminals of this city discover that the Dark Knight is nowhere to be seen? Do you know how many lives you're risking simply by resting on your laurels?!"

"Enough!" Bruce snapped. "I am your father! And I'm not going to stand here and get lectured by a child!"

"You are betraying yourself, your oath as the Batman! Without you, people will die!"

"Then LET them!" Bruce threw his mug hard, crashing it against the far wall. Jon jumped in his seat, and Damian went stiff as a board. Red with anger, Bruce's sunglasses slipped, and his next words bellowed like a fog horn. "Do you know what I've sacrificed for this city!? The youth I lost, the blood I've shed!? What have they ever done for any of us!? What have they ever done to deserve us!? TELL ME!"

"Bruce!" Unable to stomach another second, Clark stood between Bruce and his son, his wide body blocking him entirely. On his face was a mixture of fear, anger, and utter confusion. "Don't talk to our son that way!"

Bruce quieted down. The tension was thick enough to slice. When Bruce's lips curled into a cruel sneer, Clark could feel the world around him start to fracture. "Our son?" he repeated. The implication hung heavy, and it left Clark speechless. Pushing up his sunglasses, Bruce turned on his heel, dug his hands into his pockets, and made his exit. "Don't wait up."

Clark stood stunned as the kitchen door swung into place. His face had paled, and his fingers twitching. His chest felt as though those shards of lavender kryptonite were still dug deep. The first domino to make the rest fall. Clark held his chest. They had been so happy... Why? Why was it all falling apart...?

A tiny hand found Clark's own. He jumped, but turned. Damian took it, shaken by his father's behavior. Clark knelt down, hoping to not look as betrayed as he felt. "Hey, pal. I'm so sorry. I... Something's up with your dad."

Damian met Clark's eyes. "He's wrong." Before Clark could ask, Damian hugged him tight. "You're my father, too." Clark swallowed the sob in his throat and hugged Damian back.

The sound of the front door slamming echoed throughout the Manor.

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Scritch. Scri-scritch. Scriiiiiiitch.

Bruce sat back on his heels and looked over his work. Across the floor of his cell now lay the blueprints of Ra's al Ghul's palace, as best Bruce could remember it, etched in dirt. Twenty main chambers, thirty smaller rooms, including a bath house, grand hall, multiple kitchens, servant quarters, smoking rooms, and of course, the dungeons. If Bruce had to guess, he was on the second floor. The third sub-level was often reserved for beasts, while the first was earmarked for rituals. The constant dripping of the ceiling implied that they were beneath something with plumbing. A shower room, perhaps. So, if everything was how Bruce remembered it, they were in the southern cellblock, facing away from the main palace chambers. Considering that 'Eth Althe'ban was underground, time was impossible to discern without timing the shift switches from the guards. Bruce had been passively tallying every change-out. So far, there had been three shifts. Which meant that he had been down there for fifteen hours or more. 

Bruce scratched his tired eyes. The plumbing is something, he thought to himself. If I could loosen a pipe, figure out where it drains, I might be able to find a thinner spot on the wall. And the water may have eroded some of the mortar.

A clatter broke him from his thoughts. Outside his cell, a guard had dropped a plate of colorless, cold food. He kicked it through the lower slot on the cell door. It stopped just short of Bruce's reach. Bruce watched the guard walk off, grumbling to himself about something or other. Bruce went back to his map.

"You should eat." Talia, leaning up against her bars, hadn't stopped staring since Bruce arrived. "You'll need your strength." Bruce continued to ignore her, and drew details in the dirt. Talia furrowed her brow. "Who is this helping, Bruce? This silence. You're going to have to acknowledge me eventually." The sound of Bruce's finger through the dirt was all that answered her. Talia took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

Bruce's finger stopped drawing.

"I'm sorry," Talia repeated. "For everything. For betraying your trust. Damian's trust. For following my father's orders. I regret it all." Bruce thought for a moment, and then went back to his map. Talia tightened her hand on a bar. "Aren't you going to say something?"

"What is there to say?"

"Whatever it is, just say it. I can't stand the silence, you know, I really can't. Shout, scream, be angry with me. But for God's sake, don't pretend I'm not here."

"We have nothing to discuss, Talia."

Talia switched to her knees, bracing herself against the cell door. "You don't have to forgive me. But you can at the very least acknowledge me."

"Acknowledge you?" Bruce finally looked up. His eyes had hardened into impenetrable glass. "Acknowledge you? Alright, Talia. I acknowledge you. I acknowledge that you put the life of our son in danger so that you could continue to play the warped game of your father. I acknowledge that you regret these actions now, but by God, did you regret them then? Was there ever a point, a moment, when you thought to yourself that you might be serving a goddamn lunatic? But no. No, your father must always come first, mustn't he? Before you, before your son. His will be done, right? After all, he thinks himself a god. What is a deity without zealots?"

"I was wrong."

"You're goddamn right you were. Every step of the fucking way." Bruce thumped his back to the stone, glowering at Talia from his shadowed face. "You apologized. Am I supposed to forget everything that got us here? Am I supposed to forgive you while my family deals with some... some forgery with my face doing who knows what? You're sorry. I'm sorry. Everyone's fucking sorry. It doesn't get us anywhere, though, does it?"

Drips echoed from the dungeon. Both sat in silence: Bruce in boiling rage, Talia in quiet contemplation. Finally, she spoke again. "What can I do?" Bruce considered the question. He breathed deeply through his nose. His eyes lingered on the map at his feet.

"Tell me about that thing," he finally said. "The one with my face."

"A dopplegänger. Molded from the flesh of one of Ra's al Ghul's servants."

"How?"

"Constantine."

Bruce's eyes widened, before narrowing in anger. "Why is Constantine helping your father?"

"He had no choice. Father tortured him into compliance."

"How do you stop it?"

"I heard a bullet to the skull works wonders."

Their conversation lulled. Bruce leaned forward, elbow resting on his knee. "Why? Why go to all this trouble?"

"As I said. He will do anything to get Damian back."

"So it's going to kidnap our son?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe it is a cover for his real plan."

"He didn't tell you?"

"He wanted me to train it how to be you. I refused. Safe to say he didn't feel like sharing the details beyond that."

There was a slight shift in Bruce's shoulders. A softening of his hardened posture that took Talia's words to heart. It was evident by his face that he clearly believed her. "Who trained it instead?"

"Father has endless records of you," said Talia. "Press conferences, television interviews, radio spots. Mr. Constantine was charged with filling in the details. However accurate they are is negligible."

Bruce scoffed. "Boy... of all the plans your old man has cooked up, this has got to be the worst one."

Talia tilted her head. "You seem confident that it will fail."

"I am."

"Why?"

"Because I'm engaged to the sharpest investigative journalist in Metropolis."

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"Bruce. I don't know what's going on with you. But I'm sure whatever it is, it's put you under a lot of stress. So I'm here to talk to you about it, and give you whatever support you need. Because I love you, and we're partners. Yeah, that's good." Clark nodded at himself, watching the elevator numbers rise to the top floor. The Ruben sandwich in his hand made the whole lift smell vaguely of sauerkraut, but Clark ignored it. It was Bruce's favorite from the little deli down the road. If this didn't get him to open up, Clark didn't know what would.

The elevator dinged, and Clark walked onto the floor. With the new year coming up so quickly, the office was fairly dead, though there were still a few associates traipsing the halls. No one looked at him twice. Which was good; the last thing he needed was an audience. As Clark walked down the hall toward Bruce's office, he practiced his speech again.

"Bruce, honey, I know you don't want to talk about whatever it is you're going through. But I'm here because I love you, and I want to help you however I can. I promise you can tell me anything. Hm. I should bring up the sandwich. Hi Bruce! I brought you lunch from Mel's down the street. I know how much you love it. I thought we could talk about whatever is bothering you and--"

Giggle.

Clark stopped, and snapped his head up. He'd reached the end of the hall, and stood dead in front of Bruce's doors. The secretary's desk was empty, with Suzie the secretary's purse still tucked away underneath. Clark could smell a waft of expensive perfume, and noticed a Chanel No.5 bottle on Suzie's desk.

Another giggle came from behind Bruce's door, followed by the low tenor of Bruce's own chuckle.

A thrill of jealousy shot through Clark like lightning. While he could have simply x-ray'd the door, Clark didn't exactly feel like being subtle. His jaw clenched, Clark pushed open the door with more force than he'd meant to, sending the handle deep into the wall plaster. Suzie jumped in fright, but Bruce remained calm and collected as ever. He and his secretary were enjoying a cocktail, lounging against his huge desk. Bruce's top two shirt buttons were undone, and Suzie had long abandoned her work blazer.

"M-Mr. Kent!" Twenty three year old Suzie nearly dropped her cocktail. "I--Mr. Wayne said he--! We were just--!"

"Miss Myers?" Clark's quiet voice barely contained his anger. "Leave."

Suzie set her brandy glass on the desk and made a very quick and graceless escape. She closed the door behind her. Clark's eyes bore holes into Bruce, who seemed unbothered by the whole ordeal.

"You want to explain?" Clark asked.

Bruce took a long, drawn out sip of his brandy. "Not really," he said. "What are you doing here?"

A horrible bile stung Clark's throat. He kept it down, and instead, walked the paper bag to the desk. "I brought you lunch." He let it plop on a pile of important papers. Bruce regarded it apathetically. "And I was hoping we could talk."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Well that's too darn bad, isn't it?" 

A sickly smile split Bruce's lips. "Well gosh darn it, golly gee," he slithered. "Would it kill you to say 'fuck' for once in your life?"

"What is with you?" Clark demanded. "First you come home in a terrible mood, then you say you're on a sabbatical from crime fighting, you were awful to Damian this morning--!" He stopped, staring at Bruce's left hand. His anger seized, replaced instead by an overwhelming misery. "Where's your ring?"

"Hm?"

Clark held up Bruce's hand. "Your engagement ring. Where is it?"

"Oh. That?" Bruce pulled his hand away. "Didn't feel like wearing it." While Clark processed such a horrible answer, Bruce opened the bag on his desk and took a look inside. He scrunched up his nose. "Ugh. This thing smells." Swiping the bag, he tossed it into the trash can and turned back to Clark. "Tell you what, why don't we head out for lunch? My treat. We'll grab something nice, have a few drinks?" He came up on Clark, running his hand up and underneath Clark's shirt. "Or we can order in? Make it fun for HR when they come in the morning..."

Clark's expression hardened. A harsh shadow fell across his face. Grabbing Bruce's arm, he yanked his hand away, and drew to his full height. Even with how similar they were in build and weight, Clark still outclassed him by twenty pounds and an inch and a half. And that was before taking his powers into account. Bruce watched him with a shred of annoyance, but as he tried to remove his arm from Clark's grip, he seemed surprised when he couldn't pull it away.

"I'm going to say this very slowly," Clark growled. "I came here because I care about you. Because I want to know what you're dealing with. That doesn't give you an excuse to treat me with disrespect. Or anyone else, for that matter." His fingers tightened just a touch, and a hint of panic flashed across Bruce's eyes. He tugged his arm back harder, but Clark held it in place. "When you've decided that you're ready to talk to me like an adult, let me know. Until then, the next time I see you scream at our kids like you did this morning? We will have a serious problem."

Finally, Clark let Bruce go. Bruce retracted his arm, rubbing it with a look of confusion on his face. Clark didn't linger. Shoulder-checking Bruce on the way out, the door closed so hard behind him that two out of Bruce's three high rise windows fractured. 

Clark moved swift and silent down to the ground floor. The air around him swirled with discontent and righteous anger so potent that it made people jump out of the way as he came. Riding down the elevator, Clark even had to close his eyes to prevent his heat-vision from going off. When he reached the ground floor, Clark took a sharp turn out into the alley and walked until he was sure he was hidden from view. He stood in the shadow of Gotham's skyline, the fury rolling off of him in waves. His breath came in sudden, rapid gasps, and in a fit of rage, sent a fist flying into the dumpster to his left. The shockwave from his fist boomed out from the metal, scattering the pigeons and cats around him. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the dumpster had molded around his fist, the inside perforated like an open wound.

Slowly, he removed his hand from the damage. Shattered plates of metal folded in on themselves before collapsing at his feet. Holding up his fist, Clark realized it was shaking. Taking to the sky like a rocket, the force of his launch was enough to rattle the alley, and leave a crater of destruction in his wake. 

Chapter Text

It felt colder that night than it had in Gotham for a long while. The powder of a fresh winter was long gone, replaced instead by the muddied sleet of a deep frost. The wind whipped with a chill that stuck to your bones. For Gotham's unhoused citizens, it was the kind of winter night that could kill you, if you weren't lucky. 

Clustered along the back end of skid row, the homeless encampment spanned at least a block and a half. Tents were weighed down with bricks and rocks to try and brave the storm. While some were fortunate enough to enjoy campfires built from oil drums and old pots, most huddled under blankets together, but not even an excess of bodies could shoo away the bite. Socks were a luxury, and scarves were shared. Some of the older folk were starting to shiver and sneeze. There had been a bottle of cough medicine that went around recently, but there was no telling how long it would last. Almost everyone curled up together in silence had made peace with the fact that by morning, at least one person would die on the street.

Headlights broke through the night. Some winced, others shuffled into their tents for safety. No one bothered riding through skid row that weren't cops or teenagers, and either scenario spelled trouble. By a quick count, there were at least five vans, with possibly more coming. As they idled, the onlookers shrank back, fearing for their safety.

That's when a motorcycle rolled up. All eyes turned, expecting to see some criminal ringleader. What they got instead was a welcoming smile, and an announcement.

"Evening everybody!" Nightwing's voice carried throughout the street, managing to get everyone's attention. At his side, young Robin puffed in silence. "No need to worry. We hope everyone's doing okay." Nightwing signaled, and the drivers in the idling vans filed out to open their doors. "I'm sure most of you know who I am, but for those who don't, we're friends with Batman. We managed to pull some strings with the city, and refitted the old hotel on 6th just for you for the rest of the winter season. So everybody grab your things and climb aboard."

The onlookers exchanged wary glances. Being citizens of Gotham, it was no mystery why such a fantastic offer would be met with doubt. "What's the catch?!" someone called.

"No catch," said Nightwing. "Each one of you gets your own room for the next three months. Hot water, three meals a day. And there will be employers reaching out through Wayne charities with work initiatives after the new year. How's that sound?" The crowd shuffled in uncertainty.

Robin took a step forward. "Listen up! If you'd rather stay here and freeze to death, that is your choice to make! But if you want clean clothes, a warm bed, and a hot meal, you will take our offer, and you will take it now." 

That seemed to do the trick. Slowly, the crowd began to shuffle into the awaiting vans, while some took the time to gather up what few belongings they could. Nightwing watched with a smile, while Robin lingered with a scowl. Once everyone was packed away and driven off, Nightwing and Robin took their leave.

"I think that's the last encampment," said Nightwing. "We've earned a break. How about a hot chocolate?" He glanced behind him. Robin said nothing, and Nightwing's smile faded. Revving his engine, Nightwing tore through the streets until reaching a small diner just under the railroad tracks. It was old and faded, with buzzing neon tubing that had been there since the 50's. Nightwing rolled his Wingcycle into the parking lot and kicked down the stand. "Come on. I'm starving."

"We're on duty," Robin reminded him.

"Still gotta eat."

"We're in our suits."

"Yeah." Nightwing opened the door, smiling at the jingle above his head. "Superhero discount. C'mon." Realizing it was better than sitting outside in the cold, he followed Nightwing into the diner.

Fortunately for them, the restaurant was nearly empty, with only a single truck driver at the counter. The man behind the register flashed them a huge smile and held up his hand.

"Ayyyy! Look who it is! Nightwing's in town! Paulie, Paulie! Look who just rolled up!"

Paulie the line cook stuck his head out of the service window and hollered. Nightwing held up his hand in greeting. "Ay yo! Where've you been, Bird!?" The man stepped out of the kitchen and greeted Nightwing with a slap and a friendly hug. "Ay, ay, Sammie! Get me a picture with this guy, eh!?" Paulie held up his phone to snap a photo, and Sammie thumped Nightwing's back. "What brings you back home, guy?"

"Ah you know me," said Nightwing. "Can't stay away for long, can I? Besides, I'm babysitting tonight." He gestured to Robin.

Paulie leaned over the counter, stars in his eyes. "Ah ha ha! Look at that! Sammie, that's the Boy Wonder!"

"Eh? Ay! Wouldja look at that, Paulie! It's little Robin!"

Robin glowered under his hood. "I am average height for my age," he pointed out.

"Well look, guys, good to catch up. We're gonna go grab a booth."

"Sure sure! You sit wherever you like! Wave me over when you're ready."

With one last wave, Dick walked Damian to the far corner booth and sighed in satisfaction as he settled into his booth seat. "Damn, my ass is frozen."

"What was that?"

"What?"

Damian gestured at Sammie and Paulie. "Why do civilians know you?"

Dick snorted. "What do you mean? All the 24 hour diners know me. They have ever since I was Robin."

"That seems... irresponsible."

Dick snorted. "Just cause the old man doesn't take you out for hot cocoa on patrol doesn't mean it's irresponsible. Now here." He handed Robin a menu. "Get whatever you want." Damian stared at the front. Any further protest he might have had was dead the longer he looked. Dick leaned forward on crossed arms. "Hey. So... what's going on?"

"Huh?" Damian looked up.

"First I get called to take over Gotham patrol. That's fine. But it's on a night when B finally has his homeless program up and running. Which is weird. And when I tried calling, he barely talked to me before hanging up. I tried to get the answers from Clark, but he wouldn't tell me anything either. And now you're sitting there with a big ol' storm cloud over your head."

"I do not have a storm cloud over my head."

"You can be honest with me, kid."

Damian slumped, and set the menu on the table. "Father is... different."

"Different? Different how?"

"Dad said he ran into an issue the last time he was on patrol. I've seen father when he's been upset before, but nothing to this extent. He was..." Damian paused. "I've never seen him so angry so quickly."

Dick frowned, but kept his comments to himself. No one knew better than him what kind of hair-trigger temper Bruce Wayne used to have. He had hoped Damian would never have to see it... Paulie came over, and they put in their orders. A hot chocolate and apple pie for Damian, a slice of pecan ala mode and a cup of coffee for Dick. With their orders in, Paulie went back into the kitchen, leaving them to talk.

"What happened?" Dick asked.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"He came downstairs during breakfast and announced that he would be taking a reprieve from his duties for at least a month. I couldn't believe it. I tried to argue that he was neglecting his oath, and he... threw and shattered his coffee mug. It..." Damian's voice shrank. "It frightened me."

Dick stiffened. "Where was Clark in all this?"

"Dad got between us. Tried to calm father down. In response, father implied that... that I wasn't Kent's son, so..." Damian glanced up at Dick, whose brow had knit deep over his mask. "I assured him that I considered him a parent regardless, but... It was such a horrible thing to say. I have never seen father be so... cruel." They sat in silence for a moment or two. "Was... that what he used to be like? Back when you were Robin?"